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

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

Feeling Ill

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

going awayag

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

Prison Reform

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

Herrow, Mr. Bawa

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

Let me be frank...

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

Whhhaaaa?

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

I recommend 300

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

Top Three Most Frustrating Day....Ever!

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