Literacy is Key
Anthony "The Pizza Blogger" Nicaj
Friday, August 27, 2010
Well!
Things will change. This writing will be left behind.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Ugly Shoe Trials
But I shudder at the thought of what would occur if the small legion of parents at Mineola high school caught wind of the words and pictures I intended to publish exclusively for my blog fans--my flog bans.
One day in high school, perhaps sophomore year, I decided to open an umbrella indoors. It's funny to me how that sounds like a figure of speech but it's not. That very day, I was called into the principle's office to discuss pictures I had uploaded onto Yahoo of a recent party. Granted, these pictures featured under-aged debauchery in many forms, but I was still very surprised to hear that my pictures had been viewed by the majority of the PTA and that I had no choice but to remove them immediately.
So not only was I made to cower before the superstition of umbrellas ever-since, but I've also had to learn how to censor myself over the years, which I believe this blog to be an excellent practice of. When you write for a faceless and numberless crowd, since the crowd is formidable in size, your voice really changes.
But I came here today to once again review Vibram's Five Finger KSO model since after a bit of research, and a bit more usage, my feelings towards them have changed.
I seem to have overlooked the website: "Motion studies demonstrate that when running barefoot, one naturally lands on the forefoot, directly below your center of gravity. This results in optimum balance, increased stability, less impact, and greater propulsion. According to Dr. Ivo Waerlop of the Vibram Biomechanics Advisory Board, 'Running in FiveFingers improves agility, strength, and equilibrium, plus it delivers sensory feedback that allows runners to make immediate corrections in their form. This greatly improves running efficiency.'"
The "forefoot" is key here. The "balls" of your feet. Having lived twenty-three years, I've just come to realize, yesterday, that I've been running "improperly". I suppose I considered breathlessly clomping around in my running shoes to be the proper method, and shoes such as in the Nike "Shox" line only helped to reinforce this conception.
I talked to a friend who has participated in numerous marathons about this and he seemed ambivalent about proper-foot striking. It's a personal preference, I'm certain, but there is some science to this.
Turns out, those Five-Finger shoes I purchased are just fine for the pavement. It's when you strike with your entire foot that it becomes a painful experience. The first time I jogged three miles with the KSO model, I remember every muscle below my knee throbbing, as if I had never worked them out before.
But now, after having jogged using only the forefoot strike, I'm dealing with incredibly sore calf muscles since I didn't stop jogging when they felt uncomfortable. If you're considering jogging as a hobby, which I recommend, I'd look into the nuances of pronation before selecting appropriate footwear. Pronation is the rotational movement of your foot.
There's a lot more to this running thing than I thought.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Reality
Friday, August 13, 2010
Musics
Here's The Who, with a wicked live performance at some circus tent.
I'm so glad Wes used this version of the song in Rushmore since the original recording is lack-luster.
I've linked this video before in an earlier post commemorating Chopin's birthday, but since I feel as though this is the greatest piano performance ever filmed, I see no problem in using it again. "Ladies and gentlemen, Vladimir Horowitz." --Thunderous applause
"When I am on the stage, I’m a king. No one can interfere with me because I have something to do, and it has to be the best which is within me." - Horowitz, not the best of quotes but it'll suffice.
I enjoy Regina Spektor's performance here more so than others because it feels more intimate, and that's all I want to be with Regina.
You've got to hand it to The Avett Brothers for making "timed" and soulful performances look easy.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Quejar mas, si puedes
I don't remember where I read it, but I read "Ignorance is an act of will," and I've agreed ever since. None of the bliss bullshit. I think ignorance is an incredibly disguised curse, masked by its banality.
Not all of the following suggestions are environmentally related, but they do all have one similarity. They are certain ways that people can change, miniscule considerations that can surprisingly wake people out of their living stupor and make our immediate little worlds, outside the chaos of the media and all of its headlines, a little more comfortable. Isn't that a nice thought? No war, no third world poverty or quality of life, just our humdrum, suburban way of living.
And onto it
My parents like to play this game called, How Many Electronic Devices Can We Leave On?
The thing is, they never tell me when they're about to play, they just do so, and I never have fun ending the game for them. I don't work for LIPA or the power grid, but I'm cognizant enough to remember these things are luxuries.
Chivalry in the Chubway
Every time I'm on a crowded train, I'll ask any nearby females if they'd like a seat. 9 times out of 10 I get strange looks, incredulous, as if it were some audacious preposition. And the guys never turn their heads, ever, they just sit there reading or thinking about the salmon marinating in the fridge at home. I've found that when I ask this question, I involuntarily attach a hint of Southern drawl to my formality: "Eggs-cuse me, miss, wood you care for a seat?"
Nothing is dumber, in my opinion concerning heteronormative chivalry, than the jacket in the puddle. Now, if it's not a puddle, then it can't be a three foot stream rushing through your town, because a jacket wouldn't really do anything. It would just give the lady a brief moment of hope before her shoes went wet. A real man would pick that hot piece of ass up and ford the obstacle.
To me, this is funny because it's terrible, and because there's actually a bloated corpse if you look in the far left corner.
But all in all, only a foot fetishist should care that much.
Gum
If I could line up everyone who's gum I've stepped into, rested my arm on, etc.,
Or depriving them of sleep for four days (since you do irreparable physiological damage by the fifth).
...I just think it's a lazy, and cowardly thing to do, if it's left there intentionally.
In other words, if you can't properly dispose of gum, don't fucking chew it.
Slow Loris break...
Toilet Seats
This is what I imagine every guy who can't lift a toilet seat looks like--that stupid grin, getting away with nothing. There's something strange about the male psyche; we all believe we have impeccable aim, but more often than not, we end up pissing on the seat.
And I believe we shouldn't be forced to stoop down and wipe anonymous piss away in the event of having to go number three. It could very well be the case that this inherent fault of ours legitimizes when a woman uses a men's bathroom, but makes it taboo for the converse to occur. I've used plenty of lady bathrooms, when I needed to, not for fun, and every time a lady catches me, it's as if I've offended her somehow, even if I left that seat pristine as a pickle.
Cigarette Asses
The funny thing about using this picture is that I know it'll give some of you a craving. And I don't mean to be cruel, considering these bad boys cost $10 a pack now, $13 in Queens, but I do mean it when I tell people, smoking doesn't bother me, it's the littering that gets me. As far as I'm concerned, the only person who ever had the right to flick their butt was Jim Carrey, or more appropriately, Stanley Ipkiss in The Mask during the dream sequence when Cameron Diaz romances Ipkiss in a skin-tight, black and white striped dress. But I'm sure nobody knows what I'm talking about.
I ate a cigarette butt when I was younger, which is also probably why I'm against discarding them so carelessly. This isn't true, but I feel as though I'd have a hard time to convince you otherwise by this point.
Honking assholes
When the driver in the front of the line doesn't immediately hit the gas as soon as the light turns green...Man! What I wouldn't do to have all those cumulative seconds back. I'll honk after three seconds. That's my personal rule, three Mississippi's. If the person can't figure it out by then, well shit.
Louis C.K. reinforces this in one his bits that I can't find.
Texting
This is it. We are here, at the forefront of communicative capability--except we need these fucking little keyboards to do it, and those little chimes and buzzes to know when to.
Associated Press: The average age of texting inception
To clarify, that picture did not come from the Associated Press. I don't feel the need to involve litigation for the vacuous purposes of this blog.
But what I'm getting it as that we are becoming more and more so, like my little personal slogan, "a generation of typing conversationalists," and it's really complicated things in my opinion. People tell me it's simpler because of the brevity and immediacy of it all, but all I have to do is take a look at a contrived group like this:
to realize how powerfully children are being affected by texting. I mean, look at the girl on the right, look at her face, crumbling under the societal pressures her younger peers have imposed upon her, a fish-bowl of letters. And that boy, a true impostor of the texting world--I like to think myself as him, but not as amused.
I'm continually blown away by the ease and diversity at which texting lingo manifests itself. I'd like to pretend that I'm making this stuff up, but a recent facebook update by one of my 16 year old pizzeria co-workers solidified the reality of it all for me.
Consider the following quote my impetus for writing this section:
"There is this such amazin guy out there right now tht i rlli like nd injoy spendin time with. Nd its amazin how much we can have so much in common. He just makes me laugh & have such a great time when im with him. When he smiles i smile bck. I can be myself around him. im not shy with him Theres just so much i can say nd feel with him.. I REALLY LIKE HIM! ♥"
And after I brought up my revulsion towards her written voice, she insisted that she didn't care. Needless to say, this boy broke her heart two weeks later.Asides from all the meandering, my only suggestion, since humans are coded to strive in communication, is that if someone tries to initiate a conversation with you, be the better person and call them. Save your fingers some grief.
Your vs. You're
I've never, EVER, been a grammar snob. I don't really like scrabble, I'm terrible at crossword puzzles, and yes, even my fingers get a little lazy sumtimes, u kno? Cause im not going to spell everythin out wen i can jsut type like dis.
Not even after college, after suffering quietly for all those careless mistakes in essays. It's just carelessness, I suppose. But it's not difficult.
You can mistake there for their for all I care, but this "your" nonsense has to stop.
"Your" implies ownership of a trait or given object, such as "your terrible grammar offends me every time you use it"
And "You're" is a contraction for, "You are," such as in, "You're probably now dumber for having read this blog."
My welcome
Is ten feet long
Purple and oblong
It weighs fifteen pounds
When filled with clowns
And runs on sugar water
My welcome
Will never be
Your welcome
Monday, July 26, 2010
Ugly Shoes and Dangerous Driving
My shins and ass definitely felt this run more than usual...so I know I'm a little closer to my work-out goal of crushing apples with my toes. I had no problem sprinting in these, and my feet felt very secure. These shoes are definitely for hiking. I also made sure to purchase the all-black versions of these shoes since I figured they would dry quickest in the sun after having splashed around a bit, but Vibram recommends you don't do that.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Dead Baby Jokes
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh48w7lacEhXxbqealm4y7GQplTUOXAxedJThOPdJhqZGyXqPrPc4ffs4kb0Z_ib4fErOsBb2MWBhKhAAB9NYWZykCeV1Rlnl4z7pg-7wljTKzcobE4sZoRUFIPEwT1fHvqHJjBS6mHNKYp/s320/massive-star-discoveredjpg-bd14fdc92cdad952_large.jpg)
Scientists recently found a bright light in the firmament that just so happens to be the heaviest star ever discovered.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Found Dumb!
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid4W_waqCmy6Bh6AdO7C3wii1v5mpkhHrYdViT0jeQY2WPWgx5HaxYOISITzNvsaNcIvlZHI1J2EwU5xOOOh1oBce1JyEuslzdDcfpd0w7Gq-ZAMuM8jc-CTGMoP4JkMggqzS26wz3at-U/s320/CharlesRocket05.jpeg)
Due partially to the violation of broadcast standards, along with Saturday Night Live's low ratings, Doumanian and Rocket were soon fired (along with most of the writers and fellow cast members Gilbert Gottfried and Ann Risley).
I enjoy how wikipedia links the word "fuck", you know, just in case.
2.
An old couple was found dead in their home elevator in Georgia. Sherwood Wadsworth, 90, and his 88-year-old wife, Caroline, were found stuck in between the 2nd and 3rd floors. 911 was eventually contacted because of the accumulating stack of newspapers in front of their house.
There was no way to contact anyone while inside the elevator, which is the most fail-enabling elevator system I can envisage. Instead of feeling immediately upset from this story, all my mind could really do was conjure the image in Titanic of that old couple seen cry-spooning as the proletarian bulkheads fill. This image came to mind after reading how the couple was found "lying beside each other in the fetal position".
And then after all that, I couldn't help but think about the finality of such a thing. Being stuck, panicking, feeling helpless, angry, denial, depression, and perhaps finally acceptance.
Imagine if they got it on, just one last time?
This story reminds me of this video I had seen--a surreal time-lapse of one man's ordeal, being trapped in a McGraw Hill elevator in Manhattan for 41 hours.
3.
Nicholas Hughes, whose mother was Sylvia Plath, famed poet and novelist, hanged himself last year in March. He was living in Alaska at the time and had taken a break from teaching marine biology at the University of Fairbanks, a really long break.
Ted Hughes, Sylvia's husband, cheated on her and left her for another poet's wife, Assia Wevill, who also eventually committed suicide by gassing herself and their daughter, Shura, who sure isn't coming back from the dead anytime soon.
Side-note: I believe that if I can find a way to sneak in terrible jokes in between these sad histories, it might somehow legitimize these findings.
They are killing her again,
She said she did it
One Year in every ten,
But they do it annually, or weekly,
Some do it daily,
Carrying her death around in their heads,
And practising it. She saves them
The trouble of their own;
They can die through her
Without ever making
The decision. My buried mother
Is dug up for repeat performances
Now they want to make a film
For anyone lacking the ability
To imagine the body, head in oven,
Orphaning children. Then
It can be rewound
So they can watch her die
Right from the beginning again.
The peanut eaters, entertained
At my mother's death, will go home,
Each carrying their memory of her,
Lifeless — a souvenir.
Maybe they'll buy the video
Watching someone on TV
Means all they have to do
Is press 'pause'
If they want to boil a kettle,
While my mother holds her breath on screen
To finish dying after tea.
The filmmakers have collected
The body parts.
They want me to see.
But they require dressings to cover the joins
And disguise the prosthetics
In their remake of my mother.
They want to use her poetry
As stitching and sutures
To give it credibility.
They think i should love it-
Having her back again, they think
I should give them my mother’s words
to fill the mouth of their monster,
Their Sylvia Suicide Doll.
Who will walk and talk
And die at will,
And die, and die
And forever be dying.
If I were her, I'd hog those film rights until I was dead myself instead of denouncing the finished product and sounding like a real wind-bag.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Deliveries for the Liveries and General Contempt for Pedophiliacs
The weekend fades to darkness and I drive home, my car still emitting the pungent scent of seafood fra diavolo. I arrive at the intersection of Glen Cove Road and Westbury and the light is yellow and I know I can make it. I drive through it and before I reach the beginning of the next street, I'm cut off by another driver making a quick turn in front of me, and I notice a flash of light behind me. A ticket. A $50 traffic violation as automatic as my ensuing anger. I scream one obscenity, bang the wheel of my car once, and allow the give-and-take of life to settle in like smoke.