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and here's something
weird: my place
in Humor 3-space

Monday, November 10, 2003
 
I spent the weekend catsitting for my parents at their loft in SoHo, and I realized some things about myself. The heat wasn't working properly, so to keep warm I started organizing some of the giant piles of books and assorted crap that cover every surface of the place. Realization one: I am the kind of person who organizes stuff when he's bored. This is handy characteristic if you work in a library, but if you want to have any kind of life at all you are going to have to learn to go out and do stuff with other people. But as I shoved prosciutto, cheese, and smoked whitefish into my mouth by the handful (my mom is on the Atkins, otherwise known as the Magic Diet of Bacon and Butter) and tried to decide whether the four books of ghost stories deserved their own distinct position on the shelf or whether they should be inserted alphabetically by editor into the short story section of the bookcase, I felt at peace.
     This has something to do with being a control freak, you'll say, and my desire to impose order on chaos, which is also part of the more universal fear of disorder/ decay/ death. But I also did a lot of dusting, which seems to be the opposite of order-imposition: you take a bunch of stationary dust and slap it willy-nilly into the atmosphere like unfestive confetti. What do you say to that, Dr Pat Assessment?
     Both my parents are unrepentant pack rats. My dad has legitimized it by becoming a "book collector," but my mom has no such organizing principle. On Saturday, I needed a shoebox to hold a bunch of crap I found on a shelf (which crap could obviously not be discarded), so I looked in the "box department," a closet-sized shrine to containment. I found a perfect box, but it wasn't empty. I opened it, only to find: smaller boxes! Oh God. It's sick, but it made total sense to me... BECAUSE I HAVE A BOX JUST LIKE IT AT MY HOUSE.
      So realization two is that I am my parents' child, for despite all the mailman jokes, I am undeniably the heir to their hoarding gene. I have labored to fight this tendency like an alcoholic CEO fighting to put off his first, delicious glass of scotch until 10am. When cleaning my room, I always ask "do I really need this beat-up fake gold and enamel cigarette case that's too small to hold cigarettes? Or this photocopy of a drawing of five types of sailor's knots? Or this rusted pulley? Or this scrap of paper with a drawing of a clown? Or this bag of hair? Jesus god, do I really need a bag of hair?!?" The answer is often "yes, definitely," but at least I asked.
     I am not foolish enough to think I can escape my fate. It would be like thinking you could stop a zombie from eating your brain with gentle pleading. From now on, everyone who comes to my house must take away one piece of crap, and leave behind a naked Polaroid of themselves. Together, we can make a difference.

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MY IMAGINARY GIRLFRIENDS

Chan Marshall
Rotem of the IDF
Eleanor Friedberger
Amy Goodman
Bernardine Dohrn ('69)
Maya Rudolph
Joanna Newsom
Imogen Heap
Caroline Dhavernas

Shana Rae Ray

DISALLOWED FOREVER

"I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you!"
-
"from whence"
-
"...the exception that proves the rule"
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any use of the question "spit or swallow?"
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the phrase "drop trou"
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fake-o reviewer verbs:
"penned" for wrote
"helmed" for directed
"lensed" for whatever
-
"expat"
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the euphemism
"passed away"
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pronouncing merci beaucoup as "mercy buckets!"
(see also: "grassy-ass!")



PET PEEVES

"confinscated"
-
trying children "as adults"
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"drownded"
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misuse of reflexive pronouns, as when someone says "Please talk to Bob or myself." Come on people now. "Myself" is not just a fancy version of "me"! LEARN IT.
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tattoos in the Courier font
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any use of Comic Sans