Note: As with anything brilliant or hilarious, it helps to know some of the basic grammatical rules, possess a familiarity with the classics, and understand why we're doing it too.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Family Dynamics
Note: As with anything brilliant or hilarious, it helps to know some of the basic grammatical rules, possess a familiarity with the classics, and understand why we're doing it too.
Friday, November 23, 2007
Thanksgiving, Minus The Shouting and Appetizers
Thanksgiving festivities are usually characterized by consumption of mass quantities among all those who celebrate it. For my whole life, our family - in conjunction with The Beast's side of the family - has taken this to astronomical proportions.
From the second we enter the door till the second we shamble out to our cars, there is non-stop food. Indeed, it's like a Roman Food Orgy except instead of a vomitorium, there's just a second room full of food. Vomiting is actually frowned on at one of these gatherings.
It is expected that intense training regimen, such as that done by Professional Eating "athletes," is adhered to in preparation for the celebration. In fact, vomiting at my family's Thanksgiving festivities is grounds for discharge from the family. It's a tough rule, but one we hold to strictly.
I remember back in 1987, our cousin Reggie was released from the family, and escorted out of the house, sans clothing, to fend for himself in the woods surrounding Port Orchard, Washington.
Poor Reggie.
Also, a staple of our extended family culture is the escalation of decibel levels throughout the night. I actually had no idea that people spoke using "indoor voices" at the dinner table until just a few days ago as I went with my roommate to his parent's house for Thanksgiving dinner.
Having been accustomed to such focused and dedicated gluttony and such uncompromising loudness for my whole life, I was first very surprised to see that one of the children in attendance didn't touch her food at all. In my family, this sort of blasphemy would have brought upon of us the fate suffered by Reggie back in '87. I was surprised to see that the child was not even scolded much less exiled into the night!
Next, I was learned quickly that customs were different when everybody grew alarmed as I shouted a filthy joke down the table (it being an obvious dysphemism for "passing the gravy," that even a toddler in my family could have picked up on).
Assuming them to merely be pacing themselves, I was astonished to discover that the proceedings not only refrained from getting louder, but actually grew quieter as the night wore on. In fact, by the end of the night, not a single person in the room was shouting!
With my impending nuptials, I begin to wonder if such displays of weakness - both in the stomach and in the vocal cords - are inherent in my fiancée's family tradition. I'm beginning to fear that this may very well be the case.
She will be accompanying me to our Christmas festivities this year, and I'm afraid she may not be prepared for our strict code of conduct.
But on the bright side, I think Reggie will enjoy the company.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Kiss Goodbye
Note: As with anything brilliant or hilarious, it helps to know some of the basic grammatical rules, possess a familiarity with the classics, and understand why we're doing it too.
Higher Temps?
Note: As with anything brilliant or hilarious, it helps to know some of the basic grammatical rules, possess a familiarity with the classics, and understand why we're doing it too.
I Can Has Hawkens?
One of the Intrawebs many benefits is the new mediums of communication it provides. In some cases, it provides not only a new way to deliver that communication, but an entirely new way to present and project critical information.
Alongside Guttenberg and Ferdinand de Saussure, is the keen language of the LOLcats.
Like any proper vernacular, this new mode of communication has its own grammatical rules dictating proper style and usage, detailed treatises on its history, and, of course, a basic grasp of the classics is exceptionally helpful.
Perhaps the LOLcats creator says it best: "The grammar is consistently awful, as if the cat was trying to speak English but just couldn’t get the conjugation right."
In an expression of the sincerest form of flattery, and with a desire to present our family via the most advanced forms of communication possible, we presnt our newest feature: I Can Has Hawkens?
Alongside Guttenberg and Ferdinand de Saussure, is the keen language of the LOLcats.
Like any proper vernacular, this new mode of communication has its own grammatical rules dictating proper style and usage, detailed treatises on its history, and, of course, a basic grasp of the classics is exceptionally helpful.
Perhaps the LOLcats creator says it best: "The grammar is consistently awful, as if the cat was trying to speak English but just couldn’t get the conjugation right."
In an expression of the sincerest form of flattery, and with a desire to present our family via the most advanced forms of communication possible, we presnt our newest feature: I Can Has Hawkens?
Sunday, November 11, 2007
The Gift of Gifts Which are Not for Me
Ever since I got engaged, The Beast has been gathering baby supplies.
During ensuing 4+ years she has never anxiously asked if and when she'll get her first grandchild, but has instead patiently amassed untold quantities of childrens books, toys and clothing.
It is, by any reckoning, moderately creepy.
I suppose in many ways I am lucky -- most women her age are a source of constant questions regarding when the next generation will begin and what awful family forenames the offspring will bear. The Beast does not trouble herself with such inquiries. She instead ravages the infant and toddler sections of Gap, Sears and Target.
I have seen only a fraction of the things already purchased, and it already wildly outdistances any purchases ever made for me.
Whereas I was expected to happily attend school with imitation Converse (minus the laces) or imitation Roo Shoes (minus the velcro), my future children with be lavishly showered (minus the water) with a wide variety of one-piece velour tracksuits and blue jeans with snaps up the sides.
Watching all of these gifts get dispensed is going to be like watching the disarming of Germany. I can only hope that she has accidentally put some stuff for me in these boxes.
If memory serves, I only received 145 of the possible 147 Transformer action figures. There's still time to complete the set.
During ensuing 4+ years she has never anxiously asked if and when she'll get her first grandchild, but has instead patiently amassed untold quantities of childrens books, toys and clothing.
It is, by any reckoning, moderately creepy.
I suppose in many ways I am lucky -- most women her age are a source of constant questions regarding when the next generation will begin and what awful family forenames the offspring will bear. The Beast does not trouble herself with such inquiries. She instead ravages the infant and toddler sections of Gap, Sears and Target.
I have seen only a fraction of the things already purchased, and it already wildly outdistances any purchases ever made for me.
Whereas I was expected to happily attend school with imitation Converse (minus the laces) or imitation Roo Shoes (minus the velcro), my future children with be lavishly showered (minus the water) with a wide variety of one-piece velour tracksuits and blue jeans with snaps up the sides.
Watching all of these gifts get dispensed is going to be like watching the disarming of Germany. I can only hope that she has accidentally put some stuff for me in these boxes.
If memory serves, I only received 145 of the possible 147 Transformer action figures. There's still time to complete the set.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
The Hawken Family Newsletter: Full of Letters, But Very Little News
Every Fall The Beast starts planning the annual Hawken Family newsletter. There are very few things that make her quite so excited, and it is one of the things which makes me screen my calls.
Long ago, she gave the newsletter what she considered to be a very clever name (I will not indulge it with a reference), and ever since the annual witticisms have been flowing freely--like concrete out of a sewer pipe.
Long before Thanksgiving, The Beast is already madly typing things and giggling to herself about some clever alliteration or use of terrible Clip Art. As soon as the basics are completed, the barrage of e-mails to Jake and me begin.
She wants, we learn, some input from us about what we've done over the last year, and she wants to know what we think of the articles she has already written.
Each of these articles details one member of the family, and provides a rich level of detail. While The Beast's colorful, lyrical literary style is well suited for a holiday letter, and the design of these letters is meticulously well executed, she is far, far less concerned with facts.
Indeed, she is entirely disinterested.
Year after year I read, with no small amount of interest, of the very interesting life of an individual who, despite sharing my name, bears very little resemblance to me.
Whereas I might have been in college that year, this person has "been working at the store." The year I got married, the other "oldest son, Ben" was "keeping busy with his classic cars and coaching volleyball."
Some years, other things, like ER reruns, limit The Beast's accuracy even further.
In 1999, the family newsletter spoke of Hal, Jake and someone named Travis. Although Travis and I went to the same school and had traveled to the same places, he was the only one that had recently returned from a fact-finding trip to Puerto Rico or written a romance novel set during the Battle of Pharsalus.
Tomorrow I'll be writing my section of the 2007 Hawken newsletter. I'm considering submitting a cartoon or graffiti art instead, but I don't think The Beast will go for it.
Long ago, she gave the newsletter what she considered to be a very clever name (I will not indulge it with a reference), and ever since the annual witticisms have been flowing freely--like concrete out of a sewer pipe.
Long before Thanksgiving, The Beast is already madly typing things and giggling to herself about some clever alliteration or use of terrible Clip Art. As soon as the basics are completed, the barrage of e-mails to Jake and me begin.
She wants, we learn, some input from us about what we've done over the last year, and she wants to know what we think of the articles she has already written.
Each of these articles details one member of the family, and provides a rich level of detail. While The Beast's colorful, lyrical literary style is well suited for a holiday letter, and the design of these letters is meticulously well executed, she is far, far less concerned with facts.
Indeed, she is entirely disinterested.
Year after year I read, with no small amount of interest, of the very interesting life of an individual who, despite sharing my name, bears very little resemblance to me.
Whereas I might have been in college that year, this person has "been working at the store." The year I got married, the other "oldest son, Ben" was "keeping busy with his classic cars and coaching volleyball."
Some years, other things, like ER reruns, limit The Beast's accuracy even further.
In 1999, the family newsletter spoke of Hal, Jake and someone named Travis. Although Travis and I went to the same school and had traveled to the same places, he was the only one that had recently returned from a fact-finding trip to Puerto Rico or written a romance novel set during the Battle of Pharsalus.
Tomorrow I'll be writing my section of the 2007 Hawken newsletter. I'm considering submitting a cartoon or graffiti art instead, but I don't think The Beast will go for it.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
MY Son Will Do No Such Thing
Many don't realize that The Beast has a penchant for op-ed journalism. She recently authored an article for a reputable news organization.
In response to her concerns about my collegiate activities and what she knows "all those kids she works with are doing," she wrote This Article.
In response to her concerns about my collegiate activities and what she knows "all those kids she works with are doing," she wrote This Article.
Dead Drug Guys
Every parent, at some point, feels the need to express concern for their children's choices in media.
In addition to banning MTV, Saturday Night Live, Channel 5 News and The Davey and Goliath Show, Hal was quite prolific with his opinions about the music to which Ben and I listened.
A line must always be drawn in the sand. For Hal, that line looked like it had been drawn by somebody with ADD.
He would tell us that our music was noisy, but then, strangely, tell us to turn up the stereo when we were listening to songs like LAPD, by The Offspring. He'd say that we were damaging our ears with our music, but would blast Boston albums at full volume early on Saturday mornings.
There was a method to his madness I'm sure, but I think I need to take several courses in Advanced Physics or Applied Dementia before I'll ever understand it.
One example of my inability to understand his criteria is particularly telling.
A few months after the infamous demise of Kurt Kobain, Ben and I were listening to a tape of Nirvana and my dad grumbled into the room after a long afternoon of hitting things with hammers and deepening the ingrained sweat rings on his t-shirt. "What is the deal with you kids?" he asked, attempting to turn down the volume or, perhaps, destory the cassette. "All you wanna do is listen to a bunch of dead drug guys."
He then proceeded to flip on the oldies station and smiled broadly at the first sounds he heard. "Now this is music," he said, "nobody can play like Jimi Hendrix."
In addition to banning MTV, Saturday Night Live, Channel 5 News and The Davey and Goliath Show, Hal was quite prolific with his opinions about the music to which Ben and I listened.
A line must always be drawn in the sand. For Hal, that line looked like it had been drawn by somebody with ADD.
He would tell us that our music was noisy, but then, strangely, tell us to turn up the stereo when we were listening to songs like LAPD, by The Offspring. He'd say that we were damaging our ears with our music, but would blast Boston albums at full volume early on Saturday mornings.
There was a method to his madness I'm sure, but I think I need to take several courses in Advanced Physics or Applied Dementia before I'll ever understand it.
One example of my inability to understand his criteria is particularly telling.
A few months after the infamous demise of Kurt Kobain, Ben and I were listening to a tape of Nirvana and my dad grumbled into the room after a long afternoon of hitting things with hammers and deepening the ingrained sweat rings on his t-shirt. "What is the deal with you kids?" he asked, attempting to turn down the volume or, perhaps, destory the cassette. "All you wanna do is listen to a bunch of dead drug guys."
He then proceeded to flip on the oldies station and smiled broadly at the first sounds he heard. "Now this is music," he said, "nobody can play like Jimi Hendrix."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
