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If you're currently reading a LiveJournal Entry Title....MAKE SOME NOOOOOISE!!!! [05 May 2004|12:52am] [ mood | devious ] So last Sunday was the big Parkfest concert at my school. Well, it didn't actually take place at my school, but at a fairgrounds located about 10 miles away. Each and every year, the Student Association puts on a concert where they have various popular bands and singers come together for a day of music spectacle. Often, these bands do not have compatible groups of fans. For example, this year, the bands that performed were Default, Dropkick Murphys, Guster, and DMX. So, imagine the rough-edged punk DKM fans converging with the loving pop-rock Default fans, who are getting contact highs from the Guster fans, who are being threatened at gunpoint by the DMX fans and you have a pretty good idea of what the experience was like for the most part. The most interesting aspect about the entire thing, however, was the DJ who was MCing the entire concert. He is a local DJ from a radio station called JAMS or something along those lines, which basically means they play rap all day long. I don't know why, but for some reason the powers that be at UAlbany must think that the entire school can't get enough of urban music and even more urban DJs because every student-oriented event the school throws is hosted by one of them. Sometimes I begin to feel bad because I must not be urban enough to be cool at my school. I haven't shot any pimps or slapped any hos and apparently I'm just not living my life to the fullest. Plus, my car isn't "pimped out" and I don't have cool "rims" and my bass isn't "kickin'". I should probably go "old school" and live a few years getting my education at the "school of hard knocks" before I even bother coming back to SUNY Albany. Lord knows, I won't be ready for the entertainment. Anyway, so the DJ at Parkfest was really into his job. Between each band's set, he would grab the microphone and prattle on about mostly unimportant things. He told us 500 times that he was from JAMS 98 or something, and the only thing that did was make me know what station not to turn to in the future. Most importantly, however, this DJ was constantly trying to get the crowd to "make some noise". It must be a hip-hop thing, but all of those urban DJs like to have the audience "make noise". Now, I used to watch "All That" on Nickelodeon when I was younger, so I watched a bunch of bad rap acts during the musical guest sections and when all else fails, they would yell to the crowd: "Make some Nooooooise!!" Why is this? Why must we make noise? Can't I just enjoy the musical performance? Is it really necessary for me to verabally respond as a member of an audience? Before each musical group would come on, this DJ would be like "Ok...and now everyone make some noise for the Dropkick Murphys!!" And, fans of DKM would make some noise. However, this wasn't good enough for the DJ. Oh, no. He needed even MORE noise. "Come on, people! I said I want to hear you MAKE SOME NOOOOOISE!!" And then he was greeted to roughly the same amount of noise. "That's not enough! Come on! This group isn't coming out until they hear you MAKE SOME NOOOISE!!!" Now the crowd, who apparently just wanted to get on with their day, erupted into a massive display of noise. Finally, the band came out. I have a hard time believing that Dropkick Murphys wouldn't have come out if there wasn't enough noise. I don't think there is a clause in their tour rider that says: The Dropkick Murphys are a band that like to hear the audience make some noise before their performance. If enough noise is not made, the memeber of the Dropkick Murphys will begin to cry and be unable to perform. To prevent this from happening, the MC of the event should encourage all audience members to make some noise, so that the performance can continue as scheduled with the desired noise level. The Dropkick Murphys only accept whistling, clapping, yelling, screaming and stomping as acceptable noise. Groggers, applause machines, or flatulence are not considered to be noise. Please refer to section K subsection 1B for more informaton regarding the proper noise decibal levels that are required. So, as bad as all of that was, the DJ didn't stop there. No. Not only did we have to make noise to move along to the next act, but we had to make noise IN BETWEEN acts as well. The DJ would be blasting some generic rap song that way too many young girls were mouthing and all throughout he would try to get everyone to make some noise. "All the ladies in the house....MAKE SOME NOOOOISE!!!" "All the guys in the house....MAKE SOME NOOOOISE!!!" Ok, so we all made some noise. I mean, there was nothing better to do. Might as well make noise. However, this DJs reign of terror didn't stop there. The noise just wasn't enough for his egotistical self. He wanted more noise - and he would do anything to get it! "All the weed smokers out there....MAKE SOME NOOOISE!!!" He knew that would get some people going just because he said weed. But he didn't stop there. "If you're drinking a beer....MAKE SOME NOOOOISE!!!" "If you are wearing a shirt....MAKE SOME NOOOOISE!!!" "If you have two legs...MAKE SOME NOOOOISE!!!" "If you are a homo sapien....MAKE SOME NOOOOISE!!!" I was enough. I couldn't make any more noise - or stand any more noise being made for that matter. I was all noised out and it looked like all the others around me were getting sick of making noise as well. This DJ just wouldn't stop. There was no noise that was good enough for him. It gave him power. It made him feel important. Our noise was his life energy. He was like a vampire feeding off the noise of the helpless masses. Then he broke his hypnotic please for noise with an important announcement: "Hey, y'all! Hope you're enjoying the music and the festivities! That's right, JAMS 98 is the station for all your hip-hop needs. Now, don't forget y'all, I also do parties so just come up and talk to me and I'd be more than happy to DJ you're own party!" Oh boy. I really want to subject a bunch of my friends to this torture. Like I would ask for him to actually come to something that I had planned and constantly try to monopolize the event with his cries for noise. Umm...no thanks. He probably wouldn't even allow the event to proceed until he heard enough noise. I mean, I can only imagine hiring him for a retirement party: "Alright, y'all. Now as you know, Old Man Jenkins over here is retiring after 50 years of working. Yeah, that's right. He's no longer gonna be working. He's going to be spending all his time eating up some hos and riding pretty in his Oldsmobile. Yeah, alright, y'all. Everyone, here's the man of the hour to official retire....MR. JENKINS!! MAKE SOME NOOOOOISE!!!! Ok, y'all. I know you're all old and I know most of you are falling asleep right now, but Mr. Jenkins isn't coming out until you MAKE SOME NOOOOISE!!! Come on! That's not much. There's a lady over here who's making some noise, but I want to hear all of you put your hands together and MAKE SOME NOOOOISE!!! What? Jenkins died? Oh shit. Oh well....Everyone it's time for dancing! Come on, y'all. If you're old....MAKE SOME NOOOOISE!!! Yeah. Yeah. If you just peed your pants because you can't control your bladder....MAKE SOME NOOOOISE!!!" Basically, the reason I told this story is because it is an allegory for today's world. With all the war and violence that is happening all over the place it is because we are just not making enough noise. If we just listened to our hearts and made some noise, then the whole world would jusr progress at a much faster rate. Some come on, everyone. Do yourself and the future of humanity a favor and MAKE SOME NOOOOOISE!!!!!! 1 comment|post comment

Fountain Day OR The Destruction of Humanity as We Know It... [24 Apr 2004|12:47am] [ mood | accomplished ] Ok...before I start this entry, I suppose I should say that I realize that it's been like 18 millennia since I last wrote an entry. You can attribute this to whatever you like, but here are some suggestions that you should keep in mind as to why I haven't been updating my journal: 1) I was on a covert mission to the Congo to retrieve a valuable ancient relic that is known to give its bearer the power to control the minds of those around him or her. I went on this misson with 5 companions and in the end, only one of us survived, and of course that was me. I actually did find the relic, but the ancient temple that it was being kept in started crumbling as soon as I removed the relic from its sacred place and in a last-minute moment of moral clarity, I disposed of the relic in a pit of molten lava so that no evil person would be able to harness its vast power. 2) While going on a geologic survey with my friends in the wilderness of Saskatchewan, I was suddenly separated from my party and left to fend for myself in the wild. I had to pull a MacGuyver and fashion hunting instruments and make fire with a seismograph that I carried in my backpack. Months later, rescuers found me, my clothes torn and my beard ragged, but I was still alive. And I got some great scientific data! 3) It finally happened! I was walking down the street of downtown Albany one day when a man in a black suit came up to me. He put his arm over my shoulder and said, "Kid, I think you have what it takes to be a star!" Then he handed me his card. I called it, and I was shuttled to the nearest airport and put on a plane to California. When I arrived, a group of fans were waiting for me, wanting to be the first to see the new "IT" kid. I posed for photographs, endured countless hours of public admiration and finally made it to a small studio where I signed the contracts to make my first movie, entitled "Killing Is Better Than Dying." That's right. I was going to be an action star. In this film I would play a Cop whose family was kidnapped by a gang of roving, violent clowns whose sole purpose was to make wearing white face makeup law. Of course, my character wouldn't have this, and goes on a rampage, killing all of the clowns in his path until he came across those who took his family. Unfortunately, there was an awful fire at the studio and the script was destroyed along with my chances of stardom. Now I'm back in Albany. And I'm an older, wiser person. 4) I was just too damn lazy to do any updating since my Cingular Wireless entry because I was busy with two plays and I had no desire to write in my LiveJournal. And then I suddenly got the inspiration to write in it again (plus the prodding of a few select individuals...) and now...here I am. Ok...so just keep all those points in mind. Along with the journal entry!!! Every year at SUNY Albany, a little event called Fountain Day takes place. This is a truly interesting day. The official purpose of Fountain Day is to welcome in the spring by turning on the huge fountain in the center of campus and allowing all of the students to have a good time. The school supplies music, food, and fun! Well...as anyone who knows anything about college surely knows, in order for students around here to have fun, a good deal of alcoholic beverages are needed. They are necessary. Without them, there is no Fountain Day. The funny thing is, this school knows this, and doesn't seem to have a problem with it. I don't usually spend a great deal of time enjoying Fountain Day. It always just seemed really stupid, and when you think about it - it really is. It's like, "Hey guys!! I've got a great idea! Let's drink to oblivion because the school has decided to turn on a fountain!! I mean, come on guys! That's so awesome! Water shoots in the air! Yes, that's right, guys!! Water. In the AIR! Isn't that insane??!! Everyone knows that water isn't meant to be in the air!!" I mean, fountains have always been exciting to me. In my youth I would enjoy the sensation of walking by a fountain and admiring the way water was so gracefully shot up into the air. I mean, who hasn't? I went to Fountain Day last year, but it was a fairly dreary day, so it wasn't that much fun. We all had to wear jackets, and we could see our breath in the air - it wasn't really something that makes you get excited for the spring season. But this year, it was BEAUTIFUL. 80 degrees and sunny. Plus, I was in a pretty decent mood. So I decided to give it a shot. Drinking. The most important part of Fountain Day. Every worthwhile Fountain Day should begin with a drink of some sort of cheap beer in the morning. Cheap beer is wonderful for a lot of things, but I think it was made especially for the morning of Fountain Day. I mean, at no other time does it even make sense to drink cheap beer. The morning is ok because you can't really taste it between the horrible stuffed nose you have and all the nighttime gunk that has filled up in your mouth. Ok, that's really disgusting, but true. So you have to deal with it. That's one of the things that bothers me about some people - they get disgusted about things that everyone does. It's like people who get disgusted when you talk about farts. The only person that has the right to tell me to stop talking about farts is the person who doesn't fart. So I guess everyone needs to shut up. But, I digress... So, after you've downed a cheap beer, it's time to move on to the harder stuff. Any vodka or rum combination should do the trick. Just mix the stuff with any kind of juice or soda you happen to have lying around and you're sure to have a good time. It's important to make sure that ou place your new cocktail in the most ridiculous container possible. Putting vodka and cranberry juice in a Dasani water bottle usually does the trick. Then you just take it outside with you, drink it in front of cops and now you've become a true Fountain Day kid!! Anywho...everyone and their mother has explained what actually happens on Fountain Day - the water turns on and everyone in the fountain goes insane and starts basically having sex with each other in the fountain. Ok...so it's not actual sex, but it's about as close to sex as two barely dressed wet co-eds in a large fountain with no parental supervision can get. This was a unique Fountain Day, however, as the turnout was HUGE. I mean, massive. We had at least 4000 people squeezing into the formidably large space of the fountain. The combination of drunk students plus slippery, wet fountain meant that some people did end up getting hurt. We saw stretches come to and fro almost every three minutes. No one was seriously injured...it was mostly just people smashing their body parts against things that were hard. I mean, it happens to everyone. It wasn't really that bad. However, that's when the MEDIA got involved. All of the local news stations always come to Fountain Day and they always report about the tradition because it must be a slow news day. However, since 16 of the 4000 people who attended this year got hurt, the news media had a huge story on their hands: FOUNTAIN DAY MAYHEM!! one news story called it. FOUNTAIN DAY DISASTER!! said another. A SCHOOL TRADITION GOES HORRIBLY AWRY quoted another news source. Ok, I was there, and there wasn't any mayhem. And there certainly wasn't any disaster. If there was mayhem or disaster, you can rest assured that I would have my camcorder in my hand pronto and would be sending the footage in to Real TV so John Daley could comment on it and call it "the most disturbing thing we've seen in decades." And then I could appear on the show and talk about how I "never thought that I would see anything like this in my life, let alone catch it on tape!" and they would ask me how I managed to keep the camera rolling with all the disaster and mayhem happening around me and I would only chuckle and shrug my shoulders. I guess I have a hard time believing the new media because when I think of mayhem I think of at least 3 explosions. Any less than 3 is nothing more than discontent. And I didn't see any headlines that said FOUNTAIN DAY DISCONTENT! And a disaster involves at least 30 people being crushed by something big. This certainly didn't happen. People just ran into each other and slipped and smashed their faces into the floor. That's not really a disaster. If you learned about Fountain Day according to the news, here is what you probably think happened: - Crazy and drunk students collided as soon as the fountain went off. They smashed into each other and tackled each other until they were knocked senseless. Blood filled the pool of the fountain. A dark, billowing, sanguine cloud that immersed the bodies of all the students, making their dance not one of celebration, but of death. Blood filled their mouths and they liked it. Blood seeped through their skin and made them evil. Their eyes turned red and the students danced the dance of a thousand devils. - The school was unaware that anyone drinks on Fountain Day. They claim that it is just a springtime celebration that the students like to enjoy responsibly. They were absolutely appalled at the behavior of the students, and are looking into ways to make future Fountain Day celebrations more efficient and more fun. Good, clean fun. - Every student that attended Fountain Day was a drunk male from Long Island with a heavy accent. Also, every student was wearing no shirt, slurred their speech, had cuts and bruises and is normally a "model student." However, the evils of Fountain Day have stripped him of his cool exterior and have exposed his throbbing, passionate innards that like to party like there's no tomorrow. -Fountain Day is a celebration of spring. (yeah, right) Anyway, my hand's getting tired from typing because it's late. I know this journal entry was random and ranting, but that's the kind of mood I'm in now so that's why it looks like that. I had to get something written or else I think some people were going to kill me. So, here, I did it! Be happy now!! Anyway, I'll try to update this more frequently because I actually kind of like writing in this. Ok...until next time! 5 comments|post comment

Cingular Wireless Must Die [11 Oct 2003|12:53am] [ mood | aggravated ] I didn't see what would be hard about it. I wanted to upgrade my old cell phone and get a new one because the old one was dying on me. It had been a good phone and we had some good times together that I'm sure neither of us will ever forget, but it was time that we said goodbye. New technology has paved the way for better phone serivce, and I don't want to miss out on having the latest and greatest of the technology available to make my cellular phone talking more productive - and, well - a whole lot cooler. As my old phone was on its last legs, I decided that I'd go visit the local Albany Cingular Store and see if I could upgrade it. I walk into the store and am greeted by a jolly man in a black Cingular polo with James Gandolfini-esque look to him. "How can I help you?" He asks, coming out from behind the counter. I take my dying phone out of my pocket and explain to him that the phone is getting old and the screen isn't really working. I show him all of the problems so he doesn't doubt what's going on. He takes a look at the phone and scratches a patch of hair growing on the bottom of his chin that I assume will one day be a goatee. He nods a lot, grunts a lot, and finally tells me to wait a moment while he goes and sees if I can upgrade my phone. After a moment of fidgeting around on the computer (probably closing the Instant Messenging program I saw running on his computer) he informs me that I still have about 6 months left before I can upgrade my phone. "Well...that's not really good," I say, "My phone is about to die and I need something quickly." The man pauses, looks pensive and then speaks: "Well...why don't you go through those glass doors over there and ask at the second desk over there. That's the service desk. Maybe they can look at your phone and fix it or something." Half thanking the man, I walk through the glass doors and place myself in front of the second desk which happens to have a huge sign that says "SERVICE" on it. Well, at least I know I'm in the right place. Beside me, sitting on a chair is a lady whom I would take to be about 45 years old, but has the look of an educater, so comes off as quite prudish. The way she was squirming and playing with her horn-rimmed glasses gave me the impression that she was not very happy about something. It could have also been the fact that she was cursing under her breath. At the Service Desk sat a woman who looked to be in her 30s, with crazy, stringy hair that didn't seem to have any style to it at all. She wore a baggy black windbreaker over a white Cingular polo shirt. Her ensemble gave me the impression that she lives in a small home with too many kids and a father who slacks off at work and brings home very little money each week. The lady didn't seem to notice me as a I approached the table, as she was too involved in a conversation she was having with someone named Matt inside the service area. Matt was in an area I could not see, so the lady was just speaking into an open doorway. I walked closer to the desk and did one of those coughs that people do for attention. Still the woman kept on talking. I put hands on the desk in order to show my anticipation for her attention, but still she continued her conversation which was now about how when she doesn't have time for breakfast she like Nutra-Grain Bars. As thrilling as this subject was for me, a huge Nutra-Grain Bar fan, I really wanted to get on with my day. I had to think of a way for her to notice me. So, I do what any desperate man would do, I pretend to bump my knee on the outside of the desk. I didn't mean to do it very hard, but I ended up causing myself quite a bit of pain (and a nice bruise later on). Finally, the lady snaps to attention and smiles at me. "Hi! Can I help you?" she asks. "Yeah, my phones all messed up and I showed it to the guy out front and he said to bring it to you." "Ok," the woman says, "We'll take a look at it. It will be about 15 min." I hand her the phone and go stand next to the cursing school teacher. I wait for quite a while until a man walks from behind the sevice desk. "Marlene," the man says. The cursing school teacher perks up and goes over to meet the man. They talk very quietly so I am unable to understand what they are saying to each other. The only thing I know is that whatever happened, did not please Marlene since she left in a storm afterwards. After observing this, I sit down in the seat that was previously occupied by Marlene and I wait. And wait. And wait. And wait. A good 45 min has gone by and I'm still sitting in this seat listening to the lady at the desk talk sports with the technician. Without even realizing it, I start cursing under my breath. A man walks up to the service desk, waits a few moments for the lady to notice him, hands his phone over and is informed that it will be a 15 min. wait. He comes over and stands next to my chair. "Justin," the same man from before comes out and beckons me towards him. "Yes, that's me," I say, even though it's pretty obvious from that fact that I'm walking towards him that I am Justin. The man looks at me, quizzically holding the phone in his right hand. "Well, I took a look at your phone," the man says, "and I really don't know what the problem is." I stare at him without saying a word. "Ahem," the man goes on, "So I would say I could give you a used phone and send this back to the company, but if they don't see a problem, $99 will be charged to your account." "Well, that's pretty ridiculous," I say, starting to get irritated. "Unfortunately, that's the policy here." I squirm, getting anrgrier, "Well, what am I supposed to do." "Well, you could call customer care and see if they will authorize an early upgrade. That's about it." "Yeah, thanks a lot," I say, turning around to leave. "Oh yes," the man says, "I also cleaned your screen since there was some dust in there." With that he turns smiles, turns around, and goes on his merry way. I walk out furiously while the other man who was waiting for his phone to be looked at is sitting in the chair, cursing under his breath. To make a long story short, after being on hold for 3859285298 hours (an exact number) I am told I can get an early upgrade, so I drive home and get a new phone. A nice new Samsung that is really small and really cool. I bring it back to Albany later that day and transfer all of my phone numbers into it. It worked really well until I started getting text messeges from a random 888 number. The messages were just the number and I was getting thousands of them. Well, not thousands, but a heck of a lot. Turns out, all the messages were eating up my phone's memory and it wasn't working correctly. I had no idea why this was happening, so I assumed something was probably wrong with the phone. So, once again I make my way over to the Albany Cingular Store and go right to the service counter. I'm met by the same lady as before and I tell her what's wrong. She says she's never heard of anything like that and I should probably just get another phone. Now, that would normally be fine, but she informs me that I would have to drive home again to do it. Getting angry again, I ask if they can just look at it. Then a voice from beyond the door bellows to me: "If you want to wait 45 min. for me to tell you to get another phone, then you can leave it here." This put me over the edge. I was so ticked off. "Thank you for all your help," I said sarcastically and walked out. But as I walked out, I couldn't help but smile. At least they admitted looking at a phone didn't take 15 min. Eventually I get it worked out that I can exchange my phone at the Albany store, so I lug my things back to the store and I bring it to the retail guy saying I need another one. He gives me a lot of grief until someone tells him that it's alright. The set me up with a gentleman named Tony, who I'm sure is a very nice guy, but he's just not particularly bright. He asks me for the box for the phone and he checks to make sure all the accessories are in there. Suddenly, he stops. "You're missing a lanyard," he says to me, dead serious. "What?" I say in disbelief. "The phone comes with two lanyards and you only have one in here." I had no idea what to do. I had only seen one lanyard and I didn't even understand why there were two. I shrug, waiting for him to say something. "I don't know if I can exchange this now." I was seething, ready to kill. The lanyard that is an optional accessory to put on your phone is the smallest thing I could possibly think of. I don't think its cost could be more than 30 cents. And now, this was keeping me from getting a phone that wouldn't display all of those text messages. "Well...is the lanyard really that big of a deal," I ask him, trying not to pop a blood vessel in my neck. "No, but it's just our policy...so..." I cut him off, "Well...how about this, " I say slowly and menacing, "How about we work together to solve this problem." Tony just nods. I can see his tiny brain rattle around his empty head. "I'm sure we can come to some kind of solution," I say, "How about, you open a new phone, take one of the lanyards out of there and put it in the returned phone box. That way, it has two of them. I don't really need two lanyards so I don't think it will be missed." Throughout my explanation, Tony nodded at each step, but something told me he didn't really understand. I explained it to him as we did it and I finally got a new phone. "So, I shouldn't get those messages or anything?" I ask him. "No, it should be fine now." "Ok, thank you," I say as I leave. I walk over to my car and turn my phone on. I'm barraged by text messages from the same number. I turn around and scream towards a rush hour Central Avenue. People drove a lot more quickly after that. I barge my way back into the store and don't even bother to make my way to the desk. "The phone is still doing that thing!" I say loudly - so loudly that everyone in the store stops. "What thing?" Tony asks "W-what do you mean, 'Wha thing?'"? I say in utter disbelief, " The text message thing! The thing I was telling you about while you activated my phone just moments ago! The thing where I get messages from the same number!!!" Tony hesitates for a moment, "You should bring it to the service counter. Go through the glass doors - second desk." Smashing through the glass doors, I again encounter the same woman. Without hesitating, I walk up to the desk and speak with her in a frenzied tone. She is taken by surprise, like no one has ever done that before. "Ok...listen," I say, "I just got this phone. I JUST got it. Like three minutes ago. And I got it from here. And I'm still getting all those messages. I want something done! I can't use my phone like this!" She looks at me, still getting over her shock. "Well, the only thing I can suggest to you is to call Customer Care." "Ahhhhhh!" I scream as I run out the door to speak with Customer Care. After another lengthy session of being on hold, I talk to someone and explain my dilemma. After subsequent holds and talks to tech support, I am informed that I never recieved these messages, and that if I turn my phone off for 15 min. (the magical number at Cingular) everything will be fixed. If not, just call back. So I turn my phone off, turn it back on, and it's still doing it. With a ferocity rarely seen with in me, I slowly dial the Customer Care service yet again. I speak with a man on the phone this time who tells me the only way to deal with things is to change my phone number. I vehemently refuse this as I order him to find an alternative action. He puts me on hold for a long time. "Sir?" He says as I am take off hold. "Yes?" I say. "I spoke with our technician, and it turns out that those text messages were coming from Cingular." "What?" I say, unable to believe it. "Well, it didn't come from any one person, but something from Cingular has been messenging you." "So it was you guys all the time," I say, like Sherlock Holmes solving a puzzle even though I was just more confused than ever. "Yes, I guess so. We've put a problem ticket on that and we'll be working to fix that." "So I didn't really need a new phone the whole time. I went through all that trouble...just...for..." I couldn't even finish my statement. I was ready to faint. "Well, what I'll do is block incoming text messages on your phone for now and you can call back in a week and reactivate it. It should be fixed by then." "Ok...thank...you..." I say, still unable to speak as I become light-headed. I banged my head against my laptop, my desk, my doorknob, and basically any other hard surface that I could come across. I find out later in the day that my voicemail now doesn't show up on my phone. Great, looks like I'm calling Customer Care once again. Cingular Wireless Must Die. post comment

It's Just a Cucumber [24 Sep 2003|07:04pm] [ mood | Cucumbered ] Believe me, I realize that it has been way too long since my last journal entry. It's just that I've been so busy with school and other school-related activities that I haven't really had the time to sit down and write a nice journal entry. It seems like now, I finally am able to get my act together and pump one out. So much has happened in the time between the last journal entry and this one that I almost do not know where to start. No, actually I'm lying. I know exactly where to start...a little story about something great that happened to me today. I call this story: One Cucumber Too Many There were no two ways about it. I had a cucumber in the pocket of my beige cargo pants. Not only did I have a cucumber in my pocket, but I was in a public place, more specifically the cafeteria. My roommate had the brilliant idea that we should bring a cucumber back up to our suite. None of us really had any idea what we would do with a cucumber once it reached the suite, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. I mean, what CAN'T you do with a cucumber? You can like make...salads...and pickles if you have a pickling kit...and...maybe...you can put goofy faces on it and give it names like Grant and have it do a vaudeville act with a pair of scissors. What I'm getting to is that the possibilities are endless. And we also hate the cafeteria (the catering company is called Chartwells) so stealing something from Chartwells is like a form of rebellion I suppose. So now that we decided what we were going to do, we had to figure out a way to do it. While we could probably get away with just walking out with the cucumber in our hands, that wouldn't give us much pride in our task so we needed a more clever plan. Smoke bombing the cafeteria was brought up, but was soon dismissed as we realized that we didn't have any smoke bombs on us. So, the next obvious plan of action would be to place the cucumber into one of our pants. It was a fairly large cucumber, so it wouldn't fit in the pockets of a normal pair of jeans. Cargo pants were needed, and as our eyes all floated downward to see what kind of pants we were wearing, I was the only one to come to the realization that I had the optimal pair of pants for the task. Without hesitation, the cucumber was handed to me and I had to figure out how to get it into one of my many pants pockets. It obviously wouldn't fit into my regular pockets, so I had to try and jam it in one of the side pockets on the leg of the pants. After a bit of pushing, I finally managed to get it in there. However, I was left with an elephantine lump on my leg that was a little suspicious-looking to the naked eye. Quickly realizing this, I tried to make it not look as obvious or as sexual, but I was unable to make it look like anything less than a very large, very excited part of the male reproductive system. I guess it wasn't too bad when I was still eating and I was able to shield my left leg from public view, but the time inevitably came when I had to leave the cafeteria and go on with the rest of my life. And I had to go alone because I needed to get back to my room. Slowly, I made my way over to the area where you need to put your trays and plates and ever more slowly did I make my way up the stairs that led to the exit. No matter how slowly I walked, or how hard I tried to keep my left leg from moving too much, I felt the great lump jerk and gyrate with each step I took, with each vibration that my body soaked up. Nobody is noticing, I tell myself, trying to not make eye contact with anyone I pass. I begin to walk up the big flight of stairs and with each step, the cucumber swings like a pendulum, its arc of motion becoming bigger and wider and as I felt the cucumber spiraling out of control, I realized that there was nothing I could do. Eyes of passerbys suddenly darted in my direction and I could almost hear the collective shuffling of heads and everyone around craned their neck to look at what on earth that large, swinging bump emanating from my pants could possibly be. I lowered my head, slightly embarrassed and in a tone that only I could hear said, "It's a cucumber." The eyes would still not stop looking at me, and the stairs seemed to go on forever. "It's just a cucumber," I kept saying to myself, "It's just a cucumber in my pocket." As I continued to walk, I saw people walking with friends and for the brief moment that I passed them, their eyes darted over to my left leg, followed my a smirk or a shake of the head. "It's just a cucumber." I said it aloud now. I said it so people would know. Someone else passed me, and before they could even speak or look disgusted I let them know, "I have a cucumber in my pocket." I needed to get back to my room as soon as possible. The only thing keeping me from dumping the cucumber then and there was the fact that everyone was counting on me. Everyone EXPECTED me to come back with that cucumber intact. I would be putting down my entire suite. My family would then be shunned. I would be known as the "One-Who-Cannont-Complete-Simple-Tasks". I couldn't allow this to happen. As I walked outside and over to the tower in which I reside, my simple pleas of "It's just a cucumber," reached a fevered pitch as I passed more and more people. I didn't even bother to wait until they were in whispering range anymore, I just blurted out to anyone who was willing to listen. And the more I yelled, the more the giant bulge in my pants took on a life of its own. Moving, dancing, gyrating, pulsating, throbbing, the cucumber was relentless in its task to try and destroy me. But NO! I would not allow a green, phallic vegetable to destroy me. I have too much pride. It's just a cucumber! It's just a cucumber! "IT'S JUST A CUCUMBER!!!" I yell this out loud without realizing, and I cringe when I hear my words echoe across the campus. For a moment, it seems, everything stops and everyone just looks at me - not really sure what kind of disease or medical condition I have. But it doesn't matter, I have overcome the scourge of the pants-dwelling cucumber and I will persevere! I finally make my way back up to the room and proudly pull the cucumber out of my pants. I take a moment to examine it, to look at it, the feel its alternating textures of coarse and smooth. "You've put me through a lot of trouble, cucumber," I say to it, "But now, you're here and I have won." I place the cucumber on the desk and sit down to go on my computer - feeling proud of myself and with a smug grin on my victorious face. Moments later, my roommate comes in, and seeing the cucumber on the desk takes a moment to examine it. "Wait a minute," he says, looking at it more carefully. "What?" I say. "This cucumber has a hole in it. If I had known that I wouldn't have wanted to eat it." "You're kidding," I say, my voice dropping off at the end of my statement. "No...this cucumber is no good. I think I'm going to throw it out." And with that, he threw the cucumber into the trash - never to be seen again. -------------------------- I do realize that that was essentially the most random story ever, and I apologize for that. But it does teach us some very important morals and has some extremely important symbolism. For instance, the cucumber could symbolize family values and how they weigh each one of us down, but just when you think you have gotten the hang of them, society throws them out, leaving you in the cold once again. That is actually not the point of the story at all, but if this were an English class, I'm sure people would claim that it was. Ok...so before I end this entry, I have one last short story to tell you, this one I will call: The Legend of Shady Dan Shady Dan is a shady fellow who lives on the same floor as I do in a suite across the hall with the RA. Shady Dan doesn't really seem to be the smartest person in the world, as his speech is slow and laborious and the twinkle of intelligence seen in most college students' eyes is obviously missing. Shady Dan is most likely Italian as his accent, dark skin, and greasy slicked-back hair would lead one to believe. No one knows for sure if Shady Dan actually has any friends or people he speaks to. He is always seen walking alone, staring at the ground, or unsuccessfully attempting to secure himself in a relationship with a girl that he has just met. Not the most tactful of characters, Shady Dan's conversations with the other sex usually turn out something like this: SHADY DAN: Hey. RANDOM GIRL: ....Hi....do I know you? SHADY DAN: I think I saw you that one time. RANDOM GIRL: Oh, really? In class? SHADY DAN: No...just this one time. I think I was walking somewhere...and you were walking somewhere too. RANDOM GIRL: Oh... SHADY DAN: So, what's your name? RANDOM GIRL: Umm...Jessie. SHADY DAN: Oh, yeah, Jessie's a nice name. RANDOM GIRL: Thanks. SHADY DAN: (moving closer) You have really nice legs. RANDOM GIRL: (moving away) Uh, thanks. SHADY DAN: Do you work out a lot. Because legs like that mean you work out a lot - which you must do if you have nice legs. Which you do. RANDOM GIRL: (uneasy) Uhh...yeah... SHADY DAN: So...you wanna go out with me? RANDOM GIRL: Ha....what? SHADY DAN: You wanna date me? RANDOM GIRL: I don't know you. SHADY DAN: I'm Dan. RANDOM GIRL: Listen...I gotta go. Bye. So, as has been illustrated in the following passage, Shady Dan isn't exactly the greatest with the ladies. But that doesn't stop him from trying as he essentially hits on almost every girl he sees no matter what she looks like. I'm pretty sure that a girl with three heads would get hit on by Shady Dan. And still turn him down. So, anyway, being the nice guys that we are, we happen to treat Shady Dan with a bit of respect. Sometimes, he'll randomly knock on our suite door and we'll gladly welcome him in to come hang out with us and talk. However, once he's here, we always end up regretting being so nice, as he just rambles on in long, incoherent sentences that really have no pertinence to the conversation we were having. One thing, however, that he always asked the first two weeks of school was what my name was. And each time I told him the truth. I told him my name is Justin. Now, whenever I see Dan, he always says hello to me, followed my a look of confusion and then he says "You're name's Jason, right?" "Umm...no, my name's Justin," I always reply. The other day, I saw Shady Dan while getting off the elevator. "Hey, how you doing?" He says to me as he lays one of his massive Italian paws against my shoulder. "Hey, Dan, how's it going?" I say politely, but with no intention to further the conversation. Confused look follows. Still confused. "Heya," Shady Dan says, finally snapping out of his confusion, "Your name's Jacob, right?" "Justin." "Oh, yeah. Justin. That's right." We salute you, Shady Dan. ----------------------------- 'Til next time! post comment

Deepak Chopra and the Order of Crap [18 Jul 2003|04:44am] [ mood | accomplished ] So I was sitting in my brother's mess of a room (I can't be too cruel, mine's just as bad) and I spot a book buried deep underneath a pile of random stuff. Just because I'm bored, I pick it up and look at it. It's titled "The Seven Spiritual Laws of Success" by Deepak Chopra. A subtitle reads "A Practical Guide to the Fulfillment of Your Dreams". Well, I could certainly use some fulfillment for my dreams, so I decide to open up the book and see what Mr. Deepak Chopra has to say about living my life. I never laughed so hard in my life. In fact, I loved the book so much (note the sarcasm) that I will take this journal entry as an opportunity to write my very first book review. Be prepared. Book Review: "The Seven Spiritual Laws of Success" by Deepak Chopra Deepak Chopra's "The Seven Spiritual Laws of Success" (from here on out we will refer to it as "The Book") is a groundbreaking study on how to make people spend money for nothign in return. Reading Chopra's book is a lot like having fetal alligators attach themselves to your pubic hairs while a stampede of assorted rodents nip at your butt cheeks. It's THAT good. This book is supposed to help people fulfill their dreams, but I don't see any of that happening unless your dreams are to kill yourself as quickly as possible. But let's take a look at why this book might now be as successful as it claims to be: The Cover Art I don't know what kind of medieval printing press designs the covers of Mr. Chopra's books, but this whole "two birds in a tree" thing needs to end immediately. By having such a lame cover, Chopra automatically limits the audience to his book. Why would Chopra only want to attract middle-aged housewives? Why not try to get the 18-24 demographic as well? If Chopra wants to achieve this, he must market his book as something that 18-24 year olds will be attracted to. That is why, the cover of the book must feature guns, explosions and women. Without these important aspects, the book will simply not sell. To help out with this process, I designed a cover of my own, and I hope to hear from Mr. Chopra soon so we can discuss how much he owes me: As you can see from this awesome design, it feature the important elements, plus it has an awesome science fiction cartoon character shooting TOWARDS the reader. He is saying "Buy this book, or I'm going to attack you with a blast from my Photon Ray 600!" Or maybe that's the 500 model, I'm not sure. Deepak Chopra Himself Another aspect that is hindering this book from being a good read is mostly due to Deepak Chopra. First of all, what kind of name is Deepak? Excuse me, could you hand me Deepak of gum? I understand that this name is supposed to make us think of Southern Asia, make us ponder the alternative medicine and treatments of the East and ponder the philosophy of the land of Confucious, but couldn't he have come up with a better name? Something like Saranjay would be a much better choice. Or Aranjeli. I have nothing against these names, but I just think that his name is really Ted Smith and he's putting a front on. Not only is Deepak's name bothersome, but the way he flaunts the fact that he is an M.D. around. In case you weren't sure, M.D. stands for Medical Doctor, and usually these kinds of people manage to make a lot of money by working in hospitals or private practice, performing surgery and seeing patients. Usually, this job is enough to make most doctors filthy rich and they don't really have to worry about finding any other ways of making money. Apparently, this isn't the case with Chopra. Why else would he write a book so meaningless and vapid instead of dealing with patients and making $1 million dollars a minute! So this leaves us the question: What is it about Deepak Chopra that turns patients off to him. I mean, look below, he looks like a fairly nice, well-groomed and intelligent gentleman... Look at him. Looks like a decent fellow right? Well, after doing some searching on the internet, I found the answer to the riddle behind the mystery of Deepak Chopra..... Yeah, it looks like Deepak is getting his freak on with a few "Southern Belles" at a book signing. Which one are you gonna do first, Deepak? You have a thing for blondes with exposed midriffs? To be quite honest, I think you could have done a better job with the second woman. The brunette kind of looks like a horse. So much for Mr. Pristine Consciousness. Looks like a fun night in the hotel room, though. Is THIS the kind of man you want to buy a spirituality book from? My point exactly. The Book Contents I realize that until this point, I have been analyzing superficial details regarding the book. Well, now it's time for me to delve deep into a critical statement about the nature of this book and the symbolism that is contains: Crap. That's right. This book is written so terribly and with so little thought that one might infer that Deepak authored this book while performing in a ritualistic S&M ceremony with the Horse Girl from the picture above. As the title of this book explains, the reader learns the Seven Spiritual Laws of Success. In order from the book, these laws are: The Law of Pure Potentiality The Law of Giving The Law of "Karma" or Cause and Effect The Law of Least Effort The Law of Intention and Desire The Law of Detachement The Law of "Dharma" or Purpose in Life Ok, except for the occassional "Dharma" and "Karma" it seems that Deepak has literally pulled these laws out of his ass. I mean, The Law of Least Effort? What could that possibly be? I wish it was a law because then I would be the greatest person in the world. Unfortunately I know from experience that this Law is not so much a Law, but a great way to end up spending your life living on the side of the street in a shopping cart with a cardboard box taped to the top, scavenging things to eat from the dumpsters of McDonald's, and peeing in dark alleyways only to be mugged, but then released when they realize that you had to pee in the alleyway because you have no money. So, I think to myself, it would probably be a good idea to read one of the chapters. That way, it should spell out the Laws to me in an easy-to-understand method. Yes, I think that is what I will do. I will take the first paragraph from the chapter entitled "The Law of Pure Potentiality": "The first spiritual law of success is the Law of Pure Potentiality. This law is based on the fat that we are, in our essential state, pure consciousness. Pure consciousness is pure potentiality; it is the field of all possibilities and infinite creativity. Pure consciousness is our spiritual essence. Being infinite and unbounded, it is also a pure joy. Other attributes of consciousness are pure knowledge, infinite silence, perfect balance, invincibility, simplicity, and bliss. This is our essential nature. Our essential nature is one of pure potentiality." Ok...ummm....what? Did I miss something or did that description just take me in circles? And was it just me, or did that just make no sense at all. I mean, Deepak calls this writting? I call this taking up space. Ok...maybe this book will get better. A lot of the time and author will start out a book a little slowly and then gradually gain steam...let's plod a bit further ahead: "Grass doesn't try to grow, it just grows. Fish don't try to swim, they just swim. Flowers don't try to bloom, they just bloom. Birds don't try to fly, they fly. Ay carumba. With logic like this, I guess it's safe to assume that "Humans don't apply pressure to gaping wounds, they just allow themselves to bleed to death." Maybe you're reading this and you don't understand why I don't appreciate all the finer points of life that Deepak Chopra is trying to show me. Maybe you're right, and that's why I employed my friend, the Customer Reviews at Amazon.com! A Reader from California says: "I bought this book a while ago and it really changed how I looked at success in my life. I then bought the audio version to put in my car and within a month or two I met my future husband! Deepak Chopra is one of a kind and this book is something I give to others as gifts! " My Response: You're an idiot. A Reader from Maryland says: I picked up this book kind of by accident as I was shopping in a natural food store. I have never read anything by Chopra before and have heard much about him, both positive and negative. I read this book in an afternoon (recently) and have re-read bits of it each day since. I carry it with me in my purse to read when I have a moment during the day. The principles are universal and can be applied to every area of life. My life was different the very first day I tried applying these principles. They are simple; not easy, but simple. If you wish to gain peace in your life and be more comfortable with yourself, others, and the universe, read this little book and learn to apply its suggestions in your everyday living. This book is on my all-time great list -- I'm going to make sure I'm never without a copy. May it be a blessing to others the way it is to me." My Response: You people are serious aren't you? Idiot. A Reader from Long Island says: "It's Deepak Chopra, need we say more? I picked-up this book at my local library about 4 days ago, and being a very short and small book, I've already read it and am stunned. The first Law (in a nustshell) says to "Practice Non-Judgment" for 1 day. You say the affirmation in the morning and remind yourself throughout the day - yada, yada - get the picture? Anyways, I hadn't driven 1 mile when I was already whining about the "idiot" drivers on the road. I had to laugh out loud and shake my head. Boy, do I have work to do! :o) Anyways, this book is a kick in the butt and an eye-opener IF YOU ARE READY. Always remember: When the student is ready, the teacher appears. Well, I do believe my teacher appeared." My Response: Umm...yeah, you need to say more! Just because you have turned into a Deepak Chopra zombie, doesn't mean the rest of us need to catch the virus. I mean, come on! Daily affirmations? Haven't you seen the SNL skit? They look like idiots, but it's all a joke. You look like an idiot, but you are serious! And as far as me being READY for Deepak Chopra, I don't think I'll ever be ready to sit through another poorly-written, full of crap book ever again. And you can thank your teacher for that one. This is starting to worry me. EVERYONE's a Chopra zombie. A Reader from Georgia says: "The book may be good, but the audio CD is .... not good. He can't speak English." My Response: Finally! Someone admits to a flaw in the Deepak Chopra persona! For such a "wonderful" writer, you would think he has some kind of grasp on the English language - leading me to believe that Deepak Chopra did not write this book at all. You hear me, Chopra, you're a fake! After doing a bit of thinking, I have come to the conclusion that the true author of this "Deepak Chopra" book is none other than.... THIS MAN AND HIS SON! I'm going to take you down, Chopra. I'm going to take you down... Damn, that was strange. 7 comments|post comment

The Rest of the Saga [10 Jul 2003|01:53am] [ mood | crazy ] [Cue Masterpiece Theatre theme song] And now, the second part of our ongoing story. Hopefully, this will only be a three part series, and I think at this rate it's heading that way. So everything is good. And without further ado, I present to you: Chapter 2: The Calm Before the Storm After the bartending class was over and I had time to revel in the glory of my newly learned skill, it would have made sense for me to immediately go out and look for a bartending job. I mean, I live in a resort town with about 5 million (an estimate) bars so there is probably someone SOMEWHERE that is looking for a bit of help. After a good deal of walking around Lake George and the surrounding areas, my once optimistic demeanor soon faded away and became replaced by the awful feeling of desperation. Every bar that I walked into told me that they would not hire me for the following reasons: 1) I am a college student, and therefore will not be around to work past Labor Day 2) I am under 21 years old and they have a policy against having bartenders that young and 3) I have a future beyond working in a dark bar for the rest of my life. Yeah, for some reason, whenever you go into a bar, apply for a job, and let loose the fact that you are a student, you are automatically shunned. I mean, I can kind of understand why Bill, the head bartender with a mullet and beer belly, might feel this way, but that is no reason to turn down an employment opportunity to someone. But, this happened a lot. Some of the more sadistic bartenders would have me fill out these long, sweeping applications with questions that ranged from "What do you think is more important: Quality products or outstanding service?" to "Tell us about your family" to "If a nun, a cab driver, and Charles Manson walked into an elevator, had an argument, and decided to take it out in a no-holds-barred brawl in a dark back alley, who do you think would win?" So, after about an hour and a half, I finally finish one of those suckers. My arm is aching, and my mind is exhausted. But I have a feeling of great accomplishment. I should get a medal or something for answering all of those questions. Yeah, definitely some kind of award would be appropriate. So, I proudly make my way over to the manager and grandly swing my application around and into his hands. He looks through it for a moment, nodding at odd moments and licking his lips in a way that made me feel kind of uncomfortable. I just hope he had chapped lips or something. After about ten minutes, he sets the application down, looks me in the eye, and says, "Well...I like a lot of the things you wrote down on here. Some pretty smart answers." I nod in appreciation. The feeling of accomplishment swells within me to the point of explosion. "It looks like you've had some training, which is always a good thing," the manager says. "Yes," I utter, trying to hold back the joy bubbling beneath the surface of my skin. "But we don't have any bartending positions available right now," the manager says quickly. A needle punctures my skin, releasing all feeling, making me numb and miserable at the same time. The manager smiles. "Hey, I see here that you go to college fairly close. SUNY Albany's not that far!" "No," I say, realizing that I no longer want to be wasting my time in a place that has abused me. "Hey, maybe you could working during the school year! Like a few days of the week and weekends!" "Yeah, maybe," I mutter, unable to look the manager in the eye. He holds out his hand, I shake it and leave. Repeat this story twenty times with little variation and you have the story of my job search. My days without a job seemed to go quickly - alarmingly quickly. My long college summer was suddenly being eaten up to the point where I felt that I had to do something in order to make any money this year. It had gotten to the point that despite my bartender training, if I couldn't find a job within a week, I was going to have to find something else to do. I hated the thought of it, but the summer was slowly fading, and my job prospects weren't getting any brighter. One day, I got a call from a friend of mine and she wanted to get together. I wasn't doing anything of importance (after all, being jobless, you have a pretty flexible schedule) so I thought it would be fun to go hang out with someone that I haven't really spent that much time with this summer. After much debate, we decided to go hang out around Lake George. If you haven't gotten the drift by now, when all else fails, you walk around the village of Lake George. So, we arrive in Lake George and being to walk around. Before we've gotten very far, my friend says that she would like to visit our friend Stephanie who is working the front desk at a nearby hotel called the Surfside. The name immediately rang a bell as I remembered having been looking through the Classified Ads in the paper and seeing a bartending job available there serving cocktails by the poolside. That sounded pretty cool. We walk into the lobby of the Surfside and see my friend Steph. After talking to her for a little while, I inquire about the bartending job. She says that it's still available and that I should fill out an application and she'll bring it directly to her boss. Liking this idea, I begin to fill out the application. While I'm doing this, one of Steph's co-workers comes out to the front and Steph mentions that I'm applying for the bartending job. Her co-worker stops dead. "We went through four bartenders last year," the co-worker says. "Oh yeah? Why?" I say, scribbling away at the application. The co-worker motions to an aerial picture of the hotel that is framed on the back wall of the lobby. "The bar is HERE," she says, pointed to a spot on the photograph while emphasizing the word "HERE". "I see," I say, uninterested. I'm a desperate guy. "And the pool is HERE," the co-worker motions to another spot that doesn't really look that far away, "So that means you have to walk from HERE to HERE", she draws a line with her finger, leaving a trail of skin oil, "and that's kind of a pain." I didn't really care. I needed a job, and I'd take anything I could get. If I had to walk a few feet HERE to HERE, I think I could deal with it. "Yeah, well that's not that big of a deal. I mean, I guess I could always use the exercise!" I say with a huge goofy grin on my face, oblivious to the grave warning that I was just given. Soon afterwards, I finish the application and hand it to Steph, who tells me that she'll get it to her boss right away. I really appreciated it. The next day I recieved a call from Steph saying that the boss, a man named Salim, wanted to see me for an interview the next day. Excited and jubilant, I thanked Stephanie profusely and jumped for joy at actually having an interview for a bartending job. Finally, I could become one of the proud members of the workforce! The summer would not elude me! I was to make money! Ah, it's always nice when things work out in the end. Chapter 3: War is Hell When You're On Your Own Dressed all nicely and enthusiastic about my possible job, I arrived at the Surfside about 15 minutes early for my 11:00 interview. I walked to the front desk, told the girls who worked there I was here for an interview and they told me to wait and that Salim would be out in a few moments to see me. I sat down on the cheap leather seats in the lobby and watched as the tourists poured in. It was morning so most were checking out, but they seemed to be a nice lot and didn't seem to be a bunch of assholes. That's always a nice thing when you're working at a place like this. Before I knew it, the few moments that I was supposed to wait turned into half and hour, and Salim never even came out to tell me he was running late. I didn't mind, though. I was in a good mood and it was kind of fun to watch the various people, with their various problems walk in and out of the lobby. My favorite group of people were a bunch of hung over French Canadiens whom the girls at the desk were having great difficulty understanding. The French Canadiens for one reason or another, didn't seem to understand that their credit card was not authorizing and it let to an amusing game of charades with neither side really knowing the rules. Finally, 45 minutes later, a small southern asiatic man with a wirey moustache comes peeking out a door in the lobby and says, "Justin?" I walk up to him and say hello and shake his hand. He invites me into the back room and into his office. My first impression of the office was, wow, this is worse than my room. Papers, pamphlets, brochures, binders, folders, computers, hunting manuals, Paleolithic fossils, and garbage littered the office, making it quite unsettling. (ok, maybe not Paleolithic fossils) "Ah, please, sit down," Salim says motioning for a green lawn chair with a layer of papers on top of them. I politely remove the papers from the seat and place them on a nearby seat so they can join their brothers and sisters. Salim sits in his seat, grabs a pencil and my application and begins to look at it. His eyes seems to dart all over. I wasn't even sure if he was looking at my application or at the numerous flys that were circling both of our heads. After a few moments of watching him twitter about, he finally begins to speak to me. He has a slight accent, but nothing that was difficult to understand, and I was thankful for that. As we talk, it becomes apparent to me that he is probably going to hire me. He likes the fact that I had some training, and he seems to trust me in general. "I want you to run the bar, Justin," he says finally, "You need to run it like your own business. That's how you get tips." "Oh, yes. That would be great." I say, nodding and feeling relieved. "Yes," Salim says, twitching a bit, "How about we open at Noon and close at 8. You can stay longer if you like. If there are a lot of people there, I suppose it would make sense for you to stay and make more tips." I nod. "I think this year, we will only have one bartender. In the past, we've usually had at at least two, but this year I think that one will suffice." I wasn't sure what to think of this, but I wasn't in any mood to argue. I was told to come in the next day so I could get familiar with the bar and take some inventory. I was more than happy for this opportunity, as it would allow me to become familiar with my surroundings before being shoved into a work situation. Besides, there was no one else there as a bartender so I was truly on my own. So I did as I was told, I came in, felt my way around the bar and took a painful physical inventory of all the liquor which required me to squat down for an uncomfortably long period of time. After my legs lost circulation and became completely numb, things weren't so bad. During the course of my inventory, I realized that whoever had been running this bar before me was the worst person in the history of the world. Nothing was where it was supposed to be. Rums were mixed with the Scotches, Whiskeys with the Vodka - it was just an annoying experience. Things could have taken half the time if they were just in some kind of order. After about two hours, I finally finish the inventory. Once I stand up, the blood begins to rush back to my legs and I am in complete pain. I shurg it off, knowing that I had done a good job and I walked into Salim's office to give him my inventory sheet and make some suggestions on what the bar could use to be more successful. As soon as I open my mouth to speak, Salim goes off on a long, winding, mostly incomprehensible speech on how it would be a good idea if I made some flyers and signs to help spread the word that the bar was now open. I agreed that this would be helpful. "Go home tonight and make some flyers," Salim suddenly said to me, "You have a computer at home, right?" I nod reluctantly. I don't want to go home and make a million flyers and not be compensated in any way. "Umm....what am I supposed to do on the flyers?" I ask, honestly unsure of my assigned task and how to properly accomplish it. "Well," Salim says, pulling a piece of paper from his horrible mess of a desk, "Let me show you." In the following minutes (seemed like forever) Salim would draw meaningless symbols and other doodles on this sheet of paper and somehow expected me to understand what all of it meant. Somehow, and I'm not even sure how this transpired, this random doodling and symboling made Salim think that it would be a good idea to have the bar serve some food. This now meant that I was responsible for making a food menu as well. Great. Just what I needed. Another round of random symbols and ancient hieroglyphs followed. I was told to show bring in my finished signs at 8 AM the next morning because Salim was headed to Canada later that day. Reluctantly, (and I really had no choice) I agreed. That night, I struggled to put together a sign that I thought adhered to the rules that we had gone over. It took me about an hour, but I finally came up with a design that seemed like it would work. Happy to have that out of the way, I set out to print the signs, but of course my computer didn't want to, and when it finally DID start printing, it printed 500,000 copies of it, none of which I could salvage because they got jammed up in the printer. The next morning was really early, and I drove to the Surfside still in a dream-like trance. I quickly made my way into the building, only to realize that Salim had not come to work yet. I looked at my watch and it was still a bit early, so I sat down in a chair and waited. And waited. And waited. One FULL HOUR later, Salim finally come waltzing through the door, gently sipping on a cup of coffee. I wanted to kill him, strangle him, or at least tell him off in a loud voice. After a few moments, he calls me into his office. "Sorry I'm a few minutes late," Salim says, reaching his hand out to see the work that I had done. He takes a long look at my signs, making a grunt of approval at times, and sometimes shaking his head and making a note on the sign. After he is done with this, he informs me that while the signs are good, they need to be fundamentally altered in order to fit his criteria. The blood inside of me began to boil. If he had a problem with the work that I put into those signs, then WHY DOESN'T HE MAKE HIS OWN DAMN SIGNS???!!! As he was explaining what needed to be changed, he apparently cut the side of his hand with his pencil and began profusely bleeding. It wasn't a major cut, but it was just a bleeder. At first, I wasn't sure if he noticed the growing stream of blood that was running down his hand, but my questions were answered when he looked at it and then proceeded to wipe the blood off on the signs that I had just made. Not just once - not even twice - but three times, leaving a few trails of blood as an unwelcome addition to the signs that I had spend some hard work making. "I apologize for that," he said unapologetically. "It's ok," I mutter to myself, trying to hide my disgust for him having spilt his bio fluids on my signs. When he finished making suggestions, he handed me back both of the signs (even the one with the blood on it) and told me to look over that and make a bunch of them for the day that I started work. I left that day with my head hanging low and a sign-full of blood. Finally, two days later, my first day of work began. It started off fairly slow, with only a few people coming in and ordering sodas for their kids, but as I ran out to the pool a few times, I got more orders. Running to the pool was a huge pain because it was quite far and it seemed that every time I ran to the pool, someone came to the bar and I was unable to help them because I had no one else working with me. It was a day of annoyances as even though I sold a good deal of drinks (nearly $300 worth) the patrons of the hotel must have assumed that gratuity was added on their drinks since I didn't recieve any. If I charged a drink to someone's room, I could pretty much forget about getting any kind of compensation in the way of tips. And I was only making a flat rate of $35 a day, so I was pretty dependent on tips. And it wasn't happening. To top things off, the bar phone kept ringing off the hook. The first time I answered it, I was told that during the day I was not allowed to use the phone at the bar because it was for housekeeping. Fair enough, I thought, and tried to ignore the phone for the rest of the day. However, at one point Jody, a woman who was in charge of a lot of the kitchen stuff, came storming into the bar. "So I see you're just not answering the phone," she says sternly. "I was told that the bar phone is for housekeeping use only," I say, not sure what to make of the situation. "You know, " Jody says, "I can't keep running down here." (For the record, that was the first time she had run down to the bar all day) I didn't know what to say. Earlier I was told not to answer the phone. Now I have someone breathing down the back of my neck about my lack of phone answering activity. "I answered the phone earlier and I was told not the use it. That's what someone told me. That's why I didn't answer it," I say, trying to make myself not look like the idiot here. "You're SUPPOSED to answer it after 4!" Jody says abruptly and then leaves. I look at my watch. 4:02. Things went on like this each day. It seemed like any time I did anything, there were two conflicting viewpoints on that activity. At one point Jody had told me to stop serving food at 2:00 and put all the unused food in the refrigerator, which I did every single day. But one day Salim came down and asked me why I had stopped serving food. It was 4:00, so I explained to him that Jody had told me to put everything away at 2. He says that was not the way things worked around here and I should serve food all day long. Closing at 2 was NOT how things worked and he didn't understand why I might have ever thought that way. To say I was frustrated would be an understatement. The final blow came when I found out that Salim claimed that all my time spent taking inventory and doing other various tasks was done on my free time and , therefore, I would not be paid for it. I wouldn't have minded this if I was making some decent tips, but there people at the Surfside are apparently so cheap that all they do is bitch about the price of a bottled beer. After three days on the job, realizing that I was being abused, I called in and quit. This is the first time (and hopefully last) that I have ever quit a job. I pride myself on being able to adapt to my environment, but I felt that it was impossible to do that under these circumstances. Especially since it was now assumed that I put in 5 hours of work on my own free time. When I called Salim to tell him I quit, I told him everything. He seemed surprised, but something told me that he had heard all of this before. After all, they HAD gone through 4 bartenders last year. I wish I had heeded the warning of Stephanie's co-worker. She was all too right. Epilogue Yes, the following story was very much unlike my usual journal entries. It was more of a rant than anything, but you can imagine why I needed to get all of that out in order to feel a wee bit better. So you may be asking yourself what I'm doing now. Well, I'm back working at the Great Escape Six Flags Theme Park this year as a hospitality representative. Basically, all I do is sit in a room all day and take customer complaints or suggestions. Shouldn't be too hard. It's always nice that the Great Escape actually pays their employees for the time they spend doing job-related activities. Now that I've finished that story, expect more of my usual entries coming soon. I'm sure I'll have a lot to write about. One funny thing that happened today in Hospitality: Two guys came in saying that they had a suggestion on how to make one of the park's rides better and more exciting. Being as it is my job, I gladly listened to them. They claimed that the Swan Boat Ride (a tame boat ride for kids) would be a whole lot better if a giant snake jumped out the water at one point and flew over the boat. The funny part about this is that they were dead serious. I mean, think about it. Your a parent taking you kid on a little enjoyable water ride so you'll be able to sit down and relax for a little while. You assume that the scenery and the fact that you're in a boat will keep little Johnny entertained for a little while so you don't have to hear his bitching about how his feet hurt, or how it's too hot, or how his sister Tammy won't stop jabbing him in the kidneys. So, a little while into the ride, you begin to relax. Things aren't so bad. Maybe this whole theme park thing is a lot of fun. Suddenly and unexpectedly, a giant snake rears its ugly head out of the water. As the cascade of water falls around it, you realize that it is a cobra that looks poised for attack. Frightened at this monstrosity, your kids whimper and begin to clutch you in fear. Unsure of what is about to happen yourself, you realize that you are actually shaking a little bit. You try not to shake too much because you don't want to scare your kids. Suddenly, the cobra attacks, flying high into the air and when you try to look up, you are unable to see it because of the glare of the summer sun. You soon realize by listening to the terrified screams around you that you aren't the only one frightened for your life and soon the boat begins to shake. It begins to tip. Water begins to pour into the sides of the boat, drenching everyone. Everyone is still not sure where the snake has gone, but all they know is that is is somewhere in the water, just waiting for some fresh meat. The boat continutes to fill up with water and people being to dispatch from the boat, some taking their children, others leaving them to die by the hands of a deadly cobra. Others in the park soon see what is going on and think that there is some kind of serial killer on the loose. They start going crazy. Word spreads and people begin a mass evacuation of the park. Everyone is running, running away, trampling children, the elderly, the disabled. Someone trips over an electrical circuit and starts a fire on a nearby rollercoaster. That fire eventually catches some of the shops, and that eventually catches onto every building in the park. Deaf people who were not aware of what had happened are now slowly roasting in a building. All of this because of one jumping snake in the Swan Boat Ride. So yeah, I think that was a worthwhile suggestion. Don't you? 2 comments|post comment

Chapter 1: The Bartending Class [02 Jul 2003|02:24am] [ mood | complacent ] Yeah, I know. It's been WAY too long since I've last updated my journal. I'd like to blame it on the fact that I was busy with some important project that is likely to change humanity forever...or at least some scheme that was helping me rake in millions of dollars a day, but unfortunately, the only thing I can accurately attribute my lack of journal writing too is my own malaise and laziness. Now that school's been out for quite some time, it's been hard for me to find the time to write in this sucker because I've been doing things like...hanging out...and...seeing friends..and....uhhh...hanging...out. Yeah. Anyway, after a few false starts, I've finally gathered up the strength to complete this entry. As far as I know at this point, it's going to be a long one since I have a lot of events to cover...and I'll probably forget something. So that's always fun. So...here it is: (I'm going to separate these chapters as new entries to be updated when I can) Chapter 1: The Bartending Class My father, in a well-intentioned attempt to make it easier for me to find a summer job that I could actually make money at suggested that I take a bartending class. He claimed that it would be a skill that would A) be useful to know and B) probably earn me some decent tips. Surprised that my father would actually suggest that I do something like this, and pay for it, I eagerly said that I would be interested and I went to the website and tried to sign up for the course. This task should have been easy enough. I mean, all I should have to do is click on the class I want to attend and then use a credit card to pay, right? Well, no. When I get to the site, I'm greeted by the most tacky display that I have ever laid my eyes on. A poorly made flash animation with porno music in the background greets me to the site and once I'm actually looking at the main page, these multi-colored stars keep exploding in the background. Now, this wouldn't usually bother me, but it turns out that the font was pink and that when the stars exploded, many of them turned pink as well. So trying to read anything on the site became quite the challenge as I had to attempt to formulate sentences in between the explosion of the unnecessary stars. This raises many important questions: 1) How could anyone design this site, look at the exploding stars and feel proud of himself? 2) How could anyone design this site, and not realize that the exploding stars make it nearly impossible to read the content on the site? 3) What do exploding stars in the background have to do with the art of bartending? 4) Why are stars exploding? Once I managed to get over the shock of the exploding stars, and happened to navigate through the quagmire of incomprehensible sign-up instructions, I was almost home free. All I had to do was click on the session I wanted and that was easy enough and then I had to put in my name and contact information. Yes! Perfect! That was easy! But, wait, something else now pops up. It asks me to confirm my "purchase" and to make sure that I was signed up for the correct session. So I scan the page to make sure all of the information is correct, but there is one problem. Under the "Items Purchased" area, all is says is "Bartender School Order 3XK54YTLG29GH". Nowhere on the page does it list the dates of the course so I can make sure that I signed up for the right times. Now I begin to get paranoid. Perhaps in my rush to get away from the exploding stars, I clicked the wrong session, or maybe something happened and the whole computer system went down. The sensical part of me would say to begin the whole process over to make sure that everything was right, but another part of me so despised the exploding stars and all they represent that I wouldn't dare begin that treacherous journey over again. So, I being to scan that incomprehensible combination of letters and numbers that comes after the word "order". 3XK54YTLG29GH.....3XK54YTLG29GH....maybe it's some kind of code. Maybe, if I look long enough, I will be able to decipher that complex arrangement and make sure that I signed up for the right class. After staring at the code for a while, I decided that I suck at these kind of things since I can't even start the "Cryptoquote" in my local newspaper. But I refuse to give up....3XK54YTLG29GH. Three EXfive For White Leg To Nine Geeh. No, that's not it. "Oh, what the hell! It's not MY money," I say as I click the purchase button and quickly X off my window so I don't have to stare at that abhorration of a website any longer. The next day, I get an email from the bartending instructor. He's a gentleman named Dan who claims that I successfully signed up for the course. Naturally, he doesn't indicate what days I'm signed up for, so I still feel a little uneasy about it in the pit of my gut. I'm just psychotic like that, I guess. Finally, the day comes. The day I am to begin learning how to be a bartender. The class ran from 6:00 - 10:30 for 5 nights and was located about 30 minutes from my house, so I leave early on the first day to make sure I can find where this place is held. I end up having no problems finding the place, but I'm surprised to learn that it is housed in a country club of sorts. Well, not really a country club, but a building in the middle of some kind of run-down Par 3 Golf Course. I pull into the parking lot and double check my directions to make sure I'm at the right place and then begin to get out of the car. As I do, I catch a quick glance of the clock which reads 5:30. I'm WAY too early. With a sigh I settled myself back into the seat of my car and flick on the radio. As I'm mellowing out in the car to waste time, these two older gentlemen walk out of the "club house" and chat with each other on the sidewalk. I couldn’t hear them, but they seemed to be sharing some good laughs while just letting their eyes wander across the vast grandeur of the Par 3 Environment. Then I realize their gaze moves from the hastily constructed sand trap to me sitting in my car. I could almost sense their hostility in their eyes and almost hear their thoughts. "What the hell does a young bastard like this think he's doing loitering in our pristine parking lot?" I close my eyes and try to focus on the music, but I can still sense the old men's eyes....and still hear their thoughts.... "You're nothing, kid. Get out of our parking lot" Shut up. "What makes you think you have the right to sit in our parking lot, and take up our spaces and just sit there?" Shut up. "Oh, you think you're a man now, do you? Sitting there in your 1996 Chevy Blazer. All big and bad. Trying to cause trouble like your generation is so good at." Shut up. "Why don't you go walk around the mall or something. Go make-out with a girl in the woods. Leave the golf to the real men." Shut up. "Scram, kid. You'll make a horrible bartender!" SHUT UP!!! I quickly shut off the car, grab the things I need for the class and shuffle past the old men standing on the sidewalk and penetrating my mind with their hostile stares and demeaning thoughts. I make my way into the building as quickly as possible and end up in a small vestibule with about 5 doors leading to various locations. This creates a bit of a problem because I'm not sure which door is the right one. The windows on the doors have a bit of a tint, so it is very difficult to see through them. I place my forehead up to one of the doors and peer in. It takes my eyes a few moments to adjust, but when they do, I see a shirtless man lying on a table of some sort while a person dressed in white rolls what looks like a rock up and down the man's spine. It was a strange sight and so unexpected that I actually stepped back from the door to allow my mind to evaluate what it just saw. I later learned that what I had witnessed was a sort of magnetic therapy that supposedly helped people with chronic pain. But, wow, was that weird. I take the next door, and I am greeted to a room with a bar and a group of tables all around. I was pretty sure that this was the right place, but out of stupidity I walked up to a guy who was seated at the bar and asked, "Hi...is this the bartending class?" "Why, yes," the man says, holding out his hand for me to shake, "You're the first one here. It's still pretty early. I'm Dan." I nod and shake his hand. He asks me my name and I tell him while he checks a sheet to make sure that I have signed up for the class. Fortunately, I appear on the list and it even says I payed too. "Ah, I see you payed with PayPal," Dan says, circling something on his sheet. "Yeah, it's pretty easy that way," I say, trying not to remember the struggle I went through. Dan sighs and looks into the distance. "Yeah..." There is an awkward silence and I'm not sure exactly what I should do. Maybe I should sit down, I think to myself and I begin to put my belongings on a nearby table. "So what did you think of the site?" Dan suddenly says as he snaps out of his odd moment of autism. Many things were running through my mind at that moment. I could tell him the truth. I could take out all my aggression on the creator of that god-forsaken website and finally avenge my 30 min of horror. I could look him right in the eyes and tell him to never design another website as long as he lives or else I will personally rip his eyeballs out, rewire his visual nervous system and program it to show multi-colored exploding stars 24/7. "I - I liked it." Dan smiles. I had obviously said the right thing. "Did you watch any of the videos?" he asks. "Oh, yeah," I lie, "Those guys are really good." "Yeah, they are," Dan says as he snaps back into his autistic mode. I take this opportunity to finally sit down and just pretend I'm doing something important until more people arrive. Once the course got started, it was actually pretty good. For being about 4 hours long, I didn't get bored too much, so I suppose that that's a good thing. I can attribute most of that to the fact that I was sitting next to some fairly interesting people. Well...two fairly interesting people. One was a 23 year old girl named Anna who goes to SUNY Purchase. I liked her. She was nice, cute, had a good sense of humor and seemed to appreciate mine to some degree. Now, before I go any further, I know that some of you out there are thinking, "Umm...then why didn't you try to start a relationship with her or something?" and to that I will answer, I'm too shy. Oh yeah, and she has a boyfriend. The other person at my table was a 37 year old man named Darren. Darren is a small, plump man with a handlebar moustache who looks like he would fit right in as a bartender of a downtown sports pub. He was a quiet guy, but when you had him talking he made for great conversation. He also seemed to have a great sense of humor and when I managed to make him laugh, his entire belly would surge up and down in beat with his chortle. The rest of the people at the class were nice too, but surprisingly young. When I first signed up for the course, I was pretty certain that most of the people would be over 30, but to my surprise most of the people there were college students. One thing I wasn't wrong about, however, was that I would be the youngest one in the course. I am fairly certain that everyone but me was at least 21 years old. Often, we'd be sitting in class talking about a certain kind of liquor and people would bring up the drinks they like to have in bars that contain that ingredient. Of course, not being able to legally sit in a bar and drink, I didn't have a very good idea what most of these liquors were, let alone what drinks they go into. I spent most of those times during class praying that I would never be asked what drink I like that contains White Creme de Menthe or Sambuca Romana. I didn't let anyone know how young I was though. When I was asked how old I was, I always replied 21 and I said that I was going into my junior year at college. That way, I figure, I wouldn't lose any respect. Or...something like that. Regardless of my relative inexperience with fancy liquors, I did pretty well when it came to the actual bartending. It was really just remembering ingredients and the correct glass to put things in. I didn't think it was very hard, but to my surprise, there were many people struggling with how to make drinks. One person in particular, a 50+ woman named Christine, was having a really difficult time. She just couldn't seem to remember anything about drinks. I mean, not just some of the ingredients or what glasses to put things in, she just didn't seem to know how to correctly pour things either. Her son was also taking the course, and I couldn't help but wonder how horrible his life must be to have such an inept mother. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm just making judgments here, but for me to watch someone who can't cut fruit WHILE being instructed on how to do so is not someone I would trust in mothering a child. The best part about Christine, however, was the way she shook the drinks that she somehow managed to make. While everyone else shakes their drinks firmly but gracefully, Christine shook her drinks like the fate of the entire world depended on it. Her arms moved so quickly that there was only a blur of flesh tone and the sound of ice being shaken around. Her face would scrunch up and she would bite her lip. I late quipped to Darren that this was probably the same dedication she gave to childbirth and that seemed to get Darren's gut dance a bit. On the last day of the bartending course before the "final examination", we were separated into groups and then each group took turns making a few rounds of drinks at the bar. The groups that were not making drinks just had to sit down and chill out and talk for a little while. It wasn't until this time that I really began to learn anything about the people that I have been conversing with for the past few days. "I can't wait until this weekend," Anna says as our group finishes and we sit down at our table. "Oh yeah?" I say, "Why's that?" "I'm going to Mexico with my boyfriend. It should be a lot of fun." "Yeah, sounds like it." "I should do something fun soon," Darren says, "It's not like I'm doing anything important." "Really? Don't you work?" Anna asks him. "No," Darren replies, "I haven't been working for a few months. Been living off my 401(k) plan." "Really?" I say, "Where did you work before?" "At a factory," Darren says with a sigh, "I worked there for 12 years and then I got laid off." "That's terrible," Anna says. "Yeah," Darren pushes back his hair as if he is thinking of something unpleasant, "And it's not like I was just an entry-level worker either. I was a supervisor. I was in charge of everything that went on at the assembly line." "And the company just laid you off?" Anna asks. "Well, the company wasn't managed very well," Darren says quickly, "The people there just didn't know how to run a factory....and I had....problems with that." Darren takes a moment to pause and gather himself. I had never seen Darren look so pained. "Well...that sucks!" Anna says, breaking the silence, "Why would they lay you off?" Darren pauses for a moment and then speaks, "Misconduct." That single word seemed to echo forever in my head, and with each echo, the more malevolent it began to sound. Misconduct. What a terrible word. What a terrible thing. What could Darren have possibly done to get fired after working with a company for 12 years. It had to be something...horrible...something...terrible. Maybe he killed somebody. Maybe he killed a lot of people. No, then he would be in jail. But maybe there was a kidnapping and all the evidence pointed to Darren, but no one could prove it so they just fired him. Or maybe Darren just went berserk one day and brought a gun to work, but in some kind of freak occurrence, the gun jammed and Darren was successfully wrestled to the ground. Whatever Darren did, the increasingly evil recitation of "Misconduct" kept running through my head. Anna and I look at each other, and it's clear that we're thinking similar things. Darren is still sitting at the other end of the table, staring down at a dried glob of bubble gum on the edge of his chair. The next day was the big bartending exam, and I was actually fairly nervous. Actually, I wasn't nervous at all about the actual bartending part, but I was a little uneasy about the written part. The written part had all of the cordials (fancy alcohol) that I wasn't really familiar with and hadn't really spend that much time studying. I had to pass the written part in order to take the practical part and I knew that if I could somehow manage to squeeze by on the written, I would be home free. To make a long story short, I end up passing both parts of the test and earn my "BARTENDING CERTIFICATE!" Whoo! I feel so proud. Now, I can go out and finally try to find a job! Yes, that will be great. Now that I have some bartending experience, it should be no problem. Or at least I think..... TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 2...... 1 comment|post comment

We're All Watching the Same Movie [26 May 2003|12:40am] [ mood | amused ] As seems to be the story of my life lately, not too much has been going on. I'm still in the little interim before I start my bartending course (Tuesday!) so I've really just been hanging out around the house and seeing some of my friends. It's an interesting thing, seeing friends after being away from them for a while. There are so many stories to tell and things to catch up on that you can spend quite a bit of time talking. The only real highlight of the past day or so for me was going to see "Bruce Almighty" in theatres. For a comedy, it was pretty decent, although I felt it dragged a bit in the end. I can forgive the movie for that, though. "Bruce Almighty" was one of those comedies with a heart of gold. What I mean by that is that by the end of the movie, the audience is taught important and profound life lessons while feeling an affirmation that life is worth living. I don't know why the majority of comedies feel like they have to add these elements to them - I would just be content having a movie that was just funny and little else. But you can always tell when you're going to be seeing one of those "life-affirming comedies" right from the outset of the movie. All you have to watch - listen, rather - for is cheesy piano music right as the first credits begin to pop up. Almost always, this is a sign that there will be dramatic moments in this comedy and that you will walk away having been taught a moral. This does not mean the movie will be bad, but it is a signal as to what kind of movie you will be watching. Just think of the movies "Jack" starring Robin Williams and "Forrest Gump" starring Tom Hanks. "Jack" begins with piano music and as the movie movies along we find out that it is teaching us that life is short and we should treasure the moments we have. It also tells us to be respectful of people who are different from us, because they could be a 10-year old trapped in Robin Williams' body. If this were a real disease - say, "Robin Williams Morphic Disorder" (RWMD) - then I would probably stay FAR away from anyone with this. Imagine our country's youth turning into an army of prepubescent Robin Williams clones. "Forrst Gump" starts out with a fairly famous scene with a feather floating through the air. Of course, piano music is playing at the beginning, signaling that this will teach us a lesson. And there are many to learn in "Forrest Gump". And if you haven't seen that movie, then that's just ridiculous. Anyway, our showing of "Bruce Almighty" was sold out, so this meant that the theatre became packed to the point where some people ended up sitting in the aisles. It was also loud as the theatre was filled mostly with rowdy 14-year olds or adults with a massive group of kids. It was a little irritating having little girls running up and down the aisles for some reason while the movie was playing, and a little dangerous seeing those girls go flying face-first when they tripped over the people in the aisle, but I managed to contain myself. However, in lieu of Fanboy being present at this movie, there was another character who I will remember for a long time to come - a woman who decided that she was going to scream out everything that happened on the screen. For some reason, this Screen Screamer thought we were all either morons who couldn't decipher the complexities of a Jim Carrey movie, or blind. But, it didn't look like the Screen Screamer was very bright herself as she had about 18 kids with her (all hers) and she would be yelling at them in a slurred Upstate Twang. She was also hideously, hideously ugly as she took up about 5 seats, had greasy hair, wore a tank top (vomit), and had about 3 teeth. If I ever wanted to tell her to be quiet, I wouldn't have been able to as I would probably dispense the contents of my stomach directly into her face. Anyway, for an example of what the Screen Screamer would do, there was a scene in the movie where a dog is sitting on a toilet reading the newspaper. Everyone in the theatre obviously understood the gag, since they were laughing, but Screen Screamer yelled out "HAHAHAH...LOOK!! THE DOG'S READING THE PAPER!! ON THE TOILET!!!!" Yes, we know. We can see. Another scene when Jim Carrey is walking on water. "OH!! LOOK!! HE'S WALKING ON THE WATER BECAUSE HE HAS THE POWERS OF GOD!" Yes...we're all watching the same movie. She should definitely be a special education teacher. Sorry to cut this short, but I have to run. "THIS IS THE END OF THE JOURNAL ENTRY!! BECAUSE HE HAS TO GO!!" Thanks, Screen Screamer. 3 comments|post comment

The Job Hunt: Director's Cut [23 May 2003|03:17am] [ mood | bored ] As you may have noticed, entries have become sparse mostly because nothing of note seems to happen around here and I don't want to bore you with piddling details about what kind of cereal I had when I woke up and a fun website I went to today. For the last few days, I've been mostly hanging out around my house and hanging out with a few of my friends. This kind of carefree summertime excitement brings a wave of nostalgia about me as I remember the summers of my youth: Swimming, going camping, having a big adventure that taught me a lot about who I am as a person. Ok...so that last thing didn't happen but it sounds good. I can't possibly be the only one who totally made up a story about their summer vacation when asked to write about the topic in Elementary School. I mean, I just felt that if I wrote about what I actually did on that vacation, it wouldn't live up to my high standards of storytelling. So, I'd always make up a story that at once made me a courageous figure and was a life-affirming tale that would warm even the iciest teacher's heart. I think one year (like 5th grade, perhaps) I wrote about my summer vacation by saying that I was out camping with a bunch of my friends (Yeah, like my parents would allow a pre-5th grader to go camping alone with his friends) and I got separated from my group and had to fend for myself for a night. I think I threw in how I craftily erected a small shelter so the torrential rain that fell that night wouldn't sop me and how I started a fire using a pair of sunglasses. I think I got an A, which is all that really mattered. Fast forward a good number of summers and you'll see me now; trying to figure out what the heck I'm going to do with my summer. If it was up to me, I'd write a novel or make a movie or something. But, no, my parents say I should do the RESPONSIBLE thing and get a job. I love how getting a job is a RESPONSIBLE thing to do. Ok...I guess joining the mindless masses that inhabit the working class is a much better alternative than enlightening the world with creativity and art. Yeah, sure. I see it. Anyway, I don't have much of a choice, so I have to find some kind of job. As it is, I hate working, but the worst part of the job process is the hiring process. Finding a decent place that is hiring is the most frustrating part of the entire ordeal. So, I think it might be a good idea to get a job at Suncoast, a local DVD seller. I mean, DVDs are something I like so if I have to work I might as well work somewhere with goods that I would consume from time to time. I walk into the store and ask the gentleman at the desk if there were any positions available. "What kind of position are you looking for?" he asks me curtly, apparently relieved that I am no longer a customer, but a whining job applicant. I am not sure what to say, as Suncoast is about the size of an attic and I wasn't aware that there were that many positions to occupy. Yes, I'd like to become the owner please. "Clerk?" I say, not meaning for my response to come out as a question, but it did and I wince a little bit. "Hold on a moment and I'll go talk to Cheryl. She's the manager." I'm pretty sure that it must be a rule that every store must have a manager named Cheryl and that she is this burly woman with grotesque facial features who waddles out of the back room with a disgusted look on her face. "You want to work here?" Cheryl asks me, holding an application in front of my face as if she is waiting for a yes or no answer from me. "Yes, I would like that," I say. "I don't know what we can do for ya," Cheyl says, flipping her greasy blonde hair behind her, "We don't really have any openings right now, but you can fill out an application so we know who you are." I nod and she hands me an application. She doesn't give me a second look before she waddles back into the stock room where she probably watches Dr. Phil on a small black and white TV. I grab the application and begin to head out of the store. "Hold on there," the guy at the desk says, "You have to do that application here." Great. Now I'm stuck writing on the counter and I look like an idiot. What is this? An exam? Like I'm going to cheat on my social security number and my middle name? I finished the thing and left as quickly as I could. I went to other places seeking employment, but I got a similar sort of reception at the other venues. Clerks would suddenly think they are so much better than me because they have something that I want and then Cheryl would come waddle out, hand me an application, chide me for being so stupid as to think there would be employment available at a store of this calibur, leaves, and forces me to fill out an application by the cash register. What a wonderful, wonderful experience. I've decided I need something different, and that is why I have signed up to take Bartending courses at the Northest Bartender's School. Yes, that's right. In two weeks, I will be a certified bartender capable of...tending...bars... I'm sure that experience alone will fill up a few journal entries, so expect some regular updating. I should be updating much more frequently now, so check back in a day or so. Until then, I have to go make fire with my sunglasses. Hey, I need some fodder in case I have to tell a real-life story for a college transfer application. 2 comments|post comment

Post-Apocalyptic Raves [18 May 2003|01:12am] [ mood | awake ] Yeah, I know, I haven't written in this thing for a while - mostly because I've been so bogged down in school and all sorts of other things. But, now most of that is over so I am finally able to pound out a good entry. I moved home last Saturday even though I still had two final exams left. They were both at the end of the week and everyone I knew would be home by that point so there was really no reason that I should stay. Besides, I only live like 45 min away from the school so driving there is really no big deal. Moving out was a disaster, however, as my car suddenly decided to die the day I wanted to get things out. I was just minding my own business, courteously driving on Central Avenue in Albany when my car just came to the conclusion that it would be a good idea to stop shifting. So, I would press the gas, and the car would rev up, but I couldn't get out of first gear! There I was, on a crowded street with a 40 MPH speed limit, and I couldn't get above 20! I was relieved when I finally approached a hill, because I could just get the car up to a decent speed and NOT be beeped at by passing drivers. That's one thing I really love, being BEEPED at by people going by. Isn't it obvious to them when I'm trying to accelerate after being stopped at a red light, that my car might not be working perfectly at that moment? Apparently not, as I had countless soccer moms pass me in their monstrous sports sedans and minivans, giving me dirty looks or throwing their hands up in disgust at me. Because of this, I dread red lights. Now, any time that I stop at a light, I always have this little fear in the back of my head that my car won't accelerate and I'll be forced to sit though another round of drivers' ridicule. So, it turned out that my car's transmission was completely destroyed because a indicator light that was supposed to tell me it was on the verge of being destroyed didn't light up. And I also had to have it towed back home from Albany. So I call AAA, and they say someone will be there to get my car in about an hour. Ok, that's fine. Three hours later, someone finally decided to show up to get the car. A greasy man named Phil with big oil-covered hands that I was forced to shake. When he smiled at me, I noticed that he had about 3 teeth and that the gaps where he was missing teeth were completely black. The gum and everything. Now, I was in a bad mood because of wating for 3 hours and I was on the verge of vomitting. A wonderful combonation. To make a ridiculous story short, he eventually towed the car back home and I couldn't get my stuff out of my room until two days later. As I mentioned before, I still had to return to school to take tests, which I didn't mind. My first test was in Anthropology. Now, I normally don't mind multiple choice tests, but for some reason the Professor of this class likes to give tests with no right answers. Basically, this turns into an extremely fun game of guessing which answer he must have filled in on his Test Key Scantron. Because there are no right answers, it is a challenge to guess what the Professor might have been smoking when he was writing the test. On some qustions, I'm sure he was on LSD, but on others, I think there was a little Crack Coccaine being used. When all was said and done, the test took me 25 minutes. It felt like an utter waste of my time and I was home within the hour. The next day, I had an 8 AM Pyschology test, so that meant that I had to get up at 6 and leave by 6:30. Now, for anyone who knows me, that is a very difficult thing for me to force myself to do. I'm up all night, but don't expect me to get up early in the morning and be functional. It just doesn't happen like that. But, alas, I had no choice, so I woke up that morning and got in my car by 6:30 - right on time. The drive down to Albany on the highway was an interesting one since there was so much fog that I was unable to see more than 10 feet ahead of me. Sometimes, cars and trucks would just materialize out of thin air if I was speeding. I got to Albany around 7:20, so I had some time to waste. I decided that the most productive way to waste my time would be to sit in front of the lecture center where my test would be and look over my notes and do some last minute studying. So, I spotted a chair, sat down, and began to read. Soon afterwards, another guy, who was apparently taking a test in a room right next door took a seat next to me to study for his test. I think it was Microeconomics. As he sat down, he nodded to me a bit, and I nodded to him, but we never actually said a word. It is a strange bond that one develops with a stranger when there is no one else around. And even more confusing is that fact that we never uttered a word to each other. Often, both of us would look up from our respective books and raise our eyebrow at the other which is the equivalent of saying "Yeah...this sucks." or "Boooring". For a while, the Nameless Boy and I shared our bond of last-minute studying, but as soon as people began to arrive, this bond was suddenly broken and we were but strangers yet again. The Psychology test took me about 35 min, and once again it felt like the trip had no been worth it. To make myself feel a bit better about getting up so early in the morning and risking my life through the scourge of foggy roads, I drove over to Breugger's Bagels and got myself a bagel sandwich. Going to a bagel place at 8:30 in the morning is something strange to behold. At least for me, who is NEVER up that early. As I walked into the shop, I realized that it was completely full of senior citizens. Blue hairs, white hairs, no hairs. All of them. And then in the corner there was a middle aged man with what was presumably his wife who stuck right out of the crowd. The couple looked about 50, but comparitively, they were young and vibrant. Another thing that gets me about going to a place of business so early in the morning is how damned chipper the people who work there are. I'm still in the my groggy, lethargic phase at this point and I just can't handle bagel people accosting me with happy phrases like "Good morning, sir! Can I get you a cup of coffee? Oh, yes! Have an excellent morning, sir! Thanks for coming!" -Just give me a bagel, people. And stop being so damned happy. It's morning. You could be sleeping. But, no, you're working AT A BAGEL FACTORY. Don't you realize all of the potential that you are wasting by doing this? Huh? Huh? The captialist system is depriving you of your sleep...AND YOU'RE HAPPY ABOUT IT!??!!!?- "Umm...just a bagel. No coffee. Thanks." I meagerly say, unable and unwilling to muster up the strength to say what's going on in my mind. I sit, eat my bagel, drive home, and sleep until 5. What productivity. So, on Friday, once I had actually finished everything for school for the year, I went with a bunch of my friends to see "The Matrix Reloaded". I didn't really have high hopes for the movie, because I know that it is very difficult to successfully emulate, let alone surpass, the magic of an innovative move like the original "Matrix". However, the movie was pretty good, if you take it for a crazy action movie and not much more. However, I couldn't help but be disgusted by one of the beggining scenes of the movie in which there is a huge, unneccesary and RANDOM celebration and rave in the Post-Apocalyptic city of Zion. Apparently according to the movie, driving techno music can be made with three people pounding on drums that look like they've been stolen from a South African tribe. But this is a sci-fi movie, so I should suspend my disbelief. Fine. However, during this scene *SPOILER WARNING* Neo and Trinity are having sex. This is a long sex scene, intercut with scenes of the Post-Apocalyptic Rave. I understand how this is supposed to be an artsy scene, showing us raw human emotion on two levels, but it just doesn't work. Seeing Keanu Reeves and Carrie-Anne Moss having sex while covered with black plugs all over thier bodies (Because of being disconnected from The Matrix) while listening to pounding techno with random Post-Apocalyptic people dancing and pouring water all over themselves is JUST NOT SOMETHING I REALLY WANTED TO SEE IN THE MATRIX. Post-Apocalyptic overload, methinks. Besides, every scene of the movie seemed like it had some form of random making out. I just wanted to see cool fights and special effects. If the romantic scenes had some purpose, I wouldn't have minded, but they were just ridiculous. But the single most ridiculous part of the film was ***SPOILER WARNING*** when Trinity "dies" inside the Matrix and Neo revives her by plunging his hand into her stomach and then MASSAGING HER HEART. I laughed harder than I think I've ever laughed during a movie at that point. It was so funny. I don't know about you, but I'm just itching for some Post-Apocalyptic Rave/Sex action. Just don't forget to bring your African Drums. **SAD SIDE NOTE: Although I looked everywhere, Fanboy was nowhere to be seen. I think I have to travel to Albany to see my next blockbuster (The Hulk) just so I can see him and be happy once again.** 5 comments|post comment

One Very Quick Update [14 May 2003|11:33pm] Sorry for my lack of entries this week, but I've been swamped with all sorts of work. Mostly it's studying for my final exams, which are basically the Devil Incarnate. But, that's ok. I just had a Cultural Anthropology final at 1:00 today, so I drove all the way to Albany to take it. Turns out the test was 50 multiple choice questions (each with seemingly no right answer) and it took me 25 min. I was home by 2:30. It was ridiculous and felt like a waste of my time. But I'll get to that in a later entry. Tomorrow morning, I have a Psychology final at 8 AM so that means I have to leave my house at about 6:30 AM, and I assume the test will take me about half and hour tops. I mean, it's 60 multiple choice questions, so it can't take me much longer than the Anthropology test. Plus, it will probably be 10 times more coherent than the Anthro exam. It has to be. There is no way that it could not. So, yeah, that's pretty much it for now, but I felt like writing this so that I felt like I contributed something to the journal this week. I'll be back with a normal entry as soon as I finish my school obligations. One day, it will all be over. (tomorrow) 1 comment|post comment

Adventures in Upstate New York [11 May 2003|03:54am] [ mood | drained ] As you may be able to tell from the title of this entry, I have been back in my good old hometown for a few days now. In fact, I actually brought my suitemate Frank along with me this time. Being as this was his first time in Upstate New York (well, this far upstate, at least) I decided to show him all of the best things that my area has to offer. First, I took Frank to Lake George at about 10:00 the first evening he was here. As anyone who is from the area knows, Lake George before Memorial Day is like a ghost town. Frank actually commented on how it looks like a zombie town, and I think he's right. I mean, look at the people you see walking down the street during the off-season of Lake George! You get either kids in baggy clothing who go to hang out at the local arcade even though they have no money. Usually, these kids chill out by the air hockey machine, apparently hoping that if they lean against it the right way, maybe a mechanism inside will come loose and magically open up the machine to unlimited free games! Yes! Lake George Arcade Kids! After that, we kind of just hung out and just went on Yahoo! Chat to see how many people we could annoy. If you haven't tried voice chatting on Yahoo!, you just haven't lived. You'll realize that you no longer have to pick on the dorky kids in your school; you can pick on the dorky kids is Australia. Yes, Australia. That is most certainly my favorite target. Often times, me and whoever happens to be my partner in crime at the time will go to Australia chats and make fun of them. Sayings like "Hello everyone in here, Australia sucks!" or "So, you're all from a prison colony, eh? No wonder you have stupid accents" make my day and always get lots of angry antipodeans spewing obsceneties like sailors (well, they ARE from a prison colony) telling us that we're "Yanks". At least I don't have dingos in my backyard. The next night, after an exhilarating trip Frank and I went to another one of my brother's band concerts. It was at my old high school, so I thought it would be interesting to go back there for the first time since I left, plus Frank would get to see how miserable my four years actually were. As we arrived at the school, I was confronted by my old pottery teacher, who hated me when I was her student and now suddenly loves me. "Oh, Justin! You're back! Hello! How are you!" she says with a wide smile on her face like she went to my funeral and now I've suddenly returned from the dead. I nod, give a little polite laugh and make my way into the school. The moment I walk in, I'm accosted by the attendance lady, who begins to hug me, ask me how I've been, ask me what I'm up to, squeeze me, pinch my cheeks, and give me one last hug. By the time she was done for me, my entire body was bruised and battered and it's going to be a long recovery. So, I walk into the auditorium at the school and prepare to listen to my brother's band. The auditorium is full of "scene" high school kids who look like they have surgically-installed tubes that syphon sugar directly to the brain. These kids were CRAZY. In fact, I've never seen a group of kids look more like they were going to spontaeously combust more than these kids. Apparently, Ecstacy is a bigger problem than I first thought. What was most unique about this experience, however, was this massive girl who decided to give the entire audience a huge dance/flop-around-like-an-idiot extravaganza. Looking like someone right out of the Torrid catalogue, The Dancing Girl would suddenly stand up from her seated position and flail her arms wildly in the air. After a few moments, she was start screaming, and then jumping up and down repeatedly. Then, when it seemed like the finale had been reached, the would run back and forth to each side of the auditorium. All the while, she was wearing a white shirt that was WAY too small her her. And you know what that means: Huge amounts of flesh dancing around in the flashing lights of the rock show. HUGE amounts of flesh. Like, so much that I don't think I'll eat pork for many years. Like...at least three decades. After that display of how scared I am of Generation Y, Frank and I decided to meet Ashley in Saratoga to go get some coffee or something. So, Ashley calls me on the phone and asks me directions to Saratoga. I tell her she has to take the Northway (which is the main highway in the area). Before I can go any further, she informs me that she has never driven on the Northway before. Now, I don't know how this is possible for someone who lives in the area. Basically, in order to get anywhere around here, it is almost essential to take the Northway. Of course, Ashley doesn't know how to even get to the Northway, so I had to explain that. When I finally managed to give Ashley direction, Frank and I met her in Saratoga and we went to a little bar and grill called Bailey's. Bailey's is an awesome place because...well...it's Irish, and the food is good. I ordered a hot chocolate and Ashley and I shared a cheesecake (which was awesome). Frank, lamenting how little money he had since he spent most of it on things from our trip, decided that he was going to get....The House Coffee. That's right...not gourmet coffee...The HOUSE COFFEE. So, our waiter comes over and asks us what we want. He's a guy who's probably in his late 20s, early 30s with longer hair and some blonde highlights. He speaks with exaggerated motions and says "My name's Brandon, and I'll be your server" like fifty times to us. Obviously he either: A) Has a developing case of Alzheimers or B) thinks we look like idiots. Whenever Brandon would open his mouth, I felt like saying "Yes, we know. You're name's Brandon, and you're our server. Right. I know." Eventually, when Brandon got his 400 introductions out of the way, he went to get our stuff. When he returned he proudly handed Frank over his House Coffee. Frank looked at it with wide eyes and a watering mouth and made his way to pick up the spoon. His fingers slipped and the spoon fell to the ground with a loud clash. "Oh, shit," Frank said, looking down at his spoon, think about how this unfortunate incident has further delayed the glory that is The House Coffee. Frank signals for Brandon, who is now introducing himself to the table across the room, and he realizes that given Brandon's past history of introductory brevity, it's not worth it. So finally, the moment comes when Frank will finally get to ingest some of the wonderful, stupendous, marvelous, HOUSE COFFEE. He raises his mug with a quiver of excitement, pulls it closer to his face, and suddenly jerks back in disgust. "Oh...crap..." he says, putting the mug down and closely inspecting something about it. "What's wrong," I say, sipping at my hot chocolate. "Lipstick," he says, "Someone's lipstick is on my mug." Dubiously, I take a peek over a Frank's mug, expecting it to be a glare from a neon sign or something, but sure enough, there is lipstick on his mug. Not just a little amount, but a great deal of lipstick. It was definitely the mug of someone from New Jersey. Now, Frank must wait for Brandon, who seems to never come when you need him. Finally, we get ahold of him. "I have two problems," Frank says calmly, "First, I dropped my spoon." "Oh, that's no problem, I can -" Brandon begins. "Second, someone's lipstick is on my mug," he spins it around to show to Brandon. Brandon takes a close look at the mug - once - and then again - "Oh, yes. That is lipstick," Brandon says assuredly. Like we didn't know and he's the lipstick expert who must be the judge of all such things. Brandon looks at us for a moment and then takes the mug. Eventually Frank got a lipstick-free mug and he enjoyed his House Coffee. After our dining, we all decided to walk about Saratoga Springs. Not much is really open that late at night, but there were quite a few people around. We decided, for no real reason to stop at the Tobacco place. Frank and Ashley wanted to get some cloves, and I, not liking to inhale smoke, just got a cigar. The guy who worked at the tobacco shop was amazing. He would sit behind the counter, cigar in mouth, singing along to some 80s hair metal, allowing the smoke from his cigar to come streaming out his mouth and wrap around his head. Ashley picked out her and Frank's cloves based on the picture on the carton, and I walked in the humidor and got a small Punch cigar. "Ohh...this is fine, fine cigar," Cool Tobacco Guy said to me with a smile. I wasn't really sure how to respond to this. I mean, what do you say when someone complements you on your purchase? Thank you? For telling me that I'm not an idiot and I know what is good. Or should I say "really"? And then seems like it was blind purchase. I don't know. But as the King in "The King and I" would say, it is a puzzlement. So, after that I tried to explain to Ashley how she was to go home, and it's really just a straight line the whole time, but when explaining anything to her, it always seems to get complicated. However, she managed to do well since she made it back alive. I did some moving out of my dorm today...and that's a story for another journal. Probably a better story that the one I told tonight. But, hey, it's 5:00 AM right now. What do you expect from me? 1 comment|post comment

Fire Drills, Car Engines, and The Mom [08 May 2003|01:39am] [ mood | content ] As I mentioned at the closing of my last journal entry, I was interrupted at one point by a fire drill. Now, notice how I say that it was a fire drill, even though it wasn't. I think almost anyone does that. The fire alarm goes off, and you think to yourself, Oh man, ANOTHER FIRE DRILL. This is what society does to us. It gives us so many fire drills that it becomes like the boy who cried wolf. If there ever was a real fire, I'm sure that approximately 394 people would perish in that blaze because they were taking their sweet time exiting the building for that FIRE DRILL. So it's about quarter to two in the morning and my entire building must empty out. (I like in a tower of 21 floors) This is, of course, a major event because the elevators don't work so everyone is forced to make haste down the stairs. Getting on the stairs in the first place is a tough task as you must time your entrance right to avoid being taken out by the drunkards that are stumbling down the steps. Even once you have successfully taken a place in the rowdy mass of humanity, you must then try to survive what I call "The Stair Gauntlet". The Stair Gauntlet comprises of one of the most difficult hand-foot dexterity tests known to man. Not only must you run down the stairs at a fevered pitch while avoiding the stumbles of the drunk girls and shielding your ears from the penetrating blast of the alarm, but you must also avoid the many obstacles that happen to be placed on the stairs at the given time. These obstacles include old bar flyers, empty bags of potato chips, condoms, rotten fruit, trampled bodies, and little spots where someone spilled alcohol. When running the gauntlet, you must make sure that you are aware of your surroundings. You need to know what people are likely to fall on you, you need to know how fast you have to be going to avoid becoming a trampled body, and you must move your feet side-to-side, almost like skiing, to escape from the obstacles. Many people have died trying, but I was fortunate enough to have survived last night. As if the gauntlet wasn't bad enough, we are then forced to stand outside for a long period of time. Not only do we have to stand outside, but we must get off the the concrete that surrounds our tower and make our way onto the grass. Let me being by saying that if the tower ever did fall over, being on the edge of the grass would not save any of us. We would all die horrible and painful deaths. I mean, what do these people think this will do? Do they think they will wake up the next morning to the headline "HUGE BLAZE AT SUNY ALBANY, ALL STUDENTS WHO STOOD ON GRASS SURVIVED"? However, being an RA must make you fireproof, because the officials that were taking care of this "Fire Drill" didn't seem to have a problem with them chilling out and talking on the concrete. In fact, I think the RAs were closer than the firemen to the building. So, there I was, standing on the grass, surrounded by a crowd of moaning girls, complaining that they are cold and this is "bullshit", guys that take this opportunity to be really loud with one another and give high-fives a lot, and people too drunk to fully understand why one moment they were innocently vomiting in their bathroom and the next moment they are standing outside surrounded by people they don't know that well. Eventually, after telling us that it would be a long time before we could get back into our rooms, we were allowed entry back into the tower, and so begins another battle - trying to get back to your room. Unless you are the first person in the building, you can pretty much forget about the elevator. The line by the elevator is just a mish-mash of people packed so close together that in any other situation it would be referred to as intercourse. So, the only option really is the stairs. Fortunately, I live on the 9th floor, so taking the stairs isn't really that big of a deal. I feel really sorry for the people who live on the 21st floor or something. Ewww... So, after I slept until about 2:00 today (I like to blame it on the fire drill, although I would have still been awake at that point) and then Frank and I went to visit Ashley at her job. Ashley works at an Ice Cream Shop that is creatively titled Ice Cream Shop. However, in typical Ashley fashion, when I asked her if it was spelled "Ice Cream Shoppe", she said yes. However, when I arrived there, there was a large sign that read "Ice Cream Shop". One "P", no "e". "Ashley, I thought you said this place was spelled s-h-o-p-p-e!" I say to her as I approach the service counter. "Oh, it is!" Ashley says. I motion over to the large sign that is right in front of the window that clearly says "Ice Cream Shop" NOT "Ice Cream Shoppe". "Oh...I never noticed that before," she says with a laugh. Anyway, I eventually forgave her for that and proceeded to have ice cream on the house. As Frank and I sunk our teeth into our delicious vanilla cones, suddenly 5 people all decided they wanted ice cream. First came this man who drove this old car from the 50s that was heavily modified to look like a kind of go-cart. It was a pretty neat car, but nothing too special. Then, another gentleman with a tucked-in white shirt, blue jeans, and blonde hair appeared. He would always be looking at the go-cart like he wanted to say something about it but couldn't muster up the courage to start a conversation. Then and large man and his son come by, and the large man looks at the go-cart. "Wow," says the large man, "That has to be running on a 400." "Actually, it's a 410," the driver says, patting his car. "Chevy actually produced a 410 in '56?" the large man inquires. "Nah, it's a '58" the driver says, "Although what I really wanted to put on it was a 453 from '60." The blonde man, who until this point had been silent suddenly butts in, "Oh, I used to have a friend who had a 453, but he always said he wished he had a 456, but he liked the 310 better if just for looks." "310's are great. I used to have a 320 which is kind of like the same thing as a 314, which is close to the capacity of a 310," the driver says. "Hah! 310's got nothing on the 412 if Chevy makes it. If you get a Chrysler, though, it's more like a 234," the large man says while laughing. Throughout this whole conversation, I had no idea what these people were talking about and Frank and I were starting to laugh pretty hard. We eventually decided that these guys were talking about car because it made them feel like men. And what are men supposed to do? Make fire! Find Woman! Talk about cars! Eventually, the large man left, but the blonde man was continuing to rattle off a list of incomprehensible engine numbers that was beginning to bore even the driver. But before they could finish, Frank and I left. Later this evening, on our way to the dining hall for dinner, Frank and I stumbled upon one of the most notorious creatures in all the SUNY Albany - The Mom. Now, in case you aren't familiar with The Mom, this is a girl who looks like she is about 40 years old. She's a freshman and she is quite skinny, has sunken eyes, and looks like she has given birth to about 10 children. She just looks wiped out...like she has done her part by giving the world 10 kids and now the world owes her something. This is evident in everything she does - from the lethargic way she smiles to weary look that seems glued to her face. She is more of a mother than my own mother. Just to be assholes, Frank and I like to make comments when we see The Mom. Really loud comments like "Oh boy...did you know my Mom goes to SUNY Albany?" "Oh yeah, I hear she had about ten kids!" "Yeah, my Mom had lots of them." You know, cool stuff like that. But it remains a fact that we are all children of The Mom. 5 comments|post comment

And Now, The End Is Near... [07 May 2003|02:40am] [ mood | hyper ] Well, today was the last day of classes here at SUNY Albany. It's been a decent semester here, but I didn't really like any of my classes. They were either really boring accounts of things I don't have any particular interest in, or they were just poorly taught. Ah, yes, the joys of going to a research univeristy where more often that not, the Professors care more about their current laboratory research than the classes they are required to teach. However, in memoriam of the semester, I have compiled a list of all of my classes, with comments as to how ridiculous they were. Art, Music History Multimedia 2 Mon, Wed, Fri 9:05-10:00 This was a class that I was required to take through the first year program they have here called Project Rennaissance. For some reason, the geniuses at Project Rennaissance Headquarters thought it would be a good idea to throw all of us in the Arts and Humanities tract into the second half of a two semester course. Taught by Professor Warren Roberts, an old man with a voice like Kermit the Frog, the class was basically a lesson in being chided for not being able to read his mind. As Warren Roberts would lecture at the front of the room, he would often take long moments to think, saying "Well...uhhh...the...uhhh...uhhhh...uhhh....uhhh". This would go on for about half the class, and then he would finally finish his sentence. By this point, none of us would have any idea what he just said (I'm sure it made sense to him) and he would often refer back to the statement that never was with phrases such as "Now, does anyone remember...remember what I said earlier in the class...anyone..." Then he would stand quietly at the front of the room waiting for an answer. Of course, no one could possibly answer this question, as it would mean that they had somehow mastered the foreign tounge that Warren Roberts speaks in. This was a writing intensive class, which basically means that they can give us a lot of papers and not feel bad. In fact, the only assignment in this class was three 10 page papers. Now, this doesn't seem like that big of a deal, but it is. Especially when Warren Roberts expects you to write exactly like he would. After we had our first paper graded, he stood at the front of the room and shook his head. "Awful, Awful," he said, shaking the graded mass of papers in front of us. Then he would go on a long speech about how bad the public school system is these days...and we're actually the victims...and yada, yada, old person talk. The best part of the class, however, was most certainly the TA. TA Tony, as we affectionately referr to him, is very much the elitist that Warren Roberts is. However, Tony has long hair, wears CNN t-shirts (Where do you even get those?), and...HE HAS LONG HAIR. I mean, you should see this guy. He walked right out of an 80s metal groupie circle. One of my favorite TA Tony moments is when he quoted Metallica in a not-so-subtle way of telling us we all suck at school and should just give up now for the good of humanity. "I just can't believe how...how bad these papers were..." TA Tony would say with a grin of disbelief on his face. Then there was the most hated studnet in all of SUNY Albany - David Weiner. David is a junior who won't shut his damn mouth during class. Through his pointless rantings, all of us have learned that he took a sculpture class, is very involved in the artistic process, and has NO IDEA HOW TO INTERPRET A PAINTING. But the killer here is, he won't even raise his hand. He'll just blurt out an answer - an WRONG answer. And then he'll keep talking about it like he's the only one who's in the room. But, maybe we'd all get along better if we just listened to a little Metallica - like TA Tony would say. Human ID Mon, Wed, Fri 11:15-12:10 The second required class for Project Rennaissance and actually a year-long session. This class used to be really neat the first semester, but this time around it transformed into the most vile creation that has ever been known to man. First of all, the class is taught by an gentleman named Matthew M. Neugroschel, Esq. Notice how I put the Esquire at the end? Yeah, he wanted everyone to know that he is a lawyer. Wow, how cool he is...he's a lawyer. Everyone must bow down before the lawyer. Ok...he's not even a lawyer in this state...he's a lawyer in New Jersey. And, last time I checked no one cared about New Jersey. There is no law in New Jersey...everyone just runs around naked in the streets, killing people, and taking drugs. Everyone knows that. Being a lawyer in New Jersey is kind of like being on gambling patrol in Las Vegas. Anyway, Matthew Neugroschel is a very large man. In fact, he's a massive man whose towering 6'5'' figure is only matched by his massive girth. The mountains tremble when Neugroschel (or Noogs, as we call him) takes a step with his mighty foot of doom. Not only that, but he has this scraggly beard-thing that is not a good look for him. He likes to think of himself as an intellectual, so he tries to stimulate intellectual thought, by assigning assignment after assignment. On one day, we had an entire website and a 10 page research paper due. The man is insane. We also think he may be gay - and we think he has his eye on my suitemate Frank. And I think Frank feeds into it. A few weeks ago, Frank complemented Noogs on his demin jacket, and Noogs just gave Frank a really odd look. A look of love. A look of affection. A look of longing, if you ask me. But who really knows? Pyschology 101 Mon, Wed, Fri 1:25-2:20 I don't know why I took this class. I really have no interest in Psychology...or 101. But it was really the only class I could get into, so I took it in stride. Actually, the class wasn't half-bad and the teacher, a Dr. Bruce Svare, was actually decent. The problem is, though, that he makes you complete a little number called "THE PSYCHOLOGY 101 SUPPLEMENT". Now, if you go to SUNY Albany, you should know by now that the mere mention of that wretched title makes even the strongest jock quiver in his Official UAlbany Sports Briefs. It is 100+ pages of pure busywork. Have some time to spare? Why not start by copying pages and pages of your notes into the Supplement! Wanna have some fun? Read a dull book called Taking Sides and write some essays on that (18, to be exact). And for the grand finale, try going to the library for hours to find obscure psychology journals just to write their references and a brief synopsis in the Supplement. Good fun, I assure you. Cultural Anthropology Tues, Thurs 9:45-10:40 Quite possibly the worst class that I've ever taken. Actually, now that I've completed the course, I still don't know the fundamentals of Cultural Anthropology. If someone were to hold a gun to my head and say "Ok, bud, explain the basics of a peripheral civilization...or DIE", I probably would get a bullet right to the head. The Professor was a man named Robert Carmack. Robert Carmack reminds me a lot of Indiana Jones - except not cool. Carmack is a sad, retired man who had to teach this course because they couldn't fill his job. There is a probably a reason for this, because as far as I can tell, Cultural Anthropology is irrelevant to our lives and makes no sense. At least that's the vibe I got from taking the class. Carmack is an elderly man with slicked back gray hair with a hairline that began to recede, but not fully. He has a strangely high voice and it is incredibly quiet. Even with the help of a microphone, he is barely audible. In fact, when he would give his lectures, the microphone would frequently make popping sounds or stop altogether. This would ensure that any important points the Professor brought up were missed. So even when the microphone wasn't working, Carmack would keep talking in that high little voice. Indy wouldn't be pleased. "Well...the most important thing in Cultural Anthropology is (CRACK!!) (Bubble!!).....so you should keep that in mind." Cultural Anthropology Discussion Section Friday 10:10-11:05 As if the horror couldn't be drawn out any longer, they decided that it would be a good idea to have a discussion for Anthropology. So we could talk about the issues that are so prevalent in Cultural Anthropology today. The problem with this is that we don't learn anything so it is difficult to discuss the absence of knowledge. The TA for this was a graduate student named Edgar Martin del Campo. As you might be able to tell, Edgar is of Mexican heritage. In fact, he made it a point to tell us that all the time. He is also the biggest nerd in the entire word. He didn't allow us to discuss anything, rather he would stand up in front of the class and lecture about things that have nothing to do with anything. Yes, that's right, anything. Edgar giving a lecture on Laundry Cycles would be more pertinent than what he was talking about. Apparently, as I found out later, Edgar is a bit of a goth. Turns out he went to the Anthropology Halloween party (Why there would be a party, one does not know) dressed all in Goth. Yes, and as you know, I am a huge fan of Torrid and Hot Topic and all they represent. So, that's pretty much a list of my exciting classes. Sorry if you had to deal with that, but I had to write all of that to help me cope with the horrors that I have witnessed over the past semester. On a lighter note, I had told my friend Ashley a while back that I would make her some drawings like those on http://www.explodingdog.com . So, if you don't know what that site is, the following images won't make much sense to you, but here's what I did: This one is called "Toxic Shock" (after Ashley's worry about getting this affliction) And this one is called "Coumphy" (after Ashley's perferred way of spelling the word "comfy") So, those are my original drawings inspired by Exploding Dog. Anyway, we just had a fire drill, so I think I'm going to get going. I'll give a full account of the fire drill fun in my next entry. Damn, I hate the fire alarm here. 3 comments|post comment

The Fanboy Cometh [04 May 2003|01:51am] [ mood | pensive ] Once again, I have come home for part of the weekend due to my familial (I'm pretty sure that's a word) obligations. This time, I went to see my brother perform in the play "Tribute". The whole show was excellent and my brother was really good - so props to him. Anyway, the big event for me was going to see X-Men 2 on Friday. Actually, I should say X2: X-Men United, which is the official title for the movie. Now, after seeing the movie, the title doesn't really make much sense. I mean, isn't the whole point of having a group called the X-Men mean that they are united? If they weren't united, I doubt that they would call themselves the X-Men, because they probably wouldn't even know each other. The X2 part of the title is ok, although it reminds me WAY too much of high school math. ...I HATE exponents. But I'll let it slide this time. So, I bought tickets a day ahead for X2 just to make sure that we could get into the movie. It's a good thing that I did that because when I arrived at the mall, I noticed the huge lines of rabid X-Men fans waiting in line, hoping to get a ticket for a showing. With a smug grin, I walked past this line conspicuously holding my ticket in my hand - letting all of those pitiful souls waiting in line know how superior I was to them! I had a ticket! I would be seeing the feature! I would be blessed by the glory that is comic book superheros fighting evil and prejudice on the big screen! Haha! There will be no waiting in lines for me! Still clutching my ticket tightly in in my hand, I walked over to the ticket-taker lady who was about 500 years old. Slowly and proudly, I handed my ticket over and prepared for her to bow her head graciously to me, in awe that I was one of the few that possessed this ticket. "Oh, X-Men 2, huh?" the old lady said with a yawn as I was suddenly thrust back into reality. I nodded. "Ok...you need to wait over there," she says, pointing to what looked like a small group of people gathered right outside of the entrance to the main theatre. Reluctantly, I make my way back to that group of people. Before I knew it, I realized that this was no small group of people, but a line of people waiting for the movie. A line that I couldn't seem to find the end of. A line that swerved 5 times, took 3 lefts and 2 rights. A line that was so long that I ended up far away from my destination. This whole line can't be for our 9:15 showing, I say, trying to comfort my self. There's no way that this many people can fit into one theatre! "Actually, this is all for the 9:15 showing," a theatre employee appears beside me with a sadistic grin on her face. "You are here for the 9:15 showing, right?" "Yeah," I say, wanting to strangle her neck for being for shattering my dreams. "Then this is the right line. All of these people," she makes a wide gesture with her hand as if to drive the point there there are a TON of people in front of me even further, "All of these people are waiting for that showing." I notice a little twitch of excitement in her mouth as she says this to me. Either some sort of insect crawled into the corner of her mouth at that moment or she was reveling in the glory of disappointing me. "I already saw the movie, you know" she says with a nostalgic laugh, "Really good. Actually, it's a great movie." Of course, I know that she saw the movie in a free showing for movie theatre employees and now she thinks she's better than the rest of us. Grrr...I'd like to tell her off...tell her that she's no good...tell her that her mouth is twitching - give her a piece of my mind...tell her that - "How - H -" I stutter, "How can all of these people fit in one theatre?! How big of a theatre can this possibly be?" "Oh, it's the biggest theatre in the whole place," she says as she walks away, most likely to destroy some other people's lives. Now, I was in a panic. I didn't want to get the worst seats in the house, but I knew that if I allowed this to continue, that WOULD be my fate. I had to think fast. I had to somehow break this theatre's dictatorship. Then, an idea struck me. The two girls that were in my party would go the the 500-year old lady and say that they have to use the bathroom. Then, once they had infiltrated the enemy lines, they would stay at the bathroom, but keep watch over the X2 line. When they line started moving, they would then sneak their way into the theatre, save the best seats and I would rendevous with them when I made it into the theatre. The plan was foolproof - perfect - the only challenge would be getting past the 500-year old ticket-taker. Operation Bathroom Watch was about to begin. As the girls left to attempt this mission, I kept my fingers crossed, still unsure if I should have left such an important mission up to these two women. The minutes passed slowly, and I kept expecting to see the girls walking back to the line, their heads hung in disappointment. 5 minutes later, they were still nowhere to be seen. They had either successfully breached the tight security, or they were being help captive in a small room with one-way mirrors being beaten by evil movie theatre attendants. Then the line started moving. Slowly at first, but with growing speed until I made my way into the theatre. With baited breath, I rounded the corner to the theatre, hoping that the girls would be there. As fate would have it, I caught sight of one of them sitting down. They had done it! The operation was successful! We had great seats! Haha! Again, I felt a surge of pride coursing through my veins. You people thought you could beat me, but I have outsmarted you all, I thought to myself! I felt like Alexander the Great, having just conquered another piddling country. As people began filing into the theatre, I noticed that the crowd consisted most of those scary "comic book fan" 30 year olds. Yeah, you know. The ones who wear those hawaiian shirts with Japanese Anime characters on them, have scruffy beards and their hair pulled back into an unkempt ponytail. The ones who talk about what WILL happen in this movie (they basically know the plot by frequenting the X2 Message Boards) and how they will be upset if it doesn't follow they comic book. However, one of these guys stood out more than all the others. Will all of the features that I previously mentioned, this gentleman was on the edge of his seat, talking about the coolest parts of the movie long before it began. I leaned over in my seat and whispered to my suitemate Frank that this guy was "The Fanboy". When the lights went down, we were treated to like 30 minutes of previews and commercials. For some reason, the audience would laugh at EVERYTHING that happened in the previews. Even the least funny things would somehow be transformed into the funniest thing that ever happened by the audience. I certainly could't figure it out, and neither could Frank or the two girls we were with. In fact, I did start laughing pretty hard, but it was mostly at these people who looked like they were ready to fall out of their seat when a Brisk Iced Tea commerical showed a skeleton who drank the tea turn into a snowman. What? How is that funny? If anything, it's scary to think about a living skeleton that wastes Brisk Iced Tea just to transform into a living snowman. If I ever saw anything like that happen I would probably hide in my basement for at least 23 years. This trend continued into the movie as whenever anything happened the audience would either clap or laugh. If Wolverine sputtered a fairly witty line, the entire audience would erupt into a ridiculous laughter that was not at all appropriate for the joke. I mean, if I were an evil guy, all I'd have to do is add constant jokes to this movie and then have some of my minions go around and steal people's wallets while they were incapacitated with laughter. Also, when any heroic event was performed, and being that this was a superhero movie there was a lot of it, the audience would break out into a massive applause. I hate when that happens in movies. I almost feel embarressed for it. Embarrassed that I would be in the same room with people who have no pride. Yes, Wolverine has cool claws and all, but WHY WOULD YOU CLAP when he saves a bunch of kids. He's a superhero - it's his job. If I were to make a movie called "Adventures in Plumbing" would these people clap everytime a drain was unclogged? Probably. However, the worst of the bunch was The Fanboy. The man who I predicted was the most fervent fan of the X-Men also turned out to be the loudest and most ridiculous of the bunch. Constantly on the edge of his seat, The Fanboy would make huge gestures throughout the movie and when something funny happened, he would laugh out loud in this idiotic combonation of surprise and sheer entertainment. His body would fly back into his chair and his hands would cover his face. This seemed like the most exciting thing that had ever happened to him in his entire life. Throughout the movie, if the audience clapped, the fanboy whistled, flew back into his seat, and yelled phrases like "Oh my god! I can't believe it!" or "Did you hear what he just said?!!!" Needless to say, The Fanboy kept me entertained during the dull parts of the movie, and even during the action scenes I found my eyes hovering over to him to see what kind of ridiculous thing he would do next. I wanted to shake The Fanboy's hand when the movie was over and say "Thank you for enriching my experience tonight", but I lost sight of him after the movie. I was bummed. Later that night, once I had arrived back at my dorm, I decided that I was going to write a research paper that I have due on Monday. I had made up my mind - I was going to finish it in one really late night. So from the hours of 2-4 AM, I completed my research paper. I just had to say that because I am so proud of my achievement. But I don't think I could ever forget that Fanboy and the handshake that was never to be. Oh yeah, and the movie was great! 5 comments|post comment

Torrid and the Worst Paper Ever [02 May 2003|02:06am] [ mood | devious ] Well, here I am writing in this LiveJournal for the very first time. Thanks to my suitemate Frank, I was able to acquire a code so I could use this site. Today's entry will be a little shorter than my usual, mostly because I really just want to put something up on this journal before I go to bed. As many people who have read my other journal know, I have a tendency to write some really long entries. You can check out some of my older entries at http://www.upsaid.com/jusmg . Today I spent most of my time recovering from working on a website I have to do as a final project for one of my classes and, when I say recovering, I mean that I was just sitting around of the computer all day thinking about how much I should be doing a research paper I have due on Monday, but not actually taking any action. So, I decide, if I'm just going to sit around all day on my computer, I might as well do a little preliminary research on my paper, which happens to be on the 1985 film Back To The Future. This gave me an escuse to pull out my DVD of the complete trilogy and watch the movie and all of the special features for about 3 hours. What's great about this is that I could be lazy and productive at the same time. Although the special features really don't pertain to my paper, they were informative in showing how dorky Steven Spielberg looked in the 80's. Which is an extremely useful and important thing to know. Earlier in the day, Frank and I took a trip to Crossgates Mall to get advance tickets for the Friday night showing of X-Men 2. While we were walking through to parking lot on our way to the mall, this car suddenly comes up in front of us, threatening to hit me if I don't move out of the way. Irritated, but realizing that a car would probably kill me before I could pull out its fuel lines with my bare hands, I moved to the side of the lot and watched as the car moved past us. Inside the car was a white man in a suit listening to "Brick House", the venerable 70s funk song with his windows wide open. Now, I don't know if this is just me, but there should be a law against white people - especially white people in suits - from playing funk songs in their cars with the windows open. And this guy wasn't only playing the music, he was DANCING to it. Yes, he was doing that kind of shuffle that people do when they are listening to good music while driving. You know that dance, and if not, let me break it down into a step-by-step instruction. 1. Begin by tapping the wheel to the beat of the music. 2. Sway the top of your body back and forth until you have fit into a nice groove. 3. Bob you head forward and back with the music. 4. Begin singing along with the music until it gets too high for you in which case you either sing it in a bad falsetto or mouth the words and looks schitzophrenic. 5. Keep on moving and repeat the above steps until the car begins to bounce along with you and the song ends. So, once I buy my tickets and am on my way out of the mall, I come across a little sign in the middle of the concourse that reads: "Give the Best Gift! A giftcard to Torrid!" In case you aren't aware, Torrid is a spin-off of Hot Topic for "larger figured" women. As it is, Hot Topic is a scary wasteland of commerical and popular goth and punk (don't ask me how that is possible) and a store that is specifically for larger goth and punk girls is an equally disturbing thing. Not that I have anything against large girls (I'm not the skinniest thing on the planet myself) but don't you think it's a little demeaning to have a store called TORRID for the bigger girls. They don't get a Hot Topic, they get TORRID. Something about the word TORRID makes me think of the unhappy, pregnant girls who used to smoke in the bathrooms at my high school. Now, not only is it bad to be relegated to go into Torrid on your own free will, but imagine being given a Torrid gift card. It's basically the same thing as going "Happy Birthday, Cheryl! You're FAT! Not just FAT, but GOTH/PUNK FAT. That's why I thought this would be the perfect gift." I'm sure that every girl who recieved a girt card from Torrid died of sadness within an hour. Another amazing event that occurred today was Frank writing the worst paper in the history of the world. Now, I'm not exaggerating for humorous effect when I say that it was truly the WORST PAPER IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD. It was for his Literature class and his topic was exploring the themes of love in two of the works that they had read during the semester. Sounds like a fairly straghtforward topic. Before Frank had finished his paper, I happened to be peering over his shoulder to see what he was writing. The first thing that strikes me is the title of this paper. "The Theme of Love in Literature". "Frank, that has to be the most boring title ever," I say, thinking back to his paper on 1950s rebellion in which he chose fashion and named the paper "Fashion as a From of Rebellion in the 1950s". So, we change it to something a little more romantic like "Love in Literature" and I think that has a nicer ring to it. When Frank finished his paper, he came over to me and asked me to edit it. I said sure, expecting to breeze through the paper and just make some minor grammatical adjustments. As I begin to read the paper, I realize that I'm going to have to use a lot more ink than I thought. Ok...basically I would have to use like 3 or 4 pens. Frank is apparently a big fan of the words "obviously" and "family" since he used each of them about 300 times. Here is an exerpt: "This kind of story typically doesn't show a dysfuntional family but a family whose family is showing true love to other members of the family. But Arthur Miller shows that family can sometimes be dysfunctional." Wow, what an excellent two sentences. Here's another section: "Cinderella's evil stepsisters obviously wanted to marry the Prince because of his money. ...Obviously, Cinderella felt true love for the Prince." Yes, also wonderful. But the best part came in this next section: "The Prince was angry when he found out the the stepsister was being un-honest." I don't know what word factory Frank was working at at the time, but apparently it was having a few major malfunctions. But I've begun to grow rather fond of the term un-honest. I might use it a few times. Who needs dishonesty when you can be un-honest? One last Frank-ism of the night: "Yes, I don't know what I was thinking when I wrotten that paper!" Wrotten? Sounds like a really bad emo or hardcore band. Coming soon to a city near you! Fresh off of their self-titled debut album - THE WROTTEN TOUR. With special guests...The Obviously Un-Honest Family. Don't miss it! I love giving Frank crap. 6 comments|post comment

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