Blogspot, vessel of my return to the internets,
I'm at work right now, alternately reading a Slate diary piece by David Rakoff dating late 1990s and piecing together the skeleton of a report that will one fine day, God-willing, be perused by those haughty, misunderstood lords of the urban jungle: hedge-fund analysts. In so doing, I've recognized that after you read Author X's book, you come to see bits and pieces of that book's prose show up in, say, an article they once penned about my favorite Chinese restaurant. In plundering their past work, Rakoff brings together sundered bits of long living as a gay Canadian Jew into a Kefka's Tower (or a Frankenstein--for those uninitated in the ways of 1993 era RPG dorkdom) of words.
Oh oh, here! A sentence about how staying thin is the central preoccupation of our intrepid protagonist's life in a story about a dinner party! I remember that from his book, in a piece where he climbs New Hampshire's Mt. Monandnock (incidently, this very blog recounts my story of the same feat of strength). Being thin has always been one of those things I could count on, like fanatical Christianity or the inherent goodness of man, but lately it has been faltering. My friend and I used to barter information. I would help her with her organic chemistry work, and she would relay me the latest from my cusp-of-forgotten homeland (North Jersey, not be be confused with China) and useful eating-disorder tips (drink lots of water, eat boiled celery). I should make overtures to reignite this cultural exchange once more. Note to self.
Sure, I am reading--but, being a multitasker of uncommon caliber, I am also chatting with boyfriend and coworker alike (all the while avoiding the sweeping gaze and honed talons of our lord and savior, the COO). In this conversation, I play the intermediary, Ctrl-C-ing, editing and then Ctrl-V-ing snippets of thought from one window to another. In my own way, I am making the office environment a sad hotbox of social interaction. Oh look, we just coined a term!
Tacomagentic (Adj):
1. The quality of an item attracting tacos through the interaction of tortilla with d-orbital electrons
2. Being possessed of Tacomagnetism (see: thesis-induced hunger)
It is not in the huddled laager at the top of a lexicographer's tower where neologisms are born, but in the mid-levels of 444 Madison Avenue.
I am losing my shit.
I'm at work right now, alternately reading a Slate diary piece by David Rakoff dating late 1990s and piecing together the skeleton of a report that will one fine day, God-willing, be perused by those haughty, misunderstood lords of the urban jungle: hedge-fund analysts. In so doing, I've recognized that after you read Author X's book, you come to see bits and pieces of that book's prose show up in, say, an article they once penned about my favorite Chinese restaurant. In plundering their past work, Rakoff brings together sundered bits of long living as a gay Canadian Jew into a Kefka's Tower (or a Frankenstein--for those uninitated in the ways of 1993 era RPG dorkdom) of words.
Oh oh, here! A sentence about how staying thin is the central preoccupation of our intrepid protagonist's life in a story about a dinner party! I remember that from his book, in a piece where he climbs New Hampshire's Mt. Monandnock (incidently, this very blog recounts my story of the same feat of strength). Being thin has always been one of those things I could count on, like fanatical Christianity or the inherent goodness of man, but lately it has been faltering. My friend and I used to barter information. I would help her with her organic chemistry work, and she would relay me the latest from my cusp-of-forgotten homeland (North Jersey, not be be confused with China) and useful eating-disorder tips (drink lots of water, eat boiled celery). I should make overtures to reignite this cultural exchange once more. Note to self.
Sure, I am reading--but, being a multitasker of uncommon caliber, I am also chatting with boyfriend and coworker alike (all the while avoiding the sweeping gaze and honed talons of our lord and savior, the COO). In this conversation, I play the intermediary, Ctrl-C-ing, editing and then Ctrl-V-ing snippets of thought from one window to another. In my own way, I am making the office environment a sad hotbox of social interaction. Oh look, we just coined a term!
Tacomagentic (Adj):
1. The quality of an item attracting tacos through the interaction of tortilla with d-orbital electrons
2. Being possessed of Tacomagnetism (see: thesis-induced hunger)
It is not in the huddled laager at the top of a lexicographer's tower where neologisms are born, but in the mid-levels of 444 Madison Avenue.
I am losing my shit.
posted by Byron at 11:02 AM
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