May 31, 2007
Full Moon
May 31, 2007
Share Thoughts On Multimedia Here
hey there.
I'll be shuffling around multimedia clips regularly.
Some clips are meant to be light, some are meant to engage conversation and others may or may not annoy you...
If you have any requests or thoughts, please share and indicate which clip that you're referring to and I'll do my best not to take them too personal.
be well,
jenji
I'll be shuffling around multimedia clips regularly.
Some clips are meant to be light, some are meant to engage conversation and others may or may not annoy you...
If you have any requests or thoughts, please share and indicate which clip that you're referring to and I'll do my best not to take them too personal.
be well,
jenji
May 29, 2007
My Memorial Day Morning
Back to the single woman living alone and "you're-screwing-up-my-evening-now-scat." (YSUMENS) *see here
On Sunday afternoon there were several baby robins wandering around and about my yard. The birds were only able to fly about two feet off the ground and appeared merely days away from being able to care for themselves. Robins are extremely doting parents and they didn't seem to mind when I would pick up a baby and shuttle it back into the play area before it was hit by a passing car or mower. They were great parents--I know this because I had been watching their ritualistic feedings throughout the spring--granted, with voyeuristic binoculars in hand (my neighbors already think I'm eccentric. Big deal). The chicks would chirp from a low perch wherein the parents would bitch and moan at each other to get the babies fed. Mom and Dad yank the worm out, fly over and drop it in the kid's face.
Rinse and repeat.
So, on Sunday/Monday morning I went to bed at around 3 a.m. Just on the brink of slumber I hear a high octave chirp outside my bedroom window. Naturally, in classic "you're-screwing-up-my-evening-now-scat" form I ignored the chirps and figured I would let nature take its course. Very Darwin, very Survival of the Fittest.
Chirp. Ignore it.
Chirp. Ignore it.
and yet again, chirp. I ignore it.
By this time I'm not looking out the window out of sheer defiance, rather than fatigue.
Then I hear these frantic high-octave chick chirps and the parents throwing a complete shit fit in my driveway.
I AM IGNORING YOU!
sigh. I just want to sleep--
--in only a few hours my neighbor will wake to obsessively vacuum his car out, followed by his predictable 8 a.m. lawn maintenance. Seriously, would it kill the fucker to sleep in just once?
Still ignoring the chirps.
Then it came. The knock at my front door at 3:30 a.m.
Oh, now it's on!
I get up, bitch and moan my way across a pitch black house and open the door.
I look down to see this staring back at me:
Okay, not exactly that...more like this...
..and no, it wasn't Harold. He's much too metro to go outdoors at night. And by that I mean that he's a pussy in every sense of the word.
It was a baby robin scared out of its mind fluttering against my door with a big ol cat lickin his chops a foot away, ready to pounce.
Let me be clear: The bird knocked on my door.
I'm just sayin' I had already handled him most of the day and now he knew to knock.
He knocked, I'm just sayin'.
Long story short, the baby robin would never survive the night with that big bad lion out there, so we had a sleep over. I put him in a spare bird cage that I had and he slept in my bathroom. Occasionally I'd hear a chirp, but overall I think he slept quite well. Harold could care less, as his bawwwwls are far too hypnotic for him to pay any attention.
The next morning I got up and well,
as I said, my Memorial Day morning went something like this:
Breakfast
"Oliver"
Mumbling Co-dependent up the tree in her jammies.
Oliver happily back in his nest.
Oliver let out a chirp that sounded like a birdy version of thank you...
Or was it...
"You dumb bitch, this ain't my nest!"
jenji
On Sunday afternoon there were several baby robins wandering around and about my yard. The birds were only able to fly about two feet off the ground and appeared merely days away from being able to care for themselves. Robins are extremely doting parents and they didn't seem to mind when I would pick up a baby and shuttle it back into the play area before it was hit by a passing car or mower. They were great parents--I know this because I had been watching their ritualistic feedings throughout the spring--granted, with voyeuristic binoculars in hand (my neighbors already think I'm eccentric. Big deal). The chicks would chirp from a low perch wherein the parents would bitch and moan at each other to get the babies fed. Mom and Dad yank the worm out, fly over and drop it in the kid's face.
Rinse and repeat.
So, on Sunday/Monday morning I went to bed at around 3 a.m. Just on the brink of slumber I hear a high octave chirp outside my bedroom window. Naturally, in classic "you're-screwing-up-my-evening-now-scat" form I ignored the chirps and figured I would let nature take its course. Very Darwin, very Survival of the Fittest.
Chirp. Ignore it.
Chirp. Ignore it.
and yet again, chirp. I ignore it.
By this time I'm not looking out the window out of sheer defiance, rather than fatigue.
Then I hear these frantic high-octave chick chirps and the parents throwing a complete shit fit in my driveway.
I AM IGNORING YOU!
sigh. I just want to sleep--
--in only a few hours my neighbor will wake to obsessively vacuum his car out, followed by his predictable 8 a.m. lawn maintenance. Seriously, would it kill the fucker to sleep in just once?
Still ignoring the chirps.
Then it came. The knock at my front door at 3:30 a.m.
Oh, now it's on!
I get up, bitch and moan my way across a pitch black house and open the door.
I look down to see this staring back at me:
Okay, not exactly that...more like this...
..and no, it wasn't Harold. He's much too metro to go outdoors at night. And by that I mean that he's a pussy in every sense of the word.
It was a baby robin scared out of its mind fluttering against my door with a big ol cat lickin his chops a foot away, ready to pounce.
Let me be clear: The bird knocked on my door.
I'm just sayin' I had already handled him most of the day and now he knew to knock.
He knocked, I'm just sayin'.
Long story short, the baby robin would never survive the night with that big bad lion out there, so we had a sleep over. I put him in a spare bird cage that I had and he slept in my bathroom. Occasionally I'd hear a chirp, but overall I think he slept quite well. Harold could care less, as his bawwwwls are far too hypnotic for him to pay any attention.
The next morning I got up and well,
as I said, my Memorial Day morning went something like this:
Breakfast
"Oliver"
Mumbling Co-dependent up the tree in her jammies.
Oliver happily back in his nest.Oliver let out a chirp that sounded like a birdy version of thank you...
Or was it...
"You dumb bitch, this ain't my nest!"
jenji
Ask Harold advises Red from 5/29
On 5/29 Red inquired at Ask Harold
--I don't know anything about bawwwwwwls but eye do have a question for harold NOW about my cries of lust and wanting that continue into the night? Is this normal for a certain lady that was suppose to have been FIXED! Harold please help NOW, RARA MEOWWWWWWWWWWWWW
Thank you for the question, Red.
It was just this morning as I was cleaning my bawwwwls that I began to reflect upon my own “fixing.” Frankly, I thanked my mother for having me snipped because it cut (literally) my bawwwwl maintenance down by at least half—I mean, the surface area alone of the un-neutered bawwwwls can double your cleaning time, as well as make it difficult to sit, squat and think.
I have also experienced the annoyance of what I’ll refer to as, “The Post-Spay-Lay-Play,” with a former roommate of mine who went by the name, Spooky. Or, as we all came to call her, “Horny! Horny! Horny!” Then again, when Spooky would writhe all through the late, late evening and early, early morning hours my mother would often call her something like, “Yer fuckin killin me cat! Killin me!” I’m not sure what this means, but Spooky answered to it with the customary “RARA MEOWWWWWWWWW” as you mentioned and I certainly appreciated the reference to bawwwls.
You see, although Spooky was spayed, she had the unrelenting ritual of rubbing her, what we came to call “tang,” all over every surface of the house. Every spring and summer Spooky pushed, shoved, thrust, jammed and dragged her tang onto and at anything with a tangible presence. This is the "Post-Spay-Lay-Play" that I spoke of earlier. She left a snail trail imprint of her nonsense, which if asked to describe said nonsense for a line-up, I would describe it as an irritated, inverted Slim Jim lookin’ for attention. I suspect this ritual is similar to the ritual of your kitty.
I cannot say whether this behavior is normal for fixed kitties per se, but I can certainly relate to your quandary.
My advice is as follows:
My mother has a device that she uses for—well, for what I’m not sure because when she does use it she usually shuffles me out of the room or incessantly screams at me, “Harold, don’t look”—right before the lights dim and I hear the sump pump motor fire up—which is odd because I don’t live in a house with a sump pump. Anyway, this device seems to calm my mother and keep her from rubbing her own tang on the walls in an almost magical way. I asked for one for Christmas, but all I got was a lousy two-dollar faux fur mouse made of CoonDog hair. Maybe you could purchase one of these devices for your kitty and leave her to it—but I strongly advise that you leave her alone with it—I must warn you that if you insist on watching she’s liable to throw a shoe at you—I’ve got the permanently bent whisker to prove it. I'd like to be able to describe this device to you better, but I found a picture (see below) that is very similar to my mother's device, except a different color.
Recommended "Post-Spay-Lay-Play" Device
Other than that Red, you should probably accept your fixed kitty for who she is and let the poor little lady out for a quick slap and tickle whenever possible.
And now, back to my glorious bawwwwls before they dry out.
Good day.
Harold
May 28, 2007
YSUMENS
As a single woman living alone I must say there are moments where one might think that one would be alarmed if one saw a shadowy figure in the window while watching television late into a Friday evening (that was last month).
Or one would think that one might find it odd when one hears the voice of an inquisitive man mumble into one's ear "mmmmhharmmruffyouknow?" from within the wall of one's laundry room in the middle of the day (that was last week).
Further, one might seriously freak out if one wakes to see a faceless figure standing above one while sleeping peacefully (this happens all the time).
Especially if one lives alone, right? Well, one would think...
When it comes down to it, there are certain circumstances in the life of a single woman living alone where panic would seem logical, yet I tend to adopt my maternal grandmother’s innate (and I would argue, practical) response to an alarming situation—denial. Make no mistake, it’s a ballsy, proactive, you're-screwing up-my-evening-now-scat kind of denial. I refer to it by the acronym, YSUMENS.
You see my grandmother would regularly encounter peepers who would peer into her windows at night while she would cook or sit at the kitchen table. These guys were bold enough to actually peep through the old-school mail slots that used to be cut into your front door—very muppety if you ask me. In fact, after a night of bumper to bumper, one-way traffic peeping, one could count the number of cigarette butts heaped beneath the windowsill from the previous evening of peeping activities.
Today, modern DNA technology would have every one of those peepers identified and thrown in jail to be sure. However, decades ago grandma’s response to this breach of privacy was neither panic nor even fear--she would simply whip her dishtowel up into a tightly wound weapon and aggressively thwack it at the window or door without missing a beat of any conversation that was taking place around her.
THWACK!
And with that, the peepers would scatter like vermin. This thwacking is similar to that which takes place during middle school pool periods across the country.
I’m just sayin; the woman had balls.
As a single woman, I find that this ballsy, proactive, you're-screwing up-my-evening-now-scat kind of denial works well. Although, I have yet to thwack a dishtowel at anything since the summer of 1982. And my reaction to the shadowy figure in the window last month? It was to simply stare straight ahead at the television with an expression that said,
"I can sit here and act like I don't see you all night, so either do something or scram ya jag-off!"
Or my reaction to the man's voice in my laundry room
(remember,"mmmmhharmmruffknow?")
Yes, it seemed like a question at the time regardless of my inability to translate “mmmhharmmruffknow?” into English. Basically, my inner dialogue was (and I must say, I may have even said this out loud), "I know, I think you're right."
And finally, the faceless figure above my bed as I sleep?
Well, this was a bit different you see because I was half asleep at the time and also pretty sure that these figures were extraterrestrials. More on that later. So naturally my reaction was a bit more...um, Hollywood.
Ahem. You see it was summer and I actually woke up repeatedly screaming, "people next door...call the police,” from my bed. I was full of piss and vinegar, but not nearly so alarmed and clearly too sleepy to either flee or call the damn police myself. Not screaming out of fear, no. In fact, I later came to realize I was paralyzed, but still, more on that later. I was merely screaming for added volume (and probably theatrics), quicker recognition and a speedier response by the authorities—whether Mulder and Scully or Officer Doughboy from Headquarters I didn’t really care—only that upon their arrival I could return to my slumber sooner rather than later.
Did I mention this was in the middle of August and my windows were wide open? Wait, wait…did I mention that I can easily hear a mouse fart from my neighbor's house during a sleet storm? I can’t imagine how The Born Again Family next door didn’t hear me; still, the police never showed. No good Bible beating dunces. I guess that's why my neighbor once described me as enigmatic. Yeah, yeah, get in line.
By the way, it turns out that the shadowy figures above my bed that have been plaguing me since childhood and the subject of so many of my film works are in fact common for those with narcolepsy and goes along with sleep paralysis, so I'm no longer concerned for experimental probing.
So, what is this phenomenon of ballsy, proactive, you're-screwing up-my-evening-now-scat kind of denial? Is this an extreme form of liberalism at work; in that I assume that we are all equal to do as we please no matter the circumstances because peeping, poltergeist and alien probing remains a universal right of every organism?
Or is it a sloth like laziness that has managed to render me sedentary and apathetic toward any proactive action that might say, require me to drop the remote and/or think too hard?
Or, is this just plain mental illness? Freud would probably site Plato’s definition of hysteria (hystera is the Greek word for uterus):
“when it (the uterus) remains barren for a long time after puberty it finds it difficult to bear, it feels wrath, is goes about the whole body, closing the issues for air, stopping the respiration, putting the body into extreme dangers, and occasioning various disease.”
Here is where I would tell Freud to kiss my skinny, barren ass in a wrathful manifestation of fury.
It's not mental illness. It's a strain of resilience. In fact, I would recommend that young girls are taught that the ballsy, proactive, you're-screwing up-my-evening-now-scat kind of denial is indeed a practical approach to coping with the various challenges that a single woman may encounter whilst living alone; that is, peepers, bumps in the night, voices in the wall and bags of flaming shit on your doorstep.
Which will bring me to my next post.
3:30 a.m. on Monday, May 28th…there was a bump in the night…
a big one...
to be continued…
Or one would think that one might find it odd when one hears the voice of an inquisitive man mumble into one's ear "mmmmhharmmruffyouknow?" from within the wall of one's laundry room in the middle of the day (that was last week).
Further, one might seriously freak out if one wakes to see a faceless figure standing above one while sleeping peacefully (this happens all the time).
Especially if one lives alone, right? Well, one would think...
When it comes down to it, there are certain circumstances in the life of a single woman living alone where panic would seem logical, yet I tend to adopt my maternal grandmother’s innate (and I would argue, practical) response to an alarming situation—denial. Make no mistake, it’s a ballsy, proactive, you're-screwing up-my-evening-now-scat kind of denial. I refer to it by the acronym, YSUMENS.
You see my grandmother would regularly encounter peepers who would peer into her windows at night while she would cook or sit at the kitchen table. These guys were bold enough to actually peep through the old-school mail slots that used to be cut into your front door—very muppety if you ask me. In fact, after a night of bumper to bumper, one-way traffic peeping, one could count the number of cigarette butts heaped beneath the windowsill from the previous evening of peeping activities.
Today, modern DNA technology would have every one of those peepers identified and thrown in jail to be sure. However, decades ago grandma’s response to this breach of privacy was neither panic nor even fear--she would simply whip her dishtowel up into a tightly wound weapon and aggressively thwack it at the window or door without missing a beat of any conversation that was taking place around her.
THWACK!
And with that, the peepers would scatter like vermin. This thwacking is similar to that which takes place during middle school pool periods across the country.
I’m just sayin; the woman had balls.
As a single woman, I find that this ballsy, proactive, you're-screwing up-my-evening-now-scat kind of denial works well. Although, I have yet to thwack a dishtowel at anything since the summer of 1982. And my reaction to the shadowy figure in the window last month? It was to simply stare straight ahead at the television with an expression that said,
"I can sit here and act like I don't see you all night, so either do something or scram ya jag-off!"
Or my reaction to the man's voice in my laundry room
(remember,"mmmmhharmmruffknow?")
Yes, it seemed like a question at the time regardless of my inability to translate “mmmhharmmruffknow?” into English. Basically, my inner dialogue was (and I must say, I may have even said this out loud), "I know, I think you're right."
And finally, the faceless figure above my bed as I sleep?
Well, this was a bit different you see because I was half asleep at the time and also pretty sure that these figures were extraterrestrials. More on that later. So naturally my reaction was a bit more...um, Hollywood.
Ahem. You see it was summer and I actually woke up repeatedly screaming, "people next door...call the police,” from my bed. I was full of piss and vinegar, but not nearly so alarmed and clearly too sleepy to either flee or call the damn police myself. Not screaming out of fear, no. In fact, I later came to realize I was paralyzed, but still, more on that later. I was merely screaming for added volume (and probably theatrics), quicker recognition and a speedier response by the authorities—whether Mulder and Scully or Officer Doughboy from Headquarters I didn’t really care—only that upon their arrival I could return to my slumber sooner rather than later.
Did I mention this was in the middle of August and my windows were wide open? Wait, wait…did I mention that I can easily hear a mouse fart from my neighbor's house during a sleet storm? I can’t imagine how The Born Again Family next door didn’t hear me; still, the police never showed. No good Bible beating dunces. I guess that's why my neighbor once described me as enigmatic. Yeah, yeah, get in line.
By the way, it turns out that the shadowy figures above my bed that have been plaguing me since childhood and the subject of so many of my film works are in fact common for those with narcolepsy and goes along with sleep paralysis, so I'm no longer concerned for experimental probing.
So, what is this phenomenon of ballsy, proactive, you're-screwing up-my-evening-now-scat kind of denial? Is this an extreme form of liberalism at work; in that I assume that we are all equal to do as we please no matter the circumstances because peeping, poltergeist and alien probing remains a universal right of every organism?
Or is it a sloth like laziness that has managed to render me sedentary and apathetic toward any proactive action that might say, require me to drop the remote and/or think too hard?
Or, is this just plain mental illness? Freud would probably site Plato’s definition of hysteria (hystera is the Greek word for uterus):
“when it (the uterus) remains barren for a long time after puberty it finds it difficult to bear, it feels wrath, is goes about the whole body, closing the issues for air, stopping the respiration, putting the body into extreme dangers, and occasioning various disease.”
Here is where I would tell Freud to kiss my skinny, barren ass in a wrathful manifestation of fury.
It's not mental illness. It's a strain of resilience. In fact, I would recommend that young girls are taught that the ballsy, proactive, you're-screwing up-my-evening-now-scat kind of denial is indeed a practical approach to coping with the various challenges that a single woman may encounter whilst living alone; that is, peepers, bumps in the night, voices in the wall and bags of flaming shit on your doorstep.
Which will bring me to my next post.
3:30 a.m. on Monday, May 28th…there was a bump in the night…
a big one...
to be continued…
Ask Harold advises Chet from 5/27
On 5/27 Chet inquired at Ask Harold...
Hello Harold. My question is about bawwwwwwls. With the humid temperatures of summertime quickly approaching, I've considered adding a dose of talcum powder to my morning post-shower nether regions bathroom ritual. Do you think this would be beneficial?
Hello, Chet.
As I am keenly aware of each and every one of your "issues," I must warn you that to talcum powder your "nether regions," or what I so fondly refer to as my bawwwwls, would be a most unfortunate remedy for summer scrote heat.
You see, I recently overheard you telling my mother that you had aquired an "actual toothbrush that dentists use" from your dear old dad. I would venture to say that using said talc powder on one's bawwwwls would indeed leave a sooty, cakey residue that would almost certainly linger upon your tongue after a good bawwwwl washing. That would be quite the not so fresh feeling, yes? Hence, the fancy toothbrush reference.
Long story short, using talcum powder on your bawwwwwls would leave your royal, if not smug, toothbrush jammed with powdery soot and such, and ultimately break your genuine American Dental Association tool.
What I would recommend is that you open a window after each and every steamy shower--then, carefully perch your newly polished bawwwwwls upon the sill--preferably in a window that will not slam shut without warning--then, carefully air the front, sides, overhang and under hang of your privits through the naturally wafty winds of the Avenue and cremative air of your surprisingly stiff downstairs neighbor.
I often air my bawwwwwls out this way after a serious bawwwl cleaning.
**Incidentally, to fight winter bawwwl chaffing, thoroughly saturate area with Crisco Original (none of that smug crap) and then air out with a 100 watt hairdryer.
Good luck Chet, and please refrain from sending any pictures of your progress.
Harold
May 27, 2007
ASK HAROLD
Greetings.
As most of you are probably already aware, I'm Harold and my life is beyond busy.
For example, in the morning I rise at about 5 a.m. only to find that my mother is far from ready to feed , play, and/or smother me with attention in any kind of way. So, until she gets up I usually thoroughly clean my bawwwwls. Some say that I'm obsessed with my bawwwwls and I say, damn right I am, wouldn't you be?
After my mother gets up, she feeds me and keeps yelling something about, "that is a seriously offensive load in the litter box, Harold!" I'm not quite sure what it is that she means by this, but she yells it at least once or twice a day.
After my mother leaves the house, I settle in so that I may again thoroughly clean my bawwwwls, as clean bawwwwls are the sign of a truly metrosexual cat.
If I could wax them I would do so, as I shed fur like a 300 lb wookie in the Sahara. However, my fear of the outdoors (especially thunderstorms) keeps me local and unable to get out to the detail shop on my own.
Please feel free to post any questions that you may have for me regarding any topic really. I'm very wise and I often give helpful advice. I am highly skilled and accredited, as I have an MFA in the smuggity art of bawwwwl licking from the University of Felix.
To quote the great Mustafa: "I lick them because I can."
I hope to hear from you soon and I promise to get back to you as soon as possible, that is unless I'm polishing my bawwwwls of course, then you'll just have to wait it out.
Cheers,
Harold (Pronounced Hair-wuld)
May 25, 2007
Seriously, did you hear something?
What bonds a friendship?
No, Chet...not a hot glue gun covered in Bubbleboy epidermal cells--keep yer unda'pants on already.
It's not Elmer's Glue (unless you're under age 10)
Not staples
Not velcro (that is like, sooo 1986 I could gag)
Not rubberbands
Not even the Randy go-to for sinking ships, Hypoxy.
It's certainly not the fruity, gooey hunk o Hubba Bubba that one has covertly managed to jam under one's chair (you know who you are!)
Hmmm, it's definitely not braiding each others hair and watching American Idol---in Smug Town this is also known as exchanging salt scrubs and watching snails screw (thhhhhannks!)
I decided to ask a glue expert and he suggested various forms of adhesives like:
acrylic adhesive
aerosol adhesive
anaerobic adhesive (and you know how I loathe cardio)
catalyst adhesive
conductive adhesive
cyanoacrylate adhesive
Epoxy
Glue Dots (if they taste like they sound I'll give em a whirl)
Hypoxy (sans the lit cigarette)
Hot Melt adhesive (if this is anything like a Hot Tuna sandwich, I'm out)
mastic adhesive
methacrylate adhesive
silicone adhesive (too easy, no comment)
solvent based adhesive
urethane (No! You're a thane!)
UV Curable (thank God, I'm all out of penicillin)
and finally, water based adhesive
But one would think that sharing a birthday would be enough to bond a friendship--apparently not.
Clearly nothing bonds a friendship like good ol gaffers tape and a gecko.
Thanks for your (you know who you are) pragmatic response during a sticky situation.
jenji
No, Chet...not a hot glue gun covered in Bubbleboy epidermal cells--keep yer unda'pants on already.
It's not Elmer's Glue (unless you're under age 10)
Not staples
Not velcro (that is like, sooo 1986 I could gag)
Not rubberbands
Not even the Randy go-to for sinking ships, Hypoxy.
It's certainly not the fruity, gooey hunk o Hubba Bubba that one has covertly managed to jam under one's chair (you know who you are!)
Hmmm, it's definitely not braiding each others hair and watching American Idol---in Smug Town this is also known as exchanging salt scrubs and watching snails screw (thhhhhannks!)
I decided to ask a glue expert and he suggested various forms of adhesives like:
acrylic adhesive
aerosol adhesive
anaerobic adhesive (and you know how I loathe cardio)
catalyst adhesive
conductive adhesive
cyanoacrylate adhesive
Epoxy
Glue Dots (if they taste like they sound I'll give em a whirl)
Hypoxy (sans the lit cigarette)
Hot Melt adhesive (if this is anything like a Hot Tuna sandwich, I'm out)
mastic adhesive
methacrylate adhesive
silicone adhesive (too easy, no comment)
solvent based adhesive
urethane (No! You're a thane!)
UV Curable (thank God, I'm all out of penicillin)
and finally, water based adhesive
But one would think that sharing a birthday would be enough to bond a friendship--apparently not.
Clearly nothing bonds a friendship like good ol gaffers tape and a gecko.
Thanks for your (you know who you are) pragmatic response during a sticky situation.
jenji
May 24, 2007
Grammar 101
Participle present
A verb form ending in -ing. Although a present participle may usually function as a main verb, it may also be used as an adjective.
Although this grammatical definition remains undeniably confusing and difficult for some, one can overcome the challenges of using this form through dedicated practice (say, throughout grades 1-12) and visual repetition (say, through the use of official Air Force One Grammatical flashcards). However, some of us still fail to implement this form properly and thereby continue to hack the English language into a puddle of bloody pulp. For example, "the Iraqi people are askin' and hopin' we'll remain" or "you saw 'em votin'," or "we're runnin', comin' and gettin' close to success" doesn't quite fulfill or fully commit to the use of the present participle. You know what I'm sayin'? Oh, see now it's contagious.
If you can't commit to grammar what can you commit to?
jenji
A verb form ending in -ing. Although a present participle may usually function as a main verb, it may also be used as an adjective.
Although this grammatical definition remains undeniably confusing and difficult for some, one can overcome the challenges of using this form through dedicated practice (say, throughout grades 1-12) and visual repetition (say, through the use of official Air Force One Grammatical flashcards). However, some of us still fail to implement this form properly and thereby continue to hack the English language into a puddle of bloody pulp. For example, "the Iraqi people are askin' and hopin' we'll remain" or "you saw 'em votin'," or "we're runnin', comin' and gettin' close to success" doesn't quite fulfill or fully commit to the use of the present participle. You know what I'm sayin'? Oh, see now it's contagious.
If you can't commit to grammar what can you commit to?
jenji
May 23, 2007
For the love of God woman!
Stop injecting your ass into your lips!
It's beginning to muddy your breath...
jenji
It's beginning to muddy your breath...
jenji
May 16, 2007
Pfieffer me!
...there are no lines...no creases...no furrows...
the ebola strain just seems to paralyze this aging trifecta...
sure, it activates a predisposition for some random, ghastly disease to be sure,
but you'll look young and happy about it at your weekly dialysis treatment...
jenji
the ebola strain just seems to paralyze this aging trifecta...
sure, it activates a predisposition for some random, ghastly disease to be sure,
but you'll look young and happy about it at your weekly dialysis treatment...
jenji
May 15, 2007
...this is what I'm sayin...
a day in my life of jammie pants....that's all i'm sayin!
New Rule:
New Rule:
The outside world is not your house.
Is it me, or will people wear just about anything to the supermarket or INSERT UNIVERSITY HERE? When you hear that announcement over the P.A., "Clean up in Aisle 7," they're talking to you!
I mean, it's heartwarming that you held onto those comfy gym shorts from high school, but
...I can see your balls. Which reminds me, I'm out of kiwi.
Bill MaherThat's quite a tug, mister...
Fresh from the TimeWarner shuffle here is my first high-speed blog. What does one feed a roadrunner anyway?
jenji
jenji
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