Turtle Story, Cont.

How many of you remember my turtle story dating back to May 7, 2005? I don't think I have readers who are that loyal--but I wanted to take a moment to follow up on it. A few days ago, I experienced something similar and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. I can't get over how, three years ago, in a group of about 10 people, I was the only one brave enough to capture a runaway turtle (with a mean streak) and that three years later, I saw it happen again--which was strange because the pond on campus has been drained... But this was my moment to shine. I had experience in the matter. I knew just what to do. So I knelt in front of it and began reassuring spectators when a woman riding past me on a bicycle stopped and hopped off. She yelled, apparently at the turtle, "How did you get here!" She confiscated it in one swift motion and swung it under her arm like a baguette, and rode away. And all the turtle could do was rotate its dangling legs, some clockwise and some counter, in slow-motion, like a gymnast on a pommel horse.

Dear Bill O'Reilly,

I am a former fan of your program, and have become increasingly concerned with your conduct (or lack thereof) during your interviews. Knowing your brutish temperament (and I think I do), it is very likely that you will not make it to the end of this letter. However, I think it is of dire consequence that you do, so that you may pinpoint the cause of your dwindling audience.

Mr. O'Reilly, I don't understand why you invite people to your show, and then point your finger at them until they sink back into their seats and why you yell until you're blue in the face--don't you get tired of pointing all the time? And then sometimes you even have the nerve to tell people to shut up!

I always thought the purpose of holding a discussion is that two opposing views can be presented. You are under the impression that your opinion and ideology (although you claim not to have one) must supercede everyone else's. When I watch your show, I am not able to hear anyone else's argument over your beastly bellowing, let alone allow myself to be swayed by it. You have a penchant for putting blinders on your audience. I need a world outside of you, Bill.

Bill, sometimes I feel like my head is being shoved up your ass. And with yours up there, too, it's getting awfully crowded. I really wish you would just take a breathe once in a while and let someone else speak. And perhaps reevaluate your position as a "traditionalist." I think you should know that change will come whether you want it to or not--whether it moves you through the years kicking and screaming.

-- Concerned student

ADDENDUM

tilt9: what did you do today?
aye cochino: i emailed bill o'reilly
aye cochino: u?
tilt9: same

Dear Tyra Banks,

I think you're a hypocrite for telling women on your talk show to love themselves the way they are, that big can be beautiful, and that self-esteem should not depend on appearance, and then turning around and hosting "America's Next Top Model"--a show where women's careers are made or destroyed based on whether or not they can "speak with their eyes."

P.S. You have a giant forehead.

Dear Fellow College Students,

For your information, I just want to make it clear that when stranger approaches you and says, "Hello," he is not being nice. He either wants to talk to you about Jesus, hand you a Lyn Larouche pamphlet, make you sign a petition, ask you to make a financial contribution, or advise you to put out your cigarette. If someone approaches you with this seemingly friendly salutation, turn your back to him promptly and mutter aloud to no one in particular that your father is a fire marshal. Everyone fears a fire marshal. That will make him go away.

Peace be with you.

Earning a B.A. in B.S.

I... Hate... Creative Writing. Actually, no. I hate creative writing workshops. I hate sitting in a circle and reading someone's bullshit and then trying to guess what their symbolism could possibly mean. It's never worth the effort when the metaphor is finally revealed. Or, even worse, is when the author is sitting there smugly while an entire classroom struggles to make meaning of a short story in which a small boy digs a hole for the entirety of the piece. People attach all kinds of Freudian meaning, only to turn to the author for approval who, in turn, says something infuriating like, "sometimes a cigar is just a cigar."

And then when that's all over, we turn to the works of the greats for more interpretive fun. This wouldn't be so bad if idiocy was not encouraged.

On the first day of class, a graduate student tried to add the creative writing class in question. He came back for three weeks, hoping to add the very undergraduate class to his schedule. Finally, on the last day to add, the professor told him that she's sorry, but there's no more room in the class. I was relieved at that point because he was annoying and offered all kinds of criticism that generally made no sense. He walked out of the class with his head hanging. As soon as the door closed, there was an uproar. "Professor, how could you do that! His input was so great! We need him in this class." Professor-lady said, "I'm doing it to help you guys. If there are too many students, it slows us down and gives us more work to read." Yes. Professor-lady was right. He, in particular, slowed us down with his frequent and unnecessary remarks. Students, practically in unison: "NO OMGZ WE LUV HIM HE IS DA BEST!" Professor-lady: "Okay, if it's unanimous, go get him!" At that point, I was in absolute disbelief. Was this a college classroom or a circus? A student ran out and herded him back into class. He looked truly touched. He lifted his arms triumphantly and the classroom cheered. It was a circus.

I knew it was a loss for me, but despite my cynicism, I am an optimist. I decided that he will provide excellent blog material for the next 12 weeks. The first anecdote follows:

In my last class, we read a short story in which a young man gets shot while driving, and then loses control of his car and hits something. Brilliant Graduate Student is quiet for a long time. In the last few minutes, however, Professor-lady looked at him and said "You've been quiet for a while..." B.G.S. counters with, "Okay, I just gotta say one thing cause I'm disappointed that no one else has brought this up! It says here "the police pointed out my place in the angels that separated the living from the dead..." He's talking about angels here! He is talking about life and death, salvation and damnation, the man is a wealth of binary opposition! And he's a believer, all I gotta say is that there is so much subtext here, people!" I looked around the room and saw everyone following the passage with their eyes, and then looking up to nod in frenzied agreement. Even Professor-lady looked so delighted that she was reduced to bobble-head status. I looked down at my book and was shocked to see that it said, "The police pointed out my place in the angles that separated the living from the dead." Angles. Not Angels. GOD! DAMN IT! How is it that no one corrected this blunder? How is it that they cheered him on, instead? Fine, FINE, interpretation is not the art of construing but the art of constructing. BUT HE IS LITERALLY REWRITING THE TEXT! Yo, STANLEY FISH, can he do that? AND THE WORST PART IS THAT NOT ONLY DOES CSUN VALIDATE MEDIOCRITY, IT TAKES STUPIDITY--ABSOLUTE SHIT--AND PUTS IT ON A SHIT-SMEARED GOLDEN PEDESTAL. IT RAISES A SHIT IDOL AND WORSHIPS IT WITH SHIT-LADEN WREATHS. SOMEONE TELL THIS IDIOT IT SAYS ANGLES! But no. Professor-lady tells him, "You're big on symbolism, aren't you!" And he says, "I have to be, I have a B.A. in this stuff!"

gridlock/gridlock\gridlock

I hate WebCT. For those of you who don't know what that is, it's similar to Blackboard. For those of you who don't know what that is, GO TO SCHOOL AND LEARN SOMETHING, WILL YA?

I hate WebCT or any kind of online classroom discussion forum because it's an unnecessary hardship for students. First of all, not all of us have reliable computers and/or internet connections. This can add a lot of stress to the existing amount of necessary stress.

And also, the sites "jam," for lack of a better term. Professors don't realize that when they all assign work to be posted by 11:59 p.m. on Sunday night, no one is really going to start posting until around 11:45 p.m. on Sunday night, and that causes some intense traffic jams. Now, not only do we have the pressure of getting the reading and writing done for a grade, we have to worry about having it all done by 11:59 (or earlier, ideally) so we can sit around and play internet musical chairs to see who signs in first and secures a spot on the forum and who gets stuck with an error message or a perpetually loading page. Now, not only do we get graded on the quality of our work, but also on who "turns in his post on time," or, in other words, who refreshes his browser at just the right moment and manages to sign in. Whoever gets left out when the music stops, well... too damn bad for you! You're not cut out for the real world, useless proletariat!

Graduate students should stick to graduating

I am so beyond screwed. I haven't even finished my third week in the semester and I'm already getting comfortable with the idea of a premature death. I'm not taking 18 units and working three jobs like I was last semester, but I am taking 15 units, auditing a graduate level class, working on writing samples for grad applications, studying for the GRE and filling applications, and attempting to understand what a statement of purpose is. I'm not even in graduate school yet, and I'm already reconsidering it. This isn't supposed to happen! I'm not supposed to drop out before I even get in. Today, one of my professors expressed vehement disapproval with my lack of progress. I had nothing to say but, "You're right." Pathetic. I'm so overwhelmed with a general sense of academic malaise that I can't even raise my hand to flip the guy off.

In that 15 minute discussion, I learned that unless I cut all things fun out of my life and fill it with all things not fun, I will not succeed. This is why I have put myself on Social Probation for the next 75 days. I'm allowing myself three nights of "fun" during these next 2.5 months. Other than that, I need to get into the graduate study mindset. It's very different from undergraduate study where you do approximately 40% or less of the assigned reading. The only people who really survive in grad school are those who understand that there is no room for anything but reading and eating. It's absolutely a binge-purge process. For two to seven years, all you do is read and eat. Consume, consume, consume. And then at the end, there is a significant amount of writing and probably shitting. Catharsis!

I really don't know if I can do this. I don't know how I overcame the torpor and summoned enough energy to write this blog. I'm not even proactive enough for suicide. I wish someone else would do it for me. I really wish someone would roll me in batter, breading, and then deep fry me. I think I just got an idea for my statement of purpose...

Real Men of Genius: The Collapse of a New Regime

So as you L.A. residents may have heard, Hal Fishman passed away early this morning. While I am sorry for his family's loss, I'm not devastated. And I can't help but wonder if I am an insensitive asshole, or if everyone else an imbecile. Tonight they had a 45 minute tribute to him on KTLA. I expected no less. "Hal Fishman was a family man." So are a lot of other men. "Hal Fishman loved children. He never talked down to them." Then why did he patronize his viewers with his unwelcome commentaries? "Hal Fishman liked Wagner." Ukh. How gauche. I bet he was even willing to look beyond Wagner's extreme anti-semitism just to use those comp tickets for Lohengrin at the Dorothy Chandler.

Maybe I am an insensitive asshole. But maybe everyone else is also an imbecile. One woman sent KTLA an email that made it on the air. It said something like, "Although I never knew Hal personally, my mother and I have been crying our eyes out all morning. It's like we lost a member of our own family." Give me a break. These are the same people who cried when JFK was shot. I just don't understand how people fall so stupidly in love with idols. Everyone in the world is afflicted with the early stage of an Electra complex. And how convenient; authority can't exist without the image of a father. The papacy keeps over 1 billion people in check. It's the same recurring model. New time, new setting, new daddy. There was Father Stalin, the Führer, Il Duce, John Paul II, Grandpa Lenin, Ghandi, JFK, Dumbledore... And now Hal Fishman will join the ranks of these great men. Have no fear, your iconoclast is here.

They only want you when you're 17

So, 21 came and went. I don't feel any different. I'm sober and I'm hungry and I have only a handful of events to mark the milestone. They are as follows: One bar room brawl, one chipped tooth, head hit against the sidewalk, being held in a chokehold, and getting tossed around between two burly men like the ball in Pong. It sounds a lot more glamorous than it was, really. The highlight of my barfday was an emergency visit to my dentist's office to have the chip repaired. I guess I can tangent at this point.

Dental visits annoy me. Not because a relative stranger (is that an oxymoron?) has his hands in my mouth, but more because of the one-sided conversation. I realize that complete silence is awkward. But when he asks me questions, does he really expect me to answer? You can only smile and nod so many times.

Dr. Dentist sprays something at my tooth and then vacuums it back up and asks me how the GRE preparation is going. I smile and give him a thumbs up, which is somehow supposed to indicate that it's going terribly and that I haven't even looked at the practice book yet. He tells me he sympathizes with test takers. He asks what I want to do with a master's degree and/or Ph.D. in English. Great. This question generally can't be answered even when I don't have 14 dental instruments in my mouth. How do I approach it now? I can't smile and nod. I can't shrug. You don't go to graduate school and shrug about why you're there. He waits a few seconds longer for a response and asks me if I will teach. In quiet desperation I nod, even though I know teaching is a last resort. It angers me a little that his conclusion is so in line with the stereotype. I wanted to spit the tools out, look him squarely in the face, and tell him, "At the risk of sounding like Valerie Solanas, read my manifesto and it will tell you who I am."

I am 21 and I feel old.

Nothing, something, anything

I clearly have nothing to say. But maybe I have everything to say. Hmm? Hmm?? Any takers? I thought not.

Currently, I am lollygagging and am listening to Gabriel Faure's Cantique de Jean Racine. It's really quite lovely and is possibly the most beautiful choral music I've ever had the opportunity to sing. Sacred music like this really screws with my head. When a piece of music about God is so earnest and moving, it makes me wonder if, indeed, it is a product of divine intervention. Mozart's requiem does that to me at least once a week. It makes me start to wonder if worthless human beings -- people who steal and cheat and rape and murder -- are really capable of creating something that can ripple so far through time and overwhelm people for centuries after they have turned to dust.

Well, they can't... and that's one point for God.

Maybe this is just the remnants of church breeding speaking. It's like a radioactive substance or something. I hope I outlive the half-life so I can have some fun before I die. But, until then, God -- elusive as ever -- shows me glimpses of himself through music. It's kind of cruel, but it is what it is.

Loyal readers, I am going to provide you with some comic relief before I depart. With the unearthly glow of my monitor being the only source of light in the room, it has managed to attract the attention of a tiny moth. I'm not in the mood to make friends, so I am attempting to scare it away with the pointer.

He's gone, but it looks like he made a dash for the closet. I can only predict that when I wake up in a few hours, there won't be a single sweater left in my closet. And on the floor will be a beach ball-sized moth with drool dripping down its chin, burping and coughing up thread. I'm so Kafka, it hurts.

Yee-haw!

There's always one older person in every college classroom who is there "just for fun." Some middle-aged parent or early-bird-special senior citizen who audaciously enters a classroom of twenty-somethingers and dominates the discussion.

This nuisance is the person who makes certain that we will never be dismissed from class early because he or she will undoubtedly come across another "interesting point" in the text. These are the knowitalls that will use up class time to discuss the finer points of Newton's law of universal gravitation, or to explore the subtle nuances which distinguish an Asian cockroach from an Oriental cockroach.

I say the university rounds them all up, with a lasso, maybe--anyone over 40--and puts them in one obnoxious classroom. And then all we have to do is stay the hell away from there.

OFF WITH HER HEAD!

So, Heiress Hilton is out of the big house. After... What was it? Just three days? I'm not surprised. I called it. In fact, I expected even less that three. But what really upsets me is that this happens after I went to all the trouble of making "Free Paris" t-shirts. I know I asked for it, but I didn't think they'd really go and do it.

You will end up dying of comfort

This semester has really been one of a kind. It's probably the one that will define my college career. I took a bunch of classes, learned a bunch of stuff, and did a bunch of things. After this I guess it's a downhill ride. I really learned everything there is to learn in the world. And as far as doing things, well, I did a lot from getting involved with the newspaper to "vandalizing" a professor's car with post-it notes to writing and distributing a manifesto to almost getting put on academic probation--AGAIN. I had fun, to say the least. But what scares me is that I feel like it's all coming to an end. I suddenly feel like I need to stop being a rebellious student (even though I just learned this attitude) and that I need to shape up. I need to prepare myself mentally to step into the workforce and get a job answering phones at Merrill Lynch or something. And my professor who taught us all of this--that it's okay to have opinions and attitudes that are contrary to the norm--is leaving... and I don't understand if I'm supposed to continue being this person. It's like when Dr. Frankenstein created his monster, and then abandoned him. So now I'm like... a confused monster. God, I'm such an English major.

I feel very out of context suddenly. Like somebody plucked me out of the ground and replanted me somewhere else. Or like someone moved Mona Lisa to MOCA. She's still smiling, but her eyes are shifting from left to right, looking at the saturated primary colors splattered on canvases everywhere and she's thinking, "This can't be right..."

No one was with her when she died

How appropriate that this will be my 100th post. I'm feeling particularly sentimental tonight. Tomorrow marks the official start of finals' week. And, as usual, I have left all of my reading to the very last weekend. This plan is usually never problematic, as I am an excellent reader. But it was clearly not a good idea for this semester. 18 units of literature is a lot to catch up on in one weekend. And I have been weeping all day because I left all of my children's literature (the easy stuff) for me to work on at the very last moment of the very last day. Very bad idea. The reading for this class included things like Walk Two Moons and Charlotte's Web. What nonsense, I can't believe this. I mean books like this really puts the "dying" in "studying." After storming through about 300 pages of Walk Two Moons and telling myself that I can't possibly tolerate another death, I plow through 200 pages of Charlotte's Web only to find out that Charlotte dies! What is the matter with everyone! Why do we bother telling children about Santa Claus and making up stories about where babies come from if we're going to write stories like this? Stories that will make ADULTS cry! And Wilbur is really ridiculously sensitive and irrational. He cried maybe 100 times in 200 pages.

Bag, shoes, and pacifier to match

I don't want kids. Ever. I realized this today while walking through Toys R Us. There is nothing about parenting that I find remotely appealing.

First of all, I'm not comfortable with the false sense of authority that will come with having someone call me "Mom". That's not my name. So why should I train a person to call me that? I could never answer to "Mom", and so, if for some reason I do ever have kids, I will have them call me by my name.

Second, I am not comfortable with the concept of discipline. When I see children acting up and parents swinging them by their arms and leaning in to say something threating about an an inch from their faces, I feel like I shrivel up inside. I think I relate to kids more than parents. I'm not condemning parents for disciplining their children. But I could never do it.

I really believe that most people don't really grasp what an immense responsibility parenting is. It goes so far beyond financial stability... I can't even comprehend it. Every choice you make in this child's life will change who he or she becomes. Which brings me to a very troubling tangent. Do parents realize that half the crap they buy for their kids is absolute garbage?

I was appalled today at Toys R Us to see an entire wall display dedicated to "Bratz" dolls. For those of you who are not familiar with the line, all you really need to know is that they are hideous. All of the "Bratz" dolls share a few characteristics. They have big round heads, "real" hair, disproportionately large eyes, and full lip-glossed lips. "Bratz Babyz" are particularly upsetting. They have the faces of Spearmint Rhino dancers, but with toddler bodies and rattle and bottle accessories, like shown here. Maybe it's wrong of me to think so, but I would never,

EVER give my six year old daughter this doll to play with. I can't even tell what it is--woman? Baby? It's carrying a bottle of milk, but it's also wearing makeup and has painted nails. Does anyone wonder how much this might confuse our daughters? Do we want them to think that their identities are to be as distorted as this? That in order to be feminine they must perpetually be something between child and adult? While I realize that these dolls aren't much different than the Barbie dolls that I grew up with (which also wore a lot of makeup and were out of proportion), I feel like Bratz dolls are setting porn star standards for little girls to live up to. Girls should not believe that they must dress this seductively in order to get attention or to be considered beautiful. Especially when they're a year old, like the age this doll is supposed to represent.

And while this takes a backseat to the real issue, I do need to point out that on top of everything, "Bratz Babyz" really are promoting bad spelling.

Philosopher out of work; Sales associate wanted

We may rebuke the ant for endlessly working to build a colony that we all know will eventually be destroyed by some sadistic child. But, really, how are any of us different? Do you know what I do for money? I meticulously manipulate t-shirts into neat little origami squares. I tri-fold jeans and evenly distribute them into perfectly stacked denim columns. Beauty has known no truer form.

And then I stand back and watch it crumble at the hands of those with eyes untrained to recognize contemporary art outside of a museum or gallery. I watch children and childish adults tear apart my creations. O, my craft! They demolish you and I breathe life into you!

Life is a continuous fruitless ritual of construction and maintenance. Build a home and clean it weekly. Repair things monthly. Grow a garden and spend your days pruning and clearing weeds. Janitors, plumbers, CHIROPRACTORS, for God's sake, all make a living off the art of maintenance.

We create--as humans are so inclined to do--and then we must endure the endless task of maintenance. And what of the ultimate creation? What happens when we create another human? We sign an 18 year contract in which we must attend to every repair this creation may require. Tooth cleaning, braces, antibiotics, orthotics, doctor's injections, girls' rejections, nervous breakdowns, emotional meltdowns. There's no end in sight!

I am just now realizing that I am merely an actor in the farce we call "The Human Experience" at best. Otherwise, I am a bird working tirelessly to build a nest only to watch winter's harsh winds disassemble it.

I am not a cynic, I swear. I'm a realist. And we are all a bunch of junk cars. "Service engine soon" just took on a whole new meaning.

Smack my GPA up

Last night I had the opportunity to go out and party with my friends for the first time in months probably. This semester has really changed me. I admit, I never was much of a party animal, really. But this semester has really sucked the life out of me--straight out of my mouth. And so last night, I threw caution to the wind (like one of my professors advised me to do) and I went out instead of preparing for, coincidentally, his midterm. I tossed my books aside and when I put my shoes on, something strange happend. I stood up and looked down at my feet and saw what was curiously reminiscent of the beginning of a Prodigy video. I knew I was in for it then. But I went out anyway and I had a great time. And let me say that even though I came home unaccompanied by another woman, the rest of the night was pretty much true to my premonition.

Is school seriously still not over?

Ladies and gentlemen: this is it. We have arrived at the gates of the Promised Land. Jack in the Box now has a SAMPLER! Fried food fest!! I think this is great news.

If you all haven't noticed, my blogs are getting more and more irrelevant. This is because I am determined to write, no matter what the content of my posts may be. I've got to get back into the groove. Also, I have more homework to avoid this semester--18 units worth. So I will be on here late at night many times over the next few weeks, rambling about nothing in particular, just to avoid rambling about something in particular in a scholarly manner for 6-8 pages. This is really much easier. Currently, I am working on a presentation on poet Denise Levertov. This presentation will be given in 9 hours. I have to prepare handouts for the class to throw away, too. All I have is this photo:

Denise Levertov in her toothless, braless brilliance.

Is school over yet?

I can't believe I made it through the first half of this semester. It seems to be going by in a blur of Red Bull and cigarette smoke (seriously, when did everyone start smoking?). I think I'm a time bomb. I think I took too many classes this semester, in an attempt to lighten my load for next year. But I might not even live to see next year, at this rate. I've lost a lot of friends. Gained some new ones. But definitely lost more. All I do is work and study. I don't even sleep. Sometimes I forget to eat. And school is sad. A couple of my professors really just loathe me. That's okay, it would only hurt if I didn't hate them more. In one of my classes, I just took a midterm that covered about 300 pages of text. It was a short essay midterm. I probably aced it. I only read about 13 pages of the reading. CSUN is sorry. In my creative writing class, a story that I evaluated which had no character development, no climax, and pretty much no plot was deemed "flawless" by the rest of the class. That's the problem with CSUN and peer evaluation. They are always validating stupidity. Don't tell someone his story about a senior in highschool who is dating a "hot girl" is flawless. Don't encourage him when his narrative voice is that of a 13 year old boy, with comments like, "Mark was totally stoked to be dating Jaime. She was definitely the hottest girl in school, and over the summer break, her boobs really started to develop." God... Why? In my theory class, I really have no idea what's going on. I might as well not be in class. In fact, sometimes I feel like I'm not. And when I do the reading for homework, sometimes I imagine I'm sandcrab in Tahiti. The only way I know that I am in fact in class is that strange people's names and foreign terms will pop into my head. Who the hell is Northrop Frye? And dasein?? Come on, what's that all about? That's definitely not English. It's pretty embarrassing, especially since my professor hinted that I might have ADD. Look, pal, just because I don't... Wait, what was I saying? Ugh, ridiculous. He's right. But, come on... Look at this:"It displays an iconoclastic briskness towards literary waffle, dropping each work into its appointed mythological slot with computerized efficiency, but blends this with the most Romantic of yearnings." Seriously, did you guys understand anything? It doesn't count if you teach literary theory!

My friend looks like Gunther. Does yours?

Hello, My Name is Pretentious Asshole

I had my first evening class at CSUN tonight. It's a creative writing workshop, meaning we will be evaluating each other's work for the rest of the semester. Sweet ride for the professor. Speaking of which, my professor is pretty cool. I'm pretty sure he's Mexican, but he looks like a Native American chief of some obscure little tribe that we have yet to demolish. His hair is cut short on top, but in the back, there's a short ponytail and a large bald spot. So it's a bit more complicated than your average mullet.

Oh and I made my first enemy in the class. Something tells me he will not be the last. I was reading his story and it was about an accident he got into and how he went over a cliff or something like that. It was pretty typical writing for a student attending a mediocre university. Tons of cliches, phrases like "my life flashed before my eyes" and "my heart raced". One thing really irritated me, though. He mentioned how when he slammed on his brakes, his tires screeched. He described the sound as "a sharp e-flat". Uhh, HELLO, pretentious asshole! What does that even mean? I asked him if he's a musician, already anticipating the answer. He said, "I play some piano here and there... I'm self-taught." Yes, I would have guessed as much. I told him that he might want to reconsider the wording there, and that the contradiction might confuse people who understand music. He said, "No... you completely misunderstood." No, believe it or not, I completely understood. I knew he meant a "sharp" sound. But a sharp e-flat just sounds ridiculous. It seems like a funny way of saying "My tires screeched a regular e-natural." And he shouldn't bother making that claim either, because I have my doubts about his self-learned perfect pitch.

...and why e-flat? I couldn't understand, so I asked him. He got me again. "Well, I play enough piano to know e-flat seriously sounds really bad... no matter what, when you play it, it just sounds way wrong." What a keen observation, surpassed in quality only by its eloquent wording.

So... What I learned in school today is that e-flat is "wrong" and, as we all remember from Spinal Tap, d minor is the saddest key of all and it makes people instantly weep. I will remember this for future music theory exams.

Dear John, I've moved on to something better

I'm sorry blog. I've come back to you. I realize I must have somehow put you under the wrong impression in 2006. You thought I was letting you go, cutting your strings, releasing you. You are mistaken, darling. You see, the year is now 2007, and it's a beautiful time. We won the war and Germany is in ruins. But I suppose you knew this already. Anyway, let's talk some statistics. In 2004, I wrote 45 blogs. Considering that I started writing in late 2004, that was quite a prolific half-year. In 2005, I only wrote 34 blogs. A bit of a drop, about a 24% decrease. But in 2006 (last year), I wrote a worthless 12 blogs. TWELVE! That is a 65% decrease. Now, I know these distressing statistics are not what is on everyone's mind, but rather how I, being challenged in the field of mathematics, arrived at these figures. Well, I guess we are due for some comic relief. I am now a math tutor. Please compose yourselves. Along with teaching chess classes and English, I am now teaching math. How is someone who nearly failed Algebra 2 a math tutor, you ask? I know not. Don't ask me, it mars the dream. The bottom line is I'm teaching math and I'm actually doing well. I can recall taking my math placement exam for CSUN 3 years ago. My brother took me to the test. He gave me a short pep talk outside. He said it's okay if you land yourself in the 1stlevel of remedial math, but please... Try to avoid getting placed in the 2nd level. That's for the weakest students. You'll basically be in class with the football team. I remember these words now and smile as I realize the joke was on him all along. No, I don't mean because I would eventually become a math tutor. I mean because CSUN has no football team. By the way, I didn't end up in remedial math at all.

So as you might have guessed, for 2006, one my New Year's resolutions is to produce more blogs, whatever the content of them may be. And the end result is that you will all suffer reading through the garbage.

Landing zone

Today as I was leaving my friend's house, a giant flying insect zoomed past me. Just as I thought to myself, "Whoa where did that come from... That was close--" it made a mid-air U-turn and started to come straight at me. I stepped a little to the left so it would avoid slamming into me, but it also veered a little to my left and landed on my leg. It deliberately changed its path because it had already targeted me as a landing zone.

In the next few moments, I realized that the giant flying insect was, in fact, not Gregor Samsa, but was a spotted grasshopper of some sort. As expected, I began to panic a bit and did the oh-my-God-I'm-a-girl-and-I'm-grossed-out-so-I'm-going-to-flail-about thing for about 15 seconds. With any insect of common proportions, these erratic movements would have frightened it halfway to the other side of town. But because of its monstrous size, it stayed put. It clearly had no intention of leaving. And you can only panic for so long.

After about half a minute you get your head together and begin brainstorming solutions. And so I attempted to negotiate with it. There I stood, on the sidewalk of a very busy street in Pasadena, and begged and pleaded with a giant grasshopper. It seemed to get the message.

It looked up at me with its big bug-eyes and pushed off of my leg with all of its weight like a swimmer beginning his laps.

Welcome to The Republic of Bowlia; Population: 18,000

Tonight was my final last night at the Hellywood Bowl. I know I post an end-of-season blog every summer, but this year, I'm through. I believe every experience in life teaches us something. And I've learned everything this place will ever teach me, so I'm off to bigger and better things.

However, I did make one interesting observation tonight. Let me begin with some background information. Tonight was reggae night. This show is one of the few that gets sold out. All 18,000 seats get purchased... And this makes strange thoughts go through my head. It makes me wonder how 40 ushers, 10 supervisors, and 2 managers can keep the peace in a place that seats 18,000 utter fools. And as soon as I start getting bored, I start pretending I'm some kind of government appointed police officer in a small country under dictatorial rule. I look people up and down and I say who stays, I say who goes. I say cigarettes must be put out and where and when. I send people to the dungeon and they will not see daylight for 15 years.

But during a show like reggae night, you need to be on your guard. The People are unhappy with the way things are; they don't like being told what to do. The People are oppressed. And the government pays no attention. There are uprisings, revolution lurks around the corner... until... INTERMISSION, when all hell breaks loose and anarchy is prevalent. People everywhere, no order, no lawfulness. People from section U think they belong in the Garden box seats and they protest when they are told that they do not belong there. They say that we need to "chill" and it doesn't matter that they've paid 15 dollars for their tickets. They should be able to sit in the 200 dollar boxes. And you can't exactly win an agrument with these people when lyrics like "get up, stand up, stand up for your rights" are blaring in the background. This is the anthem of the oppressed. It is the anthem of the People.

I feel like I have finally discovered the truth. I've followed this road for a long time now. It's been bumpy and winding, but I kept going. And I've finally reached a state of enlightenment. The Hollywood Bowl has never been a silly seasonal job, as I am just now discovering. It's been an alternate reality where I enforced the rules of a small nation somewhere in the Twilight Zone. For a short period of time, people from all over southern California, and even the world, came together and settled in The Republic of Bowlia. Welcome, weary traveler...

Sometimes they are real

At the mall, I walked into a really trendy store which is popular among young women. Stores like this have a funny effect on people. They tamper with your senses without your knowledge... The white enamel walls. The bright lights. The tagged merchandise. It's all so flashy and new. There are so many possibilities. All around you are your different potential personalities. You can buy your cool or sophisticated or sexy. It's all so thrilling.

But just as this experience can pump you up, it can lower your spirits as quickly. In this same store, I walked past two employees standing together: a cute, short blonde girl and a very stylish and feminine male. They were fiddling around with a mannequin's outfit, trying to make it look presentable, or rather, buyable. It happened to be wearing a tight, knee-length skirt made out of a stretchy material. And it was built in a way where her shoulders were tossed back and her hip stuck out. This particular skirt did not appear to flatter even the size 2 mannequin's body, as it made her hips look huge, and the two employees noticed that. They realized I was staring at them and I said with a smile, "It's kind of discouraging when it doesn't even look right on her..." The girl gave me a horrified look and the guy didn't even dignify my statement with a response. Instead, he grabbed the dummy's head and said in her ear, "It's okay, Jill, she didn't mean it. Don't pay any attention."

They didn't even turn back and smile to signify that they were joking! They continued to console the imitation human. The molded plastic. The inanimate object. And they left the living being (and paying customer) alone to tread through her insecurities. They valued the ideal sculpture over the real human it is meant to replicate. But I guess I shouldn't expect more from people in the fashion industry.

I walked around the rest of the store for a while and then decided to leave. On my way out, I took one last look at Jill. They had left the skirt on and untucked the blouse. They added a belt over it to show off her narrow waist. They put her up on a three foot tall pedestal and she had a flourescent spotlight halo-ed over her synthetic hair. She looked so beautiful.

On the art of relationships

Whereas some people will sit for hours in darkened coffee shops and ponder existence, I will forever be perplexed by something else: Relationships. No this is not a typical single-girl-in-a-big-city story. I have no problem with any specific relationship. Just relationships in general. They BOGGLE my MIND.

I guess it all started a while back... Elementary or middle school probably. (Scene ripples and hazes)

I went to a snooty private school until I was 13 (at this point God remembered I existed). This snooty private school is the source of much convoluted logic that will follow me through my later years as they unfold. As you can probably tell by my eccentric blogs and off-the-wall humor, I grew up a misfit. Yes, I was the square peg in the round hole. In short, I was not one of the Populars (but, for the record, I was lucky enough to go to a high school where there was not such a strict caste system).

Anyway, I digress. So at this private school (which had about 60 students in grades 6-8) pretty much taught me that the lucky few who were in teenage-psuedo-relationships (that was as good as it got back then) had something that the rest of us didn't. They were in a class of their own. And we were the untouchables. Pretty neat, yes? I like to think so.

Although this was very untrue, (and I've come to accept this now) I can't seem to fully abandon that mindset. The belief where, in order to be in a "happy" and "perfect" relationship with someone, you need to go into it "happy" and "perfect". That's unrealistic and, from what little I may know, not what a relationship is all about. That leaves no room for emotional support (and emotional breakdowns)... It leaves room for nothing. But it opens plenty of windows of opportunity for thoughts like, "Maybe I'm not pretty enough for him" or, "Maybe she thinks I'm too short". Anything like this sound familiar?

And so even though I've recently come to understand how ridiculous it is to think that people in relationships are physically, mentally, and emotionally perfect, I still can't fully grasp HOW PEOPLE DATE EACH OTHER without disgusting themselves. I still cringe when I hear how old high school friends are dating each other. I can't help but have thoughts like, "No way... She's going out with him? Even with that lisp of his? HA! Good luck raising kids like that!" and "Oh, GOD, no... They can't go out, her ankles were huuuuuge! I mean it was just like calves and then FEET out of nowhere! There was no narrowing to prepare you for what was to come... just an abrupt end! And her personality, man what a drag!"

It never really hit me until recently: People are not perfect. People are lame, boring, immature, mentally imbalanced, overweight, hairy, illiterate, dramatic, distasteful, inelegant, and, for the most part, just plain ugly. Most also demonstrate poor oral hygiene (please remember to floss daily).

And despite all this, people date. People date and then they get engaged, they get married, and they bear similarly awkward offspring. And their offspring carry out the same cycle.

Can you guys handle this? I sure as hell can't.

Summertime

Another summer, another Bowl season. You guessed it, you little cockroaches... I'm going back. Yes, I know it's hell to the power of the DMV, but I don't know... It's become a sort of tradition. I can't picture summer nights without the sweet smell of cheap beer and the sour notes of the atrocious Hollywood Bowl Orchestra. Plus its John Mauceri's final season. I need to be there!

And, so, you all will hear about it. Time for reflection: Working a seasonal job where the employees are regulars is kind of awkward. The word awkward is kind of awkward. It's kind of funny returning in the summer and thinking "Damn, you're not dead yet? I thought for sure you'd be in hell by now..." It's sort of like coming back to school in the fall after a relaxing summer break where you've managed to forget everyone. Yes, it's a lot like that, except without the new shoe frenzy, where you look all around you to see who has the nicest pair of new school shoes. No, at the Bowl, we don't even have that small joy. We are stripped of all worldly pleasures. We wear our same shit black sneakers that are covered in vomit and urine from seasons and seasons ago. Why? Because a new pair will be covered in vomit and urine, too. Why? Because Bowl patrons are made of vomit and urine. No, that's partially untrue, because they are only partially made up of vomit and urine.

Anyway. I'm looking for another job in addition to this little piece of heaven I'm working right now. So, loyal fans, do send something my way. I will dedicate a blog to you.

My toof hurts

Today I went to the dentist. He injected some substance into the soft tissue in my mouth. I went numb. Then, he drilled and filled my tooth. He told me to floss more. I was offended and I left. I wasted some time because I was hungry and I wanted some take out. But I couldn't eat for a few hours. I window shopped, bought a used book, sat at a coffee shop and pretended to be in deep thought. Then I went to Rite Aid and I bought a huge Valentine heart-shaped box of chocolates. It was 60% off. I sat in my car, still 20% numb, and ate all of the caramels (while carefully sorting out the dark chocolate and coconut) with drool dripping down one side of my face. I like chocolate a lot. A woman looked at me. I smiled a chocolatey smile. She turned her child's head away and walked hurriedly away.

Fin.

Mindtrip

I'm really tired of receiving bulletins on my myspace account. I get so much crap about serial killers and rapists and love and crushes. This was posted today:

Abortion...

Week 1
Mommy, I am only 8 inches long, but I have all my organs. I love the sound of your voice. Every time I hear it, I wave my arms and legs. The sound of your heart beat is my favorite lullaby.

Week 2
Mommy, today I learned how to suck my thumb. If you could see me, you could definitely tell that I am a baby. I'm not big enough to survive outside my home though. It is so nice and warm in here.

Week 3
You know what Mommy, I'm a girl!! I hope that makes you happy. I always want you to be happy. I don't like it when you cry. You sound so sad. It makes me sad too, and I cry with you even though you can't hear me.

Week 4
Mommy, my hair is starting to grow. It is very short and fine, but I will have a lot of it. I spend a lot of my time exercising. I can turn my head and curl my fingers and toes, and stretch my arms and legs. I am becoming quite good at it too.

Week 5
You went to the doctor today. Mommy, he lied to you. He said that I'm not a baby. I am a baby Mommy, your baby. I think and feel. Mommy, what's abortion?

Week 6
I can hear that doctor again. I don't like him. He seems cold and heartless. Something is intruding my home. The doctor called it a needle. Mommy what is it? It burns! Please make him stop! I can't get away from it! Mommy!! HELP me!! No . . .

Week 7
Mommy, I am okay. I am in Jesus's arms. he is holding me. He told me about abortion. Why didn't you want me Mommy?

Every Abortion Is Just . . .
One more heart that was stopped. Two more eyes that will never see. Two more hands that will never touch. Two more legs that will never run. One more mouth that will never speak.


DISCLAIMER: Before I have to hear your holier-than-thou words of wisdom and clever little slogans... and before you pull out your "ABORTION IS MURDER" signs, let me just say that MY PERSONAL VIEWS ON ABORTION ARE NOT REPRESENTED IN MY OPINION THAT THIS BULLETIN IS STUPID.

Now, back to my point. What the HELL are people thinking? I mean, COME ON! Maybe I don't know much about babies... But if my one week old fetus started talking to me and telling me about her vital organs, I'd be a little freaked out.

And week 3? That's not very realistic either... "I always want to make you happy?" That bay is a keeper! Who the hell would destroy THAT child? Seriously though, fetus or not, who says that? And the whole "I cry with you, even though you can't hear me" bit... Good one, unborn child! But did you know your tear ducts won't be developing for quite a few more weeks? I thought not.

Week 4 Umm... was anyone else grossed out when Baby mentioned that her hair is growing? Yea, ok.

Week 5... Hey Mommy!!! MOMMY! WHAT'S ABORTION? I DON'T KNOW WHAT THIS WORD IS. Define this new word for me, please, while ignoring the fact that I am a NEGATIVE-8 month old child who speaks more eloquently that perhaps most of blue-collar America, that I use nice long words like "intruding", and that I am manipulating you and pulling your strings like a mad puppeteer, but in a suave and evil Stewie Griffin manner. Dance, woman, DANCE!!!

Week 6 Mommy, the doctor seems cold and heartless!
My, what a keen judge of character you've become, considering the fact that you've only been talking to your buddy Placenta for your entire existence. And then there is the whole "Then fall Caeser" murder scene.

And last, but certainly not least! Baby is in Jesus' arms! Great! As if people were not annoyed enough by this ridiculous dramatization, now they can simply BLAME IT ON THE CHRISTIANS cause they're stupid anyway! Thanks.

I feel like I should just fold my arms and keep quiet...

But something's not right. I feel like it's a lose-lose situation. Either women will feel so insulted by this (as I think they should) and it will have no impact whatsoever, or women will actually be MOVED by this absolute garbage and will reconsider decisions. So... what's worse? "Cold and heartless", but showing some form of intellectual thought process? Or stupid and compassionate? Y'all decide.

"fun" in dysfunctional

Today we celebrated my dad's birthday. In other words, today was one of the few days that I was in the same room with my parents for more than 5 minutes. Since I had them both with me, I decided to ask a very serious question and give them both a chance to anwer.

I said, "Mom, before my brother and I were born and you saw what beautiful children we were, did you ever worry that we'd be ugly?"

My mom replied, "What a terrible thing to ask. I was too busy worrying about whether or not you'd be healthy. But I did wonder what you'd look like. Of course every parent wants beautiful children..."

My dad jumped in and said, "I was never worried because your mother was the most beautiful woman I knew, so I knew it would be fine..."

My mom cuts him off, "She knows that; she was asking if I ever worried because they had 50% of your genes to overcome."

FIN.

Too late, I said it

I'm currently in the middle of finals, so you'll be receiving no interesting posts until I'm done.

But I will complain about something just because you are here anyway. My grade on my history essay midterm was significantly lowered because I made a comment about how the controversial Espionage and Sedition Acts during WWI are similar to the Patriot Act of 2001, which also gave the government broad powers in search and seizure.

The T.A. graded my essay and crossed out what I wrote. He commented (and I quote), "What? No.. Off topic".... uh.

Ok. In my next essay I might make a comment about how his unofficial Sedition Act, which prohibits thinking, BLOWS.

Wakey wakey

Readers...

I'm sorry I have been so detached from this blog lately. It's been several weeks since I've posted anything worth reading. I am reluctant to say this entry will change that. In my defense, however, I'd like to say that I've finally settled on a major.

But anyway. I guess I can just update you on college life. University chorus just ended for the semester. It closed with the much anticipated Fall Concert. I have to admit that after hearing a recording of the show, I can conclude that we are terrible. It saddened me to feel that way, but it certainly is true.

In my environmental health class, we talked about the possibility of mosquitos carrying the AIDS virus. It is pretty frightening to think of a mosquito as a dirty hypodermic needle with wings. Puke. Luckily, the virus is killed within the mosquito. Otherwise, I fear we'd have an influx of mosquitos crowding free clinics everywhere facing serious lifestyle changes. Uhh.. Not funny.

Anyway. I find myself absolutely fascinated with muslim women. Especially the color-coordinated ones who know how to accessorize, while wearing traditional clothing. I walked past a group of muslim women talking on campus the other day and I stopped by them pretending that I had to make a phone call. I know it's terrible, but I just wanted to eavesdrop. They were talking about how they don't like to date muslim boys and but other boys suck too. Interesting. I had no idea oppressed women could be so liberated. I'd like to see one of those women rip off her hijab and violently let her hair loose in the wind like an Herbal Essences commercial...

It's late and I guess I should get some homework done.

Y'all are nuts

Friends and family...

All I have to document for today is that I was approached, yet again, by the LaRouche Youth Movement. This time they asked me if I will support them in "cutting off Bush's Dick Cheney".

God...

More to come later.

He is a viking.

I saw Yngwie Malmsteen (again) tonight. Man, he is so beautiful. He looks like an overweight cat. I don't usually stand with the crowd. I get back pain if I stand around for too long, so I usually find an interesting place to sit and I watch from there. But tonight, I was kind of leaning against something when a really lovely blond guy asked me if I'm standing alone. I told him I was. Then he told me I can't just stand there and I have to push my way up to the front. I explained to him that I'm ok with standing against the wall, I can hear just fine from there. Then he kind of grabbed me and pulled me in front of him and told me I'd get a better view this way.

It's pretty awesome to be in a mass of screaming people and I couldn't help but smile. I noticed the guy was still behind me and, although he wasn't touching me, he kind of had his arms out around me and was pushing us both to the front. Interesting. I thought it was nice until I started to wonder if maybe he was using me as a shield.

We get pretty close to the stage (thanks, blond guy). There was actually only one person in front of me keeping me from Yngwie, who subsequently "unleashed the fury".

I caught a guitar pick at some point...

In conclusion, fans are real assholes. I hate them all. And I am well aware of the fact that this blog entry blows, but it's past 2 AM and my ears are ringing from hearing Yngwie break guitar strings with his teeth. So screw you guys. If it sucks so much, why are you reading it?

God bless us... every one!

I watched "7th Heaven" recently for the first time in a long time. It was a part of my generous attempt to give the WB a chance to redeem itself for years of subpar programming. What I noticed is that not much has changed. Ruthie grew up and she wears lipstick now. Matt's annoying deaf girlfriend is gone, and surprisingly, so is Matt. The show is still built upon laughably phony religious themes and the scenes still fade out with someone looking meaningfully up at the ceiling, as if to look for water damage.

More significantly, this experiment also made me realize how religion in America has evolved over the centuries. We carry only a wisp of a memory of our Calvinist roots. We were, initially, a people driven by the protestant work ethic. Work hard, and if you become wealthy, you are chosen by God. Once you know you are chosen by God, your next act is to prove your election to your congregation. Now, we are driven by a contorted version of the same principle, but we call it "The American Dream". We are not particularly concerned with salvation, but still, we work hard. And if we get rich... Well, there is probably some tax evasion involved.

Where is God's role in all of this? Who cares. Does anyone even know if it says "In God We Trust" on our bills anymore? And, for the last time, are we or are we not one nation under God?

All this talk makes me long for a simpler time. 1747, perhaps, in Sabbathday Lake, Maine with a community of Shakers. A group of people who make furniture, observe communal living, and practice celibacy are perhaps not the brightest bunch, but they know simplicity when they see it. In retrospect, as they sit around scratching their heads at their conspicuously vacant town meetings, they may see that the celibacy thing was not the best idea when you take into consideration that Sabbathday Lake, Maine is the only remaining Shaker community. And perhaps someone will comment, "Maybe the Catholics had it right with no birth control."

But I'm certainly not one to be forming an opinion against any religion--I, who observe my own brand of American faith. My God probably doesn't care about my work ethic, but I can't be sure. All I can say for certain is that he is, like most gods, big and friendly. And he is a Disney animation chop suey--with a head and torso of Ariel's dad, right down to the trident, and resembling Genie from the waist down. Does no one see the evil in this?

Are you the career counselor? I need a career.

I need a career. I'm thinking about either an FBI secret agent or a county health inspector. I want a job with perks. A job where my badge can get me out of a ticket. A job where if I'm asked what I do at parties, I can respond with, "I can't really talk about it". And then I slip away unnoticed. Any ideas? Speak to me...

Oh and does "candidates must... be in excellent physical condition with no defects which would interfere in firearm use, raids, or defensive tactics" mean I get a gun?

I need a fix

Today, CSUN hit an all-time low. I've been subjected to absolute shit before, but this was something that was completely unprecedented in my college career.

Last year before summer break, I received a notice about a Hepatitis B vaccination that I will need in order to attend CSUN in the fall. I spoke with the nurse and she was particularly nasty about the fact that she was in a position to have me disenrolled if I did not comply (making it the third time I was almost kicked out of school during my freshman year for any reason but GPA). So, I embarked on the 5 month long journey of the Hepatitis B vaccination series. The first two shots were not a problem. I was 18 and the state of California paid for the juice injected in my bloodstream. But the third shot is where our story really begins; the third shot of the series which was, quite literally, slammed into my arm after I had turned 19.

Apparently, after 18, it's believed that you should have to cough up 35 dollars to cover the vaccine. FINE. I paid for my dead Hep B. Then it happened. The nurse had me roll up my sleeve and stabbed me. I almost shrieked. This was a different kind of "sting". This was unlike the first two. And I felt the juice worming into my vein. She pulled it out and slapped a Looney Tunes band-aid on and looked at me with a smile on her face and Satan in her eyes.

"Well?" she asks.

"Uhh... This one hurt a lot more than the first two..."

"Of course it did! Now you're 19! So, we double the dose... No one expects the pain, but I sure don't tell them! Not before the shot, no sir. Have some junk food, you deserve it," she says as she hands me a bowl of candy. I was not a trick-or-treater. And I was not amused... Because today, CSUN made me pay for torture. CSUN threatened me with disenrollment. CSUN charged me 35 dollars for a vaccination I will probably never use because everyone else is already immune.

Remember me?

I hope when we die, my philosophy professor and I end up in the same place (preferably a temperate region). That way when I run into him, I can say, "Yo, Vlad... you were too old for me back on Earth. But we're dead now. Can you remember what year you were born? Yea... me neither."

Fin.

I think, therefore I ramble

So far, this semester seems pretty okay. My classes are plentiful, but fun. And I have a crush on one of my professors. He has a cute Russian accent, and he's very nice, but he's too old for me. Oh... And he's married. But, nonetheless, I fancy him.

This is one of the reasons why the college setting is so strange to me. It's an unfamiliar learning environment. For about 15 years, I was exposed to a mutual hatred between teacher and pupil. They lecture, we listen, but that's as far as it goes. We do not make eye contact outside of the classroom. And so, it's kind of weird when your philosophy professor sits by you at the campus coffee shop to discuss Cartesian dualism. You pause and wonder, "You mean you enjoy teaching?" And more importantly, "You don't loathe me?" To me, this paradox is more complex than any material we will cover in his philosophy course.

And then I think back to high school. Looking from corner to corner of my AP English classroom, searching for a face I don't despise seeing as much as my teacher's; trying to ignore her clunky amish shoes, white stockings, and capri pants... Ignoring the mental image of George Washington that comes to mind when she puts one leg up on a chair...

They say high school prepares you for the real world. But I've come to see how untrue that is. Much of high school passes through my memory in a rapid blur, resembling a bad Van Halen video. The real world is really much nicer. And it smells better.

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on deranged wild animals

So just as I was falling asleep, I see a flash of lightning, followed by violent thunder. I jump up only to realize it's not a dream. I see more lightning and I decide to cover some of the patio furniture because it's not meant for rainy weather.

I open my door to check out the thunderstorm, even though I am very afraid of lightning. Just as I step out on the porch, it begins to hail heavy, half-melted chunks of ice (I live in the mountains). I take another step out, it rains hard and suddenly I see a flash of light and deer charging off my and my neighbor's lawns. There are maybe half a dozen and they look agitated and frantic. Their fur is damp and dishevelled. They run off into the steep mountainside, while the last and smallest one lingers for just a second longer. It turns its head to look at me through the corner of an anxious eye, lets out and angry snort and then charges in the same direction as the others. It was so eerie, I was sure the next lightning bolt would tear open the night sky and reveal to the world the apocalypse.

But it didn't.

So I went to the kitchen, ate some pumpkin seeds, and watched my dog lick his ass for the next 20 minutes.

Thank you and good night

Another dramatic close to a chapter of my life. Yesterday was my last night at The Bowl (for this season). I can almost guarantee I'll be back next year... That is, of course, if they'll have me.

I won't go into much detail, but I will say that it ended with a heated argument and me in First Aid.

Ah, yes... A cliffhanger.

How would you like your coffee, sir?

Forbes.com's semi-famous list entitled "The World's Most Powerful Women" includes a lot of familiar names. And some not-so familiar. And some which make you shake your head and worry about what tomorrow will hold.

For the second year in a row, Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice has occupied spot no. 1. Now for all you feminists and civil rights activists out there claiming this as a victory, let me remind you that although she quite possibly IS the most powerful woman in the world, and "advises the leader of the world's largest superpower", when it comes down to it... she really is just a secretary. A black female secretary, a white male administrator. A real glimpse into yesterday, no?

First Blog in Ages

Ungrateful Readers:

As you may or may not have noticed, I have ceased to take part in this fruitless activity I call blogging. It's not that I have nothing to say... I have just grown bored of this futile exercise. But I guess since you're still checking in and seem so eager to see what's new, I can throw you a bone or a morsel of food here and there.

Let's see...
I am working at the Hollywood Bowl again this summer. I noticed that a lot of people who read this blog were under the impression that I quit... As in actually quit. I guess I should have made it clearer that I quit for the REST OF THE SEASON. Not for life. Once you're Bowl people, you remain Bowl people. So I'll be there forever. Along with the Jews. I love them.

A few weeks ago, the Bowl had some tribute to Gershwin week. It's fun music and a lot of seats were filled. I noticed it attracted a lot of British people, too. I was working at the main gate that night, checking tickets with my 6,000 dollar scanner which makes noises that are curiously similar to the sound effects from Galaga.

Anyway, I got sent on break and as I was heading up to wardrobe to get my crap out of my locker, some frantic British woman power-walked up to me and demanded (I mean really demanded) to know where the lost and found is.

"I demand to know where the lost and found is!" Ok, no. But she said it demandingly. I told her it was "out that way, the first door on the left." So she runs "out that way", looks at the three doors, obviously bypasses the door marked "Hollywood Bowl Operations: Lost and Found" and runs back to me yelling, "WHERE!" I tell her, "THAT way... over yonder. You'll see it marked on the door." She demands (well, you know what I mean) I take her there. I didn't want to waste break time, so I just tell her it's that way and she should look for the sign.

Then she starts yelling at me... "You don't know where it is?! You work here and you don't even know where the lost and found is? How intelligent is that? HOW intelligent is that? HOW INTELLIGENT IS THAT?" I wasn't sure if she wanted an answer. It seemed rhetorical enough where I could just nod in agreement, but she kept asking. Demanding an answer. I decided to put my agreement into words. "Not very intelligent at all." Then she thought I was being "sassy", so she asked for my name and I spelled it for her because it's kind of uncommon.

Then she realized that she still doesn't know where the lost and found is and she said, "How can they put you to work without even teaching you the simplest of things?"

I answer, "Oh... I'm sorry, did you think I worked here? No, I'm just wearing this tie for personal reasons." She mumbles something about an unintelligent twit and I mumble something back about saving their asses in WWII.

I guess I should have been more sympathetic. It's hard to read signs when you're foreign.

Aw, shit

What must run through a toilet's head every time someone stands before it, unbuttoning his pants?

People Always Told Me Be Careful of What You Do

Michael Jackson has, yet again, slipped through the cracks of justice. But regardless of what is decided in court, does anyone really believe that he is not guilty? We all look at it as a big joke; his appearance kind of requires us to do so. So let's face it: The stupidity that is Michael Jackson's existence has paid Jay Leno's salary for years now. We love to laugh at him. But when it comes down to it, would anyone besides the "O.J. didn't do it" protesters really consider that he might be a completely innocent man? And would most of us even care to give it a second thought?

It doesn't help that the accusations never seem to end. If not Gavin Arvizo, or even Jordy Chandler, shouldn't we have at least paid more attention to Billie Jean? What if the kid really was his son?

What will be the final straw? When will anyone be able to convict him? And, most importantly, will the showdown at all resemble the ending of the Thriller video? Only time will tell.

We'll Always Have Paris

It’s no secret that we Americans get a jolt of excitement out of making celebrity nonissues into topics of national importance. And it’s also pretty apparent that the more beautiful and wealthy the pop culture icons are, the more scandalous we try to make their lives seem.

Non-Americans who appear to endorse a more solemn lifestyle have been known to disapprove of the inane and juvenile outlook on life which is characteristic to the average American. And though we may take offense, we find it hard to maintain a strong argument.

An urgent headline reading, “Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie no longer friends” appeared on CNN.com, a few weeks ago. As foolish as this may sound, other sites such as Yahoo! Top Stories, ABC.com, and MSNBC.com also managed to feature a similar piece.

Another story featuring Paris Hilton tells of her trip to a newsstand where she happened to bump into copies of her pornographic tape. She shoplifted the tapes and justified her actions by yelling out something like, “Don’t you know my young fans stop by here all the time?”

Which brings me to another dazzling question. Who exactly are her fans? And, more importantly, why are they her fans? Paris is not exactly an actress, though she appears to believe it. She’s not a singer (yet). She probably is not a praiseworthy dancer, either. She doesn’t “entertain” us in the orthodox meaning of the word. Yet, that is exactly what she does. She’s a tall, slender, blonde heiress. Her name is even something alluring and romantic. Can anyone be so perfect? It seems that this is a well-thought-out ploy on her parents’ part to create the definitive human being to end the struggle of perfection. Paris Hilton is the embodiment of the American Dream. The ominous end is in sight.

Turtle Story

I saved a turtle. There is a pond on campus which is home to some koi and a few turtles. As I was walking to the health center, I noticed a turtle cowering and ducking into its shell next to the automatic sliding door. "Hmm," I thought, "This turtle is cowering and ducking into it's shell next to the automatic sliding door. It must be frightened." A couple of people from my history class also noticed and we decided to help. We called campus information and they were very rude so we knew it was up to us. I decided to carry it back to the pond, which was about 15 feet away (long walk for a turtle).

I'd never carried a turtle before and I wasn't sure if they have any means of attack like poisonous gas or something, so I studied it from a number of angles before settling on a way to carry it. I decided to pick it up with a few fingers by its sides, and try to keep clear from its legs. I also decided it would be best to carry it close to the ground, in case it manages to slip out of my grasp. It was a good plan, indeed. I had to take a break about every 4 steps because I noticed it became nervous. I also observed that each time I put it down and then picked it up again, it opened its jaw very widely and held its front legs straight out. Funny turtle. Then I realized it's not being funny, but is trying to look aggressive. And I, suffering from A.D.D., irrational thought processes, and quite possibly mild insanity, stopped to watch it in its attack mode and brood over this occurrence. It seemed silly, to me, that this turtle is being carried off by a "predator" and all it can do is jut out its front legs and widely part its characteristically reptilian triangular jaws as if to say, "Come on, bitch, stick your finger in my mouth. I DARE YOU!"

And then this made me think back to kindergarten (all while I'm carrying the turtle). I began to remember the colorful images and silly, outdated cartoon drawings of animals on the walls that were supposed to teach children like us sensitivity and solidarity in such a crooked world. And, along with the monkeys, elephants, and parrots, there was always a turtle. A dopey looking, bright-apple-green turtle smiling stupidly and crossing its eyes. I couldn’t help but remember these images that were typical of a carefree, American childhood. I began to grasp that what I had been exposed to was a tremendous misrepresentation of the general turtle population. Now, after my encounter, I know that I have been lied to; typical of a troubled, American adulthood.

Declaration of Indolence

Why should we have to declare a major? Why can't I just continue to take GEs? If I could, I would major in "undeclared"--not studying one subject in depth, but learning a little bit of everything instead.

Declaring a major is too big of a commitment for someone such as myself because when you choose a major, you are declaring to the whole world how you have decided to spend the rest of your time as a living, breathing, tax-paying entity. And nobody has the ability to wisely make that decision. Especially during college years when most people are under the influence of one illegal substance or another...

Anyway. If the world took this into consideration and stopped forcing declarations, maybe we wouldn't have so many confused philosophy majors wandering the streets. And other such things.

Four Out of Five Dentists

I wish I could tell my 13 yead old self not to be so self-conscious about looks and such. After all, at 13 you're still just a kid. And I was up against some tough competition in my class. I wish I could have told myself to have fun as a kid, and that I'd have a whole lifetime of being uncomfortable with my appearance ahead of me. So let loose, kids. You'll always be ugly.

This is what was going through my head today. At the dentist. Let's backtrack: I have been a loyal flosser for many years, but for some reason I gave up a few months ago, thinking it doesn't really matter either way.

Today, the dentist told me that I have two cavities that could have been prevented by flossation. Great. So he did his drilling/filling thing (and took his time). I was there for about 3 hours. I started to get bored and uncomfortable so I began to make out images in the stucco patters on the ceiling. I gave up when every pattern began to resemble an angry koala. Then my dentist reall started to annoy me. He kept saying, "Hmmmmmm..." and exchanging knowing glances with the assistant. After three unnerving hours, he announced that he was done. Then he said that it would be normal for my gums to bleed for a while.

Um. That doesn't sound normal to me. How long is a while? And why did you injure my mouth in such a manner for it to bleed for duration of the aforementioned "while"? No other dentist has ever made my mouth bleed. Should I walk around with a spittoon in my arms?

I got over it. But I will say this: Since I've started flossing again, I've realized that I don't have nearly as many teeth as I thought I did.

Fly, monkeys!

How can anyone resist reading an article with so chilling a headline as, "Satan's image seen on shell of turtle that survived inferno"?
....
.......

A pet store in Indiana burned down and the only survivor is a red-eared slider turtle named "Lucky". All the other poor bastard turtles, also known as "Ill-fated", "Unfortunate", "Doomed", "Damned", "Wretched", and of course, "Flammable", did not make it.

But Lucky now mysteriously has the image of Satan emblazoned on its shell. You can come out now, Georgia. Apparently the Devil's in Indiana.

Places to go and people to see

My mom bought a plant today. It's pretty big, it comes up to my waist. But she was still not convinced that it was tall enough. So she put it on this trolley thing we have, which gave it an extra 2 inches. She asked me what I thought and I didn't quite know what to say. It confused me... who puts a plant on wheels? Where is it going to go?

So it's about 2 a.m. and I just picked up the plant (trolley, too) and put it outside her bedroom door. When she wakes up, almost trips over it, and then asks me why it's there, I can just play dumb and tell her, "When you put a plant on wheels, expect it to go places."

Lesbians always stick around for a fight

I saw Apocalyptica tonight. They put on a great show. Except, I don't get this 3-dollar-beverage business if you're under 21. I pay for my ticket and then I have to pay an additional 3 dollars for an optional non-alcholic drink? Why must I be penalized for being young...

The show was at the Roxy so there was pretty much no place to sit and I came out covered in other people's sweat. Some drunk middle aged man who looked like he was about 6'5'' pushed right past me. I pushed him back and he turned to me and yelled, "Hey! Take it easy, wuddya?" Me? I was standing behind these Spanish lesbians who took that as an opportunity to make their feminist rights known. They started yelling "TAKE IT EASY!?!?! YOU TAKE EET EASY!" It didn't do any good. He was hammered.

So a few songs later, some idiot blonde girl tried to push past me. The lesbians and I stood our ground. We didn't let her through. Then, she had the audacity to grab my shoulder and yell something which was completely muffled by the band. It must have been, "Let me through!" or something. I kindly removed her hand from my shoulder and told her to "STOPPUSHINGME!" She left and the lesbians cheered me on. Then they pulled me through and gave me a spot in front of them. Weird... It was a great view, I wasn't sure why they gave it up to me. Lesbians are tricky. Especially European lesbians.

From my new standpoint, I got a great view of the guys. Two out of four of them have long hair and I dig that. The guy in front of me had long blond hair, too. And it smelled like jordan almonds. Yum.

Apocalyptica is a good band to see live because they get the audience very involved. There are a lot of bands where, no matter how small the club is, they will refuse to look into the audience. But these guys kept making eye contact with people (including myself). It was interesting. Other than that, their accents were horrendous... I didn't understand much of anything they said. And they looked like a bunch of girls. Beautiful European girls.

Oh, O-re-o

My Oreo sandwich cookie has severe separation anxiety. Not from me; from itself. COME APART! I never had this problem with Nutter Butter.

Come on little guy, you've got to let go sometime.

Cash or credit?

Today I thought I may need a job before I go back to my summer job. I can't believe it will be a year since I started working at The Bowl. Anyway, there's some dinky little dress shop in the mall that has a sign in its window. The sign reads: Now accepting applications, inquire inside. Or something of that nature. So I thought... "Me? In a dress shop?.." But I inquired anyway.

The manager was an evil Russian commie and she looked me up and down. Several times. Then she did some inquiries for herself. She asked me how old I am. I told her I'm 18 because I am. She said, "No, no. That's far too young."

My first instinct was the thank her politely and walk out. But then a little demon popped up onto my shoulder and whispered in my ear "What would Daniel Shays do?" Before I knew what I was doing, I came back at her with, "Isn't that age discrimination? I'm of legal working age..." I don't know why I said that or if I even used the term "age discrimination" properly. Anyway, I just wanted to shake her up a bit. And she looked worried... Then I told her my dad's a lawyer and I asked if I could use her phone.

So maybe I'm not selling prom dresses to fat, adolescent Christmas hams. And I'm not making $6.75 an hour. And I'm not picking up conversational Russian from my would-be manager's long-distance phone calls. But does it matter? I am so easily satisfied.

Can this be happening?

I have nothing to say.

It's Alive!

So I went to my first toga party as a college student (or in general) last night. And I had somewhere between nine to fourteen jello shots. They taste like medicine. I like medicine, it reminds me of my childhood. Mmm, comfort. Mmm, Southern Comfort.

Alfalfa Unicorn Pie

My Poli Sci class got cancelled today, so my quest for "involvitude" officially began.

I decided to attack the sorority idea. On campus, I think there are five or six to choose from (I'm not really sure), but the first to approach me today was Alpha Omicron Pi. I don't really know how to tell one sorority apart from another, so I decided to comprise two simple, standard questions with which I can approach each group. #1 "What makes your 'family' different than the rest?'" So I asked Alpha Omicron Pi.

"We're basically the most diverse sorority on campus," replies the girl with the stretched earlobes and metal hoop hanging out of her septum. "We're totally all about individuality!" Yes, I can see your individuality hanging out of your nose.

Ok. Diversity is good. Next, "What does your sorority do?"

"Well," answers Katie with the heart over her "i", we have formals, Saturday hangouts, parties, exchanges with fraternities, and sisterhood events! One time at midnight, we all decided to go tanning! We go to frat parties, too. Do you like to dance?"

"It's okay... I enjoy drunken self-expression as much as the next person, I guess..." I thanked them for their time and information, but I couldn't help feeling disheartened as I walked away. I know the existing stereotypes for sororities, but in my own world, I always imagined I'd find my niche. I always thought I'd stumble upon some small, unknown group of girls who are quietly discussing Voltaire in a cave somewhere. That's the sorority for me... The Dead Philosophers' Society.

Step right up

When I was 9, I won four goldfish at my school carnival. My mom hated them, but I was excited to have a small tribe of creatures depend on me as their sole source of... Well, everything. I felt like their god. And I could be loving or wrathful or negligent, depending on how my day went. My first, and basically only, responsibility came with naming them. At that point in my life I watched a lot of the history channel. And I wanted to give them somewhat matching names, so I settled on War, Famine, Pestilence, and Death. My mom hated them even more after that.

And imagine my horrified response to the lack of dramatic irony in my life when Death was the first to die.


My blogs make me laugh out loud. Is that bad?

All Hail

Please place your right hand over your heart and with your left hand, extract a crisp twenty dollar bill from your wallet, purse, or carrying device. Burn the paper currency as a symbol of your undying loyalty to The System. Repeat the verse:

The System is never wrong. The System is our truth and the building block of mankind’s existence. We will always speak highly of The System. We are products of The Glorious System and we cherish all that it stands for.
All hail The System.

With recent questioning of the validity of the Pledge of Allegiance by the more scholarly minds of society, I think it is appropriate to bring forth a new pledge. This Pledge will be accepted by all because it in no way, shape, or form includes the word or concept of “God”. Moreover, it encompasses an ideal by which every citizen of this free state abides. It proclaims the omnipresence and supremacy with which this structure rules. I am speaking of The System.

...I’m just being dramatic. I was so furious with a phone call I received this morning that I decided to blog. I am determined to keep this as clean and respectful as possible, so making satirical comments about “the way things are” seems to be the only other outlet besides swearing my head off.
This morning, I received a phone call while I was still asleep (I guess making it literally a “rude awakening”) from my CSUN peer advisor. She called to ask why I hadn’t registered in classes and that they are pretty much all full. I told there that she is mistaken and I registered over a month ago. She tells me that there are no classes showing up under my name.
Well after much argumentation , we concluded that I did not pay my fee on time, and was therefore dropped from all 15 units. I am aware that it doesn’t sound that bad, but registering for classes is no joke. It’s like baroque composition. It’s clockwork, making it all fit together. Getting the professor you think you can work with most efficiently. Getting the hours right, getting the courses right. I WANT TO KILL.
It’s ridiculous to think that I will be able to get any classes back. They’re not only “full”, as she put it, but the classes are exploding at the seams.

That is all. I am no longer furious. I will update as necessary.

Damn bureaucrats.

No good baked good

I think the best dessert in the world is a brownie. I like chocolate, but it's just too cold and uninviting on it's own. And a baked good is just no good without some chocolate (or a lot). So a brownie is ideal. I love brownies and I would fight to the death to defend their honor.

The worst thing that anyone can do is taint a brownie. I consider this unforgivable. One can taint a brownie (as I accidentally did last night) by storing it somewhere like a pantry (or a purse) which also contains something with an overpowering scent (like spearmint gum). This unspeakable crime will taint the flavor of the brownie because the stronger scent will overtake the delicate flavor of the brownie. Then, even though you bite into the brownie expecting to taste chocolatey goodness, you will taste something similar to Mouthwash Cake. It will suck. A lot. Betty Crocker wants YOU... to keep your brownies pristine.

Have yourself a merry little carnage

Christmas is rapidly approaching. I know not what it means to all of you, but to me it means family massacre. There are my cousins, 5 of them, who are all swell people. We get along, but probably because we see each other so infrequently. And then there are my aunts and my mother. They don't get along, and it's probably for the best that they see each other as infrequently as they do. My mom's younger sister is the more fun and loud one, whereas my mom's older sister is pretty much the matriarch of the family. I thought about getting her a scepter this year, but I didn't because I decided that she's very likely to use it for more harm than good. She is the type of woman who refuses to age gracefully, but insists on causing a scene the whole way, while most others would let time do its wonders and drive them into mindless and immobile old age. Um.. I guess I should shop.

Happy holidays.

Feed me

I sewed patches on the rear of my jeans to salvage what I could of my favorite pair. Now I can wear them in public without people commenting on the "shade of lilac" my underwear is.

Cameron's right, food cures boredom.
I am fat, but I am amused.

Alma mater doesn't matter

Yesterday, I went to PHS to pick up my health records for CSUN. I got kind of a funny feeling when I stepped onto campus for the first time in months. I noticed that while a lot of things remained the same, there were definitely some changes. I didn't recognize some of the security guards and administrators. Margie remembered me. Apparently she still thinks I'm a student because I didn't have to show her ID or anything. All she said was "Go to 4th period, baby." Good old Margie.

I saw Ms. Diamond/Dime/Dimonian, too. We reminisced. As we spoke, I came to the realization that I spent 4 years despising PHS and avoiding it (when I had a choice) like the plague. And after all that effort and energy wasted on hating it, I've actually begun to miss it. I can't believe it. I never attended a school dance or a sporting event and now I know that my high school life is over. No homecomings, no football games. Eh... Anyway, back to my point. The PHS nurse told me that my records were down at the district.

So today I head down to the district only to find that my records were, in fact, not there. They tell me that my records are at PHS! "OK," I tell myself, "Someone's lying..." I have them call and make sure my records are there before I go back. They call the registrar and she finds my records for me. Ah, yes... Now I remember what I hate about PHS and PUSD, alike. They are incompetent! Kind of like the DMV. Percy Clark, I have a score to settle with you.

With my newfound aggression, I march back into PHS, the facility that imprisoned me for 4 of the most impressionable years of my young life. This place... this hell was no longer a haven for sweet adolescent memories. Not a place where I made friends, received a respectable education, and learned crucial lessons that would see me through the rest of my life. It became clear what PHS is. It is the enemy. It is the long-criticized public school system that crushes young minds, intimidates impressionable youths, and places a bold red stamp on a student's character, either labeled "ACCEPTED" or "REJECTED". There's no need to discuss what stamp I've received...

But as I walked down the filthy hallways, it all came flooding back. I stood in the hallway and observed an amorphous glob of freshly spat out phlegm. I tried to think back and remember how many similar globs I'd encountered in my high school career. I began to think that if this stuff never evaporated or absorbed into the ground, the concrete and the lower 3-feet of the walls would be covered in this soft sticky substance by now. And we students would have to trudge through it... simply another hardship. It seems like just yesterday I was sitting in Mrs. Allen's freshman chemistry class, half-heartedly listening to rumors about her fake leg. I remember now. I remember it all.

Life and Other Things in General, Generally Speaking

I had a weird junk food craze today. That's why college is kind of nice. It's the only place in the world where you can buy pepsi, cheetos, and chocolate cake at 9:30 a.m. And no one will judge you cause you know they have pretty much the same things in their backpacks.

Junk food, by definition, is anything that is edible and has no nutritional value. Like a leaf, for example, has dietary fibers. So a leaf is not junk food. A piece of glass has no nutritional value. And it is even harmful to your health. That's an added bonus. Glass is junk food.

Then in math I saw some guy eating an Abba Zabba bar. I just grabbed 85 cents and ran for the convenient store on the bottom floor. Well, those a-holes did not have Abba Zabba bars, and it once again wins the championship title of "inconvenient store". So I had to walk all the way across campus to the other store. I got distracted on the way by a really interesting-looking moth. It's ok i have an A in math.

School sucks, food is my motivation.

Darwin Loves Me?

The La Rouche kids came out to play again, but with a slightly different approach this time. They were standing in the middle of campus singing choral music. I recognized it to be Bach so I stopped to listen. They asked me if I sing. Mmm... I wasn't about the join them in their "fight", but I told them I do, somewhat. And they only had two altos, so I could have stuck around, but oh well. Just as I was turning to leave, one of them cornered me and weighed me down with a stack of inappropriately named "literature". The she started talking about the election and how the fight has just begun.
Girl: Fundamentalist Christians are going down! Those "fundis" are the cause of the problem! Are you a "fundi"?
Yours Truly: Is it possible to be a Christian and not a fundamentalist, in your opinion? By the looks of it, I guess not. Is it possible to be a Christian without having the title "fundamentalist" or "radical" as a prefix?
Girl: Bush is an extremist and he sees the world in black and white! He is trying to impose his religion on the world, and we think that's wrong!
Me: Oh. So why are you guys singing "Jesu Meine Freude"? (She stopped again. But then she started talking about deficits and disorders, or maybe that was my psychiatrist, who knows...?)

Anyway, I walked away unharmed. But I had a kind of disturbing revelation, maybe someone can explain this to me. If Christians are so against the "survival of the fittest" theory, why practice that precise idea in our economy? If you are poor and uneducated, you will suffer. You work 35 hour weeks at Wal-Mart and raise your kids without health insurance. You are unfit to survive.

Bartender, hit me

I've realized that I find it difficult to function in the mornings without a shot of non-dairy coffee creamer. Straight out of the plastic cup too, preparation taints the flavor.

Tonight: Cloudy with a few showers. Low 48F. Winds S at 5 to 10 mph. Chance of rain 50%.

I hate weather reports. What is a 50% chance of rain supposed to mean? I don't need to be a meteorologist to tell you that. There is always a 50% chance of rain. It will either rain, or it won't. It's 50/50. What nonsense.

I think I ran over a cation

Today as Mary and I were walking out of the on-campus convenient store (which is not so conveniently located), we were stopped by a trio of students doing some kind of psychology video interview. They asked if they could ask us a few things and we agreed. One guy turned on the video camera and the other held out a microphone and asked Mary... (cut to scene)

Guy: What is the current state you are in?
Mary: Umm, can you ask her first?
Guy: Sure. (Turns to me.) What is the current state you are in?
Me: California.
Guy: No, I mean you as a person. What state are you in and what state do you hope to be in by the time you graduate?
Me: I'm not sure I understand.
Guy: What is your current state and what state do you hope to be in?
Me: I am currently solid, by the time I graduate I hope to be a liquid.
Guy: Ok, never mind. What is your reason for coming to school.
Me: Financial stability.




That's all.