OH, TED

Sunday, May 2nd, 2010

So, yeah. There’s a TED event here in Boston.

Brandon wants in. Like, he wants in enough to fill out an application.

An application?

I like the idea of TED. I dig the meeting of the overgrown minds. I’d love to attend, but I’m not really into the practice of weeding out attendants via applications.  What is this, undergrad?  I can’t help it; it rubs me the wrong way.  It’s informative, right?  Can’t we do this in a first-come-first-served system?  Or a lottery?  Can’t it be like a Justin Bieber concert (I honestly wouldn’t know, I know nothing of the kid, but apparently he’s the big thing with our 4 year olds, 12 year olds, and embryos)?

Brandon was hard at work on his TED application this evening, and I have to admit that I was annoyed.  I can’t help that it rubs me the wrong way.  I figured the best protest was to fill out my own TED application.  And so I did as follows:

Name:  Guenevere Fexxxman, Esq.
Company: Ladies of the Urban Butterflies’ Net
Position: Short in stature, long in joie de vivre

I am passionate about: I am passionate about how awesome I am.  I am exothermic; I send liquids into a boil with my simple presence.  Marvel Comics heroes bother me constantly about my preternatural jumping and spelling abilities (I dare you to challenge me to spell ‘triskaidekaphobia’ when I am off guard).  Animals love me.  Senior citizens are always asking me to change their light bulbs, and Betty White is constantly on my case, begging me to drop a comedic gem for her next appearance on Saturday Night Live.

Elvis once appeared to me in my cheese grits, asking me oh-so-kindly to prepare him a BBT (bacon, bacon, and Turbo Bacon sandwich).  Since then, I’ve channeled the King of Rock ‘N Roll to read the fortunes of the downtrodden.  I expanded my gift into writing haikus for the fortune cookies that are blessed upon the restaurant patrons of Boston’s Chinatown.  Miss Cleo bowed to me in my awesomeness.

Because I am awesome, you see.  I can even make flights at Logan airport on time with the sheer willpower located in the underwire of my bras.  I can turn cigarettes into doves, and ottomans into cats (which I can herd with my mind) using the metabolic power of the guppies in my fish tank.

I am passionate about the power of the imagination; without it, Steve Jobs would be Jobless, and Bill Gates would be without an entry through a window.  And if no one came in through the bathroom window, the Beatles’ “Abbey Road” would be without a master song to tie the album together.

I am passionate about loveliness, language, metaphors, creativity, absurdity, phones that are a breath of fresh air, herbs that can dry your hair, and alcoholic beverages that can clear the air.

I cook a lot, too.  But Betty White isn’t allowed in my kitchen.  She steals my sauce ideas, and my thoughts on comedic sketches.

An Idea Worth Spreading:

Wine can pretty much cure the world’s ills.  Let’s get our authors, visionaries, dignitaries, and ambassadors wasted, and then work out a global policy.

I do believe in the power of wine.  What else can soften the inhibitions of those too reigned in to say what they want?

Honestly, I think my cat Willow (she’s really an ewok, or at least she looks like one) has the right idea.  Food is good.  Belly rubs are good. We should all drink a lot of water.  Let’s find a way to make this the main concern of everyone, globally.

How Do You Eat?

I like to eat with my fingers or a spoon.  As a vegetarian, most foods do not require knives.  I like raw things.  Give me a strawberry and I’ll bite off most of the good stuff, leaving the anemic stem behind.

I eschew soda because it make me burp.  I embrace cheese grits because Elvis still appears to me in it with his auspicious haikus.  This is why Chinatown loves me.

Yogurt is my friend.  With a spoon it is delightful, but with fingers, well, it is mischief.  I once got in trouble for bringing a tube of toothpaste to my day care at the age of two.  Yogurt is a bit like toothpaste.  But only the cherry kind, really.

I eat with my eyes.  And then my hands.  And then my tongue.  Later, the enzymes in my tummy take over, and then my small intestine extracts the nutrients I need to interpret my Elvis portends.  Later, my large intestine removes the water that will bathe my somatic cells.  The rest moves lower and you can get the idea.

What are a few URLs that can help us learn a little more about you?

www.dnaancestry.com
mystaycation.com
fark.com
gizmodo.com
failbooking.com
bastards.org
thedailyshow.com

Have you ever attended a TED or TEDx event in the past? If so, which event(s)?

No.  My afro-hair-comb conventions have precluded my attendance to previous TED events (what?  you think a short Jewish girl can’t avoid a ‘fro?)  Still, I’d love to share the TED love with my faithful haiku followers in Chinatown.  Let me be the next prophet of TED awesomeness, please.

My TED Haiku:

Was TED once a man?
Was HE into cheesy grits?
Refrigerator

Done.

Now you may be saying that Miss Spyrit won’t get invited to TED.  Though I admit I’d love to go, this was sort of me saying, ‘your application policy sucks.’  I don’t expect to get invited.  But I hope I gave the admission gods-or-whatever a decent enough laugh to see that maybe things at TED are a little stuffy, yes?

Refrigerator.

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