My hair is growing back too fast...

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

Daylight Savings

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

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

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

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

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

The Madness Begins

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shameful Plug

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

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

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

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

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

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

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