Drugs and Man's Search For Answers

I have a translational research position this summer and I take the bus to the hospital. The ride is usually rather uneventful; I sit in my hard, scantly-padded seat and single-handedly increase diversity from 0% to some percentage greater than zero. I don't know the exact figure.

But this week was different.

I don't know how often the average person wonders about how intimidating they are to others, but I think about it fairly often. I think the reason I've never settled on an answer is because there are too many variables to consider. Through my extensive research on the topic however, I've narrowed it down to five questions you can ask yourself:

1. Are children afraid of me?

2. Do women approaching on the sidewalk cross the street when they see me?

3. Do dogs bark at me?

4. Do dolphins batter my underbelly with their snouts while I'm swimming?

5. Are people uncomfortable selling drugs in front of me?

The first four questions are easily answered by most social beings who've swam in the ocean at least a handful of times. The last, however, is harder for many people. Until recently, I was one of those people that only had answers to the first four questions. But as of today, I'm proud to say that I can answer them all.

Really this is just a long-winded attempt to elaborate on my recent experience being seated between two gentleman involved in a drug deal. It was more odd and unexpected than anything else, and there isn't much more to say on the matter. I'm sorry to have wasted your time.

Who Chaperones The Chaperones?

This question popped into my head this afternoon during our second biochem lecture of the day. I'm feeling that this little brain twister could provide the foundation for a totally kick-ass story. Better yet, if I formatted it as a graphic novel, I'd really broaden my demographics.

Chaperone proteins really are the superheroes of the body. They give of their time and energy to combat energetically unfavorable conformations and ask nothing in return. They assume a profound leadership role within their society as self-appointed vigilantes. But what gives them this right? They stand not apart in terms of stature or sedimentation coefficient, and sequences of the same twenty amino acids teem through them just as in the masses. They are flawed. They are vulnerable to denaturation.

They're...The Chaperones.

Neutralizing The Toxicity of Coherent Thought

I pride myself on writing blog entries that are insightful, ingenious, imaginative, and other fancy words that begin with the letter "I". There is hardly a doubt in my mind that this overwhelming dedication to sophisticated literary exposition is the paramount reason for the, on average, four unique hits my blog gets a week. But like most weavers of linguistic masterpieces, I often feel that my sheer level of prose, my, shall we say, grace of tongue, may sometimes alienate a few hopeful readers or, perhaps stated more eloquently, the sea of Internet dimwits. My greatest fear is that one of these lowly critters should happen upon my blog and, with pure glee, dive into an entry only to be sodomized by the big, black, penis that is "intelligent thought." But even now I have begun to waver in my mission to bring forward an entry that can be enjoyed by the masses by way of this high-brow anal sex analogy. It might be best to pause here as to gather my thoughts and continue with some topics more suited for monkeys and pop culture obsessed teenagers.

Popular Music

I thoroughly enjoy the Britney Spears song "Toxic," and though I'm most often ashamed to admit it, it is undeniably true. But perhaps I should expand on this idea. I don't like the words or the instruments or any other sounds or anything like that about the song. What I like is the music video for the song. But again, I must explain. I've never seen the real music video for the song and don't even know if there is one. What I have seen is a very funny video of a boy dancing around and whatnot to the song. The video is called Weird Kid Does Britney (Edit: you can't access this video anymore. Too bad for you.) and, if you decide to click on the link, just ignore all the hardcore porn advertisements in the margins and just watch the video and leave. This thing used to be all over the Internet but now this is the only site at which I can find it so....oh well. Perhaps, though, this is fortunate for me. Now if someone searches on Google for the phrase "hardcore porn" they may come across this blog entry and I will have succeeded in increasing the traffic to my site. Let me say that my favorite part about this particular video is when the boy brushes his hair. It's fantastic.

A "Like, oh my god, did that really happen to you?" Type of Story (Translated For Teens)

So, like, I was sitting at my desk reading this killer article on, like, deep sea fish and junk and Chuck totally just walks right up to me and is all up in my face telling me to do some sort of thing for this guy in the corner and he was using all these, like, sciencey words and stuff and I was, like, completely clueless as to what he was talking about but he finally, like, showed me and it turns out he totally wanted me to ultrasound some old guy's butt cheek. It was mega grody.

Unabashed Nudity

I got home from work today and, here it comes ladies, took off my pants and shirt and changed into some shorts and a t-shirt. I was probably naked for about twenty-six seconds.

So there it is, ladies and gentleman. Perhaps now I'll diversify my reader base and open up my blog to the entire world.

Until next time, folks.

Death By Looney Tunes

I have one of those jobs that you've heard about on TV or in newspapers. You know, the kind where you need a brain. Basically my duties require intense concentration because my job description basically involves two things:

1. Attaching electrodes to people's bodies and administering a sort of mild shock therapy.
2. Performing ultrasound procedures in high risk areas such as on or around the spinal cord or major arteries.

Anyways, today I had to do the ultrasound thing on this lady's neck and while I was doing it up she started talking to me and she had this really thick Australian accent like that Crocodile Hunter guy if he was a girl. I was trying my hardest to focus on the task at hand because I really wasn't in the mood to kill some old lady if I accidentally ultrasounded her carotid artery and messed up the pacing of her heart. Despite my steadfast effort to concentrate though, my focus wavered and her voice triggered a scene in my head from an old Looney Tunes episode. It was the episode where Sylvester gets the world's biggest and meanest mouse in order to teach his son to be tough but when it arrives it's not a mouse but a kangaroo with boxing gloves.

So here I was, fighting off laughter and trying to keep my hand from shaking which would undoubtedly alert the lady that my attention was not on trying to maintain her position among the living. I managed to fend off the shaking but the thoughts in my mind were building. My thoughts branched out from the single image of Sylvester getting his ass beat by a huge mouse to the thought of whether things like this happen a lot to people who live in The Outback.

I mean, we laugh at the prospect of somebody getting kicked in the face by a marsupial but that's because we've never met a marsupial. But things are different for Aussies and zookeepers. They're faced with situations like this on a daily basis and it's probably not nearly as funny.

Australian big-wigs stepping out of Parliament for lunch and getting ambushed...
Schoolchildren getting trampled at the bus stop...
Brides and grooms massacred when one jumps out of their wedding cake...

It sounds funny but I did a simple Internet search for the phrase "bloodthirsty marsupials" and came up with an article telling me this:

"Steven Shorten, 13, suffered massive facial wounds and cuts to his abdomen, back and legs when [a] 150-cm (five feet) tall kangaroo grabbed and repeatedly jumped on him when he was looking for his [golf]ball in [the] bushes in October 1996."

I'll just leave you with that.

All I Want For Christmas Is To Grow Up To Be A Grandma

Don't get me wrong, I have no interest in being a woman. No, not until I'm at least 70. Believe me, if I was blessed with a vagina I would hide it...oh boy would I hide it. I'd grow up and go through my 20s, 30s, 40s, 50s, and 60s and I wouldn't tell a soul. As far as anyone would know, I'd be all man. But then one day some young whippersnapper will come up to me in a narrow hallway not big enough to pass slow walking old people and he'll say "move it along grandpa" and at that point I'll know that it's time. At that point I'll turn around and ask him to repeat himself and when he does, THEN I will reveal my true self. Oh yes, ladies and gentleman, I will turn on my heels and pull down my pants and show that guy my old wrinkly vagina and then cue the awe...oh yes, the awe my friends. Cue that awe and that soap opera music because as that dude cringes in fear of the sight before his eyes I will tell him...

"Not grandpa, my boy. I'm all grandma."

And I would go through all this because there is one, single, solitary right afforded to grandmas that is given to no one else. That one thing is the way grandmas can make outrageously flattering statements like "Oh Jimmy, I didn't recognize you because I thought you were a movie star."

And because they are grandmas...you believe it.

I need that.

Metrosexual Dogs

It is my assumption that when a Buddhist meets the lifeform they are destined to be reborn as while biking through the woods on a Saturday, that there is some sort of spiritual connection that links their beings together for some magical instant wherein their souls may blend together in a creamsicle like twist of orange and...cream. Oddly enough, the same thing happened to me today when I rode my bike past the exact breed of dog the Internet quiz "What Breed of Dog Are You?" predicted me to be. There was no spiritual link, no metaphysical bond that merged that Bernese Mountain Dog and I, but nonetheless, as I sped by and our eyes met and his tongue had this big dollop of drool on it and his owner yanked on his choke collar to stop the dog from being hit by me which caused the dollop to cascade onto the asphalt, we became one. I instantly saw in my mind a scene from Lassie when little Timmy was stuck in a well and I thought to myself that, if I were a Bernese Mountain Dog, I too would spend my days saving young boys. The scene faded but just as quickly another one popped into my mind, this time of a female Bernese Mountain Dog with a Milkbone and she was beckoning to me and she had another Milkbone and somehow I knew that that Milkbone was for me. But as a slight smile graced my face, the link was severed by the screams of my sister saying something like "my helmet is so ITCHY!" and that was it.

On a topic not even remotely related to canines, I have decided to grow my hair out so as to obtain some sort of long, characteristically dog-like mane of shimmering dark brown, wavy hair that I can toss side to side in a carefree almost sensual yet still masculine manner. If all goes well, I may attract some homogametes in the process and that, ladies and gentlemen, is not a bad thing at all. In a way though, it's sort of sad because, as you probably know, hair length is inversely proportional to a person's likelihood of joining the Marine Corps. The beauty of the situation though, is that I've never had an interest in joining the Marine Corps! The Navy, maybe, but that's just because one time I toured a decommissioned submarine and the tour guide said that sailors got free refills regardless of rank and that got me thinking, what other armed service allows the lowest of the enlisted men and the highest of the officers to be unquestionable equals in terms of opportunity for massive soft drink consumption? Alas though, the perks of military life is a subject left for some other blog entry on some other day.

I will leave you with one last thing that's been weighing on my mind all day. The shirt I'm wearing today says "My favorite class at Allegheny College is Nap-101" and it's not even true.

What's a guy to do?

Boy Scouts 4Eva

I've been wandering in a state of utter confusion this entire day and even now, as I sit at my desk and type these words, my mind is twisted in knots knotted by the best Boy Scout knotter who ever lived. The reason? My watch says it's April 31 but everyone else thinks it's May 1.

I used to be a Boy Scout but I quit because I enjoyed indoor plumbing far too much. Over the years I simply became less and less thrilled with how wonderful it was to have a breakfast of oatmeal mixed with hot chocolate in a cup that was the same cup I used to dig a hole in the ground to shit in as well as used to hold the creek water I brushed my teeth with. But honestly, I had some good times as a Boy Scout. I learned how to light my hand on fire without it hurting and I learned that the crazy kid whose dad made him join even though he didn't want to must always win at late-night poker because he's got the biggest knife and you and the baby fox from the previous day know he's not afraid to use it to kill baby foxes. But despite what I learned, I quit all the same. And the fox, well, if he knew what he was getting into, he would have done the same.

But it's funny to think about the things that boys do when their parents aren't around. I mean, there are a thousand million things to do when you're in the woods with civilization hundreds of miles away and all you have is a picnic table and a spider infested outdoor bathroom where the toilet is just a hole cut in some plywood. But even in this rich environment filled with possibilities, the activity of the day always comes back to lighting your body on fire.

This in turn makes me wonder why there are no more freak shows. I honestly believe that Boy Scouts and more specifically, Boy Scout camping trips/summer camps, are the breeding grounds for freaks. It's not as much that boys become freaks from attending these events (though little Sammy Willis would beg to differ, what with the fact that he's missing the middle finger on both of his hands) but that they discover their own personal freak-itudes as they're desperately trying to find things to do. For example, on one of my first camping trips I learned that I was really good at not being able to get my towel when somebody threw it into a tree. On a second trip I found out that I had the innate ability to smell feces on the bottom of a shoe anywhere from 0-67 feet away. I could go on, but I'm sure you get the picture.

I guess the whole point of this rambling ramble is that I want to go to a circus where they invite me out into the ring to hold a hula-hoop or something while a dog or elephant or clown or something jumps through it.

give it a title

I've been going through this period of introspection, retrospection and reflection on this here blog's direction. I think the difficulty I'm having in finding things to write about is due to the fact that I don't really know what a blog is and what it entails. I switched to my current blog when I realized that my previous one was becoming just a storehouse for stories I made up while sitting on the couch in high school before classes, at lunch, or after classes were done. People liked them, and I had the most popular blog in school for a while. But then things changed and I found that I wanted my blog to reflect my daily life more so than it did because that's what I thought a blog was all about.

It's this impossible idea of using this blog to highlight my daily life that keeps coming back into my mind. Sometimes I find a blog that is basically a list/outline/excruciatingly detailed account of the horribly boring day some person had which is expertly hidden and embedded on the page in what, at first glance, appears to be something that might resemble prose. This is what I once wanted. I wanted the same shitty blog that everyone else had. I wanted some annoying background that clashed with the font I was using and I didn't want to capitalize the words I used or make paragraphs or check spelling or anything. I wanted my own little plot of land in the Internet world where I could sit down with a sign that, when you got down to it, was just a big fuck you to originality.

I'll admit that the only blogs I personally visit are the one's that have a new naked teenager pictured every day and a concise little blurb underneath about how young the girl looks and how perfect her breasts are. Though I would kill for the sheer number of hits these blogs get daily, I don't want my blog to be like this. I want substance and I want meaning and I want something that people want to read and learn from and laugh at because it's good stuff. But I've never gotten there and so my blog isn't like that.

And thus I'm left with what I have. This...thing...this...amalgamation of mashed up chunks of garbage that I spew across the Internet that means nothing and which relates to nothing that can even remotely be considered my life. I find little nothings in my day and I exploit them. I take them and stuff them full of exaggerated filler and things get so deformed that the part that was my life is gone--wiped away and covered under some fold in the literary material. I stretch and stretch until I can't even remember what was real. And people laugh at what comes out of it. People laugh because it's stupid. Everything I write is stupid and pointless and unimportant and meaningless and fucked up and I don't even want to finish this entry.

Anamorphic Politicians Wear Holographic Sunglasses

Oakland International Airport smells like a mix between an old-folks home and an indoor swimming pool and I haven't the slightest idea why. Stranger even, is the fact that nobody notices it but me. I asked the man at the Sunglass Hut as I was browsing their selection of shades, none of which I would ever buy because sunglasses are a waste of time. It's common knowledge that the only good sunglasses are the ones I had as a kid that had a skull hologram on each lens. My friend had the same type of thing but instead of skulls he had fish. I asked the man working there if he had any of these and he said he didn't know what I was talking about but I suspect it's because he is a Pakistan man and everyone knows that Pakistan has yet to discover the power of the hologram. India has. But for some reason these two nations fight relentlessly which I suspect is quite a sight because I assume both countries fight while riding on elephants.

There are no elephants in North America. I can honestly say that this has many implications into all sorts of different areas of society. For example, if we had elephants, George Bush would not be president. You might think the opposite would be true since the symbol of the Republicans is an elephant, but think of it this way. I don't know why Republicans have the elephant and Democrats have that ass thing, but I assume it's because these are the animals that each political party can morph into in emergencies such as if the other political party gets too powerful and then use them to cleanse the world and start anew. Since this is undoubtedly the case, the presence of elephants would cause the Democrats to think that the Republicans had already morphed which would lead them to morph in response and the result would be the end of the world. Case closed.

What's important though, is how awesome it would be to live in an underwater retirement community. I would never have to bathe and my grandchildren would actually want to come visit me because they could swim.

They would want to bring their friends.

S-T-U-M-P-E-D

"The Man of the Stump" is what I call him.

He is Asian.

He is one with nature.

He does his homework while sitting on all that remains of a colossal tree that once grew near my dorm.

I don't know what Zen is but if I did then this guy would totally be Zen.

Today I saw him sitting while reading a calculus textbook. He was completely covered in squirrels. They were singing.

I hope that tomorrow he returns.

Flashback Friday: Dick Cheney Stole My Internet (10/15/04)

Haven't done one of these flashbacks in a while, so here goes:

On Wednesday Dick Cheney was here at Allegheny College. He was here to talk about how awesome he is or something. Supposedly Pennsylvania is something called a "swing state" and that means that people here like to hear lies more than people in other states. Wow, that last sentence was actually kind of politically charged--I don't think I've ever said, written, or mumbled under my breath anything politically charged before. Better log this day in my JOURNAL! WOW! That's what I'm doing right now! Holy crap! This is awesome! I'm recording events to be reexamined at a later date! Sweet! So anyway, I thought that the event would be worthy of one of my poems so here it goes. I've been toiling over this one for about three minutes now and I think it's turning out a-okay. Enjoy it or leave:

Dick Cheney came to my school,
Dick Cheney came today,
He brought his thirteen buses,
And then Dick went away.

But nigh before he sped off,
Into the sunset there,
He gave a heartfelt speech here,
and then his pants did tear.

Alright I faked that last one,
But hey it sort of fit,
I couldn't help it sorry,
I'll get on with this shit.

So Dick was here on Wednesday,
The cops were by his side,
This guy had some cool trailer,
Kerry givin' Bush a ride.

The day was not all fun though,
It was no cup of tea,
I had to walk 'round Edwards,
'Round Edwards just to pee.

They closed all of the roads here,
Not one not three but two,
I could not get to class then,
Nigh God could not get through.

I got back to my room then,
My room all warm and snug,
I tried to get my email,
But Dick had pulled the plug.

That's right he took our access,
He took our Internet,
Of course that's just conjecture,
But I'm willing to bet.

Who does he think he is, huh?
Is he so great first rate?
I wish I had a name-gun,
"Dick Cheney" meet your fate.

You might not get that last one,
That stanza's pretty vague,
Unless you're Seth or me my,
Or if you have the plague.

There was this sweet ass protest,
Outside the gym doors lined,
The liberals had these big signs,
And chants that blew my mind.

How could a human think these,
These chants that rocked my world,
"Drop Bush, not bombs" they shouted,
My hair it almost curled.

That's it that's all they've got here?
That's all that they can say?
At least shout out some curse words,
"Hey Bush F*** you, bay-bay."

Of course I am no liberal,
I ain't no Commi none,
Conservative no nothing,
I'm Rob just Rob my son.

But all and all that day was,
Sweet sweeter than sweet sweet,
My poem's almost done now,
Can't b'lieve I kept a beat.

So you know what they say there,
They say just what they say,
The walrus and the carpenter,
In all had one fine day.

Well, that's my poem and I hope you liked it. I have to say that I don't actually know what the word "nigh" means but I like to use it as some kind of negation or a one syllable "nada" or "nothing" or something. When you get down to it though, it doesn't really matter because it's poetry and honestly, how can you criticize something that is defined as "a pile of day old puke not fit for a dung beetle to die in"? That's right--you can't. That's poetry for you. Vomit. Brown, chunky vomit. Take that poetry.

The Spirit of Valentine's Day

Once upon a time there was a boy named Rob. On Valentine's Day he ate so much chocolate that he died. Nobody cared because they were having too much fun eating chocolate.

The day after Valentine's Day the medical examiner performed an autopsy on Rob to see how he had died. She made the first incision, and from the fleshy crevice oozed a thick river of delicious chocolate. She took some on her finger and licked it up and it reminded her of how much she loved Valentine's Day. She then went home.

The morgue night staff continued to use Rob's carcass as a giant chocolate fondue pot, and dipped strawberries in him all night long and into the morning.

As the sun rose over the horizon the next morning, the city dumped Rob's body into a ditch off the highway. After a few hours, a family of raccoons found his body and dragged it into the woods. The mother raccoon birthed her babies in his remains and they fed on the sweet chocolate nectar that dripped from his innards until spring when they left.

Over the months, Rob's body decomposed and returned to the soil. A few weeks later a cocoa plant sprouted from his final resting place and once it had matured, a bear cub strolled by and ate it up.

The bear cub smiled as it chewed. "Mmm...chocolate," he thought.

The End

Happy Valentine's Day!

Missiles By Metro

Before I start writing this entry, I just want to make it clear that I am a huge proponent of surface-to-air missiles. Honestly. I believe that there are many tasks where these babies are without a doubt the best suited for the job. Tasks like:

• Blowing up things in the air from the surface.

• Blowing up things in the sky from the ground.

• Blowing up things in the firmament from the earth.

• Blowing up things not on the ground from not in the air.

• The opposite of blowing up things on the surface from the sky.

• Blowing up things in the air from the air and when I say "from the air" I mean "from the ground."

Yeah, surface-to-air missiles = important, especially in this day and age when it's just way too easy for terrorists to yoink airplanes from pilots. Oh, and off subject for a moment, did you know that the word "yoink" actually has a formal definition? Yeah.

Yoink: An exclamation that, when uttered in conjunction with taking an object, immediately transfers ownership from the original owner to the person using the word regardless of previous property rights.

Pretty sweet, huh?

But anyway, the meat of the entry. Regardless of how awesome surface-to-air missiles are, don't we all agree that they should remain in the hands of people we can trust? Yeah, I think so too. So wasn't I surprised when I was riding home from work on the Metro this summer and saw Stinger missiles located at every above-ground Metro station. Does this seem odd to anyone? Does it seem strange that the Washington Metropolitan Area Transit Authority is in possession of surface-to-air missiles with a firing range of 5 miles, a sophisticated tracking ability using infrared radiation sensors, and the ability to hit almost any target with a heat signature with an altitude under 11,000 feet all from a man's shoulder?

Sure, I guess I don't know for sure if these large metal cases with the word "Stinger" written on them in big red block letters actually contain missiles. I suppose they could just be housing giant first aid kits for bee stinger removal in case the entire solar system got stung by bees at the same time. And did you know that killer bees are no deadlier than regular bees!?

But seriously, let's assume that the cases do have Stinger surface-to-air missiles in them. I have to admit that I don't like the idea that our nation's last line of defense against terrorists who want to blow me up are Metrorail drivers. I guess this is in large part due to the fact that Metro drivers do not actually drive the trains. They're kind of like the Queen of England or the King of Spain. Sure, they have fancy names, large, elaborate hats and a seemingly important and influential position, but they don't. They just sit there, smile at people, and walk around a little bit. Sometimes they throw a medal at you if you did something special but when you get down to it, they are the most useless, lazy, good-for-nothing, people in their entire country. I mean, think about it, nobody in their "royal bloodline" has had a real job in hundreds of years.

Do you realize that all Metro trains are controlled by a computer down at Metro headquarters and that the only reason they even need a human being "driving" the train is to open and close the doors and announce what the stops are? That's right. And if you've ever been on the Metro you'd know that these guys can't even do that. I ride the Metro home every day and every day there are at least five people that get crushed by the doors because the driver closes them on them. And what about the other 50% of the driver's job description? They must have that portion mastered, right? Wrong. Have you ever been able to hear what the Metro driver is saying? You know he's supposed to be saying Farragut West so why is it that you could have sworn he just said "Orange Town"? And since when does Smithsonian start with a K? I mean, I can understand screwing up L'Enfant Plaza because that's French. And who really knows how to speak French? Nobody.

The point is, if the government is going to hand out free missiles why did they decide to give them to the WMATA? Getting back to royalty for a moment, isn't it obvious that giving missiles to Metrorail drivers is as stupid as giving them to the Queen of England? I mean, they don't know what to do with them. Queen Elizabeth would probably sit down and have tea with it, put it in a parade, and then give it a medal.

Now Serving Number 4703

The Chinese have just reached the year 4703, but frankly, I'm not impressed. If the Chinese are over 2000 years ahead of the rest of the world, tell me why they have yet to invent rocket boots? Is it because they're lazy? I'm embarrassed for the Chinese. I don't understand how a civilization can claim such supreme oldness and not have the technological advancements to back it up. For God's sake, it's the year 4703! Where's the goddamn DEATHSTAR!?

I ordered some Chinese food the other day and they brought it in those little white foldy buckets with the metal handle. Remember in Back to the Future 2 when Marty goes to his future house and they have that little pizza thing they put in the microwave and after they hit a button they open up the microwave and the little pizza had turned into a regular pizza? Why don't the Chinese have that? Plus, I looked out the window as the delivery dude was driving away and he was in a Toyota Tercel. You'd think that by the year 4703 the Chinese would have stopped buying Japanese cars and have their own Chinese brand jet-cars that fly on pure, unfiltered Communism.

If I were General Tso, I'd be turning in my delicious brown sauce filled grave.

#1 CHINA BUFFET!

Fast Times in Claim Area G

Most of yesterday was spent hiding in the corner of an abandoned baggage claim at Pittsburgh International Airport while watching episodes of The Simpsons on my laptop. I stopped briefly to pick up a $10 wrap from the refrigerated shelving unit at the Pennsylvania version of Au Bon Pan, which distinguishes itself from other Au Bon Pans because of the fact that the Pennsylvania version decided not to upgrade to the fully functional, working model of a restaurant. The actual sandwich making service was unavailable because of understaffing as well as because the ovens, breads, cheeses, and other essentials were all cardboard replicas of real items. Not unlike what you find in Ikea, where they furnish their office settings with plastic televisions and computers that are merely painted to look like their functional counterparts and which can be lifted easily without effort and tossed back and forth between good friends on a Saturday plagued by unexpected rainfall, boredom, and a lack of individuals who can come up with good activity ideas. These situations are usually free of mishaps but on the off chance you pick up a real computer used by employees and drop it due to the unexpected weight things can get a little messy, in which case (when it happened to me) I fled and skipped my usual $1 vanilla ice cream cone from the snack bar.

Nevertheless, the wrap was tasty enough and it was accompanied by a large blueberry yogurt made crunchy by the complimentary granola presented to me at time of payment. Uneventful, though, my lengthy stay at the Pitt'n'Port was not. My mysteriousness coupled with the fact that people often mistake me for an A-rab, which, when occurring, I kindly explain that their racial slur was perfectly valid because my family does in fact hail from Lebanon, caused me unwanted attention in the form of a security guard stationed in my vicinity and a strange "old woman" who asked me where the baggage claim to "retrieve lost sweaters" was located.

I had my bag searched again. I really think I should have been given a "Frequent Searchee" card by now but perhaps it was lost in the mail. They say that the searches are random but I've taken my fair share of logic and probability courses at both the high school and undergraduate level and I think that being searched 16 times out of 16 (that's in the past two years) is just slightly unheard of considering the vast number of people who travel by air in any given time period and the fact that none of my friends or family of friends have ever been searched.

Well, I have nothing more to say at this point in time. Perhaps at a later date I will return.

Ushapti

And They Wonder Why More People Don't Use Public Transportation

Well this is my second year of college in Meadville, PA and I just now realized that I'm in nowhere land. So here I am looking at the bus schedule for tomorrow and let me show you what I found:

1. The buses only come by each stop once every hour.
2. Bus service only goes until 4:30 p.m. on Sundays.

Can you believe this!? I mean, Jesus, back home if you miss the bus you don't have to worry because there'll be another one coming in about 18 SECONDS! I mean, literally, it's a constant stream of buses. And I'm not even talking about the big time Metro buses that service the entire Washington D.C. Metropolitan Area. This is the Fairfax Connector, the COUNTY bus.

Why do they even have a bus if when you ride to your destination you can't get back because service has ended? Oh yeah, one-way bus service...real helpful.

And what self-respecting bus service has only SIX LINES? Come on, the Fairfax Connector's line numbers go from 101 to 989!

I tell you what, the first thing I'm going to do when I get back to good old Springfield, VA is to ride the bus. A real goddamn bus.

It's All Within Your Reach

I've always wanted platinum power. It's always sort of been a little dream for me, you know? Marry a girl I can almost beat in arm wrestling, settle down in a house with a yard that has some trees but not so many that raking in the fall is a pain in the ass, have some kids, clothe them, and obtain platinum power. It's not that much to ask, is it?

I don't know, everyone has their goals in life and you strive for this stuff and tell everyone you're gonna make it big but in some way or another you eventually find out it's not going to happen. So and so wants to be the next Charlton Heston. What's her name says she'll cure cancer. Joe Shmoe thinks this. Jane Doe thinks that. It never gets you anywhere and despite how we try to convince ourselves otherwise, on the inside we've always known we'll grow up to be just another person who will die without having done anything.

It's the same way with me and platinum power. It's this big deal thing that I'm always telling everyone about.

"Hey, did you know that someday I'll have platinum power?"
"Hi Susan. Golden Grahams for breakfast? No thanks, I've got platinum power."

But the more I think about it the more I know it's just a stupid pipe dream (minus the opium). It's one of those things I never want to think about. I walk through life with blinders on and I tell myself that platinum power is on the horizon but I keep on walking and the farther I go the more I realize that I'm never going to get there. I mean, it doesn't keep me up at night but it's always there in the back of my head.

When I feel like I should stop studying I tell myself that I'm doing it for the platinum power and I'm able to keep going. When I'm in class and I'm hungry I tell myself that later I'll have platinum power and I'll have all the food I could ever need.

So, I mean, maybe it's one of those impossibilities that helps you more in the long run than it hurts you. I like this idea but maybe it's just because it hurts so bad to think about throwing the dream away.

So it's not strange that I was so taken aback today when I reached into my mailbox and found a letter addressed to me which in large writing stated:

You are INVITED TO APPLY for
PLATINUM POWER

No annual fee
Platinum benefits

Was it a sign? Some sort of omen? Maybe it was simply a message, you know? A message letting me know that I shouldn't give up hope. I mean, maybe it was just what it looked like, a CapitalOne Platinum card, but I don't think so. What are the chances that CapitalOne knew about my platinum power dream? Can we really write this off as a mass mailing?

Anyway, I hope you guys take this to heart. Go after your dreams because no matter how impossible they may seem you never know what's going to happen.

Who knows, maybe someday you'll reach into your mailbox and pull out Charlton Heston.

The Vietcong Wouldn't Even Know What Hit Them

I've always wondered why the U.S. military doesn't invest in a weapon similar in nature to the Nerf Secret Shot. If you were never a ten year old boy, the Secret Shot was a typical Nerf sidearm that was equipped with a hidden barrel in the handle. Basically, if your best friend just jumped in front of you with his Nerf crossbow and told you to put your hands up and surrender, you could comply but subsequently shoot him in the face with your secret gun.

I've thought about this for a good long time and while I don't think the trick would work well against Americans, I think it would prove extremely effective against Asians. My reasoning for this claim is not scientifically backed but I'm pretty sure it's probably true since back in elementary school my friend Chris Kim was always the first one to die when we had a Nerf war.

Can you imagine what the Vietnam War would have been like if the U.S. troops had Nerf Secret Shots? Let me just say, I think it probably would have been a lot more fun.

Thinking about the Nerf Secret Shot has really made me quite nostalgic for the good old days. For the past week or so I've had the Inspector Gadget cartoon theme song stuck in my head and I've taken absolutely no measures to try and remove it.

Anyway, I don't have much else to say so I'll leave you with this thought:

Why is it that locusts kick so much more ass in the Bible than they do in biology textbooks?

I Eat Relationships For Sunday Brunch

My roommate tells me that this here blog ruins relationships. Supposedly there is proof that at least one couple has parted ways after having come across the link here from my Facebook profile. I'm not quite sure how I should feel about this.

I could provide a disclaimer. Maybe put up some of those "Enter" or "Leave" buttons like they have before you view porn sites. Not that I know anything about that.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm sorry.

I'm sorry if I caused you to say goodbye to that person you thought you'd be with forever.

I'm sorry if after viewing this site he admitted to sleeping with your sister.

I'm sorry that after relating to one of my entries she decided to move to Morocco and offer camel rides for a Euro to high schools students on a day trip from Spain.

I'm sorry that stumbling across this website caused her to eat a bowl of Alpha-Bits cereal and the letters spelled out the phrase, "Leave your boyfriend for a bowl of Maryland clam chowder" and after seeing this she did so and now she's married to the aforementioned clam chowder and they have two beautiful children named Sam and Maria and they live in the suburbs of Denver and ski on the weekends unless the in-laws are in town in which case they stay inside by the fire and talk about future plans and sip coffee and play board games like The Game of Life and the clam chowder gets to be the doctor but ends up living in the mobile home which is the place I always wanted to live in because even though it was really crappy it was cheap and the taxes were low and after all it's just a board game and you don't actually have to live in it so it doesn't make much of a difference.

I'm sorry that these scenarios keep getting more far-fetched and more rambling.

I guess what I'm trying to say, and don't take this the wrong way, is that I hope these entries ruin your life. I hope you drop out of college because I told you I had a hamburger for lunch. I hope I shape the very way you approach and view the world.

I hope I change you.

What Will Come Of Tomorrow?

Someday I'll be better than most people at living large.

Someday I'll find that monkey that climbed on Alexa in Gibraltar and report him to the proper authorities.

Someday I'll be able to run faster than I need to.

Someday I'll return to Morocco and take that guy up on his offer to trade Kim for fourteen camels and an acre of land.

Someday I'll find out it was real even though I always swore it was only in my head.

Someday I'll convince the people who wrote my high school Spanish textbook that a chapter on 1940s film noir was sort of unnecessary.

Someday I'll admit that I enjoy singing when I'm alone.

Someday I'll have my very own planets orbiting me even though Dr. Cox told me a thousand times in astrophysics class that I'd never be massive enough to bend space-time enough to pull it off no matter how many Krispy Kreme doughnuts I consumed.

Someday I'll realize I missed my chance.

Someday I'll admit that I didn't want it to be this way.