I like cooking to the point that I cook in my head almost as often as anything else. I think the average person, when creating fantasy scenarios in a daydream, is either dying/fighting, having sex, or arguing. I do all those things and I cook as well. I think about what I want to eat, how I want to make it, and who I can convince to help me out. People like Ray are a complete fucking let down because they very rarely have "time" to eat, or claim to not be hungry (which makes no sense and is an outright lie).
So, as posted before, I do not cook as often as I would like. It's truly a bitch to research a recipe, buy the ingredients, do the prep and cook work, and then clean up. Especially when your roommate is prone to bouts of ignoring the dishes completely.
The last time I tried to do something big was a mediocre success. I invited a few people over for dinner, and the game plan was duck with a port wine reduction. No one in Cortland had fresh duck, and the frozen was about twice as expensive as I expected (from experiences back home in civilization). So I went with game hen, which was also frozen. However, as they are very small, I expected them to thaw quickly. No such luck.
The reduction took longer than expected. We didn't have a potato masher. The game hens refused to cook thoroughly. By the time the main entree was finished, we were already stuffed with potatoes (mashed by hand with a whisk), beans, and stuffing. So while we waited, we downed a few bottles of wine and played a few games. By the time the chickens were finished we were half drunk and full. Not good timing on my part.
Friday, December 7, 2007
Actually...
I just thought about it, and I should probably expand on what I think about school.
Now, I'm not sure what sort of degree my cousin Kevin has (it might be a 2 year, it might have somethign to do with his time in the military) but I believe I am the first male Kelly to have graduated from College (assuming I do not fail my French final or Writing in Cyberspace, which I do not see happening). This doesn't really make me feel important or special, considering the degree of success members of my family have experienced without formal education. For instance my father is the manager of Radiation Control and Protection, Health and Safety, and Enivronmentals for General Dynamics Electric Boat. I think he wanted to get a degree in anthropology.
Does this mean I don't value education? No, but I do abhor schools. I can count on one hand (maybe one and a half) the number of teachers I've found truly valuable- and considering one or two teachers a year for K-6, and 5 or 6 teachers a year for 7-12, and numerous teachers per semester for four and a half years of college...Well, the track record for teachers is pretty bad. Maybe I'm a tough audience. Or maybe they're not as heroic as they're always claiming.
Now this doesn't mean that all the other teachers were incompetent. I just feel that as individuals they offered very little that could not be had elsewhere. I remember in eleventh grade I skipped school for a day to read a Stephen Hawking book (Brief History of the Universe). What I want out of a teacher is an experience and a lesson that I can't be getting somewhere else, or even by myself.
I will miss Cortland, but for very specific reasons. Raquette Lake, meetings with my writing teachers to workshop pieces, workshops in general, putting together the magazine. All good things. I won't miss attendance policies, bullshit busy work, bureaucrats, poorly ventilated buildings, or really anything else.
Now, I'm not sure what sort of degree my cousin Kevin has (it might be a 2 year, it might have somethign to do with his time in the military) but I believe I am the first male Kelly to have graduated from College (assuming I do not fail my French final or Writing in Cyberspace, which I do not see happening). This doesn't really make me feel important or special, considering the degree of success members of my family have experienced without formal education. For instance my father is the manager of Radiation Control and Protection, Health and Safety, and Enivronmentals for General Dynamics Electric Boat. I think he wanted to get a degree in anthropology.
Does this mean I don't value education? No, but I do abhor schools. I can count on one hand (maybe one and a half) the number of teachers I've found truly valuable- and considering one or two teachers a year for K-6, and 5 or 6 teachers a year for 7-12, and numerous teachers per semester for four and a half years of college...Well, the track record for teachers is pretty bad. Maybe I'm a tough audience. Or maybe they're not as heroic as they're always claiming.
Now this doesn't mean that all the other teachers were incompetent. I just feel that as individuals they offered very little that could not be had elsewhere. I remember in eleventh grade I skipped school for a day to read a Stephen Hawking book (Brief History of the Universe). What I want out of a teacher is an experience and a lesson that I can't be getting somewhere else, or even by myself.
I will miss Cortland, but for very specific reasons. Raquette Lake, meetings with my writing teachers to workshop pieces, workshops in general, putting together the magazine. All good things. I won't miss attendance policies, bullshit busy work, bureaucrats, poorly ventilated buildings, or really anything else.
Friday
Today is Friday, as I'm sure you've noticed. What is special about this particular Friday is that it was my last day of classes ever.
Ever.
Unless I go to Graduate school, I am now offically done with being in school. I can finish my wiki entries, my reader responses, study for my French final, and consider myself a fully educated human. Not fully learned, but fully educated (quite a difference).
And I can honestly say: Fuck school.
In good news, UPD randomly called me and told that they "still" had my flash drive. I was unaware that they had it in the first place, but what a pleasant surprise.
Ever.
Unless I go to Graduate school, I am now offically done with being in school. I can finish my wiki entries, my reader responses, study for my French final, and consider myself a fully educated human. Not fully learned, but fully educated (quite a difference).
And I can honestly say: Fuck school.
In good news, UPD randomly called me and told that they "still" had my flash drive. I was unaware that they had it in the first place, but what a pleasant surprise.
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Theme III, Cooking
I'm not sure why I didn't think fo this before. I love to cook, I do it quite often, and I'm good at it. I'm not sure how many cooking blogs are out there: I assume many. Since I am not a professional chef, it would probably be more of a journal of learning experiences.
I haven't cooked as much as I would like to this semester. My roommate is rarely around for meals, and we don't go shopping together. Part of the reason I enjoy making food is to share it; since he isn't here, that sort of destroys my motivation. It's a lot of work to cook decent meals for one person, and almost cheaper to grab something for take out. In college, forget getting a large group of people over for dinner.
Part of the reason is, simply put, most people assume you're full of shit. No one believes you can cook. They're shocked when you do. The second is, perhaps this is just me, most of my friends are flakes. They would more than likely back out at the last minute, and there I am with 50 dollars worth of food and no one to feed.
Here's something simple:
Heat oil over medium high heat in a heavy skillet.
Place a steak (preferably rib eye) in pan and sear on both sides until cooked to your liking. Remove steak, cover in foil, and set aside. Keeping the pan hot, but discarding the oil, add one cup of good red wine. I use a chriaz for this.
Boil the wine and reduce by half. Add any juices accumulated in the foil packet from the cooked steak, one half cup of beef stock, and two dashes of soy sauce. Once again, reduce by half.
Remove from heat. Slowly add three tablespoons of butter, one tablespoon at a time, stirring constantly. Pour sauce over steak and enjoy. A lot of people who assume they knwo everything about steak are hesitant to pan fry a steak. However, when combined with a good simple pan sauce, you really don't lose anything. In fact, with a hot, heavy skillet, you can get a really perfect crust and sear on the meat this way. Don't worry.
I haven't cooked as much as I would like to this semester. My roommate is rarely around for meals, and we don't go shopping together. Part of the reason I enjoy making food is to share it; since he isn't here, that sort of destroys my motivation. It's a lot of work to cook decent meals for one person, and almost cheaper to grab something for take out. In college, forget getting a large group of people over for dinner.
Part of the reason is, simply put, most people assume you're full of shit. No one believes you can cook. They're shocked when you do. The second is, perhaps this is just me, most of my friends are flakes. They would more than likely back out at the last minute, and there I am with 50 dollars worth of food and no one to feed.
Here's something simple:
Heat oil over medium high heat in a heavy skillet.
Place a steak (preferably rib eye) in pan and sear on both sides until cooked to your liking. Remove steak, cover in foil, and set aside. Keeping the pan hot, but discarding the oil, add one cup of good red wine. I use a chriaz for this.
Boil the wine and reduce by half. Add any juices accumulated in the foil packet from the cooked steak, one half cup of beef stock, and two dashes of soy sauce. Once again, reduce by half.
Remove from heat. Slowly add three tablespoons of butter, one tablespoon at a time, stirring constantly. Pour sauce over steak and enjoy. A lot of people who assume they knwo everything about steak are hesitant to pan fry a steak. However, when combined with a good simple pan sauce, you really don't lose anything. In fact, with a hot, heavy skillet, you can get a really perfect crust and sear on the meat this way. Don't worry.
God on the Radio
I'm the sort of person who might believe in God, depending on what time of day you get me. I rarely blame him for my problems. Oddly though, I've noticed I usually give him a nod and a thanks for my good fortunes.
The other day I was sitting on my porch smoking a cigar. A beautiful girl that lives in the apartment above me walked down the steps by me and across the street. Her boyfriend lives there. She went inside, and I kept puffing on my Rocky Patel (I think that's what I was having). I couldn't help but notice that her boyfriend's blinds were open, as suddenly she appeared there in the window. Almost immediately she slid her pants down, bent over with her ass facing someone out of view, and started spanking herself. Her panties were bright blue boyshorts. I tilted my head to grey sky above Cortland and gave Him one firm nod of thanks.
Lots of these things seem to happen to me. I'll go to a bar which is in fact a shitty dance club, hating myself for paying the cover charge, only to find that I have been compensated. The bartender forgot the price of Guinness. She only charges me three dollars a pint. And I give Him credit, though I know in a cold scientific way that the ditz with the big tits behind the bar is probably stupid all the time, not just with me. (I'm sure she has a beautiful soul).
However, this playful relationship He seems to have taken with me takes, at times, a rather sinister tone. Recently my iPod stopped working. I know, they're supposed to be invincible. My Nano (dubbed El Naño) simply refuses to turn on. I have tried using the restart command by pressing two buttons simultaneously, I have plugged it into three different chargers, I have turned myself into a backlit silhouette dancing wildly out of rhythm, and none of it has worked.
You think God broke your iPod?
No. Not really. But because the fucking thing broke, I've had to listen to the radio when driving. In upstate New York this is practically a death sentence. Every Nickelback song is just as awful and clumsy as the last. The Fray squeels and rasps over their shitty pianos, mumbling noodlehead lyrics about noodlehead problems. Fergie thinks she can sing a ballad. This is music for people who do not like music, the way Titanic was a movie for people who do not like movies. Wildly successful, rarely worthwhile.
I drive three hours each way when I want to go home from school. The reach of these shitty radio stations seems to be about, I don't know, thirty five feet or so, because every five minutes I find myself scrambling to find a new station. I'll almost catch the tail end of a song I find tolerable when static prevails and I am forced to jam my finger into the scan button.
On the way home for Thanksgiving a few weeks ago I once again felt the presence of God having a laugh. Static filled my car as I yet again began my search for something to listen to, anything to keep me focused on the road (I get very stir crazy in cars). Suddenly, Everlong by Foo Fighters came on. Not a band I enjoy by any means, but somehow in the early nineties they managed to create a perfect song. It is easily one of my favorites. I couldn't believe my luck and turned the radio up.
Ah, I said, thank you. Five minutes of happiness.
And then the song ended. Immediately, another began: Black by Pearl Jam. Another perfect song. This is strange, I thought. Two good songs in a row? I hadn't heard a listenable tune in two hours, and suddenly, walled in on the right and the front by two tractor trailers, I was being handed a play list straight off my dead Naño. I stopped and really gave that some thought. A logging truck was directly in front of the nose of my car. A gigantic Freihoffer's vehicle all but filled the view out the right side of my tiny silver Saturn. And this is when it struck me that perhaps God was not laughing with me, but at me.
I'm about to fucking die. He's decided to take me now. The logs will come spilling from the behemoth before me. Entire tree trunks will bury themselves through the front glass of my windshield, crushing my skull, while the death machine to my right will swerve to avoid the fallen lumber. He's going to grind my car right into the guard rail and there won't even be dental records.
God is about to fucking kill me and as compensation he's decided to send me out with a good soundtrack. I step on the brakes and do everything I can to avoid the trucks. I silence the radio for the rest of the trip. I have begun operating under the assumption that He is a kid with an ant farm, and everything has become an omen.
The other day I was sitting on my porch smoking a cigar. A beautiful girl that lives in the apartment above me walked down the steps by me and across the street. Her boyfriend lives there. She went inside, and I kept puffing on my Rocky Patel (I think that's what I was having). I couldn't help but notice that her boyfriend's blinds were open, as suddenly she appeared there in the window. Almost immediately she slid her pants down, bent over with her ass facing someone out of view, and started spanking herself. Her panties were bright blue boyshorts. I tilted my head to grey sky above Cortland and gave Him one firm nod of thanks.
Lots of these things seem to happen to me. I'll go to a bar which is in fact a shitty dance club, hating myself for paying the cover charge, only to find that I have been compensated. The bartender forgot the price of Guinness. She only charges me three dollars a pint. And I give Him credit, though I know in a cold scientific way that the ditz with the big tits behind the bar is probably stupid all the time, not just with me. (I'm sure she has a beautiful soul).
However, this playful relationship He seems to have taken with me takes, at times, a rather sinister tone. Recently my iPod stopped working. I know, they're supposed to be invincible. My Nano (dubbed El Naño) simply refuses to turn on. I have tried using the restart command by pressing two buttons simultaneously, I have plugged it into three different chargers, I have turned myself into a backlit silhouette dancing wildly out of rhythm, and none of it has worked.
You think God broke your iPod?
No. Not really. But because the fucking thing broke, I've had to listen to the radio when driving. In upstate New York this is practically a death sentence. Every Nickelback song is just as awful and clumsy as the last. The Fray squeels and rasps over their shitty pianos, mumbling noodlehead lyrics about noodlehead problems. Fergie thinks she can sing a ballad. This is music for people who do not like music, the way Titanic was a movie for people who do not like movies. Wildly successful, rarely worthwhile.
I drive three hours each way when I want to go home from school. The reach of these shitty radio stations seems to be about, I don't know, thirty five feet or so, because every five minutes I find myself scrambling to find a new station. I'll almost catch the tail end of a song I find tolerable when static prevails and I am forced to jam my finger into the scan button.
On the way home for Thanksgiving a few weeks ago I once again felt the presence of God having a laugh. Static filled my car as I yet again began my search for something to listen to, anything to keep me focused on the road (I get very stir crazy in cars). Suddenly, Everlong by Foo Fighters came on. Not a band I enjoy by any means, but somehow in the early nineties they managed to create a perfect song. It is easily one of my favorites. I couldn't believe my luck and turned the radio up.
Ah, I said, thank you. Five minutes of happiness.
And then the song ended. Immediately, another began: Black by Pearl Jam. Another perfect song. This is strange, I thought. Two good songs in a row? I hadn't heard a listenable tune in two hours, and suddenly, walled in on the right and the front by two tractor trailers, I was being handed a play list straight off my dead Naño. I stopped and really gave that some thought. A logging truck was directly in front of the nose of my car. A gigantic Freihoffer's vehicle all but filled the view out the right side of my tiny silver Saturn. And this is when it struck me that perhaps God was not laughing with me, but at me.
I'm about to fucking die. He's decided to take me now. The logs will come spilling from the behemoth before me. Entire tree trunks will bury themselves through the front glass of my windshield, crushing my skull, while the death machine to my right will swerve to avoid the fallen lumber. He's going to grind my car right into the guard rail and there won't even be dental records.
God is about to fucking kill me and as compensation he's decided to send me out with a good soundtrack. I step on the brakes and do everything I can to avoid the trucks. I silence the radio for the rest of the trip. I have begun operating under the assumption that He is a kid with an ant farm, and everything has become an omen.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Theme II, Comics/Writing
I love comic books. This began when I was a kid, although back then I mainly went for the cover and characters I'd recognize. I rarely actually read the things, instead being more interested in the penciller's linework. This isn't because I was illiterate or lazy (I've been reading for quite a while), but rather because my trips to the comic store were erratic. Because of this I was never really able to get a grasp for plotlines and longer story arcs.
Comics are probably the reason I had such an interest in drawing. For quite a while (up until, say, senior year of high school) I wanted nothing more than to be a comic penciller. This is the guy that does the initial drawings in pencil, which are then sent to the inker, colorist, and letterer (although some artists do more than one of these jobs). Consider yourself one of my closer friends if you actually knew before this post that I can draw. It's not something I do for attention or even really to show anyone else.
Obviously comic artists want and need other people to see their work- but the spirit of the art is what I'm getting at here. Comic pencilling is art without pretense. Some might argue that it therefor becomes art without much meaning, but an amazing artist (Cary Nord, John Buscema, John Romita Jr) can really put the reader directly into the character's space with his pencils. When I took art history and studio art, my favorite ieces of art were never goofy installations or postmodern bullshit. I like drawings, I like seeing the pencil movements. More than anythign I actually just like sketchbooks. Leonardo Davinci's sketches of anatomical studies are actually my favorite pieces of art; perhaps I am shallow. Perhaps I just like feeling the artist's actual creative presence rather than some implied, inferred, or taught "meaning."
Nowadays I read comics from front to back. I gather entire series, but not enough that I'd call myself a "collector"; I'm actually very narrow in my tastes. I'll read Invincible from Image, Conan from Dark Horse (and the old Marvels, of course), and a few other titles. This is actually the reason Comic books might not work for my blog focus: I'm nto very deep into the industry. I'm not a collector, I'm not a fanboy, I'm not even an artist anymore.
Perhaps I should expand the theme into reading in general? Writing? Influences? What do you think?*
*Ray
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Theme, Part I: Cigars
I've decided to explore each of the themes I mentioned in my previous post. Each theme will get its own "test run" so to speak. Here is Part I of IV* for your reading pleasure.
I should be having a cigar right now.
It's a snow day, and there's always been something wonderful about that. It isn't that I'm overjoyed at not going to class: today isn't my heavy day. I only have one class on Tuesday (Creative Nonfiction). I like this class. Still, hearing that the responsibility of going to class has been called off seems to herald in a magic moment where possibilities suddenly pop like champagne, and all other responsibilities seem lessened. Days off are a cause for celebration. In fact, in the moment when Pat burst in my room to trumpet the arrival of the famed (and, in college, superbly rare) Snow Day, my mind ran wild.
I should go have a cigar. This was my first instinct. It seems like the thing to do when congratulating oneself on good fortune. Right now in my lacquered humidor I have: 1 Astral Grand Reserve 96, 1 Rocky Patel Sun Grown, 2 small box pressed Fonseca, 1 Macanudo Maduro, 3 Acid Krush Morado Maduro, and 2 Acid Krush Blue Connecticut.
The Rocky Patel Sun Grown is the only one I haven't tried yet. However, if it's anything like the consistent, delicious, carefully crafted Rocky Patels I've had in the past, I won't be disappointed. But it doesn't matter which one I want: I really can't have one right now.
It's snowing like fuck. Before I got even halfway through a Churchill sized smoke I'd be frozen dead and blue. A Saint Bernard would paw uselessly at my klondike flesh, trying to live up to its name of beatification. I wouldn't risk ruining a cigar today by having to stub it out in order to escape the bitter Cortland weather.
So instead I have taken to rearranging my cigars. I line them in the humidor according to size. The Rocky dominates its space, dark brown, wrapped in the simple crimson and gold banner. The light tan Blue Connecticuts, the color of warm sand, sit at the opposite of the spectrum: small, friendly, familiar. And suddenly I miss summer.
*This is how Romans wrote their numbers in an effort to be impossible.
I should be having a cigar right now.
It's a snow day, and there's always been something wonderful about that. It isn't that I'm overjoyed at not going to class: today isn't my heavy day. I only have one class on Tuesday (Creative Nonfiction). I like this class. Still, hearing that the responsibility of going to class has been called off seems to herald in a magic moment where possibilities suddenly pop like champagne, and all other responsibilities seem lessened. Days off are a cause for celebration. In fact, in the moment when Pat burst in my room to trumpet the arrival of the famed (and, in college, superbly rare) Snow Day, my mind ran wild.
I should go have a cigar. This was my first instinct. It seems like the thing to do when congratulating oneself on good fortune. Right now in my lacquered humidor I have: 1 Astral Grand Reserve 96, 1 Rocky Patel Sun Grown, 2 small box pressed Fonseca, 1 Macanudo Maduro, 3 Acid Krush Morado Maduro, and 2 Acid Krush Blue Connecticut.
The Rocky Patel Sun Grown is the only one I haven't tried yet. However, if it's anything like the consistent, delicious, carefully crafted Rocky Patels I've had in the past, I won't be disappointed. But it doesn't matter which one I want: I really can't have one right now.
It's snowing like fuck. Before I got even halfway through a Churchill sized smoke I'd be frozen dead and blue. A Saint Bernard would paw uselessly at my klondike flesh, trying to live up to its name of beatification. I wouldn't risk ruining a cigar today by having to stub it out in order to escape the bitter Cortland weather.
So instead I have taken to rearranging my cigars. I line them in the humidor according to size. The Rocky dominates its space, dark brown, wrapped in the simple crimson and gold banner. The light tan Blue Connecticuts, the color of warm sand, sit at the opposite of the spectrum: small, friendly, familiar. And suddenly I miss summer.
*This is how Romans wrote their numbers in an effort to be impossible.
Anniversary of an Uninteresting Event
You may notice that this is, yet again, my return to the blogging world. I know, last time I promised it would be a regular habit. That didn't work out. I fully intended to blog quite a bit; but no excuses, it didn't happen. Intentions don't count for very much (unless of course you are a deontologist).
I think my problem with blogging comes from a complete lack of a theme. Ray is very focused in what he will write about on his blog. Otherwise it would read much more like mine, which reads a bit like a diary, which means I might be part gay. So, I have decided that while not every single entry needs to be rigidly formatted to fit a theme, I will try to center myself around a few ideas or subjects.
This will be erratic at first, mainly because I am updating for class quite a bit in the next week, and will be trying to reach a "quota" (something that I know, personally, does not breed enlightenment).
Possible ideas:
Cigars
Comic books
Beer or liquor tasting
The post-graduate experience
In other news: class was cancelled today. Not a bad start to a day on the computer.
I think my problem with blogging comes from a complete lack of a theme. Ray is very focused in what he will write about on his blog. Otherwise it would read much more like mine, which reads a bit like a diary, which means I might be part gay. So, I have decided that while not every single entry needs to be rigidly formatted to fit a theme, I will try to center myself around a few ideas or subjects.
This will be erratic at first, mainly because I am updating for class quite a bit in the next week, and will be trying to reach a "quota" (something that I know, personally, does not breed enlightenment).
Possible ideas:
Cigars
Comic books
Beer or liquor tasting
The post-graduate experience
In other news: class was cancelled today. Not a bad start to a day on the computer.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Fruits of Procrastination
So. I haven't posted anything in a week, but I plan on making this my main online hobby for the next few weeks. Expect many more updates, some of which may accidentally be relevant or interesting.
Losing my flashdrive took a lot out of me. That sounds dramatic and stupid more than anything, but realizing that everything I had done in past four years was gone really kicked the shit out of me. Of course, this is only worsened by the fact that I know it's completely my own fault for not having another back up source.
So: I am extraordinarily behind on my Second Life project, my blog, the wiki, everything really. I will be working hard to fix this over the next few weeks.
I managed to spend about three times more than I should have this weekend. I'm not sure what to blame this on, considering almost everyone I know went home for the weekend. However, good news: I have a Rocky Patel Vintage 1990 and a nice Gurkha sitting in the humidor. I would have enjoyed an Acid Liquid on Sunday, but Raymond very prudently decided to drop it off the porch and split the wrapper.
Pretty disappointing.
Losing my flashdrive took a lot out of me. That sounds dramatic and stupid more than anything, but realizing that everything I had done in past four years was gone really kicked the shit out of me. Of course, this is only worsened by the fact that I know it's completely my own fault for not having another back up source.
So: I am extraordinarily behind on my Second Life project, my blog, the wiki, everything really. I will be working hard to fix this over the next few weeks.
I managed to spend about three times more than I should have this weekend. I'm not sure what to blame this on, considering almost everyone I know went home for the weekend. However, good news: I have a Rocky Patel Vintage 1990 and a nice Gurkha sitting in the humidor. I would have enjoyed an Acid Liquid on Sunday, but Raymond very prudently decided to drop it off the porch and split the wrapper.
Pretty disappointing.
Monday, October 8, 2007
Fonseca
I have a Fonseca Vintage sitting in my humidor. It’s the nicest smelling cigar I’ve ever had. But I also have a throat and chest cold. So I’m sitting on the porch with nothing between me and them. There’s nothing but the cool air in front of the porch and the brim of my green hat. It says Kiss Me I’m Irish and I stole it from some girl on St. Patrick’s day who was not, in fact, Irish.
I’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes or so when a girl starts to walk by. She’s wearing a blue hoodie and tight jeans. She has long legs and a thin stomach and I am stunned by my own reaction.
Wow, I’d hold her hand in public
I would ask that girl how her day went
I’d like to buy her a flower
But I don’t stare because I am not in the mood to look like some creep sitting on his stoop. So I glance up at the black sky and lean into the railing. But then she says something. I don’t hear her so I say:
- I’m sorry?
- That cat! I like to talk to that cat.
I lean over and look back at my house. Up on the third floor, where SwimFox lives, there is a cat sitting in the window. He is skinny and black.
- Yeah he’s pretty neat, he sits there a lot, I say back
- Yup!
- There’s another one across the street. Sometimes they stare at each other.
- That’s kinda weird. Cya!
- Yeah, have a good one.
And she keeps walking. It suddenly occurs to me that for no reason this girl had started a conversation with me, and I failed dramatically to be interesting. I am the boy who watches his feet for cracks in the pavement like a Radiohead song. I look at her back as she crosses the street and think she’s the only good thing I’ve seen in days.
I’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes or so when a girl starts to walk by. She’s wearing a blue hoodie and tight jeans. She has long legs and a thin stomach and I am stunned by my own reaction.
Wow, I’d hold her hand in public
I would ask that girl how her day went
I’d like to buy her a flower
But I don’t stare because I am not in the mood to look like some creep sitting on his stoop. So I glance up at the black sky and lean into the railing. But then she says something. I don’t hear her so I say:
- I’m sorry?
- That cat! I like to talk to that cat.
I lean over and look back at my house. Up on the third floor, where SwimFox lives, there is a cat sitting in the window. He is skinny and black.
- Yeah he’s pretty neat, he sits there a lot, I say back
- Yup!
- There’s another one across the street. Sometimes they stare at each other.
- That’s kinda weird. Cya!
- Yeah, have a good one.
And she keeps walking. It suddenly occurs to me that for no reason this girl had started a conversation with me, and I failed dramatically to be interesting. I am the boy who watches his feet for cracks in the pavement like a Radiohead song. I look at her back as she crosses the street and think she’s the only good thing I’ve seen in days.
Nosebleed
My music tastes have become even more narrow than usual. For the past two weeks I really haven't listened to anything other than Deftones, Thrice, and Portishead. There are two reasons for this: my iPod needs new batteries and refuses to turn on, and YouTube has an enormous amount of live Deftones videos. Nosebleed is probably their best live song from before White Pony (when Chino destroyed his voice). It's frustrating that their best recorded material came after he lost his voice. But at least we got Team Sleep out of it.
Anyway.
I finished the cigar journal. It was very unimpressive. Actually, everything I've written this semester has been thoroughly mediocre. I feel as though I was really making a lot of ground last year with my prose and ideas, and something destroyed it over the summer. Of course, I'm not making some stupid new age claim that I have a need for divine inspiration, but I have always had trouble working with tight schedules unless I am also in a creative peak.
I'm two weeks behind in Second Life and have effectively fucked myself.
Anyway.
I finished the cigar journal. It was very unimpressive. Actually, everything I've written this semester has been thoroughly mediocre. I feel as though I was really making a lot of ground last year with my prose and ideas, and something destroyed it over the summer. Of course, I'm not making some stupid new age claim that I have a need for divine inspiration, but I have always had trouble working with tight schedules unless I am also in a creative peak.
I'm two weeks behind in Second Life and have effectively fucked myself.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Backhand
I was going to call this post "War Journal" because yesterday felt like I was dug into a trench taking grenades all god damn day. Before my classes began I walked myself over to Mando Books to pick up a copy of Write Away which Dr. Franke had assigned. I passed my poor little silver Saturn along the way.
Two new parking tickets. I have a parking permit, which I paid 60 dollars for. I was in a section with absolutely no signs, no postings, no indication that it was any sort of special short or even/odd term area. So the city will get yet another 60 out of me. I've already paid 3 tickets this semester. All totalled I'd say that's two hundred dollars Cortland's managed to get out of me. It really seems to me that there's some sort of punishment being doled out for owning a car in this area.
Anyway.
I went to Philosophy and French. Earlier that week I had given a presentation on the Death Penalty in Philosophy and had used my flash drive to upload the graphics. It dawned on me as I left the room that I had never taken my drive out of the USB port. So I rushed back in, only to find it missing. No one had seen it. Now most people have their files on their computer anyway, which I normally do- I am very safe about these things. However, I just got a brand new computer (which promptly crashed and had to be replaced under warranty) so my drive was completely clean. Which means...Everything I have ever written is gone.
So I figured I'd take me gloom with me to the Red Jug and play Trivia Night. The fucking idiot DJ does trivia night as category lists for some reason, rather than actual questions. For example, he will say "cigarettes," and each team must list all relevant brands of cigarettes. There is a limited number of answers per question, so sometimes one must guess as to what brands the DJ might be picking as answers. Seems straightforward, but each category is worth a different number of points, and some answers are randomly selected for triple or quadruple points. The second to last category was "Dead Male Singers." We were in Third place I believe, not very far behind. We filled the list. We were incredible. We even threw in obscure dead men like the singer from Joy Division. I threw in Big Bopper, Buddy Holly, and Frankie Valens.
Which was supposed to be Ritchie Valens. Which, of course, was the 9,000 point bonus answer. I put my forehead into my hand, stared at my Guinness, and considered for the first time having a fit in public. But instead I just kicked the shit out fo Patrick at 8-ball. Our record for the semester thus far is 11-8 in my favor. At the end of the semester the loser pays the winner ten dollars for each game in the difference of scores. In addition, side bets are welcome: for instance, Patrick now has to do all the dishes since he lost 2 out of 3 last night.
Hardly compensation for my stupidity and misfortune, but I'll fuckin take it.
Two new parking tickets. I have a parking permit, which I paid 60 dollars for. I was in a section with absolutely no signs, no postings, no indication that it was any sort of special short or even/odd term area. So the city will get yet another 60 out of me. I've already paid 3 tickets this semester. All totalled I'd say that's two hundred dollars Cortland's managed to get out of me. It really seems to me that there's some sort of punishment being doled out for owning a car in this area.
Anyway.
I went to Philosophy and French. Earlier that week I had given a presentation on the Death Penalty in Philosophy and had used my flash drive to upload the graphics. It dawned on me as I left the room that I had never taken my drive out of the USB port. So I rushed back in, only to find it missing. No one had seen it. Now most people have their files on their computer anyway, which I normally do- I am very safe about these things. However, I just got a brand new computer (which promptly crashed and had to be replaced under warranty) so my drive was completely clean. Which means...Everything I have ever written is gone.
So I figured I'd take me gloom with me to the Red Jug and play Trivia Night. The fucking idiot DJ does trivia night as category lists for some reason, rather than actual questions. For example, he will say "cigarettes," and each team must list all relevant brands of cigarettes. There is a limited number of answers per question, so sometimes one must guess as to what brands the DJ might be picking as answers. Seems straightforward, but each category is worth a different number of points, and some answers are randomly selected for triple or quadruple points. The second to last category was "Dead Male Singers." We were in Third place I believe, not very far behind. We filled the list. We were incredible. We even threw in obscure dead men like the singer from Joy Division. I threw in Big Bopper, Buddy Holly, and Frankie Valens.
Which was supposed to be Ritchie Valens. Which, of course, was the 9,000 point bonus answer. I put my forehead into my hand, stared at my Guinness, and considered for the first time having a fit in public. But instead I just kicked the shit out fo Patrick at 8-ball. Our record for the semester thus far is 11-8 in my favor. At the end of the semester the loser pays the winner ten dollars for each game in the difference of scores. In addition, side bets are welcome: for instance, Patrick now has to do all the dishes since he lost 2 out of 3 last night.
Hardly compensation for my stupidity and misfortune, but I'll fuckin take it.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Monday
Last Wednesday I took my first French 202 test of the semester. I studied for about four horus before the test, which is ou of the ordinary for me. I rarely study, and haven't since taking Statistics which was Sophomore year. Most of my classes are writing, and if they aren't they're at least writing intensive. I rarely have to study. I'm not claiming to be a genius, I think I just test well. Despite having stared at the book for quite some time, I felt very confused on the test and scattered. I couldn't remember if I was doing one of the vebr tenses right and I faked the culture section. Frustration set in and I was the last person finished with the test, which has never happened. So when I got the test back today and saw I had received an 87, I was more than surprised.
That's really the only good news of the day. I have 20 dollars until Friday. I drove home Friday afternoon, spent the majority of the weekend arguing with my mother over things as trivial as whether or not I had darkened my hair (no I did not.) I drove home Saturday night to hang out with Ray, which went rather well, but driving took a lot out of my mood. I am trying to get into Second Life for class but they refuse to send me my confirmation e-mail.
In somewhat decent news, I bought myself a Fonseca Vintage on Saturday while grabbign Ray a James Joyce, so if I get over this cold soon I will have that to look forward to. (That's a cigar, btw.)
That's really the only good news of the day. I have 20 dollars until Friday. I drove home Friday afternoon, spent the majority of the weekend arguing with my mother over things as trivial as whether or not I had darkened my hair (no I did not.) I drove home Saturday night to hang out with Ray, which went rather well, but driving took a lot out of my mood. I am trying to get into Second Life for class but they refuse to send me my confirmation e-mail.
In somewhat decent news, I bought myself a Fonseca Vintage on Saturday while grabbign Ray a James Joyce, so if I get over this cold soon I will have that to look forward to. (That's a cigar, btw.)
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Plans
Hey there, Blogosphere.
So, I have a lot more to do this semester than I thought I would. I'm working on a few writing projects, all at the same time. Normally this would have me very scattered, but the projects I'm working on are things I've given a lot of thought to. One of them I've been planning for at least a few years, but never had the patience or peace of mind to deal with. Since I know where they're going, I'm not having too difficult a time moving through them.
A paper for Creative Nonfiction was supposed to be a "Walking" essay. That is, it's based around moving through the community, making observations. Obviously papers like this have a main object (a physical setting or topic) and an under-topic (the actual meaning and point of the essay). However, I really hate walking around with no aim. When I'm going somewhere I'm focused on my objective and rarely have time to make relevant observations; unless something extreme happens like a car accident or a nearly naked woman. I noticed that the only time I really pay attention to the things around me is when I'm sitting outside for a cigar. So I've decided to make a Journal of sorts. Most hobbyists keep a journal of their favorite experiences, whether it is wine or scotch or cigars or model railroads. I haven't figured out the under-topic yet, but the format should lend itself to a lot of different things.
I'm also working on another CNF piece (both are for Franke oddly enough) about my father's job. The assignment was to learn about a community that is completely foreign to us, and I'd say I'm rather unfamiliar with the world of Nuclear engineering. I'm trying to steer away from the "my dad can beat your dad up" schoolyard bullshit.
By the way no one reads this blog. Anyway. I'm going to finally start work on my fantasy story. I'm not going to write straight genre fiction because there's so much trash out there and I don't need to add to it. There's absolutely no blood in those books (figuratively speaking). I'm going to throw a lot of experimental things into the book, or rather experimental for that genre. Writing CNF should help my fiction, which sounds odd, but a lot of the techniques can be applied: if you read war books, there's often a lot of different accounts of the same events, letters and correspondence, etc. It's rare to see that in fantasy so I'm really excited about getting to work on this one.
I'll keep you (blog) posted with upates on how this stuff works out.
So, I have a lot more to do this semester than I thought I would. I'm working on a few writing projects, all at the same time. Normally this would have me very scattered, but the projects I'm working on are things I've given a lot of thought to. One of them I've been planning for at least a few years, but never had the patience or peace of mind to deal with. Since I know where they're going, I'm not having too difficult a time moving through them.
A paper for Creative Nonfiction was supposed to be a "Walking" essay. That is, it's based around moving through the community, making observations. Obviously papers like this have a main object (a physical setting or topic) and an under-topic (the actual meaning and point of the essay). However, I really hate walking around with no aim. When I'm going somewhere I'm focused on my objective and rarely have time to make relevant observations; unless something extreme happens like a car accident or a nearly naked woman. I noticed that the only time I really pay attention to the things around me is when I'm sitting outside for a cigar. So I've decided to make a Journal of sorts. Most hobbyists keep a journal of their favorite experiences, whether it is wine or scotch or cigars or model railroads. I haven't figured out the under-topic yet, but the format should lend itself to a lot of different things.
I'm also working on another CNF piece (both are for Franke oddly enough) about my father's job. The assignment was to learn about a community that is completely foreign to us, and I'd say I'm rather unfamiliar with the world of Nuclear engineering. I'm trying to steer away from the "my dad can beat your dad up" schoolyard bullshit.
By the way no one reads this blog. Anyway. I'm going to finally start work on my fantasy story. I'm not going to write straight genre fiction because there's so much trash out there and I don't need to add to it. There's absolutely no blood in those books (figuratively speaking). I'm going to throw a lot of experimental things into the book, or rather experimental for that genre. Writing CNF should help my fiction, which sounds odd, but a lot of the techniques can be applied: if you read war books, there's often a lot of different accounts of the same events, letters and correspondence, etc. It's rare to see that in fantasy so I'm really excited about getting to work on this one.
I'll keep you (blog) posted with upates on how this stuff works out.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Asian Cowboy Movies
Well, I haven't written here in a while. I haven't actually written anything in a long time, but I don't actually have a problem with that. I've been filling my time with watching obscure asian westerns, playing xbox, reading, going out, etc.
I'm looking forward to PWR209 Round 2, even if the reading materials are things I've looked at before. I obviously didn't follow them closely enough last semester, so it isn't as if I'll be boring myself to death with redundancies.
Pretty boring post so far, right? Good!
I'm looking forward to PWR209 Round 2, even if the reading materials are things I've looked at before. I obviously didn't follow them closely enough last semester, so it isn't as if I'll be boring myself to death with redundancies.
Pretty boring post so far, right? Good!
Sunday, May 6, 2007
"Dude..."
"...your last blog post was lame. Sorry."
Who cares? You might say that if I keep writing lame blog posts, no one will want to read it. Why would they want to read lame posts?
Well, why the hell would they want to read interesting posts? Why does anyone want to do anything? I honestly don't care. I don't care if you're entertained or provoked into some deep philosophical thought. Guess who has their name at the top of the page? Isn't you, sweetheart.
Anyway.
I've been thinking a lot about Grad school. More importantly, I've been thinking about what specifically I want to accomplish at Grad school. Looking at the requirements for most Creative or Professional writing programs, it seems finishing a novel of some sort (genre fiction or what have you) is the big one. Do I have ideas for books? Sure.
It's a very intimidating thing to actually explore an idea to the end. I've always been high concept, low application. I would much rather plan something in my head and ponder the concept than actually make it a physical reality. I can handle quitting but rarely can I handle failing. Embarrassing truth. This is something I have to fix.
The style of my writing does not match the style of my thought. That might sound confusing and trust me it is. I cannot help but be "funny" Andy when I write assignments, short stories, etc. These are the pieces people respond to. Everyone wants to know about the time I nailed my mother's friend or the time I saw a homeless person reading the Da Vinci Code on the London Underground or the time I crashed through a girl's window in the middle of having sex.
It's fun to write those stories. But is that what I dream of writing? I don't really think so. The problem is, I tried to write the stories I had in my head. They didn't work. I'm becoming a typecast simulacrum of myself. I went to see an author speak on our campus recently and he kept saying..."Don't write for your audience, write for you."
That's fine and dandy...but he's already successful.
Who cares? You might say that if I keep writing lame blog posts, no one will want to read it. Why would they want to read lame posts?
Well, why the hell would they want to read interesting posts? Why does anyone want to do anything? I honestly don't care. I don't care if you're entertained or provoked into some deep philosophical thought. Guess who has their name at the top of the page? Isn't you, sweetheart.
Anyway.
I've been thinking a lot about Grad school. More importantly, I've been thinking about what specifically I want to accomplish at Grad school. Looking at the requirements for most Creative or Professional writing programs, it seems finishing a novel of some sort (genre fiction or what have you) is the big one. Do I have ideas for books? Sure.
It's a very intimidating thing to actually explore an idea to the end. I've always been high concept, low application. I would much rather plan something in my head and ponder the concept than actually make it a physical reality. I can handle quitting but rarely can I handle failing. Embarrassing truth. This is something I have to fix.
The style of my writing does not match the style of my thought. That might sound confusing and trust me it is. I cannot help but be "funny" Andy when I write assignments, short stories, etc. These are the pieces people respond to. Everyone wants to know about the time I nailed my mother's friend or the time I saw a homeless person reading the Da Vinci Code on the London Underground or the time I crashed through a girl's window in the middle of having sex.
It's fun to write those stories. But is that what I dream of writing? I don't really think so. The problem is, I tried to write the stories I had in my head. They didn't work. I'm becoming a typecast simulacrum of myself. I went to see an author speak on our campus recently and he kept saying..."Don't write for your audience, write for you."
That's fine and dandy...but he's already successful.
Friday, April 27, 2007
Robots
Alright, Japan, I've given you long enough. Where the fuck are my androids? I want warbots, sexbots, game-show-hostbots and everything else.
And by the way, don't worry about having to fight them. Don't worry about them becoming our wired overlords. Have you ever known a computer that lasted long enough to take anything over? They crash within 15 fucking minutes. Even if they fix that, you can just dump water on them. Pussy robots.
And by the way, don't worry about having to fight them. Don't worry about them becoming our wired overlords. Have you ever known a computer that lasted long enough to take anything over? They crash within 15 fucking minutes. Even if they fix that, you can just dump water on them. Pussy robots.
Friday, April 13, 2007
My NeoVox Article
So a little more than a month ago I was supposed to have finished an article for our student literary webpage, NeoVox. I wrote a draft about internet pornography that I planned on sending in. I didn't. I lost my flash drive for a while. I was a few days late and sent Dr. Reid an e-mail asking for an extension. I honestly planned on having it finished and sent to him by the end of Spring Break.
But that didn't happen. I just couldn't muster the energy to redo all my research. I had honestly forgotten my thesis. So I waited for a new idea. So far I've written four or five drafts for this article and I am so far late on it that I feel like a fugitive. I avoid his office. I avoid that entire section of the building in fact. I put up away messages when I'm there, for the simple fear that I may get the dreaded instant message: Where is your fucking NeoVox article?
But I am close. I wrote something last night about Charlene that I think I can twist into shape and make it worth handing in. And there's another one due any day now. I already have an idea for that one but who knows.
But that didn't happen. I just couldn't muster the energy to redo all my research. I had honestly forgotten my thesis. So I waited for a new idea. So far I've written four or five drafts for this article and I am so far late on it that I feel like a fugitive. I avoid his office. I avoid that entire section of the building in fact. I put up away messages when I'm there, for the simple fear that I may get the dreaded instant message: Where is your fucking NeoVox article?
But I am close. I wrote something last night about Charlene that I think I can twist into shape and make it worth handing in. And there's another one due any day now. I already have an idea for that one but who knows.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Staring at the wall...
So for most of the week I've been without television and internet access. This is because my roommate decided that despite the rest of us giving him money, he wasn't going to pay Time Warner. I'm not sure why. Maybe he's a sociopath as I've suspected for a while now.
But anyway. I wouldn't say that I'm someone who "needs" those things but I did realize how much I enjoy the internet when I didn't have it. I don't watch television too often, and only follow a few shows. Most of those shows can be found on the stations' websites so I don't even bother watching them at their scheduled times. But since the internet was down, that wasn't much of an option either. So I have no idea what happened on Lost this week but I suppose I'll find out soon.
It did make me think though, that maybe I am not as exciting or interesting of a person as I once thought. For instance, when I woke up in the middle of the afternoon and realized I couldn't check my email, my AIM, my blog, or any of my message boards ...I quickly panicked and thought- "What the hell am I going to do all day?"
So I went to the bar and watched the Sox get the shit kicked out of them. Daisuke can go back to fucking Japan for all I care, what a disappointment.
But anyway. I wouldn't say that I'm someone who "needs" those things but I did realize how much I enjoy the internet when I didn't have it. I don't watch television too often, and only follow a few shows. Most of those shows can be found on the stations' websites so I don't even bother watching them at their scheduled times. But since the internet was down, that wasn't much of an option either. So I have no idea what happened on Lost this week but I suppose I'll find out soon.
It did make me think though, that maybe I am not as exciting or interesting of a person as I once thought. For instance, when I woke up in the middle of the afternoon and realized I couldn't check my email, my AIM, my blog, or any of my message boards ...I quickly panicked and thought- "What the hell am I going to do all day?"
So I went to the bar and watched the Sox get the shit kicked out of them. Daisuke can go back to fucking Japan for all I care, what a disappointment.
Friday, April 6, 2007
Podcasts
This week my group finished our third podcast. Well, as a member of that particular group it was only my second, because I did my first on my own. We discussed left vs. right brains, anthrax scares, irresponsible doctors and how funny Jessica's laugh is.
The experience of doing a podcast alone and with a group is quite different. I'm not sure how the other groups have been going through the process of creating their files, but ours has been very loose. When I pod casted alone, I wrote myself a page or two of what would become my recording, almost verbatim. When we work in our group, we sit in a circle and discuss what we though our main points of interest were, without the microphone on. We figure out a loose direction we want to go in, and then we just talk. It's very loose and because of that I think it sounds much more conversational, though not in a bad way. We're still discussing important topics but not in a stilted way.
Most group work is a total bitch. You get stuck with a bunch of mouth breathers and you invariably meet at the library where nothing is accomplished, and some girl bitches about grades the entire time. So far the podcast has been a surprisingly good experience. The group is fun, and the assignment is broad enough to allow us room to be creative in our own way. I definitely think more classes should involve this sort of medium. Since Ray is the only person reading this- Ray, what's your experience?
The experience of doing a podcast alone and with a group is quite different. I'm not sure how the other groups have been going through the process of creating their files, but ours has been very loose. When I pod casted alone, I wrote myself a page or two of what would become my recording, almost verbatim. When we work in our group, we sit in a circle and discuss what we though our main points of interest were, without the microphone on. We figure out a loose direction we want to go in, and then we just talk. It's very loose and because of that I think it sounds much more conversational, though not in a bad way. We're still discussing important topics but not in a stilted way.
Most group work is a total bitch. You get stuck with a bunch of mouth breathers and you invariably meet at the library where nothing is accomplished, and some girl bitches about grades the entire time. So far the podcast has been a surprisingly good experience. The group is fun, and the assignment is broad enough to allow us room to be creative in our own way. I definitely think more classes should involve this sort of medium. Since Ray is the only person reading this- Ray, what's your experience?
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
Teachers
Earlier today, well, ten minutes ago, I asked Razzle D. Dazzle what I should blog about. I asked him specifically because he told me my blog was getting a bit "gay." My apologies if anyone agrees with him. By the way, I mean he meant gay in the new detached sense of "silly or lame" rather than a "blog for homosexuals."
He gave me quite a long list of topics he wanted to see my thoughts on, but the one that caught my attention immediately was--"Which teacher do you want to have sex with?" Oddly enough I had already been giving teachers a lot of thought lately, though not in the sense he was asking me about.
Ray's blog is all about teaching. A few of my professors keep suggesting Teaching to me as a possible job, or something to do in Grad school. I just finished reading a book by Neal Boortz where he quite deftly discusses the dangers of unionized teachers and government schools (also known as Public schools).
I can honestly say that the vast majority of teachers are worthless and are only in place to keep certain ideas moving, keep their jobs, and keep a stranglehold on education. Excellent teachers who promote free thought and originality are the exception and not the rule and I am sick of everyone's junior high essay about the teacher who changed their lives. IF YOU WORK FOR THE GOVERNMENT, CHANCES ARE YOU ARE NOT ONE OF THESE EXCEPTIONS. Although, I must add, the teachers from my actual concentration here in SUNY Cortland have all affected me for the better.
Back to the burning question: which teacher would I have sex with. This was funny because everyone has actually heard a story where I did already have sex with a teacher. And, when you consider that I go to school with quite a few future teachers, it's safely assumed that I have had sex with quite a few women who will be considered, in the very near future, teachers. But currently? I haven't had one teacher here that really got me going.
Isn't that disappointing? It's one of the most common adolescent fantasies I'd say, and judging by the number of websites you can find on this fetish (RESEARCH) it continues to preoccupy the minds of many. If it was going to happen for anyone I'd say their best chances are in College. So if anyone asks me what one of my regrets about College is after I graduate, I can't really say "I didn't party enough." I did. I can't say "I chose the wrong major." I love my major, and I love the friends I have in it.
"I didn't have a really hot teacher."
He gave me quite a long list of topics he wanted to see my thoughts on, but the one that caught my attention immediately was--"Which teacher do you want to have sex with?" Oddly enough I had already been giving teachers a lot of thought lately, though not in the sense he was asking me about.
Ray's blog is all about teaching. A few of my professors keep suggesting Teaching to me as a possible job, or something to do in Grad school. I just finished reading a book by Neal Boortz where he quite deftly discusses the dangers of unionized teachers and government schools (also known as Public schools).
I can honestly say that the vast majority of teachers are worthless and are only in place to keep certain ideas moving, keep their jobs, and keep a stranglehold on education. Excellent teachers who promote free thought and originality are the exception and not the rule and I am sick of everyone's junior high essay about the teacher who changed their lives. IF YOU WORK FOR THE GOVERNMENT, CHANCES ARE YOU ARE NOT ONE OF THESE EXCEPTIONS. Although, I must add, the teachers from my actual concentration here in SUNY Cortland have all affected me for the better.
Back to the burning question: which teacher would I have sex with. This was funny because everyone has actually heard a story where I did already have sex with a teacher. And, when you consider that I go to school with quite a few future teachers, it's safely assumed that I have had sex with quite a few women who will be considered, in the very near future, teachers. But currently? I haven't had one teacher here that really got me going.
Isn't that disappointing? It's one of the most common adolescent fantasies I'd say, and judging by the number of websites you can find on this fetish (RESEARCH) it continues to preoccupy the minds of many. If it was going to happen for anyone I'd say their best chances are in College. So if anyone asks me what one of my regrets about College is after I graduate, I can't really say "I didn't party enough." I did. I can't say "I chose the wrong major." I love my major, and I love the friends I have in it.
"I didn't have a really hot teacher."
Monday, April 2, 2007
My Foolish Technology and I
Hey kids. It's been a while, sorry. I have fully and completely neglected my PWR209 duties for about...a little over a month. Not sure why, it certainly wasn't a conscious decision. I just find the Fully Online class difficult to immerse myself in.
It isn't something I thought out and reached a decisions about, to not enjoy this style of class. Well, that's not even true. I do enjoy the class. Making the podcasts was quite a bit of fun. I'm looking forward to making a vidcast with my group. I still glance through Smart Mobs whenever I feel like getting fired up about the God Damn Japanese. It's just that I think I find it difficult to really take it as immediately seriously as my other classes.
The reason, as far as I can tell, is that I access the course from my own bedroom. I'm sitting here in mesh shorts, drinking a Yuengling (Black&Tan $8.99 for a 12 pack of bottles, Price Chopper) and also multitasking with AIM, my phone, two other websites, and a stereo. It's just not the educational environment that one expects to be in when taking a course.
When I go to the Doctor, I expect a white coat, professionalism, and a cold waiting room where I read 4 year-old issues of Highlights for Children. That's what I've been taught (as a Westerner) to not only expect, but need from my experience. I just wouldn't feel comfortable with a Doctor who came into the room in a flannel shirt and sweatpants.
So I suppose this Online experiment may be a bit of the same. I've come to expect some things from a class, even if I don't like all of those things or even support them. This experience is so radically different that it's hard to treat it the same. But I'm going to get better at trying (right here towards the end, uselessly enough).
But, to give you an update on my relationship with Technology, my cell phone finally failed me. I had the same shitty camera-less phone for about 5 years. I had lost it, found it again, dropped it, kicked it, and thrown it, and it was still working. Most people would have updated quite a while ago but to be honest I hate cell phones (telephones in general, actually) and never bothered. But the other day the ear piece stopped working. I couldn't hear a fucking word.
So I went into Verizon to get another. Despite how much I hate cell phones, I felt a bit fond of my old one, considering how much I had done to it. So I decided that the new one should have some sort of novelty value right off the bat, in order to replace this sentimental connection.
So now I have a bright cotton candy pink phone I have named Charlene.
It isn't something I thought out and reached a decisions about, to not enjoy this style of class. Well, that's not even true. I do enjoy the class. Making the podcasts was quite a bit of fun. I'm looking forward to making a vidcast with my group. I still glance through Smart Mobs whenever I feel like getting fired up about the God Damn Japanese. It's just that I think I find it difficult to really take it as immediately seriously as my other classes.
The reason, as far as I can tell, is that I access the course from my own bedroom. I'm sitting here in mesh shorts, drinking a Yuengling (Black&Tan $8.99 for a 12 pack of bottles, Price Chopper) and also multitasking with AIM, my phone, two other websites, and a stereo. It's just not the educational environment that one expects to be in when taking a course.
When I go to the Doctor, I expect a white coat, professionalism, and a cold waiting room where I read 4 year-old issues of Highlights for Children. That's what I've been taught (as a Westerner) to not only expect, but need from my experience. I just wouldn't feel comfortable with a Doctor who came into the room in a flannel shirt and sweatpants.
So I suppose this Online experiment may be a bit of the same. I've come to expect some things from a class, even if I don't like all of those things or even support them. This experience is so radically different that it's hard to treat it the same. But I'm going to get better at trying (right here towards the end, uselessly enough).
But, to give you an update on my relationship with Technology, my cell phone finally failed me. I had the same shitty camera-less phone for about 5 years. I had lost it, found it again, dropped it, kicked it, and thrown it, and it was still working. Most people would have updated quite a while ago but to be honest I hate cell phones (telephones in general, actually) and never bothered. But the other day the ear piece stopped working. I couldn't hear a fucking word.
So I went into Verizon to get another. Despite how much I hate cell phones, I felt a bit fond of my old one, considering how much I had done to it. So I decided that the new one should have some sort of novelty value right off the bat, in order to replace this sentimental connection.
So now I have a bright cotton candy pink phone I have named Charlene.
Friday, February 16, 2007
This is America
Earlier this week I wrote about how excited I was to be picking up Snow Crash by Neal Stephenson. So far I haven't been let down, but whenever I read science fiction I notice a lot of small things that bother me.
While all goofy Anime fans must have been pleased with chapter One's descriptions of the weaponry of the future, I couldn't help but roll my eyes. Supposedly this small, fashion designer gun fires its rounds at more than 5 times the velocity of an SR-71 spy plane. First, you have to ask yourself, why are they still using the Blackbird?
Second, an SR-71 is designed to fly at mach 3.5. That's 3 and a half times the speed of sound, so 3.5 x 340.29 m/s = 1191.015 m/s. Now multiply that by five (about 6,000 meters per second) and you've got the speed of his tiny dart-like round.
The problem here is that it's an incredible waste of energy to make a bullet sized projectile move that fast. Consider that an M16 (not a perfect assault rifle, but the one you are most likely familiar with) fires it's round (.223 remington, or 5.56 mm depending on how you want to measure it) at about 950 meters per second. Most people would, I guess, be impressed by Stephenson's bullet moving at such a high speed.
However, the M16 was initially designed to fire at a relatively high velocity. The idea here was to make a smaller round move faster, in order to cause a substantial amount of damage down range while moving to a smaller caliber. The M16 round is small when compared to those of rifles like the AK47 (7.62 mm). So what happens when we make the round even smaller (Deliverator's tiny darts) and jack the speed up to an enormous degree?
Your weapon becomes, for the most part, useless. When moving that fast, a round wouldn't do much other than pierce a hole straight through the target. That works for extremely well placed shots- right in the brain, or the heart. However, most bullets do the majority of their damage when they funnel out (think about hollow points or dumdum rounds), or reflect around inside the target causing multiple wound channels (think about fragmenting rounds).
The baseball bat wouldn't have disintegrated, it would have had a perfect hole through it.
And as far as the samurai swords go? I can't imagine that's included for anything other than winning over Anime fanboy approval.
But anyway, that's how thoroughly I read the first two pages. Good book otherwise.
While all goofy Anime fans must have been pleased with chapter One's descriptions of the weaponry of the future, I couldn't help but roll my eyes. Supposedly this small, fashion designer gun fires its rounds at more than 5 times the velocity of an SR-71 spy plane. First, you have to ask yourself, why are they still using the Blackbird?
Second, an SR-71 is designed to fly at mach 3.5. That's 3 and a half times the speed of sound, so 3.5 x 340.29 m/s = 1191.015 m/s. Now multiply that by five (about 6,000 meters per second) and you've got the speed of his tiny dart-like round.
The problem here is that it's an incredible waste of energy to make a bullet sized projectile move that fast. Consider that an M16 (not a perfect assault rifle, but the one you are most likely familiar with) fires it's round (.223 remington, or 5.56 mm depending on how you want to measure it) at about 950 meters per second. Most people would, I guess, be impressed by Stephenson's bullet moving at such a high speed.
However, the M16 was initially designed to fire at a relatively high velocity. The idea here was to make a smaller round move faster, in order to cause a substantial amount of damage down range while moving to a smaller caliber. The M16 round is small when compared to those of rifles like the AK47 (7.62 mm). So what happens when we make the round even smaller (Deliverator's tiny darts) and jack the speed up to an enormous degree?
Your weapon becomes, for the most part, useless. When moving that fast, a round wouldn't do much other than pierce a hole straight through the target. That works for extremely well placed shots- right in the brain, or the heart. However, most bullets do the majority of their damage when they funnel out (think about hollow points or dumdum rounds), or reflect around inside the target causing multiple wound channels (think about fragmenting rounds).
The baseball bat wouldn't have disintegrated, it would have had a perfect hole through it.
And as far as the samurai swords go? I can't imagine that's included for anything other than winning over Anime fanboy approval.
But anyway, that's how thoroughly I read the first two pages. Good book otherwise.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Babe you're all mixed signals...
So. PWR209 proved to be much more confusing than I had thought. I am not keeping up with my workload. This makes me feel more irresponsible than normal because of all I had to put myself and Dr. Reid through to get into the course...and according to my voicemail, I am still not technically in the damn thing.
However, I am very excited to begin reading Snow Crash. I'm big on sci-fi and I've heard a lot of good things about it. I'm finishing up VALIS right now, and had planned to move onto PKD's other books but have felt overwhelmingly apathetic lately.
Tattoo place still hasn't gotten back to me. It's a very professional place, very nicely set up, etc. I don't understand why they aren't calling me back on my redesign, perhaps they aren't into making money this season.
I'm beginning to doubt the sincerity of love songs.
And I'm beginning to mistrust my my instincts. And gut feelings.
And my friends.
And my eyes and ears...
Could be the nyquil.
However, I am very excited to begin reading Snow Crash. I'm big on sci-fi and I've heard a lot of good things about it. I'm finishing up VALIS right now, and had planned to move onto PKD's other books but have felt overwhelmingly apathetic lately.
Tattoo place still hasn't gotten back to me. It's a very professional place, very nicely set up, etc. I don't understand why they aren't calling me back on my redesign, perhaps they aren't into making money this season.
I'm beginning to doubt the sincerity of love songs.
And I'm beginning to mistrust my my instincts. And gut feelings.
And my friends.
And my eyes and ears...
Could be the nyquil.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Money To Burn
Well, thanks to a spyware virus, the lengthy, deliberate draft I just typed has been lost. You'll now get the short version, which I'm sure is something people like Ray will appreciate. Evidently I am too long winded.
I have a bit of money sitting around for one of the first times in my life. I do not want to simply stuff it away into a bank account and "save" for later in my life. My first idea was a Spring Break, but the whole screaming, mtv cameras, condoms on the beach thing seems so overdone and gutless to me. I'm not sure, it just isn't my scene despite my love for parties and bars.
My next thought was to take a trip to visit my friends from London. Since the end of the study abroad program we've had a few reunions and I enjoyed going to each of them. The friends I made on the trip are more important to me than some of the friends I have had for years. However it seems that all of the girls from the trip have already organized themselves a trip to Florida. I don't take it personally that I was not invited (though perhaps I should) because it seems like only the girls are involved. This confuses me on one hand because I never considered our group of friends to be organized by basis of sex, but on the other hand I understand that it's just an extended "girls night out" sort of thing.
(Or, I have simply missed hints that no one likes me. I have been oblivious before.)
So the point is-- where are we going for vacation?
I have a bit of money sitting around for one of the first times in my life. I do not want to simply stuff it away into a bank account and "save" for later in my life. My first idea was a Spring Break, but the whole screaming, mtv cameras, condoms on the beach thing seems so overdone and gutless to me. I'm not sure, it just isn't my scene despite my love for parties and bars.
My next thought was to take a trip to visit my friends from London. Since the end of the study abroad program we've had a few reunions and I enjoyed going to each of them. The friends I made on the trip are more important to me than some of the friends I have had for years. However it seems that all of the girls from the trip have already organized themselves a trip to Florida. I don't take it personally that I was not invited (though perhaps I should) because it seems like only the girls are involved. This confuses me on one hand because I never considered our group of friends to be organized by basis of sex, but on the other hand I understand that it's just an extended "girls night out" sort of thing.
(Or, I have simply missed hints that no one likes me. I have been oblivious before.)
So the point is-- where are we going for vacation?
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Well...
Two updates within ten minutes of one another...
The thing is, I slept all night sober, woke up early, and don't have much to do. So here's a poem for you.
She comes home drunk
warm buzz of smiles and brown hair
She smells like snow and shivering
Creak of my leather chair
She’s drunk and kisses so hard
Our teeth click together like
High schoolers with no sense
Laughs out beyond my door
Quiet blushed laughs- the lock clicks
Bottles ring and clatter glassy
Cans crushing- her voice muffled
No one beyond the door
Can hear her breathe whispers
Do you think?
Who could think with all these quiet laughs?
My shirt off and a tattoo
Black and old like a woodcutting
St. Michael across shaking ribs
Wings moving with each shared breath
And then the beautiful cleanse
Of the apocalypse, the end
The end of days and wonder
Atoms crushed and sent to the dust
Of stars as I taste her shoulder
The thing is, I slept all night sober, woke up early, and don't have much to do. So here's a poem for you.
She comes home drunk
warm buzz of smiles and brown hair
She smells like snow and shivering
Creak of my leather chair
She’s drunk and kisses so hard
Our teeth click together like
High schoolers with no sense
Laughs out beyond my door
Quiet blushed laughs- the lock clicks
Bottles ring and clatter glassy
Cans crushing- her voice muffled
No one beyond the door
Can hear her breathe whispers
Do you think?
Who could think with all these quiet laughs?
My shirt off and a tattoo
Black and old like a woodcutting
St. Michael across shaking ribs
Wings moving with each shared breath
And then the beautiful cleanse
Of the apocalypse, the end
The end of days and wonder
Atoms crushed and sent to the dust
Of stars as I taste her shoulder
In Regards to Failure...
So I went snowboarding with Ed, Ray, Brooks, and their friend Chris (who has some sick tattoos). The trip has been referenced by both Ray and Ed in their respective blogs, so I won't give more than a brief synopsis- We went snowboarding, it was my first time, I fell down a lot, got frustrated, and went down the mountain on my feet instead of my board. We then went and got some good dinner at a restaurant which is now extinct. If I was feeling poetic I would discuss that portion of the trip further with references to permanence of memory and mortality...but I'm not feeling that way.
So: 1) I don't feel that I was being a "bitch" for going down the mountain after my first run (essentially I gave up).
2)I also don't feel that I wasted my money.
1) The boots and board were both phenomenally heavy and sluggish. Being a smaller framed person I was having trouble moving them around, and getting back up after many many falls was very tiring. By the time we had started my second run, I was physically exhausted, which only added to my frustration.
I get very easily frustrated when I do not succeed at something. That is not to say I am terribly immature, or a sore loser, it's simply a part of my personality that I have always had. I am not naive enough to have thought "I am going to be the best snowboarder in the world on my very first try!" On the contrary: I was, as a whole, doing better than I actually expected to. However, falling down so often, and having such a hard time muscling the fucking board around was making me very irritated.
What made that even worse was having so many people around-- Were I failing on my own, or in a class of all beginners, I would have been able to take the spills much easier. Ray is a very good, very patient teacher so I did not feel pressure from him. However, I knew that I was slowing him down and taking away some of the fun of his first trip to the mountain this year. That made it worse (in my own head) and ultimately, I had gotten what I needed to out of the experience. Which leads to number 2...
2) Ray said he would have gotten more runs, if only because he had paid 50 dollars. I guess I don't view money the same as most people.
In my frustrated state, I was angry enough to quit. Not because I did not think I could not improve, or finally get the hang of it, but simply because I was not in the state of mind to learn or to have fun. To me, stopping was the only option- so I did stop.
However, looking back on it I had fun. That is, in my own mind, the experience was worthwhile and I do not look back on it in the same state of mind I had back then, on the mountain. As far as I'm concerned, I tried something new with my friends, saw some nice scenery, and had a satisfyingly battered body afterwards. That was worth the price to me.
So: 1) I don't feel that I was being a "bitch" for going down the mountain after my first run (essentially I gave up).
2)I also don't feel that I wasted my money.
1) The boots and board were both phenomenally heavy and sluggish. Being a smaller framed person I was having trouble moving them around, and getting back up after many many falls was very tiring. By the time we had started my second run, I was physically exhausted, which only added to my frustration.
I get very easily frustrated when I do not succeed at something. That is not to say I am terribly immature, or a sore loser, it's simply a part of my personality that I have always had. I am not naive enough to have thought "I am going to be the best snowboarder in the world on my very first try!" On the contrary: I was, as a whole, doing better than I actually expected to. However, falling down so often, and having such a hard time muscling the fucking board around was making me very irritated.
What made that even worse was having so many people around-- Were I failing on my own, or in a class of all beginners, I would have been able to take the spills much easier. Ray is a very good, very patient teacher so I did not feel pressure from him. However, I knew that I was slowing him down and taking away some of the fun of his first trip to the mountain this year. That made it worse (in my own head) and ultimately, I had gotten what I needed to out of the experience. Which leads to number 2...
2) Ray said he would have gotten more runs, if only because he had paid 50 dollars. I guess I don't view money the same as most people.
In my frustrated state, I was angry enough to quit. Not because I did not think I could not improve, or finally get the hang of it, but simply because I was not in the state of mind to learn or to have fun. To me, stopping was the only option- so I did stop.
However, looking back on it I had fun. That is, in my own mind, the experience was worthwhile and I do not look back on it in the same state of mind I had back then, on the mountain. As far as I'm concerned, I tried something new with my friends, saw some nice scenery, and had a satisfyingly battered body afterwards. That was worth the price to me.
Friday, January 5, 2007
Short Little Anecdotes
Why do people in movies always practice what they’re about to say in front of a mirror? Wedding toasts, confrontations, the all important I love you even though we’re friends speech: has anyone in real life actually stood in front of a mirror and practiced this shit? I don’t think so. Hollywood bullshit.
Today in the Tops parking lot some woman stopped her car and waved me on, even though she clearly had the right of way. So I just sort of sat there with my foot on the brake. She didn’t move, so I started to inch forward. Just as I was about to let off and go for it, she started moving again too. So we both slammed the brake. Then she waved me on yet again. My question is…who is she to be making these decisions? Is she the fuckin Parking Princess? I don’t like the “Go Ahead” wave, it’s arrogant.
Another thing I hate is when someone is walking to the exact same place you are, either a few steps behind or ahead. First, it’s just awkward because you both know it’s going to be a long walk together. Second, someone ends up opening and holding all the doors. Ever get some over polite cocksucker behind you who just won’t stop saying Thank You? Here’s the rule: Thank me for the first one or two doors. After that, stop it. I’ll purposefully walk in the exact opposite direction of my destination to lose these people.
When deaf people dream, is everyone in the dream using sign language? Are there some people in there dream who just sit there shouting, thinking speaking louder will help? Or is there some odd telepathy where everything is just known? I’m interested.
Speaking of handicaps, here’s some more Hollywood bullshit: Every time a blind person meets a love interest, he or she runs their fingers over the person’s face. Without a doubt, they always say in a very romantic tone, “Oh, you’re beautiful!” They’re full of shit. They have no fucking clue. For Christ’s sake, they can’t see.
Lately my dreams have been cheating. For instance, if in my dream I have a gun or a knife, and I use it on another person, they’re always getting back up. Or the gun doesn’t really shoot bullets, it sort of just clicks. And I have to stop in the middle of the dream and say, Look, look, alright. We both know this is a gun, sweetheart, so quit fucking around and at least pretend to be dead, for the sake of narrative. When you have to reason with your dreams and persuade them into working, it takes the fun away.
I read an article the other day about technological innovations to improve the human body. The most impressive was muscles made out of shape memory alloys-- that is, the metal is highly spring-like and can flex and bend to new shapes, while still being able to return to its original form. Obviously this is a large steps towards replacing lost limbs completely, and even creating realistic androids. But speaking of androids, I believe we already have quite a few. You can speak to them, touch them, call them by a human name, you can even date them. Personal experience.
The other night I was at the bar with Dan and Bobby. We’ve been friends since probably kindergarten. Another kid we went to school with, Luke, walked in and put one arm around Bobby, the other around me, to see what was going on. Sort of an affectionate way to say Hello, I thought.So I said “Jesus Bobby, tell your Gay Uncle to keep his hands off of me.”The joke goes directly over Luke’s head, and with both eyebrows raised he turns to Bobby and asks, “Oh my god, your Uncle’s fucking gay?” I’ve been laughing about that one for days.
Once I went to Bobby’s grandfather’s house with him to get something. We were the only ones in the house but his Grandfather was going to be home shortly. I went into the bathroom and settled down for a nice relaxing read, and to see if I couldn’t do something productive in the meantime. Well, I was too productive, and when it came time to flush the toilet, the water wasn’t going down--in fact it was coming back up. In a panic I called Bobby in, thinking maybe he knew some toilet secret I wasn’t aware of at this point in my life. So, I can honestly say, “friendship” isn’t quite tangible until the both of you are chasing your turds around the floor of a rich person’s bathroom like escaped goldfish.
Dunkin Donuts has information posted on their doors reminding customers that their products were made with the same equipment that MAY have touched the ever deadly peanut. They situated this information so that you only see it on the way out. Good for them.
My sister auditioned for Snow White at Disney World after her internship as a Game Show host was up, and they offered her the job. She moved to Oregon with her boyfriend instead. Imagine how much fun I could be having on Pirates of the Caribbean right this second…
You know it’s cold when your eyeballs are freezing and your nuts can be found up in your stomach.
I was sitting in traffic on Broadway, Saratoga, driving into work one morning. A U-Haul van cut me off as I neared an intersection in the bumper to bumper traffic. Immediately the van was put into reverse, and started coming back towards me. Knowing I was stuck there, I simply beeped the horn and waited. I watched the van smash my hood and absolutely crush the fucking front of my beloved ‘98 Escort. The van’s door open and out comes the smallest, angriest Long Island Jewish-Princess I ever seen. And she screams…“Didn’t you SEE me backing up?” I went and parked my totaled car next to a Porsche 911.
Today in the Tops parking lot some woman stopped her car and waved me on, even though she clearly had the right of way. So I just sort of sat there with my foot on the brake. She didn’t move, so I started to inch forward. Just as I was about to let off and go for it, she started moving again too. So we both slammed the brake. Then she waved me on yet again. My question is…who is she to be making these decisions? Is she the fuckin Parking Princess? I don’t like the “Go Ahead” wave, it’s arrogant.
Another thing I hate is when someone is walking to the exact same place you are, either a few steps behind or ahead. First, it’s just awkward because you both know it’s going to be a long walk together. Second, someone ends up opening and holding all the doors. Ever get some over polite cocksucker behind you who just won’t stop saying Thank You? Here’s the rule: Thank me for the first one or two doors. After that, stop it. I’ll purposefully walk in the exact opposite direction of my destination to lose these people.
When deaf people dream, is everyone in the dream using sign language? Are there some people in there dream who just sit there shouting, thinking speaking louder will help? Or is there some odd telepathy where everything is just known? I’m interested.
Speaking of handicaps, here’s some more Hollywood bullshit: Every time a blind person meets a love interest, he or she runs their fingers over the person’s face. Without a doubt, they always say in a very romantic tone, “Oh, you’re beautiful!” They’re full of shit. They have no fucking clue. For Christ’s sake, they can’t see.
Lately my dreams have been cheating. For instance, if in my dream I have a gun or a knife, and I use it on another person, they’re always getting back up. Or the gun doesn’t really shoot bullets, it sort of just clicks. And I have to stop in the middle of the dream and say, Look, look, alright. We both know this is a gun, sweetheart, so quit fucking around and at least pretend to be dead, for the sake of narrative. When you have to reason with your dreams and persuade them into working, it takes the fun away.
I read an article the other day about technological innovations to improve the human body. The most impressive was muscles made out of shape memory alloys-- that is, the metal is highly spring-like and can flex and bend to new shapes, while still being able to return to its original form. Obviously this is a large steps towards replacing lost limbs completely, and even creating realistic androids. But speaking of androids, I believe we already have quite a few. You can speak to them, touch them, call them by a human name, you can even date them. Personal experience.
The other night I was at the bar with Dan and Bobby. We’ve been friends since probably kindergarten. Another kid we went to school with, Luke, walked in and put one arm around Bobby, the other around me, to see what was going on. Sort of an affectionate way to say Hello, I thought.So I said “Jesus Bobby, tell your Gay Uncle to keep his hands off of me.”The joke goes directly over Luke’s head, and with both eyebrows raised he turns to Bobby and asks, “Oh my god, your Uncle’s fucking gay?” I’ve been laughing about that one for days.
Once I went to Bobby’s grandfather’s house with him to get something. We were the only ones in the house but his Grandfather was going to be home shortly. I went into the bathroom and settled down for a nice relaxing read, and to see if I couldn’t do something productive in the meantime. Well, I was too productive, and when it came time to flush the toilet, the water wasn’t going down--in fact it was coming back up. In a panic I called Bobby in, thinking maybe he knew some toilet secret I wasn’t aware of at this point in my life. So, I can honestly say, “friendship” isn’t quite tangible until the both of you are chasing your turds around the floor of a rich person’s bathroom like escaped goldfish.
Dunkin Donuts has information posted on their doors reminding customers that their products were made with the same equipment that MAY have touched the ever deadly peanut. They situated this information so that you only see it on the way out. Good for them.
My sister auditioned for Snow White at Disney World after her internship as a Game Show host was up, and they offered her the job. She moved to Oregon with her boyfriend instead. Imagine how much fun I could be having on Pirates of the Caribbean right this second…
You know it’s cold when your eyeballs are freezing and your nuts can be found up in your stomach.
I was sitting in traffic on Broadway, Saratoga, driving into work one morning. A U-Haul van cut me off as I neared an intersection in the bumper to bumper traffic. Immediately the van was put into reverse, and started coming back towards me. Knowing I was stuck there, I simply beeped the horn and waited. I watched the van smash my hood and absolutely crush the fucking front of my beloved ‘98 Escort. The van’s door open and out comes the smallest, angriest Long Island Jewish-Princess I ever seen. And she screams…“Didn’t you SEE me backing up?” I went and parked my totaled car next to a Porsche 911.
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