There once were two plasma-laser carrying robots named Jonathan and Scott. The two brother robots were from outer space and were on their first weekend away from home. Their Ma and Pa robots gave them cute, little backpacks and sent them on their merry way towards the planet Earth. Little Jonathan and Scott did not want to go though. They liked to play video games when they had days off from school. But Ma and Pa argued with them all the way home from soccer practice earlier that week and told them that they had to visit their Aunt and Uncle.
Their Aunt's name was Heavy-Duty 12" single-bevel compound miter saw, and their Uncle's name was iRobot Scooba Floor Washing Robot. On their home planet, a BILLION light years from Earth, Uncle iRobot Scooba Floor Washing Robot was always seen as a tad too effeminate. Aunt Heavy-Duty 12" single-bevel compound miter saw was always seen as a bit too masculine. They made the perfect pair and made a very nice home for themselves on Earth, where they found gainful, lucrative employment in the Button household of Parma, Ohio.
Aunt Miter Saw and Uncle Washing Robot welcomed little Jonathan and Scott into their homes; they lived in a toolshed in the backyard of the Button residence. Auntie Saw told Jonathan and Scott that there were two little boys in the Button house named Jonathan and Scott also. What a coincidence!
Robot Jonathan and Scott were really curious to see these two people brothers, especially since they all had the same names! Robot Jon and Scott had plasma-laser rifles, fusion hyper rockets, and ultra cool platinum casings around their robot feet. But they had never seen people with hair, hands, and toes before. "How primitive these people must be," the older brother robot Jon told little robot Scott.
Uncle Floor Washing Robot was inside the house washing the floors like usual when he ran into people Jon and Scott. He told them that he had a very special surprise for them and that they should get dressed up in their Halloween costumes early. Uncle Floor Washing Robot had helped people Jon and Scott build their very own robot costumes. In fact, they looked a lot like the robot Jon and Scott when they put the costumes on. Oh boy, the two robot kids are going to be in for quite a treat!
Auntie Miter Saw helped robot Jon and Scott to make nice, little drawings of themselves and their house on their home planet to give to people Jon and Scott. The drawing looked very professionally done, because their robots!
When people Jon and Scott were done dressing up in their costumes, they came downstairs to meet with Uncle Floor Washing Robot, and then they all went into the backyard for the highly anticipated meeting. They sat down at the picnic table and waited for robot Jon and Scott to come out of the toolshed.
Robot Jon and Scott were very well-versed in doing grand entrances. All robots learn how to do this when they reach the second grade. A laser light show started and fog began coming out of the bottom of the toolshed. Then there was a very, very loud explosion, and the toolshed seemed to go up into the air fifty feet! When the toolshed exploded into the air and the fog cleared, the laser light show came to a stop and all that remained were robot Jon and Scott.
They looked incredible, like nothing people Jon and Scott had ever seen before. They had shiny, well-polished platinum casings on their feet! Real, live plasma laser rifles! And the coolest fusion rocket packs anyone has ever seen ever! They showed people Jon and Scott their drawing of their home on their unnamed planet, almost a BILLION light years away; and then gave them their very own quantum oscillators to play with and keep forever.
At that moment, people Jon was so scared that he farted really loud, right then and there. Robot Jon looked at his people counterpart and gave him a very curious look indeed. People Jon was unaware that flatulence is the most offensive sound that you can make at a robot. And so, robot Jon raised up his plasma laser rifle and blew away people Jon's head. People Scott started crying a LOT, so robot Scott blew off his head too.
That's how the robots from a BILLION light years away enacted their horrible plot to enslave the human race for all time, and that's why you should never, ever trust robots with anything. THE END.
31 October 2005
29 October 2005
Amelia Buendia
Amelia came to the University of O. on a seeming whim. The good grades and plus standardized test scores could have gotten her anywhere, but she settled on the smallish, Midwestern school based on the obscurity and comfortable atmosphere. Her parents didn't quite understand her decision and were a bit uncomfortable over the large distance she was putting between them. The oldest of their two daughters, Amelia was always quiet, pensive, almost brooding at times. High school taught her the value of humility and living in seeming mediocrity when amidst excellence.
St. Joseph's was run by the Sisters of the Incarnate Word. The Congregation of the Incarnate Word and the Blessed Sacrament was founded by Jeanne Chezard de Matel in France and confirmed by Innocent X as a pontifical institute in the year 1644. To Amelia, the nuns were a relic indicative of a different time. The academic influence of the largely layperson faculty was naturally imbued by the humility, simplicity and charity stressed by the Catholic sisters, yet those virtues did not seem to translate into how the students at the all-girls school treated each other on a day to day basis.
Amelia lived on the other side of town and commuted to school every morning on the municipal transit system. Riding the city buses every morning fortified her against the filth and aggravation that comes with urban living, and she felt steeled against the seeming loneliness of it all. She enjoyed her mornings to herself and would frequently take little naps during the nearly forty minute commute. Somehow she managed to know when to wake up from her slumber, pull the cord to alert the driver that she would be getting off soon, and then step off of the bus and cross the street towards the St. Joe's campus.
Once she crossed over from the urban, outside world onto the bricked walkways of the prestigious academy, the warm feelings from the morning bus ride vanished and were replaced by the foreboding gauntlet that her academic day threatened. Her quiet personality and homely appearance made her an easy target for her seemingly infinitely more intelligent and wealthy classmates.
To her credit though, Amelia did very well for herself. After starting slow as a freshman, her study habits improved greatly in response to her growing interest in her courses and in the teachers that taught them.
Calculus seemingly became quickly accessible under the inspired teaching of Mr. Thompson. Thompson sang little ditties throughout the course period and drew funny pictures to accompany the multitude of transparencies explaining such thrilling concepts as differentiation and variational methods. He was also very serious about his mathematics and very demanding of his students. In despite of the fact that Amelia was seen as nothing more than a middling student, she somehow managed to excel under the course structure that Thompson laid out for his students. Amelia was encouraged to participate in the various math competitions and whatnot and quickly became a favorite of the esteemed Mr. Thompson.
The improvements she made in her sophomore year parlayed into success in her other courses as well, and her classmates began to notice the change. All the girls somehow managed to know exactly where they stood in comparison to the others. Secrets were naturally ill-kept. And as such, when someone manages to step outside of the status quo and challenge the established order of things, the rumors and question marks begin to fly. Amelia, though, managed to live in obscurity from the harsh opinions being tossed about. She was, after all, an outsider in many senses. Amelia never prescribed to the accepted notion of what it took to be successful at the academy. Her family did not have a luxury sedan, and she was not driven to school by a parent or by an upperclassman friend. The city buses always stopped in front of St. Joe's, but the only person that anyone would ever see getting off or on was Amelia. She didn't dress the part of a student of the academy, and up until now, she didn't have the grades to be considered worthy of any consideration whatsoever. Regardless of the facts, Amelia was labelled a phony and a blight upon the student body by her peers. For a long time, Amelia was unaware.
That was how she spent her years in high school. She was always intrigued and amazed by the magnitude of prestige and tradition that highlighted the St. Joseph's experience, but she was always on the outside and felt as a stranger mistaken for a long, lost friend would when the time came for Amelia to accept her diploma.
Amelia was convinced that her enrollment at the University of O. would change all that.
...Some More
St. Joseph's was run by the Sisters of the Incarnate Word. The Congregation of the Incarnate Word and the Blessed Sacrament was founded by Jeanne Chezard de Matel in France and confirmed by Innocent X as a pontifical institute in the year 1644. To Amelia, the nuns were a relic indicative of a different time. The academic influence of the largely layperson faculty was naturally imbued by the humility, simplicity and charity stressed by the Catholic sisters, yet those virtues did not seem to translate into how the students at the all-girls school treated each other on a day to day basis.
Amelia lived on the other side of town and commuted to school every morning on the municipal transit system. Riding the city buses every morning fortified her against the filth and aggravation that comes with urban living, and she felt steeled against the seeming loneliness of it all. She enjoyed her mornings to herself and would frequently take little naps during the nearly forty minute commute. Somehow she managed to know when to wake up from her slumber, pull the cord to alert the driver that she would be getting off soon, and then step off of the bus and cross the street towards the St. Joe's campus.
Once she crossed over from the urban, outside world onto the bricked walkways of the prestigious academy, the warm feelings from the morning bus ride vanished and were replaced by the foreboding gauntlet that her academic day threatened. Her quiet personality and homely appearance made her an easy target for her seemingly infinitely more intelligent and wealthy classmates.
To her credit though, Amelia did very well for herself. After starting slow as a freshman, her study habits improved greatly in response to her growing interest in her courses and in the teachers that taught them.
Calculus seemingly became quickly accessible under the inspired teaching of Mr. Thompson. Thompson sang little ditties throughout the course period and drew funny pictures to accompany the multitude of transparencies explaining such thrilling concepts as differentiation and variational methods. He was also very serious about his mathematics and very demanding of his students. In despite of the fact that Amelia was seen as nothing more than a middling student, she somehow managed to excel under the course structure that Thompson laid out for his students. Amelia was encouraged to participate in the various math competitions and whatnot and quickly became a favorite of the esteemed Mr. Thompson.
The improvements she made in her sophomore year parlayed into success in her other courses as well, and her classmates began to notice the change. All the girls somehow managed to know exactly where they stood in comparison to the others. Secrets were naturally ill-kept. And as such, when someone manages to step outside of the status quo and challenge the established order of things, the rumors and question marks begin to fly. Amelia, though, managed to live in obscurity from the harsh opinions being tossed about. She was, after all, an outsider in many senses. Amelia never prescribed to the accepted notion of what it took to be successful at the academy. Her family did not have a luxury sedan, and she was not driven to school by a parent or by an upperclassman friend. The city buses always stopped in front of St. Joe's, but the only person that anyone would ever see getting off or on was Amelia. She didn't dress the part of a student of the academy, and up until now, she didn't have the grades to be considered worthy of any consideration whatsoever. Regardless of the facts, Amelia was labelled a phony and a blight upon the student body by her peers. For a long time, Amelia was unaware.
That was how she spent her years in high school. She was always intrigued and amazed by the magnitude of prestige and tradition that highlighted the St. Joseph's experience, but she was always on the outside and felt as a stranger mistaken for a long, lost friend would when the time came for Amelia to accept her diploma.
Amelia was convinced that her enrollment at the University of O. would change all that.
...Some More
28 October 2005
I Love the Smell of Fresh Raw Sewage in the Morning
Thanks to the satellite maps on Google, I can bring you a crystal clear, crisp photo of the duplex I live at in College Station. Make no mistake about it, I really do live right on top of a sewage treatment plant. There is nothing more invigorating than waking up on a fine Texas morning with a fresh cup of coffee in your hand and standing in your backyard, taking in the full, rich aroma of raw sewage. If you had any doubts about how much I love raw sewage, note how my duplex seems to be recessed further back off the street than the rest of the duplexes on April Bloom.
To quote my roommate Jon, "It's almost like living on a beach, except it smells a lot worse and there's no ocean nearby."
Truer words have never been spoken.
There must be some benefits to living next to the sewage treatment facility. For one, it can act as a type of "friend filter" because someone is going to have to like you a lot to put up with the stench. Furthermore, I think it can help to keep crime down, because I'm fairly certain that the naked black guy that likes to terrorize college girls by staring at them while they sleep does not like the scent of raw sewage. I could be wrong though, but I hope not. Also, if I were to stop showering and people started criticizing me for it, I could try blaming it on the sewage. I'm not exactly sure how that would work. I suppose that I could say that raw sewage is getting into my shower or something along that line. Then I could use all that free time that I have from not showering to learn how to make a better potato salad or write a better physics quiz. I just hope that I don't get really drunk one night and then try to break into that place. I'm not exactly sure what I would do once I got over the fence though. Maybe I could take some raw sewage home with me, put it in a nice little jar, and try to grow something in there. I don't know if raw sewage has any value on the black market, but I think it may be worth looking into.
The duplex that Jon and I share is pretty nice, for the price anyway. For awhile, whenever I came in through the front door, my first reaction upon viewing the living room was along the lines of, "Hey, I think we got robbed." Needless to say, we were a bit sparse on the furniture side of things. I didn't play any role in picking out or even purchasing the furniture that we share, but I'm fairly certain that even if I had done the interior decorating in here, the room would still look the same, right down to the shoddy, old couch straight from the Goodwill. We have a very stereotypical college male's place, for certain.
Of course, over on the other side of the duplex, where Jon's girlfriend and her friend live, the standard of living is much higher and the furniture is much nicer.
Regardless of the interior design work though, we all live amidst the same raw sewage. How's that for gender equality?
27 October 2005
That's Baseball
Despite his dressing-down from the Colonel, E.A. got drunk again the next Saturday after beating Sherbrooke, and he stayed over with Earl and Moonface at the Jolie Blon with a woman who didn't speak two words of English. Gypsy was waiting for him in the kitchen when Earl slowed down just enough for E.A. to stumble out his car and stand shakily in the dooryard in the sunrise.
The 6:05 whistled at the railway crossing, reminding E.A. of Teddy. He felt bad. He felt like crying. Something was wrong, and it was more than just being hung over. He remembered learning how to read from the names on the sides of the boxcars, but he couldn't remember exactly ho he'd gotten to the Jolie Blon or when they'd left. He vaguely recalled Earl and Moonface helping him into the car.
He stood in the dooryard, watching the freight pass like a ghost train in the mist. Gypsy sat at the kitchen table, watching E.A. out the window, Grandpa Gleason Allen's deer rifle in her hands, pointed at the door. Gran sat in her old-fashioned wicker wheelchair by the table. For the first time in years, she'd gotten up before ten A.M.-- Waiting for Teddy Williams by Howard Frank Mosher
In baseball and life you get a lot of days like this while growing-up, and I'm not referring specifically to the drunkeness (although that is significant in its own right). The stumbles and pitfalls along the way do not occur infrequently, regardless of how mature and responsible one may seem. Clearly, a child, adolescent, college student will test the patience of everyone around him or her -- that's baseball, that's life.
In the book I refer to above, Teddy helps E.A. grow-up through baseball. He wisely keeps E.A. from getting down on himself by telling him that his mistakes in the field are a part of the game. After making a mistake, Teddy thinks simply pointing out the error is enough. The responsibility to learn and keep it from happening again is up to E.A.
The part where the reader sees a drunken, teenage E.A. is the first real mistake made off of the diamond. This is also the first divergent path that E.A. seemingly takes which leads him away from his dream of baseball immortality.
Wating for Teddy Williams is a great piece of fiction that reminds the reader of Mark Twain. I give it plusses for humor, baseball, and outlandish scenarios and personalities.
Being away from home and at Wabash, I was able to keep all the big mistakes away from the attention of my parents; a situation that was much easier with respect to the situation that E.A. found himself.
Not surprisingly, most of those mistakes involved some situation that included alcohol, girls, and my own outlandish personality.
Some Valuable Life Lessons:
Do not urinate in a public place in front of Greencastle's finest before a Monon Bell game. In fact, do not urinate in any public place.
Do not invite more than one girl to a party without making it very clear whether or not you want or will have a date to the party. The best (and consequently only) way out of this sort of predicament is to black-out as fast as you possibly can and let the proverbial chips fall where they may.
More than two pieces of flair are necessary to drink.
Do not drink so much that you vomit on the local constable, get to ride in a little ambulance, and then spend the next six months wondering how you're going to take care of outstanding medical bills.
Do not slap the bartender on the ass after getting her to give you her cowboy hat. She only gave it to you because you were probably being really annoying and because you bought all those jager shots that she foisted upon you.
Do not take shots consisting of one part the cheapest vodka you've ever laid eyes on and one part the cheapest rum you've ever laid eyes on.
If you walk into a room and see that your friends are in the middle of century club, most certainly do not, under any circumstances, start from twenty shots down and catch up when everyone is starting shot number 35 or thereabouts. You may finish this insane endeavor of drinking stupidity, but you sure don't feel like a winner afterwards.
Do not slip n' slide in the buff. You'll find bruises and marks in all sorts of fun spots.
Do not try sliding across the dance floor of a nearly empty Neon Cactus. When the bar hasn't filled up yet and you start doing stunts like that, you are essentially marking yourself as a clear and open target between the bouncer, his foot, and the door.
Do not dance with women over 40 while out on spring break.
Do not drink so much that you fall asleep with your eyes wide open...that's just creepy and really sends the wrong message.
Do laugh and be as loud as you can all the time.
Baseball, drinking, life -- they all seem to blur together quite nicely after all.
Word of the Day
Word of the Day for Thursday October 27, 2005
mawkish \MOCK-ish\, adjective:
1. Sickly or excessively sentimental.
2. Insipid in taste; nauseous; disgusting.
The movie's attempts to connect these out-of-body experiences with the '60s ethos of consciousness expansion are so forced that the transcendent, feel-good leaps of faith with which the story culminates seem mawkish and unearned.
--Stephen Holden, " 'Eden': Out of Step at a Prep School as a New Age Dawns." New York Times, April 3, 1998
Philadelphia Inquirer dismissed it as "a terrible play, a hopeless jumble of juvenile humor and mawkish sentimentality."
--Peter Applebome, "Blasphemy? Again? Somebody's Praying for a Hit." New York Times, October 18, 1998
Joe DiMaggio, who died this year to often mawkish eulogies and overwrought sociology, was an ancestor of the current four: driven, selfish, unidimensional in his playing days.
--Robert Lipsyte, "Time for Sports Heroes to Start Acting in a Heroic Way." New York Times, August 22, 1999
Mawkish originally meant "maggoty" (from Middle English mawke, maggot), hence squeamish, nauseating, hence tending to render squeamish or make nauseated, especially because of excessive sentimentality.
...as in, this blog is exceedingly mawkish.
25 October 2005
Little Coincidences
1. SudaCare Shower Soothers. Warning: This product will cause koala infestations in your home and shower.
2. According to an unidentified source, the "relationship clock" starts ticking the first time you make-out (licit, illicit, or otherwise) with someone. Although that assertion sounds rather arbitrary and dubious, I suppose it will have to suffice since it seems to me that most benchmarks of a relationship involve the exchange of gifts (Have personalized "baller bands" or decoder rings reached mainstream society yet?). Custom Wristbands.
3. I flew first class for the first time. Before serving you a meal, the steward or stewardess comes around with hot washrags that you use for hand-washing and face-steaming purposes (come back next week for my intellectual discourse entitled, "Cleveland Steamer vs. Fresh Vegetable Steamer: Who Really has the Upper Hand?"). I think the sight of some poor schmuck physics graduate student sitting in first class would be quite unnerving to your average paying coach customer. To my credit, I put on my best smug, pretentious face while sitting in the lap of luxury as the grovelling members of the middle classes boarded the plane and walked past my reclined, self-satisfied self. That was the easiest, most comfortable two hours of flying I've ever experienced. Awesome.
I've been very lucky and privileged as of late. Hopefully some of that luck will rub off on my performance in quantum mechanics this semester.
4. While driving around with Beth this past weekend, two Simon & Garfunkel (or Art & Paul, as they were originally titled) songs from the soundtrack for The Graduate played on the radio. I personally took that as a sign that we should go rent the movie in question and do so in a hurry. After driving all around West Lafayette though, we found out that the movie rental places either didn't have the movie available or didn't even bother carrying it in their store.
I was led to believe that The Graduate was one of the "Movies that Shook the World." Who is AMC to argue with the likes of Blockbuster or Family Video though? That's all I have to ask. Furthermore, can a business refer to itself as "family' oriented when it has a rather expansive adult section? Admittedly, in light of the fact that I took part in proposition "let's rent the porno bloopers tape from Family Video" as a pledge, I guess it would be hypocritical for me to criticize...although, the particular tape we rented sucked a lot and was not funny, so that has to be worth something.
5. I love beagles. I also like going to the pet store in the mall and disturbing some poor, sad beagle's slumber just so that I can play and dote over it while entertaining the notion of trying to own and care for a puppy for the fourth time. Barry Manilow wrote a song about his beagle, Mandy.
6. Wabash does NOT love sheep. No, I'm not upset about the time I was turned down by a sheep. And yes, I'm well aware that, "Baa means Baa."
Wabash beat the hell outta Wittenberg this past weekend to put them at a perfect 7-0. Mount Union was upset this past weekend by Ohio Northern, giving Wabash an outside chance at being #1 in the NCAA North regional rankings.
7. The men's department in the average department store is a lot more fun than I had ever envisioned. A wide world of funny hats, techno underwear, tweed jackets with leather patches on the elbow, and old man shoes await those of you who are inexperienced in the fine art of dressing like a stodgy, old, pretentious prick.
8. I like ice cream.
9. "...so many buttons, you could make a shirt!" -- random quote taken extremely out of context
10. Steve Perry of Journey fame vs. Ashlee Simpson of Ill-repute
"The resemblance is uncanny..." -- famous koala bear.
2. According to an unidentified source, the "relationship clock" starts ticking the first time you make-out (licit, illicit, or otherwise) with someone. Although that assertion sounds rather arbitrary and dubious, I suppose it will have to suffice since it seems to me that most benchmarks of a relationship involve the exchange of gifts (Have personalized "baller bands" or decoder rings reached mainstream society yet?). Custom Wristbands.
...I believe in long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days.-- Crash Davis
3. I flew first class for the first time. Before serving you a meal, the steward or stewardess comes around with hot washrags that you use for hand-washing and face-steaming purposes (come back next week for my intellectual discourse entitled, "Cleveland Steamer vs. Fresh Vegetable Steamer: Who Really has the Upper Hand?"). I think the sight of some poor schmuck physics graduate student sitting in first class would be quite unnerving to your average paying coach customer. To my credit, I put on my best smug, pretentious face while sitting in the lap of luxury as the grovelling members of the middle classes boarded the plane and walked past my reclined, self-satisfied self. That was the easiest, most comfortable two hours of flying I've ever experienced. Awesome.
I've been very lucky and privileged as of late. Hopefully some of that luck will rub off on my performance in quantum mechanics this semester.
4. While driving around with Beth this past weekend, two Simon & Garfunkel (or Art & Paul, as they were originally titled) songs from the soundtrack for The Graduate played on the radio. I personally took that as a sign that we should go rent the movie in question and do so in a hurry. After driving all around West Lafayette though, we found out that the movie rental places either didn't have the movie available or didn't even bother carrying it in their store.
I was led to believe that The Graduate was one of the "Movies that Shook the World." Who is AMC to argue with the likes of Blockbuster or Family Video though? That's all I have to ask. Furthermore, can a business refer to itself as "family' oriented when it has a rather expansive adult section? Admittedly, in light of the fact that I took part in proposition "let's rent the porno bloopers tape from Family Video" as a pledge, I guess it would be hypocritical for me to criticize...although, the particular tape we rented sucked a lot and was not funny, so that has to be worth something.
5. I love beagles. I also like going to the pet store in the mall and disturbing some poor, sad beagle's slumber just so that I can play and dote over it while entertaining the notion of trying to own and care for a puppy for the fourth time. Barry Manilow wrote a song about his beagle, Mandy.
6. Wabash does NOT love sheep. No, I'm not upset about the time I was turned down by a sheep. And yes, I'm well aware that, "Baa means Baa."
Wabash beat the hell outta Wittenberg this past weekend to put them at a perfect 7-0. Mount Union was upset this past weekend by Ohio Northern, giving Wabash an outside chance at being #1 in the NCAA North regional rankings.
7. The men's department in the average department store is a lot more fun than I had ever envisioned. A wide world of funny hats, techno underwear, tweed jackets with leather patches on the elbow, and old man shoes await those of you who are inexperienced in the fine art of dressing like a stodgy, old, pretentious prick.
8. I like ice cream.
9. "...so many buttons, you could make a shirt!" -- random quote taken extremely out of context
10. Steve Perry of Journey fame vs. Ashlee Simpson of Ill-repute
"The resemblance is uncanny..." -- famous koala bear.
19 October 2005
Bicycles and Such
Alaistair bought a bicycle during his first week at the University of O. and rode it to the large academic building on the western side of campus. He was running late per his usual manner but managed to deftly lock his bicycle to the rack near the parking lot and across from the building. Realizing that he would be awfully sweaty after making the fairly lengthy ride, he brought an extra shirt. Alastair stode with the early afternoon sun beating down upon him. At that moment, a girl rode up and thought it extremely odd to be greeted with such an anomalous sight. Alastiar was aware that this stranger was looking at him, but he tried not to act as if anything were amiss. He merely continued fumbling with his dry, button-down shirt, maybe trying to appear stoic and as though he were trying to see something that was not there and existed off beyond the horizon.
Once he finished with his own arduous task, Alastair turned abruptly towards the entrance to the academic building and walked with an air of purpose.
The girl, Amelia, was a bit perplexed. This was hardly the situation she envisioned once she realized that she was running almost ten minutes late. Rushing towards the orientation and peddling harder and harder, she didn't think she would be rewarded with the sight of a lean, male, nearly post-adolescent body. She followed the boy into the academic building, stood behind him in line as they collected all the necessary folders and packets, and took a seat positioned diagonally behind him.
A lady was speaking. She turned the floor over to a portly, grey beard of a professor standing off in the corner of the lecture hall. He had a great, big smile on his face and introduced himself as Dr. R of the psychology department at the prestigious University of O. He related to his audience his long association with the yearly orientations, and a tinge of sadness entered his voice as he remarked that this would be his last.
Retirement seemed like a rather odd concept. The irony of the old man's imminent departure being coupled with his anticipated, yet silent emergence into this locale of higher education was not lost upon Alastair. He was momentarily bemused by the thought but managed rapt attention to the retiring professor's active speech and gesticulations.
Amelia saw the old man talking but found herself distracted by the boy's constant fidgeting. It suddently drove her mad. She tried to concentrate elsewhere, but her efforts proved futile. Suddenly the motion stopped, and she realized that the boy was introducing himself to her. Amelia was confused, and her look of bewilderment amused the boy. He started to giggle, said, "My name is Alastair," and then said that he oftentimes found himself daydreaming during class as well. Amelia blushed and let out a soft murmur. Alastair was barely aware that she had spoken aloud, and the concept of having conversation would have been lost on him if he had not seen her lips move slightly during the middle of his discourse on absent-mindedness and the such. Alastair gave his winning smile and apologized for not hearing correctly.
"My name is Amelia."
...Some More
Once he finished with his own arduous task, Alastair turned abruptly towards the entrance to the academic building and walked with an air of purpose.
The girl, Amelia, was a bit perplexed. This was hardly the situation she envisioned once she realized that she was running almost ten minutes late. Rushing towards the orientation and peddling harder and harder, she didn't think she would be rewarded with the sight of a lean, male, nearly post-adolescent body. She followed the boy into the academic building, stood behind him in line as they collected all the necessary folders and packets, and took a seat positioned diagonally behind him.
A lady was speaking. She turned the floor over to a portly, grey beard of a professor standing off in the corner of the lecture hall. He had a great, big smile on his face and introduced himself as Dr. R of the psychology department at the prestigious University of O. He related to his audience his long association with the yearly orientations, and a tinge of sadness entered his voice as he remarked that this would be his last.
Retirement seemed like a rather odd concept. The irony of the old man's imminent departure being coupled with his anticipated, yet silent emergence into this locale of higher education was not lost upon Alastair. He was momentarily bemused by the thought but managed rapt attention to the retiring professor's active speech and gesticulations.
Amelia saw the old man talking but found herself distracted by the boy's constant fidgeting. It suddently drove her mad. She tried to concentrate elsewhere, but her efforts proved futile. Suddenly the motion stopped, and she realized that the boy was introducing himself to her. Amelia was confused, and her look of bewilderment amused the boy. He started to giggle, said, "My name is Alastair," and then said that he oftentimes found himself daydreaming during class as well. Amelia blushed and let out a soft murmur. Alastair was barely aware that she had spoken aloud, and the concept of having conversation would have been lost on him if he had not seen her lips move slightly during the middle of his discourse on absent-mindedness and the such. Alastair gave his winning smile and apologized for not hearing correctly.
"My name is Amelia."
...Some More
18 October 2005
Street Art and Fun
I got this from here. I really didn't look at that site very long, so I have no judgments or opinions on it, but this particular pic of some grafitti seemed to catch my attention. I think in particular, my fascination (...an overexaggeration) with this stems from the trauma of all those standardized tests that I've been forced to take since grade school. At least in grade school though, the threat only came from nuns with rulers and with a penchant to grab the hair on the back of your neck. When high school hits, the standardized tests become of greater and greater import...as things like college and potential careers begin to register in your brain as standing off the horizon with a scowl and a determination to make your life miserable.
At any rate, I'm going to visit Beth this weekend in West Lafayette, and with the World Series going on in Chicago this weekend, it seemed like a more than fantastic idea to try to buy tickets for one of the games this weekend. I made a comment of this to my lovely brother, and before I knew it, I was knee-deep (luckily not in fertilizer, as in the ad hanging inauspiciously amongst ads for proctologists and bail bondsmen in the outfield walls in "Cleveland Stadium" in the movie Major League II) trying to coordinate a massive effort to get my brother to fly stand-by on Continental, using my uncle's buddy pass, to Indy.
A whole bunch of complications arose from this:
1) We were planning on going to the Sunday night game to accomodate Beth's friend's friends (I think you need to use some sort of associative or distributive property of algebra to figure out that massive and inane possessive phrase. You will also find that the phrase does NOT commute. To do this, you will need to treat "Beth" and "friend" as linear possessive operators and work from there.). Unfortunately, Scott would not be able to go because, and this is a testament to the will and power of my father, "SCOTT MAY NOT MISS SCHOOL, AND THOU SHALT NOT MISS SCHOOL EITHER OR I WILL EMERGE FROM THE BLOODY SEAS TO SQUASH YOU FOR YOUR IMPUDENCE AND ILL-TIMING."
2) I had made the proposal to Scott that I would graciously and benevolently purchase either a) his ticket to the game or b) his stand-by buddy passes to and from Cleveland (note that both of the showcases in this showdown are of equal to near equal value) as an early birthday present to him. The natural consequence of this is that I would NOT buy both. I made the logical recommendation that he seek assistance from dad and implore the "But My Birthday is in Two Weeks" clause, made famous in the year nineteen-dickety-two. My father was again unrelenting on this extremely not-so-trivial issue. Scott then made the "If You Pay for me, I'll Get You Back Later" clause of aught-five. And in the wild and frenzied moment, I all too generously agreed to clear out my bank account in the name of having a fraternal presence with me at the World Series. THE F'ING WORLD SERIES!!!
3) It was made known to me that the tickets would go on sale on whitesox.com starting at 12:00 PM on Tuesday the 18th of October. Since Beth and I had made the concession to go to the Saturday night game instead of the Sunday night game in order to accomodate Scott, I made plans to spend the entire time between my Math Methods and Quantum Mechanics courses inside the Blocker Computer Lab.
4) I began making travel preparations for this postseason convoy. Using very delicate and precise intstruments to predict the probability of me and my brother successfully getting onto flights as standby passengers, I began slowly and methodically navigating the pages of Continental's employee website in order to build a monstrous itinerary from the ground-up by scratch (and when I say scratch, I MEAN scratch...I was summoning and directing the most fundamental of particles, such was the care and expertise that I exhausted on this particular endeavor and most noble of causes).
After intense deliberations with my brother over possible flights and heated debates with Beth over possible places to stay, everything seemingly began to come together. Periodically, I was forced to retreat to my corner where I begged my trainer, "Cut me Mick, Cut me." But I kept my "Eye on the Prize," and slowly, but surely, my confidence began to grow. I was navigating the internet with a swagger and had the look of a champion in my eye.
It was at this point that Scott told me that he had to take the ACT on Saturday morning. Sadly, all was for naught. Sucks. Which brings me back to my point, in standardized tests, you're just another number in the system, a statistic, a casualty. You're not an individual; you're a barcode. You can take your dreams, aspirations, and desires and flush them along with your World Series hopes right down the toilet.
Oh yah...and within fifteen minutes of going on sale, the tickets for both games this weekend could no longer be bought in a pair or triplet or quadruplet...
Sucks. I hate the White Sox. Serves me right for trying to go see them in the World Series.
17 October 2005
Tall Tales
I've waited far too long to talk about drinking on this blog. And I suppose that really is an instrumental facet in understanding "how we rolled."
At any rate, sometime during sophomore year, I must have had a particularly bad week...or something. When you have a bad week, and you think that you can find some resolution to that bad week through drinking, that's when stuff like the above happens.
The circumstances escape me at the moment, so per usual, I'm just going to make shit up.
I spent a great deal of time that week studying for a big linear algebra exam. My head was afloat upon the stagnant pools of self-adjoint matrices, orthonormal eigenvectors, and the in's and out's of the Gram-Schmidt process. As you can imagine, it was truly a difficult week -- especially when you have to juggle that with whatever responsibilities and obligations come with having a girlfriend (we'll call her Taco Salad, in order to protect the innocent and for comedic purposes). So, with the weekend coming up, Taco Salad and I were going to get straight-up shit-faced. More likely though, I resolved to do that on my own, while she was planning on getting several levels of drunk beneath that.
When you're an under-aged drinker-type person (like I most certainly was at the time), there's only one way to go about getting your alcohol. I'm fairly certain it involves lying, cheating, and screwing your way to get to the top; because it's a very ruthless and cold world out there where only the strongest and most unethical survive. Luckily, I didn't need to resort to those kinds of extremums to get my fix. Instead, I waltzed across campus to meet with my alcohol supplier -- an old employee of campus services that wore a jaunty eye patch that we'll call Gordon Lightfoot. I gave the secret knock to the door of his little shanty on the outskirts of campus and supplied him the necessary secret phrase (it was, "Bucket o' Potato Salad") to gain admittance into his exclusive stash of alcoholic goodness. Gordon knows what I like, and he always keeps a bottle of Absolut Citron, ice cold and ready for consumption, on hand. I slipped him $30, and the clandestine transaction was complete.
I came back to my room absolutely giddy in anticipation of what was to come next. When I got there, I queued up the usual drinking songs, with the all-important "libation track" at the ready. I also called down the usual suspect drinking buddies to my room so that we could start the patented (although admittedly not yet perfected) drinking process. At our most efficient, the process involved six shots in thirty minutes accompanied with the loudest and most obnoxious of music selections.
In my excitement (exacerbated by the stresses of a most unfortunate academic week) I unwisely charged ahead of the pack towards the more uncharted territories of drunkeness. I called back behind me for my friends to accompany me, but it was to no avail. Taco Salad was only casually sipping at her drink while talking on the phone, while John and Terry were in hysterics over some funny internet cartoons. Meanwhile, I continued to drink hard, throwing caution to the wind like I normally do.
Right quick, I was in the bathroom, shirtless and on my back (and inexplicably without any chest hair, apparently), while John and company were struggling to de-pants me, presumable because I had gotten sick all over my jeans (not at all because they were trying to take advantage of me, honest). Those jeans were my favorite pair of all time. Sadly, they would develop a huge hole around the ass pocket much later during that school year. I miss those jeans dearly, and they serviced me so well during its oh so short lifetime.
My friends are a kindly folk, and they know that the cold, hard bathroom floor tile is no place for a mighty warrior, such as myself, to seek the blissful repose that only extreme inebriation can bring. They also know that I am far too heavy and manly to be carried back to my room. And so they began dragging my incooperative carcass across the bathroom floor and towards the exit which serendipitously is right across from my room. Not wishing to have me wake up with any funny looking tile burns on my legs and ass, they were so kind as to put a towel under me (which, as was related to me, also reduced the coefficient of kinetic friction between me and the floor by a significant amount).
For whatever reason, it was very difficult to get me from the bathroom tile and onto the carpeted hallway, as can be seen in the picture below. My butt is just far too big apparently.
Luckily for me, Terry was dating a "very large" and kind girl at the time. Apparently she had twice the strength of any normal man because she carried me the rest of the way and threw me oh so gently onto my futon. Afraid that I would get sick again while asleep, they put my head into a trash can, which I promptly began snoring into (much to the delight of Taco Salad, who was apparently laughing hysterically over that scene).
I woke up with a nice hangover, confused as to why I was naked down to my boxers.
13 October 2005
Robert Button
I knew him as grandpa, but I really didn't know him. Now all that I have of him are some gag gifts he once got, a Miller High Life beer sign that he made, a miner's helmet (not to be confused with minor's), and an amazing yellow, tan, and white sweater jacket that he used to wear.
I'm fairly sizeable, I suppose, but I still have some growing to do if I am to properly fill it out. That is for certain. The thing is, I don't have any particular memories of him wearing it. When I found it, I remembered hearing in his eulogy that he was a sharp dresser. I wasn't too sure that this was evidence of that assertion, but I took it with me anyway. I came across it while my family got together to clean out the home built by my great-grandfather Gayle. Of course, we came across a LOT of intereting things -- too many to bear mentioning it all. Grandpa was truly a packrat in every sense of the word. He collected everything it seemed. There were license plates from pretty much all of the states and from different eras. He had golf balls everywhere, for he was an avid golfer. Coins, stamps, postcards, gag gifts, Playboys -- all of it had just accumulated over the years. Every room in the house, it would turn out, was just brimming with stuff. And so, when I came back for my first summer since leaving for college, I was most certainly expected to help clear everything out so that the home could be sold.
After several days of clearing things out, sifting through garage sale worthy items, and finding all sorts of manner of interesting photos and the such, hardly a dent had been made. It was truly a monumental task, in every sense of the word.
The home was in Middlefield, Ohio -- home to the third largest Amish settlement in America and known for its muenster cheese (the best damn cheese there is). Growing up in Parma though, roughly an hour and a half from Middlefield, the relationship that I had with the place was almost strictly on an Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas basis. It meant hiding away in the basement away from all the adults with my cousins -- getting bossed around by Jeff, playing pool, sneaking into the playboys, and solving the Rubik's Cube which revealed nudie pictures when solved correctly. We would all sit up on the bar and take turns playing the bartender, from where you could control the basement's stereo setup and radio (quite the ancient relic). The light switch cover was a golfer with an embarassed look on his face. Only when I was older would I draw the connection that the switch in the on position was meant to convey the allusion that the golfer had gotten out his wood, as it were. The quote bubble over the golfer's head read something corny like, "Old golfer's never lose their balls," or maybe it was "Old golfer's lose more than their balls," or it could have even been like, "Quit playing with my pecker you prick." OK, it definitely was not my latter-most suggestion, but I think we can all agree that it should have been. My appreciation for lewd behaviour and bawdy jokes does indeed have an origin after all.
There are so many things that seem vivid about that basement even today. A Norman Rockwell drawing hung on the wall. It was of an urban neighborhood experiencing an automobile driving down its thoroughfare for the first time in its history. Kids and adults alike were hanging out the windows and were amazed by the sight, as it noisily clattered down the street. Surprised housewives accidentally drop all manner of household items and flower pots out of trembling fear and fervent excitement. But perhaps they were just looking out of the drawing, trying to understand what all the commotion was about regarding us kids, working off a meal with a game of pool and still glowing from the fruits of our Easter egg hunt earlier in the day.
I had no idea that there was much more to the house. This ignorance was a natural consequence of spending so much time in the basement with the cousins or in the living room watching golf or football. The upstairs areas were normally a place where we did not venture too far. Irregardless of that, there was a room in the basement, directly next to where we spent most of our time that I had not even seen until we started cleaning the house out. There was no room to walk in there. We found a rifle, that no one seemed to know had even existed. All sorts of tools. Even more sex gag gifts. And junk...lots of junk. I found what looked like an old German military helmet. It had huge bullet holes going through both sides of it, most likely from the rifle we presumed and due to an afternoon of drinking with friends I hoped. I took it home with me, along with the same miner's helmet that I'm wearing in my profile pic.
One summer though, following my completion of the first grade, my mom flew home to the Philippines following the death of my lolo (which is Filipino kid-speak for grandpa), and she spent what seemed to be the entirety of my summer vacation in the Philippines. As a result, my brother and I were split up for the summer, and my dad was left to be at home by himself. Scott had the pleasure of staying in Middlefield with my grandparents. Apparently, one of my brother's first words was "ninety-nine" and because he was given to saying that quite a bit, my grandparents took to calling him "ninety-nine."
One of my favorite memories of my grandpa happened about that time. I tried to pull a prank on him. Now, I was very little at the time, and so it didn't amount to much. He had some of his friends over, and they were all out on the driveway in front of the garage sitting in their lawn chairs. The driveway was slick, and I got the idea to try to sneak behind him and then hide behind his back while he turned to see me. And he played along with it. He said, "Who's that? Who's that?" as if there were any other mischevious young children around that day. But I wasn't paying any attention and in shuffling about to stay behind him, I immediately slipped onto my ass once I stepped back onto the pavement. The joke, as it should be, was on me.
I got shifted around from place to place that summer. I got to stay for a couple weeks at a family friends' condo out on Candlewood Lake, where I learned how to fish and how to repair broken G.I. Joe's using only a lighter. I stayed for a couple days in Middlefield, but then got handed off to stay with my aunt and uncle out in Akron, which was deemed to be more to my liking because I could spend time with my cousin Sara, who is very close to me in age. But I think now, maybe I would have preferred to have stayed in Middlefield, where I could have explored the deep recesses of the attic and the upstairs' closets. I'm sure the immensity of it was lost on me because I really didn't get to see it until I was much, much older. I think also, that my brother was too young to appreciate it.
And so, when I came back home for the first time, only one week since moving into Wabash and on the occassion of my grandfather's funeral, I didn't fully realize what I was walking into or what I would be saying goodbye to. I wish I knew my grandfather beyond the anecdotes, memories, and things. But it was the moment there at the funeral home, when I saw him for the last time, that I realized that I actually came from somwhere and that there is something that I will grow into. It was that sublime feeling of the largeness of fate and the consequence of time, seemingly catching up to you.
For now though, at least I've got that yellow sweater jacket to fill into and a hardy miner's helmet for my head just in case I'm in danger.
I'm fairly sizeable, I suppose, but I still have some growing to do if I am to properly fill it out. That is for certain. The thing is, I don't have any particular memories of him wearing it. When I found it, I remembered hearing in his eulogy that he was a sharp dresser. I wasn't too sure that this was evidence of that assertion, but I took it with me anyway. I came across it while my family got together to clean out the home built by my great-grandfather Gayle. Of course, we came across a LOT of intereting things -- too many to bear mentioning it all. Grandpa was truly a packrat in every sense of the word. He collected everything it seemed. There were license plates from pretty much all of the states and from different eras. He had golf balls everywhere, for he was an avid golfer. Coins, stamps, postcards, gag gifts, Playboys -- all of it had just accumulated over the years. Every room in the house, it would turn out, was just brimming with stuff. And so, when I came back for my first summer since leaving for college, I was most certainly expected to help clear everything out so that the home could be sold.
After several days of clearing things out, sifting through garage sale worthy items, and finding all sorts of manner of interesting photos and the such, hardly a dent had been made. It was truly a monumental task, in every sense of the word.
The home was in Middlefield, Ohio -- home to the third largest Amish settlement in America and known for its muenster cheese (the best damn cheese there is). Growing up in Parma though, roughly an hour and a half from Middlefield, the relationship that I had with the place was almost strictly on an Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas basis. It meant hiding away in the basement away from all the adults with my cousins -- getting bossed around by Jeff, playing pool, sneaking into the playboys, and solving the Rubik's Cube which revealed nudie pictures when solved correctly. We would all sit up on the bar and take turns playing the bartender, from where you could control the basement's stereo setup and radio (quite the ancient relic). The light switch cover was a golfer with an embarassed look on his face. Only when I was older would I draw the connection that the switch in the on position was meant to convey the allusion that the golfer had gotten out his wood, as it were. The quote bubble over the golfer's head read something corny like, "Old golfer's never lose their balls," or maybe it was "Old golfer's lose more than their balls," or it could have even been like, "Quit playing with my pecker you prick." OK, it definitely was not my latter-most suggestion, but I think we can all agree that it should have been. My appreciation for lewd behaviour and bawdy jokes does indeed have an origin after all.
There are so many things that seem vivid about that basement even today. A Norman Rockwell drawing hung on the wall. It was of an urban neighborhood experiencing an automobile driving down its thoroughfare for the first time in its history. Kids and adults alike were hanging out the windows and were amazed by the sight, as it noisily clattered down the street. Surprised housewives accidentally drop all manner of household items and flower pots out of trembling fear and fervent excitement. But perhaps they were just looking out of the drawing, trying to understand what all the commotion was about regarding us kids, working off a meal with a game of pool and still glowing from the fruits of our Easter egg hunt earlier in the day.
I had no idea that there was much more to the house. This ignorance was a natural consequence of spending so much time in the basement with the cousins or in the living room watching golf or football. The upstairs areas were normally a place where we did not venture too far. Irregardless of that, there was a room in the basement, directly next to where we spent most of our time that I had not even seen until we started cleaning the house out. There was no room to walk in there. We found a rifle, that no one seemed to know had even existed. All sorts of tools. Even more sex gag gifts. And junk...lots of junk. I found what looked like an old German military helmet. It had huge bullet holes going through both sides of it, most likely from the rifle we presumed and due to an afternoon of drinking with friends I hoped. I took it home with me, along with the same miner's helmet that I'm wearing in my profile pic.
One summer though, following my completion of the first grade, my mom flew home to the Philippines following the death of my lolo (which is Filipino kid-speak for grandpa), and she spent what seemed to be the entirety of my summer vacation in the Philippines. As a result, my brother and I were split up for the summer, and my dad was left to be at home by himself. Scott had the pleasure of staying in Middlefield with my grandparents. Apparently, one of my brother's first words was "ninety-nine" and because he was given to saying that quite a bit, my grandparents took to calling him "ninety-nine."
One of my favorite memories of my grandpa happened about that time. I tried to pull a prank on him. Now, I was very little at the time, and so it didn't amount to much. He had some of his friends over, and they were all out on the driveway in front of the garage sitting in their lawn chairs. The driveway was slick, and I got the idea to try to sneak behind him and then hide behind his back while he turned to see me. And he played along with it. He said, "Who's that? Who's that?" as if there were any other mischevious young children around that day. But I wasn't paying any attention and in shuffling about to stay behind him, I immediately slipped onto my ass once I stepped back onto the pavement. The joke, as it should be, was on me.
I got shifted around from place to place that summer. I got to stay for a couple weeks at a family friends' condo out on Candlewood Lake, where I learned how to fish and how to repair broken G.I. Joe's using only a lighter. I stayed for a couple days in Middlefield, but then got handed off to stay with my aunt and uncle out in Akron, which was deemed to be more to my liking because I could spend time with my cousin Sara, who is very close to me in age. But I think now, maybe I would have preferred to have stayed in Middlefield, where I could have explored the deep recesses of the attic and the upstairs' closets. I'm sure the immensity of it was lost on me because I really didn't get to see it until I was much, much older. I think also, that my brother was too young to appreciate it.
And so, when I came back home for the first time, only one week since moving into Wabash and on the occassion of my grandfather's funeral, I didn't fully realize what I was walking into or what I would be saying goodbye to. I wish I knew my grandfather beyond the anecdotes, memories, and things. But it was the moment there at the funeral home, when I saw him for the last time, that I realized that I actually came from somwhere and that there is something that I will grow into. It was that sublime feeling of the largeness of fate and the consequence of time, seemingly catching up to you.
For now though, at least I've got that yellow sweater jacket to fill into and a hardy miner's helmet for my head just in case I'm in danger.
10 October 2005
On this Day, the Eve of my First Quantum Mechanics Midterm
1. Knowledge of the first midterm came from a second, third, maybe even fourth-hand source. It's rather difficult ascertaining important facts like assignments and exam dates when your professor does not speak in altogether clear English and enjoys keeping some things secret. At any rate, I hope the message got all construed like in some convoluted game of telephone. Maybe, "Exam next Tuesday," is code for, "I will bring you all a bucket of potato salad. We'll have a picnic outside. Someone bring chips and dip."
I suppose I'll take my chances with there actually being an exam though...one can never be too cautious after all.
2. Are you feeling those nearly mid-semester doldrums yet? Try a Jello pudding pop....bleeeeeeeeble blaaaaaaaaable. Or so says Bill Cosby.
3. There may not be anything funnier (or perhaps more pathetic) than spending a portion of your Sunday afternoon watching WWE Monday Night Raw on the Mexican channel, complete with Spanish dubbing nevertheless.
4. According to Dr. Krause, the best way to prepare for an exam is, "to be smart." And that is NOT taken out of context, ladies and gentlemen. Imagine being a young, unwitting freshman undergraduate looking for study advice on an upcoming exam and getting that as an answer. I for one, am incredulous that I managed to make it this far.
5. "HEY...WHA' HAPPENED?!" -- Fred Willard in "A Mighty Wind"
I suppose I'll take my chances with there actually being an exam though...one can never be too cautious after all.
2. Are you feeling those nearly mid-semester doldrums yet? Try a Jello pudding pop....bleeeeeeeeble blaaaaaaaaable. Or so says Bill Cosby.
3. There may not be anything funnier (or perhaps more pathetic) than spending a portion of your Sunday afternoon watching WWE Monday Night Raw on the Mexican channel, complete with Spanish dubbing nevertheless.
4. According to Dr. Krause, the best way to prepare for an exam is, "to be smart." And that is NOT taken out of context, ladies and gentlemen. Imagine being a young, unwitting freshman undergraduate looking for study advice on an upcoming exam and getting that as an answer. I for one, am incredulous that I managed to make it this far.
5. "HEY...WHA' HAPPENED?!" -- Fred Willard in "A Mighty Wind"
07 October 2005
Ali-G says, "That's a bit racialist, don't you think?"
I got this in my email today.
___________________________
Incident and Safety Advisory
On October 4, 2005, an A&M student met with a university official to
report an incident that occurred at her house in south College Station.
On September 24, 2005, at approximately 4 a.m., the College Station
Police Department responded to the 2300 block of Axis Court in
reference to a burglary of a habitation in progress. While sleeping,
the student victim woke up to observe an unknown nude male peeking at
her from the foot of the bed. The victim startled the subject and he
ran from the room and presumably out the front door. The victim and
her roommate ran out of the house through the back door to safety and
called the police. After a search of the area, the police could not
find the unknown subject.
The victim described the subject as follows:
Black male
Early 20’s
Low cut hair
Thin build (lanky)
If you witnessed or have any information regarding this crime, please
call the College Station Police Department at (979) 764-3600. If you
wish to remain anonymous, you have the option of contacting Brazos
County Crime Stoppers at (979) 775-TIPS.
The victim wishes to share this information with the desire of
preventing any further occurrences.
Safety Tips:
• Always lock your exterior doors when sleeping or home alone.
• Install a door viewer so you can see who’s there without opening the
door.
• Close drapes or blinds at night.
• Use light timers.
• Don’t automatically open the door - have the person identify
themselves.
• Do not give personal information to a solicitor you do not know.
• Have your exterior door locks re-keyed or changed when you move into
a new residence.
___________________________
This sort of non-sense is why I sleep with a loaded gun. Charlton Heston is my president. NRA4EVA.
Don't be confused, this is quite a scary situation indeed. I'm fairly certain though that I wouldn't have heard about it if it was just some pimply-faced, white kid caught sniffing some panties. Thankfully, the university went to the trouble of describing the subject...that way, when I see some shaggy, fat fellow rifling through my things, I won't have to worry about a thing.
Of course, including the description of the subject is meant for those with information regarding the incident.
If you were Michael Moore though, this would instantly become an example of white people's irrational fears of a black uprising. I really don't buy into all that. I just think it's interesting to find something like this in my email the same week I watch Bowling for Columbine for the first time.
To add to all that, before I got down here, there were two incidents of international students being assaulted in the popular Northgate area, where pretty much all of the bar scene is located.
Whatever all this is worth (and I am failing to process it all because my head is completely under the influence of Sudafed at the moment), I think it would be wise of me to start locking the doors here at my humble abode.
___________________________
Incident and Safety Advisory
On October 4, 2005, an A&M student met with a university official to
report an incident that occurred at her house in south College Station.
On September 24, 2005, at approximately 4 a.m., the College Station
Police Department responded to the 2300 block of Axis Court in
reference to a burglary of a habitation in progress. While sleeping,
the student victim woke up to observe an unknown nude male peeking at
her from the foot of the bed. The victim startled the subject and he
ran from the room and presumably out the front door. The victim and
her roommate ran out of the house through the back door to safety and
called the police. After a search of the area, the police could not
find the unknown subject.
The victim described the subject as follows:
Black male
Early 20’s
Low cut hair
Thin build (lanky)
If you witnessed or have any information regarding this crime, please
call the College Station Police Department at (979) 764-3600. If you
wish to remain anonymous, you have the option of contacting Brazos
County Crime Stoppers at (979) 775-TIPS.
The victim wishes to share this information with the desire of
preventing any further occurrences.
Safety Tips:
• Always lock your exterior doors when sleeping or home alone.
• Install a door viewer so you can see who’s there without opening the
door.
• Close drapes or blinds at night.
• Use light timers.
• Don’t automatically open the door - have the person identify
themselves.
• Do not give personal information to a solicitor you do not know.
• Have your exterior door locks re-keyed or changed when you move into
a new residence.
___________________________
This sort of non-sense is why I sleep with a loaded gun. Charlton Heston is my president. NRA4EVA.
Don't be confused, this is quite a scary situation indeed. I'm fairly certain though that I wouldn't have heard about it if it was just some pimply-faced, white kid caught sniffing some panties. Thankfully, the university went to the trouble of describing the subject...that way, when I see some shaggy, fat fellow rifling through my things, I won't have to worry about a thing.
Of course, including the description of the subject is meant for those with information regarding the incident.
If you were Michael Moore though, this would instantly become an example of white people's irrational fears of a black uprising. I really don't buy into all that. I just think it's interesting to find something like this in my email the same week I watch Bowling for Columbine for the first time.
To add to all that, before I got down here, there were two incidents of international students being assaulted in the popular Northgate area, where pretty much all of the bar scene is located.
Whatever all this is worth (and I am failing to process it all because my head is completely under the influence of Sudafed at the moment), I think it would be wise of me to start locking the doors here at my humble abode.
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