'Ju Need People Like Me!

Just got finished watching Scarface again....damn Pacino is good.
So I think that during this time, while i'm busy writing essays for med schools to drool over, (excuse me, essays over which for med schools to drool), i will drop by my blog w/ a snippet or thought of the day. Today's snippet: Aussie Aussie Aussie! Oy Oy Oy! - I went to the Australia v. New Zealand rugby match Saturday night, lost my voice for sunday, and had a blast. The All-Blacks NEVER lose, and we beat them 20-15, thanks to a blinder by my boy Stirling Mortlock. It was the cat's pajamas, the bees' nees, the, dare I say, ants' pants, if you will*.

*And you will

Welcome Back, Bitches

Let the blogging recommence!!! I have returned from the USofA, prepared to attack my final two months in the land of the plunging necklines with renewed vigor. Well, that and finish off the application process, but you get the idea. You will be happy to know that I have concluded the initial stages of med school application, the effects of which will no doubt be made apparent by my inconsistent punctuation: namely, I may end a sentence with either one or two spaces after a period. In strenuously paring down my application's essay materials, I learned that one space is just as correct as is two; the old standard was rendered irrelevant with the dismissal of the typewriter. But I digress. Oh! didn't see that coming did you!?
Anyway, I will keep this second inaugural address fairly short, and give you a brief recap of the not-so-brief trip from Logan airport to Melbourne, TLOTPN. First of all, I was neatly snuggled next to Johannas, a portly airship mechanic from Orlando. On my right was a 250 pound hasidic jew whose beard nearly spilled into my aisle. While his beard did not quite infiltrate my bubble, his aroma surely did. Fantastic. When the lovely flight attendant came 'round to take drink orders, and my eastern partner was bequeathed a glass of manischewitz, I politely requested a decant of formaldehyde to kill my nasal epithelium. Alright, I shouldn't be so hard on the guy, he did offer me a handful of cashews. He must have recognized my nose-of-Jacob. Besides, after the 20 hours spent flying just to land in Sydney, I realized part of the unsavory odor I was picking up was from myself. Understandable. So now I'm sweating through my new Samoan rugby jersey (thanks, Colin), and wonder to myself if this is what a sweaty Samoan rugby player smells like. I guess yes. I then head for the nearest duty free shop to cleanse myself using the bathing methods of a french whore.
Now I know the following may be deemed "too much information," and I know I have "close friends" and "family" reading this blog, but I feel it must be shared, if for no other reason than for someone to tell me that it's not normal and that I should probably have it looked at. Anyway, I think it has something to do with the changing pressure with altitude, and its corresponding effect on blood pressure, but without fail, no matter how homely the flight attendants may be (and in this case, I would describe them as a poor man's joan rivers), every time my plane descends and lands, I end up with a massive erection. Fortunately I had much carry-on baggage I could use for slight-of-hand (and by that I mean covering myself, you sick vultures), but I really wonder if I can be cured. Either way, it might be a risk-free version of viagra. That is, unless you are poisoned by airplane food.
I am getting bored with you so I will wrap this up. Since TLOTPN is an island, they want to keep their pristine little country free from "contaminants" like foreign egg products, frogs, and rabies. So they have adorable little beagles all through customs to sniff for intruders. At this point in my day, I wonder if my canine compatriot is the one who busted Sly Stallone for steroids upon his arrival down under. If it is, I should probably be careful: as evidenced by my severe B.O. and erections, I most likely have an obscene amount of testosterone oozing out of me, hopefully Rover doesn't mistake it for illegal performance enhancing drugs. And hopefully it doesn't cause me to turn into a monosyllabic washed up actor.

I'm starting to do what I promised I wouldn't

What is it, you may ask. Am I joining Hillary's campaign trail? No. Beginning yoga? Hey, I never said I wouldn't do that! Trading in my dress-shirts and cufflinks to score some smack on North Ave? Still wrong. Actually I'm starting to stress out about med school applications. Turns out I have more to do than previously estimated, and I really need to get down (low for the bf? nah) and get to work on that stuff for the next few weeks. Seriously. No more blogging, no more drunken posts, until everything that is in my hands to complete is accomplished. I will eat, go to work, exercise, hoop it up, and annotate cliche rehashes about my life. That's it. Though the first thing I post afterwards (besides, potentially, a drunken rant after I am finished... which might be 1 week, might be 3, but no more), will be a definitive list of "what they say - what they mean" for TLOTPN. Anyone that wants to help ensure that I stick to this plan by writing me scathing emails telling me to finish up and write something for the rest of you vultures is gladly welcome. I'll even stop playing free-cell (I got up to 42 consecutive wins, look out).
Oh, and those of you that are living in places other than baltimore, or have knowledge of places other than baltimore/DC or boston, I need to know what cities ya'll like. I'm still trying to compile a list of schools to which I wouldn't mind donating my mere presence, so I'd appreciate any geographical knowledge outside of those metro areas I designated (though obviously boston is top pick, off the bat). OK, back to work, and maybe you can drop me an email pushing for a weekend of fun (and by fun I mean tedious filling out of ludicrous amounts of paperwork).
Holla

Feeling Ill

Sorry (again) for not writing in so long, the internet at my place is down (read: I have some sort of computer virus that has negated my internet explorer's function). I'm working on it. I also do not have a cell phone presently because apparently Vodafone does not repair water damage. I should have pressed the issue and pointed out that urine is not exactly water; whatever, they're now on my S-list, and I will boycotting their products for the duration of my stay in TLOTPN.
So I just ate about 300 grams (over a half pound) of kangaroo meat, and I'm not feeling so well, so you'll have to excuse me. It's like my inards have been exposed to a sushi-boat full of larva. The good news is I'll probably feel better in the morning. The better news is that I have 700 g of cooked 'roo meat to polish off sometime in the near future.

going awayag

1. there was a going away party for one ot hf the lab peeps - arzu ( it's turckish, don't make me explaing) - lots of chinese foood, and plenty of libation for the thristy in our griozup. so now, my vision isn blurred. whey are therey numbers 9(i.e ithe number 1) ) - i think i discuered a csecret blogging passageway)
2. damn, there's a nother number. i'm not even dontroclling it. this reminds me of st.aint patricks' s day - a day for flutes, and beer, and bearded green leprachaiugnagas with flutes and nsankes and bailierys. on st. patttty's day, this year, we ended up at a bar named, aptly the corkman. Cleraly it was naematred after myself , the great Ian, from the coutny cork - one o fthe crucial ingredients to linoleum. theo thers being linseed oil and resin. Trus me. Anyway, St. patricks day ocnsisnted of round oafter round of Irish car bombs - i felt a little weird aexplaining these t and even ordering the m frolm the bartendres at irish pubs, cause they didn't nknow what they ( the bomb, the drink) was. drinks here are differeent - for insatnce - there's no such thing as a vodka collins - in fact, there's not even a c toomms collins, so that leaves me high and dry if i want a VC. Dry. so car bombs of the irish variety were the weapon of choicsce for st .a mapthpatricks day (that was an attempt at ian indternal "motharfuckin" day), and let me tell you: i've bn=ever been so proud to be irish. I was abosultely destroying everoyeone else with these basatards, even was asked by some girl to pretend to be ana irish fireman for her friend. The only accent or impression i can do is ebonics, so iyou can imagien how that turned out. either way, the night concluded with me having to cget helped o.f f the floor bhy a 45 kg japanese girl. And by helped I mean dragged. like a puppy's scrusff.
3. Wow - i hope my going away party doesn't end up like this... i hope i get a wgoing away party - that would require people to miss my ass, guess i'm juss assing you and me that that will happen. ih vavent' looked at the cscreen 4 minutes noew, let's hope my spelling is aspell chec k worthy.
4. ok, seriously - one two three sober. can we all agree to take a moment to think about VT for a sec. i don't even the knew wthe thedated date that it happened off right now, but it deserves conscious consideration. you have no idea how hard it is to type "consideration" right now. thank you mr. something who taught my typing class in 7th grade. i forgetr his name but he proetended to have a gwin brother - that hoax didn't work on me. I told him his borther was ugly - try that shikt again, mr. knepp - oh yha , mr. kneepp. that's it. anyway, i'm bout to sight tn the fuck off, but let's al agree not to bee mentally screwed up and come to eahch other's friends/aid ofif we notice someone acting way the helll out of line. for comlumine the first issue was maryulain manson. here the issue is gujn contrl. how about we ...you know what - i thought i had something poignant, but i don't. this is totally fucked up, and i can't think of any other option (conservative thoug i may be) other than stricter gun control. you can't crack down on kids for strange writing, and you can't really have shades of grey when it comes to who can and can't buy a gun. maybe automatic handguns shouldn't be available TO KIDS WHO HAVFE TAKEN TIME IN A MENTAL FACILITY. shit. i really don't have any answers for this; but it sucks.

Prison Reform

TLOPL is, as you probably all know, a prison colony. I am not talking about the poor and indebted that made up Georgia's foundation as a debtor colony (though I'm sure Mike Tyson would fit right in). I mean an actual haven for convicts. This means that everyone living here is either themself, or a direct descendent of dangerous felons. John Hicks, Crocodile Dundee, and Heath Ledger are just a few examples of the barbarians inhabiting this harsh land. Anyway, while it is slightly more civilized than when the britons sent over a boat full of arrested prostitutes to populate the island (the "floating brothel"), there are still obviously criminals, and, therefore, facilities to house them. Quick note here: One woman I work with has a [female] friend who happens to be a prison guard. Suspend for a minute your intuition that the following is replete with sexism on my part. I was slightly surprised, because such dangerous inmates as I can only imagine are found here probably don't make the best water-cooler companions for a female employee, traditional gender roles blatantly incorporated. When I asked what she did, specifically, the reply was, "she works in the kitchen." OK, now this is sounding like a bad joke, but I swear I couldn't make this up, "...but she used to govern the laundry room." Seriously, I did my best not to laugh, but my best wasn't good enough. Nice to see the equal opportunity prison assignments here; political correctness is not australia's strong point (and that's not necessarily a bad thing... I wonder if there are any nappy headed inmates).
Anyway, from my discussions about the prison system here, I learned a shocking truth: sexual predators, pedophiles, and rapists, are all housed in a separate detention center, segregated from other societal dregs like murderers and violent robbers (apparently this is the same in England). And the reason? You guessed it, to protect these "weaker" people from being brutalized by more "respectable" detestables; you know, like if you're a child molester serving jail time, someone who loves his daughter but murdered a family might take offense to your actions and serve to punish them further. You know what? Fine by me. Refined correctional facilities only coddle sex offenders - why shouldn't they be beaten and raped (obviously behind the turned heads of the - i'm guessing here - male guards) in the same vein as the offense they committed? Let the punishment fit the crime. I think it's clear that jail time and rehab doesn't always work. The only reason I'm writing about this now is due to the CNN article on the guy in South Carolina who raped a 12 year old girl in 1991, served 9 years, and was released to torture and rape two more teenagres recently (in addition, the judge in 2000 denied two committees recommendations that he be placed in a program). Honestly, this makes me angry. It's like granting probation to murderers who should be on death row, only (and I'm certainly not marginalizing murder or death) murder victims don't grow up (duh) with mental and social problems of their own, more likely to pass on the crimes enacted on them.
To grant leniency to sex offenders (and especially pedophiles, fuckers) is a little bit too liberal for me, sorry. I don't care about the argument that they might get killed if placed in the general prison population - so might anyone else, and for that matter, if they prey on the weak while in society, why should they be cordoned off with more of their kind, the week? Way to go, Queen's commonwealth, nice work treating your rapists with what's essentially physical protection (from what could be considered justice). And with stricter gun control laws here, if you're stuck in a cell with a murderer, you know he was man enough to do it the old fashioned way, all glorification aside. Maybe that would make someone (but probably not) think twice about assaulting children. Now where's that woman that cleans my stripes and cooks my food?
In terms of worthwhile punishment, by the way, I thought about this. One girl here thinks they should cut something off so they can't have the same kind of arousal feelings for little kids, or so they can't get erections (obviously dealing with male offenders here). I vehementally disagree. They should actually be fully capable of having those desires, but be locked up (for life) with a huge window (or two-way mirror) just outside a playground: so many kids just out of reach (for their eternity) might be the most tortuous response ("you will never get this, you will never get this"). Oh, and slice their achilles and take their thumbs (the felons, not the kids).

Herrow, Mr. Bawa

Ok, Fox, you guys can stop pretending that this show has any remaining ties to reality. Not that I'm complaining or anything, I am still as addicted as ever, but please don't insult my intelligence by pretending (via ominous foreshadowing) that there is any predicament that Jack cannot dominate; he is like a Nebraska Cornhusker competing against Pop Warner players, or like me in a classroom setting. The man has not yet used over 12% of his mental powers, and probably nowhere above 17% physically (though the recurring internal bleeding is a cute little obstacle you've "saddled" him with. Really, I'm supposed to believe a floating rib spur causing hemorrhaging to his organs is going to slow the man who has been clinically dead, what, like 3 times already? If you want to handicap this little competition to make the bad guys have an eensy-weensy tide in their favor, take away his phone, his gun, his tattoo, his military boots, both thumbs, one achilles tendon, and, oh I don't know, stroke out one of his major cerebral arteries. And emblazon an east-bloc german flag on his forehead. Then I suppose I'll be maybe be a little bit starting to feign "surprise" when he comes out on top (of the alien stormtroopers and their photon beams). Oh, and bring Elisha Cuthbert back).

Let me be frank...

I just returned to my room's hallway (let's be greedy and call it my hallway) to find tools and key cards strewn underfoot. Frank, the building manager, must be performing necessary repairs to the premisis. "Hi Frank, what it be like?"
Mr. Furter responded, as you would expect in the southern hemisphere, with a question: "I'm sorry, I always forget your name, what is it?"
You forget my name, Ron Reagan? I've even spoken to him before about this, and he has about 60 kids whose names he mostly remembers, yet he forgets mine?! No offense to the syllable infested students living here, with parents trying to outdo each others' ability to create a name that sounds like it best belongs in a special edition box of Crayola, but you can recall other names here, but not mine? Fucking figures.

Whhhaaaa?

With my new internet access, I just started catching up with 24, so I'm about 10 episodes behind; all I have to say is, "What the hell just happened, and why is ________ back in the picture?!" I'm all for over the top entertainment, but this is a high ass top to be over.
I also think I would be remiss if I didn't weigh in on the NBA MVP race, and here is my stance: anyone who doesn't think Kobe Bryant shouldn't win the award is a racist. First of all, another primary candidate, Dirk, is a Floppy-headed Nazi. And Steve Nash is a nerdy honkey, eh. And after he was raped by that upper-middle class, affluent white girl, who thinks she can get away with anything she wants because of her family's status.... she knew she'd be handling basketball players when she applied for a hotel concierge position in Eagle, CO. Disgraceful. In fact, if he does not receive an adequate number of votes, I'll be holding protests calling for the resignation of the MVP election committee. Maybe even start a fundraiser to pay for a college education for his wife.
A couple of quick hitters, and then it's back to 24, my new excuse to avoid med school applications.
First, land of the plunging neckliners are disturbingly anal about credit card signatures (perhaps it's the American flag and bald eagle on the front of mine that raises issues?). You can never just sign a reciept and leave, you must re-present your card for signature examination. At McDonalds, they have to go get the manager to perform the handwriting analysis. In fact, tonight, Jimmy, the fine deputy manager that he is, asked me for further ID to go with my card. I understand completely, in the light of the myriad mc-nugget defraudation cases coming to trial. When he then asked that I point out my name on my license, I nearly lost it. "Are you serious?" then I dropped my basketball shorts to drop my dick on the counter: "Oh, Mr. Corcoran-Schwartz, I'm so sorry, I didn't realize you would grace our establishment." Sorry, perversion does not become me, but I was fairly bitter after that interaction.
While this is a great city/country, and all, I think people are a bit simple when it comes to their sense of humor. Twice this week it failed to deliver the goods, and I found myself ruing the day I expected australian comedy to make me laugh. First, I accompanied Neil and co. to Rockwiz, a live audience filmed gameshow of obscure rock and roll (the devil's music) trivia. "Classical australian humor," as it was described to me. Well guess what? My bored countenace was unchanged for the duration of the show, even after the "celebrity" guest Jeff Duff performed. Yes! THE Jeff Duff. In fact, the humor was base, poorly delivered, and the host with her cartoon voice only reinforced my belief that women cannot carry a comedic endeavor. But lo, TLOTPN would have an opportunity to redeem itself, for I attended (at the urging of Kerryn, a locally grown lab worker) the Melbourne Comedy Festival act, Tripod, a whimsical trio of musicians performing funny songs, or "fongs." And their style? You guessed it, "classical australian humor." I think I deciphered what this means, now (kind of like queue = line, I'll discuss more of these another time): "Not remotely humorous... in fact, lame and decidedly unentertaining, with a hint of rather-be-getting-a-colonoscopy." The next time someone tells me something is australian comedy at its finest, I'll probably regret to inform the invitor that I have unfortunately made other plans, such as clipping my nails or counting the fibers in my socks.
Finally, I have always been proud of my businesslike handshake, but today I think I may have gone too far. One of the girls living here was being visited by her mother, who had flown in from Japan, and I happened to bump into them in the street on the way home from the gym. Upon introduction and the obligatory, "no, you can't possibly be her mother, you're far too young looking," and hand shaking pleasantries, the mother pulled away in obvious pain. Whoops. I think I broke this little woman's tiny hand. 55 years ago that might have prevented WWII.

I recommend 300

So in an upset/disappointment, Joaquin Manning snatched the green jacket today at the masters, quite an upset if you ask me. I'm telling you, Tiger needs to put his kid up for adoption, be done with child-bearing women, and focus on golf nonstop. It's distractions like house construction and pram patterns that will throw a dominant player off his game, though I'm confident that if anyone can overcome such defficiencies, it's Eldrick (if you consider Swedish supermodel brides and florida real estate defficiencies).
In other news, I was able to see 300 the other day. It's sweet. Not epic, but thoroughly entertaining, which is all I ask from my battle films - entertainment and gore....and masculine six-packs, ummm, moving on --> Actually I'm probably seeing it again this week with Neil and company, and I'm legitimately looking forward to seeing it again, I left the first time with the urge to spear someone on my walk home. Seeing it again will probably cause me to make my own shield and cape upon returning home.
ASIDE: My iTunes is on random, and I've been meaning to mention this (especially when I discussed iPod walking): 50 Cent and his compadres G-unit are terrible rappers. Sufficiently awful to deserve lyrical condemnation by black rap fans, even, so it's not just a middle class, white, suburban complaint. They (and by they I mean G-unit, not black listeners) are unoriginal and predictable, with the type of rhyme schemes that wouldn't live up to the standards I set on my MC Hammer Rap Mic I received for christmas when I was 7. In fact, the song currently on is by Iconz, and is entitled "Get Fucked Up," and is actually a more impressive composure than anything Mr. Cent has produced.
Speaking of religious holidays, Australia has zero separation of church and state: we just got friday through tuesday off for "easter holiday." I smell a conflict of interest here. I mean, I [almost] understand having "good friday" off if the government is highly pious (though I disagree with it unless September 27th is also made a national holiday), but easter monday and tuesday? Do they believe in evolution here? I'm guessing that the answer is "negatron." I think I read in a land of the plunging necklinian history book that god created the marsupials on the 6th day, which actually is the second day in the southern hemisphere, thus resting on the first. Since he gave himself a day off to begin creation (day 7 = day 1 in the sky with the southern cross), he fell into a habit of lethargy, and decided to grant the natives 5 days off in commemoration of his son with chocolate and colorful [platypus] eggs. Absurd. Viva la Scopes!
Finally, it has come to my attention that a girl here to whom I disclosed the secret location of this blog believes it is informally written. Now I know you're thinking, "What authority does she have to appraise the grammatical merit of prose written by someone who won his high school's english honor award?" The answer is that she is a masters student in english; if I had to guess, it would be the queen's english, as her country is less removed from dumping tea into the Singapore River and revolting against the crown than we Americans. The real irony is that as she is ascertaining the formality of this narrative, which happens to be blatantly aware of its narrator, and also of its reader, she cannot help but ponder whether or not the mere mention of her perusal of said narrative increases its informality. How's that for post-modernism, Ms. Chong?

Top Three Most Frustrating Day....Ever!

First let me reiterate my apology (sincere, of course, if sincerity is an emotion that can be conveyed via the trans-pacific cable to the US internet supply; I must say it would take a highly talented writer, with skills far above my own, to accurately emote sincerity in a text formatted apology, as well as an intuitive reader to infer such emotion...I don't even believe people if they tell me they're sorry, and I don't believe people are really appreciative in the form of a thank-you note, so I imagine I would not fall into the intuitve reader of apologies category) for not regularly updating this blizog. The reason is I really do need to continue moving forward with this med-school essay type shit, which would be a really good excuse, if I were actually moving in said forward direction with any inertia whatsoever. Truthfully I've been playing too much solitaire. But, like my height and hairy chest (man-matting), I blame my father. Not only does Pete's gene for ultra-one-on-self-competitiveness express itself highly in me (it should be noted here that it's also due to him that I can consistently beat myself in lowering my golf scores....and beat him on a regular basis, while spotting a stroke per hole, but that's neither here nor there), but he also bet me I could not win 100 times in a row at free-cell (The name itself is deceiving, because you not free once you begin this quest). If you think I backed down from this challenge you clearly do not know me very well; ask Vince or Greg how their bets against my eating aptitude turned out. EDIT: I have never played this game before last week, and I am up to 20 wins consecutively.
The point is I will seriously be better about keeping in touch, either one on one with people, or through the blog. Since my friends here are internationals here semester by semester, or people rotating through the lab, I certainly have not forgotten about everyone with whom I have serious long standing friendships... you're all important to me (with the potential exception of the handful of random women who reached this site by trying to google search pictures of me). Plus I just got internet in my room, so it will much more convenient to access the www. And easier to read pointless articles about basketball and golf, but you know what I mean. Oh, and speaking of my close friends, I'd just like you all to keep MJP in your thoughts, as he will be heading to Iraq sometime soon, departure TBA. No matter what you think of the war, keep in mind that your friends and family members are there in the name of their and YOUR (our) country, so support isn't too much to ask.
ANYWAY, two days ago was probably my most frustrating day since I couldn't get a damn windmill made of toothpicks to stay together in 7th grade. It began with the intention to purchase tickets for an advance-midnight showing of 300. Let me just say, here, that I haven't looked forward to a movie this much since the Matrix 2. We all know that one wasn't the greatest film, but the sheer anticipation for it was mind-numbing. I've felt the same way about 300 (keep in mind, I like this sort of epic, ancient history, battle shit) since I first saw the preview in September while watching The Departed. This was exactly the time when I became insensitively tolerant to oxycodone, and so for anything to pique my interest it must have left quite an impression. So here I am, in "queue" behind at least 45 high school kids (I would say sluts, but that wouldn't be fair to the gay dudes standing in front of me) , waiting to purchase tickets. Upon arriving to my [box office attendent] destination, I was informed (though the web site would have me believe otherwise) that the movie was a special screening only, and all thirty seats were sold out. "Fuck." Loudly (I now recall a time walking down the street here w/ Chavs and dropping an authoritative F-bomb, only to look up and see a couple and their baby sitting on their porch. Whatever, they live 2 houses away from Manhattan Terrace, a brothel, I think they've got more to worry for junior than profanity) . Who advertises a screening for thirty people! In a movie theater (excuse me, theatre)! Can I get four popcorn kernels with that too?
Continuing on with my evening, I go downstairs (in the Melbourne Central super-mall) To coles (yes, lowercased) supermarket, to purchase protein rich food sources. And guess what? All out of eggs. Completely. Of course they were. Guess who just got blacklisted by me.
An hour later, after going completely out of my way to Safeway (my new shopping destination, mind you), I return, in hopes of watching an entertaining replay of the NCAA championship game. I alerted everyone within earshot that I would be requiring use of the television at 930, and that if anyone knew what happened in the game (it happened in the morning), not to tell me. I went all day without looking on the internet at sports web sites, or even CNN.com, for fear of seeing the outcome of the game. Even after all the harm done to my patience, I knew that a competitive and exciting basketball game featuring [hopefully] the Celtics' future center would make me happy. Wrong. Not two minutes into the game a girl came downstairs, and, much to my chegrin, states, "oh, is this the florida game? I heard they won." Words cannot describe the utter disgust I felt at that time. Aparantly I looked "like I was gonna punch Yuki" (who wasn't even who told me, she was just there. Believe me, if there were a stray possum I would have kicked it). Ashamed by my inclusion in this girl's genus, I sulked through the rest of the greg-oden-but-ultimately-florida-gators fest. Not even vegemite could put a rose on my cheek.

My hair is growing back too fast...

so my plan to write a letter to Mariah Carey saying I have leukemia and requesting a "special performance" looks like it will go for naught.
Well, if you're one of the tens of ones of people who happen to scour my blog, you have no doubt noticed a dearth of material recently. What can I say, not much blogworthy material has occured to me, and I certainly will not flood the market with diluted product. I've been under serious pressure to perform here in the world of HTML (no thanks to Kim); my gift of eloquence is my bane, "heavy is the crown sorta thing." I'm like all of you, in a way, just trying to keep up with the joneses of world-wide-weblogging. With that in mind, you'll have to forgive my somewhat ramblous attempt at written discourse, here, knowing that I'm trying not to over-write, thus eroding my creativity for the med-school application essays I need to conjure from my mental abyss. As an aside here, you'll be happy to know that I have received the go-ahead to apply from the pre-med advising dept. at hopkins, in the form of what I took to be a very complimentary email. This only serves to bolster my own self-importance, and grants me permission to be a patronizing jerk, responding to said advisor that I will take his advice into consideration. Even I had to take a good long look in the mirror after that electronic (pneumatic?) reply. This is not uncommon, however, because my reflection is always captivating.
I'm hearing more and more reports (here and in the US) of children banned from bringing peanut bearing substances into school for lunch, due to the (albeit slim) likelihood that little timmy's allergy will render him comatose. I think it's safe to say I am sick of such protection of those with a meek immune system (besides, won't they inherit the earth one day anyway? Let me enjoy my damn nuts while my inflammatory response is quelled by my prosperous health). It's called natural selection, people - if being allergic was a beneficial mutation, it would be evolutionarily allowed to perpetuate itself; but it's not, it's a genetic defect slowly being erased from the genome...survival of the fittest. Ok, fine, now that I think about it, we humans do everything we can to protect "interesting" species, and by interesting I mean too weak to survive on their own. My new, generous and empathetic plan: pass legislation deeming those with fatal peanut allergies "endangered," and stick them on a preserve somewhere in, oh, say, the Bikini Atoll, where hopefully the peanut population has been wiped out (are you happy about that destruction, allergicans?). They can mate and breed as they see fit, and, if everything falls into place, germline mutations due to the leftover "research" from the area may even cause a new supermutant strain of peanut allergic "humans" (if they can actually be called homo-sapiens, I doubt it). Until then, PB&J (or fluff, if your parents don't care about you getting fat) for every elementary school child!
Time for a meeting, gotta run, i'll actually write about the land of the plunging necklines next time.

Daylight Savings

In order to save the daylight (see below for why this is a much better cause than saving whales), the land of plunging necklines has chosen to mimic the United (though not in timekeeping) States of America, probably to ease the transition from sleep to wakefulness early in the morning to be able to watch live march madness games. Of course if a game proceeds beyond the time when you have to go to work, and the team you root against is up by 10 with 8 minutes to go and G-town bricking layups, it shouldn't matter, right? Naturally, I arrived at work today to find that I missed a come from behind overtime victory by Patrick Ewing's hoyas. Of course I did. What did I do to ease the pain? I began drinking [coffee], heavily. Since we only have a freedom press for coffee here, I think I overloaded a bit, and now have more caffeine coursing through my veins than methadone in the veins of Daniel, umm, Nicole Smith. Whoops (not to the tasteless comparison, but for the fact that I am now supremely uncomfortable, and have been walking with a purpose not seen since Alexander besieged Macedonia's neighbors atop Bucephalus). Care to guess what the subsequent result of this glorious amphetiminical influx will be? That's right, I will be participating in my favorite work related pasttime, printing out sports articles to peruse while confined to my sanctum (the far stall of the 8th floor bathroom).

Now, on to a more pressing issue: global consumption of resources. It is no secret special intrest groups such as greenpeace and the sierra club (not the one that sits around drinking sierra mist), favor a reduction in forest destruction and over-fishing our seas by humans. Well you know what? I agree with most of it, except for the human part. Do you know how much deforestation occurs at the hands (well, padded feet) of elephants? They trample underbrush, and strip trees bare, often uprooting them in their zealous pursuit of plant matter. Not only do they ingest three to six hundred pounds daily, but they are inefficient to a polluting fault; they only digest approximately 60% of what they consume (wikipedia). At least we use the tree products we pluck from the earth - we build houses, make paper, and hew baseball bats, all considerably more proactive than spending 16 hours a day eating and destroying nature, like our big eared pachiderm counterparts.
And blue whales! Don't get me started about those lumbering kelp guzzlers. They decimate the krill population, nearly 8000 pounds per day, and the only thing people mention is how we shouldn't light our lamps with blubber oil. Pshaw. Besides, evolutionarily speaking, they (and the bloody elephants), should be extinct by now, all the other largest creatures have been wiped from this earth due to their inefficient mass: wooly mammoths, dinosaurs, saber tooth cats, giant kangaroos, Paul Bunyan and Babe, etc.
Gotta run to a meeting, so here is my brief proposal: round up all the elephants and feed them to the blue whales. Win-win. One

Hmmm....I can't tell. New Shoes?

50,000 Leukemians can't be wrong (oh, and this one goes out to Pidge):

Thanks to everyone that contributed, I raised about $300 AUD in just one day for the Leukemia Foundation here in the land of the plunging necklines. Good times. I also display my supraphysiological testosterone levels by mirroring male pattern baldness. It's only fair to give poeple a hint.
It's St. Patty's day today (here, in the future - get in on it!), so I hope to have my tongue dyed green a few hours from now. Yesterday was Chava's birthday, and based on where we ended up, i was happy not to have my tongue dyed green. A bunch of us went out to celebrate with him, starting first at a local Irish pub (aptly named the Corkman, after me), and then to wherever it was the birthday boy wanted to go (he wanted dancing, and specifically to pop music - yet he blew off the "Birthday Princess" tiara Shana had made for him.... so ungrateful). There were about 10 of us in the caravan, so it made the most sense just to let Chava decide where to go, otherwise no one would have agreed on anything. Unfortunately, I think he wanted to accomodate everyone, so he was a little timid with his early choices, and legitimately was concerned for all of our comfort levels by the time we ended up at a gay bar. More on that later. At the first place we went to (actually it was the second, details rushing back), they were advertising absinthe. Most notably it is green, beyond that nothing too special (I started seeing dragons and half naked men later on, but i don't think i was hallucinating). Finally we landed (after a grueling tram ride in which I think we annoyed roughly 100% of our counterparts) at the Peel. And I don't think it was named after the street. After ensuring we were ok following him in, Chava led the march inside. Gotta say, not as many hot lesbians as I was expecting. In fact outside of the small handful of girls in our group, there were probably only 8 to 10 women in the place (although not unlike one of the other bars we were at, which turned into an "3rd annual sausage festival," complete with all the types of dudes you'd find in atlantic city. Let's just say a place playing up their offering of [fake] absinthe doesn't exactly ooze class like I do. Anyway, back to the Peel... pretty much what you'd expect out of a gay club (from what i've heard anyway), but you know what... not a problem at all. Not that I expected it to be, or that I felt like i'd be intimidated, I just wasn't exactly sure what it would be like (should I be mildly offended I didn't get hit on? Nah). In fact, most of the people there didn't seem (from my very novice point of view) like the myriad jackasses saturating (bad choice of words) the normal pub scene. Plus, I'm sure that if you're gay, it's a much more comfortable place to be in (especially if your musical tastes sway more towards dancing to tech-ish remixes of Man in the Mirror and This is the Land We Live In) - no one there to give you dirty looks if you're with a boyfriend, and (this is not a stereotype) all the Smirnoff Black you can drink. Honestly, when we went up to the bar I had to laugh, because the entire wall was covered with those twist-type malt beverages, I've never seen so many bottled breezers and double black sweet mixed drink products. And most of the guys were drinking them. Saying they're gay drinks is absolutely not offensive, I'm convinced. But the most glaring separation from what I would have expected from "normal" homosexual behavior..... I thought gay dudes could dance well! Maybe it's just here, in the land of the plunging neckline, but nearly everyone there danced no better than if they had spinabifida. Chava was the best dancer there by far (clearly the latin influence), followed closely (but not too closely) by me, of course.
Then we left and I had the best souvlaki (simply referred to as kebab here) I've ever had in my life. Christ it was good. Oh, and we had to deal with Christobalito's incessant whining that he needed to go immediately to a straight bar to balance himself out because he didn't feel right cause a guy pinched him. Sounds like someone's not too comfortable with his sexuality.

The Madness Begins

Right now, I am watching this year's best picture, The Departed. It may be 1 in the morning, and I may be getting up in three hours to watching the opening round of the NCAAs, but guess what? It's Madness!!! Sheer madness.

Alright, I've got a bone to pick with the land of the plunging neckliners. This whole friendliness, good will towards men, and benevolence directed at strangers is great and everything, but it absolutely needs an armistace while in the gym. Just yesterday, I am minding my own business, when my new "friend" Sean comes up to have an in depth chat, no, not chat, let's call it a discourse on weightlifting. For 10 minutes I was treated to Sean's theories on nutrition, how he can add muscle to his legs, his arms, why he smokes, etc. etc. Christ. I mean, granted, I completely understand why he would choose to tap my wealth of knowledge for some gracious physiological tidbits....so I told him he needs to purchase and drink dolphin milk.
Curious as to how a real conversation in the weightroom should go. Check out the following conversation, basically a verbatim transcript of the one I had yesterday with a former housemate, Steve.
Steve: Sup man
Me: Nothin
S: How's your new place?
Me: Eh, it's much better
S: That's cool, mine is...
Me: I don't give a fuck
S: Oh, alright - later man
Me: Peace.

That was simple, right? Well, unless it's a cute girl, then the conversation is as follows:
CG: Hi there, can you show me how to use this complicated piece of equipment?
Me: Umm, I don't think so. But those are some really short shorts.
CG: Ya, I got them at...
Me (turning away): I don't give a fuck

Sometimes I can't stand people. Wait, no, that's all the time.
I'm just kidding, guys; you're all cool, and most of the cats here are cool, but I think I lack the utterly-useless-interaction gene.

On an unrelated note, I've fallen back into the disgusting habit of Solitaire addiction. I don't mean Jane Seymour's [pretty fine] early days of James Bond (in Live or Let Die), but the Microsoft monstrosity that collars children and removes their freedom of choice, replacing it insead with a dopaminergic high and a sense of fulfillment. Christina's not going to like this one bit, but I can't give it up, I wish they made a patch for it. The problem is not the playing, it's the fact that I'll make the distinct choice to play until I win; this should take, what, 2 or 3 games? Four max? However, it never works out this way; Solitaire knows all the telltale signs of a junkie jonesing for his (my) fix of victory. Re-dealing too often, playing for aces, clicking F2 at the first sign of a blown game; all are symptoms the programe assesses to turn the competition into a sick, twisted game of keep the bouncing cards away from Ian. This clairvoyancy by a computer should be put to better use, Mr. Gates. Buy Cassini or something and look for life on Titan, have it tell fortunes, but for god's sake, please make it stop tormenting me.

Tomorrow I go in for my contribution to the Leukemia Foundation of Australia. Oh, and March Madness!!!

Shameful Plug

Because these posts don't necessarily focus on my most common day-to-day activities (like someone else's blog I know), such as impregnating runway models and dealing Indonesian heroin to outback bushwackers, I've decided to help a friend in need by generating web traffic to a competing blog. My boy Russ is currently in the snow-capped tundra of northern Italy, a small oasis of paradise (for him) in what is otherwise a dark, uneducated, and generally european-influenced (and that's not a good thing) region. I've been looking for a reason to blatantly tell you vultures to check out his blog (though half of you are the same people already reading it), especially since I'm sure his page could use the views. I don't ask much, and I'm sure it would make him feel better --> Russ's Verbal Hemorrhaging . Recently he posted a glowing discourse re: my influence on his entrance to this wonderful little realm we call a blogosphere. It also contains brief anecdotes about how I have been a shining light in his oft bleakened world, especially when I helped him through the tough time when questioning his sexuality.
His writing style is actually similar to mine, albeit slightly more "juvenile" and "unrefined" (it could also be described as "ill constructed", "lacking a central thesis", "improperly punctuated", "containing base humor", and "an embarrassingly poor attempt at syntax"), but otherwise quite like my own award winning brand of literary entertainment.

I will be away all weekend in the beachfront town of Lorne (again...trust me, I will type up a brief review of my last visit ), so emails will not find their way to the back of my retinas until monday evening. Oh, in a completely random story, I was playing basketball today, umm, I mean gently massaging my knee in rehab and avoiding anything that might compromise the structural integrity of my joints, when I ran into a guy by the name of Greg (also playing basketball) with whom I happened to have played baseball at Hopkins. Crazy. Small ass world even, if you want to submit copyright violation fines to Mike Eisner.
Oh, and as for the above treatment of my boy russ as my redheaded diarist stepchild, it is all very facetious. Russ is quite possibly the greatest grammatical classmate I had under the tutelage of one Mrs. Thistle, I just felt the need to finally enact revenge for his telling our peers that I got beaten up in 7th grade, when I first befriended the lost soul. I had a sprained ankle from playing a real sport. Oh, and he can't consistently beat me at foosball, that's just baloney. So in conclusion I have tons of respect for him and his blog (you should also check out www.cerealblogger.com, my friend Dan's blog about our favorite way to start the day), and Russel is a great guy and truly a great friend.
Like me.

If there's one group of people that loves fried chicken....

It's asians.
First, let me say that it is wednestday night and I'vehad too much to drinky drink. Second, remeber how I said KFC was highly prevalent here; well aparently it has high market saturation in Singapore! They don't even have mcdonalsds in singapore, but they sure as shit have KFC. Love that taste! I was talking to one housemate here, an indian girl by the name of poonam (sp?) that lives in signapore and says the don't have "maccers" but KVFCDS is a fan favoirtit e. Congratualtions, land of the caning egg perpetrators, for instituting fried cicken friday for all of those rowdy singaporeans. SPPS (PS) - Poonam says that after all of the Spartanistic rigor Indian children endure at the hands of their traditional parents, they let loose and dance on stage in their saris when the opporntunity presents itslef.t. I smell a growing market here, folks... Indian Girls Gone Wild. Follow Sharuk Kahn as he films girls from every caste getting naughty at Diwali Wild On Wombay (used to be Bombay, but now pronounced Wom-Bie). I want the patent rights... gonna make that straight cash, homey.
In other news, how old you would you say I am? We were discussing age whilest we supped, tonight, one girl being the oldest at a ripe old 24, and when I dislosed mine at 22 everyone laughed. curious, I inquired into their jocularity, and one dude said I could pass for 39, another girl said I looked 27. What the hell? Has my spiffteen and loofah done nothing to minimize age and wrinkles? Do I need a vitamin E supplement too? I even shaved today!!! I thought I could pass for 14. Here I am, confounded by the fact that my knee is making me feel like Dr. St. John (family friend, can't golf without pain), and apparently I have the countenance of the 2005 version of Scottie Pippen? Seriously - somebody please leave me a message saying i do not possibly look that old

bandandambidng - yup - that sound means it's time for me to wrap this biotch up. Went out tonight for a housemate's 21's bt day - that's our american equivalent of 24.5 years old (yawn). Drinking was involved, as was the loss of our japanese friend yuki (we found her later). She pulled a david copperfield or something (i never trusted that guy and the women's bathrooms). And speaking of bathrooms, wanna guess what I did in the men's facilitiy? Trying to send a text message to Crhisitina (I do this wehn I'm drunk... well I also do it when i'm sober but the venn diagram of drunk + texting christina has a large overlap) while concurrently relieve myself of bladder stress, I managed to deploy my cell phone into the urinal. Let it be knownw thaat gagtsby waited until the bubbles tstopped foaming, whereas I just reached in that sucker and pulled out. I tried drying each individual piece, holding the sim card betwixt my teeth in the process (hey, it's oly my urine mixed w/ tequila -- self cleaning), but no dice. phone won't turn on. shit. and yes, it's my only form of alarm clock, and I need to be in lab early to help with some special MEF cells. here's to hoping that my circadian rhyths'ms jolt me from my REMless slumber. One.

I've never been so terrified of a 45 kilo girl

Before I even left to go out tonight I planned upon 'blogging about the psyche involved in a game of pool. Almost no activity with as little significance relying on the outcome is taken so seriously; watch people playing billiards (men, specifically), and no matter how much joking is going on, when a guy is lining up a shot, he may as well be mustering all of his concentration to pass a field sobriety test. Everyone acts tough, everyone acts like they're good (despite refuting this out loud, they all approach the game like a seasoned pro), and, with the exception of a handful of people, everyone is about on the same level. One in one hundred people may be one sigma better than the rest (ok, 16.5 in one hundred, statistically speaking, but you get my drift.... watch out for my driiiiiffffttt!), but, all in all, in a standard pub setting, it's usally evenly matched. And as far as acting "good" (you know exactly what I mean, as in, focusing each shot as seriously as JAG's face gets when he's dancing with a girl (sorry)), 99 out of 100 people seem to carry themselves in this manner. I do it, you do it, just accept it and move on. The point is, er, was, that people are fairly similar in their pool capabilities. Or so I thought before heading out tonight to "shoot some stick, dude" (please just leave that one alone). I was wrong. In fact, I am terrible at pool. I'm in the one sigma group to the other side of average. I had a german girl who could hardly speak english come up and tell me I was "not very good at this game" (I had just sunk a striped ball for the other team). Alas, it only means practice and wasted $2 coins to become more proficient --- but more proficient I shall become!
Anyway, we played against this set of two girls, and upon introductions, I for the life of me could not understand what one of them was saying. It was a backpackers bar, so this was to be expected. I nearly asked her if she were from Latvia or something. Nope. England. Of course. I swear to you this was the worst bastardization of the english language I've ever heard. She was from Liverpool, which apparantly is notorious for having a "unique" accent, but I literally understood about 15% of everything hemorrhaging from her mouth for about an hour. She was like a cross between Brad Pitt's "Pikey" character in Snatch, and the homeless guy around Charles Village that I refer to as Agammemnon (he's been seen and heard shouting an alien language at newspaper boxes). But she was mean! Like Mrs. Kiem, my 90 year old elementary school librarian. We had to argue a couple of times over scratches (only because she called one, in a friendly game no less, on my partner whose shirt had brushed another ball about as far as detectable by CERN, then said that we would call the same thing on her....so we did), and it was like debating with a an autistic ukrainie version of Jack Nicholson in anger management. And she was in my head, making rude comments, and she could whistle through her teeth, reminiscent of a fucking narwhale. I swear I through the chalk at her upon her request. Oh, and we lost. But in a close game, no surprise, because no matter how bad I am, everyone is exactly the same at pool.
One final note: there are many TV's at this place, showing sports from around the globe (and by sports I mean soccer, so I take that back and say outdoor child's birthday games from around the globe). A couple was hooking up behind the TV and knocked it off it's perch to careen onto the floor, thereby revealing their hijinx and forcing them to seek shelter in the nearest bathroom. Good times.

Iran has a more pressing issue than their nuclear program --> their trains have no brakes!

Ta Daaa! - Guess who think he has a genetic construct capable of inserting his gene of interest into the oviducts of a rodent? The cloning process for mouse # 1 may very well be complete - indulge me your excitement, if you will. Pleased am I with the time-table in working out the first stages for this project, hopefully everything else will continue like Iran's nuclear energy program, likened to a locomotive: “We dismantled the rear gear and brakes of the train and threw them away sometime ago.” Umm, thanks, Ahmadinejad , I think I'll fly. Did you resist the urge to relieve Air Tehran of its landing gear at least? Also, and I don't mean any insensitivity by this (do I ever?), but shouldn't Spain find those comments the least bit disturbing? And is Chavez in Venezuela somewhere nodding to himself and beginning the process of cost cutting, you know, maybe disabling the counterclockwise function of oil rig drills? I wish I could stop typing political jokes, but my satire train has no brakes, aaaahhhh!

Since exhaustion is waving its shrouded hand towards me, I shall make this quick:
Today I consumed the Down Under Triad, if you will. Kangaroo, emu, and crocodile, all getting along on my plate and in my mouf. In face, there may have even been gustatory rhythmic gymnastics occuring (digestive interpretive dance, anyone?). None of those creatures of the land of plunging necklines has ever been consumed by yours truly (though I have tried the crocodile's prehistoric cousin, the American alligator). How often is one given the opportunity to eat three things he or she has never before sampled, in the same day? It will probably happen again if I end up taking a trip to Asia, but until then, I think the last time it happened was a combination of pureed peas, carrots, and perhaps pears.
The above neglect of Steve Irwin's principles (don't kill native animals for food.... kill them for sport! (not actually, but the food part was his)) took place at the Victorian Night Market, a festival of food, crafts, and lousy conga drumming. The destination was chosen by the ladies of the lab, who happen to be infatuated with a small cupcake stand at the market. For $4 (Australian, approximately equivalent to the amount Baltimore spends on highway upkeep yearly) you can purchase a baked good from three crazy, excuse me, eccentric ladies with the most gaudy, Alice-in-Wonderland-ish stall at the market. I thought $4 was a bit steep, but they seemed to be a crowd favorite, so I splurged (*snap*, the chocolate orange cupcake was DIVINE! *snap*) They seemed to have every type of cupcake imaginable, complete with flavors "musk" and "rose petal" (no lie). I was looking for the Rocky Mountain Oyster cupcake, but no dice. Admittedly, this bastion of consumerism was a beacon of light in an otherwise desolate warehouse setting, welcoming the hungry and obese alike with its glistening mad-hatter-esque setting. Umm, no, sir, you cannot just get a tub of the frosting and a spoon. Sir! stop eating that man's child!
Finally, and perhaps most importantly, when Ghandi was asked about Western civilization, and responded with his famous, "I think it would be a good idea," I am 100% certain he is talking about Croc's. Never before has an entire group of people embraced a particular type of footwear (except perhaps the dutch and their wooden clogs - plus they would have found them floating had someone failed to plug the dike with his finger). Anyway, the Indian population here apparently has collectively agreed to compromise between bare and shod feet, and to open their minds and their soles to Crocs. I commend this company for cornering the market; now if only Subway would open a DMRC sandwich franchise in India (PS: in doing brief research for this quip, I noticed India has a city named Central Secretariat - a slight lingual diversion from names such as Chawri Bazar and Dwarka; I really hope a cricket tournament opens up in Seabiscuit, Pakistan, sometime soon).

PSS: Should I shave my head? Considering it, no real reason, other than slight boredom.

The Commodores

"She's the one, the only one, built like an Amazon..." Lionel Rickie said that back in the '70s --> do you think he actually wanted his bitches to resemble masectomy patients?

In other news, did you know Ken Griffey Jr. is almost 38!? It seems like just yesterday he was my teammate Marc's favorite player, with baseball cards picturing him with his hat backwards and a huge bubble in his mouth, now he's closer to being eligible to cashing in on his 401K. Sad.

My new place

In the spirit of full disclosure, I've moved into my new apartment (student accomodation), and am getting strong feelings that this is what "vacation" housing at hopkins would be like. Not in a bad way, it's just very international. As in, I feel like a foreigner. Again, not necessarily a bad thing, I've met quite a few people who are all very nice and cool to hang out with so far, it's just that my english must be deteriorating at a pace reminiscent of Dr. Oken from Independene Day after his mind was taken over by aliens. But it's all good, because I must sound like Thoreau to everyone here. As I said before, most people are cool, but because it is in my nature to nitpick, there are a few who remind me of the cliquey asian groups in the BME department, as in "we can't hear or see white people" (when I knocked on a few doors around my room to introduce myself, one young lad, Ichi, began by saying that there were a couple of german kids who used to live here - this little piece of data was not in the least germane, until I realized he was hinting that I should try finding people who look more like myself. He has since turned out to be ok, I think it's because I signed off on the fact that it was ok for him to make all the noise he wanted with his girlfriend). In fact, I'm currently sitting in the common area (free internet) in close proximity to two asian girls who couldn't be more apathetic to my presence; belive me, I'm as surprised as you are. Chava has the idea that we should corrupt all the hardworking asian students here, and bring them out drinking as often as possible - I agree. Last night featured some of the least communication over a game of pool imaginable, but it was certainly an enjoyable time. Speaking of Chava, he convinced me to buy a loofah, because its use is directly correlated with healthy skin (somewhere Craig is nodding in approval). I am now an exfoliating machine. The problem is my ability to follow the directions on the loofah wrapping (or loo-rah for short). "Soak" - check. "Lather" - check. "Gently..." - not so much. I don't have the physical dexterity to avoid tearing away 2 layers of epidermis every time I shower - but it's alright, simply rinse and repeat to reveal healthy, younger looking skin.
My new abode is ultra clean, and seems to be well run - it's like the bizarro version of my old place under the tyrannical lilian the landlady (or should I say, Lilian the leprous louse). I'll put up pictures soon, I promise; internet is free but very slow, so I'll need to retrieve my power cable. Until then...

Minor Annoyances

Per Christina's prompting via email, I got to thinking about when your foot itches, but you can't scratch it through your shoe, so you end up kicking it against solid objects, or digging the heel of your other podiatric prosthesis into it, etc. Another excruciating instance is when the roof of your mouth itches or has a tickle, and you try applying pressure with your tongue, or tearing the mucosal lining away with a sharp object (or, more conservatively assaulting your mouf with a pen, but accidentally nearing the threshold of bulemia). No? Just me? Ok. Anyway, if you vultures have any other examples like these that you'd like to get off your chest, please do. Let me (and everyone else) know with a comment. One. See below for my actual newest post.

They keep eggs at room temperature here.

Eggs! Eggs I tell you, in cartons, out on shelves at the grocery store. There I am, marveling at the salmonella factory in front of me in Aisle 4, when a woman comes along and places a carton in her basket, to eat most likely. How is this OK? Where do we draw the line between freshness and repulsiveness? How bout this, aussies: would you like to just purchase a live chicken from your local Safeway, hold it over the stove every morning and let it ovulate into a frying pan? I'm sorry, but when I mustered the gumption to pick up a dozen and open them to check for cracks, guess what I found. Not one, but two feathers in the lining of the carton, from the mother, presumably, since roosters make deadbeat baby's daddies. It was a bit too Au Naturale for me (i've since begun eating eggs here, even keeping them in the cupboard, but it took a while given the traumatizing experience of finding molting foul in the packaging of my perishables). They do break easier, but they tend to release a small chip of shell into my mixing or cooking aparatus every time.
I included in a blog post title once the term "Freaks" but unremembered to cover that topic. However, recent experiences have enlightened me to deliver said topic unto you. One of the larger demographics of people of whom my totally objective and unprejudiced sence of judgement has noticed a large population is what we normal folk would call freaks. Indulge yourself in a game of mental pictionary and draw for me, if you will, a hoarde of gothic looking youth attempting to be (in their mind) different and freeing themselves from the shackles of the status quo. I think what bothers my totally objective and unprejudiced sense of judgement is the fact that the act of being "different" for this group manifests itself in an appearance all too conserved and similar throughout its (the group's) ranks. If you want to be different, hey, great, be different. Be different from me, be different from S dot Jackson, be different from Calvin Coolidge even. But you might also want to try being different from the hundreds of other kids down by the train station also sticking it to the Man of Normalcy. Different is not wearing the same tight black jeans with torn black fishnet arm sleeves and black nail polish with a tie on backwards and dyed black hair, mascara, and facial piercings (though different might be taking those same facial piercings and connecting them via PVC strands to your genitals while doing jumping jacks to keep a yo-yo oscillating on your newly constructed conduit - you get the idea, step outside the box). Anyway, Melbourne plays host to numerous sub categories: gothic, emo, punk - all with one thing in common: they all think their claim to fame is being unique, when in reality, they all dress the same, hang out in the same places (the train station), and listen to the same music at said places. The reason this affected me was because I was waiting for a friend at said station, engulfed in a fog of gothic juveniles, when a rather large girl wearing the aforementioned uniform and black(ish) makeup applied with a cement mixer (as well as an also rather large lower back tattoo that may or may not have been 16th century venetian font or hieroglyphics, or a battleship going down in flames, I couldn't tell) sat down. Coming up to her was what (i think) used to be a blond girl (she was still a girl, i think, just w/ unwashed black dyed hair - think Christina Aguillera during her 'dirty' phase but with more unfounded childhood angst). I was forced to listen to the following exchange:
2: Hey, could I get a light.
1: Sure, no worries, mate.
2: Wow you're really pretty (interjection: umm, paging Anne Sullivan, your new student is here)
1: Thanks - hey, do you think I could come live with you for a little bit, my mom is throwing me out (dead serious)
2: Ya, that would definitely be ok.

What the hell?
Now I don't want to change gears too drastically here (or turn this into a sports blog) but I will: first, yesterday's NBA all star game was the worst in recent memory. No excitement, few cool dunks, zero no look passes, two diddy and three arnold sightings. Shaq even bricked two dunks. The highlight of all this was when it showed the injured all stars sitting in their dress code clothes on the bench, at one point focusing on the strangest of bedfellows: Yao and Allen Iverson sitting next to each other expressionless. They weren't conversing, if you were wondering. Do you think these two spoke to each other the entire game? What would AI's response to 'shi shi' be? Think they compared musical tastes, or sexual exploits? Perhaps Iverson expounded on his lyrical forray as his rap alter ego, Jewels: "I got killas where you eat, shit, sleep and beat your meat - die reachin for heat, leave you leakin in the street." He would at least have had the decency and cultural awareness to wish Yao a happy new year of the pig, right?

Alright, I've got a major gripe, and it's probably my biggest complaint about being in such an international setting, not to mention in a lab where everyone is from a different country: I constantly have to defend being American and listen to people badmouth our leadership. The first thought coming to mind would be to say "hey, why pick on me, I didn't ask to be born American," but that would be utterly ignorant. There's not one country I would rather have been born into, and anyone from the US that tells you otherwise is lying. Admittedly, I have it pretty good as a member of the white, middle/upper middle class. Would I be extremely comfortable if I were richer in the States? Yes. Would I be a lot more unhappy if I were in a lower class "projects" area of the States? Absolutely. Yes there are problems in our contry, and yes being impoverished would suck and is terrible, BUT, would you rather be impoverished in another country? Senegal? Somewhere in central america? Afghanistan maybe? I'm pretty sure the answer is no. And so it may happen time to time that we have a leader thought of not-so-highly by the people. You know what you can do if you don't like the current politicians? Vote for someone else, or complain. There are plenty of countries out there where you can't do either. Shit, you can go on live TV, on stations whose principle aired programs are for this type of thing even, and say "I don't like the job President X is doing with foreign policy," or "President X is a problematic leader, because he'd rather be carousing with women," or "I wouldn't even want President X coaching my son's baseball team cause he's got polio!"
The major thing people talk about here politically is US politics. And they argue with me about it, of course, because I'm the only American. It's as if no other country has any shortcomings, only the US. People here complain all the time about the prime minister, but are more vocal in denouncing our leader and his foreign policy (in fact the big complaint about the PM here is his willingness to support our president). They say (about President Bush) that "he's the most powerful man in the world, why should he be getting involved with other countries problems." Or "he's the most powerful man in the world, why keep getting going abroad for US self interest?" Everything I hear concerns the US interfering or concerning itself with "business that's not yours, or for your own benefit." Ever think about why the title of US President is described as the most powerful position in the world? It's sure not because we didn't concern ourselves with other countries' issues, or didn't pursue our own benefits globally throughout history. Since it's "inception" starting with the Dec. of Ind., the US has been proactive in foreign policy, with both advancements and setbacks/complaints. There's a reason people in other countries even discuss our politicians (you don't see people at home over coffee elaborating the ramifications of Norway's most recent parliamentary vote). Acting in self interest gets you somewhere, and in our case, the results (over the past 200 years) speak for themselves.
I don't really have a destination for where I'm going with all of this, just that I'm certainly not ashamed to be from a place widely regarded as the most influential, but I'm tired of having to defend myself about it. PS: This of course does not mean that I agree wholeheartedly with every political decision made under the current administration (I certainly don't admonish them all either). Obviously the US has it's share of problems, just like every other country, I just wish people wouldn't look w/ so much condescension at the US in political discussion, as if their country is flaw-free.

Happy Chinese New Year

Ok, so memoirs of a lorne conference will have to continue to fester in my mind, I can't seem to find the motivation (or muse?) to put it on 'paper'; however, after concluding my weekend where haven't really stopped drinking except to sleep, i'll jot a few random thoughts here. First, the liquid soul of Gambrinus has been quite strong with me as of late, he's having a party down in my belly with my other good friends, tequila and grapefruit. How are you going, down there, guys? Getting along well, I hope.
Rolled to the beach yesterday w/ Julian (I'll throw some picutres up when my internet has the ability to upload - the G-men taxed out our bandwidth for the month downloading Rocky Balboa and Departed in german - here in the land of the plunging neckline you're allotted a certain amount of broadband connectivity before they knock you back to 2 kps, or approximately the speed of stone-age fedex). This cat will talk to any girl anywhere. The random girl on the tram, girls at a bar, on the beach, in the water 40 feet away, you name it. I'm lying on a towel reading Thucydides, keeping my feet off the near-glass sand (it's been 40 celcius here this weekend - honestly, it's all i can do right now to be polite with you people - i'm tired, hot, and have been sweating on myself all day - I'm such a grouch right now), next thing I know Julian's off chatting w/ these girls from Brazil. Whatever, brazilian girls aren't known for their looks. Aight, hang on, let me see if i can throw this bitch up here: nope, sorry - tried to upload a picture of the jellyfish (there were lots on shore) - big bastards. So the other thing about this beach, and apparently all beaches in the land of the plunging neckline, is that in the odd but not improbably rare case, there are no necklines or tanlines if you catch my drift (careful, here comes my drift, don't let it getcha). European wannabes I think. I'd comment more on this but literally I don't feel like anything right now, I'm so drained from the sun, chinatown crowdedness (as well as the baliwood dancers, now that's a picture i'll need to put up), and the 12 beers I've had starting at 1030 this morning. I will say the beach is really cool, with a sweet main street area (pics also) with bakeries, cafes, etc. - We rolled out after the beach, dehydrated as a polar bear (I don't know, nothing makes sense right now), got a couple of sparkling wines (the supercillious french won't let you refer to it as champagne, since it's not from the champagne region - whatever, I call a spade a spade don't I?), then some sangria. Oh man, if anything is closest to ambrosia of the gods on a hot day at the beach, it's motherfuckin sangria.
But enough about me, let's talk about the NBA dunk contest. I'm tired of people saying how it's irrelevant, or how everything's been done; these guys can jump out the building, and there's nothing more impressive than seeing Gerald Green's head above the rim, nothing (even a brazilian girl changing her top 12 feet away on the be-ach). Finally the celtics won something (and the trophy's pretty big, too), and a nice little nod to the past when GG leapt over lil' 50 for the peekaboo dunk. And that condescending prick jordan gave him a 9. All due respect to MJ, he is the greatest to ever play the game, but he never even put the ball between his legs or off the glass, let alone hurdled another human being. And Dwight Howard putting a sticker 12'6" up on the glass? Gloriously orginal. These guys aren't rocket scientists in most cases, how do they come up with this stuff. I have a great idea for a dunk for next year, but I'm keeping it a secret, lest one of my brilliant concepts is stolen yet again. Do I need to remind you that I came up with the idea to drop off traditional film and have the developer scan it into a computer and return it via CD-ROM or email? No. Or my latest and greatest cash cow: You know how men cower from applying sun lotion on the hindquarters (Ok, bad term, back works) of other males? Get a couple girls, and charge $1 each to have them rub sunblock on dudes' backs. You'd easily make enough to go out every night. Plus it's all cash in hand - virtually untraceable by the IRS - especially in the land of the plunging neckline, where $1 coins have no serial number, unlike their security laden American cloth-paper counterparts. Acquiring cancer protection using the delicate manual labor of the female species? Brilliant! Women love squeegieing the hairy backs of 57 year old at-risk-for-stroke veterans, they'd work for a pittance, so it's all profit. Oh yeah, basketball. Well in the least surprising turn of events since Jack Bauer didn't die when he was basically sentenced to death, D-Wade reigns supreme at the skills competition, besting the futile attempts of his western nemesis and meandering washed up hoopster, Kobe Bryant. One more thought: you know how great players make their teammates better? Dwyane's so great, that he makes his teammates better even when he's not on the court with them. Case in point: Jason Kapono winning the three point shootout in convincing fashion, all thanks to the tutelage under one D-Wade.
Sorry guys (read: I'm not sorry), but I can't keep coherent thoughts straight right now, it's too hot, I feel like something that's really hot (no, seriously, all metaphors aside, I'm standing and delivering my true feelings - I'm like a white Edward James Olmos). PS: That was a simile, not a metaphor, so it's all good.
EDIT: The above dribble as a free standing piece of literature is atrocious. I just realized it's not fit for publication in a fourth grade essay compilation. I am not lying when I tell you that I actually want to type up something non-trivial, perhaps pertaining to some peculiar anecdote or another, but I do not currently posess the wherewithall to do so. Plus the swath of sweat coating my person (that has been showered off twice now, but keeps returning, like herpes) is causing my mood to deteriorate further, so that I'm descending into a pit of intense magmatic frustration. I was honestly going to write about how I really love the bar/cafe scene here, after my day at the beach and out last night w/ a couple of housemates, but this heat is causing my inner pessimist to seethe into my fingertips at the keyboard. Furiously firing salvos at my cheap toshiba's pneumatic analog QWERTY array, vowing vengence on the very mother nature whose dazzling ultraviolet display imparts my beautiful aboriginal tan, I cannot help but to bitch and moan at the weather. I really can't take this heat - it was perfect for the beach, but downright wretched for sleeping and walking amongst throngs of new years revelers. In both the positive and the negative domains of the above statement (the beach and new years, for you goldfish out there), it was an agoraphobic's nightmare. Not just people everywhere, pungently sweaty people everywere (I wanted to get a picture with the below baliwood dude, but you think I'd want to be anywhere within the nasal proximity of these guys after they'd performed in 100 degree heat wearing saris head to toe? - ok, apparently pictures aren't happening just yet, but he was a dancing fool - all with a polite but maniacal grin plastered on his face the whole time). In all honesty it's been a really good weekend - great beach day yesterday (and no, christina, not because of the topless woman), really good time out w/ a couple dudes from my house last night, and a fantastic yum cha brunch (including 3 rounds of tsingtao rice beer), followed by a cool (temp.) pub for the dunk contest, including 6 rounds of aussie beer, capped off with watching the soccer grand finals (ok, i fell asleep during this time, but there was more beer involved) at penny and warren's. Even friday was a good, but low key, night. I went out with the germans and some of their g-friends, who wanted me to show them how to get to brunswick st, because they wanted to go where there would be lots of girls. I pointed the way, and said I was retiring to get food and sleep, but was ushered away with a "no no, you come viss us." I glanced down: I could have sworn I left my star of david pendant at home. We actually just ended up at a lebanese hooka bar overlooking lygon st., fairly chill place (for a raging den of carcinogens). Nice and relaxing time, though, for being excluded by language from 90% of the conversation. Like it's my fault the US didn't impose mandatory english-as-first-language laws on all the axis powers.
I think I'm finally finding places i'd be consistently happy going to, and at this point I've got some nice people with whom to attend those places (aside from father gambrinus). I move this coming friday into my nintendo castle (my lab has now taken to calling me super mario) - I'll let you know how that goes. My landlady has been around fairly often recently, making sure the place is [relatively] neater for the next group of suckers, er, tenants. She's been surprisingly pleasant, actually, but I think it's a trap. Kind of like the Walrus coaxing the oysters into his deceitful dungeon of culinary doom, I'm quite wary of where my money is at all times when I'm around her, lest she coax me into a false sense of security and snatch up my last funds from my wallet. Rohipnol (sp?): not just for date rapists anymore.

I just ate the worst lasagna i've ever had.

I think the ricotta was rancid, the pasta had zero to little restitution, and the mozarella on top was like an interwoven fibrous rug. Garfield would have passed on it, and Alf would have passed on Garfield had he (Garfield) managed to choke down this debacle of a delicassy. Now it's sitting in my stomach like igneious rock - a bolus so dense Harrison Ford's girlfriend couldn't throw it up.
Prepare to turn green with envy, all you male readers: Christina shipped me the second best Valentines day gift a man could ask for (I only say second because the shipping charges for my own football franchise would have been astronomical): a beer basket. So delivered to my place of employment was a smattering of local and German beer(which I may forever sanctimoniously describe as the consecrated blood of Gambrinus). Glorious! What'd you get, Bruno? A cupcake with a poem? Awwww. If you need me I'll be dousing my thirst with the consecrated blood of Gambrinus; you know, just a little piece of thoughtfulness from my girlfriend to show she really cares. And for those of you currently under the age of 40 in the US: don't hit on my girlfriend! She already has someone on the receiving end of her gift-giving prowess.
For some record keeping here, what will appear above is mine and Craig's adventures in Lorne - brand new material just separate from this here post due to its potential length (it is as of yet unwritten, so I will commence shortly with my making it so).
Oh, almost forgot: before I begin documenting the saga of the Lorne Cancer Conference - I believe the swimsuit edition is on newstands now. The city of baltimore may actually shut down (have you seen who's on the cover?). Call it a hunch, but not only will there be more of our neighbors with reading material in their hands than ever before, but this magazine cover will be mentioned in somewhere between 4 and 5 hundred thousand rap songs when all is said and done. I never thought I'd say this, butt (freudian) breaking up DC was probably the best career move imaginable. Hey, riff raff drug hopper from The Wire, how should we adjust our ladies' facial features? "Yo, Chinese up her eyes like Beyonce." Well put.

Swedish my ass

yo so check this out: I work with a woman from Sweden - and what's the one thing you've always wondered about their culture (besides how accurately IKEA portrays their lifestyle (the answer is that it's their main export and they all worship it))? Yes, you and I are on the same page, because today I asked Therese exactly what you're thinking. And the answer is no, swedish fish have nothing to do with Sweden. I'm as shocked as you.. in fact, she had never even heard of them, though they do have some black candy that's not sweet(I think we ran into a language barrier at this point in the conversation, because for some reason that doesn't seem relevant).
OK, now I'm really confused. As I was just about to post this I double checked wikipedia... sure enough, the swedish fish we know and love are actually a branch off from a Swedish candy company named Malaco, who made little black fish shaped "salted herring" (or salmiak) flavored confections. Don't toy with my mind, Sweden. Take your herring flavoured dessert back to your neutral country and stick to watchmaking.

Just dropping in

Aight, folkers - here's the deal. I promise to write about my weekend at the beach, at a cancer conference, but I can't get back into this until I finish the Wire season 3. Just got the discs courtesy of KB, and the show still rocks, so I've got a late night or two left. A couple of quick parting thoughts, though:
1) 'member the porn stars at my gym? So I happened to pass by one of these chicks on the treadmill (they're easy to pass when they have no lateral translocation) - and guess what piece of classic American literature this woman hailing from the land of plunging necklines was reading -- our very own Danielle Steele. Now I'm convinced she's in the adult industry. Basically she's either got the reading skill level necessary for RL Stein or Boxcar children, or she's looking for some new scenarios for roles onthe silver screen in Ms. Steele's steamy descriptions. Oh, and the other one that's always dressing a bit too comfortably for the gym... she rolled in yesterday with about a 4 inch triangle skirt looking like something an American Gladiator on ecstasy would wear.
2) 'member how I said the personal hygene here often leaves something to be desired (in many cases it leaves me desiring a car air freshener)? - well it's not just men here. As I may or may not have eluded to, there are a fair number of what we would describe as hippies up in this, and they are usually not to be outdone by each other's stench. I passed one girl today, who had a bit of a lean to her, w/ one arm out a bit, as if directing the permeation of her organs' respiration towards passerbyes, one of whom I had the misfortune of being. In essence, the repugnancy smelled to me to be a combination of my gym shoes, old pepperoni aged in a swamp, and cheese curdled from dinosaur milk.
Back to the wire - one.

Too early? Probably. Insensitive? Most Likely. But...

...now not even Trimspa can boost Anna Nicole's metabolism. Seriously, folks, please, you're too kind. Ok I'll be here all week. As we await to see what drug combination ANS had implanted, we should probably ask oursleves to reflect on the good she's accomplished in this world. She validated money-hoarding for 80 year old billionaires everywhere, and may have been the first truly caring soul to appreciate that kanine depression is a very real problem facing pet owners, introducing us to her prozac prescribed poodle. And perhaps most importantly, if not Anna Nicole, of whom would my first internet nudity viewing have been? I shudder to think of the alternatives of the day. Hypothetically speaking it would have been Pamela Anderson Lee Rock, but imagine how different things may be today if it had been Raquel Welch or, for a younger generation, Paris Hilton. Thus I thank you, Ms. Smith, for my turning out normal.

So I'll be joining Craig in a beach town called Lorne for the weekend, fingers crossed for nice weather. One.

I live with people who are on drugs, and Bill Walton is on drugs

Welcome back, vultures - as a couple of you know, Dr. Craig has returned to his motha'land o' australia (still lower cased - actually, let's change this, if I may. One of the standout trends around here (and apparently in Sydney and Perth) is that women exhibit an exorbitant amount of cleavage. Sundresses, tank tops, and bare-minimally buttoned oxford shirts for the business ladies - the northernmost hemisphere of the breast is nearly always revealed, and in many cases the inner quadrant (outside of lab employees, I should add). I've used this analogy before, but it's fitting: these appendages peek above bust lines like periscopes on the open water. So now that this situation has been fully revealed, I shall refer to my host country thusly: The Land of the Plunging Neckline). Anyway, Craig is in the Land of the Plunging Neckline for a cancer conference, and so I am basically his tourguide in Melbourne, what amounts to a foreign city for this poor bloke. I aptly decided that beer and chinese food was the appropriate mechanism by which jetlag could be overcome, and verily it came to pass that I would take him around the big city (he's a sheep farmer at heart). Overwhelmed by the skyscrapers and peculiar sounds new to his virgin ears, he reached my hand for reassurance. Playing the Curious George to my Man in the Yellow Hat, Craig was able to get a taste of metropolitan life (and some fantastic sizzling mongolian lamb....the lamb was sizzling, not the mongolian from whom the lamb was obtained). Actually, he did stay overnight at my palacial abode, and didn't even get pinworm.
So as for the tidal (wow, phenomenal subconscious spelling - title) of this entry, Craig reported hearing a somewhat domestic disturbance last night (it was somewhat of a disturbance, and fully domestic). My drug and alcohol riddled housemate couple were shouting something at each other (once I distinctly heard a, "if you didn't hit me then why is my face bleeding?!" - coming from the guy, not to worry). So it continued tonight while I was right there in the kitchen, naturally avoiding confrontation. The point is, these cats are way out there. And you know who else is way out there? Bill Walton. Since in my immediately recent experience the circle for 'way out there' overlaps (in a Venn Diagram) the circle for 'copious drug use', and since Bill Walton is clearly a member of the sample 'way out there', he must be a hardcore mind altering substance abuser. Evidence for this is easily obtained from the internet; espn.com has podcasts, one of them being "Walton's World," in which ol' William Walton (let's not forget to give him his due, though, the cat's got rings and a passing game unrivaled by maybe all big men in the history of the game, save maybe Arvydis Sabonis - and of course Larry Legend, who shouldn't really be considered a big man, but when you're 6'11" it happens) pontificates on the current state of the NBA. Too lazy to check it out for yourself? (I highly recommend it though, because seriously, he makes about as much sense as Ozzy Osborne, and you can actually understand the words coming out of his mouf, so that's saying something). First off, it's set to highly serene, coma inducing hippie music (which should probably be piped into the Iranian-Iraqi border in order to curb violence in that region), and W.W. speaks so soothingly you'd think he was attempting to lure Cujo to lick his face. With such common phrases as "Oh me oh my" he delves into basketball's most obvious storylines. He then proceeded to refer to TJ Ford as "effervescent." Now, Ford is an enthusiastic, cat-quick, pass-first point guard - but bubbly? I'd have to give that a resounding "negatron." Finally, Bill gave me a phrase that I don't even know in what context it should be used: "when things go wrong, it's usally because the fish stinks from the head down." Right. Maybe the stinky ganja is affecting W-squared from the head down, but you can bet your ass I'll be using that phrase as often as possible until people start second guessing my ability to logically form sentences. And you know what else, Willy? I'm not gonna cite you or give you credit when I say it; I think you stole that phrase from your pals the pink elephants.
Finally, despite my[historically documented] incessant rebukes towards those pining away for med-school resume validation, I have recently begun (slightly) stressing over the upcoming application process. Not because I lack the confidence that I am a stellar next contestant on the Price [of edcucation] is Right, but just over the punctuality in essays and recommendations required, and the fact that I just don't feel like writing essays about how good I am. Seriously. That, and because it is my chosen lot to stress about things. Just ask my boy Russ. The point is that I was at the gym, and saw someone with a Melbourne Uni. Med School T-shirt, and of course was reminded that I'll soon have to put into words my reasons for choosing the medical path (and by path I mean epic barren roadway, flanked on either side by highway robbers). So the obvious next psychological step was to think of very people-oriented doctors. And do you know who the most altruistic physician in history was? Osler? No. Aschlepius? Nope. Dr. Kavorkian? Keep Guesssing. It's only fair if I tell you that fictionalized characters count here. And no, it's not Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman, and Dr. No is slightly wrong. Give up? Perhaps the most caring, magnanimous doctor in the history of all mankind is Dr. Moonlight Graham, or Archie as he was known to his ghost-team. The guy freaking gave up his dream of playing baseball (with Shoeless Joe, no less) to cross the line denoting the field of play and save Kevin Costner's (Ray Kinsella's) choking daughter. And then disappeared into corn! Oh man. First, if you don't know what I'm talking about, stop reading right here and go watch Field of Dreams. Second, if you have even a modicum of a soul, you should be getting chills right about now thinking of that scene. I was preparing to deadlift, thought about the movie (that scene specifically), and got goosebumps everywhere. Oh man I'm dying to play baseball right now.

Sweet songs

Aight, real quick because I need to share my expertise in the field of soundtrack trance music with the world: so last night I spent a little time (OK, two hours) trying to find and download the theme songs from a) requiem for a dream, and b) saw. You'd know them if you heard them, and you'd say "sweet" (the Saw song was most recently heard in the trailer for deja vu - you know, when you get the feeling you've seen Denzel play the exact same role before; oh, and the movie is called Deja Vu as well - life imitating life imitating art - not a typo). Anyway, I'm happy to say I've found and downloaded both songs, and since I'm such an ambassador to the world of aural pleasure (I'm like Monica Lewinsky's homonymn), the songs are thus: Requiem for a Dream soundtrack: Lux Aeterna (also re-orchestrated more intensely for The Two Towers previews, and called Requiem for a Ring - it can also be heard as the base (not bass) beat for "What You Been Sippin' On" by Jim Jones, Paul Wall, Diddy, and Jha Jha); the other song is on the Saw (1) soundtrack, and is under the title "Hello Zepp" (it's by Charles Clauser or Clousen or something). Don't tell me you're not currently on your knees thanking whatever deity it is you thank for my existance.
Needless to say, I listened to all three (Lux, Ring, and Zepp) walking to work today, and I'm pretty sure I felt as invincible as if I were on PCP. By the time I got to the lab, I was so amped I couldn't wait for the elevator - I tore my way through the doors into the elevator shaft, and climbed the cable with my teeth. It's 230 pm and I'm finally calming down (yet I keep wistling the requiem song to myself, and anyone within earshot). One.

Grudging Congratulations

So for those of you who believe my addiction to sports has no bounds, I refused to watch the super bowl today (how were the commercials? - wouldn't have gotten them here anyway). This is the first one I've missed as long as I can remember; I even remember watching the Bills' first Super-loss, so let's just say it's been a while (I also remember taking a hike/wilderness stroll the day of Bills v. Redskins, and going out of my way to make sure we were back in time for the game... I was 6). I suppose congratulations are in order to the following baby horses who have waited so long for a super bowl ring, those classy players deserving of such an honor: Marvin Harrison, always been a class act; Tony Dungy, same; Dwight Clark, totally abused in the Madden commercial; Bob Sanders, I'd want him in my secondary; Reggie Wayne, Joseph Addai, Dominic Rhodes, Brian Fletcher, Cato June, Robert Matthis, and, of course, Adam Vinetari - seriously, I will be completely flabbergasted if there's an NFL player with more commercials next year than Automatic-Adam. That just about covers it, right? I'm not forgetting anyone... nope, looks pretty thorough to me.
Now, in a related query that will bore anyone with two X-chromosomes (and Jamie Lee Curtis): can the Elias Sports Beaureau please tell me what the overall win-loss record is for teams who score a special teams touchdown? How often is one scored by the losing team!? (note to user: it happened in both national championship games, NCAA and NFL, this year, and both on the opening kickoff). Come on, guys, it's free points! Your offense doesn't even have to take the field. In both cases above, the defense hadn't even been on the field yet, so wouldn't have been tired going right in.
Lake Minotonka reigns supreme!

No longer homeless... and I've got a new move

Guess what's got two thumbs and has a place to live..... this guy! It's true, may be hard to believe, but the impetus to avoid selling the Big Issue (remember folks, it's a hand up, not a handout) has taken over, and provided motivation to comandeer a dwelling for myself. After finding a lovely landlady named Sonia on the internet, I demanded she display her wares. Wares revealed, I threw down a, umm, down-payment, and now have a room to call my own. It's basically apartments for international students (which means lots of chinese, japanese, malaysian, indonesian.... and me - actually, my current housemate Chava is gonna move in there, so I already have a friend up in that bitch), semi-dorm style (a minus), but very clean and secure (a plus). Another bonus is that I can move in and start paying rent whenever I choose (now that I've paid a deposit) - so basically I'll fulfill the lease for which I've already paid (you know, the one living in squalor) and then move in to my new place, so I don't need to be paying double rent anywhere. My new place is fully furnished, w/ a huge common kitchen and lounge and dining rooms (cleaned everyday, with free wireless in all common areas - sweet). It's also got leather couches and cable/dvd in the lounge - A'll I'll have to do now is fight off all the asian dudes trying to watch Dragon BallZ if I wish to view athletic competition. Or just host gladiator games in the dining room, with Chen Ming Wang vs. Wang Zhi Zhi leading off the compass-joust event. To be honest, I was sold as soon as I realized I'd be living in a Mario castle:

Legitimately, though, it's really nice on the inside, similar to Homewood, but newer and cleaner. And it's also about 100 m (i'm slowly acquiescing to the metric system, someone save me - I don't think I can deal with multiples of 10 on the daily, too confusing) from the market (which you may remember as the Best. Grocery. Ever. So basically it's not perfect (due to the large demographic of students, but it'll be straight nonetheless - great spot, good price, safe, and now I can save all that energy i've been spending on the house-hunt. I don't know what to do with myself -- so I spent all day getting sunburnt shooting hoops (had to celebrate D-Wade's Marquette jersey retirement somehow).

In terms of the new people in my current house (I'm here for about 3 more weeks - hopefully I don't contract Dengue fever from my surroundings), there's a pair of German dudes, who are cool, and a french girl and her boyfriend (previously mentioned) who are boring. I mean really low on the fun scale. Not only does this girl not talk (it's not cause she can't speak english, because they speak english to each other), ok, ya, only that. That's it. I don't think it's just me, either, because she hasn't said a word to Chava or Andrew either. I bumped into them in Safeway, stood and "talked" for 3.5 min, and she didn't say one word. Not one. I'd be more engaged by Hellen Keller. Steve, her boyfriend, will converse, but he's a bit of a wet blanket. The german dudes invited them to come drinking with us (I had previously asked what they were doing, they said "same as almost every night..nothing"), and Steve told him (Jonas) that they aren't much of a partying couple, because they're old. How old? you ask. Good question. 20 and 21. Way past their social prime. You're not Romanian gymnasts, guys - though that would explain her steely demeanor. Though last night when they returned home, I asked what they did (try to stay seated, though the excitment may sweep you into a whirlwind of jealousy):

Steve: "We went to the crown casino"

Me: "Oh cool - did you gamble at all?"

S: "Ya - I bet one dollar, and lost it. Then I bet another buck, and won a dollar.. so that's when I quit"

Whoa there, Pete Rose. Slow down, lest you become a gambling addict - a dollar here, a dollar there, next thing you know you're 50 or 60 million in the hole like John Daly. As a slight aside, my bitter attitude here may just be a manifestation of my envy of his self-restraint. After brief reflection, nope, that's not it at all.

The G-dudes, however, are pretty fun. We went out with them on friday night, along w/ 2 other of their G-friends. Let me tell you, if I thought Aussies could drink, Germans rain down fury upon breweries never before seen by the eyes of mortals. The way these cats put away beer, I would almost recommend them as stand in for levies in high-risk areas like New Orleans - they would just consume all liquid in their path. Their one friend, Leif (pronounced Life - foreigner phonics) was also the most arian looking motherfucker I've ever seen. He was leik 6'3" blonde hair blue eyes, and had this menacing marching gait about him (not actually). Cool cat, though, for an Ivan Drago knockoff. These also taught me how to open beer bottles with a leighter (and other common objects leik watter bottles) - apparently everyone in Germany can do this, men and women. I'm queite impressed, to say the least. Now if only I had reason to carry a leighter around. I can't wait to show off to smokers at a cancer research piss-up (booze up).

For all you females out there, don't ever act like the following -> at a pub last night, waiting in line for the bathroom, there's a girl with a sleeveless sweater, complaining about how hot it is:

Me: "Maybe you shouldn't have worn a sweater"

B: "It's actually a knit top - Polo Ralph Lauren"

"I'm unimpressed" - and rolled into the bathroom to pee. Now that I've had time to think about it, I'm still unimpressed. Why is that piece of information necessary to me, and what makes you think it validates overdressing for a pub that's bound to be 150 degrees? (C or F, take your pick).

Finally, and I can't believe I'm asking for advice in this department (it should be my domain), but if there's any new rap out in the US that you think I would like, let me know what it is. I've still been hoarding every Lil Wayne CD/mixtape that comes out, but I'm a bit behind on the rest of the music scene over there. Thanks to Christina, I've started using this Pandora Radio on MSN (it takes music you like and compiles an internet radio station playing artists similar to those you tell it, so you hear new stuff). But still, I'd like to hear who else you'd recommend. White-people-music need not apply