Y'all are just messing with me now, right? Right? Please say you are. Another strange, strange Google search by which someone found Prinsiana: first on [infj defend gay and lesbian].
Does that search even make sense? Is the person looking for an INFJ who defends homosexuality and lesbianism? It pretty much has to be, I guess, unless there's another sensible reading that I'm not seeing. How odd. How delightfully odd.
oh so lovingly written by
Matthew |
these are comments, absent.
Matthew Prins: An FAQ Primer
What is your full name? Matthew Dale Prins.
What is your age? 25 and a couple months.
What is your Social Security Number? 515-64-8419
Um, wow. You really shouldn’t be posting that type of information on the Internet, you know. Why not?
Identity thieves and such. Oh. Is my identity that lucrative?
Oh yes. Everyone wants to be Matthew Prins. Oh. Cool. Thank you.
You’re welcome. What is your Myers-Briggs Personality Type? INFJ.
Okay, yeah, so if you’re an introvert like you say you are -- that’s the I in INFJ -- why are you so extroverted at bell choir? Um, I’m a situational extrovert. Further, my situational extroversion is a very theatrical, droll one that seems even more outgoing than it actually is. It’s quite noticeable in bells because I know the ringers quite well and because I’m in a leadership position where extroversion is expected and needed.
I think I went to high school with you. Did I? Yes.
Cool. Assuming you went to high school in Ames or Iowa Falls, Iowa.
Oh. I went to high school in the Netherlands. Nope. That ain’t me. Sorry.
Are you sure? I remember you in Holland; I remember how sexy and witty you were. I was the bikini model, if you'll recall, and… Oh, oh! You mean those Netherlands. Oh yes, of course. That was me.
Your wife wouldn’t mind if I asked you out, would she? Kim does tend to frown upon me going out with bikini models, yes.
You’re not even the type to go for the bikini model, are you? Nope. I go more for the intellectual, religious, innocent-looking type who dresses conservatively.
Hi. I am an intellectual, religious, innocent-looking type who dresses conservatively. Would Kim mind if you went out with me? I’ll ask her. Be right back. [Pause.] She said she would mind. Sorry.
Do you not really have any friends? No, I don’t.
Really? Okay, yeah, I actually do have friends, yes. Probably enough to get me into double digits. Maybe.
Why do you say that you have no friends, then? Um, I dunno.
Can I be your friend? No.
Why not? No.
Who is Thew? Me.
Who is Dale? Me.
Who is Ed? Josh, my brother.
Who is Beth-Annie? Beth, my sister-in-law.
Who is moM? My mother.
Who is Thelma? I am not at liberty to say.
When are you going to update your haiku contest? Did you ever write any more of your novel? Why aren’t you writing film reviews very often anymore? Who was your tenth grade crush? Where are those three Burger King stories? Isn’t this page self-absorbed? Do you even care about other people? Why would people even want to read this page? This FAQ is over.
oh so lovingly written by
Matthew |
these are comments, 14.
Oh. My. Again. My (I believe) first ever Malaysian visitor may have just upped "hot wet tees" dude for best Prinsiana Google search: 17th on [free latina slut window media sample]. Hmm. I think I'm going to take away "hot wet tees" dude's two points and give them to Malaysian dude.
And it's another record-breaking day on Elm Street. On July 11th, Prinsiana had 28 unique visitors, the most ever. Yesterday, we had 29. Yay for Matthew. Oh, and Kim, I guess.
Oh. My. The new best Google search by which someone has found Prinsiana: Number six on [recently clicked pictures of hot wet tees]. That dude deserves two points.
oh so lovingly written by
Matthew |
these are comments, absent.
It was dark. Danny was driving. His head: down, downer, downest, up!
Stay awake, Danny, he thought. Think of Madison, her blue eyes, her blonde hair, her smile smile smile. She will be at the end of the ride, Danny. Remember that, Danny, remember…down, downer, up!
Blink blink. He slapped his face. Head shake, head shake. Keep, Danny, keep concentrating. Yellowline, space, yellowline, space, yellowline, space, yellowline curving to the right, follow the line, Danny, stay to the right, Danny, right of the line, Danny, you can fall asleep in 25 minutes, Danny, 1500 seconds, Danny, Danny, down, up!, down, downer, downest, up!
Up! Up, Danny, up! What is wrong, Danny? Yell! “Aaaahhhhhh! I neeeeeeeed! To staaaaaaaay awaaaaake! La la laaaaaaaaaa!” Sing! “Near, far! Wherever you are! I believe that the…” down, down, down, down, down, downer, downest, up! Cannot made of it! There it not is unpossible! Far, too far! Dearie! Dearie Madison! You loved by I! See me heaven!
Then he found an unopened can of Mountain Dew and stayed awake the rest of the drive.
oh so lovingly written by
Matthew |
these are comments, 4.
Um. I do not see the bunch of souls who are going to be participating in my 24-hour Danielson Famile song-a-thon. Are you here, bunch of souls? Are you here and sleeping? Are you here and sleeping and should I wake you up with a swift kick in the left knee with my right foot?
I will give a whopping one and three-quarters points to whoever participates with me in the song-a-thon. That's right: One and three-quarters points. Please.
oh so lovingly written by
Matthew |
these are comments, 6.
My friend Jonathan Paul would be none-too-pleased. So I am part of my church's vacation Bible school program. Specifically, I am the character of Bugbert, a puppet who helps the VBS children learn today's banal Bible Point ("God knows us," "God helps us," "God is our friend"). The program this Catholic church is using is -- gasp! -- Protestant material, and thus I believe the daily Bible Point should be paired with a daily Tradition Point, where the children learn a fun capital-T Tradition fact!
Monday: Mary is Mediatrix of all Graces!
Tuesday: The Pope is infallible when he speaks ex cathedra!
Wednesday: The degree of justifying grace is not identical in all the just!
Thursday: It is permissible and profitable to venerate images of the Saints!
Friday: Sunt itaque Filii Dei incarnatio ab eoque per mortem ac resurrectionem comparata salus ad iudicandam rerum temporariarum veritatem regula vera nec non ad omne aestimandum propositum, quo reddi hominis vita debeat magis etiam humana!
I believe this would help the six-year-olds with their budding Catholicosity.
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Commercials as Degas. Opie queries: "So can commercials that don't work still be good art?"
Certainly:
The Aaron Burr milk commercial. I don't think it's successful, even on an image level -- does milk need an image pick-me-up a la Nike? -- but it's funny and smart.
Errol Morris' PBS commercials. They're really more first-rate super-short films than they are commercials; if they are commercials for anything, they're commercials for imagination and, ugh, "thinking outside la boîte."
The commercial with the guy in the car who's trying to hurry up and stop that wedding, and then he gets there, and the bride and the groom and him just all look at each other. I've probably seen it 100 times, but I still can't remember what car it's for. The VW Jetta, perhaps? It seems like a VW commercial.
Of course, you've all already bookmarked... Steve Taylor's blog, have you not?
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More clicking without thinking. Just click. Do not think. Please, do not think. And do not be suspicious.
If you hate Prinsiana City, then click here. But of course you do not. Right? You do not, do you?
oh so lovingly written by
Matthew |
these are comments, 3.
It's Omnibus Monday!
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Blue is bad. You do not need to try Pepsi Blue. Please, do not try Pepsi Blue. It tastes like Lemon-Lime Gatorade halved with Crystal Pepsi. Did they not test this product with consumers? Did they not get the hint when every last testee spit out the drink onto their shirts, their pants, their testers? At least Coke's fake Vanilla Coke hits mediocrity.
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Huh. It is strange, laughing at something I wrote a good year ago. I do not do that often, but I am doing it now, and over this: "I am shocked, but it is the good kind of shocked, like when you are hit by lightning while golfing but the nurse who treats you in the hospital is pretty." That is not even very funny, but I am laughing nonetheless. I do not know why.
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A chronology of my favorite musical artists from 1994 to the present (with approximate dates):
That's right. Ending Björk's record-breaking 41-month stay at the top of my favorite musician list are those young upstarts, the Danielson Famile. I have been considering this move for a few months now, but even with some clear-eyed removal from my addiction with Fetch the Compass Kids, it is still obvious that, on an average day, I'd rather stick a random Danielson CD in my stereo than a random Björk CD.
I do still love you, Björk. But not in an I'd-want-you-to-bear-my-children sort of way. No. Please no. That would be freaky.
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We must celebrate, no?
So. On the just released re-release of the Danielsons' 24-song A Prayer for Every Hour -- certainly the worst starting point for a Famile neophyte, so don't buy it -- there is a second CD with a music video, two live performances, and an instructional video. The instructional video instructs how to properly listen to the CD, which is to listen to track one at the top of one hour, track two at the top of the next hour, track three at the top of the third, etc., until one day later, one listens to track twenty-four at the top of the twenty-fourth hour. Thus, a prayer for every hour. Then, after one sends in the correct documentation, one gets a certificate from the Danielsons that says he or she completed the program.
That is the awesomest awesome that ever awesomed1. I am going to do it. Starting Friday, August 16th at 9:00 in the morning, I will listen to the first track while at work. I will continue listening to tracks every hour on the hour until 8:00 a.m. on Saturday, August 17th. I mandate that all Richmonders who read my journal and who are not living at home with their parents and who will not be in Chicago that weekend come to my house at 4:00P on the 16th for an all-night Danielson sleepover. (My restrictions leave no one, alas. Oh well.)
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Don't think. Just click. And send. No questions.
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Latest addiction: Guy Maddin's six-minute film, "The Heart of the World." I've seen this condensed Soviet melodrama probably half-a-dozen times now, and it seems both funnier and more affecting every time I see it. I can't recall a non-animated short film I've enjoyed more. Kino!
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1 One point for naming the Simpsons' line that sentence is based on.
oh so lovingly written by
Matthew |
these are comments, 12.
I knew it! I was so sure that those new cinema verité Apple adshad to be the work of documentarian extraordinaire Mr. Errol Morris. And now1 I have the proof.
Errol is the best director of television commercials in the history of television commercials. I swear.
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Oh, and... That I mentioned these Apple ads is not random. Today is something, and I thought the above might jog someone's memory. Three points for the first person to figure out what today is. (You can certainly figure out what it is without knowing a thing about Errol Morris or Apple Computers.)
alcoholic drinks in which I can only barely taste the alcohol (weak screwdrivers, rum and cokes, ammereto sours, hot chocolates with either Bailey's Irish Creme or Creme de Methe added).
chocolate chip cookies just out of the oven.
dishes with too much garlic added for most people's tastes (particularly pastas).
vanilla extract straight from the bottle. no, not really, but it smells so lovely!
chicken from Chik-Fil-A (sandwiches, strips, or nuggets).
hamburgers from Fuddruckers (or more cheaply, Wendy's)
barbeque from Bill's Barbeque (pork or beef, though without without without cole slaw)
sandwiches from Subway (although more of a decision now that their Asiago Caesar sauce is no more)
ice cream from Ben & Jerry's.
thin pizza from Aurelio's (Chicago), pan pizza from Bottom's Up (Richmond), and chain pizza from Papa John's.
burritos from Nora's (sniff, sniff).
Food pet peeves:
sauces and condiments that are not tomato- or dairy-based (mustard, gravy, mayo [or is that dairy-based?], nearly all salad dressings).
steaks and hamburgers cooked rare.
non-starchy vegetables (tomatoes, celery, broccoli; only real exception: raw carrots).
coffees, teas, beers, and diet sodas.
any drink with tequila.
any fish with a stronger fishy taste than a BK Big Fish (most any, as Kim well knows).
undercooked baked potatoes.
chunks of onion that are big enough to see but too small to try to remove.
Today's p's and pp's: Lisa's idea of writing won. Three points. Beth-Annie's idea of food got second. One-and-a-half points. Both will be written on today.
Point opportunity: All the people who have points right now I either know in person or once upon a time knew in person. Two points to the first person I've never met in the flesh to comment on this post.
oh so lovingly written by
Matthew |
these are comments, 2.
Warning resinded! Warning resinded! Comments working again. How swell.
oh so lovingly written by
Matthew |
this is comment, one.
Warning! Warning! The comments still aren't working unless you're logged in as the administrator. Which you're not. Unless you're me. Or unless you know my username ("mdprins") and password ("pshorerulz").
However, Beth-Annie, Von, and Lisa have all e-mailed me comments to be posted, and in the interim, you may do so, too.
oh so lovingly written by
Matthew |
these are comments, 2.
So yeah. I am told that the commenting system is being funky. So beware if you are writing a 500-word soliloquy to me via it.
If you would like a messagette posted, and it will not post, e-mail it to me.
Why couldn't Kim have been a French minor instead of Spanish? Ms. Beth-Annie has asked (in a different forum) why I have this thing for the French language (such as me switching the archives over to that lovely vernacular). Here was my reply:
"Here is why I am obsessed with the French language:
"In 9th grade, I wanted to take French, mostly because it sounded so cool coming off the tongue. ("Sacre bleu!" and such.) (Also, French had more acute and circumflex accents than Spanish, which makes it automatically more cool; I was never much impressed by Spanish's n-yay's tilde.) However, the fine folks at Iowa Falls High School did not see fit to offer the fine language of French, believing that the language of the Nazis and the language of the, uh, Spaniards were sufficient.
"So I took Spanish. And I did not terribly like it. In tenth grade, when we moved to Ames, I seriously considered swapping out Spanish for French, but I didn't, and so I have not had a chance to reconcile my affectionate view of French with the realism of actually having to learn the language.
the woman is warm: a marked disparity
to animals dead and dying. rubber boots
are worn, and her tasseled hat can slay the chill.
she walks into church. it’s cold. she doesn’t mill
about the unseemly sanctuary. ants
are on the third pew. she wipes them quickly off,
then sits, with her clasp-ed hands around a birch
occurrence: a tiny flake of bark, a cross
with jesus’s outline, maybe. she thought so.
her mind is itinerant, yet her plateau
of feverish fervor lingers, glassy, flat,
mosaic of her and god. a holy tryst.
“and here is the lord, our savior, jesus christ,
the son of the living god.” abiding her,
the fragment begins to tremble, focusing
activity down, then up, then left, then right.
indecorous sweat is drenching wood and light
alike. to the mind, the eyes’ kaleidoscope
has rendered her bible as a hoover, brown,
to swallow away her sins. vroom. and gone
is anthony’s dalliance with her. sister ann’s
detection of cheating on a math test years
ago. and then wallace, wally, knives and guns,
forgotten occasions. weeping laugh. and she
began to emancipate hysteria.
a delicate apparition for feria.
a nickel and dime, two honoraria
to christ the almighty, with sincerity.
the woman is warm: a marked disparity
to animals dead and dying. rubber boots
are worn, and her tasseled hat can slay the chill.
---
Five points are available from this poem. Two points are for explaining the title, but I cannot tell you how you might receive the other three.
I do not know if I like "saintless" or not. It's awfully earnest for me (other than the "vroom"), do not you think?
oh so lovingly written by
Matthew |
these are comments, 15.
So this is a stupid idea. I have now decided to go back and try to think of a counterexample for all my pet peeves. I am an idiot. (I initially thought I'd also try to go back and think of negative counterexamples for my predilections, but I now see how exceptionally fanatical that is.)
For any I've left blank, one point for anyone who can help me fill it in.
songs that unabashedly promote social causes with neither humor nor self-effacement: Pierce Pettis' "Stickman" (lyrics here, intertwined with a sermon), which works mostly because it focuses on one individual in a nursing home rather than the entire industry.
songs with a simple upward whole- or half-step key change going into the final or penultimate time through the chorus: uh... (I am sure there is a counterexample to this; I just can't think of it)
songs that create a "musical tapestry" rather than having actual melodies: uh...
live albums and songs that use the words "baby" and "babe": already answered.
songs with puns in the title or in the lyrics: the Newsboys' "Elle G.," because the pun isn't used elsewhere in the song.
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scatological humor: seven points if someone can come up with an cinematic example of scatological humor that I laughed at.
films that have no characterization and also do not make narrative sense: Guy Maddin's beautiful short, "The Heart of the World"; I can handle grooving on just visuals for six minutes, and yeah, I guess "Heart" does make a little bit of narrative sense.
films with actively dislikable protagonists: the closest I can come up with is In the Company of Men, which has one actively dislikable protagonist, but also has one likable (until the end) protagonist, so I don't think it counts.
earnest documentaries that pretend not to take a side but actually do:Harlan County U.S.A., kinda
romantic comedies where there is no way, nope, not gonna happen, that party A would fall for party B: uh...
films where it is obvious the writers worked extra hard to come up with a scene where the lead actress could be topless: uh...State and Main? (No, not really.)
Lasse Hallström films: no possible counterexample until I've seen more of his movies (ha!)
oh so lovingly written by
Matthew |
these are comments, 2.
Musical Predilections:
singable songs that are in and out in less than two minutes (The White Stripes' "Fell In Love with a Girl," Aimee Mann's "Just Like Anyone," Sam Phillips' "Is That Your Zebra?")
long songs that pile on catchy melody upon catchy melody (Meat Loaf's "Paradise by the Dashboard Light," Radiohead's "Paranoid Android," the Danielson Famile's "Deeper Than My/Our/The Government" trilogy)
songs with a hemiola rhythm (West Side Story's "America," numerous baroque pieces)
stripped-down music with no more than two or three instruments and one vocalist (all of Jan Krist's Decapitated Society, most of T-Bone Burnett's Criminal Under My Own Hat)
songs where the percussion rhythm is different than the instrumentalists and vocalists' rhythm (the last third of the Danielson Famile's "Let Us A.B.C.," where the snare drum is alternating between 4/4 and 5/4 measures, and everyone else is in 3/4)
sarcastic songs that are about something more than their sarcasm (Steve Taylor's "Moshing Floor" and "Smug," among many others; Mark Heard's "Faces in Cabs")
songs in time-signatures with prime-numbered numerators other than 2 and 3 (in 5/8, Iona's "Inside My Heart"; in 11/8, Iona's "Bí-se I Mo Shúil, Part II"; Iona in general, really)
songs with copious internal rhyming (the Newsboys' "Shine")
songs with a super-chorus at the end that supersedes the expected normal chorus (Radiohead's "Karma Police," The Beatles' "Hey Jude," Aimee Mann's "How Am I Different?")
female vocalists with unusual voices (Julie Miller, Victoria Williams, Gillian Welch)
songs that run into each other on the album (Sixpence None the Richer's "Anything" and "The Waiting Room," Daniel Amos' "Wise Acres" and "So Long")
songs with a Taize-esque repetition (the tag in Michael W. Smith's "All You're Missing is a Heartache," the slowed-down instrumental riff at the end of Steve Taylor's "Jim Morrison's Grave," all of Gavin Bryars' Jesus' Love Never Failed Me Yet)
songs that unabashedly promote social causes with neither humor nor self-effacement (Sam Phillips' "Black Sky" [environmentalism], dcTalk's "Walls" and "Colored People" [racism; the latter is catchily catchy, however], Bruce Cockburn's "The Mines of Mozambique" [the, er, mines of Mozambique])
songs with a simple upward whole- or half-step key change going into the final or penultimate time through the chorus (every Michael Bolton song, the Ragamuffin Band's version of "My Deliverer is Coming" [twice!])
songs that create a "musical tapestry" rather than having actual melodies (most of the last half of Björk's Vespertine, I'm sad to say)
live albums (the only two I like better than the same artist's studio albums: Peter Himmelman's Stage Diving [because his studio albums are overproduced] and Burlap to Cashmere's Live at the Bitter End [because their studio album was overproduced], and neither of those live albums I really love)
songs that use the words "baby" and "babe" (no parenthetical needed, I assume, except to exempt Mark Heard's "Long Way Down")
Next up: Uh, whoever comes up with the best next up thing gets three points.
oh so lovingly written by
Matthew |
these are comments, 6.
Welcome, dearies, to... ...The Week of Predilections and Pet Peeves at Prinsiana!
This week, I shall be discussing my tastes in film, music, sports, writing, and who knows what else (food? people? sofas? drinkable liquids?) using a simple likes/dislikes listing method, except that I will be using the words "predilection" and "pet peeve" because I like their alliteration with "Prinsiana."
We shall now start with movies.
Predilections:
films that have numerous audacious, original set pieces, even if the films themselves aren't necessarily cohesive (Amélie, Babe: Pig in the City, Moulin Rouge, Jesus' Son)
films based on improvisation, whether the improvisation is seen on screen (This Is Spinal Tap, Waiting for Guffman) or not (every Mike Leigh film, but best noticed in Naked and Life is Sweet)
Iowa films (Field of Dreams, The Straight Story, Hybrid)
films with long, unbroken tracking shots (Goodfellas, Magnolia, Touch of Evil)
films filmed with what seems to be a single handheld camera (Rosetta, The Celebration, The Idiots)
romantic comedies where, with ten minutes to go, it isn't at all apparent if the appropriate couple will get together (Boyfriends and Girlfriends, Broadcast News, The Aviator's Wife, The Apartment; Eric Rohmer in general, really)
films out of chronological order (Memento, Exotica, Out of Sight)
films concerning ethical quandaries (La Promesse, Afghan Alphabet, A Moment of Innocence)
films with slightly tweaked naturalistic acting (Secrets and Lies, Truly Madly Deeply, Housekeeping, first segment of Mystery Train, last segment of Chungking Express)
films with intentional language faux pas (Steve Martin's response to Campbell Scott's "How's your sister?" in The Spanish Prisoner, among other moments; Wally's "Did you ever see that play Violets Are Blue?" in My Dinner With André, among other moments)
films about sibling relationships (Hannah and Her Sisters, You Can Count On Me)
documentaries indirectly about people's idiosyncrasies (Gates of Heaven, Crumb, Paradise Lost: The Child Murders at Robin Hood Hills)
films with Brooke Smith in a major role (Series 7: The Contenders, Vanya on 42nd Street)
Pet Peeves:
scatological humor
films that have no characterization and also do not make narrative sense (Drowning By Numbers, The Element of Crime, Snatch)
films with actively dislikable protagonists (Barfly, Barton Fink)
earnest documentaries that pretend not to take a side but actually do (Store Wars: When Wal-Mart Came to Town)
romantic comedies where there is no way, nope, not gonna happen, that party A would fall for party B (Benny and Joon, Autumn in New York)
films where it is obvious the writers worked extra hard to come up with a scene where the lead actress could be topless (Swordfish, The Whole Nine Yards)
Lasse Hallström films (The Cider House Rules, Chocolat)
Nickels and dimes. There is change on the right-hand side of Prinsiana City. Please note it.
oh so lovingly written by
Matthew |
these are comments, 6.
Stupidest quote of the week: From Bryce Zabel, chairman of the Academy of Television Arts & Sciences, regarding the numerous Emmy nominations for HBO's "Six Feet Under":
"This is a very good day to be a member of 'Six Feet Under.' They're not six feet under, they're on top of the world."
Oh dear.
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Bleah. I am extraordinarily lethargic this week. Last evening, I was so lazy that I watched an entire episode of the syndicated version of "The Weakest Link." What is wrong with me? Working hypothesis: Lack of exercise because it is too, too warm to play disc golf. Secondary working hypothesis: I'm hot, and moving only makes me hotter1.
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The Hierarchy of Games for a Group of Four People, in alphabetical order:
500.500 is the best two-on-two card game ever invented; it's best described as a stupid man's Bridge or a smart man's Euchre. (Euchre would be on the list if 500 weren't.)
Hearts. You are all nodding your heads in agreement, I see.
Nerts. As Ed has said, four is the bare minimum for a quality game of Nerts.
Scattergories.
Spades. I prefer every-man-and-woman-for-him-or-herself rather than the partners version described here, but whatever. It's still tres cool.
I'm sure ya'll complain about omissions. (I did consider I Doubt It [a.k.a. B.S.], although it's just been too long since I've played that to be comfortable with its inclusion.)
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"Hush, hush. What's the rush? East-coast children do too much." No, I’m yet done with the Burger King thing. Take it up with upper management.
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Oh, and... Two points for the first person to name above quote's artist and song.
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1 "Hot" here is, of course, meant in the sense that I am sweltering and not in the sense that I am fetching. But if you've seen me, you already knew that, no?
oh so lovingly written by
Matthew |
these are comments, 2.
In the spirit of the Hierarchy of Drinkable Liquids, we at Prinsiana give you... the Hierarchy of Games for Groups of Five or More People!
(This is not to be confused with the Hierarchy of Games for a Group of Four People, although there is a bit of overlap. Please do not confuse the two. I beg you, do not confuse.)
These five games are listed in alphabetical order:
Balderdash. Ideal group size: 6 to 10. (Beyond Balderdash, which adds new categories other than just defining words, is a slight improvement over the original.)
Boggle. Ideal group size: 5 or 6. (More than that, and (a) no one has any words left by the end, and (b) it takes too, too long for everyone to go through their lists of words, and thus (c) everyone gets a bit bored.)
Nerts. Ideal group size: 4 to 8. (If you don't know: Nerts is a superior version of group Klondike solitaire.)
Scattergories. Ideal group size: 4 to 8. (Yes, I do like the linguistic-type games, you amentiferous verdure, you.)
Taboo. Ideal group size: 6 or 8. (My parents, my brother and his wife went through the entire two boxes of cards in -- I believe -- less than a week.)
"Any shade is as good as the next if your shadow doesn't go there." Supposition: The best song Steve Taylor has written or co-written is not "Jesus is for Losers" or "The Finish Line" or “Violent Blue” or, uh, "Meat the Press," but is in fact "Elle G." I'll hear arguments on the case in the morning.
By the way, if you are a certain person who read all 17 messages in the Sixpence thread even though you only know Sixpence through their two big hits because you felt compelled to finish what you had started, please do not start reading the comments to this thread, since it could get long. And nasty. I don't care how bored you may be.
oh so lovingly written by
Matthew |
these are comments, 8.
Congratulations to... Mom "Sue" Prins, who was the gold medalist in the women's intermediate masters division of the Iowa Games disc golf competition, beating out the silver medalist by a Tiger Woods-esque nine strokes. Nope, I didn't believe it either, but here's the undeniable proof. (Event number DG302.) You'll be easy on me when I play you in a few weeks, right? Right?
Welcome to... Ms. Lisa Grilli, who is (I believe) the first of either Kim's or my college chums to find their way to Prinsiana. Hi, Lisa. Kim says hi, too.
Goodbye to... all respect you ever had for me, as I still can't come up with a good third Burger King story. Mom, Ed: Is there maybe something exciting I told you about my time there that I'm not thinking about? I don't think either of you know either of the two stories I will be telling.
oh so lovingly written by
Matthew |
these are comments, 5.
Okay, yeah, really I have a good reason for not writing my Burger King column. I can't think of a third. (My comments aren't working as I write this, so I don't recall her name, but kudos to the clairvoyant dudette who saw that this would happen.) Once I do, I'll write it, and if I don't have a third by tomorrow, I'll write it anyway.
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Late to bed, late to rise... Someone is using AOL to read Prinsiana at about 4:00 in the morning EDT. Consistently. If it is you, please tell me that you are in Europe or Australia or something and not in New York. Thank you.
oh so lovingly written by
Matthew |
these are comments, 4.
Okay, with all the massive hype around the Pledge-of-Allegiance ruling, how could this revelation not come out until now? That's freaky.
oh so lovingly written by
Matthew |
these are comments, absent.
Y'all must be really bored. Prinsiana had an incomprehensible 28 unique visitors yesterday, beating the old record by three. If any of you knows an accountant, I would like to talk with them about the pros and cons of Prinsiana stock going public.
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"It just shows to go you can never trust anyone." So, uh, so Kim pointed out that (a) I didn't make any spelling mistakes in that 20-minute writing exercise, and (b) I didn't make any major grammatical mistakes in that 20-minute writing exercises, and (c) if I were really writing without editing -- that is, writing without ever, ever, ever hitting the backspace key or the delete key -- that I would have made numerous more mistakes in that arena, and so (d) she concluded that I edited the piece.
I will admit that I edited the piece, but only kinda. Here was my requirement: I could use the backspace editor only when there was a error I made that I noticed virtually the same second it came on the screen. For example, I started the word "second" in that last sentence with an "e." (This is not hypothetical; that really happened.) I noticed it right away, and unconsciously hit the backspace key and replaced it with an "e." It would take a lot of unlearning for me to type without correcting small mistakes like that, and further, it would have made the document virtually unreadable. So that is my mea culpa.
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At 50 demerits, you have to buy the bell-choir director an ice cream cone. My new AIM name is TenDemerits. I'm sure you all care.
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We'll have it your way. Burger King was the clear winner. Three stories will commence later today.
oh so lovingly written by
Matthew |
these are comments, 4.
"Thew," sadly, is already taken. So after seven months of freeloading off of AOL, an AOL Service Representative finally allowed me to cancel my account rather than giving me an extra one or two months of free membership to "try us out some more." This is a sad, sad day.
I tell you this not so you can cry over Kim and I having to pay $10 each month for Wal-Mart's Internet service -- well, that's not entirely the reason -- but to start another contest1 at Prinsiana:
Give Matthew a New AIM2 Name!
See, AOL doesn't like me to use "mdprins" now that I've cancelled my account. So I need another one. Help, please.
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1 These contests are blatant attempts to keep people reading Prinsiana City and participating in the comment discussion. No doubt most of you have already figured that out.
2 That's AOL Instant Messenger, which, shockingly, allows you to use it even if you're on a different ISP. I have a grand total of five (5) buddies, not including duplicate names, but including Andrew, who is not actually on my buddy list but he did AIM me once so I'm going to count him anyway, and oh, all of these buddies I know in person because I have very little interest in starting Internet conversations with people I don't know in person, because I did enough of that my freshman year in college, and really it gets kinda boring after a while because I am now at a point in my life where I like to see people's faces or hear people's voices when I talk to them -- I mean, not all the time, but occasionally, at least -- because a friendship or even an acquaintanceship seems a bit...cold to me when conducted entirely through black pixels on a white screen or even green pixels on a purple screen, which is a bit of a change for me because there was a time (freshman year, college) where I liked the safety and the distance of two computers connected by a network of wires but to be fair a lot of that was probably because I didn't have very many in-person friends at the time (maybe three or four, although I can't think who the fourth would be, and probably another half-dozen people who considered me friends but I didn't feel all that close to) and for none of those three friends I was their closest or best friend, including my girlfriend at the time, who by the way (most of you know this but a few of you don't) I actually met on the Internet, which just seems incredibly wacky in retrospect, but it was probably just a product of that first-semester loneliness, so anyway so when sophomore year rolled around, and I started being part of what is the closest group of friends I've ever had, a group that carried on together with additions through senior year, and then I picked up the cutest little girlfriend who also happened to have a wonderful personality, I...I really lost the need, and the longing, for those Internet-only relationships (I'm talking about platonic relationships here, although the other was obviously true also), and so even though occasionally I will step my foot into the Bannerbored or reply to 16f135lbsexy's instant message (not really), I feel very far removed from that time, and even this website here isn't meant to draw in outside people, at least not in the same way that STHQ did and was meant to do, because this is just me bouncing things off of my friends and relatives and other people I know and a few random people (hi, cynthia h., and LAWRENCE, and Briony!), but mostly it's just meant as a extension of my "real life," rather than a whole different life upon itself. There. Fifteen minutes (more like twenty, really) of unedited thought. (Burger King is going to win, but I thought this an interesting idea nonetheless.) Lovely, no? Welcome to my befuddled psyche. The bathroom is on the left, just past those synapses straight ahead, and there’s a few unopened cans of spinal fluid in the fridge.
oh so lovingly written by
Matthew |
these are comments, 8.
Dreams, part two. I had another dream last night -- a regular dream, not a lucid one. But I will not be telling you about it. Ha.
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Go jump in the pool. Beth-Annie claims -- claims, mind you! -- that Sixpence None the Richer vocalist Leigh Bingham Nash said at Cornerstone that Sixpence's1 new album will be coming out on September 24th. I have one word in reply: Yeahright. Annie, who must be a sickly optimist if she supposes that Steve Freakin' Taylor still may come out with another album, cannot be believed, nor can Mrs. Nash.
So. I invite you all to lose your money.
I am putting down a $2 bet that Sixpence's new album will come out May 13, 2003. If y'all are willing to bet $2 of your not-at-all-hard-earned cash on a different date in a winner-take-all pool, please do so. Your date must not be closer than two weeks to any previous bettor. If your date is the furthest one out, and Sixpence never comes out with another album, you are the winner.
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1 If you do not know, Sixpence None the Richer is a very melodic (and generally depressing) band that, alas, is known among the hoi polloi by a below-average and surprisingly happy song for them ("Kiss Me") and the worst song they ever recorded (a cover of "There She Goes").
oh so lovingly written by
Matthew |
these are comments, 17.
Verily I say to you, this is the greatest idea the world has ever known. That idea, dear ones, is Google AdWords Select. For a five-dollar start-up fee, and approximately six dollars a month, every time some has a Google search with the word "Prins," a small ad for Prinsiana would appear. (For an extra dollar a month, it would also appear every time someone searches for "Abbas Kiarostami.")
That is a great advertising idea. I am almost tempted to do it for one month, just because it would be so cool to see my ad on Google.
Corn is best when just pulled off the stalk. Hi. If you were born in Iowa, please make an attempt to see the nonfiction film Hybrid on PBS' "P.O.V." this week. I wrote a few words on it, along with Undercover Brother, Questioning Faith and, ugh, Star Wars: Episode II -- Attack of the Who Cares.
oh so lovingly written by
Matthew |
this is comment, one.
Wait, wait! Better sentence of the week by someone else! This one is by the fine folks at Merriam-Webster, who wrote it to illustrate the correct way to use the word vicarious:
"[B]leeding from the gums sometimes occurs in the absence of the normal discharge from the uterus in vicarious menstruation[.]"
Um, okay.
Number one, eww.
Number two, is it me, or is this the most peculiar possible sentence to help readers ascertain the proper usage of "vicarious"? I mean, yeah, sure, it's correct and all, but...eww. In theory, I'm all about jazzing up the dictionary by using strange, yet concrete examples to put visual images in readers' heads, but, wow.
Sentence of the week by me. "The pineapple had a disconsolate existence; sans mouth, ears and eyes, it lay stagnant and decaying, with no acumen of the world that beset it." (I am not yet at liberty to give the context in which this was written, but hopefully someone will give me that permission soon.)
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Sentence(s) of the week by someone else. "I'm not sure if it's for the parents though because they mean it when they say it is 'rated PG for non-stop kinetic cartoon action' and I'm not sure if most moms and dads will be happy that they solve all their problems by brutally killing hundreds, maybe thousands of monkeys, some of them cute. Although to be fair this probaly is not something most kids have the chance to re-enact." Vern, on The Powerpuff Girls Movie
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It's...Choose What Matthew Will Write About Fridays! I've decided to give you a little more time to vote this week. Also, if you feel that all my topics are toxic waste and you would like to write-in a vote for new topic, that would be swell. Sweller than swell, in fact.
(a) A flash fiction story that ends with the line, "He drove home silently, thinking about those farts." (The number two choice from the Friday prior will be listed among the next week's choices.) (b) The three most exciting things that happened to me in 15 months of working at a Burger King.
(c) A sonnet (rhyme scheme: ABCB ADCD AECE FF) about magnet love.
(d) 15 minutes of unedited writing without punctuation or capitalization. (Count the mistakes he makes in spelling and grammar when he doesn't go back and re-read!)
(e) Why Matthew briefly -- oh so briefly -- considered joining Mensa.
oh so lovingly written by
Matthew |
these are comments, 12.
"My left brain knows that all love is fleeting." I would sincerely like to thank The White Stripes' "Fell In Love With A Girl" (with help from its sublime Michel Gondry-directed LegoTM video) for thankfully supplanting -- um, I'm sorry about this upcoming admission, I really am -- Eminem's "Without Me" as the catchiest song on the radio.
oh so lovingly written by
Matthew |
these are comments, 3.
Ew....ssssssssssssssssick! Yesterday, for the first time in about a year-and-a-half, I had a take a full sick day at work. I'm still sickly today, but not unbearably so; thus, we're giving the whole active employment thing a go today. Let us hope that I do not throw up on my desk.
On a related note, I would like to thank Richmond's B103 for having broadcasting a Fear Factor-esque eating contest this morning, which lovelyly exasperated the queasiness of my stomach. Good job, buds.
Actually, it was kind of a good job, because the show gave me my first lucid dream in a few months; before completely waking up at 7:50, my mind transformed B103's eating contest into an ice cream eating contest, starring me, my college roommate and friend Bob (as nice of a guy as you'd ever care to meet, but certainly not svelte) and, somewhat strangely, my high school principal's daughter Nicole (who, in the few short conversations I've had with her, seems like as nice of a gal as you'd ever care to meet, but certainly not svelte). I was also feeling sick in my dream, so I was getting my butt whipped by them both. In specifics, that's all I remember, but it was cool. I love lucid dreams.
oh so lovingly written by
Matthew |
these are comments, absent.
"There is a me you would not recognize, dear. Call it a shadow of myself." I almost like my entry from yesterday. Almost.
"And if the music starts before I get there, dance without me. You dance so gracefully." This song, which these three bits of lyrics come from, is the best slow-dance song in the world. (It also happens to be one of the saddest romantic songs in the world.) Ten points to whomever first names that song.
"I really think I'll be O.K. They've taken their toll these latter days." I'm a bit better now than yesterday. Some time alone has helped. Thank you to all who have written messages of support. (That would be no one, by the way; thanks bunches, buds.)
oh so lovingly written by
Matthew |
these are comments, 2.
Blah blah blah blah. I'm dead tired, I don't have anything interesting to say, but I feel an obligation to post something. So this is that post.
This reminds me of one of my 25 favorite scenes in Magnolia:
Phil: I know this sounds silly, and I know that I might sound ridiculous -- like this is the scene of the movie where the guy is trying to get a hold of the long-lost son, y'know, but this is that scene. This is that scene. And I think they have those scenes in movies because they're true. Y'know, because they really happen. And you gotta believe me, this is really happening. I mean, I can give you my number and you can go check with whoever you gotta check with and call me back. But do not leave me hanging on this. Please. I'm just -- please. See, this is the scene of the movie where you help me out.
Here is another scene from Magnolia. I also like this scene.
Claudia: I'm really nervous that you're gonna hate me soon. You're gonna find stuff out about me and you're gonna hate me.
Jim: No. Like what? What do you mean?
Claudia: You have so much -- so many good things. And you seem so together. You're a police officer and you seem so straight and put together -- without any problems.
Jim: I lost my gun today.
Claudia: What?
Jim: I lost my gun today when I left you and I'm the laughingstock of a lot of people. I wanted to tell you. I wanted you to know and it's on my mind. And it makes me look like a fool. And I feel like a fool. And you asked that we should say things -- that we should say what we're thinking and not lie about things. Well, I can tell you that, this, that I lost my gun today -- and I am not a good cop. And I'm looked down at. And I know that. And I'm scared that once you find that out you may not like me.
Claudia: Jim. That, that was so--
Jim: I'm sorry.
Claudia: --great. What you just said.
You know what other movie I like? Ghost World. Here is a scene from Ghost World.
Enid shows Seymour the other pictures in the journal.
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This is a new heading; however, I am continuing to talk about the same thing I was discussing before. I just put in a new heading because I am bored. Bored, bored, bored. That is me. Sleepy and bored. Please, I am asking you politely not to read the rest of this post, because it will be a reflection of my current boring, sleepy self. If you do read on, remember that this heading means nothing, and we're continuing to talk about Ghost World.
That is such a moving scene. I also like the scene in the sex shop. Seriously. That is the most awesome sex-shop scene ever.
The book Ghost World is even sadder than the movie. You should all read it. It is only 80 pages long, and there are lots of pictures, so it's about an hour read for people who read more slowly than I. However, I do not like the sex-shop scene in the book as much, because it is so much better that Enid goes to the shop with Seymour instead of Josh. Seymour is actually only barely in the book. Did you know that?
Also, if I took my journal entries from last month, and printed them out about 200 words to the page, they would be about 80 pages. You know what else is 80 pages long? An 80-page long book. Also, Ghost World is 80 pages long; that's quite a coincidence, as I was just discussing the movie Ghost World, which is based on the book that is 80 pages long.
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Rationale for the above.
I do not know why I am doing this bohemian entry, an entry with little certitude. That is a lie, by the way, because actually, I do know why: I have spent way too much time around people today, and I am trying to get away from all that, and the best way to get away from that is through my writing, but I can't write, because I'm too tired to think straight, but I am not too tired to type in favorite movie titles in the IMDB and click on "Memorable Quotes." So that is what I do. I quote movie lines, and just go with this write-whatever-comes-to-mind crap that makes for a lame entry.
oh so lovingly written by
Matthew |
these are comments, 8.
Oh. My. Something is wrong with me. After removing the dates and those "written with love upon love by someone stupid but verbose" tags at the end of posts, guess how many words I wrote last month here. Just guess. Think about it.
Got your answer? Good. It's wrong. It's way too low. Fifteen thousand, three hundred and ninety words. Just over 500 words a day. That's sick.
The worst part about it, however, is the month's Flesch-Kincaid Grade Level score, which indicates the grade level of the language and of sentence structure that one uses. In most of my writings, the Flesch-Kincaid Grade Level score is in the low double digits. In the journal last month, it was 6.3. Egad. (One-word sentences like that do help with the lowering, mind.) I did keep the percentage of passive sentences at a lovely two percent, however; hurrah for me. Sorry, but more SAT vocabulary to come, folks. And more semicolons.
oh so lovingly written by
Matthew |
these are comments, 2.
Matter over mind. For those of us (read: me) who make our double-digit-per-hour salaries lethargically sitting behind computers and attending proactive meetings, it's a bit invigorating to (oh so temporarily) be bringing in moola by using our powerless, powerless muscles. I've spent the vast majority of my time at work today lifting heavy boxes, moving shelves, and unloading and loading a flatbed truck, all while grunting incomprehensible monosyllabic tones and showing my butt crack. (I sincerely hope for the good of the public that the latter characteristic is not true; people would faint from the horror, no doubt.) In short: Today, I am a real man.
Surprisingly, I feel good. Even in today's 92o weather, it was invigorating.1 Have I chosen the wrong station in life? I believe I have. Good bye, useless intellectualism; hello, large biceps!
One question remains: What unskilled physical task should I quit my job for?
[a] sanitation engineer -- have to lift large bags of garbage!
[b] construction worker -- have to lift large power tools!
[c] carpenter -- have to lift large planks of wood!
[d] librarian -- have to lift the latest edition of the O.E.D.2!
[e] professional disc golfer -- have to lift, um, discs.
I'm leaning toward [e], despite the lack of an exclamation mark. But I dunno. This is hard, making such a drastic career change that uses none of the skills that I've learned in my 17 years of schooling. Hmm. Perhaps before doing this, I should go to the University of Richmond and get a Masters in Hard Menial Labor.
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1 Ditto with playing disc golf yesterday with Pablo (beat him by ten strokes, thank goodness) and Von on a day when God had to go to Heaven's Repair Shop to fix that blasted universal air conditioner that's been on the fritz lately and they told him, "Sorry, but we won't be able to get it back to you until September. Hope that's not a problem. It is? Jesus Christ. Take it up with him, I mean. He's the day manager at this joint."
2 Oxford English Dictionary. Yes, yes, I know it’s geniusy for me to call it by its initials. I’m trying -- really trying! -- not to be so smart.
oh so lovingly written by
Matthew |
these are comments, 4.
Well. So I'm addicted. Yes, I said fewer posts this week, yes, I said in-laws are in town, yes, screw my last message. I'm back, I'm black, and I'm...oh, wait. I'm not black, am I? Oh dear.
Surprisingly to me, I have really gotten into writing in this journal the past month, and I feel a bit sad about letting it stay dormant, even for a few days. I am not sure why. Those of you who know me well know that I'm not the most emotionally open dude in the northwest quadrant of Henrico County, and I had a working theory that all the writing I've done this month about feelings and personality and mushy, mushy bits has been a bit of a release for me. I had pooped out my emotive blockage, let us say. But then I went back and read my posts and I see that there are about one-and-a-half messages that could even potentially qualify as that sort of emancipation. Even the post that supposedly was about my emotions -- the Matthew-makes-passes-at-girls-who-wear-glasses entry -- was more of a red herring than anything else; that's barely a paint chip on a subject I could have gone into much, much, oh so much more depth on. (In the metaphor, you would have needed to call Maaco afterward.) So that's not it.
(And no, I have no intention of being any more open in this arena. None. You want to know who my tenth grade crush was? Tough. You want to know how I feel about having children? Your loss. You want to know the things I do not particularly like about myself? As my Dad as Mr. Taboo says, "Yeah, right.")
(To be clear, though: There are certain people that I would tell the answers to some of these questions to in a less public forum. [And a few people already know the answers to some of these questions, natch.] For example, if you could not possibly put a face to the name of my tenth grade crush -- and some of you might be close -- you do not get to know; if you can't, what do I care? [At this point, I'll tell anyone about fourth through ninth, regardless, even if (somehow, since I haven't seen any of them in at least nine years) the crushee asked; strangely, I have no qualms about that.] And other people get other confessions, and if you all got together you would have a lovely picture of me that I would probably not want to set my eyes upon, and so on and so forth.)
(Did I have a point? No, no: I see that I didn't.)
Anyway, so I wonder, what is that reason I've written so much? I have three working theories, one of which I don't like because it makes me look ...well, I won't tell you how it makes me look, other than an austere "eh." Maybe I'll post them later; maybe I won't. But I'd be happy to hear your theories.
Now that I've raised your expectations, it seems just cruel to say... ...that I won't be posting very much between tomorrow afternoon and Monday morning. Fourth-of-July stuff, you know. I do have a little funny, yet poignant post that I've had in the works for a couple weeks, and I'll try to stick that in sometime to keep y'all entertained.
oh so lovingly written by
Matthew |
these are comments, absent.
The joys of the Dental Parade. Ed can help with some of the details, but here is a synopsis:
Every year, near the end of the school year, the small town of Iowa Falls, Iowa has what must be the world's only Dental Parade. (It was May 16th this year.) When Kindergarten through fifth-grade children visit their dentist during the school year, the dentist gives them a dental card. (Or maybe they bring in the dental card and he or she signs it. I forget.) Then the students bring their dental cards back to school to prove that they went to the dentist. The school keeps them on file, probably putting a little check by the students' names on their permanent record or something.
Anyway. So at the end of the year, each class -- I think -- makes up a butcher paper sign that lists the grade, teacher and percentage of students who returned their dental card. (There are always some 100 percents and quite a few others in the 90s.) Then they march in a parade. It's just them, mostly, with a couple bands and probably some other stuff, although I can't remember anything else in the parade except bands and the students.
And you know what they do at the end of the Dental Parade? Everyone eats ice cream. What kind of mixed message is that? Huh?
Recounting it makes it seem quite lame, but it was a big deal to us Iowa Falls elementary school students.
I am sorry there is no Andrewscript used in Prinsiana, Grove City dude. Ed's bud Andrew and I are linguistically duking it out about Catholicism and mandatory religious doctrine. If you have not yet set your eyes upon our conversation, the Catholic Catechism requires you to read it.
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Now, if Chris Eigeman were Pope, then I might be Catholic... I don't care for "Malcolm in the Middle" as much as I feel I ought to -- I dislike Colm's homilies to the camera, and I find the parents improbably belligerent and hateful -- but they made one great, great casting decision this year: Chris Eigeman as a talented-and-gifted teacher. No one can combine the combination of charisma, intelligence, irascibility, and annoyance into one character the way Eigeman can -- see Metropolitan, The Last Days of Disco -- and he has instantly made his character the most electric on television. I can't not watch him.
oh so lovingly written by
Matthew |
these are comments, 6.
Am I a Mr. Smarty Pants? A friend and I were talking last night about intelligence, and after a bit a intellectual self-depreciation on my part, she asked me, "But Matthew, aren't you like a genius or something?" I said something half-hearted along the lines of it depends on what standard one uses, and whether one uses a straight-I.Q. view of geniuses or whether it is also related to achievement1. The truth is, I don't believe I'm a genius. I don't believe I'm close to being a genius, quite frankly.
And it got me wondering: Where should the line be set for geniusity?2 It could be based on achievement, sure, but where's the fun in that? I want a hard genius/non-genius line, so that next time I am asked, I can say, definitively, that I am not a genius. Y'all will set it way above my I.Q., right? Right? Please? I'd really rather not have to worry about meeting those expectations.
Here are some points of reference to help you help me set the line. The I.Q. scores are based on standard deviation of 16 and a mean of 100.3
I.Q. of 132: Mensa requirement. At about the one-in-45 level.
I.Q. of 140: Encyclopedia Britannica’s definition of a genius. At about the one-in-170 level.
I.Q. of 145: Genius requirement used by many psychiatrists. At about the one-in-400 level.
I.Q. of 150: Smarter than one ought to be. At about the one-in-1000 level.
I.Q. of 160: Number I heard bandied around in college for the genius level. At about the one-in-11,000 level.
I.Q. of 170: Really, really, really smart. Really. At about the one-in-160,000 level.
I.Q. of 180: This person, too, is really smart, but she has no friends because she's always talking about "the imminent disintegration of the cosmos upon itself" and how "we may asymptotally approximate our latent communal realization, but the full realization shall permanently remain an asymptote." She is loads of fun at dinner parties. At about the one-in-3,500,000 level.
I.Q. of 193: On average statistically4, this would be the highest I.Q. of any American. This person always wins at Balderdash because he knows the right definition for every word. At about the one-in-300,000,000 level.
I.Q. of 205: Me.
I.Q. of 206: Where I would set the genius level.
Okay. No, not really. No, I'm, uh, let's just say I'd set it a bit higher that those psychiatrists would. Preferably, I'd set it one or two points above the I.Q. of a certain person I know who got a 36 on his ACT, because I can't have him be a genius and me not be. Right?
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1 As the friend can attest, I did not actually say that second item, but I should have, so I'm including it anyway.
2 First rule for geniuses: Make up words like "geniusity." 5 3 That sounded like a suspiciously intelligent remark -- even one that a genius might make. Oh dear. Please do ignore that cha-cha into basic statistics.
4 Do you see the redundancy? Do you? How could someone say "on average statistically" and be a genius? Huh?
5 Second rule for geniuses: Use footnotes. It makes you look smarter.
oh so lovingly written by
Matthew |
these are comments, 5.
You people are sick. Unique visitors were up nearly 90 percent for June to 12.2 per day, and total hits were up 195 percent to 70 per day. (Both numbers are a bit low, as only about ten pages on Prinsiana have invisible counters.) Wow. I guess that's what happens when you, you know, give an audience something to read. Good job, me.
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My fingers hurt. After my time-consuming 900-word soliloquy on Catholicism, a not-short rebuttal on the subject to Andrew V., and some, uh, less public conversing, I would suspect that I spent more time writing yesterday (from wake to sleep) than any day since college. If my writing does not seem particularly pizzazzy today, that would be why: I've used up all my ingenuity.
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I'm still waiting for... ...a poem written in iambic pentameter with a secondary anapestic foot. If someone doesn’t write one soon, I have a long (50 lines, maybe, when completed), strange, unfinished (25 lines written) poem in that rhythm that I will be forced to complete and share with you. Now, you don’t want that, do you? I thought not. Get writing.
oh so lovingly written by
Matthew |
these are comments, 2.
i sincerely do not know what you are doing here. are you lost? were you
looking for your delicate calico cat, and did you follow her up two flights of stairs
to this room? she is not here. she was here, yes. we gave her a warm bowl of milk, we talked with her about campaign finance reform for a time, and then she bid us good day. i believe she was
going to the post office two blocks down, but i don't quite recall.
for surely you did
not find your way from prinsiana, the least traveled site on
the internet. if you did, though, perhaps you are looking for humor. perhaps you are looking for profundity. perhaps you are looking for answers.
i'm sorry, but you shall go naught-for-three.
