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.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Saturday, September 09, 2006
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.
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.
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
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, September 04, 2006
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
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
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.
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."
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.
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.
Saturday, July 22, 2006
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.
And this guy.
Awesome. There is a lot of red paper clip-esque blog fame to be had in the world.
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!
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