I’ve been meaning to write about Time fucking magazine for a little while now. A few weeks back, this was their cover story:
I read the cover story. Eager, I was, dying to see how I stack up among the averages, among the trends, among the pop psych bullshit answers of our current age. One birth order dealio that maybe, just maybe, I could groove on — The youngest are the funniest and some of them become comedians. Damn skippy, I am one funny baby of the family. The less funny elders can eat my dust.
But, you knew there would be a but, they make a couple of completely ludicrous “scientific” statements. Supposedly, as you trek down the birth order you lose an IQ point or two on the slide. Um, what? I don’t understand. Must be big words or something.
Actually, the quote is,
So, really, it’s just the fucking Norwegians. I’m not caribou or salt cod, and I got the American sense of rugged self-sufficiency. Maybe if my sibs were from Norway, they could catch up to me.
Come to think of it, I’d say I know a few bright babies of their families. M. is his fam’s Number 1 son. I give him some space. He can’t help the weakness of the firstborn.
In less national news, although arguably Time’s cover ain’t really what you would call “news,” after seeing the flick Gone Baby Gone, I mentioned this T-shirt company. Particularly, their parishes of Dot number. Sweetheart and reader, M., fired up the credit cards and bought a couple. I guess we have our matching outfits to wear under the Christmas tree with a cup of nog, whilst Pat’s generation remembers Saint Matthew’s and traces what other ‘hoods they habituated by silhouette of steeples.
Right after those shirts arrived in a package, one of his Boston-based coworkers with a name like McCarthy, if you can imagine a name such as that in the Boston area, sent us a couple of 2007 World Series Champions shirts. Looks like we could rock matching t-shirts for a sufficient number of days to get my bro’s projectile vomiting at our cuteness.
I think in prep for the upcoming holidays, M. played Scorcese’s The Departed on the old cable on-demand channel this evening. Still like that movie. I remember waxing wiseass somewhere on the world wide webs about the best line in that one. The line that explains so much to those who meet me and mine, and many of my friends (and which no one at my fucking job gets at all). Matt Damon’s character says
If we’re not gonna make it, it’s gotta be you that gets out, cause I’m not capable. I’m fucking Irish, I’ll deal with something being wrong for the rest of my life.
There’s also the thing about Freud saying the Irish couldn’t be helped with psychoanalysis. Although, he never fucking said it. Sounds cool though.
(Where did I mention these lines roughly a year ago? In the comments of the wonderful Dot Dwyer’s site.)
No other news from me, but I did update the stupid quiz thingie on the left. And, I’m still obsessed with a bit of research on my roots. Made me think about the timing of Pat’s leaving the planet and my meeting M. Given he’s from a Taoist, Buddhist, Confucianist, ancestor-worshipping folk, who might believe that ancestors and their characteristics can reappear in subsequent generations, I still maintain there’s a bit of her reincarnated in him. Which makes me kind of a lesbitarian Oedipal psycho.
(As a P.S. we bought our X-Mas travel plane tickets. If anyone wants to hang in Boston (or the ‘burbs) around Santa time, shoot me an email. We’re planning to rent a car, and M. is leaving on the Wednesday after Jesus’ birthday. I’m hanging around til Friday. Ho fucking ho.)
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