Good Thing I Quit Grad School, Part 5299

I gotta tell you, folks. I didn't really think I'd be getting a new reason so quickly. I almost don't know how to react.

I guess it wasn't clear enough that grad school wasn't for me when my potential thesis imploded in my face. Oh good heavens, no. We needed a clearer sign, a more obvious sign.

Something that made me overlook the unbearable stress and the long hours and the lack of good ideas and the challenge of finding motivation and the frustrations of teaching and the pressure of publication. You know, all that made leaving seem like a good idea, but the payoff--oh, the payoff!--still seemed so sweet. Tenure! Research! Comfort! Leisure! Joy!

Sure, it's a bitch of a road to get to the end and finish your dissertation, but once that Ph.D. is superglued to the end of your name, surely the riches of the academic life are to follow. And how could one possibly resist the allures?

I'm sorry, what was that?...

...Yeah, that'll do it.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go pat myself on the back for a little while.

(Thanks to Karen of Current Rewind for the link!)

Good Thing I Quit Grad School, Part 5298

I am what you'd call a recovering academic. They say the first step is admitting you have a problem, but when you're an academic and you're stuck in a pattern of self-defeating soul-suckery, sometimes admission just isn't enough. When you're in that deep, you need to get out.

Fortunately, I've come out the other side and lived to tell the tale. And sure, there have been moments where I've had my doubts, wondered if I made the correct call. Today, however, was one of those days that reassured me I did, in fact, make the right decision.

When I was still fresh-faced and bright-eyed (i.e. first semester), I wrote a paper for a science fiction seminar on Coheed and Cambria. It felt like the right choice to me: it was sci-fi related but off the beaten path, and it allowed me to bring in multidisciplinary elements instead of merely writing about a book and some articles. As I developed the paper, the whole thing felt incredibly strong to me, and I was really proud of the ideas I was coming up with.

The general thesis, in two sentences, was that Coheed and Cambria--by utilizing music albums, online forums, comic books, and other nontraditional media to share their saga--were essentially the science fiction pulps of the new millennium. If writing was dead, or dying, in that millennium, their music represented both a rejection of writing and a vehicle through which sci-fi plots could be conveyed to the masses.

I loved it. I turned it into my Master's thesis. I had for a while considered revising it into an article. The only problem was, I had written it with only four of the five planned albums in the series completed. Then I left grad school before the final chapter was released and the whole idea was shelved.

Good thing. Today, Coheed announced the plans for the new record:

With “Year of the Black Rainbow,” we will be releasing a deluxe package that includes a NOVEL OF THE SAME NAME. Not a graphic novel, but a full 300+page prose novel, which will tell the origins of Coheed and Cambria, and much more. There will be no mystery to this story, you will be able to explore it like never before.

As a Coheed fan, I am stoked by this. But if I was still a grad student, I would be pissed.

A novel. Not a comic book, but a novel. Like, just words on paper. The most traditional storytelling medium ever invented.

And...boom goes my thesis.

Good thing I got out of the academic game! Otherwise, I'd be singing "What did I do to deserve this?" from now until the blood red summer.

What Happened to the Funny?

That's actually a hypothetical question.

I gotta tell you: I have no idea.

See, my two blogs operate in very different ways. With A Rapturous Verbatim, I tend to spend at least a day or two (if not more) ruminating on the topic I discuss before I ever sit down to start writing. So while I really do try hard to make sure that I post with some kind of regularity, the frequency of updates there is just not going to be that high. Truly profound things just don't happen every day, you feel me?

This blog, however, is and always has been about embracing the sudden, the random, the brief, and mostly the funny. It's lighthearted and unserious, and was started with the simple mission of allowing me to post things that didn't involve long stretches of contemplation. If I saw something and thought it was silly, or said something to someone that I thought was funny, then bam--Tournament time.

So it would seem logical to assume that, as it's been exactly one month since my last post, nothing funny has happened. That's not exactly true.

My focus has just been in a different place lately, is all. I pursued a job opportunity, which I eventually got (!!!), and have focused on steeling myself for the big transition.

I've also been trying to get back into the swing of my weight loss scheme, which has stalled out a bit lately what with impromptu vacations and the impending holidays.

And really, the funniest thing I've done lately is make a semi-drunken video of me dancing to Phoenix's "Fences," but that was also to make someone very special happy, so...that's more of a private thing.

So take heart, all two or three of you that actually read this. I have not abandoned you, and I promise I'll be back to form soon.

How I Met My Doppelgänger

One of the many fine television programs Karen and I watched during my fortnight in Texas was How I Met Your Mother. It's her favorite show, so it was a no-brainer that we'd watch at least some, but since both she and I believe in treating the people who make the series right, we decided to watch it from the start and work through it sequentially. It's been slow going, but awfully rewarding.

One of the things you get to see when you follow this method is the development of the series' voice, the way in which it slowly finds its groove and, if its talent is strong enough, settles into it. Such is the case with HIMYM, but I have not gotten far enough to really see it reach that point yet.

Nevertheless, Karen treats me occasionally with wonderful snippets from later episodes, just so I know what I'm missing. And today, she shared with me a speech from the most recent episode, delivered by Marshall (portrayed by the incomparable Jason Segel), that she insisted captured me in an eerily accurate way.

I watched the video and, I have to say, I agree.

Aww. Look at you. Had a girlfriend for five minutes and think you can play with the big boys. Adorable. Son, I’ve been in a relationship since you had a ponytail and were playing Dave Matthews on your momma’s Casio. I’m a good boyfriend in my sleep. I can rock a killer foot rub with one hand and brew a kickass pot of chamomile in the other that would make you weep. Hell, I’ve forgotten more about microwaving fat-free popcorn and watching Sandra Bullock movies than you’ll ever know. But thanks for your concern, rook.

All of which is a roundabout way of saying that, yes, I do believe I will be seeing this series through to its end. What can I say? It speaks to me.

Don't Mess With Schnauzers

As a result of a set of events that, frankly, would never, in any world, be blogworthy, I have found myself in deep East Texas for the past week, and will continue to be here until next Sunday. And while, yes, I am mostly here for a person--people, really, since she does, after all, have parents and siblings and one damn cute nephew--I am also here on a fact-finding mission. My task: to catch a glimpse of what her everyday life is like in this place that was once foreign to me.

If I've learned anything in my short few days here, it's that, with the exception of feeder roads along the interstates--which have to be the most amazing things I have ever seen--things are not all that much different than they are in New Jersey. It's a bit slower, there are more wide open spaces, and I've seen farms a-plenty, but there's enough commerce to make my Northeastern heart skip a few beats. And though it will surely seem blasphemy to my loyal Jersey-based readers, I would rather live in San Antonio than spend another day in New York City. There, I said it.

I'd like to think my open-mindedness has played a huge part in making me feel welcome and comfortable here. The point at which I knew I must have been doing something right was when her dog Riesling pounced on me and pawed at my crotch when I got in the door. Just like old times!

Perhaps the nicest part of the trip has been how natural it's all felt, despite being bereft of major activities thus far. San Antonio was the exception, yes, but the rest of this past week has consisted of running errands, watching movies, catching up on TV, and generally spending time with each other. And you know what? I love that. Couldn't ask for more.

So, unsurprisingly, Thursday night was spent in front of the TV in our pajamas, doing the cute cuddling thing (cue the "aww"), enjoying the NBC comedies. The DVR allowed us to never run out of quality programs to watch, and as a result we stayed up until 1:35am. And I, still feeling the cuteness, requested she tuck me in and kiss me goodnight, to which she happily obliged.

As we made our way back toward my bedroom, Ries departed from her spot on the couch and started walking around. She'd been on the couch for a few hours with us, presumably asleep, and had woken up when we went to go to bed. So she paced while we moved, and as we poured glasses of water, she trotted slowly into my bedroom for a few minutes and then marched right back out. Adorable.

So I crawled into bed, pulled my sheets up to my neck, and...felt wetness. I stopped, alarmed. I'd felt this before--this will be a story for another time, I promise--so I asked her if she felt something on the sheet. Sure enough, she did. So I immediately jumped out, looked down, and found a large spot on the quilt, soaked through the sheets, mattress cover, and feather-top.

I love ya, Riesling, but damn it, pooch, why'd you have to pee right where I slept for three nights!

Which brings me to my next Texas first: I've never done laundry at 2:00am before. And just in case you were wondering, no, that's not something I'd like to repeat any time soon.

The Truth Hurts

After I attended his engagement party this past weekend, I've been trying to maintain better contact with Jeff, my best friend from high school. We went to different colleges halfway across the country from each other and, unfortunately, slipped slowly out of contact over time. But some things just don't go away without a fight, and though he has moved from Wayne to South Bend and now to Denver, clearly our friendship is one of them.

So as I watched Jeopardy! this evening, my ears couldn't help but be perked up by one of the Double Jeopardy! categories: "Steve Buscemi films." Jeff is a big time fan of Buscemi's work, so my immediately response was to text him and let him know that he may want to turn on his television and catch it.

Our exchange, however, took a bit of a turn. Here's how it went:

Me (7:14:09 pm): Don't know what time Jeopardy! comes on by you, but there's a whole category on Steve Buscemi films in Double Jeopardy! tonight.
Jeff (7:16:06 pm): I dont know either now that i think   dunno if ill be out of work b4 it tho    dont be in such a hurry to get a job they suck
Me (7:31:47 pm): Try living at home with your parents and having no social life or career prospects. You'll WISH you were working.
Jeff (7:32:25 pm): Touche salesman

Granted, missing Jeopardy! is not, in most cases, a terribly lamentable offense. But it's nice to know that I can feel like the benchmark of twentysomething misery for all my friends. At least I'm doing something well.

Why Grammar Matters, Part 48,732

I know that the Internet is really the last place I should be looking if I'm expecting to find sound grammatical structure and respect for Standard Written English. But every now and then you see something that makes your eyes bug out of your head so badly that you just can't write it off as a simple typo. Tonight was one of those nights.

An acquaintance of mine on Facebook, who shall remain anonymous, was attending a concert this evening. And so he posted a status update declaring, "MJ at Summer Jam, Obama on the text...Yall should be afraid of what imma do next..."

A friend of his (whom I do not know) read this and understood that he was rhyming in an urban style. And, since he is presumably not a fan of this style, he wanted to make clear to said acquaintance that he wanted nothing to do with him.

Unfortunately, the friend did not realize that in order to turn that particular verb from the present to the present participle, one must double the consonant at the end in order to keep the vowel sound from becoming long.

Even more unfortunately, the friend also decided to post entirely in capital letters.

Which means the friend told my acquaintance this:

"WELL SINCE YOUR GONNA START RAPING...... YOU SHOULD STAY AWAY FROM ME... ITS BETTER FOR THE BOTH OF US..."

Truer words may never have been spoken. More accurately spelled ones, maybe, but truer? I think not.

In a related story, if you need to find me this evening, I'll be crying tears across the pages of my Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary.

This Is Worth a Vacation Post; or, Dinner Jealousy, Part One

Unless you've been living under a rock--or don't check out my Facebook or my Twitter--you know I'm posting live from sunny Florida! I've spent the last few days at the Magic Kingdom and Epcot, and have relocated from Disney's Pop Century Resort to my uncle's timeshare at Westgate Vacation Villas. All in all, the R&R has been marvelous, the parks have been stellar, and personal satisfaction is higher than it's been since, oh, April 23.

So why, you might ask, am I taking this opportunity to post a blog when a) I'm on vacation, and b) I don't really post regularly when I'm home, sitting on my ass, doing nothing? Fair point, sirs and madams. The fact is, it's worth posting just to share with you, my few dear readers, the details of a spectacular meal I ate last night.

My love for California Grill goes back to my humble days as an employee of Preakness Gourmet Deli. My old boss, John McKnight (RIP, sir, you went way too soon), heard I was headed to Walt Disney World and suggested a few choice restaurants--one of which was a very nice California-style bistro/grill located atop the Contemporary Resort. I talked my mom into going, and she graciously allowed the meal to go forward even though she balked a bit at the prices. But I learned that day that you pay for what you get--and what I got blew my young mind.

Fast forward to eight years later. I've been to California Grill a few times since, but now I am of age, and therefore capable of taking advantage of the glorious wine list. So last night, Mom and I enjoyed another highly anticipated meal.

Before I get to the meal, allow me to stress that we are on the 15th floor of the Contemporary. Which means, when you look out the window next to my table, you see this to your left:



...and this to your right:



Glorious, no? And all this before the menus even came to the table.

It's not fair to anyone involved for me to go into graphic detail about the foodgasm I experienced during the meal. But suffice to say it was so incredibly delicious that I requested a copy of the menu, so that I could share it most accurately.

Here's the rundown:

• Sushi: Spicy Kazan Roll...Crab, Shrimp, Bay Scallops, Tuna, and Fireball Sauce
• First Course: Heirloom Tomatoes with Buffalo Mozzarella, Red Onion, Micro Basil, and Minus 8 Reduction
• Main Course: Seared Ostrich Filet with Buttery Potato Puree, Wild Mushrooms, Globe Carrots, Fig, and Honeyed Port Reduction
  • paired with a 2006 Frog's Leap Napa Valley Zinfandel

Jealous?

And to top it all off, I considered having for dessert the warm Valrhona chocolate cake, with molten center, house-made salted caramel ice cream, and caramelized golden pineapple. But I resisted, just barely. I opted instead for a glass of the Glenmorangie 10, a delicious Northern Highlands scotch with a rich palate, a very smooth finish, and one of the sweetest, most glorious noses I've ever experienced in a scotch.

Bottom line, it was a dinner made in epicurean heaven. Sure, it cost a bit more than I'd be comfortable paying on a regular basis, but hey, isn't that what vacation's for?

And the kicker is this: we still have one more sexy dinner left to go! Monday night is Le Cellier--and if last night's dinner was any indication, I'll have a lot to say about that meal as well!

Self Esteem? Wii Don't Need No Stinkin' Self Esteem!

Mom's birthday was on Friday, and in keeping with sacred family traditions, she was pretty dodgy about what she wanted. She insisted she didn't want anything (which, while it may be true, is nevertheless unacceptable), and then acquiesced to admitting that a bottle of her preferred port would suffice (which it wouldn't).

A few days before the big day, however, she saw a commercial for Wii Fit. She had no idea what it was or how it worked, but she associated physical fitness with video games and her eyes lit up like a kid's on Christmas morning. She picked my brain on it a little and, after receiving what she felt were satisfactory answers, insisted we go pick it up the next day.

Now, me, I'm psyched by this. I've been wanting a new Wii game--and, in fairness, excuses to play my old Wii games--for a while, and what better way to accomplish this than through the ever-popular excuse, "...but it's good for you!"?

But Mom had designs on one-upping me. Because, clever woman that she is, she realized that her birthday was at the end of the week, and she could use this as an excuse to make someone else pay for her new toy!

And that someone else, naturally, ended up being me and my brother. Happy birthday, Mom.

Since, however, we spent her birthday and the day after working a garage sale--which, if you followed my Twitter or my Facebook, you would know went just fucking spectacularly--today was the first day that we could give Wii Fit a proper test run. So while she got her hair done, I dusted off the Wii, calibrated the Balance Board, got the Internet running on it again, did a system update...you know, all those things Mom would never give a shit about, but nonetheless maximized the performance of the console so that she could enjoy her gamin--um, I mean, fitness experience most optimally.

But what kind of son would I be if I gave it to her cold? Oh no, this called for a test run.

So I load the software, set the Balance Board up, and follow the on-screen instructions. Cake! It starts asking me questions like height and age, and I dutifully oblige. Then, the big moment: step onto the board! I do, and, per instructions, relax my shoulders and stand naturally. A charmingly high-pitched voice counts down, chants "Measuring!" a few times, and then brightly declares, "All done!" And with that, they give me my results.

My balance, as it turns out, is a little off: I lean to the left. A touch surprising, since I tend to favor my right side, but okay, no big deal.

Next, my BMI.

BIG DEAL.

I'm not about to divulge what the device told me on the Internet--that's why I locked my fucking profile with a password post-haste, because it's my shame and mine alone, damn it--but let's just say it wasn't pretty. And as if that wasn't demoralizing enough, the little Mii figure next to the scale blew up like a balloon as the scale went up. So now, not only do I feel like a fat bastard, but my avatar looks like one too. Thanks, Wii Fit! I didn't need my body-image issues reinforced at all today!

But hey, at least they let me set goals. However, since they'll only allow you to set a maximum weight loss goal of 20 pounds, let's just say I'll be setting quite a few goals before Hot Air Balloon Mii gets deflated at all. Bastards...

You'd Think I'd Have Learned

Some things never change. Other things don't change even though we wish they would. Today's missive falls under the category of the latter.

Since Mom and I are both home during the afternoons, we've had to become accustomed to each other's habits. Me, I like keeping to myself. I'll run errands in the morning, but when it's afternoon, I want to sit my fat ass down and apply for jobs, fuck around on the Internet, watch TV, read, and write. It's me time.

Mom's version of me time consists of watching TV on the big screen in the living room. And while she is more than entitled to do so, it becomes somewhat inconvenient because Mom's hearing ain't what it used to be. So she watches TV loudly. Really loudly.

Which is fine if she's watching Mystery Diagnosis or Little People, Big World or afternoon baseball.

Not so much if it's A Baby Story.

The other day, I heard screams coming from that TV the likes of which I'd never heard before. And, like an idiot, I went out to see what all the ruckus was about. So I opened the door of my room, turned left, and stared directly at the largest TV in my house.

And what did I see? Why, a baby crowning, of course!

Naturally, I ran screaming back into my room, which my mother just couldn't understand. Quoth her, "You're going to see that eventually someday!" Exactly, Mom. Someday. When it's my wife, and my own flesh and blood protruding from her loins. Not some crazed stranger who consented to be on TV, and an unwilling newborn half-hanging out of her mercifully pixelated cooch.

All of which confirmed for me that it's best if we leave each other be in the afternoons. That is, until this afternoon, as I was playing poker on my BlackBerry and getting my ass handed to me. In my frustration, I naturally swore a few times and got the rage out of me, but my mother overheard me and asked me what was wrong. I told her she'd laugh if I explained, but she insisted, so I again left my room to go tell her.

And after I told the story, what was the first thing I heard from the TV? "This will involve dilating her cervix so that the doctor can use this needle to puncture the amniotic sac and break her water."

GAH!

All of which has me convinced that when it is my wife, and it is my flesh and blood entering the world, the first thing Daddy's gonna do is hire someone else to work the video camera.

The Customer Isn't Always Right

I know for a fact that the Starbucks Coffee Company will not live or die as a result of the three dollars they just received from me--three dollars for a Caramel Macchiato, sitting in a cup right next to my laptop right now as I sit waiting in their E. College Ave. location. Nevertheless, I felt exceptionally good about the money I spent on this drink, for a reason you might not suspect.

Having worked in food service and retail for approximately six consecutive years in my teens, I understand that it is an unforgiving profession. Whether you in your travels want to admit this or not, the people behind the counter or register are, occasionally, trying to serve you as best they can. Sure, they can be cold and rude and unhelpful on occasion, but if they really were that ineffective or foul-tempered all the time, they wouldn't be employed for very long. What I'm trying to get at here is that sometimes, the clerk's shitty mood is actually the fault of the customer--perhaps not you, but someone behind you that has left an indelibly crappy mark on his or her day.

Case in point: an older woman (perhaps in her 50s or 60s) came up to the counter and asked the clerk something in a voice I could not hear clearly. He responded that they only do samples three times a day, but that the cookies are available for purchase if she was interested. The woman proceeded to launch a passive-aggressive tirade explaining that she would never come back to that Starbucks again. She even went so far as to tell the children that were accompanying her that the store was "stingy," and when stores are that cheap, they don't deserve her business. She proceeded to take her drinks and leave.

I was intrigued by the exchange, and particularly by the manner in which the clerks and baristas handled both themselves and the situation. They were professional, straightforward, and polite--all while simultaneously remaining unwilling to kowtow to the rude and unreasonable requests of this snarky woman. I was, as I typically am, thrilled to see people refuse to acknowledge those who believe they are, for no good reason, more deserving or privileged than others.

All of this I observed while seated at the very table I am at now. I'd been here for about a half hour, and was sitting waiting for Darrell to arrive and help me pass the time while Karen defended her Master's essay. I had bought no drink and was simply planning on mooching the free Internet and killing time in peace while spending no money. But the interaction between the staff and the woman was such that I couldn't keep out of my chair.

I went to the counter and ordered a Caramel Macchiato. Then I asked the barista making my drink what had happened. Turns out she was a "regular" whose orders were exceptionally demanding and complicated, whose children left messes at all the tables they used when they came in, and whose sensibilities were apparently incensed by the clerks refusal to give all her children a sample of one of the cookies. Upon hearing the entire story, I told them in no uncertain terms that the only reason I'd purchased my drink was because of how marvelously they had handled the situation--right down to the clearly sarcastic but absolutely deserved "Have a wonderful day, ma'am!" the barista delivered as she left.

I didn't buy the drink because I thought Starbucks desperately needed my three dollars. But I felt good about spending it because I understand how difficult the situation must have been for them, and they handled it with aplomb. Little Miss Demanding was entirely in the wrong, trying to take advantage of the outdated mantra that the customer is always right. What most people these days fail to realize is that the expression, while generally true, does have its limits. And when you ask a place of business to just give you something for free, they are well within their rights to refuse--and when they do, it is you, and not them, that are wrong.

So kudos to the men in black and green for defusing the situation well. They've been laughing about and discussing it for the past fifteen minutes, and it's been great to overhear them because even now there's no malice, just disbelief and frustration. It's a nice reminder that they're not just obnoxious douchebags who want nothing to do with you--they're flesh-and-blood humans with a job to do who only want to do it as easily, effectively, and quickly as possible. And sure, we're all pretty jaded when it comes to service and retail because of the Clerksian notion that just because they serve you doesn't mean they like you. But how much of that do we bring on ourselves because we selfishly think we're entitled to something special because they're the server and we're the customer?

If I learned anything from my time at Trader Joe's, it's that good retail is not a one-way street: it's an exchange. A clerk's attempts to serve you well only succeed if you are willing to give a little bit back too. That's not some radical, brilliant notion either--just good old fashioned common sense and human decency. Wouldn't it be great to see those things making a comeback?

The Brave Little Toaster

My family has had a long, illustrious, and somewhat infamous history with toasters. Yes, toasters. Not toaster ovens, for those are far too complicated for us to handle with any kind of competency and, though we may not know much, we at least know our place. Besides, if we can't handle "adjust the setting, push the button," I doubt we're ready for such an upgrade.

But our other problem is that, for some reason, we have historically never purchased toasters new. Rather, we have inherited them "gently" used from other locales. Our current toaster, for instance, was once my grandmother's, and after she passed away four years ago, we took it to replace the one we had, which was (unsurprisingly) on the fritz. For four years, it has served us admirably well.

It does, however, have one interesting quirk: if you adjust the setting mid-toast, it does not take kindly, and will erratically elongate or shorten the toasting cycle at its own mechanical discretion. And since I do not like my Eggos to resemble hockey pucks, I am forced to watch my waffles diligently and pop the button whenever I feel they are at the peak of their warm fluffiness.

This morning, however, in an act of appeasement, I let the first two waffles toast to the end of the cycle. Sure, they were a little crisp, but at least I had the prospect of my third waffle to satiate me. As I ate, I placed the third waffle into the slot, depressed the button, and went to enjoy my pucks.

No more than ten seconds later, the button popped my waffle up. Alarmed at how quickly it finished, I went and felt the waffle thoroughly. (I'm sure you're giggling right now. Trust me, I am too.) Sure enough, warm at the edges, but cold in the middle. Back in for more, I declared! Once more, I depressed the button.

I didn't even sit back down again when the button popped once more. Only this time, my insolence had clearly angered the toasting gods.

For my waffle was not sitting in its slot, awaiting my approbation. No, it had been flung completely free of the toaster, and was sitting a foot and a half to the left of the enraged appliance.

So naturally, I just sat back down with the waffle and ate it quietly and contentedly. Was it perfect? No.

But holy shit, I do not want to piss that toaster off again...

Merging FAIL

I have defended New Jersey drivers for quite some time. I'm not about to risk my credibility by saying we're the best drivers in the country, but a) we're a hell of a lot better than Maryland drivers (who suck...A LOT), and b) we drive crappily, but we drive crappily better than any other crappy drivers out there.

Despite this, New Jerseyans do have an issue with one particular driving maneuver, and I've never understood why.

Merging, contrary to popular belief in the Garden State, is not that fucking hard. Really now. It's like a zipper--one at a time, just like they taught us in elementary school--and the farther behind the merge that you begin to "zip up," the less of a bottleneck the merge itself becomes.

Today, while driving east on I-80 coming home from State College, I experienced one of the most abysmal merges of all time. The highway already had a solid white line between the left and middle lane, and most traffic was in the right two lanes. One mile before, a large orange sign indicated that three lines would be reduced to one. Thinking ahead, I switched into the right lane. My job was done.

But since most of the driving public isn't as smart as me, they took the impending merge as an opportunity to spread out further, from two lanes into all three. So now, when the first lane merged over, where it had earlier been empty, it was now a disaster in and of itself. Awesome.

The second part of the merge was even better, though, because with two lanes of impatient motherfuckers trying to get one inch ahead, I should have expected the worst. But I didn't. So when I saw cars shifting quickly into the shoulder just ahead of me, I was alarmed.

Then I noticed why. Someone had rear-ended another person. But it wasn't someone merging in who got hit. It was two people who were in the same lane the whole time. Someone merged in, the car in front stopped, the car behind didn't.

Now, for a little deductive reasoning. If we examine the rules of merging above, we have to conclude that the person who failed was either a) the one who merged in when they shouldn't, or b) the guy who wouldn't let someone else merge in appropriately. So who's the only innocent one? The guy who got rear-ended. There's no justice.

Sure, I got a road-raging laugh out of it, but it's kinda sad too. It's not really that hard, folks. Just remember: it's like a zipper.

I'm Proud of My Lower Abs

I know what you're thinking. He's fucking with us. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to tell he's got body-image issues. He doesn't really mean this, does he?

I hate to break it to you, but I do mean it. But not because of their amazing definition (which is nonexistent). No, I'm proud of their resilience.

As part of my summer of self-improvement, I've taken to long walks on a (mostly) daily basis, and I've been trying to work some kind of muscle-building exercises in as well so that I can build lean muscle--which will, presumably, also make me less fat.

Two weeks ago, I decided to start with some abdominal work. I had a relatively simple routine that I'd read about a while ago, and I decided to kick it into gear and see how I felt. I started with the upper abs, then the obliques, the middle abs, and the lower abs. On the first set, I got through 50 reps, so I figured 50 across the board would be no sweat.

BIG mistake.

Because after 200 crunches, which were relatively straightforward, I got to the lower abs. Muscles that, I'm almost positive, I've never used before in my life. So color me surprised when the first 10 hurt more than the other 200 combined. But I persisted. No pain, no gain, right?

Well, I sure as hell hope I gained enormously because by the time I was done, I was in a lot of fucking pain. Oh, sweet merciful heavens. I could barely move. I was sore for days.

But after I was able to move again, I got back on the horse. Knocked the reps down from 50 to 30 (baby steps, after all), but I've been at it for well over a week now, and whenever I do those lower ab reps, they don't hurt nearly as badly. I can get off the floor on my own! I'm capable of hopping right back in two days later! Amazing! Boys, I'm really proud of you!

Now, if we could just work on the spare tire, the love handles, and the man boobs, we might be getting somewhere...

An Exchange for the Ages

Me (1:20): and i will say this right now
Me (1:20): i will be in Canada tomorrow night
Me (1:21): and if i can't find Game Seven of the Stanley Cup Final in Canada...
Me (1:21): i will lose ALL FAITH IN HUMANITY
Me (1:21): TV DON'T FAIL ME
Karen (1:21): yeah... that just wouldn't be right
Me (1:21): i may go over the Falls in a bucket on Saturday morning if that happens
Me (1:21): just warning you
Karen (1:22): please don't
Karen (1:22): the snakes at the bottom will kill you if the fall doesn't
Karen (1:22): but the fall will
Karen (1:22): so the snakes will just attack your dead body
Me (1:22): but will they skip across the water to reach my bloody carcass?
Me (1:23): thereby creating...wait for it...
Me (1:23): ...snakes on a hydroplane?
Karen (1:23): Jesus H. Christ, you went there.

(What's really sad is that almost anyone who actually reads this blog knows I was working on SOME kind of Snakes on a Plane pun from the moment that second message hit my screen at 1:22. And it didn't take very long, did it?)

My Man-Up Moment of the Day

No one ever likes admitting that they're wrong. It doesn't matter if it's a minor detail or a substantial, life-changing matter, changing one's mind too often is made to feel like a sign of weakness--we often judge ourselves by our stringent adherence to that which we believe.

But today, I had a revelatory moment. One that was so earth-shaking, that so devastatingly impacted me to my core, that I can't ignore that I've been changed forever. And I need to share this with all of you, so that I can get it out in the open and begin to move on.

Here goes...

...I don't hate Kohl's anymore.

I'll give you a moment to let that sink in.

I know! I was shocked too! But there's an explanation. See, I've been tagging along on errands the past two weeks for lack of much else better to do, and I find that tagging along usually entails some kind of personal benefit.

In the past, I've been reluctant to go to Kohl's because, as a fat dude, I've found trying clothes on is like Chinese water torture. I submit because clothes are, you know, a pretty important part of daily life--as I noted to my mother during this very trip, "It's socially unacceptable to walk around naked, and it's personally unacceptable to walk around unfashionable"--but it never feels good trying to squeeze into something that slips on effortlessly at home but feels more like a sausage casing in the store. (And the worst of all is shopping for pants. Self-esteem FAIL.)

But I'm a bit more svelte than I've been in recent years (I used that word loosely, mind you), and while comfort has always driven my clothing choices, I do like looking good. And since Gap, Old Navy, Chaps, and other such preppyish brands are the ones I like most, I've discovered that Kohl's is actually a haven for things that look good and, shockingly, look good on me.

It helps, of course, that three of the five things I purchased were orange. (And before you all have coronaries, the other two have black in them, so at least I was consistent.)

But after buying five articles, and being pretty darn excited about them, I had to confess that I don't actually hate the store anymore. In fact, there was nothing unpleasant about the experience at all. Son of a bitch, I'm changing! How empowering! How exhilirating!

...well, at least until I try to the clothes on. Fingers crossed--I may still hate this place yet.

------------------------

P.S. Happy birthday, Dad!

Shameless Promotion

You may or may not know who the artist responsible for this song is, but that's not really important. There's a story behind the song, which I imagine is pretty darn important, but I don't know it so I can't retell it.

He has a very well-thought-out blog, which you can read here, and it features a whole bunch of links to his other work. He's a rather talented writer, a brilliant thinker, and a not-half-bad photographer.

But if you poke around there at all, you'll figure out one thing really quickly: Adam is one hell of a musician.

And it is with that in mind that I use my little corner of the Internet to second the plea he has Tweeted and Instant Messaged today: "If you have nothing to do for seven and a half minutes, you should go listen to my new recording... Pretty please?"

Click here to listen. It's really quite beautiful, and it might just be the best seven and a half minutes of your day.

Enjoy!

Survivor: Unemployment

I've been home for a week now, and I'm pretty much already sick of having nothing to do.

It seems like I should be living the dream, right? Living at home with very few responsibilities, staying with parents who understand how shitty the economy is and how badly it's crippling my job search, and having lots of free time to work on reading, TV watching, and creative projects. How is that not the life, you may ask?

The answer is that, as I've learned the hard way, when you're used to have some sort of structure for a very long time, it's hard to get accustomed to not having any. No one's making me read or watch or write, so I do it on my own time--which means that, if I'm not feeling it, I'm not doing it. And if I'm not doing that, I'm not doing much else. Thus, boredom sets in right quick.

On the upside, with Mom and I both home without jobs, we have some opportunities to do some fun stuff. (This weekend, we're going to Toronto to see a Blue Jays game--#14 on my list of stadiums attended!) But there's only so far I'll be able to go before I start feeling the monetary pinch, and I wonder what'll happen when I have to hedge my desire to start a fulfilling career with my desperation to make some cash and eventually move the hell out.

So if anyone has suggestions for how to make the most out a day where you have zero plans and expectations, I would love to hear from you. I'll be here waiting--not like I've got much else to do anyway.

Since We're On the Topic of Terrible Ideas...

...who the hell thinks it's a good idea for me to have a BlackBerry?

Apparently, my parents.

See, when I got my Master's, I didn't really want to make a big deal out of it. Sure, it's a great accomplishment, but I didn't want anyone to think I was just having another celebration because I wanted some gifts or recognition out of it. That just ain't me. But my parents wanted to do something nice for me, and far be it from I to stop them.

Originally, the plan involved making sure the repairs to my car were completely covered without me having to put out any money out of pocket. But since my body guy rules and Progressive is a fine, upstanding, easy-to-deal-with company, that isn't likely to be an issue either.

Then the cell phone bill came into town. Fortunately, I was in Princeton at Reunions when it arrived--otherwise, my dad would have called and ripped me a new asshole for running a $113+ text messaging bill. Ouch. So as soon as I got home, heard the news, and got the odor of smelling salts out of my nose, I decided the best course of action was to head to the AT&T Store post haste and upgrade my plan to unlimited texting. Because let's face it: $120 a year beats $120 a month any day of the year.

Upon arrival, Dad immediately started ogling the BlackBerries. I had to laugh a little because, if you know my dad, you know he adores technology, but I just couldn't see what he would actually need a BlackBerry for. (Except, of course, because it's cool.) But we looked, we compared, we discussed--man shopping. And just as we were about to go up to the counter to change the plan, he asked me The Question:

"So...do you want one?"

Far be it from I to stop him.

So tonight we went back and got it. And it's the coolest fucking thing EVER. I can't wait for my first experience blogging from my cellular telephone. Or the first time I Tweet from my cellular telephone. Or any more of the amazing things I can now do with my cellular telephone with an unlimited text, picture message, video message, and data plan.

WIN.

I Have Seen the Face of Death

Actually, I've seen it twice. In the span of five minutes.

First, I read my friend Liz's blog, in which she recently posted the final picture ever taken by a very famous Japanese nature photographer. Before he was mauled to death. By a bear. This picture is exactly what you think it is, but it still doesn't make it any more horrifying.

Darrell and I looked at this before heading to Emily's place for a Memorial Day barbecue, the centerpiece of which was Karen's grill, lovingly delivered from Toftrees for Emily's future enjoyment. Today was the christening, which entailed re-hooking everything up and making sure it all was working right so that we could grill all the deliciousness we've planned to.

And who was in charge of lighting this grill? Of course, it was me, Mr. I Guess The Handyman Genes Never Quite Made It To Me From Dad's Seed.

After a few failures, I did what my father would never do: called for help. So I got Karen on the phone, solicited her advice, and hung up. I did what she said, clicked the ignition button a few times, failed, tried a few more times, and was about a second away from giving up when--

HOLY FUCK!

--which is Manspeak for, "I'm staring down the maw of a giant fireball that came inches away from singeing off all of my facial hair!"

But hey, at least the grill's lit now.

Once my breathing was restored to normalcy--and after I called Karen back to assure her that all went well and I had not, despite my best efforts, burned my face off--I decided that two near-death experiences (even if one was only vicarious) was still too many for one day. So I grabbed another beer, took a long swig, and told Emily, "Hey, there's a picture on the Internet I need to show you..."

Then, as I'm attempting to show Emily the aforementioned picture, she replies, "Make it quick. I need you to cut the melons with a really, really big knife."

Who the hell thinks this is a good idea?

Farewell, Dear Friend

Even though graduation has happened and the diploma is mine, for real and for true, I find myself sitting in my office. Not because of any nostalgic longing to hold on to my academic responsibilities--oh, fuck no. I'm here because it's the only place around that seems to have consistent Internet access.

Ironically, I'm here to avoid the very thing about which I am posting. Once Emily and Darrell decided to bail on hanging out this evening, I needed to go someplace where I didn't feel I'd slip into the trap of sitting on my couch watching TV. It's not that I don't love TV--I've professed often that my cable bill pays for itself by virtue of ESPN HD--but I feel like being slightly more out and about, more in touch with things.

But tomorrow, the journey ends. Tomorrow, I have to pack up my glorious cable box, the spiderwebs of component cables, and the universal remote that has been oh so good to me. In order that I don't get billed for another month's worth of service, it must be dispensed with before the end of the business day.

In less than 24 hours, my beautiful TV will be relegated once more to the indignity that is--[gulp]--basic cable. And so, I offer this humble elegy for my LCD love.

It's been a great ride, my friend. I can't wait to see where the future takes us. I know it will be hard at first, but I promise you this: my Wii will still have component cables plugged in. My DVD player will still upconvert. It will still make use of the highest quality HDMI audio and video. I will not let you simply waste away. We will get through this, I promise. Just stay strong.

...aww hell, I promised myself I wouldn't cry...excuse me...

You Can Take the Internet from the Boy...

It's been a relatively uneventful past few days. Which is pretty much precisely how I like it. Ever since classes ended on May 1, and my work was submitted on May 4, I've been lazy as hell and loving every second of it. Someone once said something along the lines of, "The joy is not in having nothing to do. It's in having lots to do and not doing it anyway." To that person I say: bullshit. My idle hands couldn't be happier right now.

So after a brief jaunt home and a lovely drunken blowout on Tuesday, I woke up early Wednesday morning and decided to take a mystery trip. Though there were a few hiccups (which I will of course detail in a later post), it went off without a hitch. Unfortunately, the downside is that, while stuck in my wireless-free apartment or out of town, I had no Internet access for about 36 hours. No big deal, right?

Yeah, tell that to my Twitter.

So in the interest of catching up on my Internet tendencies without flooding my own Twitter page with about twelve thousand consecutive @replies, I will herein post a series of short comments on some of the things I missed on the World Wide Web over the past two days:

• Wait a second. Jack White has another side project?! For God's sake, man, I understand that The Raconteurs are better than The White Stripes, but each new supergroup will not be better than the last, I promise you!
  
• A great story about why the Yankees haven't made the World Series since 2003. Couldn't have anything to do with pitching, could it?
  
• Texts From Last Night is quickly turning into my favorite site on the Internet ever. My Life Is Crap, you need to step up your game.
  
• I'm genuinely curious to see if any Twitterers or Facebookers actually respond to Karen's offer of a Sega Saturn. I'd take it, but I'm a bona fide, certified Nintendo geek.
  
• If this qualifies as a one-way ticket to Hell, I'm truly fucked.
  
• I know I already addressed TFLN, but this is just fucking spectacular (NSFW).
  
• Seriously considering buying tickets to Kevin Smith's performance at Carnegie Hall. Anyone else interested?
  
• In a related story, I love that Kevin's hockey jersey is #37, even though I should expect nothing less.
  
• I know where this area code is...ROFL!
  
• After receiving three text messages and seeing the remaining 140 characters of Karen's Tweet on Amaretto spent on "mmmmmm (etc.)," I think I may need to pick up some Disaronno from the Wine & Spirits Shoppe on the way home from campus today.
  
• This eBay auction must have shown up on my Twitter feed at least seven or eight times in the last day. I'M NOT GOING TO BUY IT, DAMN IT.
  
• Scare quotes rule. "Accidentally." Suuuuuuuure...
  
• New York Times article on absinthe confirms my original suspicion: the Lucid set with glasses and a spoon was a good value, but in the future, I should really purchase Kübler.
  
• It's friends-only so you'll have to take my word for it, but when people you know Tweet texts from last night, they're much better than mere anonymous TFLNs.
  
• OFF-TOPIC: The radio station in Mackinnon's just started playing "Eruption." AWESOME.
  
• Everyone's semester grades are ending up far better than expected, myself included. I like this trend.
  
• Finally reached the top of my feed! Not sure if I'm happy or sad...

Well, that was exciting. Or not. Time will tell. But since I do need some more excitement in my life, it's time to head to Hulu and catch up on this week's 24.

Writing Where I Oughtn't

It's almost over. By the end of today, all of my formal academic responsibilities will be done with. I'll have successfully completed all the work for my classes, and will only have a small assignment and a set of student papers to grade until I can put this strange chapter of my life to bed.

Despite the relative urgency of the mock thesis proposal that looms over my head, I'm posting on my blog. It doesn't much matter that I've under-read woefully and have only 2 out of 8-10 pages completed. I still run over to my blogs to type away the idle hours.

Which has me pretty darn pleased, if I may say so myself. I've said before that I'm glad grad school didn't kill my love of reading, but I'm even more excited that it hasn't destroyed my desire to write. In fact, I'd argue it's actually ramped my motivation to write up even more.

I've been discussing several of the creative projects that have been bouncing around my head, and it feels like the more I talk about them, the more viable they seem. Each one feels like something worth seeing through, and that's an incredible feeling. I can only hope now that each one ends up the way I see it in my head.

Until then, I probably should click back over to Microsoft Word every once and a while. Five hours left, after all.

I Love My Parents, I Don't Like Being on Fire, and Other Truisms

Who doesn't love Facebook? It's a masterful procrastination tool, a great way of keeping in touch with friends you otherwise wouldn't have wasted your breath on, and by and large is the reason most people my age spend way too much time on the Internet. And while I have grown to like Twitter, the fact that you actually (presumably) know everyone that's Facebook friends with you makes the announcements far more urgent. It's instant content at its craptacularly finest.

But this whole fandom thing? Either I'm getting old or my cynicism is creeping up on my recent bout of optimism, but I just don't follow it anymore.

At first, it was marvelous. It gave me an opportunity to become fans with some of my favorite artistic personalities -- the Dave Matthews Band, Jimmy Eat World, The Decemberists, Kevin Smith -- and, because of the personal nature of Facebook, you could hold on to the illusion that maybe, just maybe, these people were actually listening to you. Amazing!

Then the tide turned. I have to say it was probably a few weeks ago, when the recommendations box suggested I become a fan of Sleeping. Okay, that's fine. I do love sleeping. Fair enough. I won't add it -- I've always been a bit more selective about my Facebook associations than others -- but I get it.

Next came "I Love My MOM." (Yup, emphasis on the MOM. That's just asking for trouble.) This time, I was confounded. Because really, unless your mother did something awful to you as a child -- the kind of awful that gets said mom on the news, and the same kind of awful that few people ever find themselves capable of -- you're going to love your mom. Ditto to "I Love My DAD." Once again, it's pretty self-evident.

I think the straw for me was "Not Being on Fire." Seriously, what the fuck? Are there really enough people who have been on fire before that we passionately need to embrace not being engulfed in flames? And sure, in my Facebook comment stream, Tina made a case that was equal parts preposterous and legitimate (PREPOSTIMATE!), but I still don't buy it.

Just don't burn me at the stake for hating. I'm not a fan.

When Epigraphs Attack

It's no secret that my motivation has been plummeting ever since the light at the end of the Master's tunnel became bright enough for me to see. And even though I've only got a few more days left to pull together (what I hope to God will be) the last seminar paper I'll ever write, I still sit here and procrastinate because I'm unwilling to get the job done.

This has led me to two of my favorite pastimes: baseball (which is back...huzzah!) and reading for pleasure. Both of these things have caused me a little bit of grief as of late.

Considering the latter first, I realized yesterday during a spate of Web surfing that Chuck Palahniuk's most recent book, Snuff, was finally released in paperback. I immediately decided (as I'm wont to do) that a trip to the Barnes and Noble was necessary. I went. I saw. I purchased. Not a problem, right?

Not until I brought it home and decided to start reading it right away. (I really hope my professor doesn't read this...) So I open it up, look over the title page, and flip it to the epigraph.

And what is that epigraph? An excerpt from Act I of John Webster's play The Duchess of Malfi.

The same play I'm writing that aforementioned seminar paper on.

Apparently, the universe was trying to tell me something. Something I didn't listen to, since I proceeded to read the whole book in one sitting. (LibraryThing review forthcoming, for those interested.) And for the record, I regret nothing.

As for my other obsession, let's just say I'm in the midst of an operation -- yes, for those of you curious, Operation 9 -- that should fix a glaring problem with my fandom. In the interest of not sabotaging the success of this mission, I'll not divulge too many details at this time. But suffice to say that details will be forthcoming (likely on Friday morning), along with a backstory and a complete explanation as to why I've been so surreptitious.

Until then, the consider the alert level at orange. Just don't ask me what that means.

Quality Quote Clearinghouse #1

The postmodern world is occasionally not a horrible thing. When one lacks easy access to pen and paper, for instance, one can whip out their cell phone and type out the ridiculous line they just heard, so as to remember it for posterity.

The problem is, when I reach a certain number of "drafts" in my Message menu, I get a little weirded out. They're just sitting there, waiting to be shared, but mostly going untouched. And their number, like bunnies, is multiplying. This must end.

I've thrown a few quotes up on my Twitter lately, but I need to clear out my phone and my brain and put a few beauties up here. Credit given where I can, though some may hate me for attributing it to them. (That's the risk you take saying silly things around me. Deal.)

------------
"There's no mistaking for the lush feel of a vagina."
-Karen, regarding drunken gentlemen who fuck couches when they're trying to fuck women
------------
"It's not that bad. I had pants on!"
-Alicia (like that attribution really shocks anyone)
------------
"Prepare to suck the cock of karma!"
-Kung Fu dude from Pineapple Express (included for being the only line in the movie that actually made me laugh out loud)
------------
"I literally just LOLed. And then I ROFLcoptered a little. It was awkward."
-Darrell, in response to what I thought was a rather clever text message of mine
------------
"Loose slots? We've got 'em!"
-a billboard for an Indiana casino
------------
"I don't know how to write phonetically. I didn't take that class."
-an anonymous Penn State senior, lamenting her inexperience at writing her name down so that the people at graduation would pronounce it correctly
------------

Can't make this shit up, folks. And if my life is any indication, this won't be the last time I do something like this. Hope you LOLed a little. Just watch out for those low-flying ROFLcopters.

Welcome to God's Country, Pop. Ignorant Assholes

Despite my general hatred for most things Pennsylvania, I've actually been an outspoken advocate for the city of Pittsburgh. In my three visits there, I've made a few trips to Kennywood (which is one of my favorite parks), taken in a baseball game at PNC Park (which is a surprisingly gorgeous park for such a subpar team), and enjoyed some of the fine waterfront dining establishments that the city offers. Sure, it may strike some as "dirty," but most cities are, and the idiosyncrasies of the place, in my mind, add to its charm.

The problem from my standpoint is that, from State College, the easiest way to get to Pittsburgh is via Rt. 22, a four-lane highway that treks alternately through mountainous beauty and spots of civilization (typically marked out by Walmarts and McDonald's, unsurprisingly). Once you get past the hideous fog at its start near Hollidaysburg, the drive is actually quite nice. But there are landmarks along the way that one wishes one could unsee.

No, I'm not talking about the super-sketchy 1940s "pool and lounge" that looks like it's been abandoned for decades. Or the Tattoo Barn. Or Climax, which is (I shit you not) the world's only drive-thru strip club -- rather ironically located in a town called Congruity. (Why oh why are there not more of these?)

I'm referring to a set of billboards, one of top of the other, that are about the most ignorant and incomprehensible things I've ever seen in my short, cynical life.

On top, we have plain text against a green background. Nothing striking, except its argument: "Global warming is all about money and politics -- NOT science!"

Okay, fair enough. It's funny because it's trying so hard to be politically charged, all while offering nothing of substance except bile. And given its location in central-western Pennsylvania, it's easy to associate it with the stereotypically bumblefuck atmosphere.

But juxtaposed with this stupidity, directly underneath, is a billboard that manages to trump it in every way imaginable.

The text: "Abortion is this generation's HOLOCAUST!" The image: a grey background atop, with a graveyard of crosses below, most adorned with Stars of David atop them.

Just ask Alicia how enraged I was to see these things. While it's impossible to recreate the instinctive and genuine ire these billboards arose in me, one comment was rather worth repeating: "Are we still in the United States of America? How does this happen?"

Granted, I shouldn't be surprised that things of this nature would appear in a place notoriously known for inflammatory religiosity and intellectual backwardness. But it sure does explain a lot. Like why next time I head for the Steel City, I think I'll stick to the interstate.

O Sweet, Glorious Irony!

I've had Guitar Hero: World Tour for a mere five days now. I've already logged twenty hours of playing time.

As far as I'm concerned, my productivity coming to a screeching halt is the gravest concern that I'll be dealing with in regards to the game over the next six weeks.

But last night, as Darrell and I enjoyed a gig just a few short minutes after the start of my apartment complex's "quiet hours," a knock at the door beckoned yet another concern.

It's official: my incessant Guitar Heroics have already pissed off the neighbors.

Unfortunately for said neighbor, she failed on two counts. Firstly, because when trying to ask someone to stop the noise, it's probably best to be as civil and humane as possible. Try, say, "Could you please quiet down? We live right downstairs and it's late." Or maybe, "Do you think you might wrap it up soon? It's after quiet hours."

Not, "Will that banging ever stop?"

Which is an issue because, secondly, if there's anyone in the complex who has no claim to complain about annoying noises emanating from someone else's apartment on account of the annoying noises coming from her own, she's the one.

I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to the "Will that howling ever stop?" conversation.

This Time, I Sing Amazon's Praises

Let's dispense with a few things, right off the bat.

One: I know I totally have a hard-on for Barnes & Noble's online store. That has not changed. I still stand by the awesomeness of bn.com.

Two: I know in that very same post linked above, I crapped on Amazon a little bit. They deserved it. Especially after they shipped my semester's worth of textbooks in SEVEN separate boxes. That's just a bit excessive.

Three: I know that, while I haven't posted about this in any of my blogs, I have gone on record numerous times in opposition to Guitar Hero and games of its ilk. I don't need some fucking computer telling me I don't know how to play a song that I could totally play if I had, oh, a real guitar in hand. (I mean, Jimmy Eat World tweeted the other day [March 14, 2009, 10:55am] that they couldn't get through 20% of "Sweetness" on Expert -- and they wrote the damn song!)

All that having been said...

Amazon e-mailed me on Monday morning with an extremely enticing deal. The Guitar Hero: World Tour full band set, on sale for $119.98. A savings of $70.

Anyone who followed my Twitter, my Facebook, or my discussions pre-seminar knows that I actually did ruminate extensively over my decision. Should I get Rock Band instead? Is it worth the investment, even at the price?

In the end, I said yes. Pulled the trigger. Placed the order. I then figured on needing the 5-9 days it would take to ship it to let the purchase regret really sink in. But I figured wrong.

Last night at 5:38pm, I got an e-mail from Amazon saying my order shipped. A little over a day, but still not bad. Then I look at the shipping estimate. March 18, 2009. "That's tomorrow!" cried yesterday-me, who couldn't help but think there was a typo there somewhere.

But there wasn't. FedEx had my package in Lewisberry, PA -- just south of Harrisburg, which is a little over an hour south of State College -- so next-day delivery was a totally reasonable possibility.

This morning, as I sat in office hours, I decided, what the fuck? Let me track it. Clicky-clicky...oh, how nice. It's on my doorstep!

It took Amazon less than 48 hours to receive my order and put the product on my stoop. That's pretty darn impressive, especially since I decided to take the free shipping to save a little more coin. A small price to pay for my soul, since I anticipate my productivity plummeting as of about 4:00pm today.

Holy Crap, It Worked!

Back in my Princeton days, whenever I thought I was the laziest, most unmotivated student in the joint, there was always one person I could count on to make me feel procrastinatorily inferior.

His fervent refusal to make headway on perhaps the most quintessentially Princetonian of all assignments was so legendary, in fact, that I created a Facebook group to celebrate his effort at effortlessness.

It was called, "I Am More Concerned about Ruben Pope's Thesis Progress Than Ruben Pope Is."

It was so beautifully conceived and masterfully executed that, recently, Ruben texted me. His friend had seen the group and told him, and I quote, "Your buddy should send that Facebook group description to the Hall of Fame for Satire. I'm inviting my friends to join it."

I was excited that the group was to gain additional exposure, but, as has always been the case, I wished that it would have resulted in the paper's successful completion. That was the whole idea of the group in the first place and, like all good satires, this one was aimed not for the cheap laugh but for the betterment of society.

Today, I received a missive that led me to believe I needed to check the records of the Mudd Library. And sure enough, when I did, my heart skipped a beat.

Do you believe in miracles? He actually did it!

I'm speechless. And sad, since the finest satire I've ever created has now served its usefulness. But really, I'm glad I, and twelve others, don't have to be concerned anymore.

No Wonder They're Bankrupt!

I don't know a lot. But I do know this.

The phrase "multi-sensory haircutting experience" is one that never needs to be said. EVER.

And yet, there it is.

I'd do what I normally do best in this space, which is to pick apart that article and make jokes about how completely asinine this idea is, but words are actually failing me. This concept is so fucked up to me that I can't even type out anything to live up to its ineptitude.

I need a drink.

Merry Marchmas!

Those who know my family understand how bad my mother's memory is. In fairness, she doesn't really forget the important stuff -- and with a family history of Alzheimer's, I feel we'd take such a thing very seriously -- but it's still lots of fun to pick on her when relatively simple stuff slips her tender mind.

Today, the "stuff" happened to be her driver's license. It seems she misplaced it sometime after work on Friday and hasn't seen it since. Now, yesterday, while driving to recycle (the Disneyland of Momville), she pointed out to me that she didn't have her license and wasn't sure where it was. So we know that she misplaced it between the end of work Friday and Saturday morning. A pretty small window, one that shouldn't contain that many different places.

Silly me.

While I spent the better portion of the morning (post-awakening, of course, which didn't leave much left) reading the paper, drinking coffee, and working on the crossword puzzle, she ran around frantically seeking out her missing ID. She tore through pocketbooks, all the pockets of clothes she'd worn, all the places she normally frequents -- yes, the laundry room got a thorough once-over. Alas, no license.

I observed all this with mild indifference and even less concern. Knowing my mother, these things tend to just work out. And besides, she wasn't freaking out too much, so why should I?

So given my lack of caring, imagine my surprise when my mother walks into the kitchen with her hands filled with clothing and other such paraphernalia. She plopped it all on the counter and presented it to me in sequential order:

• a black Life Is Good hat featuring a guitar and the line, "Let's get together and feel alright"
• a white t-shirt with an acoustic that reads, "There are things that come before guitar...I just don't know what they are."
• three Disney World pins:
  • a recreation of the famous Partners statue, in front of Cinderella Castle
  • a Rock 'n' Roller Coaster pin shaped like a guitar pick
  • Goofy laughing out loud, with the letters LOL underneath
• and a $25 Starbucks gift card

After her presentation, she said, "Merry Christmas!" and ran off to continue searching for her license.

Turns out, in an effort to hide the swag she bought me from Disney World (which she'd planned to give me for Christmas), she hid them at the bottom of the ironing basket -- the last place she figured I'd look (and rightly so). Unfortunately, she never got to the bottom of the basket in all this time and, you guessed it, she forgot they were there. Until she found them today.

While looking for something that else that she forgot where it was.

Suddenly, the idea of Christmas in July doesn't seem like an unreasonable expectation.

(I'll close by sharing that she did end up finding her license -- in her car, right where she normally puts it. It just slid farther back into the console than it normally does, so she didn't see it upon first glance. Can't say that she isn't a creature of habit, even if that is to a fault.)

Why Is Twitter So Damn Addictive?

At the risk of stepping on the toes of I Hate Everything, I have to lodge an only-kinda-sorta-serious complaint.

At its core, the concept of Twitter explicitly exacerbates our current cultural communication breakdown. People don't think through things, they just type out short bursts. Everyone follows one another instead of, you know, actually talking to each other. And it reinforces our attachment to technology at the expense of the real world: when it's so easy to post, you never know when someone important (broadly defined, of course) is going to say something that you'll clearly want to read.

And yet, like a car wreck, I just can't turn away from it.

Thus why I'm posting here. Because even though this blog is specifically designed for my less-well-thought-out ideas, I would probably need to tweet at least 9 times to get the entire content of this post onto my Twitter. (I just word counted it. Because I'm a sad, sad little man.)

But while I'm at it, you know...go check out my Twitter. And follow me too. You wouldn't want to miss out on any of my useless ramblings, would you?

I fear I'm a hopeless case.

If He Only Knew!

My professor just made my day.

Reinforcing the notion that I'm the worst student ever, I failed -- despite having all day yesterday with no other responsibilities -- to successfully read one article and write a two-page critique of that article before going to bed last night. What I did do was read the first two sections of the article, write a crappy six-line introduction, and begin typing up a short list of quotes that I planned to examine.

This morning, I almost reset my alarm for an hour later before remembering, Oh shit, I still need to finish my critique. So up I was at 7:00am, out of the shower by 7:15am, and sitting in front of my laptop ready to roll at 7:20am.

And with my ride due to pick me up at 8:20am, what did I do with my hour? Why, watch SportsCenter, of course!

During the shittier highlights (Who gives a fuck about basketball anyway? Not this guy!) I managed to successfully read the remainder of the article and take down some more quotes, but I was still about a page-and-a-half and a lot of elucidation and coherence short of a true critique. With this, I went to class.

I then proceeded to select an advantageous seat (far from the professor) and turn my quotes and thoughts into a cogent response. It ended up two-and-a-half pages, and was surprisingly not as crappy as I'd anticipated it would be.

At break, I sent it to the office printer, produced a paper copy, and submitted it to my professor. Success!

But here's where it got really good. Because no sooner do I return to class than does my professor announce that I have "reminded" him that the critiques are due, and that everyone should hand them in.

Because I'm "the model student" of the class. And, given my excessive sense of "responsibility," the "goody-two-shoes" of the group.

Procrastination FTW!

Yeah baby, I still got it.

Janet Lyon Would NOT Be Proud

One doesn't typically expect high Modernism and lowbrow humor to find common ground on a radio program like The Opie & Anthony Show, but I suppose I've learned in my life to be prepared for anything. Unfortunately, I just wasn't prepared enough.

As I'm driving to campus yesterday, a discussion about scarves on the show led to (I believe) Jim Norton telling comedian Bob Kelly that he hopes his scarf gets caught in something and decapitates him. Bob responded by explaining that it had actually happened, to the general disbelief of everyone else present.

Meanwhile, hundreds of miles away, listening on my satellite radio, I knew it was true. It was explicitly mentioned in a presentation for a Modernism seminar I took last spring. The only problem? I couldn't remember the person's name.

Despite lacking the key information, I called the show. I figured it would take me forever to get on the line, and in that time I could park my car and pull out my laptop -- and, if I was lucky, borrow a wireless connection in order to look up the name.

I did not anticipate my call being picked up just seconds after I dialed. Fuck. "Who's this?" I told him it was Dave from Jersey. (Yes, I know I was in Pennsylvania. But this state has been on my shit list since I learned that the closest IHOP to State College is in Maryland and that I therefore could not partake in Free Pancake Day. Fuck you, Pennsylvania.)

But when prompted to tell him what I had for the show, all I had was a tenuous grasp. I told him I'd learned in a class that the story was true, that it was a dancer from the 1920s, and that she wasn't decapitated but was dragged to her death. She was friends with Gertrude Stein and her crew, but goddamn it, I wasn't near a computer and I couldn't remember her name.

"Thanks for your help." CLICK. Double fuck.

I just couldn't come up with the name. And for whatever reason, I couldn't get Eudora Welty out of my head, even though I knew it was wrong, because Eudora Welty was a writer, not a dancer. (It also doesn't help that she only died a few years ago.) A few minutes later, the show confirmed why that name was stuck in my mind.

It wasn't Eudora. It was Isadora. Isadora Duncan.

I got an A in that Modernism seminar, too. A seminar that was strongly invested in learning backgrounds and, yes, memorizing names and dates.

Methinks I need to rescind my English snob membership card after this one. Punching out.

Getting Back Into the Groove

I'll be the first to admit it: for someone who really loves writing, and particularly enjoys spending time blogging, I'm pretty legendarily awful at updating in a timely manner.

The simple truth is that, when other things start piling up and I get stressed out about my condition, an activity that takes patience and brainpower is usually the first to go. Especially when I should, by all accounts, be working on writing that will, you know, justify the nice diploma frame I just invested in (because really, if that doesn't motivate me, nothing will [...and that's what scares me...]).

Anyway, this is my ceremonial, every-so-often-after-a-long-period-of-neglect post where I promise I'll be more diligent with my postings in the coming weeks. I swear.

As a gesture of good will, you can take a look over at my other blog, where I'm making better on the good-faith gesture that LibraryThing makes in me, by actually reviewing some of the Early Reviewer books they've sent to me. (Some of them are really good, too!)

Until then, know that I appreciate your endless patience while I deal with the mostly unfunny transition from the comforting craziness of grad school to the scary excitement of trying to find a job with a liberal arts degree in a shitty economic market.

Because really, what do I have to worry about?

When Did This Happen?

Can someone let me know when it suddenly became okay to come into a quiet room, sit two feet away from someone who is keeping to himself, quietly reading a book, and strike up a lengthy and loud conversation about whom your roommate is fucking and how big your exes' cocks are?

Because I was under the impression that, you know, because of tact, that kind of thing was off the table.

Silly me.

Axed

If there's one thing I do well while in State College, it's watching television. But since laziness is my m.o., the channel rarely changes. With the exception of the occasional Jeopardy! viewing, my pretty TV broadcasts mostly two channels: GSN (formerly the Game Show Network) and ESPN (currently the worldwide leader in sports).

Both channels, to my great surprise, show an astonishing amount of irritating ads. I say "to my great surprise" because GSN, like many daytime game shows, skew towards an older, more nostalgic audience. So I'm not astonished to find that they constantly advertise medications, diabetes testing supplies, and (how I wish this wasn't so) incontinence pads. My surprise comes more out of the realization that, for reasons unbeknownst to me, both channels are equally likely to broadcast those goddamn horrendous Cash4Gold.com commercials.

As I'm unwilling to give that particular site any more space here, I'll instead focus my fangs and venom on two other ads. The first is an ad for Axe Hair Products, featuring an attractive young woman narrating the scene at a gorgeous beach. Three male models are fitted with bad wigs. (My choice of word is critical here: "bad." Not "horrendous." Not "roadkillesque." Just "bad." Let's continue.) The models then proceed to try picking up chicks, to no avail -- because, as our snobbish spokeswoman tells us...

"If these gorgeous guys can't pick up girls with this hair, what hope do you have?"

Wanna know what I think? There's a long version and a short version.

The long version: I know I don't have the physique or the looks to capture the attention of 10s for an exceptional length of time, but I'd like to think that even without the perfect body, I have plenty to offer the pretty single ladies out there. But not every single guy has the same level of confidence or patience, even if they are better looking than me. So, as usual, the media presents the single-minded, stereotypical perception that looks are all that matter and if you don't look good, you're not worth a damn. To be honest, if a girl rejected me because she thought my hair didn't look good, I'd be happy to have avoided wasting my time on someone so shallow and self-centered. And as for the exceptionally smarmy phrasing of our intrepid spokeswoman's query, I've got a lot more hope in the long run than you do, because my personality and intelligence will hold out for substantially longer than your looks will.

The short version: Fuck you, bitch.

I feel better. I think I might have had a rant in me about the FinallyFast.com commercials -- why would the Web site's commercial feature predominantly Apple computers when the site's software, per the fine print, can't help fix problems on Macs? -- but I've mellowed out now that that's out of my system.

And I guess the FreeCreditReport.com toolbag's uppance will have to come another day.

Delicious, Delicious Paper...

I find it hard to believe that in neither of my blogs have I ever posted once about WebMD. While I generally believe that the Internet is a fantastic resource that can effectively bring people together and spread information, WebMD often proves to me how easy it is for this to go horribly, horribly wrong.

The usual tales of WebMD woe involve looking up simple symptoms, only to find that you could potentially have a devastating disease. ("Headache? Probably a brain tumor!") But today, while searching for some possible solutions to my once-again-onset vertigo, I saw some head-related symptoms that made me just a little sad.

Some symptoms are completely plausible: "headache," "hair loss," etc.

Others, to my knowledge, are grouped there strictly because they are psychological in nature, despite not being strictly head-related: "mood swings" and "lack of pleasure" (tee-hee) are just a few of the symptoms there.

Then there are the ones that are stupid because they're obvious, such as "broken bones (multiple fractures)." Call me crazy, but if you know that there are multiple broken bones in your head, why would your first instinct be, "I think I'm gonna go on WebMD...maybe it'll save me a trip to the doctor!" (Perhaps the broken bones are affecting your judgment, in which case I have to wonder why a) no one is accompanying you, or b) if one is, why the hell are they letting you fuck around on the computer instead of, oh, getting you to an emergency room?)

And then, we enter the realm of the absurd. For instance...

"Coma" -- Pray tell, how is a person going to diagnose themselves as having a coma if they're in one? And if it's someone else checking for the victim, I must once more question the wisdom of cross-checking coma symptoms on a Web site instead of with, you know, a certified medical professional. Silly me.

"Fear of gaining weight" -- Isn't that a symptom of, oh, I don't know, life? Does anyone really embrace the chub?

"Craving to eat ice, dirt, or paper" -- This is what-the-fuck on so many levels. First of all, has anyone ever actually craved eating dirt or paper? (Ice, I've been told, is a common enough snack for some.) And furthermore, who decided to put those three particular selections together? I don't believe there to be a disease that results in me desperately wanting to snack on only ice, dirt, or paper. Nor am I aware of what it takes to make the jump from ice to paper.

I could go on, but it's all just making me dizzy again just thinking about it. I'd better go lay down for a bit before dinner...maybe take a look at the bookshelf and see what I might want.

"Good day to be alive, sir!"

On this most momentous of Inauguration Days, I humbly give you this.

An actual exchange between two Princeton graduates:

Bob (6:41): stupid cold apartment
Bob (6:41): that's what happens when you leave a 85F shower into a 45F apartment
Me (6:59): GAH
Me (6:59): why is your apartment 45*?
Bob (7:46): because the Japanese don't believe in heaters or insulation
Me (7:48): sucks for you
Me (7:48): come back to America
Me (7:48): we have central heating AND a black President
Me (7:48): what now, world?

(10 points if you catch the reference.)

This One's For Liz

Because Liz is one of the only people who will appreciate the awesomeness of this.

Several years back, Danielle introduced me to a game she and her family would play while watching Jeopardy! After the Final Jeopardy! category was revealed, they would make a preliminary guess before the clue came up. It's the kind of thing that's silly and fun and almost guaranteed to never result in a win, but is painless and effortless enough to continue attempting whenever the show's on.

One time, the stars aligned themselves and I was able to guess correctly...but there was a bit of an asterisk surrounding it. The category in question was "1950s Fiction," which is not exactly a broad, wide-reaching category. Plus, my favorite novel ever -- and my candidate for Greatest Novel Ever Written -- happened to be written in the 1950s.

1955, to be precise. Little book called Lolita. And sure enough, though I can't remember the clue verbatim, "What is Lolita?" was the correct response. I received back pats, but only half-hearted ones, since the category was so specific.

Tonight, I found myself watching Jeopardy! and chatting online with Danielle. Our exchange went as follows:

Me (7:19): the head still hurts
Me (7:19): i ate, i took Advil, i took the contacts out, i'm resting
Me (7:20): dunno what else i'm supposed to do
Me (7:20): Who is Eliza Doolittle?
Danielle (7:21): category?
Me (7:21): Characters in Plays
Me (7:22): thus, Who is Eliza Doolittle
Danielle (7:22): who is nathan detroit

Note the timestamps there. My guess came at 7:20pm. Then, at 7:23pm, came the clue:

"This woman wished to be taken to 'Bucknam Pellis...don't you know where it is? In the Green Park, where the King lives'"

HOLY FUCK, I GOT IT RIGHT.

And since "Characters in Plays" is such a radically wide-ranging category, this officially legitimates my previous success! And who cares if it's a completely frivolous little game? I'm still a champ!

(Yes, in case you were wondering, this has been the highlight of my day. How'd you guess?)