Greetings, fellow internettians. After a few months of reading this, I suggested to Neko and Walrus that I might have something to contribute, and get this, the fools believed me. So, story-time with Fizzgig commences now.
Early on in my freshman year at PCU, I still spent evening times with my hallmates more often than not (like ya do). One night in particular, there was a party with a decidedly sexual theme, and these hallmates decided, with inarguable logic, that it would be best to combine this event with alcohol. Now, being not so much a drinker at that point in my life, I had but a little, but one of my hallmates, we'll call him Mr. Potato Head, had quite a bit more. So much more, in fact, that another of my hallmates, we'll call him Yankee, was prompted to begin what would become the most memorable exchange of the evening:
Yankee: Potato, you're looking a little flushed...
Potato: WHaa?
Yankee: Your face is looking a little red.
Potato: /dabs finger on face, licks finger/ Doesn't taste red...
The moral of this story: If it ever starts to seem reasonable to taste your skin to determine color, put down the booze.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Time Travel
An odd thing happened today. When I checked my Facebucket account, I discovered a friend request and message from a woman I've never met... maybe.
As many of you know, my Facebucket is under a name which is not mine; it was an experiment to see if it would work to change my name, and even though it has failed I haven't ever gotten around to changing it back. When combined with my own last name, it is very distinctive; even our Google Overlords (all hail) only know of one person by that name.
The message I received went something like this:
Bonjour! There can't possibly be two people by that name; are you the one I met in Paris in the early 1980s with a mania for punctuation?
Well, as I was born in the early 1980s, it seems to me that this could not be. But I do love both French and punctuation. So I wrote back to this woman, letting her know of the odd coincidence.
But really, what's in a name, or for that matter, a date? The Walrus theorized that, since there are no coincidences, I must have traveled back in time; I haven't met this woman yet- but I will!
As many of you know, my Facebucket is under a name which is not mine; it was an experiment to see if it would work to change my name, and even though it has failed I haven't ever gotten around to changing it back. When combined with my own last name, it is very distinctive; even our Google Overlords (all hail) only know of one person by that name.
The message I received went something like this:
Bonjour! There can't possibly be two people by that name; are you the one I met in Paris in the early 1980s with a mania for punctuation?
Well, as I was born in the early 1980s, it seems to me that this could not be. But I do love both French and punctuation. So I wrote back to this woman, letting her know of the odd coincidence.
But really, what's in a name, or for that matter, a date? The Walrus theorized that, since there are no coincidences, I must have traveled back in time; I haven't met this woman yet- but I will!
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Western Spaghetti
Apologies, Dear Readers, for the unscheduled break for... technical difficulties. Right. That was it. It totally wasn't because I was busy and forgot until I was nearly asleep for the last week or so.
In any case, let me tell you of a strange thing which happened today.
Today, as happens every so often, the Walrus' parents came to visit. When they do this, they like to take us out to dinner. A fairly normal problem with this habit is that we can't think of anywhere to go. So tonight, a steak place was suggested, and we decided to ask the giant brain of humanity: the internet.
The internet thought of a couple of places, the closer of which was a restaurant which shall be known as The Corral. Given the name and the many reviews saying that it was good, we had a reasonable expectation of getting some good steak. So off we drove to the Corral.
We entered the Corral and were met with a bizarre sight: a sports bar-like atmosphere at the entrance with Western decor on the brick walls, but bright lights and fancy place settings on the tables. The empty tables. There was one guy at the bar, and one small family in the restaurant itself. Over the speakers came the sounds of a light-rock radio station. But it had gotten good reviews, so we decided to stick it out.
In confusion, we sat and looked at our menus. The menu contained two steak products: steak tips and a sirloin. Instead of the anticipated cow feast, we found ourselves presented with a very typical Italian menu. After much hemming and hawing, we again decided that we would stick it out- we were too hungry to find another place.
Our waitress, although clearly an established member of the small staff, was very inexperienced and slow. There was one other waitress, but she spent all her time chatting with the family that was already seated.
The Walrus brought up the fact that there was a sign outside saying the ownership had recently changed. How long ago were those reviews? Before they decided to have an Italian restaurant in a steak joint, apparently!
Meanwhile, in between getting our appetizers and ordering our main courses (yes), someone hit the jukebox with a country western song. Right over top of the light-rock radio and the hockey game on TV. After a few minutes of acoustic bombardment, we finally caught a waitress and asked her to get one or the other turned off. Eventually it did.
At one point, right behind me, I heard our waitress sing (off key and not in time with the jukebox song anyways), "Rock the beat!"
By this point, we have decided that we've definitely lost our hats* and run into a surrealist restaurant. Perhaps they should rename it the Frosty Chicken**!
* http://www.girlgeniusonline.com/comic.php?date=20031017
Also, a nod to the spaghetti western tradition of hats taking bullets for the hero.
** See story to come.
In any case, let me tell you of a strange thing which happened today.
Today, as happens every so often, the Walrus' parents came to visit. When they do this, they like to take us out to dinner. A fairly normal problem with this habit is that we can't think of anywhere to go. So tonight, a steak place was suggested, and we decided to ask the giant brain of humanity: the internet.
The internet thought of a couple of places, the closer of which was a restaurant which shall be known as The Corral. Given the name and the many reviews saying that it was good, we had a reasonable expectation of getting some good steak. So off we drove to the Corral.
We entered the Corral and were met with a bizarre sight: a sports bar-like atmosphere at the entrance with Western decor on the brick walls, but bright lights and fancy place settings on the tables. The empty tables. There was one guy at the bar, and one small family in the restaurant itself. Over the speakers came the sounds of a light-rock radio station. But it had gotten good reviews, so we decided to stick it out.
In confusion, we sat and looked at our menus. The menu contained two steak products: steak tips and a sirloin. Instead of the anticipated cow feast, we found ourselves presented with a very typical Italian menu. After much hemming and hawing, we again decided that we would stick it out- we were too hungry to find another place.
Our waitress, although clearly an established member of the small staff, was very inexperienced and slow. There was one other waitress, but she spent all her time chatting with the family that was already seated.
The Walrus brought up the fact that there was a sign outside saying the ownership had recently changed. How long ago were those reviews? Before they decided to have an Italian restaurant in a steak joint, apparently!
Meanwhile, in between getting our appetizers and ordering our main courses (yes), someone hit the jukebox with a country western song. Right over top of the light-rock radio and the hockey game on TV. After a few minutes of acoustic bombardment, we finally caught a waitress and asked her to get one or the other turned off. Eventually it did.
At one point, right behind me, I heard our waitress sing (off key and not in time with the jukebox song anyways), "Rock the beat!"
By this point, we have decided that we've definitely lost our hats* and run into a surrealist restaurant. Perhaps they should rename it the Frosty Chicken**!
* http://www.girlgeniusonline.com/comic.php?date=20031017
Also, a nod to the spaghetti western tradition of hats taking bullets for the hero.
** See story to come.
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