Earthfakes and Faux-rraris

By now, many of you have heard about the earthquakes that rocked a good chunk of the eastern Midwest. We were about 182 miles or so from the epicenter of it all. I happened to wake up to it around 4:30 a.m. this morning.

Image courtesy of U.S. Geological Survey

I heard the house creak and pop a little and felt as if the bed was being gently shoved back and forth. It was only a few seconds. My immediate thought… was that an earthquake? Or did I imagine it?

And why would I think the latter?

Because I’ve woken up before and felt “earthquakes” before. Very minimal ones, mind you. More subtle than this one. And I thought for sure the next day, someone would corroborate what I perceived. This has happened, maybe twice before, according to my fault-ridden human memory. And if I asked someone, “did you feel the tremor last night,” I was met with perplexed looks. “Army, it’s just your imagination!”

And what if it was? The mind and body do strange things during sleep. You know what I mean. Most of all is the weirdness of REM sleep in which your body is paralyzed and brain activity rampant. Perhaps I had some kind of body tremor waking from REM sleep and perceived it coming from my environment. I’ve had crazy visual distortions sometimes when I wake up truly groggy (probably stage 4 of non-REM sleep for that one person out there who cares). So body tremors aren’t unfathomable…

So much so, I’ve come to call them my earthfakes.

This morning on the shuttle bus, I saw S-Dub, and she mentioned the earthquake. I wasn’t crazy this time! So I proceeded to tell her about my previous earthfakes and concern this was just such a repeat. She replied in the mock-serious voice we have come to use, “Yeah right, Army, there’s a fault line that runs only under your house. That’s why no one else felt it.” To which I replied in the same voice, “Oh, so it’s all my fault?”

(Sigh) I just had to do it. Sometimes you have to mix your heady humor with your cheap laughs.

Then at work when I’m on the phone, the second quake hits, and everything kind of sways back and forth. And I continue on with my conversation as if nothing has happened, all the while, up and down the hall, I hear the chatter from my co-workers, “Did you feel that? Did you?”

Mamabean was like, "Maybe we live above a Hellmouth." LOL - And why not? Is that so strange?

Then I read online today about these fake Ferraris made from Pontiacs and Toyotas. HAHAHAHA!!!! I don’t know why I love this story so much! Dubbed as “high end fakery” orchestrated by a “fake Ferrari gang,” I mean… you can’t help but laugh. Mostly because the buyers knew they were fakes and were doing it purely for the status symbol. Silly Sicilians! You felt the boot kick of the Italian Polizia, eh? Eh? I suspect the authentic Lamborghinis that pulled up during the police bust outmatched your Faux-rraris, no?

VS

Ciao, baby!

Stuff White People Like

I've recently been turned onto this hilarious blog entitled, Stuff White People Like.

Each entry is a window into the funny, the folly, and the fascination of white people (and really more to the point, white American folks). I find myself cracking up to each entry I read, either thinking of myself or someone I know.

I haven't made my way through many posts, but the few I've read are pure genius.


I've particularly enjoyed the following entries:

* The Idea of Soccer
* Modern Furniture
* Multilingual Children
* Threatening to Move to Canada (ah, so American)

Anyway, check it out, feel the culture, have a chuckle.

On Tour

It seems that for the last three weeks, I've been on tour. Or perhaps more accurately my body has been a venue for all manner of rock star illnesses, mystery plagues, and other general cootie-type activity. And one thing is for certain...

I am sick of being sick.

Apparently I'm not the only one. Everyone I talk to tells a story of how their family or office has something nasty travelling around. It's the Dark Passenger, sneaking rides in vehicles that don't want it. Like Marty McFly in Back to the Future hitching tows from passing cars on his skateboard. But I don't find this scenario quite as amusing.

From a sociological perspective, it is rather fascinating how such things spread and survive. One person on an airplane could easily infect 200 other people on their way to dozens of final destinations. Schools, work places, even the doctor's office. How do all those people working at the hospital manage to stay healthy? A built-up tolerance? It hardly matters right now. In light of my intellectual interests, the reality of the last three weeks has left me anything but intrigued. I'm fed up.

The latest incarnation is a severe sore throat that has left me unable to really talk. Perhaps a relief to some, I don't know. But it's painful to swallow, eat, drink, or talk. Very annoying. I'm decked out with remedies: hot tea with honey, organic throat drops, humidifer in my room to keep things "flowing," throat numbing spray, and antibiotics. All the tools of the trade. They have to work. If I have to watch one more f*cking DVD from the sofa, I'm going to pretend to scream!

The one funny side story was when I went to see my D.O. on Friday. The assistant who took me back to the doctor's office (i.e., waiting room #2) was Boyfaux's boyfriend! We recognized each other and were chatting about various things. Man, is he cute. I noticed every detail when he took my pulse. When he measured my weight on the scales. When he took my blood pressure and I slipped my arm out of my sweatshirt. It felt oddly intimate. I wondered if his thoughts ever strayed. I kinda have a crush on both of them now. And why not? Why break up a relationship when I could work the angle on both of them? Right, as if I would ever do such a thing! However, if they made the proposal to me... it would be rude to refuse. I am a gentleman, after all : )

But that will all have to wait for another day. A day when I can abandon the Dark Passenger, find a ship off Leper Island, and find my way back to normalcy. Back to health. My escape is already under way.

An Idle Mind...

Conversation transcript from this afternoon:


JP the British Boss: "I rather like the book and think it will be a great text for the class."

Army: "Sounds like it. I've always wanted to read it myself but never got to it."

JP: "I looked over some other books, but they didn't really stand out like this one. There was one by a guy name George Siemens, and it was okay. And you know, his last name, well... (trails off)"

Army: "It isn't very becoming, is it?"

(Childish laughter from both parties)

An idle mind is the devil's workshop! And I'm living proof : )

I've This Creeping Suspicion

We all have our routine or familiar scripts for going to bed each night. I brush my teeth, remove my contacts, and if on a "school night," I make sure to set out my clothes and prepare my lunch for the next day.

But what about the mental routines? Those nagging thoughts? The worries that come to mind as if they are on some kind of whisper campaign? Softly.

On most nights, as I slip into bed, I wonder what would happen if a car lost control and crashed into my house. I imagine how it would likely happen. Where the car would make its impact. I figure it will come from the street corner, right into my front bedroom. I'd be safe, but the crash would be deafening. I'd shoot up in bed with startled fear, teeth clenched so hard my teeth feel like they could break. Thankfully I wear my bite guard religiously.

I've woken up before in a panic, because of a loud noise. Once I felt like I was experiencing an earthquake. No one else had felt it. And on all those occasions, I saw flashes of red against the muted tones of night. Hallucinations, I'm sure.

And what does it all mean? Unconscious fodder my next therapy session, no doubt. Perhaps it is my phantom hitchhiker revealing himself. He knows as sleep nears, he can spring to life. Perhaps because my mind is clearer. No distractions from the world.

If fear in animals is linked to learning, then where did I learn this fear response? When I was in kindergarten, I remember a story about a garbage truck that rolled from a parking lot down a hill into someone's house. I can't remember if someone died from it or not. I cannot separate the reality from how I worked it over in my head.

Then of course, there's my fear of tornadoes. All things I can't control. So is that what it's about? Or is just my overactive imagination? And if that's the case, do I have such loss of control fears because of my overactive imagination? Without all that, could I come up with half the yarn I spin on this blog?

And therefore, is part of my head just one big mess of creativity and neuroses, mashed together like mounds of Play-Doh, inseparable?

So there you have it. The logical conclusions to the emotional cocktail party mingling inside of me. Think of it what you will. I know I do.

Man, Oh, Man

So BW and I went to the Illini basketball game this evening. But as prologue, we had a tasty dinner at our favorite BBQ restaurant.

And it wasn't only the brisket that was smokin'. So was our server. At first he was rather quiet, but then he broached the subject of the game, an easy topic given our orange hoodies, and soon it became the foreplay before game play. Ahh. Sports Talk became quite chatty, and we were happy for him to return several times for some table talk. I have visions of a "full court press" in my head... such imagery. I wanted to ask him if he needed a ride to the game. Or a ride before the game?

Scandal.

Let it be known that BW and I actually share two boyfriends. Well, one is a boyfaux and the other is a beaufriend, but I'm getting ahead of myself here.

Our first bachelor is Hot Nuclear Physicist. Such a thing is a rarity in this universe, possibly more so than Mendelevium or antimatter. But let it be said, that this Cutie McCutieson is adorable, smart, and actually gay. And BW and I both lust for him. But then, he's pining for a 19 year old who has out-of-the-closet issues, which basically means he's untouchable. Ah, gay soap opera. As a result, Hot Nuclear Physicist is our boyfaux. He just doesn't know it yet. I was working on a joke about penetrating his valence electron shell, but it was hopelessly abandoned.

Our second bachelor is UberNice Guy. Have you ever met someone that is so nice, you think this person is TOO nice? That's UberNice Guy. I mean... he's such a nice guy. BW and I had to decipher the riddle of his persona, and we could only come up with that it doesn't feel genuine. I believe he is genuinely being friendly, open, and quite generous. But relationships of any kind generally flourish because of step-wise, reciprocal intimacy. And once he meets you, he's your best good friend. And he wants to include you in anything going on. Which is fine, I suppose, for some people. But BW and I don't roll that way. And we think that he has a crush on the both of us, which is probably really true. But neither of us feel the same. So he's our beaufriend. And BW needs to court him so we can upgrade our seats to the floor. Just one game. Full court press. Do it, BW. Take one for the team.

I bring up these two gents because they were topics of discussion this evening. BW and I come up with plays on words to try and make the other laugh. Tonight we had some good ones, but I can't remember any specific ones. Most of them are situational, anyway. Then we say stupid things, like calling for certain plays. "Time for the Triple Lindy!" or "The Annexation of Puerto Rico!" If you get either of those references, big ups to you. Hey, it makes us laugh.

And speaking of men with drama, the Illini are no longer the worst team in the Big 10 after tonight's game. We now share last place with Michigan. Luscious! In the words of Dorothy Large Marge Zbornak, "S-GOOOOAAAWWWWW!"

Been Thinking...

I'm sure most of you are familiar with the cuisine term Tex-Mex. You know, most people refer to restaurants like Chevy's, Chili's, or (back in its day) Chi Chi's as Tex-Mex. Hmm. Chi Chi's. That place was a celebration of food. Or at least that was their slogan. I still remember it, only because it's my useless talent to remember jingles, song lyrics, and movie quotes. And clearly I remember them forever. Thank you God, genes, and environment.

Anyway, while at a more authentic Mexican restaurant this weekend, I had a thought during our conversation. Why don't they just call it Texican food? I mean, Tex-Mex is cute and all. And it rhymes and all. But I think Texican is a better play on words, and as a self-professed wordsmith, I'm inclined to say I'm right on this one.

Just a thought...

Call Me Uncle

Well, it's official!

I'm going into my second week of being an uncle! My brother and sister-in-law had a lil baby boy, which they shamefully did NOT name after me. But I won't hold that against them... much : )

Lil AJ was born on my Mom's birthday, matter of fact. So he and Grammy will have to share the day. At least it will be easy for me to remember... as King Forgetter of Anything Numbered.

I've only seen the small guy in pictures, and those were only supplied from his date of birth. You know, smashed face, squeezed through a birth canal after soaking in amniotic fluid for 9 months. Not his photogenic height. So if any of my shrinking but loyal readership happens to have more updated pictures, say, a photo-happy grandmother with a DSLR Sony camera and a captive grand-progeny for a subject, well then, perhaps those could be sent to me care of my email address.

Wink, wink.

Fortunately for AJ, I can play the role of uncle well. Much like pets, if I can hand kids back to someone else, I'm good with them. Though I have a fear of dropping babies. I know it has to do with experience. Perhaps the real fear is that once I have them, it will be forever. Now that's a prospect to get the heart racing.

Now this has me thinking. The real fear is not losing hold of them once I have them; rather, it's the fear of holding on and never being able to let go. Now how do you like that?

And things are starting to read like a metaphor for other issues in my life, so we'll go to a commercial break. But this note's going on a sticky as a discussion point for my next therapy session.

Sad News

I received a phone call this evening from a dear, close friend of mine that his mother passed away unexpectedly. I was in shock. I couldn't speak. She had always been the nicest, most inviting person she could be to me. She had treated me like close family. And now she has passed.

I didn't know what to say to my friend. Is there anything "right" to say? People say it's important to be there for the person, and I very much wanted to be that for him. But somehow, I wonder if I failed him.

A month ago, another dear friend of mine came to me because a close friend of hers had lost his mother. She was upset, and I wanted to convey I was there for her, but at the time I wasn't able to. If it's true that what you say isn't important, what if you fail to let someone know you are there? To be what they need in that moment. That is why she came to me? It has bothered me to this day that I couldn't be what she needed me to be. Sure, I know she knows I support her. But in that moment, I had missed the mark.

I trust that I was able to support my friend this evening. And as much as I want to be a supportive friend, I also want to celebrate my memories of his mother. Because she was a dear, sweet person.

When we were younger, she would take us to work with her at the university and my friend and I would have adventures. She let us camp out in the front yard. She was compassionate about animals, especially horses, and she raised several on her farm. She had a curiosity about the world and wasn't afraid to get in there and experience what she could. She believed in her community and was a strong supporter of the needs of her town. She had a passion for preserving the culture and history of Native Americans. It was because of her that I learned more about the traditions of the Apache. I was even able to spend time with a descendant of the Chiricahua war chief, Cochise. She welcomed him and his family into her house just like she had me for all these years. I hadn't seen her in many years, so I feel blessed to have visited with her last March on my trip to Arizona.

Unfortunately, she had severe asthma all her life. And it finally took her away. But I believe she has left the world a better place. She made her family and her community better than they could be without her. I know she has inspired others to do the same. And that is all any of us can ask for in this life.

So to my dear friend, I will always be there for you. However you need me to be there. Just call on me.

And to you, Sue. I am better for having known you. Thank you.

Fey, Fi, Faux

Last weekend, I was invited to the moment I had been waiting for. The moment to sing the jingle of Army's tune into the ear of a good looking, sweet young man. And in his brain, that tune would be lodged -- gestating, vamping, tickling. And slowly it would grow on him until he realized what he could have with me. And then, we'd make sweet love... er... music together.

Of course, this young man was non other than Jay, my new boyfaux. Who happens to have a legitimate live-in boyfriend. Meh, details.


Rules of Engagement

Jay had invited Feyonce to a Christmas party at his place, and she was able to bring along a friend or significant other... or in our case, her signifauxcant other. It was my shot to size up Jay's boyf to see who this character is, what state of bliss (or discord) they shared, and how I could wreck it all with my charming ways. Yes, neo-conservative so-called Christians... this is truly the only gay agenda out there. And it doesn't concern you at all, so go fear things up elsewhere.

So Feyonce and I rocked out another party before hitting this all-important one. And like any Army, I needed to devise specific rules of engagement:

Rule #1: Make sure I get on Jay's radar.

Rule #2: Employ defense mechanisms when necessary. For instance, it was imperative going into this knowing that his boyf was quite inferior to me. Their relationship had to be in shambles.

Rule #3: Lots of ammunition. You can't win the offensive without being loaded. Inhibitions slide, your guard is down, and maybe some action is seen.

Rules in mind, we get to Jay's apartment complex, and basically everything is covered in ice. No salt in the parking lot, on the sidewalks, or anything. So we're sliding our way to his door, when we encounter the frozen steps from Home Alone. And no railing to grab hold of. So Feyonce and I are crawling up the steps, praying we don't land jaw first on concrete, cracking up the whole way there.


Let The Games Begin

We make it alive and Jay greets us at the door. He looks adorable in his collared shirt and sweater. Jay makes the introductions to the seven other people there (one of whom I knew already), and I spot the boyf. The enemy. The distraction. And he's well, kinda cute. But somewhat of a stereotype. Little bitchy. Little sassy. In my unbiased opinion, I think Jay could do much better.

I crack open a Guinness. And out comes the dreidel. For a drinking game. I felt a bit at ease that a Jew was in the group, like it was kosher and all. And thankfully, Jews don't believe in Hell. Let's just say that "Gimel" meant everyone drank. I forgot the rest. I was focused on making eye contact with Jay whenever it was appropriate. My message was subliminal, an unconscious code.

Jewish Girl mentioned something about Yiddish, and I commented that Feyonce and I were beschert (meant to be). We laughed about that for a while. I broke out a few other choice Yiddish words I knew from my viewings of Seinfeld and Sex and the City. My mis-education.

Then came the wine. First red. Then white. Then more white. And then things loosened up. We played some other game that didn't work out too well. I was certainly feeling tipsy. I kept hitting the food like it was nobody's business. The pepperoni, cheeses, spicy pigs in a blanket, cookies, et al. -- I was Bogarting the buffet every bit as much as I was "Beau-guarding" the boyfaux.

As a subplot, Feyonce was interested in one of the other attendees. She, too, had gone into the evening with some intentions to reconnoiter this gentleman. We both made sure to dress as dapper and smart as we could. A couple of sexy fauxances ready to divide and conquer our men. I had my Jay. She had her Billfriend. He seemed like a cool guy. Feyonce confesses to liking slightly nerdy guys, and he fit the bill. Literally.

Now the rest of the evening is pretty much blanketed with some of the most bizarre things I've ever said. And sadly I have forgotten most of them. So I'll attempt to recreate the few I recall with the following vignettes:

****************************

Jay: "I want to sing karaoke, Feyonce."
Army: "What would you sing?"
Jay: "Something from the ballad genre."
Army: "You can't sing a genre, you have to give us actual song names!"
Fey: "Whoa now, Fauxance. Well what would yours be?"
Jay: "Yeah?"
Army: "Love Shack and Grace Kelly by MIKA!" (a bit too self-satisfied)

****************************

To Feyonce: "Yuck. I'm burping gross weenies."

****************************

Not a specific quote, but I used the words fabulash and luscious way too much. Sometimes luscious meant "tasty" or "excellent." Other times, it meant "drunk."

****************************

So the short of it was, I got sauced, and then I got saucy. I ended up doing this dance in the kitchen as Jay air-conducted to the marching band music that was playing. It was as if we were both vying for Feyonce's attention... but we didn't know it at the time. She had to keep sober because I had imbibed a bit too much of the wine. So much for my gay agenda.

In all, it was a great evening. I enjoyed the group's company, I got to interact with Jay and the boyf, and have more fun with my Feyonce. I felt better knowing the boyf had some flaws, and it actually made me move on a little. Thankfully when I'm wined up, I don't become a depressed boozy old fairy.


Driving Miss Hazy

So the night ended with me scooting down the Home Alone steps and then "walking" with my hands and sliding on my feet across the ice rink. Thankfully, Feyonce drives manual. I gave her mild sass for stalling Andrew right away, to which she deftly replied, "the drunk person cannot criticize my driving." Touche.

I crashed at her place and woke up at 5:43 a.m. to record the details that eventually became this entry. In the background, freezing rain was pounding on the house, encasing my car in a shell, and creating a new layer of danger to the world. But I had no hangover. Nor did I have any hang-ups about my boyfaux sleeping with another man.

Margaritas En Masse

If the term en masse is defined as "in a single body or group," then the powerful potion I imbibed on Friday was contained in my single body. And by powerful potion, I mean the 26 oz. salt-rimmed frozen mug kind.

It was my Friday "girls" night out with the Lovebrarian and my humor twin Watson. First stop was authenticate Mexican (for the Midwest) and a little love potion #9 - the frozen margarita. Or in my case, the sleep potion. Tequila is my slow-acting roofie. Guess I drugged myself. Bad rule of thumb if you plan to take advantage of yourself.

Not that I was planning on such a thing...

Anywho, Watson heard about this free Christmas concert going on that evening and thought it would be interesting for us to attend. It took place in a Catholic church, which is generally a no-fly zone for yours truly, but to be honest, I was desperate for a blog entry. What a "writer" will do for some good material!

Little should I have known the clue in the title... it was a Christmas concert alright. In a beautiful church. Where the congregation was so stoic, I thought it may have been a funeral. At a cemetery.

I can only imagine that I wasn't struck by lightning because my thoughts were too clouded. I confess: I may or may have not been tipsy. In a church. My margaritas en masse had become margaritas in Mass. And my head was swimming in a dazed haze, crawling through the strange passage of time, set to the sleepy backdrop of stoic caroling and chanting. If being boozy in church is bad form, then being dozy is just plain uncouth. I slipped in and out of consciousness. My powers were useless against them.

I don't know how the hell long we were there, but at one point, Watson, who was noticeably uncomfortable for us the whole time, said we should roll. And roll we did. She felt bad, being the only religious one of our trio, because the concert was a joy-bust. But hey, how would she have known? It wasn't her usual church.

After the spell broke, I did come away with a few thoughts. No more tequila for me. I passed out by 9:00 p.m. Bad news bears. And secondly, it was reaffirmed that I truly do not understand organized religion. I get that it moves people and provides meaning and inspiration. I can see how it lifts up others. But it just doesn't do anything for me... even when I've had a few.

Then again, maybe this visit wasn't the best example of a dry run (in more ways than one!).

Things That Were Said

Army: "I don't know, there's just something about a jockstrap that I find... creepy. (Pause) I'm not sure why... I have to get to the bottom of it."

B-Dub: "There is no bottom of it!"

**************************************

Army: "There's just something about long hair on a guy that I find unattractive. Cut it short already! Long hair is for girls!"

Mamabean: "I think he's hot either way."

Army: "Oh c'mon! That's not even a hairdo... it's a herdo."

**************************************

Mamabean: "I'll make the general's chicken and you can bring over some eggrolls."

Army: "Deal. Should I also bring over some pot tea?"

Mamabean: "Um, pot tea?"

Army: "Yeah, that was supposed to be hot tea, but who knows after today. (stops to ponder) Can you even make tea from marijuana?"

Lil' known fact to me: Actually, you can.

Facts and Figures.

Yeah okay, Army sure knows how to pick them. I have an uncanny ability to pursue ambiguously straight men, yada yada. Firmly established.

If you're new to the program, check out my Beaucoup of Beaus.

So of course, when I met Feyonce's classmate a few weeks ago, noticed his good looks, sweet charm, and genuine quality, I became immediately skeptical. How could he be available AND gay?

Our first meeting was serendipitous, really. I had worked until about 7 p.m. and on the shuttle bus to the Parking Lot at the End of the World, my Fey boarded with a small group of others, including one dashing young gentleman. I was at the back of the bus and she didn't notice me. So I just observed their group talking and made eye contact a few times with Classmate.

At the Parking Lot at the End of the World, Fey saw me and we started chatting. She introduced me to Classmate, whom I'll call Jay. We exchange hellos and Fey is quick to casually explain the Feyonce/Fauxance bit is just an inside joke, thus debunking any idea that we're anything more than good friends. Good one, Fey.

Jay's all, we've met before. And as it turns out, I gave a presentation at Illinois State a few years back and he was in attendance. I thought he looked a little familiar but who knows when you see so many people every day. Hmm, so he remembered me, eh?

Anway, as soon as I part from them, I watch from my car until Fey is alone so I can call her up. Laughing at my haste, she says she doesn't know about his "status" and promises to keep an open ear and eye, thinking we would make a cute couple. And um yeah, we would!

Now it's speculation at this point, but I may or may not have joined a social networking website run through our university to find out more about Jay and imbed myself into his unconscious mind. I'm playing it like George Constanza... remind the person of your existence in small ways. It's a subtle approach, a whisper campaign, as I like to call it. Soon enough, I'm like a radio jingle he just can't shake. He'll be humming my tune.

Plan now engaged, I lay low for a bit as part of the hush phase. Today, I get a phone call. From Feyonce.

F: Yeah, I have some bad news.

A to himself: Great, he's another ambiguously straight man. I'm going into rehab.

F: Your "boyfriend" already has a boyfriend. I befriended him on Facebook and there it was with photographic evidence.

A: Figures.

I finally find one of my own people that I'm attracted to and want to pursue and he's taken. But that's the second story of my life. You know the first.

A: Is the boyf cuter than me?

F: (laughing, placating) No. Of course not!

A: Do they look happy? Or is there some discord underneath it all?

F: Well the boyf goes to Arizona State.

A: Oh please. I can work myself into this one. The long distance thing never works.

F: That's not tacky!

A: Desperate times, desperate measures.

In all seriousness, who's to know their true status. Fact is, I've known people to maintain an "in a relationship" status on MySpace et al. simply because it was uncomfortable to change it. I tell you, these websites are life-support for failed relationships of every measure and kind.

He still seems like a guy worth knowing. And I'll just see what happens. If it's merely a friendship, then great. If I attack him in a fatal attraction kind of way, well, I'll write you guys once I'm out for good behavior.

The Balance of the Universe... On My Middle Finger.

I suppose some would say it isn't good Karma to extend a middle finger to the vast universe out there... but then again, I am the universe (as are you), so in a way, I'm merely flipping off my greater self. And well, Karma can kiss it, too.

Why the dramatic huff, you ask? Why, let me tell you, in even grander throes of blopera (um, that's blog opera to you)!

Don't trust The Universe. Just when you think everything is in its place, there is balance, and the answer to the meaning of life is 42, The Universe steps out from behind the curtain with a guttural "Mwu-haha" and the episode is over...

Seems now the meaning of life is 50. Because of inflation? Nope. Hazard another guess? Well, it's because that's how old you have to be to join AARP... and I JUST GOT INVITED!!!!

That Benevolent (or should I say, Malevolent) Order otherwise known as the American Ass-ociation of Retired Persons (now cowering under the acronym of AARP) sent me a damned Membership Order Form today! ME!

Look at this face? Is this the face of a retired person? Or of a pretired person? I'm not even close! I still have my allure... my twinkle! In fact, at a conference this past week, my fellow colleagues from across the nation kept mistaking me for a student.

Usually, I have to do what I can to be seen as a professional because of my youthful appearance. Especially on campus when I have to belly-up to the bellies of Provosts, Directors, and Deans, oh my. And now, this Undistinguished League of Biddies wants to set me on a course for the planet Geriatrix at warp speed? I think not! Check the records and your trifocals. I haven't made your short list yet, pappy!

So listen up, AARP, you old fogey. Take back your lousy AARP-SVP and the offer of a free pedometer when I join or renew. My clutch purse is off limits to your coffers (and incidentally your coffins). And rest assured that whenever I aimlessly aim my finger at The Universe, you will forever be at the center of my affections.

iRant: Highway Musings

Are We Where Yet?

So yeah, I'm skeptical of a lot of technology when it first comes out. I always have to ask the question, why do we need that? And why shouldn't I ask that question? Lord knows there are plenty of solutions to problems that don't exist out there... Someone has to police this techno-crap and gripe about it.

Here recently, it seems everyone needs some kind of navigation system in their cars. Whether it's TomTom, Magellan, or some other dude's name, folks need that GPS like never before. On a recent trip, I couldn't help noticing the numerous glowing screens in so many dashes and suctioned to the windshields. How did we suddenly become so directionless? Just a few years back, people rarely consulted paper maps, and those were usually road trippers. If you didn't know the way, you went to MapQuest or (if you know what you're doing) Google Maps. Now, we can't go to Walgreen's without depending on the robo-broad bossing us through every right and left turn. I mean, seriously. This is a perfect example of how technology has made people passive and responsive instead of planful and (dare I write this trendy word) proactive.

Out of no where, we are constantly lost and at a constant loss of where to go... Thank god we took thinking out of the equation.


The Unofficial Pace Car of the Highway

Why is it that whenever people see a Highway Patrol cruiser, they immediately jettison their brain, as if it was a smuggled illegal cargo? My favorite response comes from the lead-foot nosedive brake-job guy. Good one, smooth operator. The Statey will never suspect your speed correcting tactic, only, he's already clocked your dumb ass. See, when you notice the Statey from about 100 feet away, yeah, he's already clocking ten cars behind you. 'Member? Back where you ejected your common sense? Perhaps if you weren't on the phone while changing tracks on your iPod and finishing that Star-too many-bucks coffee, you wouldn't look like the ass hat you are.

And my favorite witnessing this week is when the Highway Patrol car pulled out into the fast lane from the median. And suddenly no one will pass him. Even when he's driving under the speed limit. Hey morons, we aren't in the first lap of the Indy 500, and besides, I don't think your P.O.S. Chevy Aveo would even qualify for a go-kart race. He's not the pied piper, you Lemmings. Pass him up! He's probably doing 60 MPH just to laugh at you idiots with your timid little toes tapping the pedal.

If you aren't blessed with the ability to split your attention and still operate your vehicle, don't do it. Maybe you should let TomTom take the wheel.


And Another Thing...

The entrance ramp exists so that you can achieve the speed of the highway by the time you reach it. Do I really need to say anything else about this? It seems that I do...

Hit Me Baby, One Maher Time

As you may know from way back when, I already professed my intellectual crush on Bill Maher. Well, my love-o-meter recently flew skyward when I caught a rare and captivating piece of live television last week. I'm speaking of the recent episode of Real Time With Bill Maher.

Now, I don't normally catch this show on TV because it's on HBO. But I do subscribe to the free podcasts of the show and listen to them religiously. Much like folks like their news and debate from Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert, I get my fix with Bill. Let's face it, the only way to cut to the heart of matters is with humor.

Anyway, Bill's show was hijacked this past week by several (perhaps four?) heckling kooks preaching about none other than 9/11 Conspiracy Theory. In case you missed it, our faithful digital friend, YouTube, has graciously time capsuled it for your viewership...



Now imagine watching this unfold in live TV. I happened to be away for a conference and flipped through the stations as the show was coming on. And then this went down... at first, I thought it was a joke or part of the show. A bit off-kilter for Bill's sense of humor, but who knows. Then it just kept going on with the ranting until Bill breaks open his emergency can of pissed-off whup ass and kicks these kooks out of the studio!

Kill, Bill, Kill!!

You can say a lot about these 4-some minutes of television. This is what I have to say...

1) I won't credit the bush administration for much, but I'll put it this way. It's stacked with conniving people who have done some fecked up stuff, but their lies and their exploits are consistently as see-through as Britney's under drawers. They couldn't manufacture a plausible case for war, produce WMDs, make a plan, organize a rebuilding effort, plan to plan, and on and on. You think they can orchestrate the destruction of a building with little preparation in the wake of a terrorist attack when bush is trying to read to children and sits there for 7 minutes "dumbfounded?" Or as I like to call it, his normal face.

And if by miracle they somehow did all that, we'd know about it because these guys can't cover up shit. And if you think they put together the whole attack, bitch please. Take your meds, find some evidence that we didn't go to the moon, Hitler is still alive, and Jesus has signaled His returned in the reflection of a puddle in front of your local Subway.

2) I'm sure these Truthers thought they had a victory, but here's the reality. You made yourself look like bigger asshats than you already are. And you'll only attract more asshats to your cuckoo cause; not sane and rational thinkers. Which your cause clearly needs. And the reason you have to resort to guerilla tactics like this is because no one will listen to you in a normal forum because of your already-established dumbassery and general detachment from this thing we like to call reality. Pop some more pills, mix it with booze, repeat.

3) I applaud Bill for what he did. I think there's no tolerance for stunt-tactics like this. Once again, people in this country have proved they are so aching for attention, they'll do anything to get it. As for me, I'll get my attention the old-fashioned way... from the few people who choose to read my blog and listen to MY meandering rants and conspiracies.

Now, about that gay agenda we've been working on...

Got It Bad

Got it bad, got it bad, got it bad/
I'm hot for Teacher!

Yes, sing it along to the classic Van Halen of my youth. With Dave. "Sit down, Waldo." LOL

Today our campus's Teach for America rep came to speak to our group about the amazing opportunities for our ambitious, motivated, and compassionate students to make an impact in our country's most impoverish schools.

And this guy was a dreamboat. I'd guess he's in his mid-twenties. Nice sideburns. Dressed smartly. And such a charismatic speaker. I like how he used his nonverbals. Yeah, I like a good gesture. His were well-placed.

I think he made us all want to sign up for our two year stint! Yes Mr. Teach for America, I'll drink the poisoned Kool-Aid. Your wish, my command. All that. Now let me take another look at ya.

Yeah so, he did mention this alleged girlfriend at one point during an anecdote. But it was likely in the context of a comfortable friendship. Words of endearment. No more. I didn't see any ring on that finger. So he's available. And he's gay until proven straight in my court of law. LOL

Boy, that man was a tasty beverage. Got it bad, got it bad, got it bad. I'm hot for Mr. Teach for America!

I've been Touched...

No, not like a "I've been touched by the bad man in my swimsuit area" kind of touched!

I mean, I've been Touched. No guys, not Touched by an Angel in a holy spiritual sense. Get with me, here, c'mon! Do I have to spell it out, already?

I am now the owner of my very own iPod Touch, e'rybody! And it's suh-weet. I can't keep my hands off of it. Literally!

If you haven't heard of them, think of the iPhone without the phone and the camera. So it's even slimmer yet still has twice the capacity with a 16 GB flash drive. And unlike the iPhone, this one has a WiFi antenna, so when I hit a local hot spot of wireless fun, ka-ching. Free internet access. Download a song from iTunes Store at the Espresso Royale? Don't mind if I do! Watch YouTube clips on my lunch break? Yes-huh! Stare at hours of porno while at work? Heck y... er, of course not!


The screen for watching movies is killer. This will be my new travel companion when I fly to Baltimore and Denver this month. I dropped a little extra skrilla for this software that converts DVDs to iPod video format, so I can have all my faves in my hot little palm. Oh yeah, babies!

We're talking Kill Bill, Clue, Grindhouse, Maverick, Big Lebowski, Groundhog Day, Dodgeball, The Prestige, Glitter (but not really), and the rest of the oeuvre!

And switching up from my Mini to the Touch, I have to give big ups to Apple for an awesomely improved interface. I feel like I'm in the future where everything is a touch panel. And I'm quite impressed with the sensitivity of the screen. I thought I'd be mistyping on the little keyboard, but it works very well.

It's such a thing of beauty and a marvel of science, I shed a tear. What can I say? (sniff) I'm touched.

The Next Room

In my previous post about the death of Robert Jordan, I mentioned that he had stepped into the next room. I wasn't familiar with that turn of phrase until the passing of my step-mother. Her good friend spoke at her memorial service, and she read aloud a piece that mentioned this idea. But that was several years ago, and I have only that vivid image in my memory. The name and everything had faded.

After some internet investigation, I uncovered the full passage:

***************************
Death Is Nothing At All

Death is nothing at all. I have only slipped away into the next room. I am I, and you are you. Whatever we were to each other, that we still are. Call me by my old familiar name, speak to me in the easy way that you always used. Put no difference in your tone, wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we enjoyed together. Play, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my name be ever the household word that it always was, let it be spoken without effect, without the trace of a shadow on it.

Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was; there is unbroken continuity. Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am waiting for you, for an interval,somewhere very near, just round the corner.

All is well.

-- Henry Scott Holland
***************************

Now I'm not a religious person. I'm spiritual to a degree and after a fashion. But even if I put all of that aside, there is something poignant and fundamental from this idea that our passing is merely a transition into the next. That death should not diminish us, even though it causes sadness. That we are better for knowing the people we know and knew. And that their finality is not an end if we celebrate who they were and what they meant to us.

I'm reminded of the series finale of Six Feet Under entitled Everyone is Waiting. As if to say everyone who has passed is in the next room. Ready to ask how we've been. I imagine Darlene, my grandfather, and even RJ himself entertaining each other with jokes, sitting around a small table, an intimate and quiet affair. I peek in on them and smile to myself. Such characters. They'll be in there till all hours of the night.

And off to bed I go, knowing that they still have life. That they'll be saving a seat for me one day. And that we'll carry on, as if only time had passed, and nothing more.

So Long, Friend

Two days ago, I found out that one of my favorite authors passed away. His name is James Oliver Rigney, Jr., but if you know him at all, it most likely by his pen name of Robert Jordan.

He wrote the amazingly rich and detailed series called The Wheel of Time. And if ever there was an opus that told of a fictional world, his main series of 11 novels, a prequel novella, and various companion pieces was near the top of them all. With nods to Tolkien, mythology, and world cultures, he borrowed familiar bits of what we know and wove them in with his own creations of magic, cultures, characters. Oh so many characters. No seriously. Lots of characters!

And while the series began to slow after the sixth book, the eleventh really picked up the pace. And RJ, always devilishly coy at book signings, would remark that the series would end with however many books it took to tell the story. As you may surmise, he had not intended it to last as long as it had. But after the last book, he had clearly stated that book 12 would commence the main series. And if it was a 2,000 page tome that required a hand truck, he said, that's what it would be. LOL

It would be the end of over 17 years of storytelling. But he never got to see it end.

See, RJ recently developed a rare blood disease, amyloidosis. And if ever there was a fighter, it was RJ. He kept in touch with fans via his blog. Fan support was incredible. But in the end, the disease caused complications that led to his death. We knew his time was limited, but the suddenness was unexpected.

It feels like a betrayal that a creator did not outlive his own creation. So often, you assume the person will keep going on long after the ink has dried and the paged dog-eared. But sometimes it isn't the case.

I remember at book signings how particular and funny he was. I'd drag my family and friends along to get the books signed. My friend Aaron and my step-dad Greg were hooked, too. So we had an entourage. RJ would always correct people for mispronouncing the names and terms he created.

My big bro, Jim, cracked us all up once when he turned to us and remarked, "Robert, you had me at Seanchan." You probably had to be there, but it was hilarious. And then you get up there and feel compelled to ask the big man something about the series as he neatly and purposefully signs his name. Every time, the old sass, he gave me his patented response, "Read and find out." Curse you, RJ! His slight smile would follow.

As I understand, the last book will be published. He's committed the bulk of it to audio tape or paper. Selfishly, I'm happy to hear that. Like any reader, I'm invested in the story, the characters, and the outcome. I want some closure!

But I keep coming back to the fact that, even though he had the final scene of the last book locked in his head all along, he won't get to see his readers respond. Or hear their thanks for the enjoyment he's brought. Or the ideas he's given. Or the inspiration for future storytellers.

I suppose he's stepped into the next room now. Wherever it is that everyone goes in the end of this life. Who's to say what that is. We all have to read and find out.