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.