This guy.
And this guy.
Awesome. There is a lot of red paper clip-esque blog fame to be had in the world.
Saturday, July 22, 2006
Thursday, July 20, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, July 14, 2006
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 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.
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.
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 ).
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 ).
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
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?
Monday, July 03, 2006
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:
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.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Thursday, May 18, 2006
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!
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!
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
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!
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.
If you want to read about people complaining about round-a-bouts or triumphing prep athletes that made it to the NFL: The Sentinel.
Friday, April 21, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, March 31, 2006
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:
Hey, who can argue with the Federal Government?
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$h, for that matter, whatsoever.
Hey, who can argue with the Federal Government?
Thursday, March 30, 2006
How much does a moment weigh?
...And, do we exist just so that snowflakes have a warm place to land?
Okay, philosopy wax aside, I need to post this.
This year has been brutal. Yes, it was launched with great hope because of New Year's. Yes, it is crashing and burning because of my failure to land the next big thing.
While in Charm City, I applied to five schools and applied for two grants. I submitted a paper to a student paper competition. So, all in all I've been awaiting answers to 8 questions. All but one are answered.
Harvard: Accepted, with loads of ca$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....
......
.....
....
...
..
.
.
..
...
....
.....
......
Got my graphics paper done. Now I need to read my thesis.
Time elapses.
......
.....
....
...
..
.
.
..
...
....
.....
......
Thesis is reviewed. I think I will check my email. Oh, dear, I need to log-in. Just a second.
Time elapses.
......
.....
....
...
..
.
.
..
...
....
.....
......
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.
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....
......
.....
....
...
..
.
.
..
...
....
.....
......
Got my graphics paper done. Now I need to read my thesis.
Time elapses.
......
.....
....
...
..
.
.
..
...
....
.....
......
Thesis is reviewed. I think I will check my email. Oh, dear, I need to log-in. Just a second.
Time elapses.
......
.....
....
...
..
.
.
..
...
....
.....
......
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.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
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:
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.
"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.
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.
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