chads
- Originally from: batesville, ar
- Currently residing in: fayetteville, arkansas
- I've been on arkansasrockers since May 13, 2004
- Last updated on Jan 28, 2012 at 11:10AM
chads has 2 recipes in the cookbook - show me
In General
Flax seed: Are we just shitting ourselves?
Lately
It turns out the "voice" of everything I’ve ever written in a post or an e-mail is that of David Foster Wallace. Even though I’ve never actually read him, I’ve been infected:
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You guys totally trumped me with bees, which I, too, am actually more interested in. Whenever we go to Durango/Ouray (which seems to have an Arkansas Rockers connection), there’s a place north of Durango (well hell, here it is. Fucking internet always interrupting), and they have a hive there with a series of clear plastic tubes where you can see the bees come into the store through a hole in the wall and make their way along the wall to the hive.
Anyway, bees. Much more topical than ants right now. Bats, even more so.
Holly Ann — I am happy for you and your new like-interest.
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(In late reference to Shaner’s dentist writings), I was just idly thinking yesterday about my many trips to the dentist to have teeth drilled and capped and yanked, and how much I hate Valium, which they always give me. I dread the liquid-Valium hangover worse than anything about the dentist, and yet I always opt for it for fear of what the experience might be like with nothing at all. My dentist is about as Clockwork Orange as it gets. They give me headphones and a limited choice of music, so I always go for the Miles Davis. Your other choices are classic rock or country hits, and some other crap. Then, the gruesome smell of your own burning bone, jazz music, that awful Valium headache. I always go get a coffee afterwards and, refusing to nap it off for some reason, just go about my daily business in a most weird fugue state.
Henry got an ant farm as a gift. It’s such a sad and strange thing, everything about it. Look at it. If you’re in a certain state of mind, you’ll come up with all kinds of terrible thoughts about humanity. They tunnel and live in this NASA-engineered gel which contains water, potassium, and some other basic nutrients, and of course it must be an eerie green color, lit from below by tiny LED’s. Since they are only ants and we can’t know what is cruel for them, let us not try to make conditions not cruel.
Before Henry got the ant farm, I had daydreamed of building him a big one, of oak and plexiglass with a removable magnetic lid, mounted on his bedroom wall, complete with a queen. I’m glad I didn’t go off half-cocked on that one. I have a rule about doing anything I have a notion to do: "Now that we have considered doing this, we must now fully consider not doing this." Usually after this rather short vetting process, I decide not to do it.
This fellow indeed appears to have a queen in his ant farm, and thinks it is… cool? No. Yes, cool.
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Miranda — I’m imagining a scenario where we all band together and journey to destroy the servers where the Wayback Machine lives. And maybe along the way we discover the internet personalities we’ve constructed are nothing like our real ones. And we discover it lives not on a server, but inside the brain of a man hooked up to wires, and because this man’s brain contains video of us urinating on corpses, we kill him and urinate on his corpse and take a video of it, which we immediately upload to the internet.
(Actually Alana unearthed the unholy Machine back on the 12th, but I accept blame for perpetuating its evils.)
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Shane — agreed about the time machine.
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I guess I totally walked into this; it’s my own fault. I was doing some dishes, absent-mindedly the way one does, and my five year old kid blind-sided me with this old chestnut.
"Papa, am I married?"
"No."
"What is married?"
"Married is when you’re grown up and you meet somebody and you love them a lot, and you guys want to live in the same house together forever, and maybe you want to have children."
"How do you make children?"
"Whoa!!!"
I sort of surprised myself with this "whoa," for it was the same exclamation you hear in movies about Italian guys who are all sitting around a table and one of them suddenly unwittingly insults somebody’s mother or something and they all go "WHOA!" in that Andrew Dice Clay voice, that ends with you frowning and your mouth forming an "o". Anyway, Henry kind of laughed uncomfortably at that and looked at me funny. Then he was like, seriously, how do you make children. Then began some rather shady stalling and texting for Brynn to hurry up and get home.
What was surreal was: I was not only living out the most generic sitcom scene ever — I was compelled to act the part! Like, all my natural reactions came from Bob Saget or something. Short of stammering something about storks and belly-buttons I guess. But it just seemed to go on and on.
We don’t mind telling him this stuff at all, by the way. I mean, hey, what the hell. I just thought maybe he’s too young to know not to repeat it to people all out of context and shit. Haha! Talk about your TV plots! (And the biggest joke of all is that I’m called "Papa." If you meet me, "paternal figure" probably isn’t exactly what springs to mind.)
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I found this one of my own with the Wayback Machine:
http://web.archive.org/web/20060212083336/http://www.arkansasrockers.com/profiles/specific.asp?PeopleID=1092
(Man, there’s some other stuff out there I pray no one ever digs up.)