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.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Saturday, February 24, 2007
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.
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...
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...
Monday, February 19, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, February 8, 2007
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.
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.
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.
Monday, February 5, 2007
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.
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!
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!
Sunday, February 4, 2007
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
Thursday, February 1, 2007
Maybe I'll never find a place to live
Nnnnooooooo! By now I'm sure you've heard that the racehorse-turned-tripod-[soon to be]-turned-glue [formerly known as] Barbaro has been Kavorki'ized. It is a lot to swallow, I know, especially for champion show dogs who will be mouwing on oversized Kentucky Derby edition cans of Alpo. Perhaps I should be more sensitive, after all, my own dear mother lost her horse - except here's the difference (well, to her, not to me, because as you may or may not know I'm not what you would call an "animal enthusiast"): D's horse lived 10 times as long as B'bo, and was a closer part of her family than Bar-bar was to his spoiled rich owners. They're probably using all the get well soon letters sent by women in funny hats as a dating service for their poncy son, [probably] named Fitzgerald. "I say, Fitzy boy, what say you to a rousing game of croquet round the veranda - we'll have jolly good wickets with our old sport's horseshoes"
Here's my problem: the replay official from the AFC championship has stated that pass interference should not have been called on Ellis Hobbs, yet the end to Barbaro's "suffering" made front page headlines on CNN.com and espn.com. And another thing - where's the raw testosterone and equine-hormone driven relentless power we've come to expect from this four-hooved "athlete"? My boy Russ broke his leg, and guess what: he wouldn't sulk like a pussy and give up will to live; he sure as fuck wouldn't turn down $500,000 offers to impregnate blue-ribbon mares.
Speaking of CNN.com (yes, we were speaking of it), is there no real news anymore? Not that I read the news anyway, but if I did (which I don't, but if I did), I'd think the headlines were drawn up by the creators of 24. Just today, Aqua Teen Hunger Force shut down Boston. Most likely because the mooninites do whatever they want, to whomever they want... at all times. In other [CNN headline] news, "Computer genius missing at sea," "Man arrested selling radioactive (duh) uranium", and "Ray gun makes victims feel as if they're on fire." I hope M sends out her best double-O agent to rectify these situations. Whatever happened to war, black and female democratic candidates, rape, and murder as headlines? Oh that's right, for those last two you may want to point your browser to the baltimoresun.com (14 murders in the first 9 days of 2007, folks.... Baltimore - get in on it!). There are also pieces on a cat trapped in a washing machine on youtube, a video about whether Tyra "Billboard" Banks is getting fat, and, of course "Barbaro was 'a different horse' in final hours." Excuse the apathy (or don't, I don't give a fuck, hence, apathy), but I'm not motivated to read one of these articles, because they just won't inform me of one thing with which I could feel privy entering a conversation. Except the one about ray guns. Ray guns are sweet.
Now, I'm not one to complain about my surroundings, but I can't stand my house here anymore. There are now 11 people living in this motherfucker (did I mention 1 bathroom, if you exclude the outhouse type facility in the backyard), which means there's no room for anything in the kitchen. 11. Eleven. XI. 3 Pairs of people in rooms made for singles. It's ungodly crowded, I wonder if this is what the middle passage was like (come back, Dave Chappelle, seriously, no pressure- I'll write your show for you). My landlady is literally milking this thing for all the cash possible, doing little to nothing in the way of upkeep; and we all know nothing good ever came to milk-maids, other than not getting smallpox. In trying to move out, I've found a place, had it rescinded, found another place, cancelled due to disagreements amongst the three of us searching together, and, most recently, been turned down to come and look at one place by the beach (that I was supposed to come see anyway, tonight) because the girl said she had to go to bed. It was 8 pm when I spoke to her. And she's 24 and living in a beach front apartment. This would be an acceptable bedtime if she'd been up 120 hours straight hosting the worlds largest outdoor brothel, but from the tone of her voice I doubt this to be the case. We'll see though, she's advertising a pool table and minibar in the place, so I shouldn't let such an insignificant thing as "my housemate would be a total buzzkill" ruin the vibe. umm, right?
Before I continue with the house thing, let me interject myself (allow myself to interrupt...myself). My yogurt today was billed as "Berry Basket," yet in the ingredients, and on the front picture, a cherries are included. Cherries aren't berries (though surprisingly, tomatoes are, technically - must be a small, edible fruit w/ multiple seeds - the actual botanical classification of a berry involves a mandible-friendly pericarp and something about fleshy ovaries, let's leave that one on the wikipedia page, thank you very much). Keep the false advertising to yourself, no-name Australian yogurt. Check your mixed berry yogurt, people. Write to your state representative and senator if you have to. What if I were fatally allergic to cherries, and bought berry basket yogurt expecting nothing but harmless, succulent berries. Looks like I'd be in for a deadly surprise; downright pitiful. Oh, and in other backwards southern hemisphere news, some yogurt here comes with the fruit on the top (but not all). I found myself mixing it counterclockwise.
(if you find yourself shaking your head at the above 'cherry ==> pitiful' pun, yes, it was lame, but you're clever. If not, and you just think it was lame after I pointed it out to you, get down from your high horse; I'm damn funny. PSS, I usually don't point out slight jokes meant to be inferred, but for those of you unfamiliar with Tyra Banks, my previous "billboard" comment may have left you scratching your [fore]head. Enough said.)
[No good transition to this, but:] while I haven't seen any animals that you guys are probably looking for pictures of (though my converter was stolen so I can't charge my camera anyway), I think I've mentioned the giant fruit bats. Fantastic. I've never been so encouraged that a flying mammal may swoop in and snatch an infant from a mother's breast at any time, mistaking the big headed people-spawn for a nascent cantaloupe. These things are huge, and they rustle the trees at night, and you can hear their wings when they flap, like sheafs of canvas. There are also these beautiful parrots, like ones you could buy in a pet store (fuck you, Moe); they're green w/ red and yellow wings and blue heads. Very tropical looking, as if they dove through the Lost Boys' paint pit in Hook. Bangarang.
OK, two more quick things. Nevermind, one. OK, two, but i'm going to make the Weirdest. Day. Ever. really quick. So two of my housemates Shana and Andrew were trying to get rid of their rooms, posting them down by Reading's a book store (apparently pronounced Reedings). I was down by there looking for postings for other places, when I started talking to a girl, also looking for places. When she told me where she was visiting that afternoon, sure enough, it was my house. I told her Andrew's and Shana's rooms were already taken, but she could look at either mine or another housemate's. The reason she was looking for a place was becasue her (also stellar) landlady had told her she could choose her own housemates for her sharehouse, but after finding a french girl and her NY boyfriend, the landlady proactively sold the place to a group of Malaysians, so this girl had to move out (it was but a fleeting meeting apparently w/ the french girl, so that never came to fruition--- but wait). When we got back here, I introduced her to Shana and Andrew -- who do you think took Andrew's room... that's right, some French girl and her American boyfriend. All of this unknown to everyone else. Maybe because of the brevity of this blogosphere this doesn't seem as weird, but at the time it was the biggest coincidence ever. And later in the day, while playing monopoly (and, weirdly, rolling doubles literally at will, every time I yelled "hibachi" like Gilbert Arenas), I learned that my housemate shana has the same birthday, born w/in 20 min. of each other on the same day. Late night (after seeing the new Bond) - we ate at Notturna only to see 1) two women sitting in different places who looked like they could be identical twins yet did not acknowledge each other once, and 2) a dude with boobs. Not just man-boobs, actual breasts that looked like they required at least a b-cup. His boyfriend did not seem to mind, but we couldn't help but stare (I'll just say, that it was not me who pointed this out and started staring, I'm way too classy for that).
I'll wrap this up (yes, you're right, I didn't go to the gym, which is why I have all this free time to type my endeavors to ya'll) - remember (some of you) how Craig and I had bought a pizza, and how excited I was to eat it at lunch one day in CRBII, yet when I got to the refrigerator, the pizza box was empty. Yep, someone had actually eaten our pizza, and REPLACED THE EMPTY BOX IN THE FRIDGE. Not naming names, but it was probably the same people who also ate all of the lab-meeting chicken leftovers. The fact they can escape with impunity incenses me. So the other day I had a phenomenal penne w/ shrimp and calamari meal in a tupperware container, half of which I ate for lunch (the pasta mixture, not the tupperware), the rest I left for a mid afternoon snack (at work). I left my fork on top of the vessel in the refrigerator; upon returning 2.5 hours later, I found my fork inside the box. Thinking that odd, I began eating, only to realize someone ate all but ONE of my shrimp. AARRRgGGh. How many things must be stolen before I snap? I am now suspicious of everyone at work except the jews. The kosher ones anyway. I'm like the anti-borat. Who does that,though, seriously? Not only did someone go in the drawer in the fridge (that's how I roll), but then opened my lunch, used my fork, and put it back together like everythign was cool. Everything is not cool, asshole. In the same vein as my desire to wire a bike to 120 Volts in the back yard of our apt. on calvert st tempting a potential thief, I think I'll flavor my next shrimp concoction with pure habanero, or industrial grade laxative.
Here's my problem: the replay official from the AFC championship has stated that pass interference should not have been called on Ellis Hobbs, yet the end to Barbaro's "suffering" made front page headlines on CNN.com and espn.com. And another thing - where's the raw testosterone and equine-hormone driven relentless power we've come to expect from this four-hooved "athlete"? My boy Russ broke his leg, and guess what: he wouldn't sulk like a pussy and give up will to live; he sure as fuck wouldn't turn down $500,000 offers to impregnate blue-ribbon mares.
Speaking of CNN.com (yes, we were speaking of it), is there no real news anymore? Not that I read the news anyway, but if I did (which I don't, but if I did), I'd think the headlines were drawn up by the creators of 24. Just today, Aqua Teen Hunger Force shut down Boston. Most likely because the mooninites do whatever they want, to whomever they want... at all times. In other [CNN headline] news, "Computer genius missing at sea," "Man arrested selling radioactive (duh) uranium", and "Ray gun makes victims feel as if they're on fire." I hope M sends out her best double-O agent to rectify these situations. Whatever happened to war, black and female democratic candidates, rape, and murder as headlines? Oh that's right, for those last two you may want to point your browser to the baltimoresun.com (14 murders in the first 9 days of 2007, folks.... Baltimore - get in on it!). There are also pieces on a cat trapped in a washing machine on youtube, a video about whether Tyra "Billboard" Banks is getting fat, and, of course "Barbaro was 'a different horse' in final hours." Excuse the apathy (or don't, I don't give a fuck, hence, apathy), but I'm not motivated to read one of these articles, because they just won't inform me of one thing with which I could feel privy entering a conversation. Except the one about ray guns. Ray guns are sweet.
Now, I'm not one to complain about my surroundings, but I can't stand my house here anymore. There are now 11 people living in this motherfucker (did I mention 1 bathroom, if you exclude the outhouse type facility in the backyard), which means there's no room for anything in the kitchen. 11. Eleven. XI. 3 Pairs of people in rooms made for singles. It's ungodly crowded, I wonder if this is what the middle passage was like (come back, Dave Chappelle, seriously, no pressure- I'll write your show for you). My landlady is literally milking this thing for all the cash possible, doing little to nothing in the way of upkeep; and we all know nothing good ever came to milk-maids, other than not getting smallpox. In trying to move out, I've found a place, had it rescinded, found another place, cancelled due to disagreements amongst the three of us searching together, and, most recently, been turned down to come and look at one place by the beach (that I was supposed to come see anyway, tonight) because the girl said she had to go to bed. It was 8 pm when I spoke to her. And she's 24 and living in a beach front apartment. This would be an acceptable bedtime if she'd been up 120 hours straight hosting the worlds largest outdoor brothel, but from the tone of her voice I doubt this to be the case. We'll see though, she's advertising a pool table and minibar in the place, so I shouldn't let such an insignificant thing as "my housemate would be a total buzzkill" ruin the vibe. umm, right?
Before I continue with the house thing, let me interject myself (allow myself to interrupt...myself). My yogurt today was billed as "Berry Basket," yet in the ingredients, and on the front picture, a cherries are included. Cherries aren't berries (though surprisingly, tomatoes are, technically - must be a small, edible fruit w/ multiple seeds - the actual botanical classification of a berry involves a mandible-friendly pericarp and something about fleshy ovaries, let's leave that one on the wikipedia page, thank you very much). Keep the false advertising to yourself, no-name Australian yogurt. Check your mixed berry yogurt, people. Write to your state representative and senator if you have to. What if I were fatally allergic to cherries, and bought berry basket yogurt expecting nothing but harmless, succulent berries. Looks like I'd be in for a deadly surprise; downright pitiful. Oh, and in other backwards southern hemisphere news, some yogurt here comes with the fruit on the top (but not all). I found myself mixing it counterclockwise.
(if you find yourself shaking your head at the above 'cherry ==> pitiful' pun, yes, it was lame, but you're clever. If not, and you just think it was lame after I pointed it out to you, get down from your high horse; I'm damn funny. PSS, I usually don't point out slight jokes meant to be inferred, but for those of you unfamiliar with Tyra Banks, my previous "billboard" comment may have left you scratching your [fore]head. Enough said.)
[No good transition to this, but:] while I haven't seen any animals that you guys are probably looking for pictures of (though my converter was stolen so I can't charge my camera anyway), I think I've mentioned the giant fruit bats. Fantastic. I've never been so encouraged that a flying mammal may swoop in and snatch an infant from a mother's breast at any time, mistaking the big headed people-spawn for a nascent cantaloupe. These things are huge, and they rustle the trees at night, and you can hear their wings when they flap, like sheafs of canvas. There are also these beautiful parrots, like ones you could buy in a pet store (fuck you, Moe); they're green w/ red and yellow wings and blue heads. Very tropical looking, as if they dove through the Lost Boys' paint pit in Hook. Bangarang.
OK, two more quick things. Nevermind, one. OK, two, but i'm going to make the Weirdest. Day. Ever. really quick. So two of my housemates Shana and Andrew were trying to get rid of their rooms, posting them down by Reading's a book store (apparently pronounced Reedings). I was down by there looking for postings for other places, when I started talking to a girl, also looking for places. When she told me where she was visiting that afternoon, sure enough, it was my house. I told her Andrew's and Shana's rooms were already taken, but she could look at either mine or another housemate's. The reason she was looking for a place was becasue her (also stellar) landlady had told her she could choose her own housemates for her sharehouse, but after finding a french girl and her NY boyfriend, the landlady proactively sold the place to a group of Malaysians, so this girl had to move out (it was but a fleeting meeting apparently w/ the french girl, so that never came to fruition--- but wait). When we got back here, I introduced her to Shana and Andrew -- who do you think took Andrew's room... that's right, some French girl and her American boyfriend. All of this unknown to everyone else. Maybe because of the brevity of this blogosphere this doesn't seem as weird, but at the time it was the biggest coincidence ever. And later in the day, while playing monopoly (and, weirdly, rolling doubles literally at will, every time I yelled "hibachi" like Gilbert Arenas), I learned that my housemate shana has the same birthday, born w/in 20 min. of each other on the same day. Late night (after seeing the new Bond) - we ate at Notturna only to see 1) two women sitting in different places who looked like they could be identical twins yet did not acknowledge each other once, and 2) a dude with boobs. Not just man-boobs, actual breasts that looked like they required at least a b-cup. His boyfriend did not seem to mind, but we couldn't help but stare (I'll just say, that it was not me who pointed this out and started staring, I'm way too classy for that).
I'll wrap this up (yes, you're right, I didn't go to the gym, which is why I have all this free time to type my endeavors to ya'll) - remember (some of you) how Craig and I had bought a pizza, and how excited I was to eat it at lunch one day in CRBII, yet when I got to the refrigerator, the pizza box was empty. Yep, someone had actually eaten our pizza, and REPLACED THE EMPTY BOX IN THE FRIDGE. Not naming names, but it was probably the same people who also ate all of the lab-meeting chicken leftovers. The fact they can escape with impunity incenses me. So the other day I had a phenomenal penne w/ shrimp and calamari meal in a tupperware container, half of which I ate for lunch (the pasta mixture, not the tupperware), the rest I left for a mid afternoon snack (at work). I left my fork on top of the vessel in the refrigerator; upon returning 2.5 hours later, I found my fork inside the box. Thinking that odd, I began eating, only to realize someone ate all but ONE of my shrimp. AARRRgGGh. How many things must be stolen before I snap? I am now suspicious of everyone at work except the jews. The kosher ones anyway. I'm like the anti-borat. Who does that,though, seriously? Not only did someone go in the drawer in the fridge (that's how I roll), but then opened my lunch, used my fork, and put it back together like everythign was cool. Everything is not cool, asshole. In the same vein as my desire to wire a bike to 120 Volts in the back yard of our apt. on calvert st tempting a potential thief, I think I'll flavor my next shrimp concoction with pure habanero, or industrial grade laxative.
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