Digital Ramen

Just for you, Kari!

Thu, 04 Dec 2008 20:39:45 GMT

Good luck on your job hunt!

Oh No What The F

Mon, 01 Dec 2008 21:44:11 GMT

Hey, long time no see.

Check out this footage of this rare Magnapinna squid.

http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/pf/98196571.html

One of the few things I have always feared from a very young age are giant squid. Don't ask me why. Jesus, that fucking thing is terrifying.

I make bad choices

Wed, 24 Sep 2008 00:29:00 GMT

The other night I was jonesin' for something alcoholic, so I grabbed my friend Tom, whom I call Chunk, to hit up a bar or two.

Now, in Lincoln, this is an idea which is good in theory but completely disastrous in practice, much like eating anything at Long John Silver's. I never really took the time to hit up any of the bars here since I turned 21 since it wasn't exactly my scene anyway, but now there's a good reason for this.

Lincoln's population is just over 15,000, and I would estimate less than 3 percent of that number is black people, the rest being largely comprised of white trash and rednecks who love getting intoxicated in public places.

Chunk and I went to this newly-opened joint called Chad's Blind, which seemed clean, if nothing else, and had a beer garden out back. The bartender, a slender, attractive woman in her early forties who looked like Julia Roberts, served us our drinks--I ordered a Blue Moon while Chunk had a Woodchuck Draft Cider.

We munched on pretzels for a while and watched Dallas and Green Bay on the big screen until a surly man and his girlfriend slid onto the end of the bar. I noticed he was wearing a lightly-stained golf shirt and had a pushbroom mustache and the sloping brow of a Neanderthal, while his bedraggled companion sported unkempt dirty blonde hair and a cast on her arm. Caveman paid for some booze and nursed it for a while, scowling at the game on TV and muttering to his woman.

When he could apparently take it no longer, he turned to us:

: "Either 'a yew two fellas play football in college or high school?"

This struck me as a bit funny, since Chunk and I are clearly pasty-looking geeks who wouldn't know what to do with a football if it hit us in the face, but I realized he needed a lead-in to his brewing complaint.

Slightly confused, we played along:

: "Uh... no, sir."

: "Y'see that? That's just fuckin' ridiculous. Why do they let that guy play like that?"

He gestured to the screen, where Marion Barber was jogging off the field.

Barber had his long locks tied back, and this obviously infuriated him somehow. I decided to see where this was going:

: "Well, I have no problem with it. Actually, I think it's legal to tackle a guy by grabbing onto his hair if it's long like that, so it's not like it helps him any."

I said this matter-of-factly with no idea if it was completely true or not, but I recall having heard this somewhere, so whatever.

: "I don't care, it's stupid. I can't believe they even let that motherfucker onto the field. Don't you think so?"

: "Uh..."

: "I tell you boys what. If I was playin' on that field, I'd pluck that nigger like a chicken."

: "........."

I hate this town and I hate these bars.

Holy crap someone play this with me now

Thu, 07 Aug 2008 00:12:28 GMT

I think I just found a new thing for Black Company to do at events.

STUMP

Equipment

1. Hammer: All hammer types are acceptable. Wooden-handled hammers are the most traditional, but they can often begin to break after multiple games. Should you choose to use wooden, take special care to monitor the strength of the neck regularly.

2. Nails: All nails are acceptable, however, 4-to 6-inch nails are ideal. You should have enough for one nail per person per game (Exception: Team Games). Feel free to experiment with different nail lengths depending on your skill level and stump type (see stump specifications below).

3. Stump: The stump should be sturdy enough to withstand topside blows without falling over. The stump should stand approximately knee-level or just slightly lower and have a flat top surface. The best stumps have a wide surface area so as to accommodate the greatest number of games as more and more nails are driven in. Stumps with rotten wood or varying surface textures should be avoided, as this can result in one player gaining an advantage over his opponents due to his nail location. Different types of wood make for games of varying length and difficulty. For example, some wood types are soft enough for a solid hit to drive a 4-inch nail completely into the stump (and thus, in some cases, eliminate a player who has not yet taken a single turn), while other types are hard enough to necessitate several powerful blows before the nail is fully sunk.

4. Booze: Beer is the official beverage of Stump - other alcoholic beverages should be used only in a pinch. Make sure to have plenty - two 12 oz cans per person per game should be considered the minimum when you make the run to the store. Having too many beers on hand is always better than too few - there is nothing worse than a Stump session ending due to lack of beer - or, God forbid, running out of beer during the game-ending Waterfall.

Before the Game Starts

1. One person should be designated to prepare the stump for play. After the first game, it is common for the winner to assume the honor of preparing the stump for the next game.

2. To prepare the stump, determine how many players (or teams) will participate in the game. One nail should be hammered into the top surface of the stump for each player. The nails should be hammered into the stump straight and as little as possible, however, they should be far enough in that they are sturdy and will not fling out if they are hit at an angle (usually an inch or so will do). The nails should be spread evenly in a circle around the surface of the stump.

3. Each player "claims" a nail by placing his or her foot on the stump next to the nail. This will be his nail for the duration of the game. It is generally understood that people will claim the nail directly in front of them, though this does not necessarily have to be the case.

4. Each player must have a beer (can, bottle, cup, or other suitable container containing beer) on his or her person (defined as being supported entirely by said person and their clothing, not by any other objects) at all times. The only exception to this rule is during Home Improvement (see Rules of Play), when a player can legally put his or her beer down until Home Improvement is completed.

5. It is general practice to use the claw of the hammer to open your beer, even if this means disrupting the course of play.

Rules of Play

The winner is the last player whose nail remains standing.

1. Each player, in turn, shall toss the hammer such that it makes at least one full 360-degree rotation before he touches it again. The player shall not be allowed more than one toss per turn for any reason (unless it is part of a Trick - see Rule 2a).

2. Once the hammer is caught the player shall attempt to bring it down immediately and without hesitation upon an opponent's nail, driving it into the stump. Any attempt at "cocking" or "aiming" the hammer shall be considered foul play and subject to criticism.

2a. The standard toss is a back flip, such that the hammer flips claw first. However, all non-standard tosses are acceptable and encouraged, provided the toss does not violate Rules 1 or 2. Non-standard tosses are often referred to as "Tricks". Click here for a list of Tricks and Trick Ideas. If the Trick includes a double toss (for example Under the Leg to Around the Back) it must remain a continuous motion and should not be an attempt to gain better control after a sub-par first toss. Attempting Tricks is considered to add general excitement to the game, and if successful, carries with it the potential for increased penalties for opponents (see Rule 3).

3. If a player succeeds in striking an opponent's nail, and the nail becomes visibly shorter or bent, that opponent shall sip from his beer an amount proportionate to the damage inflicted, with additional amounts consumed for any showmanship or Tricks displayed in the toss and catch (see Rule 2a), in which case the number of sips should be a direct reflection of the victim's respect for the Trick or showmanship.

4. If any player sees sparks resulting from the hammer striking a nail, it is a Social. Every player must take a sip from his own beer. The common announcement one makes when he sees sparks is "Spaaks!" - a throwback to the game's suspected New England origin.

5. If a player drops the hammer during the toss, it is considered a Spazz and the player loses his turn. The player must take a sip from his own beer.

5a. If a player drops the hammer during the toss, and the hammer comes to rest directly on top of the stump, the person in the direction the handle of the hammer is pointing must chug his entire beer. The toss is still considered a Spazz, and the player who tossed must take a sip from his own beer.

6. If a player's nail should become bent during the game, he may, during his turn only, choose to fix his own nail. This process is called "Home Improvement". The player can take as long as he likes to fix the nail to his satisfaction, though his efforts are subject to comment by the other players. It is considered honorable to ensure that the nail is straight and in a position to be hit cleanly.

6a. During Home Improvement, it is generally expected that all other players will place a foot on the stump for stability.

7. A player is eliminated from the game (and thereby takes no more turns) once any part of the head of his nail passes below the level of the surface of the stump (including bending over the edge of the stump without actually entering it). A generally accepted test of whether a player is still active is whether one can pass a fingernail underneath the head of the nail without obstruction. Any obstruction of free movement shall result in the player being deemed inactive.

8. Should a player's nail bend such that the head passes below the surface of the stump, thereby eliminating the player, this player can be resurrected if another player strikes the nail, regardless of intent, in such a way that the head of the nail emerges from the surface of the stump. The resurrected player will re-enter the game in the same rotation pattern as before elimination.

9. Inactive players should continue to comply with Rules 4, 5a, and 6a.

After the Game

Upon completion of a game (when only one nail remains standing), the players shall arrange themselves in order, clockwise around the stump, from first place to last place according to the results of the game.

Each player should ensure that he or she has sufficient beer remaining. If not, he or she should prepare another beer.

A "Waterfall" shall commence, whereby all players simultaneously begin chugging their beers (commonly after a toast to "The Stump"). The first place player can stop chugging at any time. The second place player must not stop chugging until after the first place player has stopped. The third place player must not stop chugging until after the second place player has stopped, and so on until the last place player chooses to stop drinking.

It is considered foul play to "cheat" during the Waterfall, incorporating such tactics as pretending to drink, drinking very slowly, or creating a "lake" in your mouth.

It is common for the winner of the game, should he choose to do so, to drive his own nail fully into the stump.

Oh God

Thu, 19 Jun 2008 22:31:41 GMT

Okay, this thing starts off looking pretty cool, but the more you watch it, the more it slowly starts to become David Lynch nightmare fuel:

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=5349770802105160028

0_o

Tue, 17 Jun 2008 18:50:25 GMT

So, after having not seen them in about four or five years since they were lil' tykes, I had an afternoon visit at Panera Bread with two of my cousins, now thirteen and fifteen years old, respectively.

I just found out not only do they both play World of Warcraft, they have several level 60 characters each.

I don't know whether to be startled or pleased by this.

tear

Wed, 11 Jun 2008 16:02:18 GMT

Ouch, right in the bachelor's degree.

Update?

Thu, 24 Apr 2008 19:55:21 GMT

Haven't posted anything in a while, so here's a fairly accurate description of myself. My back kinda hurts.

My Personality


Neuroticism	15
Extraversion	60
Openness to Experience	57
Agreeableness	65
Conscientiousness	66

You rarely get angry and it takes a lot to make you angry, however high levels of stress can lead to you feeling panic or confusion, but usually you cope with day to day pressures. You are an active group participant but usually prefer to let someone else be the group leader. Familiar routines are good, but sometimes you like to spice up your life with a bit of adventure or activity. You dislike confrontations and are perfectly willing to compromise or to deny your own needs in order to get along with others, however you are willing to take credit for good things that you do but you don't often talk yourself up much. You have strong will-power and are able to overcome your reluctance to begin tasks. You are able to stay on track despite distractions.

Take a Personality Test now or view the full Personality Report.

The best UGG Boots.

More sins? Now what'll I have to do?

Tue, 11 Mar 2008 13:37:22 GMT

So, more reason that I'm glad I don't practice Catholicism. The Vatican has issued a decree of seven new sins in addition to the good ol' standbys. The seven social sins are:

1. "Bioethical" violations such as birth control

2. "Morally dubious" experiments such as stem cell research

3. Drug abuse

4. Polluting the environment

5. Contributing to widening divide between rich and poor

6. Excessive wealth

7. Creating poverty

Apparently, the Pope has forgotten that one of our greatest heroes is already on task to combating most of these vices.

Go Planet!

Gamers mourn

Thu, 06 Mar 2008 08:05:56 GMT

R.I.P., Gary Gygax. You will be...

*rolls D20*

...sorely missed.

Fun sexy dreams

Sat, 23 Feb 2008 19:50:27 GMT

After waking up from hours of amazing tantric dream-sex with a sultry, mysterious brunette, I can only hope that she actually exists somewhere out there and had the same dream about me last night.

Stupid sexy dreams

Fri, 22 Feb 2008 21:23:43 GMT

As much as being a single dish again is sorta okay, I do obviously miss certain aspects of having a close female companion, and apparently my subconscious is trying to drill that concept into the other parts of my brain.

Last night I had a dream where I was sitting in the corner of some room, playing my DS, while a minor sort of party was going on around me. My friend Collin walks over with an attractive, long-haired brunette and asks "Hey, JP, what does this tell you about this girl?" In response, she briskly walks over and slowly runs a finger from the bottom of my stomach to the middle of my chest and then bounces back, waiting for my response.

*blink blink*

Now, as every geeky guy can probably attest, this poses a dilemma where the male brain is forced to fight between its two main loves: Video games and sex. Spending too much time with either one isn't really healthy or ideal, but then again, it's not always the easiest thing in the world to flip-flop from one to the other.

Not realizing this is, in fact, a vivid sleep-hallucination, I'm suddenly thrust into this highly improbable scenario and am understandably dumbfounded. Fortunately for this little role-play, I quickly realize the gravity of the situation, and switch into Rico Suave mode, completely ignoring the logical part of my brain which might question why Collin is having this babe toy with my head, and I don't mean the one on my shoulders.

And so, not wanting to let a good thing pass, I set aside my DS, performed a quick once-over with my eyes, and replied, "Well, she seems to be playful and outgoing."

I fight with the honest part of my brain that also wants to add "manipulative."

I get to my feet and sidle over to her to continue, "But are you also... spontaneous?" She says, "Sure" and I take the opportunity to move in for a deep kiss. She obliges for a good, long moment, and we part. Damn, I'm smooth.

Not missing a beat, I say "You're also a good kisser." Then I follow by extending my right hand. "I'm Jon, by the way."

And the dream ends and I'm awake in my bed.

Then there's that brief second where you become painfully aware of your surroundings, followed by the inevitable:

"fffffFUCK!"

Where I've been and how I've been dying

Tue, 05 Feb 2008 19:26:39 GMT

So, I figure I should enlighten some of you who I haven't been in personal contact with recently as to my current situation. I'm not cutting this since I think it's important that you should all know how I'm doing.

In short, I was admitted to the hospital the other day, fixed up, and released as if nothing had ever happened, but the truth is that I was in pretty bad shape. For those of you who are somehow still unaware, I'm still struggling with ulcerative colitis, which is really only a personal problem unless I have to use your bathroom, and for that, I'm really sorry if I did and made it smell like a restaurant's grease trap on a hot, sunny day. Anyway, for the last probably couple of months now, I'd been noticing that minor activities, even such as climbing a short flight of stairs, would make my heart race like I'd been having a marathon of sex. Now, I may not be getting the exercise these days that I used to as a full-time student walking around campus, but this was starting to concern me a bit, even though I didn't seek medical attention because I thought it was just my body being a wuss from the colitis.

Last Monday, I woke up with a hacking cough, having managed about three hours of sleep. I was able to zombie-stumble downstairs, shower off, and collapsed on the couch for a couple of hours, waking up feeling even worse. I had felt my bile rising after my shower, and the room had been spinning. My heart was pounding out of my chest non-stop since I had taken my shower, so my mom took my temperature. One hundred four degrees. For those of you who maybe have never run a fever that high, 104 is the point where you start hallucinating dragons or some shit, so I had begun to develop the ability to single out individual air molecules.

So here I find myself, laying around, praying for death with a cold compress on my forehead, and drinking as much water as I can while following lazily-floating subatomic particles with my eyes. My mom wisely decides to schedule an afternoon doctor's appointment, somewhat unlike her, since those of you who have met my mom would know that she'd just as soon pump me full of vitamin supplements than pay $90 to have a doctor take my blood pressure and then tell me to just drink lots of fluids.

Regardless, I went in at 1:30. Upon opening the waiting room door, the nurse practitioner immediately said "You look sick" and beckoned me inside. Apparently I had monopolized the white on rice since there was no color in my face. She took my vitals and ordered some blood drawn to be immediately tested. I got a little wheelchair ride back out to the waiting room where I sat among lots of sick people, marinating in the hospital stink of sterility wafting around me until the nurse reappeared about an hour later and hastily summoned me back to the exam room.

The nurse looked me in the eye and said "You. Are. Going. To. The hospital." as matter-of-factly as that and proceeded to tell me that I was, no exaggeration, almost dead. My hemoglobin was at a critical 4.4 when it should have been no lower than 12. I was literally not making any red blood cells or getting enough oxygen around. In other words, severely, severely anemic, except with one foot in the grave. I weighed in at 142 pounds. Additionally, my potassium was low as well as my liver enzymes and God knows what else. While I goggled over this new information, the nurse informed me that I was to be immediately taken to an ICU room to receive a transfusion of 6 units of blood, some antibiotics and steroids, along with some potassium replacement. I couldn't argue with this diagnosis, so I weakly agreed, realizing that I was about to cost my parents a whole lot of money.

They assembled a room in short order, and I was wheeled upstairs to a section of our hospital I'd never seen. The following hours became a blur of changing into one of those ever-so-lovely drafty hospital gowns, needles and more needles, and becoming acclimated to the fact that I wasn't going to get to take a dump by myself for a while. The nurse on duty grilled me for a while to make sure I wasn't killing myself with drugs or having sex with hookers or anything, and then suddenly it was time for the needles. Now, I used to give blood on a routine basis, so I'm no stranger to having things stabbed into my arm, but I'd never actually received blood before, much less ever been admitted to the hospital. Being transfused is a much more fun experience, and by "fun," I mean you get to have an inch-and-a-half plastic catheter inserted into your vein instead of a needle. Not only did this REALLY HURT, but after the blinding pain finally subsided, the nurse called for a clean sheet. I looked over and saw a spreading pool of blood about the circumference of a cereal bowl under my arm. Great. At least she managed to get it in all the way.

After being cleaned up, I was informed that some of my blood was to be drawn constantly to check on my various levels. Of course, they also needed stool and urine samples, to which I obliged, not always eager, but almost always able to produce at the drop of a hat. They also x-rayed me in the bed with a portable machine. A phlebotomist came in to start what would become a very tedious procedure of being stabbed at least once every four hours, sometimes sooner, by a different person each time. Fortunately, I can't complain too much, since only one of them was actually inept at her job, while the rest were very attractive young ladies who are quite deft at jabbing needles into people and stealing their blood.

I finally received my first bag of blood almost six hours after I had been admitted, since they take the time to test the blood for everything under the sun. By this time, I had at least gotten to "eat," though they forbade me from having anything that resembled actual food, so I was stuck with orange jell-o, vaguely-fruit-flavored protein drink, other vaguely-fruit-flavored drink, hot water and dehydrated chicken broth in a little packet, and italian ice substitute. Everything they ever said about hospital food is entirely true.

Hours later, I had begun to finally relax, having figured out how to work the TV, which for a time was the only salvation I had in the place. I sent my parents away and wisely asked my mom to bring my Nintendo DS next time she showed up. A new nurse took up the shift and intoduced himself as Nathan, a strapping young lad of 26 who I could imagine was quite the stud in nursing school. Hell, he was even a geek, too, admitting that he was currently playing Final Fantasy XII and had just picked up Champions of Norrath. I don't know how he kept the ladies off of him. Seriously, this guy had a chiseled jawline, well-defined muscles, a charming demeanor, and a pleasant smell. Additionally, a noticeably big package. Those hospital scrubs don't hide anything, especially when you're reclining on a hospital bed at crotch-level. Also, I'm totally not gay.

Nathan later administered another IV line into my other arm for an antibiotic drip. While it was going into a larger vein than on the other arm, he failed to successfully insert the catheter the first time, noting that I had tough skin, but I gritted my teeth and had him try again, because I wasn't going to deny what little masculinity I had left by admitting how painful it was. I am a MAN. And if hairy, primitive men could handle being stung by mad, primitive hornets with harpoon-stingers every day, I could handle this.

I began to settle into a schedule which involved a rotation something like this: Change blood. Go to bathroom. Change antibiotics. Go to bathroom. Get blood pressure taken. Go to bathroom. Get temperature taken. Get blood taken. Go to bathroom. Repeat endlessly, and don't sleep at all in between every step.

I started to feel really bad for Nathan, because I was constantly hitting the "Call Nurse" button just so he could come in and unplug my machine, wheel it over to the bathroom, wait for me to crap in a plastic hat suspended over the bowl, pee in a jug, and then wheel me back over and hook me up again. Also, from what I'm assuming was a side effect of the drugs, my stools were GREEN, and I hated that he had to see that every time he would have to empty the waste and record the difference in my fluid intake and expulsion. I wasn't enjoying feeling like a useless bag full of crap and urine that had to be carried around everywhere, but what else could I do? I'm amazed at how humble he was about the whole thing, saying "Comes with the territory. But I actually like it."

Before I knew it, it was morning, and I was winding down to the last of my six bags of blood. A nurse earlier had remarked that I must have had the constitution of an ox to not have felt as sickly as I looked, also adding that I would feel substantially better after the blood was mine. Aside from the complete lack of sleep, I actually did feel pretty good. I amused myself with the thought that I had vampirically absorbed the life essence of six delicious A-Positive donors, and while I hadn't begun to manifest any mutant powers, I did feel a boost from their strength.

The next day was a bit of a blur as I bid Nathan goodbye and met the next nurse who was in charge of my fluids. I don't remember her name, and it's not important, so we'll leave it at that. The best thing she did for me was inform me that I was allowed to eat solid food again, which was a hidden joy that I shall always treasure. The steroids I was getting had the side effect of giving me the munchies like nothing else, and I absolutely destroyed the fried chicken they gave me at noon.

Towards the evening, I was informed that my hemoglobin was at 9.8 and that I was close to my last blood draw. Already I felt like a new man and this news relieved me further, as at this point I'd been pierced 11 times, not counting the two IVs in my arm. I estimate that they'd taken between 25 and 30 vials of blood by now, and it was beginning to show in a little half-moon arc of pinprick-bruise on my inner elbow. I was beginning to think they weren't so much testing my blood in the lab as they were painting some macabre picture with all of it. The nurse hooked up the last of my antibiotic drips and made herself scarce. I browsed the internet on my DS, happy to have the access.

Around 3 a.m., my medical ball-and-chain beeped, informing the world that I was done with the antibiotics. The nurse came, unscrewed the IV from my catheter, and asked if I wanted some drugs to help me sleep. Since I'd gotten maybe three hours of sleep since I had been admitted, I heartily agreed. She gave me a tiny pill that was labeled "Temazepam," a drug which I would later mentally file into the "Fear and Loathing" section of Jon-drugs, a wicked category shared by Nyquil, which never fails to give me fucked-up dreams. Sure enough, the Temazepam knocked me out within about a half hour, but I found myself suddenly awakened to a whirlwind frenzy of complete and utter chaos some three hours later. I vaguely remember a nurse offering me a fresh gown, since the one I was in was literally drenched in sweat. She also gave me a pair of hospital pants, except I'm a little hesitant to call them "pants." These had a large V cut into the front, with a tie above it around the waist, and no snap. So, I slipped these on and noticed that the V was right at my crotch, allowing my junk to hang out for all the world to see if not for the gown. I tried to mentally process if there was any point to wearing these at all, but I was too stoned to really care.

I halfway remember stumbling to the bathroom, changing, coming back, and being stabbed yet again by another phlebotomist, then lapsing back into unconsciousness almost as soon as she taped on the gauze. The next recollection I have is waking up at about 7 a.m. with my doctor talking to me, which makes me a bit uneasy because of all the potential subliminal things that he probably said. I think he was informing me of my progress, but I can't be certain since I was still too high on the Temazepam. After he left, a nurse informed me that I'd probably get to go home later in the afternoon. I steadily regained complete control over my faculties, and eagerly awaited the chance to get the damn plastic tubes out of my arms. Hours later, I ate another lunch which tasted way better than it probably should have, had my IVs pulled out, and was released back into the world. I could have done a cartwheel.

I left with a laundry list of prescriptions to further ensure my recovery, including an antibiotic, Prednisone, and iron tablets. Though probably attributed to the drugs, amazingly, my colitis has been the best it has in what must be two years. I certainly can't complain. I don't care if it grosses anyone out, but I'm proud to say that I'm producing stools that are almost completely normal. (read: solid) I look at myself in the mirror and actually see color in my face, and my lips and gums are a darker shade of red than I can remember seeing in a very long time. I notice brightness in my eyes again, I have energy for once, I don't feel like crap all the time, and I'm gaining weight back. I'm going to start working out again because I finally feel up to it now. I've kept on the hospital bracelets they gave me and I plan to do so indefinitely as a reminder to keep better tabs on maintaining this degree of health.

I am NOT going back to being sick again. Thanks for supporting me for so long through all this, guys.

Cross-posted from Too Much Info

Tue, 27 Nov 2007 16:51:17 GMT

I was reminded of an amusing incident that happened to me quite a few years ago now. Back when I was a younger teenager, I had been a Boy Scout. The "Scout" half of this membership means my Troop went on lots of camping trips and had plenty of opportunities to interact with nature in a colorful variety of ways. (We once tried to make a toad and a snake battle each other like Pokémon, but that's a different story.) And, of course, the "Boy" half of this membership entails that I, being male, was naturally prone to doing lots of reckless (read: awesome) things and being an overall jackass. (We had roman-candle-trashcan-lid duels on more than one occasion, but again, different story.)

On one such camping trip, we'd brought along some of the Troop canoes for an afternoon expedition on a local creek. After paddling along for several hours, stopping several times along the way to carry the canoes over shallow waters, we found a small inlet where the water was about four feet deep or so that made for a perfect "swimming hole." Since we were all pretty much soaked already, we beached the canoes and swam around for a while. (Horsing around in murky, bacteria-ridden water? Hot damn, where do I sign up?!)

Near the edge of the shore, next to a small copse of cattails, we noticed the floating remains of a fairly large catfish, probably three feet long. Now, kids, when you find a dead animal, what's the natural response to said discovery? That's right! You poke it with sticks and desecrate its body! Anyway, we had a few jollies chucking rocks at this hapless decedent for a while until my friend Collin had the brilliant idea to find the biggest rock possible and just blast the sucker. So he fishes around on the bottom of the creek until he hoists up a boulder about the size of a football that must've weighed about thirty or forty pounds. He lifts the quarry overhead and heaves it at this catfish corpse, scoring a direct hit which immediately bent the fish in half and sank it to the bottom with a massive splash like a depth charge going off. Suffice to say, it was pretty bitchin'.

As cool as it was, though, my Spidey-sense told me this would only end in tears, so I took a few steps backward toward the shoreline. Collin's brother, Adam, however, was still in the water, about seven feet away from the site of the shipwreck. It'd been about two minutes, and we were watching small bubbles rise to the surface, wondering when the fish would bob back to the top.

Without warning, Adam starts freaking out and flailing around in the water like he was possessed. "Huuuuaaaghghghghggghhh! Gahhhhhh!" A few frantic seconds later, the fish casually breaks the surface, only with a massive gash in its side and two-foot-long white intestines like thick silly string hanging out of the wound. Apparently, not only had the fish broken free of the rock and bobbed right under his crotch, but its now-free guts had somehow entangled completely around his leg. Of course, while he was still clawing at his leg and twitching like Michael J. Fox, we were rolling around choking with laughter.

After that incident, we preferred to let dead animals lie. :)

Where do you want to go when you die?

Tue, 13 Nov 2007 15:48:51 GMT

The by-the-book, Miss America response to the above question tends to be "Heaven." Some people, eyes glittering with child-like innocence, might say "Disneyland." Or, if you're a member of Da Vinci's Notebook, you might consider the two synonymous.

Regardless, much like the somewhat hush-hush deaths that have occurred on Disneyland grounds, apparently there is also a lesser-discussed, covert practice come to light recently, in which it has been discovered that the ashes of some of the apparently most fanatical (read: nutjob) would-be Mouseketeers are scattered among the likes of Cap'n Jack Sparrow and his skeletal companions.

Now, as much as I might appreciate a visit to sunny California, I could care less about being placed there posthumously, though I think I would prefer that my remains be respectfully dealt with, rather than end up as refuse to be unceremoniously vacuumed up by park staff. I say, hell, if you want to be dead at Disney so badly, might as well go all out and orchestrate some elaborate scheme in your will to have all your flesh stripped off and your skeleton added to the rest of the ghoulish Pirates cast, right?

My status

Fri, 19 Oct 2007 20:51:20 GMT

Recently, some of my friends have called me out on my recent behavior; that I'm acting dull and sluggish, irritable, and not always wanting to hang out or participate in things with them. This is not necessarily the case. I wanted to put things in perspective so people understand where I'm coming from when I say "Nah, I think I'll just stay in tonight."

One friend said it was a little annoying that I seemed to make excuses for not wanting to go out, and would simply have me give it to her straight and say "No, I don't feel like it." That's the problem, though--I DO feel like going out. I do enjoy spending time with my friends, whom I love dearly. I just don't always feel up to snuff, physically.

That same friend also told me "You've changed." Yes, I have changed, but it's not a change I chose.

Let me clarify. For those of you who still don't know, I was diagnosed with a "mild" form of ulcerative colitis about a year ago. I literally haven't had a solid stool in almost two years now. I'm in the bathroom four to eight times a day, on average. Alterations to my diet haven't done a thing, and the herbal supplements I take don't really seem to have much of an impact, either.

My body, at times, treats me like I'm much older. At 23, I don't feel quite so young and as full of vitality as I once was. I constantly feel more weary and debilitated than I used to, even in recent years. I don't think I'm always getting all the nutrients I need. Younger people tend to act like they're invincible or that nothing bad will ever happen to them. Those rare few who contract HIV or some form of cancer are in the absolute minority, and while there is sympathy felt for those people, there's also the mentality that "It'll never happen to me."

I feel like this disease is essentially my "cancer." I'm being completely serious now, so I want you all to understand that when I have to get up at 4:00 in the morning and run to the bathroom and see a toilet bowl swirling with blood and completely undigested bits of food, it's not totally inappropriate for me to say that...

I sometimes feel like I'm dying a little bit.

Now, before you all panic and start dialing hotlines, I'm not terminally ill or suicidal or anything like that. But when you wonder why I'm so skinny, can't put on any weight, have difficulty building muscle mass, or might not always laugh aloud at one of your jokes, this is the reason for that, and I think you'd feel the same way if you were in my shoes.

I don't always feel that fire in my eyes that I used to have, but I am, by no means, simply giving up. As far as I know from what the gastroenterologist told me, one of the only drug-related interventions for this disease is treatment by steroids, which can have a long-term effect on the durability of one's hipbones. I don't want to consider this option right now because I don't want to have my hip replaced when I'm 40.

My main point is, please, don't be offended if I turn down an offer to get out and do something. I'm not being antisocial, I just don't always have it in me.

Quiz? Verily.

Wed, 19 Sep 2007 16:43:33 GMT

Here's a quiz, since I honestly don't remember the last time I actually participated in one of these.

1. Is your second toe longer than your first?
I wish, but no.

2. Do you have a favorite type of pen?
Those jet-black rollerball ones. I think they're made by Pentech. One time, when I was about seven or eight or so, I was doodling with one of those pens in church and bent the tip. The ink wasn't flowing, so I took the pen into the bathroom, and sucked on the tip, hard, to try and get it flowing again. I got a whole mouthful of all the ink from the reservoir. Fortunately, there was a sink right in front of me, but it looked like some weird alien spawn when I spit it all out.

3. Look at your planner for Oct 5th, what are you doing?
I usually don't plan that far ahead unless it's something important. Yeeep, I'm a really responsible person.

4. What color are your toenails usually?
Toenail-colored.

5. What was the last thing you highlighted?
Maybe some notes last year? I usually don't highlight my notes.

6. What color are your bedroom curtains?
Here at school? Beige. At home? I have blinds, not curtains.

7. What color are the seats in your car?
Sort of a dingy gray-ish.

8. Have you ever had a black and white cat?
No. :(

9. What is the last thing you put a stamp on?
My last payment to my credit card company.

10. Do you know anyone who lives in Wyoming?
No.

11. Why did you withdraw cash from the ATM the last time?
To pay back Robie for rent.

12. Whose is the last baby that you held?
I seriously don't remember. I try not to voluntarily hold babies.

13. Unlucky #?
Zero.

14. Do you like Cinnamon toothpaste?
I'd try anything once.

15. What kind of car were you driving 2 years ago?
I only got my car fairly recently, so my bike. :(

16. Pick one: Miami Hurricanes or Florida Gators?
No.

17. Last time you went to Six Flags?
Probably about five or six years ago.

18. Do you have any wallpaper in your house?
At home, yes. My house is really old and some rooms have half a dozen layers that just kept getting papered over. I know this because I'm usually drafted to help scrape it all off when we're repainting rooms, ugh.

19. Closest thing to you that is yellow?
The lightning bolt on my Flash shirt.

20. Last person to give you a business card?
Probably my dad, actually.

21. Who is the last person you wrote a check to?
The faceless entity that is Citicard.

22. Closest framed picture to you?
The picture Kari commissioned from Leia of she and I as furries.

23. Last time you had someone cook for you?
Leia cooked stir-fry for us last night. Nom nom nom

24. Have you ever applied for welfare?
No, and I hope I never have to.

25. How many email addresses do you have?
Three, but I only actively check one.

26. Last time you received flowers?
I don't know. :(

27. Do you think the sanctity of marriage is meant for only a man & woman?
Nah.

28. Do you play air guitar?
Not professionally.

29. Has anyone ever proposed to you?
No.

30. Do you take anything with your coffee?
Not at all. I want to be able to taste it black.

31. Do you have any Willow Tree figurines?
I don't know what that is.

32. What is/was your high school's rival mascot?
Schools have mascots? I literally attended ONE basketball game in four years of high school, and that was to meet someone from the band. I don't even know what OUR mascot was.

33. Last person you spoke to from high school?
Probably Collin.

34. Last time you used hand sanitizer?
In the lobby of Health Services, I think.

35. Would you like to learn to play the drums?
I'd give it a shot.

36. What color are the blinds in your living room?
We have a big curtain that's white.

38. Last thing you read in the newspaper?
OJ getting busted for armed robbery.

39. What was the last graduation you attended?
My brother's high school graduation.

40. What is the last place you bought pizza from?
Chubby's Pizza, and it was greasy and delicious.

41. Have you ever worn a crown?
Does Burger King count?

42. What is the last thing you stapled?
A writing assignment for Dr. Eckert's class.

43. Have you ever drank clear pepsi?
My parents didn't allow me to drink soda before I was thirteen, so I didn't have any of this stuff when it was still around.

44. Are you ticklish?
Just my feet, kinda.

45. Last time you saw fireworks?
The Fourth of July, from atop a grain silo. It was pretty dangerous climbing up there, but an awesome view.

46.Last time you had a doughnut?
Some doughnuts from Casey's, with Monster canned coffee. Nom nom nom

47. Who is the last person that left you a message & you actually returned it?
People haven't been leaving messages for a while, so probably when Erin was waiting for me to come downstairs to the lobby, and called while I was in the bathroom to say "You're a whore."

48. Last time you parked under a carport?
When Kari and I went to the mall in Indianapolis.

49. Do you have a black dog?
I had one, years and years ago. I used to try and ride her like a horse. She didn't like that much, though.

50 . Have you had your mid life crisis yet?
Not yet.

51. Are you an aunt or uncle?
No, and I probably never will be, given my brother's luck with women.

52. Who has the prettiest eyes that you know of?
Kari. She has cat-eyes.

53. Anything annoying you right now?
I have a paper hanging over my head, but once I start, it won't be so bad.

54. Do you remember Ugly Kid Joe?
Vaguely. I saw someone who had Ugly Kid Joe decals stuck on their van some months ago.

55. Do you have a little black dress?
Sure, I love to feel pretty. >_>

tl;dr: I hate sports

Tue, 28 Aug 2007 01:59:12 GMT

I just completed a paper for my Sociology of Sport class, which details my experience with sports in general. I essentially wrote it like a Livejournal entry, so I'm cross-posting it here. It's been cut for length, but I hope you find it entertaining.

I will start by stating that I will be quite frank about this subject—I am in no way, shape, or form a “sports” person. This is not to say that I don’t find the concept interesting or entertaining, nor does this mean I am completely unwelcoming to the watching and participation in, thereof. What I do mean is that I am not the sort of person that might frequent sports bars, adorn myself in any type of sport paraphernalia, or will casually switch on the tube to see whoever is ahead in whatever championship series at whichever stadium.

Personally, I find the spectacle to be a farce; a full-blown squandering of resources completely wasted on the dramatized over-glamorization of physical prowess for sheer purposes of entertainment. I absolutely repudiate, in every way, that bright-eyed muscleheads with a gleam in their smile are paid millions to engage in some form of ball hunt for a crowd of billions of equally-dull lunatic fans hooting like painted baboons because their favored group of steroid-ites was better at running around in a circle for an hour or two than the other mongoloids on the field.

Not that I’m bitter or anything, I just feel that the billions which are spent on what I see as a completely pointless industry might be better placed towards other social pursuits. Honestly, how many different forms of entertainment are available as a distraction from the drudgery of everyday life? Can we not afford to eliminate, say, football from those distractions? I realize this is a radical idea, one which might lead to the formulation of prohibition-esque underground football leagues. Yes, I’m being a bit facetious, but I’ve never fully embraced the concept of sports appreciation, one such aspect being that of sports scholarships. To me, those seem to be unjustly-given rewards. “Oh, well, Big Joe just barely squeaked by with a D-average in his Math and English classes, but damn, can that boy RUN!” I suppose my stance on this subject stems from a long-held jealousy and several bad experiences early in childhood.

I was never unhealthy or overweight my entire life. I was, however, stunningly average at physical activities, sometimes even less so. I distinctly remember one instance during second or third grade, where indoor recess was held. Most of the other kids were distracted by jump ropes and kick-balls, leaving the basketball hoop largely abandoned. I picked up a rather vintage-looking basketball, which greatly dwarfed my hands, boldly determined to shoot some hoops. Unfortunately, my efforts quickly proved that to achieve “some” hoops was a very lofty goal indeed, and the goal was therefore diminished to getting at least ONE hoop.

Pathetically, I stood there, alone, for the entire fifteen minutes, trying desperately to throw the ball even remotely close enough to graze the net with my little arms, silently damning the fact that they’d erected the bloody thing so many miles up every time I missed a shot. The bell rang, and I dropped my leather stone of Sisyphus, simultaneously disgraced by failure and eager to get back the pursuit of academia, in which I took some degree of pleasure, knowing that I could excel in that, at least.

I still don’t remember if I was trying to impress my classmates, or simply impress myself. Regardless, I definitely didn’t even need any coach to inform me of my inadequacy; that my self-esteem in the field of sports had been, from that moment on, irrevocably crushed.

One other notable experience following that was my short-lived stint as a half-pint soccer player. It was perhaps a year later, but somehow I had been drafted into some little league team through means that I honestly don’t remember to this day. Perhaps I was trying to compensate for my previous failure. While I’m not the kind of person to simply lay down and die after a bad experience, the basketball incident had killed most of my desire to be any sort of an athlete, and the following experience permanently fixated that sentiment.

I vividly recall being completely enamored with my newly-purchased shin guards, probably because now I could kick walls and poles without hurting myself. I think this concept of partial invulnerability appealed to me more so than the thrill of the game itself. In all reality, there was little thrill involved. I can’t recall how many games I actually played, but in terms of participation, mine was nearly nonexistent.

I was very much not a “team player,” rather, I was the sort of kid who would stand in the outer limits of the playing field and become totally bewitched by butterflies and flowers, only noticing too late with a glazed look in my eyes when the ball came hurtling past me, followed by a stampede of sugar-addled little monkeys that wanted to hump the ball into submission. Thank God my mother was not one of those parents who wanted to live vicariously through their little superstar athletes, and accepted my resignation with no rancor.

I think that during my entire brief career, I had the soccer ball in my actual possession twice. The first time I was caught completely unawares and kicked it to someone on the other team, which definitely didn’t help my standing with my team. The other time, the ball was stolen from me by one of my own teammates, some hotshot prick who happened to be the Team Captain’s son. This kid, incidentally, scored the majority of our goals, and had calves like coiled steel, which was a bit creepy, considering he couldn’t have been older than ten.

I always hoped that little shit would catch a cleated kick to the face that would knock his teeth out.

To this day, I still have my shin guards in a drawer somewhere. Given the memories attributed to them, I’m not quite sure why I kept them.

Maybe I wanted to go kick some walls or something.

Since my retirement from a lucrative soccer career, I’ve largely avoided any sort of contact with sports due to negative association. That little team-stealing punkass has, in my eyes, been the prototype to every single frat-boy meathead who ever popped his collar and wore his baseball cap at that idiotic cocked angle which never fails to ignite my innate rage. With the rare exception of the Super Bowl, which I only really watch for the commercials anyway, I have never watched a single game of any sort in its entirety. I still don’t completely know all the rules of football. My apathy becomes palpable when I hear discussion of batting percentages and players being drafted to new teams so they can afford another solid gold Corvette.

I’ve only ever turned on ESPN to watch Magic: The Gathering card game tournaments.

I’m berating a point that I think I’ve solidified quite extensively. I have no desire to give sports another chance, because sports gave up on me a long time ago. Rather, I feel that there are countless other things in this world far more deserving of my attention and devotion.

And here's a pretty comic that summarizes my sentiments exactly:

7 random facts about me

Mon, 27 Aug 2007 03:16:53 GMT

I wasn't tagged (I don't think), but I wanted to do this anyway.

1. I've always been a really good speller, but I got second place in the 5th grade Spelling Bee, because I lost to Brandon Judd by misspelling "pursuit" as "persuit." I walked off the stage and went to the boy's bathroom to cry.

2. I once found a lost wallet in the ball pit at McDonald's when I was probably 10 or 11. It had about $9 in it, which I kept, and I actually kept the wallet and used it for about 4 years, I think. I think it was actually a girl's wallet, because it had a round metal thing on the front of it with something like "KZ" embossed on it. I just ripped the metal part out of the leather and it looked fine.

3. One of the only things that I think I've ever shoplifted was a pack of Grape Bubbalicious bubble gum from Kroger when I was 8. I chewed maybe two or three pieces, and stashed the rest of the pack in a hole in the wall in our stairwell. (The wall was made of cheap fiberboard stuff, and I had chipped away at it with a knife to make a "secret" hiding space.) Of course, since the hole was in plain sight, my mom found the gum, questioned me about it, and took me back to Kroger to return it. I remember handing it to some random checkout clerk, who said "Uhhh... thanks for being honest?" He was probably a teenage employee who didn't even give a crap, but took it back anyway.

4. I wasn't breathing when I was born, and was jaundiced. They had to put me in an oxygen chamber. I guess I turned out okay, though.

5. I've always had a problem when I was younger with laughing nervously when someone got hurt. It's not that I thought it was funny, I just couldn't help it. I used to have my younger brother tell me his stories of witnessing kids getting seriously injured on the playground (like, breaking limbs from falling off playground equipment and getting gravel embedded in their faces from taking an accidental running dive on the blacktop) to satisfy my morbid curiosity. I've never broken anything, either.

6. I seriously wanted to be an archaeologist when I was younger. I once dug a hole in my mom's garden (post-harvest) that was about 6 or 7 feet deep. I actually had to rig a rope so I could get out of it, and I also found a ton of stuff, since our house is well over 100 years old. I excavated a bunch of bent nine inch nails, some coins, plastic and metal army men, brooches, and other bric-a-brac. Also, I could correctly spell "archaeologist" when I was in 1st Grade.

7. I used to wear my hair parted off to the side when I was much younger. I started parting it down the middle in 6th Grade, and wore it that way all the way through High School. No wonder I never dated anybody until I got to College. That's also why I grew my hair out--so it would look better with the part.

Blah.

Fri, 17 Aug 2007 07:00:37 GMT

I've been in a pissy mood all day today and I'm really not sure why.

Actually, come to think of it, it's probably because there's so many goddamned people on campus again, and they all look like Freshmen. Here's hoping I find a fairly humble abode to reside in after I graduate at this semester's end.

So, on Friday, I drove back home for what was originally supposed to be one or two nights, but ended up being nearly a week. I'm not admitting that I particularly missed my family, but it was nice to see them again. My dad kindly accompanied me to Meineke in Bloomington to replace the outer CV Boots on my front axles, as well as the brake pads. This was an unexpected surprise, as after summer living expenses and other debts had been paid off, I ended with a paltry $350 in the bank that I'm not ready to spend frivolously if I can avoid it.

We also stopped by Best Buy, where I grabbed a $10 of Harvest Moon DS, a deal too good to pass up. While I was in the store, the urge to defecate struck me, and I headed to the bathrooms. There were, of course, only two stalls, and one was occupied, so I entered the open handicap-accessible stall.

Upon closing the door, I noticed that it was outfitted with not one, but three lock implements. One was the sliding kind, one was the cylindrical locking bolt, and the third was the built-into-the-door-turn-knob-that-is-supposed-to-fit-in-a-latch. However, the slider was hanging loosely, the bolt lock didn't even have the necessary cylinder to fit into place, and the turn-lock didn't have the latch built into the frame!

Immediately, an inner voice told me, "That's just asking to get walked in on." And sure enough, not even 30 seconds into my business, I heard the inevitable approaching footsteps, and the door blasted wide open, with a confused guy swinging inward with the door like Kramer, then turning red and swinging right back out the way he came. Having sensed this coming a few seconds before he revealed me to the world, I averted my gaze slightly down and to the right so as only to see him out of my periphery, and upon his entry, gave him a tip of the index finger from my eyebrow, as if to wordlessly say, "Yeeeeep, that's me crappin', there, Chief."

I complained about the lack of working mechanisms to my cashier as I checked out, who simultaneously happened to be female and quite amused by this, as if she realized what had happened. She told me, "I'll tell a manager," but I'm sure she won't. Oh well.

A couple nights ago, Collin dropped by to see if I was around, and I went with him on an impromptu impulse shopping spree for geeky board games in Springfield. We picked up an expansion to "Arkham Horror," a Call of Cthulhu game that I quite enjoy, and "Fury of Dracula," which we ultimately spent two nights in a row playing.

It's kind of like "Where In The World Is Carmen Sandiego," except instead of attempting to arrest a country-hopping art thief, she's playing the role of the penultimate nocturnal aristocrat tooling around Europe circa 1898. And you're trying to drive a wooden stake through her heart. Good times.

...

Now I'm bored and don't feel like writing any more tonight. I wish some people would get down here so I have someone to talk to.

A message to someone I've never met.

Tue, 24 Jul 2007 06:27:47 GMT

Earlier tonight, I was visiting Kari at her apartment, when I looked a ways down the street and saw a pile of stuff by the side of the road. The first thing that caught my eye were two standing lamps, which I assumed were perfectly serviceable. I went to get a closer look, and stumbled upon a friggin' goldmine.

Those of you who know me well are aware that I like to dumpster dive for fun and profit. So, I couldn't resist digging through all the stuff that was just sitting there, waiting to be thrown away. After tearing open one garbage bag and finding a stack of notebooks, I discovered that most of these treasures belonged to a girl named [name omitted]. After I'd soundly looted everything that I wanted to take back with me, I looked her up on Facebook, and was so compelled to say something about the whole situation that I sent her a message. The following is what I sent. I really don't think it sounded creepy or anything, but I do hope she reads it over well and replies to me later:

[begin message]

To: [name]

Subject: An observation for you, [name]. (Please read)

Message:

You don't know me, and you probably never will. Don't worry, this isn't a stalker message or anything like that, I assure you.

This is more like a wake-up call.

It's up to you whether you want to listen to what I have to say or not.

Are you a wealthy person, [name]? Are you from a very well-to-do family? Do they buy lots of things for you? If so, you really should respect and appreciate that. Wealth is one of those sticky things in life which we all strive to achieve. That's why you went to college, right? So you could get a good job and make a living for yourself?

I'm not your father or mother, nor am I even a close friend or confidant, nor will I pretend to be.

I'm simply a weird stranger with a message.

I probably sound like I'm rambling. Let me get to the point. I like to consider myself a semi-professional dumpster diver, by trade. Call it a hobby, a side-job, whatever. So, earlier tonight when I was driving down 7th street in Charleston, I saw a few things that were too good to pass up. Two perfectly good lamps, sitting by the side of the road, next to a large pile of other garbage. Or so it appeared, to normal passerby.

Quite frankly, [name], I'm a little bit disgusted in what I found. I add to my lifestyle with other people's discarded wealth, and you discarded a veritable KING'S RANSOM of goods. I didn't even need to have seen a moving van to realize that you and/or your housemates were blowing the proverbial popsicle stand, as it were. Seeing dishwares, cleaning supplies, and lots of freshly-packed garbage bags was enough to clue in even the most novice of sleuths that you were saying sayonara to Chuck-town.

And if you're wondering how I even found you in the first place, I saw your name on just about every notebook you threw away. Don't worry, I assure you I didn't read through any of them, nor did I give any of the other documents I found more than a tertiary glance. While I COULD have, I'm not that kind of person.

I normally don't even find this much stuff even in entire DUMPSTERS crammed full of bags from MULTIPLE households, [name]. But from your "waste," I procured PERFECTLY GOOD THINGS, such as your two standing lamps with mini-lamps attached, two table lamps, a sturdy but light table with a little candle wax dribbled on it, pillows, a garbage can, mugs and glasses, pans and cookware, an office chair, an insulated container, extension cords, manila folders, and tons of other assorted items, like pens and pencils, batteries, perfumes and beauty products, lightbulbs, and to top it all off, MONEY.

Money, [name].

Do you realize that you and/or your housemates threw away a total of $9.28 of LEGAL TENDER in change?! Honestly, I couldn't believe how many quarters I found, and KEPT FINDING, nor could I believe that you didn't bother to empty out all the desk drawers or your purses.

I LEFT things there, even. I really wanted to take that beautiful writing desk, but I didn't have room for it in my car.

Bottom line is, I've never seen so much wanton wastefulness in one single load before. Ever.

And I can understand space and transportation issues. That's fine. I know we can't always take it all back with us, and we certainly can't take anything with us when we die. But whatever. Things are just things, and while they can end up owning US in the end, that doesn't also mean EVERYTHING in life is disposable.

Think of me what you will. If you're getting the mental image that I'm an obsessive-compulsive freak who picks through other people's garbage, then by all means, turn up your nose at me. I don't mind. I'm quite happy with what I obtained. You have lots of nice things. Well, HAD, anyway.

If you absolutely NEEDED to get rid of some of that, please, next time, at least donate it to a thrift store or give it to friends, but don't dump it by the side of the road so it can end up in our ever-increasing landfills.

I certainly don't know you as a person, [name], but I saw a lot about your life just by briefly sifting through your discards. I just wanted to say this:

Just because you may have been born with a silver spoon in your mouth should not give you free range to replace everything whenever you relocate or take a significant step in your life. And certainly, that ought to go DOUBLE if you come from a middle or even lower-class family.

Sure, it can all be replaced, but at what cost? Doesn't it worry you that you'll probably again be spending money to buy relatively the same things again when you settle down in a new place?

Think about that when and if money ever gets tight for you.

Anyway, I hope you take something from this rant.

A thousand thanks for your things.

I appreciate them.

[end message]

New job, and everything that goes with it

Mon, 09 Jul 2007 03:05:10 GMT

I thought I'd hammer out an update of my current job status. This is a book of an entry, but I don't feel like cutting it.

About four weeks ago now, I started working for Consolidated Market Response, which is essentially an office that takes AT&T customer service calls. I'm an inbound representative. Telemarketer. Sweet-talker. Customer service hellion.

Basically, I sit at a desk in an air-conditioned office and take calls for five Midwestern states from people wishing to disconnect their AT&T phone service for whatever reason. It's easy work. The majority is people moving, sometimes it's people who can't afford to pay the bills any longer (I get a lot of those, mostly people from Michigan), and sometimes it's people who just hate the service. (I get plenty of those, too)

After a while, people, women specifically, all begin to sound like the same person. I think it's generally from the identical note of irritation in their voices, because at least half of all the people I speak with have either been passed around different departments like the Town Bicycle or have been on hold for 15 minutes to hours at a time. I've gotta tell you, there is nothing that angers up the blood and makes me into the antagonist of the situation faster than shitty customer service.

Some of these people seem to have forgotten the Golden Rule, and in my current line of work, I will pay you back for it, in spades. If you're patient, understanding, and cheery, pleasant even, it makes my job that much easier and actually tends to improve my mood for the next few calls. I am genuinely happy to help these people.

However, if you take it upon yourself to be a complete dick and vent every frustration about your poor service, your massive debts, your deadbeat significant other and illegitimate children, or any other aspect about how much your life sucks and why I should be forced to hear all about it in colorful, frothing detail for thirty minutes, I am likewise self-authorized to do everything in my power to put you on hold and punish you while I read another couple of pages into my book before I even consider handling your problem, which often has a rather simple fix to it.

And I can get away with it, too. If only you knew some of the things that telemarketers say about you while they have you on hold.

It's interesting how people will show their true colors when they're able to hide behind the relative anonymity of a telephone, as if they were in an impenetrable bubble that entitles them to neglect everything their parents ever taught them (or maybe never did teach them) about civility, courtesy, and integrity.

Still, I really do enjoy this job. It lets me spit in your burger in my own special way.

I also work with some interesting people, all veterans who are equally disillusioned and bitter about their fellow man-on-the-phone. I had a noteworthy moment during my training that truly screamed "I'm just going to shove my foot in my mouth now."

Before I officially started taking calls on the sales floor, I had two weeks of training to learn the two computer programs we use to disconnect (or save) people's phone lines. It's pretty easy; just sit there, take in the information, run through the systems over and over until you've got them memorized, then role-play a bit with certain customer situations to ensure that you're able to handle them. Child's play, as long as you've got an above-average intellect.

As a quick aside, that's another reason I like this job. My last job at Wendy's required I pal around with social degenerates, criminals, and general ne'er-do-wells in a sweltering kitchen while I served dead meat to other social degenerates, criminals, and people with very little patience and short attention spans, except that these people are hungry and pissed about it. The majority of the employee base here is almost completely devoid of those types. Now I only speak with those sorts of people on the phones, but I digress.

An easy two weeks of sitting in an office classroom without ever having to speak to an actual customer, and you get paid higher than minimum wage. Apparently, if you can at least pass the prerequisite trials, this is a pretty sweet job. For two weeks, anyway.

I trained with the same group of eight other people for those two weeks and got to know some of them pretty well. One of them, however, stood out like a sore thumb. Laura, a middle-aged woman who sat at the desk in front of me, was relatively bright and talkative, but looked a bit, shall we say, "rough around the edges." One day, a fellow employee, attempting to make small talk, post-mealtime, asked a few of the trainees filtering back into the room what we all had for lunch. Laura piped up with something vaguely edible, then immediately changed gears and launched into a tangent about supporting three children, how she had smoked weed literally every day since the age of sixteen, was addicted to cocaine for seven years, and was just recovering from meth, having been clean for almost a year now.

...

Dead, uncomfortable silence, for almost three full minutes.

Laura nonchalantly turned back to her monitor as if she hadn't said anything and punched at a few keys, lazily. I turned to the girl next to me, one who I'd been getting to know better, and mouthed "what the FUCK!?!"

I didn't even think you could find cocaine in the Charleston-Mattoon area. Meth, on the other hand... Coles County is well-known for being a methy area, but anyway.

Fast-forward a few days. We were doing some roleplay, acting out customer-and-rep interactions with each other on the phones in the classroom. I had encountered a scenario and was doing my best to handle it on one of our programs, but for some reason, I wasn't able to carry out a certain action to save the customer money on his bill. I punched "Hold" on my handset, walked across the room to the guy I'd been talking to on the phone, and said something along the lines of "Well, I don't know why it's not working. I should be able to do this, unless I'm smoking crack or something," not immediately realizing that Laura was sitting at the chair right in front of us.

Needless to say, my eyes widened a bit as the relevance of what I said quickly hit me and I snapped my jaw shut to grit my teeth just in time for her to swivel around and say "Oh, yeah. That... that's great. Ha-haaa... real funny." My roleplay partner, having already heard the previous rant about her drug-addled past, looked at me, silently raising an eyebrow and stretched his mouth into an almost horizontal line, as if to say "Oooohhh. Yeahhh... yyyyep," and cleared his throat, perhaps a bit too loudly.

On Monday that next week, having been fully trained, we were scheduled to go out onto the floor for assisted call-taking. We'd just gotten our first paycheck literally three days before. Laura didn't show up the first day, or the next. In this job, you essentially miss a day and you're fired. Later that day, a seasoned employee told me that he's seen this sort of thing before, multiple times. Apparently, it's not uncommon for people just out of rehab to do this two-week thing, then disappear. He once saw a guy pick up his first paycheck and immediately ask him, "Know where I can find any pills?"

I guess her whole situation is sort of sad, but I can't say I didn't see it coming. I hope they were some really good drugs, Laura.

I've got plenty of other stories to tell about people I've talked to on the phones so far, and I have new ones to tell almost daily.

Recently, I heard from an extremely spiritual woman, an ex-schoolteacher and nurse who retired early after the deaths of both of her parents to write a book about honoring one's father and mother. Her dad had died from a stroke, while her mom passed following complications from cancer. As she put it, "He was strong of body and weak of mind, and she was strong of mind and weak of body." She segued into cutting costs so she could move into her new place, a trailer home that had just recently been examined for black mold, then delineated about how truly deadly the stuff was. Anyway, I had a long, pleasant conversation with her, and really admired the woman's grit. Who knows, maybe once she's written her book it really will become famous.

I also once talked to an Asian guy who called in to complain about his phone bill. His $800 phone bill. Apparently, his wife kept making international calls behind his back, but they didn't have a Worldwide calling plan on their account, so they were getting charged a flat rate of about $0.35 (!!!) for every minute. My options were either set him up with an international plan so his calls would run at a more affordable $0.05 a minute, set up call control so his wife couldn't make long distance calls, or disconnect his line entirely, which was what I ended up doing. What I really wanted to do, however, was tell him to grow a pair and tell his wife to STOP CALLING CHINA.

Then, of course, I get the whole gamut of nutjobs who scream at me, like the woman who told me to fornicate myself and refund her money, even after I've explained that literally the only thing I can do is disconnect her line. "I don't care that all you can do is disconnect, you're GOING to give me my fucking money back!" That was the only call I've ever been authorized by a supervisor to hang up on. Following that, I gave the phone the most passionate double-deuce I could muster, even though that didn't really help to mitigate my rage.

As long as AT&T continues to offer their phone service to complete and utter cockmongers, I will definitely have more to say on this subject.

Weekend update

Wed, 13 Jun 2007 01:21:49 GMT

I really ought to update this more often.

So, I finished my summer courses without a hitch, and my lease with University Court finally expired, which meant that I had to move all of my shit out of there, pronto. Friday morning, after our Human Sexuality final, Murray and I were scrambling to unhook this and that and get things shoved into smaller things (that's what she said) to ensure that everything would fit in our vehicles. Murray helped me cart some stuff over to Kari's place, and we high-tailed it to Bloomington to get fitted into our tuxes (tuxen?) before his wedding rehearsal.

Long story short, I met some cool people, ate some free food, and played a ton of arcade games later that night.

The wedding the next day was very well-to-do, but I enjoyed myself thoroughly at the reception, and by "enjoyed," I mean "got drunk at the open bar." Afterwards, I went back to the hotel room, talked to Derek, Gretchen, Andy, and Megan for a while as I sobered up and as we waited for Murray to contact us so we could head over to a pub for more merrymaking. Foodstuffs were consumed, and we went back to the hotel, joined by Amelia, the maid of honor, who I must say is a very awesome girl indeed. I mixed her some vodka-and-cokes, probably stronger than I should've. We all got drunk (I had barely been sober for an hour) and watched Monty Python on Megan's laptop, then crashed.

And then the fun started.

At about three in the morning, for whatever reason, I took it upon myself to leave the hotel room and head outside. Whether it was to pee or to get something from my car, being the drunken dumbass I was, I failed to think my cunning plan all the way through because I neglected to take both a room key and my car keys. I made it all the way downstairs before I completely realized the half-witted nature of my blunder, so I at least had the forethought to prop the front door (which also required the use of a card key) open with my socks so I could at least get back into the building. The main office building was surely closed at this hour, so I couldn't simply walk over and get a spare key, and I also didn't want to pound on the door and wake up my sleeping and equally drunk roommates.

Okay, that's not completely true. I was probably more drunk than them.

I decided to do what any rational person turned irrational would do in this situation: Pee in the bushes in front of the building, stumble back upstairs, and fall asleep in front of the hotel door, still clutching my black socks in my left hand.

I woke up from morning light filtering into the hallway, realized where I was, and got up to go to the now-open office building to get that key card I so desperately needed. I noted the clock said "7:30," and explained my situation to the cute desk clerk, still somewhat drunk. I'm surprised I didn't ask her out or anything, but she giggled and got me a new card.

I walked back, barefoot, across the massive, searing parking lot, wandered upstairs in my building, quietly opened the door, and passed out on the floor for an hour or two until Amelia's cell phone alarm woke me up. No matter, I kinda wanted to hang out with her more anyway, so the two of us went back to the main building (me still barefoot) where we had breakfast and met Megan and Murray. Then I went home.

And then I found five dollars.

Test reprieve

Tue, 22 May 2007 05:41:41 GMT

I've been studying for two tests for a while and I needed to take a short break, so I turned to the internets for entertainment.

I don't know what's worse: That there's so many zit-popping videos on YouTube or that I actually sat through all the ones I watched. I'm not gonna link any, but trust me, they're not hard to find.

I don't recommend looking.

However, there's gotta be some sort of sick psychological connection that induces someone to keep watching one of these abscessive train wrecks. It's not quite like watching a violent documentary on machete murders in Rwanda, and it's not quite like a happy ending to an adventure film. There's some sadistic, yet sympathetic soothing to be had here, in a "makes-you-squirm-uncomfortably" sort of way.

Just not everybody needs it.

Is there a mood combination of "nauseated" and "rejuvenated?" Sort of like that cleansed, empty feeling you get after you've been puking for a while?

TV is for stupid people

Tue, 27 Mar 2007 04:10:39 GMT

Last night, while I waited for my girlfriend to finish math homework on her computer, I veg'ged out in front of the TV so I wouldn't distract her. With nothing else on, I turned to adult swim, which is managed (read: manipulated) by Turner South. Turner South, of course, is in charge of all programming on its networks, and that includes commercials.

Turner South broadcasts some the most banal, retarded commercials I've ever seen, and I'm not just talking about that same damn Zoobooks commercial that's been broadcast since, like, 1992. Case in point:

While I reclined on the couch, one of those ubiquitous law firm commercials came on. You know the type, the ones that offer to help you participate in a class-action suit against some major corporation if you have been damaged by some faulty product like asbestos or blood pressure meds?

This law firm was spearheading an effort against the Ortho Evra birth control patch, which they claimed caused undesirable side effects such as blood clots, heart attacks, stroke, and even DEATH. The commercial immediately went on to say "If you have experienced any of these side effects, please contact the Offices of Dewey Cheatem & How, blah blah blah."

Anybody see what's wrong with this picture?

"Yes, Cheatem & How? Yes, I'll hold. Hello? Yes, I'm calling regarding the Ortho Evra patch settlement. Well, yes, I demand compensation immediately!"

"..."

"What's that? Yes. Yes, that's right. I'm dead."