No. 42 has hit it out of the park, bringing home No. 42, No. 42, and No. 42 for a grand slam home run.

I Just Think This will be confusing.

Nonetheless, I'm looking forward to an image of this. Should be trippy.

Trends hit too close to home.

Amazing.

"[S]cientists have recently become increasingly concerned with what they say is a rising level of violent activity among the large mammals."

Here at Charm City U:

1) I've become more violent (think: The Wire).
2) I've become more large (the scale says 275 lbs).
3) I've become more mammalian (I'll show you sometime).

Give me sugar! I'm too ripped!

Wearing a suit exempts you from being a criminal. Ask Bill Clinton.

Also, apparently "trying diabetic medications" doesn't make you a recreational drug user.

These points, and more, inspired by THIS.

It apparently only take 15 minutes...and an audience.

My fifth grade experience was a little different than this.

Wi-fi blocking paint and with-it women

I enjoyed this blog entry on Wi-fi blocking paint.

Three things, Amigos:

1. The idea/chemical technology is sweet.

2. The fact that this Gina Hughes is purported to be a "Techie Diva" but yet attributes her Wi-fi security to her husband (presumably, a man) really makes me think that she is just allowed to write these articles to feel good about herself, instead of producing babies and driving a mini-van to soccer practice in the greater New Jersey area.

3. Her name is Gina. For correct pronunciation, see the "40-year-old Virgin."

And if any one posts a comment to the effect of "Behind every great man is a woman," I'll secretly agree with you but make fun of you on the internet so bad that my secret agreement will be of no consolation to your wounded e-soul.

Hema and Herma

The hematologists have blood rushing to certain areas over this one.

Betting man

So, my bracket was so glorious. I was winning the first round, because I had a "micro upset" theory, in which if a match happened where a team's seed was just one lower than its opponent, that team would win, and thus be a "mini-upset."

Well, now it is for naught. I lost my 5 dollars as I've reached my max points. I lost my pride because I bet a girl who entered the competition dinner insofar as who would have a high point total betwixt us (she bested me by 4 points).

So then, I decided to place a wager with the king of decision theory in the department. He had 64 points, with a potential of 80, and I was stuck at my 71. He had been taunting me all week with his stories of "what could've happened" with Xavier. So, I emailed him for a side wager, without knowing what game his 16 points depended on and what team it depended on. He definitely had the upper hand knowing what game and what team the wager would ride -

He agreed, and we went in for 5 dollars, which, if the Bruins lose against the Gators, will help me break even, as I lost 5 dollars to enter the overall bracket competition (*but wait fantasticterrific, you still owe that lady dinner! you bring to my attention.* Please, foolish one. That girl has to be seen in public with me - I definitely win).

Also, to spice it up, I will change my name to Bruins Terrific if UCLA wins, and he to Professor Alligator if Florida wins.

Motivation. Imitation.

The pacifying of children.

I wish someone would give me a sticker to make me feel better.

Square State denizens are such j-holes.

Injustice

Why the Good Lord left us Eddie Griffin and not Princess Di, I may never know.

Man, Elton John would have really been strapped to write an appropriate song for the man who gave us the Rightist Undercover Brother as well as the Leftist John Q.

If you want free heart transplants, go to frickin' Europe. I'm tired of this debate.

Remember, while Europe pioneered free health care, America invented the missionary position.

You're welcome.

My tattoo wishes

I just had "Biostats Charm City U" tattooed in my mouth.

Inspiration.

Taxing

So, I freakin' did my taxes, and I thought I was going to have a beautiful relationship with TaxActOnline.com. Things started off well enough. You have to create a user name and password, and I decided to have fun with the password, so I entered:

"TaxesAreMyBlood"

And I received the error message "your password is too common. Please try again."

I was sure the system detected the word "tax" and would not allow it, but to test this I entered:

"TaxManHumpMe"

And was cleared.

This is foreshadowing. I continued to go through the most frustrating, cryptic and irrelevant line of questioning, filling out forms that ultimately had 0's in all entries for Federal, Square State, and Charm State taxes. After hours of this, it notifies me I can only file state taxes for an additional fee. I muttered something about them having me by the fatness of my balls and got out my credit card, and then a screen dictates to me that I can only file one state's return with my Federal. So all the info I poured in to this pea-brained interface was a waste. So, I decided to file the Federal and Square state, since it was only Charm State in which I owed money.

I went directly to Charm State's free interface, and was impressed yet again (I remember last year telling all my friends in Square state (3 in all) how awesome the Maryland iFile is, and 2 of them told me I was nerd, and the other, a girl who loves to work through the ranks of Math Departments, wanted to buy me a drink. We got to talking, and she reminded me that I had performed well on the Putnam a few years back and laid a hand on my thigh and gave it a squeeze, leaned in and whispered something in my ear. It was in a bar, so I did not hear her very well, but the key words I heard were "Fourier" and "double jointed." I replied that I hadn't heard of that kind of spline and took a sip of my beer, and she left quietly after paying the tab not feeling very pretty).

I digress. Sirs, I digress.

Anyway, after using iFile, it turns out the Fat Codgers at TaxAct estimate of my owing Charm State 363 dollars was wrong, and in fact I was due 194.

And of course, they have a disclaimer waiving any responsibility.

My question is, if states have direct filing systems, why doesn't the goverment? I mean, e-file doesn't exist...you go there, and the government just syphons you off to one of a bajillion sites to file for free, and some of them look sketchier than the email subject lines in my spam folder ("tAxE$_R_aWEsoMe.com" "impressHerWithTheNewSizeOfYourREturn.com", etc).


Uncle Sam, get off your monopoly high horse, and take a page from the states' tax book.

1 in 25 million

I love it. The Vegas odds, the panache, the geek chic-ness of it all.

Jeopardy!

I wonder if there have been 25 million episodes of Jeopardy yet... but I don't know how expected values work so I shouldn't talk.

-Susquehanna reject

Baseball cards

So this is the new news.

This is the greatest news.

I don't care if I get the gum. This is priceless. Cal and Cal Jr. have big shadows...big shadows with no curse words.



Poor Billy.


~fantastic face

You sit around in a robe all day and you get paid more than the president. Shut up.

I have to wear jeans (tight, for the ladies) and think really hard all day, and I'm only making 10% what they're making.

And what were you doing your first year after getting your undergrad degree?

If your answer is "getting paid while getting laid," you're not so much cool as you are a prostitute.

Or, a lucky debutante marrying up after four sorority-drunk years of college.

I'm really bummed they did not reference "De Niro in Brazil" when they mentioned Spiderman and Batman, but this is the sign of the pop (goes the weasel) culture in which we live.

-Ignatius J.

The Death of Wiki?

Interesting conversation on Wiki's validity issues.

Cruise Citizendium.

SBUX closed two days ago was nothing compared to this.

Man. I'm bummed. I wanted her to get to 80 so my grandson could date her for her deceased husband's oil tycoon money.

Travesty. Cold-hearted Travesty. Is there a God?

Frozen pipes closed one downtown Chicago Starbucks for several hours Monday, and employee Jerry Berry, 24, said some customers stood in disbelief for several moments before moving on to the next shop a few blocks away.

-Reference

Well, at least disbelief in this country is cured by a few blocks walk instead of wondering hopelessly why refugees are being raped by invading forces, spreading AIDS like brushfire through the dark continent of Africa.

Disbelief.

Put them at my door. I'll give them something to disbelieve. Those fat, cocky Chicago codgers!

Why, even Hester, knows there are bigger disappointments than a SBUX being closed -

Like losing the Superbowl.

Congrats, Peyton.

Life imitates Sports, or Sports imitates Life?

Exhibit A: Me.

I think of myself like a Shannon Sharpe in some ways, in that I left the Square State a rockstar to come to Charm City to win a Superbowl, and then went back to the Square State to suck it up (well, Shannon played some more (no superbowls after Charm City) and became a high-paid game analyst; I had a car explode on I-70 and an ex-galpal makeout with the MCATs more than she would with me).

Exhibit B:

A friend of mine, as I type this, is gearing up to move from the Square State to Bean town.

I assure you, my friend is not Todd Helton.

I assure you, he programs like Todd Helton bats, though: stellarly.

Lovely.

Nothing to sneeze at or wipe with.

To cheat the market, it seems like it would be best to build a time machine, go back one day with knowledge of mid cap performance (not too big, not too small, high volume) and buy.

But this guy can't control time.

But he did the best he could, I guess.

21 years old. 83k rich. You cannot live this fast, this long.

I can't wait to connect to these the tech-nos

Interesting.

I was close to this as a freshman in college being without cellphone or home computer. But this just meant that I lived in libraries hitting refresh (these are before my ctrl + r) days) on my Juno account.

And what the heck became of Juno?

You're right. A better question is, what the heck became of me?

Things said to me while running

1) "Run Forrest, Run!"
2) "Pick up your heels!"
3) "It's the Jolly Green Giant"
4) "Put your shirt on your fat, white f-ck!"
5) "Where you running to - McDonald's?"

Only in Charm City. In the Square State, the default is indifference to runners, but more than likely you'll get a smile or "hey" or "good morning" or "I shouldn't be alone tonight - are you straight?"

Well, I've received one compliment and one TBD statement. The compliment was "Hey, man you're really fast." which was given to me by a passerby that I crossed twice on a loop of Federal Hill. The TBD statement was given to me this morning ... I was running in my UnderArmour suit, which is bullet proof (runners in Charm City are not exempt from being shot in the nads). A gentleman called out to me, "It's Peyton Manning; Pey-ton Man-ning."

My weekend was so wild (between the lines: | I didn't spend the night in my bed, but in Jail - for public display of lascivious, lecherous, and/or lewd dancing |) that I only know that the Bears are in the Superbowl. I don't know if the Pats or the Colts are in. This is what determines if what the man said to me this morning is an insult or not...if the Colts won because Manning decided to take a page from Ron Mexico's book and scramble for Victory (not for Vick-tory (aka, Weed laced with STDs)), then the statement is a compliment because the man is associating me with winning. If the Colts lost, then he gave me the biggest verbal purple nurple, because he associated me with losing and the fact that I am a male and do not know who is in the Superbowl is as pathetic as going to an Opera and not crying.

Why do I write this out...because, in the spirit of past postings I am allowing the reader to find out as I find out. Of course, if you have a pulse, then you already know, and you'll just get to see me experience joy or pain.

Okay, I'm going to google Colts Patriots game, and see what happens.


Okay, that's the first time google failed me. Onto ESPN.com...

Victory! So I'm a winner. Plus, he might have broken his thumb, just like I did in a masturbating tournament in 8th grade. I'm sure the man who gave the comment did not know this, but he probably did know that Peyton Manning attempted 2 rushes and got zero yards...

Maybe it was an insult.

I hate this town.

Fantastic.
Terrific.

The Woe in Woman

As if I don't hear enough about the burden of birth control choice/complications, now I get to hear how hard the world is to women who Vonage.

Also, Ron Mexico is up to his tricks again - this time with a magical water bottle that might contain an STD ridden little girl named Mary Jane.

Viva la Mexico!

The Fattest Mile

First, get an education:

1) Read this.
2) Have some kind of knowledge of UnderArmour's "click-clack" campaign and the fact that Jeremy Bloom is dating my ex-gal-pal.

Crap. I just noticed I've been typing after eating a greasy cookie and now I have a greasy keyboard. And a Dell Representative on my @$$ about a void 3-year warranty.

This is a story about half-marathons. And love.

After the full marathon of 2005, I decided to run a half-marathon with a pace in mind: sub-2.

The running calculators all said, based on my marathon speed, that I should be able to complete a half marathon in slightly under half my marathon time, 2 hours 12 minutes. The calculators projected, based on my weight, that I should be due for a quadruple by-pass and stomach stapling in one year.

I declared my intentions at the beginning of 2006: to run the Baltimore Half Marathon in under 2 hours. This would require a significant increase in my pace and would lead to me getting as ripped as a torn sheet.

My intentions were pure and true, but I did not start running consistently until March. Somewhere in there I got really efficient and started having aspirations to run the Full Marathon.

And this is where the Girl Who Shook up 2006 comes in.

She had never run a race over 10 meters to the Biker who just bought her a Grey Goose Vodka Tonic. The fact that she was rich was not so much that she never had to pay for drinks because of her beauty as it was that her parents were more loaded than Michael J. Fox's little black book back in '85.

Anyhow, affections were exchanged, and plans were altered and made and altered.

Girl: I want to come to Charm City and run with you.
ft: Okay. I'm doing the full marathon.
Girl: The half.
ft: The half under-2.
Girl: The half, however long it takes, you stay by my side.
ft: Fine.
Girl: And another thing-
ft: What, Princess?
Girl: I don't like to talk while running.
ft: So you save your verbosity for only when I want to kiss you repeatedly?
Girl: [beat] This will be fun!


So, in the spirit of being a nice doormat, I conceded.

I then took her out for a real nice meal of food, she said she needed her space but that we were cool and then she said we needed to talk and things were said and we hugged forever on her front step and she reiterated how important it is that we stay friends because that way she could claim me as a trophy. A sweet line at a party, "Oh, we'll meet tomorrow after I have breakfast with my ex. Yeah, we're great friends. I stay friends with all my exes (because I am so frickin' awesome). Yeah, my dad just sold 250 stocks to get me a new Acura!"

Anyhow, the point of this longeur is that I had already signed up for the half and could not do the whole marathon.

Also, Charm City U's streamlined PhD program only gave me enough time to run once a week. At happy hour the night before, I asked Caffo if he was ready for his race in a couple weeks time. He said, "Ah, no. I'd probably get a super slow pace like an hour forty. You know, slower than turtle soup being sh@t out in Febrero, bro."

I was praying to God in Heaven for just slightly under 2 hours so I could say I achieved at least one of my goals this year and spike the victory ball in the ex's face. Hour forty and I would build a church and wear a WWJD bracelet and then wear a dress to a Chemical Engineering lecture filled with lecherous bisexuals.

So I got up early the morning of the half marathon. I put on my race gear and went to the fridge to get my secret weapon: a 24 oz. bottle of red fruit punch nozzled Gatorade. You see, even though all the odds were against me completing a sub-2 half marathon, my pride wouldn't let me let go of it. In order to have a chance at it, I was going to skip all drink stations and carry my own liquid.

Go and give a quick consult of the running literature, and you will be left with the solid opinion of the running commmunity that this is the dumbest idea in the world.

So it is just me and my Gatorade walking in my racing bib to the start. I pass these two gentlemen waiting for the bus.

Man 1: "Don't look like you running very fast."

Man 2: "hehe hee"

ft: "Race hasn't started yet. I'm walking to the start line."

Man 1: "Don't they provide you with Gatorade?"

Man 2: "hehe hee"

ft: "Yes, but -"

Man 1: "Are you rich, man?"

Man 2: "Hoo whee. I smell it."

So I took the Skywalk to the IH (Inner Harbor, Wire fans) and stood in a thick gaggle of people. Some were hugging each other wishing each other luck. One lady had a garbage sack around her, squatting over a drain, peeing. Another dude had his BlueTooth on and was saying things like "Yes. I understand. I'm important, too." A bunch of kids circled around me and grabbed the fat on my waist and back and started flapping it like a parachute in gym class, all making giggling noises. Luckily, Blue left a clue back at Oriole stadium, and they left me after only a few minutes of utter embarrassment.

I'm already getting distracted the innanity of The OC on TV. I can't concentrate, and I cannot get away from it because I am homeless in Denver writing this.

Anywho.

The gun goes off, and the surge happens. I reason that if I have any chance at the sub-2, I'm going to need to flirt with disaster and run faster than I ever trained right from the start. Give a quick consult to the running literature, and you will find that I am liar. This is the dumbest idea on earth.

I am trucking. I am weaving all over the place. Up on the sidewalk as well as into stopped traffic on the wrong side of the median. I look at my watch at mile 1: 8:22. If you just dumped your pants, I apologize, and empathize. A 240 lb man should not be moving that fast, even if it is $0.99 day at Golden Corral.

I then spot Haruki. Haruki is a kid in my PhD program who is the newest running god. He ran 140 miles in the Sahara. No joke. He is ripped like a torn sheet. Shredded as Kraft South Beach approved 2% mild cheddar.

He is clapping and rooting on everyone. Then his Japanese-American eyes spot me.

"Hey, fantasticterrific, I just saw a couple of old ladies ahead of you. Better pick it up."

I felt like shouting back "All your base are belong to us" but decided that only Sacha Baron Cohen and Carlos Mencia can be racists - if fantasticterrific or Michael Richards speaks up - whoa Nelly (this is not a black joke - it is just an expression. Shut up, Kramer. Kramer, shut up and let me handle this!).

After Haruki delivered his line, I shouted, in celebration of all things Wes Anderson,

"With friends like you, who need friends!"

And continued on my comet-like arc through Murdermore.

I check at mile 2, my timepiece. 16:43. I just not only have kept this hellacious pace up for 2 miles, but ran the second faster than the first. If you just dumped your fresh panties, I apologize and empathize.

Same business at mile 3. 25:03.

Skipping the drink stations was going very well. However, my memory was playing tricks on me. During the full marathon, I remember food stations every quarter mile. Utz potato chips, gels, pretzels, wedding cakes, car bombs, etc.

Point is, I'm hungry. When you have 240 lbs moving through the thicker air of sea level port towns, you have to fuel it with more than sips from your own bottle of Gatorade.

The food station did not appear until mile 8. Oh - and the 8:20 mile pace slowly gave way, too. 8:45's, 9:00's, an 11:00. May have been the hills. May have been the frickin' OC sucking so much. Who watches this garbage? Peaches? Ex-French Ex-Husbands? Prostitute rings? Peter Gallagher?

And f***ing Adam Brody. How does someone who delivers so much charisma in Thank You For Smoking suck so bad on a role that should be more natural? The world's a stage, and he is on the moon.

Back to the race -

I keep doing stupid things like checking my watch at the mile markers for the Full Marathon, which differ by .1 mile in the wrong direction from those of the half. It keeps slamming my psyche. I start coming to the realization that running a race with an ideal time, a challenging time in mind sucks.

I was praying for a swift death.

I was praying that Gustave would claim me.

At mile 10, I was 99% certain that I was going to walk if I had no chance of making it under 2 hours. My legs were being worn to stubs.

However, I somehow was still in the game. No aloof support staff, no bleeding nipples, just absolute stupidity and a gatorade bottle. Rock on.

However, I'm going to need some consistent 9:00 minute miles to make it, and I have never ran 9:00's before race day, let alone 9:00's after running 10 miles. The bookies in Vegas are giving me 8,000 to 1 of sub-2ing it. Just for reference, the chance of accidentally being sent a Ron Mexico shirt is 4,096 to 1.


The home stretch brought back all sorts of great memories from the full marathon, like finally seeing Roman's eternally youthful face at mile 24. This time around, there were no Roman and Boston to help me run over the last incline on the Cathedral street bridge, but just pain and a whole lot of people passing me. That was one huge stinking difference between my full and half marathon experiences: in the full I was picking people off, moving up a full 30 minutes in pace. This time around, I was getting whooped by 3:30 pacers for the full marathon (the full marathon started 2 hours before the half). Psychologically, physiologically, mentally, religiously, and e-harmonically, I was a mess.

Blah blah blah. Keep reading.

So, finally, I get to Camden Yards. I'm determined to sprint to the numbers above the finish line, especially if they are closing in on 4:00:00 (which would indicate my 2 hour finish). I come through Camden Yards, and someone yells the most misleading phrase in I have ever heard in my own life, save "Girls are not sexual beings" :

"Only a hundred yards to go."

My brain clicked in. A hundred yards is a 10 second sprint, because I'm an NFL caliber athlete. The finish line is not in sight because of the curves it takes out of Camden Yards. So, when the Hundred Yards was announced, I chucked my Gatorade bottle and 5 oz. of Gatorade to the side. I heard the Oriole Mascot "Trixie, Hon" yell, "Hey, that guy just disrespected Cal Ripken, Jr." to which I replied, "No, his brother, Billy, already disgraced the entire game and the streak."

It was not 100 yards.

It was not 200, 300, 400, or 500. I started sprinting 580 yards out. Of course, I only lasted 15 seconds and then shifted down into "I have just run over 13 miles at a pace I have never run 1 mile" gear and prayed that the python/gator team would lash out of the crowds and take my life.

Finally, the numbers. 3:54:00. I flipped. I remembered my friend, who is 6'4'', 170 lbs ran a half marathon in 1:54:?? and I was poised to beat it with shorter legs, a bigger gut, and thusly, by guy logic, a huger wangoleer and a gold-er heart.

I turned on the juice, and to the outside observer, nothing happened.

I crossed the finish line. I beat 1:55. I'm stoked. I stumble around and the crew puts a heat blanket on me. I collected my half marathon medal and was sorely disappointed. Apparently the race fees increase was not seen in a heftier medal, but rather a slimmer medal and the bigger boobs of Ms. Baltimore UnderArmour 2006.

Suddenly I was worried about my time of finish. There was one check point around mile 9 were I got muscled to the shoulder and did not run over the checkpoint platform. I stumbled to the questions booth and they told me to not worry about that, but to rather worry about my choice of haircut, and proceeded to ask "Ronald McDonald" if he eats at McDonald's every time he visits the restaurant.

They said if I wanted my official time that I needed to go to the timing booth. It was as I stumbled over there I ran into two friends of mine: one from Charm City Swing (in unison, "Hey, I didn't know you were a runner!") and a girl who wears too much make-up on Fridays during Charm City U's Happy Hour ("Hey, Girls are sexual beings, Curly.")

I said my hellos and then continued waddling over to the time booth, when a nasty little thought took root in my brain: the race clock and my watch differed by the amount of time it took me to go from the waiting area to the starting line. Was it more than 5 minutes? If so, it meant that I missed my mark. If not, it meant that I was the Al Gore of Half Marathon Running (forget Al Gore the Loser - he's a Winner when it comes to Global Warming!).

Regardless, the first blow to my elation of race finishing came with the time discrepancy realization that I did not beat my 6' 4'' friend's 1:54. But to heck with that, I just wanted sub-2 so that my ex could not only wonder if Jeremy really loved her or just watching him love on her in the mirrors on the ceiling, but also gnaw on the fact that I just slammed dunked the race in which she otherwise would have held me back from glory.

I stood in line, and the lady punched in my bib number, printed out a receipt, looked at the time, then looked at me, looked at the time, and then looked me up and down, and then smiled. She then said, "You're fat. I mean, fast."

1:57:54

Sub-2!

A nearby high school choir started singing Hallelujah! Hallelujah! and the skies opened letting light into the darkest city featured on HBO. I decided to head home and eat a lot of food, shower up and sleep to speed along recovery. But then something caught my eye...

and then a realization struck my noggin.

The UnderArmour tent where they were showcasing new products. UnderArmour is the namesake sponsor of the marathon. Jeremy Bloom is a model for UA. Jeremy Bloom was doing victory dances in my ex's bedroom every night at 1 AM MST. Jeremy Bloom gets whatever he wants when he wants it.

I waddled over to the UA tent angrily eating my banana, wrapped in my heat blanket. I saw Jeremy's huge, pristine image in Black and Gold skin tight UA gear in an oversized advertisement above the tent. I can only attest the next events to the depletion of endorphins, as I am the first to admit that it is petty and irrational.

And awesome.

I stood in front of the tent, staring up at the advertisement. People were walking around me, and I was somewhat of an obstruction to the entering and egress of the tent. I then shouted, "Click, Clack, I think YOU heard me coming, Bloom!" and jumped up and spit out banana all over the Hilfiger-World-Class-Skier-Womanizer-Philly-Eagle's image. My legs, strong enough for the explosion upwards, were not strong enough for gravity's inevitable pull, and I collapsed upon my return to earth. It was here that AJ Hawk and Reggie Bush quietly stepped in from the side and picked me up and walked me to the edge of the premesis.

I found out later as the results were compiled that the average time was 2:14:57 and that the winner was a 1:03. This is great. I beat the average and at least was not outrun twice as quickly by the winning runner as I was in the full marathon. Another bonus is that I was the fastest person over 225 lbs, as well as the only person over 225 lbs.

I inquired to the JFK 50 miler organizers as to who was their heaviest finisher in the last 44 years the race has been going, and they said 263 lbs. So, sports fans, I am going to get up to 265 and do a 50 miler in November so that I can inspire the fattening Americans to fight Obesity - which is more than Bloomberg or Kennedy ever asked of me or any red-blooded New Yorker or American.

Finally, a place to store my self-esteem, and not waste any space.

I now store my pride here.

Thanks Charm City U!

Lesbian Dog Walkers

If Easy Rider taught us to stay out of the south at all costs, then this should teach us to stay out of Singapore at all costs.

A golf club.

Man, shoot the frickin' thing in the head.

And then put it on a plane with Sam Jackson.

Heroic Self Promotion reaches new heights

I saw this on the way to the Inner Charm City Harbor.

And it reminded me of this.

A list of gripes. Cellularly.

1. The walkie talkie feature on certain cell phones. Square State only saw these on commercials, and thought it was the "cool" way to get business done. So, far I've only seen them in use for people to yell into them "Where you at?" only to have the staticky voice respond, "Where YOU at?"

2. Cell phone conversations in general. I'm not eavesdropping, I'm not stealing anyone's "public privacy." What I am getting is a lot of information that is redundant. Like when the plane lands and I hear the statement 80 times over, "The plane just landed. Yeah. Baggage claim. Okay. Thanks." Or on the Charm City University shuttle, "Yeah, I'm on the shuttle." I've decided I'm just going to start saying obvious things around people and hopefully they'll just assume that I have a bluetooth headphone set so small it fits in my nostril.

I'm writing a blog entry. Yep. Thanks.

3. The Shuttle of dreams destroyed
My choice on the shuttle is listening to a buxom asian girl talk about getting trashed at Fraternity parties and aspiring to be a hip-hop ballerina and wonder aloud why the fuzz off her leopard print stilletos is wearing off("Oh, I know, it's my Se7en Jeans! Tuh-Tah") or the Frat boys busy making mental notes to purchase certain Veterinary substances while clicking on the walkie talkie, "Where you at? Oh. A'ight. Rager. Dude. MCATS. Rich Dads. Wake Stevie. Just do it. Bench press." All this and on top of it the rattling. Everything rattles on the shuttles. I can now see the justification for people medicating themselves with iPods.

4. Girls in love with the character House, M.D.
or by proxy, Hugh Laurie because of his portrayal of the character House, M.D.
The easiest thing to do to snap them out of this is to have the following conversation:
girl: I just love House.
ft: What about him do you love?
girl: Just those analytical powers, and that intensity. His brilliance. His wit.
ft: Do you wish you could call him yours?
girl: Oh, fantasticterrific, do I ever!
ft: Do you think that he would turn off those powers when around you?
girl: What do you mean?
ft: He wouldn't stop being analytical or acerbically insightful. He would use those powers on you. He would analyze your frivolous expenditures at The Gap and Victoria's Secret and pointedly assert how irrational it is to spend so much time fretting over which pipping on the pillows will best tie together your first room out of the dormitories.
girl: No. No he wouldn't.
ft: Yes. Yes, he would.
girl: [tears, swelling of violin] He's a gentleman.
ft: He's a character in a situationally constructed hour.
girl: He's perfect.
ft: Only in your crush-world.
girl: F*** you, fantasticterrific.
ft: I'll still p/u the check, since the concept of equal rights equating to equal responsibility means nothing to you.
girl: Title IX.
ft: Can you haul a 240 lb man out of a burning tank, GI Jane?
girl: What movie is that quote from?


I am not just griping. I am proposing solutions:

1) With the Dems in Charge in Congress, make them outlaw Cellular Walkie Talkies.
2) Get the wunderkinds at MIT to develop a noise cancellation system that exists in the mouth pieces of cellphones that emit a wave to cancel out the user's voice so that one sided public conversations (esp the redundant ones) can be eliminated from bothering tax paying, God-fearing citizens in the greatest country in the world.
3) Blow up the shuttle. Drive it straight into City Hall.
4) Clone Hugh Laurie several million times. Brain wash him to only be analytical of other's besides the one that purchases him (something akin to the programming system in the hit movie, "AI." Say seven words and he'll love you long time and tear everyone else to pieces). Sell versions of him on ebay in time for Christmas and retire a bajillionaire.

More on the creative nature of videos. Of film.

Another aspect, is to integrate a legitmate video with parodic content.

reference (my fave version with slow-mo)

a spin off


Or even just creative edit your point.

The Beast of Movie Making

Some of my old high school compatriots made this music video, featuring the western regions of the Square State and the guy who prevented me from being the most awesome high school sophomore in the world b/c he asked a girl out to Prom 5 months in advance in a video that everyone thought was a joke - including the girl.

But I digress -

Even more.

I've heard some Charm City Compatriots (compatriots count: 2) say the word "Balls" when disgusted or disheartened. I'm pretty sure my friends and I in said Square State started this, with such deviations as "Balls", "huge Balls", and "Balls on my Balls".

I will lose the hour of sleep I'm gaining trying to figure out how to set my alarm clock back one hour.

This is the Techonlogy Pinch.

Two videos

Great.

Parody.

I always wanted to make a video and a parody simultaneously, release the first and get amazing praise for it, and then immediately release the parody to bash it and thus those who praised it.

And then be hired by Carson Daly.

Technology pinch

I will get you more details later, but I decided to pull an all nighter at Charm City U tonight. I want to go to sleep very very badly, but I do not have an alarm. I need an alarm because I have to go determine 40% of my epidemiology grade in 3 hours or so. "Use your cell phone," you say, but alas, my cell phone alarm and reminder function doesn't work anymore - just ask the epidemiology lecture I missed.

So, my only recourse is to Google "Internet Alarm Clock."

If nothing turns up, I am going to go move the microwave from the faculty kitchen into my office and set the timer for an hour or two.

"Sleep on the kitchen floor like a dog," you say, but I tell no - Kitchen floor's are for sexual debuts, not naps.

I just tried this but alas a pop-up window was blocked, and then additional plugins were required, etc etc.

I'll go sleep on the kitchen floor like a dog - a dirty, mangy, virgin dog.

First Term Finals at Charm City U

According to this:

* Uncomfortable pressure, fullness, squeezing or pain in the center of the chest lasting more than a few minutes.
* Pain spreading to the shoulders, neck or arms. The pain may be mild to intense. It may feel like pressure, tightness, burning, or heavy weight. It may be located in the chest, upper abdomen, neck, jaw, or inside the arms or shoulders.
* Chest discomfort with lightheadedness, fainting, sweating, nausea or shortness of breath.
* Anxiety, nervousness and/or cold, sweaty skin.
* Paleness or pallor.
* Increased or irregular heart rate.
* Feeling of impending doom.

I'm having a heart attack. Or maybe the doom is just something I ate. I have made a similar check list for assessing if whether or not one is in love:

* Uncomfortable pressure, fullness, squeezing or pain in the center of the chest lasting more than a few minutes.
* Pain spreading to the shoulders, neck or arms. The pain may be mild to intense. It may feel like pressure, tightness, burning, or heavy weight. It may be located in the chest, upper abdomen, neck, jaw, or inside the arms or shoulders.
* Chest discomfort with lightheadedness, fainting, sweating, nausea or shortness of breath.
* Anxiety, nervousness and/or cold, sweaty skin.
* Paleness or pallor.
* Increased or irregular heart rate.
* Feeling of impending doom.

Beck's new album, The Information, is out and good. There is a track that has the chorus "think I'm in love 'cause I'm kind of nervous to say so" which irrevocably backs up the list just compiled.

Oh boy.

I mentioned AJ Hawk and the relationship he has with Norte Dame's Quarterback's sister.

He got drafted.
He got married to her.
In a courthouse in Green Bay.

Que romantica, Hawk.

Rumor has it she was wearing the chimera jersey when she signed the license. The jersey later went for 80 million dollars on ebay, and thrown in as a mystery prize was a grilled cheese sandwich which had the Green Bay G on it, thought to be holy and of course made with Wisconsin cheese.

AJ is the only man in history to record a sack on a brother-sister duo, so, this Bud is for Hawk.

The clip featuring Hawk, Bush, and Bloom (yellow and gold, for 2 seconds)...it is amazing they got into college, given the extensive vocabulary demonstrated in this rivoting piece that shows a lot of huge men running around very quickly.

I hear AIDS is still uncured. However, Reggie Bush's TD draught is not.


Fantastic.

Terrific.

Or, as our friends to the south might type,

Que Gloria.

I should have

played football.

Why is so much money poured into getting the youth of america stronger and faster so that a ball can be carried on a field?

We could have cured AIDS by now if College Football didn't exist.

This diatribe was inspired by a 48 million dollar workout facility.

This diatribe is in no way related to the fact that my ex-girlfriend wanted me to wear her former boyfriends' linebacking jerseys when we made out or to the fact that she is now dating Jeremy Bloom.

And yes, I put the apostrophe in the right place. She dated an outside linebacker first, then the middle. The same order she uses silverware at her fancy restaurants where she only eats half the meal for which she pays nothing.

My Tipless Weekend

Oops, I did it again.

No, no, I didn't let Britney talk her way into letting me loan her money.

I slept in until 2PM on Saturday. I feel horrible...I have not seen the AM hours of Saturday yet since school started. I suppose it is the Science of Sleep - catching up on the weekends of the weeks you are pushed to the max.

Speaking of which, after running and studying at Chipotle, I checked my messages and a friend invited me to see The Science of Sleep at the Charles Theater. She (I have no "friends" who are guys, SanFran) said it started at 9:45PM, and a deft movement of my left arm allowed me to ascertain the time of 9:30PM.

Light rail would not work, and I left my wings in the Square State.

So, I walked up Charles Street as far as I could, and then hailed a taxi.

I had a ten spot out, ready to hand to the driver, and I'd ask for a 5 spot back which would give him a tip and me five dollars.

He drove me for a minute. With lights. A total of 10 blocks.

ft: "How much will that be?"
Cabman: "10 dollars."

In my head, I thought, "What organization in the world exists to protect me from this crap?" I had no time for an answer, so I handed him the ten and got out of the taxi cab. I got into the theater just as the last trailer/preview was ending.

The movie was at least "good" - I need a second viewing to appreciate it fully.

After the film, I used my CIA skills to locate my friend in the dark. She is beautiful so it wasn't really that hard, because beauty shines in darkness. That, and she glows in the dark because of all the phosphorescent tobacco she smoked sophomore year ("my boyfriend at the time was a hipster.")

We went to Club Charles, across the street, to discuss the movie and why people with two first names ought not to be trusted, although I argued that Caffo really isn't a first name.

I ordered a dark and tan, and our bartender, after pouring the tan, mentions that the Guinness is busted.

I left no tip there as well.

I hope to take a picture every time I don't leave a tip, and have as many as this guy did.

Burning the Ships

Today, at the metro stop, in big letters a la chalk, was inscribed "EPHE 6:24" which, for those of you using a bible underneath the leg of the table (please get a new table - for safety reasons. There's wobbly, and then there's wobbly):

"Grace to all who love our Lord Jesus Christ with an undying love."
- "Ephe 6:24"

Thought I would share.

So I have bombed two midterms this week, and am currently getting stymied on the take home exam currently next to me. I am going after this weekend with a Cortez like mentality:

Before I go to bed on Sunday I will catch up with all reading. Or skimming. At least my eyes will see every page that has been assigned in the last 4 weeks.

Last night I ordered workout clothes, protein powder, and towels, and had them sent to the school. I'm moving in so that I can move out 5 years from now rather than 1.

El Hundo and other enumerations

The dashboard says I have a 100 posts on the blog. Fantastic.

I have noticed some nasty little quirks of mine as of late.

1) Whenever I go to eat at a Fast Food restaurant, I may not always grab the tray so that the fries are always facing away from me, but dog gone it, by the time I sit down with the beverage and my niece and the 19 year old fox that joined for me lunch so that she could see my niece for a spell, my fries will always be pointing away from me, and I will continue to awkwardly draw fries from the box out, until getting fed up and turning the tray around 10 minutes later.

2) I was using my computer case to store my computer and my documents in the same compartment. Often, I would unzip the case, take out my documents, start doing work for some marked amount of time, and then I would frantically notice I needed to be somewhere and gather up my documents and then grab my case and go - and my computer would fly out of the unzipped case.

3) I will type "you" instead of "your" in so many emails and other text documents it is worthy of slapping a grandma.

Also, another bad habit: I narrate during class. For instance, there is this gentleman in my class that wears a blazer and you can tell he uses face products and is into whatever the girl is into for the sake of appearing metrosexual. So, whenever he raises his hand, I say in my head "This week on The Blazer" as if he is the star of some TV show and this is the beginning minute of that show. I've gotten quite good at timing my narrator's voice with what he says, gesticulates, and hounds.

The bad thing is now the button is stuck in the 'on' position. Whenever I see him, I say "This week on -The Blazer".

The really bad thing is that I've been known to wear a blazer and it isn't even mine, but a professor's blazer on loan. The same professor I shared a bed with. In a hotel. Away from his wife.

Yeah, the professor is a dude. I will share a bed with a man, but I will NOT wear a woman's blazer.

Terrific.

Baltimore Comicon

I was invited to a Comic Book Convention (Comicon) this weekend. It is the reason that I saw a Sonic the Hedgehog on the light rail en route to the Cookoff de Chilicon and the reason that I know that Lou Ferrigno does not wash his hands after using the lavatory.

Which reminded me that a wedding I was at in the Square State, I was chastised for washing my hands post-bladder-relief by a real live cowboy:

"If you wash your hands it means your dick is dirty."

This is from the same man, who, when asked what he was feeling before marrying the girl who was carrying his twin babies, said:

"It's just another party."

Yee-haw.

Pranks

I really want to do this...

I went to the bathroom at Charm City U around 10am. I was at the urinal, and I felt like singing, but DIDN'T. I was glad that I chose not to sing, because when I went to wash my hands (it is a school of public health) I noticed a pair of shoes underneath one of the stalls.

I used the bathroom, the same bathroom, five hours later, and the same situation.

I wondered if it was the same guy stuck on the can. And if whether it was even a real guy - what if it was a mannequin?

Then I had a thought: what if I could put mannequins in every stall on a floor in every men's restroom. Some poor bloke would be running around the 3rd floor with a hand over his butt, contemplating the stairs while he's waiting for the elevator, nervously and repeatedly hitting the down button yelling "c'mon- C'MON".

But, let's adjust for gender -

If mannequins were put in all the stalls for men, men who need to urinate can survive.

Ladies.

A mannequin in every stall in every ladies restroom of a floor would cause pandemonium. The girls would not run around, but would line up outside the restroom. The queues would grow and the members of the queues would get restless, whip each other up via social interaction gossip and dissatisfaction verbiage and a mob would form and they would all charge into the restroom and tear down the stall walls to see mannequins sitting on the commodes...

and piss and dump their panties.

Names of kids

I was in Chipotle, wondering why my integration by parts was not working when I received the second call within 15 minutes from my sister:

sis: Why didn't you answer my first call - where are you -
ft: I -
sis: What are you doing in May?
ft: I'll be here, at Charm City U.
sis: Oh, well, I wanted to tell you that you're going to be an Uncle again!
ft: Name him "v du".
sis: No.
ft: I -
sis: Are you coming home for Thanksgiving?
ft: Will there be 800 dollars stuffed in the Turkey?
sis: Oh, baby's crying take care. Bye. Love you.

Maybe she would have liked "u dv" or "u v" better.

On my South-wing Veranda, my Chocolate Lab sunbathes

Man, this is tough. Being on new to the East coast all my new East coast friends think I live on these.

And my friends from the Square State, in the absence of phone calls and emails, think I survive on these.

The degradation of friendship

Note: throwing the laundry cap of liquid laundry detergent right in the wash works like a charm. And why am I using liquid like some kind of pansy? Because here in Charm City aka Humidity City, the powdered stuff chunks up unless it is in an airtight gunsafe.

And now onto some news.

My favorite line is "friends now know too much about them."

I wish I was on Facebook so I could protest the following:

1) The use of the word "friend." All 202030984 people "poked" are not friends. They are by and large acquaintances, if that. People you will never meet, and will only know that they love Dave Matthews just as much as you do and hate Starbucks just as much as you do and want a 10,000 dollar Cartier or Bust just like you do.

2) Being on Facebook.

To quote a good movie, "With friends like you who needs friends."

I just joined a We (Heart) Max Fischer group on MySpace, where real friendships are forged.

The line above was typed in Blogger where lonely people whine about the world and fabricate things like joining fanclubs.

Two finds

I've been bloggin a lot lately - making up for lost time perhaps.

Find 1: A perfectly good office chair put in the hallway as garbage. Just need to get the cat hair off the seat.

Find 2: Knowledge. I kept putting on the laundry cap back on my liquid laundry container, and soap would slowly ooze out and make everything all gummy. Today, I stared at the bottom of said cap and it said "after use, rinse or throw in wash".

So I threw it in the frickin' wash. I'll let you know how it goes!

-Stay At Home Dad

OK GO!

I saw these guys in New York and listened to them for 7 hours straight on a lonely trip to Durango.

Enjoy two great videos. (and I know how to embed them...they just take up too much space, ladies.)

Video1 (they did this dance for the folks in Time Square).
Video2

Death, where is thy stingray?

Ouch.

The Crocodile Hunter has fallen. As a humanist (and a human) I am saddened. As a statistician, I must say this might be an example of long run probability: the guy played with death on many occasions.

History: Silent Cal

I think the AP US History exam is getting easier. Here is a question from 2005:

Although Coolidge was known to be a skilled and effective public speaker, in private he was a man of few words and was therefore commonly referred to as "Silent Cal." It is said that a White House dinner guest once made a bet with her friends that she could get the President to say at least three words during the course of the meal. Upon telling Coolidge of her wager, he replied

a. "You lose."
b. "Ma'am, when I was six I crapped in a mason jar and gave it to my kid brother, Nosy Cal, as a chocolate ice cream treat."
c. "And you're ugly. But in the morning I will still be silent. And drunk. I mean - Winston! Come over here, if you please."
d. "I love you for your body - and nothing else."
e. "Kiss this."

Hey, I just beat that horse buried 6 feet under deader than dead.

Some jokes are getting quite old, in my opinion.

Like jokes involving alcohol. It's only the easiest button to push. We all GET it. Drinking alcohol leads to getting drunk and doing dumb things. Like the classic is for someone to ask someone who is acting a little unusual,

"How many have you had?"

or

"What's in your glass!?!"

Also, given I've just run the gauntlet of orientation here at Charm City U, the joke or jab involving the concept of PhD programs being very lengthy is old hat. Like when a dean announces to a group of of entering students, some masters and some phd:

"Enjoy your time here - whether it be a year, or for the PhDs three, four, seven, ten, twenty, elventy billion."

[kind laughter from me, real laughter from those who think this is joke].

Like, I think this is way more funny (albeit more obscure):

Girl: Do you like veggies or fruit with your cottage cheese?
ft: Fruit.
Girl: I figured you would.
ft: Is that a fat joke?

[this is funny because my bmi > eleventy billion, and fruits contain fructose which
lends itself to spike insulin moreso than the typical veggie which means it aids in
fat storage...or the angle of her making a fat joke when unprovoked, since she
is a very very nice girl.]

Or this:

Vivacious Lady: [talking to group of incoming students at meet and greet]: Fantasticterrific, what's the matter? You're so quiet.
ft: [beat] I'm the strong and silent type.

[this brought the house down. It got me invited to a party. However, at the party, it was Yale and Stanford boys club with stories about undergrad wastedness ("I drank a tequila, chased with a double tequila, and that really f###ed me up! [raucous laugther, because things that are obvious are really hilarious] )and being privileged ("I flew home to India to get my hair cut and eat a bigmac on the back of a skinny cow before the winter formal. 1st class. Daddy bought me two seats so I could stretch out. I drank for two as well, and that really f###ed me up! [raucous laughter, because things that are obvious are hilarious])).

Sidenotes of note:

Caramel flavored cream in Oreos: Yes.
Vanilla Frosties courtesy of equal opportunity loving Wendy's: Mind blowing.

Olympics - Mind the Flap

This guy.

And this guy.

Awesome. There is a lot of red paper clip-esque blog fame to be had in the world.

Lord of Drug

We are all familiar with my hate-hate relationship with Bank of America.

To avoid the bank fee for transferring funds, I made out a bunch of blank checks to keep in Colorado so that my parent's could, at a moment's notice, fill it out and deposit it in a local bank back in the Square State.

Well, upon my return to the Square State, lo and behold, this crappy little Diamond Shamrock in the middle of Junktown has a BOA ATM. There is not a Bank of America or ATM located within 740 miles, but for some reason in a gas station that had the syrupiest cokes of my high school days, an ATM stands.

This was great. I would have access to Charm City funds from Junktown.

One thing: I had forgotten the PIN.

So, I would go in and try a different combination each day for a week. I swear it had a 0, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, and/or 9 in it...

Anyway, so I finally punched in the right one and made a withdrawal.

I swore I would never forget it.

Then, three days later, I couldn't remember it. So I caved and called BOA. To my surprise the lady was very nice and the whole process was rather pleasant. A little too pleasant...I want to be harassed when it comes to my PIN - not about bank fees.

I'm pretty sure the PIN they sent me and the PIN that I entered and successfully allowed me to access my cash are two different numbers. I can't bank on it, but it is an eerie feeling, nonetheless.

Anyhow, as of late, as in, the past two days, I've needed to transfer a massive amount of funds from BOA to Junktown Bank. The max withdrawal on the ATM was going to necessitate two separate days of cash deposit, and I needed instant availability, so I had to make the deposit face-to-face with a real teller at Junktown Bank.

The teller's name is Amy, she thinks brown and pink go together as well as yellow and gray, and that I'm a druglord.

What other explanation could there be for me making huge cash deposits and not looking her in the eye and sniffling a lot? Her finger was on the alarm button the whole time, despite my pleas with her to "Be cool baby, just, be, cool."

3 salient reasons I am obviously not a drug lord:
1) My dress: (less Miami Vice and more derelict)
2) My stature: (less 1991 Chris Rock and more 2003 Star Jones)
3) My insistence on saying "oh my gosh!" instead of "what the f***?"

I wrote the aforementioned tips on the back of a deposit slip.

Along with my pager number.

And the going rate for a kilo.

The treasure chest that is my glove compartment

Whoa!

I just realized...I've never stored gloves in my car's glove compartment. It must an atavism of some sort, that name. That nomenclature.

Anyway, I found a post-it note pad that had various thoughts I had written down, apparently while sitting around in my car, because it was beneath the socks I keep in my glove compartment. Some highlights:

The concept of dynamically neutral is born. The sine curve idea is that if you view a sine curve from the side, you see a dynamic/periodic curve. So imagine viewing a sagging telephone wire from the side...you see it going down between poles, and up where it is supported. However, if you were flying overhead, the bird's eye view would show the line being straight, because there is no horizontal deviation. So, within that neutral curve, there is something dynamic. It is all about perspective. Please bear with these ... they were written by a 17 year old who thought he was being philosophical, when in reality he was just sitting in his car waiting to pick up his sister from volleyball practice.

The idea is to have a beautiful girl who is recently engaged utter the top line to some boys, and for the coolest gentleman of the bunch to respond with saying the bottom line, classily relaying that the nice girls are being taken off the market left and right. He exits with a smile on his face, but knows he will be forever...alone. Once again, a 17 year old without a prom date wrote this.



The line about the elderly...kind of stolen from Dumb and Dumber I imagine. The line about teens, really true. I would love to go back in time and smack my teen face in the face and tell him to breathe a little deeper and commit crimes while he could be written up as "teen" in the blotter.


Imagine two guys playing bocce, a close up on the most recent toss, and then into frame comes a golf ball. We go wideshot, and see that bocce is being played on the 18th hole at a swanky country club. Hilarity and bad fashion ensues. Hopefully Bill Cosby is one of the bocce players.

Into what did the universe expand? Do we exist only as a warm place for snowflakes to land?
Oh, please.

I will need help on this one...I think I'm referencing Cat's Cradle by Vonnegut but have no idea. I'm sure this idea was sweet. If only they had a waybackmachine for my mind.

So picture a scenario where a man is about to die, is in a relationship, and the question "is it better to have love and lost than to have never loved at all." So, he goes for it, with 6 months to live. Things are great, and cute, and with meaning. Then she dies of unnatural causes, leaving this guy dying at an accelerated pace and a widower. We'll rate it G for the kids.



Apparently, I thought it would be funny if a character existed in the form of a black lady so pro-black that she refuses to wear white (standard) bras.



This is some note about the lies of Onion Girl. For some reason I thought it pertinent, while in my car, to write it down on the post-it notepad. She is married now and con bebe, and I'm completely cool with that, so I won't hold grudges and just post this so it can live forever on the internet.

Task for the day, blog-kateers! Write an ambigious note and stick it in your glove compartment. When you rediscover it in 5 years, see how relevant/humiliating it is.

Fin.

Funny Images

You probably noticed the pretentious two Hummer garage of the last post, which made me remember this and this.

I've never seen pets so happy with their genitals being covered by giant band-aids.

And I've not thought of using birth control as caging babies...wait a tick. They changed the cage to a window. I new I should have made this post before the complaints rolled in. Brilliant move though...instead of saying "birth control cages babies", change the bars to panes and call it "investigating fertility windows of opportunity via ovulation method."


Horizons -> expanded.

Filming and living

We scoped out a restaurant for filming...a cute french place that is open so infrequently it must charge 6 dollars for a crêpe...but worth it if you care about her.

The owner has grand ideas for a wine/dessert bar that will pay homage to the art of filmmaking from its orgins...namely, big trains and super 8s.

The transpose(dessert/wine) bar will be in the same complex as his restaurant.

I want to live here so I can eat there every 5PM-10PM Wednesday - Saturday (I just won't eat on the other days - or maybe the wine/dessert bar will be open
(5PM-10PM Wednesday - Saturday) ^C ).

Friendship around the clock

There was a time in my undergrad career where I had my own desk in a friend's room. We studied around the clock together, in an effort for him to rid himself of academic probation and for me to not have to pay for wireless internet. It was the final semester at Square State University, and our peak hours were 9PM - 3AM. We posted the following schedule above my desk so we could keep track of the hours I worked. The highlight was a random comment left by one of the housemates that declared self inflicted defication in the pants.



I lived across town, and often the night would involve a run to Wendy's (why am I so fat?) and my study-buddy would drive me home at 3AM, just in time for me to run into my roommate coming home from his fiancee's (smelling like Bed Bath Body and BEYOND). I remember that our place was so horrible that year we made a pledge to spend as much time away from it as possible - thus my study habits at my friend's house. I also would walk uphill in the driving snow the half mile to my friend's house with a pot full of marinating boneless chicken breasts and grill 14 at a time and then eat them for the rest of the week. Once, a housemate ate one of my chicken breasts. He is now the star of Snakes on a Plane.

Also, I put the note on the back of the schedule indicating the last time I studied in my friend's room and apparently, Nora Jone's subdued me with a cudgel and signed where my signature should have gone:

Any Grad Schools in Hawaii? Fiji?

Exhibit A:

This is proof that I spent 390 dollars applying to Graduate schools. I only landed interviews at two of the five, but was reimbursed airfare and put up for several nights at very expensive hotels and got to eat whole pizzas instead of slices of pizzas on someone else's tab. My only regret: applying to cold places like Boston and Baltimore. Why didn't I feign interest in Fiji State University's Quantitative Coconut Summation Graduate Certificate Program?

More to come, and more often.

I owe everyone a Vega$ report, a monthly report, a car status report, and yet another underwear report.

I'm going to be a more faithful blogger to you. I promise, this time, it will all be different.

Currently I am cleaning out my childhood room. I like to think of myself as a streamlined-rat as opposed to a pack-rat, but the following suggests otherwise:

From top, clockwise: a slip of paper with a girl's email address on it that was given to me the day before I left Junktown to go to undergraduate university (some 6 years ago...it was a magical night of rain showers, bouncy trampolines, a flash-mob butt slap chemical reaction pandemonium, and sweet hugs for someone who accepted Jesus Christ as their personal Lord and Saviour); a postcard from Germany from 2001 sent to me by a girl who raises emus despite what they did to the late Johnny Cash; and a Las Vegas Star Trek Hilton hotel card that I decided to keep from an ill-fated Vegas trip (not the 24 hour trip...this happened immediately after seeing Onion Girl give a prayer to open up the FMHS commencement ceremony, where I ran into Afton and her boyfriend (who, consequently, is six foot four and full of muscle) - this Vegas trip was ill-fated because I drank too much Pepsi in the sarcophagus of the Luxor and experienced heat rash on my calves from walking the Strip in the summer so badly that I had to go the pharmacist, buy ointment and apply it to my wounds in the parking lot with a sock. I also had to throw away all the change cups from that Vegas trip...for some reason GRY and I thought it would be awesome to have these nasty, filthy cups in our possession. I thought one day I would wash them and have awkwardly obtuse cups be in my cupboards so I could drink cheap wine from them with Heidi Klum, or better yet, Star Jones. Or even better yet, Tracey Morgan as Star Jones (don't even mention Keenan and Kel around me).

Higher fidelity, to you, my blog readers. I'm so sorry. Take me back.

De-motivation to a whole new level: Yours.

Have fun, ladies.

http://flagrantdisregard.com/flickr/motivator.php

Vegas, baby. Vegas.

Brought to you by a man who traveled Europe with only a backpack for 17 days.

This promises to be a heck of a week. Yesterday I took my last final for my MS requirements, and now, officially, if I were to die I would have a MS degree (awarded posthumously, but otherwise bending no requirements).

Tonight (in 30 minutes) I have a grad party, which will be fairly tame, considering it's a bunch of biostatisticians and Caffo is not there.

Tomorrow night, after a day of Body Worlds 2 where I get to see why the Potter put skin on the clay vessels, I will board a plane for Vegas.

I am doing Vegas in 24 hours. Yes, it seems ridiculous, but it is necessary. I do not have much time left before returning to Charm City, yet a visit a to Sin City is necessary to celebrate the ending of a buddy's bachelorhood.

I will become every NASCAR Dad and Soccer Mom's dream. I will travel so light...not "no checking baggage" light or "just my laptop" light.

I will travel "no toiletries, just a wallet, smile, and aviators" light.

I will empty my wallet of the safeway card, sams club card, change, sheepskin con- I don't know what those are mom, and change. I will have 150 dollars cash, credit card, debit card, and I am putting a new set of contacts in the change compartment (it is that time of the month, and it allows me to be free of toiletries, especially toiletries that cause eye-fungus.)

My teeth will not be brushed for 24 hours.
My deordorant will have to last for 24 hours.
My aviator glasses will not have a case for 24 hours.

I also have a red t-shirt that was given to me by my sister. She, being a manager at a certain store, was able to get it dirt cheap. That, and the fact that it was in the bargain bin because it is big enough to fit an elephant as a parachute or clothe the latest flash-in-the-pan rapper.

This shirt has destroyed so many socks and shirts with its bleeding red wash characterisitcs that I have resolved to never wash it again - I will wear it to Vegas over another shirt. Sometime during the night I will leave this shirt on the strip, or take it off to cover up one of the cocktail waitresses to protect the eyes of young and old men alike from lust.

If only I had a million bleeding red shirts to cloak the sin of SIN City!

Some Panera Bread employee just said "I can play this on the piano." I think he is referencing the music that is in the air. He is trying to impress the 17 year old girl who (wo)mans the register. Maybe it would impress her more if he actually knew the name of the piece (Fur Elise). Or maybe it would impress her more if he would stop looking at her like she was a Vegas cocktail waitress.

Any-who.

I'm traveling light, I'm traveling fast.

I touch back down in the Square State at 2:37 AM Sunday. I will sleep all of Sunday, right up to the movie premiere.

I haven't told you of the movie premiere! Oh my titanium balls!

Omura-san convinced everyone to make another movie after The Red King. The Red King was a great first attempt, and the greatest fans of it are none other than my sister and all her friends (apparently, they love the scene where I drop the f-bomb...which is actually Omura-san dropping it, since it sounded like someone saying it for the first time (fyi, it was, like, my fifth time...since I lost my virginity...for the fifth time...to myself)).

Anyway, the movie premiere is finally here. I plan to wear my aviators the whole night to mask the Vegas strips under my eyes and party like a rock-star...a rock-star who lives out of his car.

Print it, Panera!

Bruce-Tracker

Using the powers of the internet and GPS, it is now possible to tell where in the United States I am at any given moment.

Transience has never had it better.

The website is enabled by using my cell phone.

No, no, silly - it doesn't plug into a satellite feed that is tracking my cell phone signal like in the hit movie The Recruit starring Colin "She pissed her jeans" Farrell - I simply call up the nice lady who maintains the site and say "East/West side - I had a lovely time at Homecoming, bye, [click]"

Technology! Get with it!

potentially Sweet Blog that is frequently updated

This blog was correctly recommended to me. It might just make it to the worthwhile blogs section on the right of your screen.

The Sentinel: Not just a small town paper

If you want to watch a movie that celebrates Adultery: The Sentinel.

If you want to read about people complaining about round-a-bouts or triumphing prep athletes that made it to the NFL: The Sentinel.

What am I supposed to do with Trunk briefs?

So, I'm in Target. Their brand recognition is undeniable with all of the catchy advertising. I think when robots are not dreaming of electric sheep, they're dreaming of people dreaming about that bullseye.

Anywho.

I need things.

The list:

Nivea Toner (to shape up a fat face)
OK Go CD #1: OK Go.
OK Go CD #2: Oh no.
Under-roos. (to shape up a fat can)
Wedding gift.

I rarely purchase music from a store, but I figure that I have a 7 hour solo drive to get to a wedding rehearsal that I might as well treat myself. OK Go impressed me on New Year's, so we'll see if they impress me en route to Durango.

The under-roos. I know I like Fruit of the Loom, and I know the size. I don't care about the colors. I don't care how many come in a pack either. All I want are the boxer briefs. I want the package picture to depict this clearly.

Go.

Go now.

Go now to a store and find a pack of Fruit of the Loom's Boxer Briefs, Large.

Blink your eyes.

What!? They've changed to "Trunk Briefs"...are you sure?

Is the picture exactly the same as the Boxer Briefs?

Injustice?
A money drain?
Body image problem reinforcement on a level only The Adonis Complex would address?


I know!

I feel your pain.

I was trying to be a responsible nomad and buy some under-roos. Somehow I got a pack of TRUNK and a pack of BOXER briefs. The pictures looks exactly the same. I blindly threw them into the washer pre-wearing them, so I'm screwed as far as returning these things. If I wanted to waste 10 dollars I would've rather at least gotten thrown out of a Hooters for placing a ten-spot tip where it has never been ("I was never a stripper, you pig!")

The wedding gift I purchased for the Bro in Durango was a bottle opener. Hopefully he will use it to open up many a brew to drink away the pain of marriage...or as an eye-gouger to poke away the pain of marriage.


We need rules, we need structure.

1) On the way down to Durango, only OK Go will be playing.
2) Do not fall in love with any bridesmaids.
3) Make them fall in love with you.
4) No beer.
5) Maybe a little.

I have a theory that "car bombs" do not curdle. I think someone started the rumor and everyone just chugs them now because they have a legitimate excuse besides being a boozehound.

Q: Why are you chugging that fine tasting beverage, Bill?
A: Because of science, Mary Ann!

I intend to waste a little money and find out how long it takes for the curdling to happen, if ever. I am going to enjoy that sweet drink. I owe it to the fine people in Massachussetts, whose chippable teeth disallow the quick drop of the shot glass, and who, also, support such fine caricatures as "Swift Boat" Kerry and "Chappaquiddick - you must acquit" Kennedy.

I'm trying to explain to my parents that I am moving to Baltimore in June, explaining to them how rushed it seems given I'm graduating and working on papers and going to class and trying to jump start a tormented-romantic lifestyle. They just told me to follow my heart and then my dad tried to convince me that the snow tires for my former car were "worth a lot of money" and "shouldn't be taking up space." He does the same thing to my friends that have flip-cell phones. The idea is for my dad to convince you that something you have is worthless and then he'll collect it from you and then turn a quick buck on it. If you ever want to win my dad over, just give him a bag of flip-cell phones in the front seat of a pick-up truck that has a 500-lb breakfast omelet in the bed and tell him it is all his. He will eat a glass samwich on your command.

I need to address Johnny Ca$h's "Sunday Morning" and how it played into my Easter, but now is not the time. I need to *know* my audience, and for all I know I'm being read by my grandmother's bridge club ("Are you sure this is it...you're grandson seems so mild mannered. He's so tall and kind - bringing down that can of prunes at the Kroger store for me. Yes, he did.")

Flex.
Breathe.


Lately I've been intrigued by long-distance relationships because I'm contemplating entering one...with myself.

I know! The Trunk Briefs...if it wasn't for the wedding I would go to the Body World exhibit with someone that is smarter than me, taller than me, and has a better credit score than me and I would deftly put the Trunk Briefs on the plasticized humans of yester-time. But no.

Of course, I've already put under-roos on art/scultpures before, so there's no need to be redundant...if I can find photos I will post. Grand Junktown will never be the same.

Toby..Toby, Toby. I went into a Wal*mart the other day, the first time in a long time, and there was his image, on an ad board for his latest: "Toby Keith: White Trash with Money."

Somehow, there is irony in Wal*mart displaying this.

Speaking of Wal*mart and given my nomadic nature, this might be of note.

I hear they have a Durango in Wal*mart. I'll be sure to check it out.

Yeah, I meant it like that.

NSF follow-up (fall-out)

I should have read this before applying for the NSF GRFP...very insightful.

After April 17th I can check my rate sheet...if I received negative marks for being a 1st year grad student as opposed to a graduating senior I will flap out and each some flip jacks at Village Inn with my good friend, the honorable Reverend William Archibald Spooner. Syrass the purp.

The NSF has this to say about its Honorable Mention:

The NSF accords Honorable Mention to meritorious applicants who do not receive fellowship awards of fat ca$h. Honorable Mention is considered a significant academic achievement nationwide and does not award skinny ca$h or any ca$h, for that matter, whatsoever.

Hey, who can argue with the Federal Government?

How much does a moment weigh?

...And, do we exist just so that snowflakes have a warm place to land?

Okay, philosopy wax aside, I need to post this.

This year has been brutal. Yes, it was launched with great hope because of New Year's. Yes, it is crashing and burning because of my failure to land the next big thing.

While in Charm City, I applied to five schools and applied for two grants. I submitted a paper to a student paper competition. So, all in all I've been awaiting answers to 8 questions. All but one are answered.


Harvard: Accepted, with loads of ca$h.

Johns Hopkins: Accepted, with loads of ca$h.

Wharton at UPENN: Rejected.

Princeton: Rejected.

Stanford: Rejected (with a smarmy, "We'll take you into our Master's program, for a fee, of course.")

Graphics Section of ASA Student Paper Competition: Slapped in the mouth. Four out of 24 papers selected, and mine did not make the cut.

Department of Energy Computational Science Grant: Slapped my grandma in the face. (This hurts worse than my face getting it).

The question still lingering is if I got the NSF Graduate Fellowship grant. It is a huge honor and a nice stipend. The proposed project is the same as that of the rejected DOE grant: to develop mathematical models to further Paired Kidney Donation.

I have an email sitting in my inbox.

It is from the NSF.

It has been sitting there for the last 4 hours.

It is my last stand for having a great year. A year that launches a thousand ships.

I do not want to look because I feel I will get distracted from my work this week if I do.

I have to finish my thesis this weekend. It is the reason I am in Charm City right now and not the Square State. I also, have to finish my revision of the graphics paper (the one that the ASA Graphics Section rejected) for two competitions with deadlines of April 1st.

I must stay focused.

But the moment weighs on me. It weighs on me like a thousand ships.

One thousand ships.

However, to draw it out even more, the anticipation, the excitement, the dread, I wanted to list evidence and superstitions in a "Point, Counterpoint" fashion of my speculation as to what the answer lying in that email is.

Point: Email was sent by Ryan R. Krausmann. I did a little research. Mr. Krausmann is the "Help Desk Team Lead - NSF Graduate Research Fellowship Program." If it was a positive response, they would have had Mr. NSF send the letter, not the male secretary.

Counterpoint: Frequently, all responses come via an administrative assistant because the high-ups are too busy rolling in money like Mike Meyers did in "54."

Point: Internet rumor, which was made known to me by Drewborg, who also applied for a NSF grant, said that the NSF always notifies on a Friday. I received my notification on a Thursday. Bad news always comes ahead of schedule.

Counterpoint: The rumor speculated that they tell applicants on Friday so that they do not have to receive hot-headed calls asking "Why didn't I win, Goat-f***er!" Therefore, they would notify the winners a day ahead so that they could receive calls singing "Thank you, and I love you. May I send you a case of Oatmeal Stout from the Square State?"

Point: The email is only 11k.

Counterpoint: You can't really apply the "small envelope" theory to emails.

Point: God will not allow me to have this grant because instead of waiting for him to provide a bread carrying raven to feed me, I went to McDonald's at 10:45PM after getting back to my hotel from working on my thesis at Bayview.

Counterpoint: God threw a shooting star down from Heaven across the sky upon my exit from said McDonald's. I wished upon it that I would win the NSF Grant.

Rebuttal to counterpoint: That wasn't a star - it was the tardy raven being chucked through the atmosphere by Gabriel.

Point: When I sent an email to Drewborg asking if he had received an email from Ryan Krausmann, he replied "Mum's the word." which means I am not telling which means he did receive it and the probability of us both not getting it is higher than the probability of both of us getting it so I didn't get.

Counterpoint: "Mum's the word" is British and therefore has no meaning in the United States.

Well, here's the deal. I am going to finish my graphics paper and review my thesis. Then, I will check the email.

If I do not get it, I will rack myself with a gunrack (not a riflerack, for all you irony loving fans of Full Metal Jacket).

If I do get it, I will go down to the 24 hour KFC in the Travel Plaza in the worst part of Charm City, order 54 chicken breasts (they should always come in pairs, baby!), take them up to my hotel room, dump them out on the bed I am not using, roll around in them as if I was Mike Meyers, a poor man's Mike Meyers.

Time elapses....

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Got my graphics paper done. Now I need to read my thesis.

Time elapses.

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Thesis is reviewed. I think I will check my email. Oh, dear, I need to log-in. Just a second.

Time elapses.

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I'm logged-in. And I'm nervous. I'm nervous and its okay.


And the results are:

Sorry, I got distracted. Slow internet here at the Best Western.

I just read this.

It appears that these fine folks received an email today as well, and did not get the NSF grant.

It appears I did not either.

But, not all is lost - I have received an "honorable mention," which is basically saying I got second place at the special olympics (psst...and I'm not disabled, but I'm going to be soon).

Bring on the gun rack.

To Beauty and Truth, 250 miles at a time

CDOT.

Doesn't mean much to you.

Colorado Department of Transportation.

They save our lives when it snows. They keep the I-70 corridor free of snow as much as humanly and snow plowly possible.

And they have a great logo:



It is based on the Colorado state flag:

You see, CDOT stands for Colorado Department of Transportation.

It's logo is based on the state flag.

The state flag is a "C" and a "Dot"!

Now that's self-reinforcement!

Now that's the kind of thoughts you get driving the I-70 corridor twice a week!

To Beauty, Dr. Zeger! To truth!

I'm going to be (Ctrl +) r ich

A suggestion:

"Ctrl + r " to refresh the page.

Another suggestion: No matter how vehemently my dad suggests the check for the royalties of the "Ctrl + r" usage should go to him because of his self proclaimed "creator" status, it shouldn't. The proof is in the fact that he thinks that a check is generated each time those buttons are pushed.

On Being Transient

I have been called elusive. Cheap. Fat. And Lazy.

And Brilliant.

When I returned to the Square State from Charm City, it was in the middle of the academic year. More problematic, I was intending to go right back to the City of Charm after 5 months of being back in the Square State. This would mean I would need to find some weird sub-lease or bite bullets to the tune of 800 dollars a month to rent a studio apartment with a sweet premium. The studio idea was manageable, but my business in Denver was only 3 days a week, and I wanted to spend a lot of time on the Western Slope and the I-70 corridor and the I-haven't-been-snowboarding-in-12-years slopes (and your hearts); and spending a lot of money to live somewhere for 3 days a week seemed ludicrous.

So, I went with an option so much more ludicrous that it just.

Might.

Work.

I decided to become a Transient whilst in Denver. In Grand Junction as well, I would not just stay with my parents but with friends as well. A couch crasher. And if the Mrs. Is willing, a home wrecker.

Before I left for Baltimore, I hatched a plan of being a couch crasher. I had a long list of friends that had roofs, heat, and showers that they'd be willing to share for 3 days or so, especially with a pal that just got back from a 6 month internship on the Eastern seaboard.

I was blessed (and condemned) when a professor of mine in Denver suggested housesitting for her while she was out of the country. Blessed, because it was a month of rent I didn't have to pay (or couch crash), and condemned because it made the amount of time to rent a place in Denver even more ludicrous (4 months...The place with the studio had 3 month leases and 5 month leases. Thanks, AMLI!).

Anyway, I sold my overheating Honda and invested in a Subaru Legacy Outback. A couple years newer, forty thousand miles fewer, an existent rear wiper, a Yakima RocketBox, two more doors, and air conditioning is the sum of the switch. I needed a vehicle that I could afford financially that itself could afford to have a bunch of miles put on it in a hurry: round trip each week is 500 miles, plus whatever driving I do while in town.

One protester of this plan proclaimed that it would be more expensive to do this than to just rent a place. Not so. I've done the calculations. Oil changes, new tires, OK GO! cds, gasoline (dinosaur bones, Mr. Cash), and grocery/meals for the host and hostess still comes to less than keeping a place.

Plus, it is a lot more sociable. This taciturn catepillar is slowly turning into a social butterfly.

I am learning about the great hospitality of my friends and gaining a little bit of solidarity with my transient brothers. I fully recognize I am not as bad off as many of them, since I am some bloated fat American white preppie that has a car, a lap-top, credit cards accepted by Chipotle and Wi-Fi friendly (free o' charge) Panera Bread Co., friends with showers, and a 24 hour gym membership that allows showers and mirror checks to preserve my vanity. I am closely monitoring my emotional state, as I have been advised that not having a home can cause identity crises and loss of bowel/bladder/sinus control.

Whoever I am just crapped/pissed/snotted on this public library keyboard.


-*-

I'll try to write up little observations of this life as I go along, but if I do not my saving grace is in Physics: we cannot know both the position and speed of certain particles because measuring one affects the other. So I cannot both record life and keep living it.

My friend Boston

I know 75% of the rescued. The other 25% I know was in the Army and earns a living ultimate fighting.

I love this story. There are so many little pot-shots. There are so many little gems. My favorite is the dad who steps in to save his son's political career with apologies and mula.

The ski-poles were borrowed. For crying out loud! This is journalism. These are the facts.

I will post soon two other favorite stories that demonstrate great journalism in a small town in a square state.