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.