My Thoughts Exactly

Cool Beauty

2007-06-07T09:04:00.000-04:00

You know summer has arrived in Japan when:

people stop you to ask why you're wearing a shower-cap while further inspection reveals you've walked through another spider web
your retinas develop callouses from all the bugs you meet
you revert to ironing the back side of your shirts again
your new vocabulary is exclusively about frogs
pulling your pants down reveals an Amazon of evil in so many ways

I shall not elaborate on the last point.

Yes, 2007, the year we'd all been waiting for, is already halfway done. It seems like it was just yesterday that we had "stoves" in each classroom (kerosene heaters) , thus supplying us with our only recourse against winter's elements -- apart from cloaks made of pheasant hides caught during the fall hunt. Actually something should be said about these stoves, both a testament to Japanese adaptability and, yet, a screaming testament to the contrary. Somehow these industrial revolution hand-me-downs manage to coax fuel, electricity and fire to live together and, as the lone giver of heat (since most Japanese are actually dead), it serves as a kind of congregation area, an office ~~water~~ green tea cooler if you will. Sitting at my desk I could look straight at it at any time and see the principal standing there, solemnly toasting his ass, his face a staid bastion of concentration.

The principal plays an important role in any school, and in Japan the ascension to this seat is considered a bit of a coup for applicants- usually PICKMEPICKMEPICKME vice principal types. There is a test (there is ALWAYS a test) involved in selection, as well as the dreaded mile run. Principals must be fit for many duties at school, including (I am not making this up) weed wacking, having coffee brought to you, and smoking in your office as if your death depended on it. I am glad to say mine excels at all three.

Ever since we received new teachers at both schools, the format of planning for and teaching English classes has similarly changed, granting me an inadvisable amount of input. No longer does the old nod and grunt trick float me through planning sessions, as it had in the past.

Teacher: What should we do?
Nicky: furrows brow, bobs head
Teacher: Ok, so, after song, children will make human pyramids.
Nicky: mmmmmmmmmm.
Teacher: Do you understand?? After pyramid, you swallow hamster, OK?
Nicky: I see. nods
Teacher: Good, see you tomorrow.
Nicky: Hamster? I heard hamster. Wai--NOT AGAIN

Thus, when I was asked recently for a game idea I actually said something. "Let's play that one game, but add ROCK SCISSORS PAPER," I said, throwing my hands in the air as if I'd just created the universe and sought props.

For here in Japan, games whose outcomes are non-dependent on skill instantly inject fun into otherwise un-fun subjects. At a funeral and need to smile? Fuckin rock scissors paper someone, because there will be a taker. I have a 3rd grader who won't participate in English but if our eyes meet, he'll crack a small smile, shake his fist and suddenly I'm caught up in rock scissors paper WHILE TEACHING. But it is important to first consider and estimate your opponent before deploying your weapon, for you will discover the battle is won long before the count of 3. Then, which weapon shall it be?

Rock Rock, the very thing we build our homes on, the stuff of cosmos. Nothing is more reliable than a rock of 4 billion summers. It's raw inertia enables it to dispatch most enemies with a single, crushing blow but if there is anything the classics have taught us, even the mightiest bear fatal flaws. Be wary of Paper, whose flexible fibers will quickly cover and disable your rock.

Scissors Scissors: the most well rounded of the implements, yet also the sharpest. These no-nonsense steel blades fear only three things: God, Rock, and Superman. Strong enough to pierce through the armor of most enemies, Scissors usually does the trick, but watch out for Rock's tough outer layering and considerable weight.

Paper Paper, whose skin carries the word of many Gods, will fell your foes with a wrap-and-choke technique learned from the Burmese Python of lore. Almost as aged as Rock, Paper derives from the majestic sequoia, and as such it is vaulted into respectability. Be not fooled by the parchment's modest dimensions. As Rock will attest, you must move swiftly or Paper will have you. Heed the two pronged attack of Scissors, whose razor edges have never lost a match to Paper.

Finally, I got a haircut recently. My good natured, 50-year old female coworker walked in the staffroom, took a look at me, and delivered the best compliment I will ever receive on a haircut.

"Cool...beauty?"

That's right, bitches. Cool Beauty's creepin while you sleepin.

April Showers

2007-04-20T10:24:00.000-04:00

Its ok. You can come out of the attic now.

As we all continue struggling to find meaning in the last ~~bloodthirsty warning~~ post, I've given myself enough material to segue into the present blog - DESPITE wasting all my time getting sucked into overhyped digg links (BEST JUPITER PICTCHUR YOUR EVER GONNA SEE!!!(link)) and sobbing silently into my hands at the stupidity of YouTube commenters.

So, it is and has been a month of profound change here in Japan. It is during this month that the Japanese enjoy a picnic of beer, washed down with beer, under the venerable sakura tree, whose evanescent blossoms symbolize everything from the swift passing of life to the swift passing of beer under trees.*

For teachers and other civil servants, April brings great relief or great anxiety, depending upon whether or not you have been selected to transfer. It is said that these transfers help prevent corruption and serve to make the most well trained employee, but in the case of teachers, whose social lives are already suffocated by work, such inarguable change is one reason for the tearful sayonara parties.

As a result, I'm now sitting next to a stinkin PEN HORDER at one school and a Voluntarily Bald at the other!! Neither needs further discussion, although we are curious about Voluntarily B. Furthermore, due to retirement, we received a new, rookie principal at my smaller, family-like school, and the transplant was not unlike a stepfather meeting his new kids for the first time.

I was asked to do a self-introduction when we met, and it was ok until I freaked and screamed "YOU'RE NOT MY FATHER!!!" My voice a blood-curdling 170 decibles, tears spraying from my eyes, I stormed away amid complete silence (they were probably impressed) to my happy spot in the music room, where I played tamborine until I couldn't play anymore.

--------------------------
*there are still some petals hanging outside, so if you would like to join me in appreciating the bittersweet nature of life, aided with beer, please contact.

Stand Down

2007-04-15T10:35:00.000-04:00

I have allowed you to ride my bus, both to and fro, but the time has come to set you straight, ass.

Our non verbal agreement stated that your territory was the rear of the bus and that NR7000's territory included the front, the women, shit, even the old ass bus driver.

U fucked up.

I noticed you creepin closer lately. It came to a head when one of mah old ladies gave you candy too. Unacceptable, dogg.

Come tomorrow you best be sittin atop tha engine in the back or you WILL get stuck with a pencil.

After that, you cold, knawmean.

NR7000 out

Baby, your scent is intoxicating.

2007-03-15T07:13:00.000-04:00

I had not seen you since you ran out on me that day, December 9th.

I had to move on. I had to. I found another and I tried to hold her in my arms like I did you. Baby, I tried.

Her touch was different, cold. I always had to press the right button with her, you know? It wasn't right, baby girl, and I perspired every day just worrying about it.

Damn.

Then came Christmas, and there you were, like a ray of sunlight cutting through my dark and stormy cloud. I knew I had to have you and to hold you in my arms again.

Girl, I promise we will freak in the bathroom before I leave for work every day. Every single day.

I've missed you, Old Spice "Aqua Reef" Deoderant/Anti-Perspirant.

xoxo,
Nicky

The Bag King

2007-03-15T07:05:00.000-04:00

Man is not the sum of what he has but the totality of
what he does not yet have, of what he might have.

Jean-Paul Sartre

Plastic bags are a fixture of daily life and rarely is a purchase complete where you would not receive one, such as a drink from the convenience store, screwdriver from home center, baby from black market etc etc.

Working my way up the bag hierarchy, I convinced myself that I could go no further. That I had reached the top. That I'd have to buy products so big they require special delivery, such as women*.

I was to learn that day last week what my sum was not; what my totality might be.

Check out that great big fucking bag, dude!!! Just iMAGine my excitement when the cashier scooped everything together and proceeded to place them in a bag that was no smaller than Shaquille O'Neal. "Its so big I could sit in it," I thought, giggling like Sloth, saliva bungee jumping off my face.

And once home, I promptly sat in the bag. You can do many things inside this bag: read a magazine, create a cocoon of immediate warmth, cry yourself to sleep. With carefully cut holes in the bottom, it could easily accommodate two during swim season at Suma Beach, although I am thinking of stuffing it and mounting it on the wall.

*i can't make this joke funny, i've tried

2006, In Review!

2007-01-15T11:27:00.000-05:00

2006 was a year of many firsts for me.

In a feat of procrastination that would make the Second Coming of Jesus green with envy, I've managed to bottle up many of the zany, "hahah ja[pan!1" moments inside- all the while coating them with the foods that are thrust in front of me, which are all not unlike chum, but with more reproductive content.

Continuing the theme of "food" I've eaten, a neighboring ALT and her husb hosted sushi night at their apartment, whereby we made our own sushi but then had to eat it. My level of proficiency in food preparation falls somewhere between enema and roadkill, and, as we try to figure out what that meant, suffice to say, my sushi roll was shit. In fact, I found myself with a little bit of sushi roll envy after noticing the size and girth of the other, successful roles, but to my surprise, my own tasted quite good.

Wiping off the innuendo dripping from the last sentence, I turn to my ongoing discovery and continuing love of everyday electronics in Japan©. Entering a kitchen is like stepping into a walk-in Pandora's Box of Convenience (haha. box.). Many items you'll find at the grocery store are modified such that you may take it home, hastily pour hot water on it, and edit your will before ingesting. One example of such takes advantage of the long-standing cultural norm of drinking tea and coffee periodically throughout the day, as required by law. Recently I plucked off the shelf a box of instant beverage (it was 'mocha' flavored) and raced home to try it out. In a word, it was unbearable. However, given that I am in Japan, and there's even a word to describe enduring hardship, I shut my eyes, pinched my nose, held the cup up high and in one swift motion I tossed it in the sink like it was Satan's chalice.

Cuz homey don't drink that.

I also had my first encounter with the Japanese equivalent of anti-perspirant, which I like to call anti-deoderant. My faithful stick of Aqua Reef ran out just 16 days before I was set to return to America for the sole purpose of restocking. My desperate search for a replacement landed me in, of all places, the 100 yen shop.

The little tin squirt bottle I bought turned out to be literally that – a squirt bottle. It smelt of silly putty and had the consistency of tuna semen. I absolutely had to find something else, and I did, at, of course, the home supply store. This was at least pressurized, and came with the added bonus of raver quality euphoria directly on contact.

Haircuts in Japan are also a completely terrifying experience. This is due to a number of factors: the barber is actually dead, the book of samples includes fruit, you request "cut my head, swine" in broken Japanese etc etc. Mine was somewhat of an exciting do-not-choose your own adventure, as midway through, the barber's wife took over and I thought I'd stumbled into some sort of haircut and massaji joint. The funny thing was, for 3500 yen, you'd be surprised what I was prepared to let happen. What actually occurred included a hot wax straight blade shave that was pleasingly warm and carefully removed. However, like all things, it was uniquely Japanese.

They shaved my forehead.

D is for Dumbass

2006-11-13T09:49:00.000-05:00

Today I assisted with my second "English Salon" - a mishmash of minute-English, jammed down the throats of confused, smiling obaasans. We know them as your everyday Old Japanese Lady.

The moment you've knelt down to the ground, your knees explode from their shackles of skin and blood no longer reaches your feet, instead pooling in your ass, and you begin to resemble a horribly dazed baboon WANTING SOME. Disregarding this mounting collection of silent frenzy, you do your best to entertain the ladies with a series of example dialogues, round robin signature exchange, and glassy eyed smiling fueled only by your coming paycheck, which will ensure that someday you will own a Wii.

You flatter the flock of spring chickens with estimations of age being in excess of four decades short, then begin to notice something. That something is your inner conflict furrowing its brow as you question the right and wrong behind coveting the gold in their mouths.

"I am Johnny Depp," you calmly say to yourself with a frightening kind of self-assurance known only to people in straight jackets. "THAR B GOLD IN THEM CAVES," you begin to shout, as the room falls silent.

And suddenly, your lesson has ended and you are free to eat your lunch in the staffroom.

Being the Squiremaster Supreme Leader69 of english at school, I sometimes lose sight of the real difficulty others are having with learning words and phrases. Wearing the cloak of Culture Shock, my lessons are now done at a helpful volume of triple forte, supplemented by a healthy dusting of froth and spittle.

I've had many language follies of my own since arriving in Japan, though. Two come to mind. My friend Anthony quoted a colleague of his, who said that "the Japanese language is always changing" -- meaning that rules are always being bent, and thus the language evolves. I rely heavily on my dictionary from high school, but sometimes it fucks me over. I thumbed to a page looking for a word to describe the wheelchair-bound boy's condition to his teacher, and I ended up noting that it was in fact "hilarious".

Another teacher wanted clarification on the phrase, "Time is running out". I drew an egg timer diagram and wrote the phrase both in english and Japanese. In walked the oldest teacher in the school, and teacher A thoughtfully handed the sheet to her, saying I had made it.

Go on. You can imagine the look I got.

some culture shock

2006-10-30T05:24:00.000-05:00

I've been absent from my picture album and blogs lately, but I blame Culture Shock.

Culture Shock is the one-armed man. Culture Shock is the Oracle. Culture Shock is a great excuse. Following the highs associated with being a new JET in the first few months comes, according to a real graph, a swift decline in your ability not to kill things. It seems that the sports festival, which was held at the end of September, marked for all JETs the end of the honeymoon period full of red carpet and pig intestines and the beginning of just pig intestines.

The month of October has passed surprisingly quick, but without much of note. The children that appeared in my early pics have not morphed into other, cute children, and my surroundings have lost the luster of their summer color and everything else seems to converge on grey. It is fully dark by 5:30pm and shortly after that, the townsfolk recede into their anti-death chambers for the night, leaving barren roads to be kept company by the soft, flashing lights of hidden establishments.

Anyway. The past week has been one of strange ailments and stranger cures. I woke up consecutive mornings with my first taste of vertigo and other symptoms of an ear infection, so I took my temperature at school. My supervisor handed me the thermometer, I confidently plunked it under my tongue, and I assumed Temperature Reading Posture. Seconds later, I looked up, hearing him shout "No, no!"

He was pointing to his armpit.

And thus I visited the doctor. This was something I tried to avoid, because it is well known in JET circles that Japanese "doctors" are in fact hand-me-down robots from the universities, dressed in green. I was shown to the bathroom and given a paper cup. I was fairly certain what they wanted from me, but having made the fatal error of absolutely pissing to my heart's content 15 minutes before, I actually considered something far more repulsive.

Sadly, I didn't go that route and you'll just have to use your imagination because I aint sayin it. I eventually received my medicine and biked home, realizing soon thereafter that I couldn't read the labels. I had been prescribed FOUR different kinds of pills, for god knows what, and during interpretation my supervisor pointed to his wrists and stomach - areas that my meds would address. Thanks, J1000.

ALT Misses Bus, Boards Wrong One; Explanation Yields Mockery

2006-10-05T11:40:00.000-04:00

Ono City- 24 year old Nicholas Roberts, first year ALT in Hyogo Prefecture (Japan), recently missed his bus to school and boarded an incorrect one in an attempt to rectify the situation, it was learned yesterday.

Following the advice of coworkers, Roberts modified his morning routine to include a breakfast of riceballs - to be eaten during his commute on the city bus.

"**** ***** riceball," he was quoted saying early Tuesday morning.

Due to a malfunction which Roberts blames on seaweed, rice spilled "all over the place" and time was lost. Enough time, in fact, that he abandoned protocol and attempted to board his bus at a different stop.

"This bus came when I thought my real bus would arrive," Roberts explained, "and they're the same color. So fuck yall."

Roberts said he knew something wasn't right when, after triumphantly stepping aboard said bus, he sat in his own seat amid a sea of sleeping businessmen; normally there were three women. Some time later, Roberts exited the bus and sheepishly boarded the regular chariot not far behind.

When explaining the story to a busmate who was absent the following morning, she voluntarily translated to the rest of the bus -- reportedly much to the chagrin of Roberts. Laughter erupted from the women followed by a decrescendo of psychobabble.

sports day prep

2006-09-19T05:34:00.000-04:00

Preparations for the school sports festival continue - undeterred by such things as classroom learning - and my circus quality cocaine-like pigment is finally starting to change due to this, so one good thing will come of it.

Actually there probably is an underlying lesson to be learned for the kids. Its laying on the ground, bleeding, gasping for air beneath the forced cheering competitions for which there is no apparent reason to be cheering, the group dance numbers that border on erotic and of course the 6 tiered human pyramids for which the organizers must have missed the warning label that said, "DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME, OR ANYWHERE, YOU FUCKING IDIOT." One does feel for the poor bastards on the bottom, whose little bodies shake precariously under the immense weight of their teachers' expectations as well as the fat kid whose knee has just turned your kidney into a diamond.

They say that Japan only has a Self Defense Army, incapable of reproducing the horrors of Tojo's destiny-drunk vision, but I reckon this is untrue. If I am able to post exclusive video of our sports day, you will see that underneath the innocuous school uniform lies a soldier, an emotionally dead inside shadow of a child programmed to march on command and perform group acrobatics with neither fear nor grace.

Confusing things further, I've been commissioned to use a Las Vegas announcer's voice to announce the start of the festival. File all of this under O, for Only In Japan.

first day

2006-09-07T07:41:00.000-04:00

after an exhausting first day of english lessons, class shadowing, and a new-ono-jets sit down chat with the mayor, i'm ready to hit the hay - and its only 8pm! let me tell you how it went.

after arriving at 8:35am, i was shadowing a first grade class within 15 minutes. they call what i do in these classes "guidance," as its not english class, so i'm to walk around and be Foreign. its great, actually, because i'm not really responsible for the kids, nor do i do much work in that mode, and i basically get to play with them. i'm a huge curiosity to them so at times throughout the class, a child will turn in their seat just to look at me. most of their reactions have been positive and middle fingers were at a minimum.

they call me either nikku-sensei or robaato-sensei and in my speech to the entire school last friday on opening day ceremonies, i told them to say hello if they saw me in the hallways. very much to my surprise and delight, they're actually doing that, including even many of the children from grades which i haven't visited (3-6). the first graders are predictably "adorable" and while their attention spans are much shorter than they are, they follow a standard practice when called upon to answer a question: stand up, push chair in, recite answer with arms at side and with formal sentence ending word, "dessu," returning quietly to seat. its kind of amazing to me as one who grew up in the american system of cash bribes and such.

after class ended, it was time for lunch. the kids ran like rabid animals into the lunchroom, right? wrong! the lunchroom IS your classroom and the formaldehyde-marinated lunchladies are in the form of your classmates in little white costumes like this. even that picture doesn't do justice to the first graders wearing their lunch garb, carrying the food, serving it, and even delivering it to each other's desks. they're like big marshmallows with brown pretzels sticking out the bottom. anyway, after lunch was "cleaning time" -- another japanese practice of having the kids clean the school owing to zero custodial staff. all over i witnessed kids cleaning the floors, wiping desks clean, vacuuming.

being the z-list celebrity i am (they've said i'm A) like brad pitt, B) like tom cruise, and C) like a moviestar), after class the teacher had the students escort me downstairs to the staffroom. i knew where it was but maybe they were on their way out to recess or something, anyway, about 15 of them hung off my arms and pushed me along by my waist and belt. "nikku sensei!! this way!" i was kind of embarrassed when i arrived at the staffroom and met the eyes of teachers who had smirks across their faces. haha.

after school, the new ono jets (6 of us) met with the town mayor to give introductions and talk a little bit about our first impressions and what we'd like to accomplish. it sounds a lot more formal than it ended up being. having been prompted before he arrived to be formal in our self-introductions, i naturally sought to deviate from the plan and add some humor, saying i SWAM all the way from america (in japanese). this received only a guffaw from the PR guy standing silently behind the mayor but i'm unsure if anyone, including PR guy, understood that my usage of swim was intentional and, more importantly, meant to be funny. argh!!

that's all for now. i might have to play trumpet for the kids during my first day at my other school tomorrow, and normally i would be terrified of this kind of thing but since i can do no wrong, we'll just see what happens and report on the damage here later.

nr7k OUT

eye candy

2006-08-31T02:39:00.000-04:00

short update. i realized last night that in a span of the last 24 hours i had:

A) told one female jet that i had no testicles, and
B) told another female jet she was eating monkey brain (which yielded no laughter, sadly)

anyway, as expected, i'm still adjusting to Life In Japan. i will never grasp the cm/km conversion, nor volume in milliliters, nor, yet, how big a room is by how many tatami mats you can fit on the floor, and on top of that every time i ride my bike i'm taking an exciting gamble with death. every update could be my last.

as i was the final JET to arrive in ono city i missed the customary welcome parties that the others have enjoyed. this means for better or worse i've missed the standard japanese bonding practice of vomiting on your coworkers in a spectacular, campbell's chunky soup kind of way. if and when a party is held in my honor, i'll likely have to display my prowess at the dreaded chopstick and, for those who no habla espanol, i cannot use chopsticks. although my skills have improved a bit, i continue to struggle to grab food smaller than shaquille o'neal.

another thing that takes getting used to is the tear jerking price of ice cream. countries have different bases to their currency; america has the gold standard, and japan - you would have to assume - has the ice cream standard. i bought something called "Suupaa-Cappu," or Super Cup, about the size of a side a'mash'taters at KFC, for FOUR DOLLARS*. however, japan's sweets industry does almost redeem itself with its outstanding presentation and quality. at the supermarket today i spotted a store called "Dessert Island," a name more clever than i'm willing to give them credit for.

for those of you wondering what my apartment looks like, i was able to snap some shots and put them up on webshots. please check my webshots set for the entirety of my "Japan Pics," and please check my flickr set for my favorites. feel free to let me know if you think anything should be on the flickr set.

__________________________________________
* to its credit it was delicious and made me very happy

ono

2006-08-28T07:55:00.000-04:00

i'm settled now in ono-city and life here is good. the heat, though, is oppressive and the humidity uncompromising. they say this will last　through september and into october before we get much relief.

got into ono on friday, where i was taken directly to the board of　education and into a meeting with the SUPERINTENDENT and one of his　Main Men, a guy who stared a hole through me with crossed arms the　entire time. i completely forgot to use polite language forms when　speaking, so i think at one point i commanded the superintendent to　repeat what he said. no worries, though, because i can always play　the "stupid foreigner" card.

after meeting them i was given a tour of my apartment, which by　japanese standards is very nice. by my standards, not paying rent is　also very nice. i have a little washing machine, a real box of chaos,　that had me guessing every step of the way at 6am when i　couldn't sleep. the toilet is separated from the rest of　the bathroom, in typical japanese fashion, and this caused unnecessary confusion already when i woke up and rushed into the shower last night.

my first night in town, most of the other jets (2 canadiens, 1 brit,　1 aussie) took me out to a little izakaya (pub) where we drank and　ate communally. in japan when you go out with a group, you order　millions of little dishes and everyone picks at them throughout the　night. nice group, them. 7 of the 9 JETs in town live in one apt　building, including myself, so its nice to have them nearby when i　need help in certain situations, such as when i went to shower and　realized i had neither soap nor towel.

last weekend i went with a couple of the girls into kobe for what was　advertised by the hyogo jet association as a party at a hip hop club　but turned out to be us, a few other jets and literally billions of japanese　homeboys and girls. this was supposed to last from 8pm till 5am,　and, sensing impending boredom, we took a few long walks outside throughout the night. this is always fun for me in big cities and kobe　was no exception. there's a different crowd there than in tokyo, a　looser, cooler crowd, and one which seems more up my alley.

employees in stores of any kind here in japan will always greet you, the customer, with a hearty "irasshaimase!!", something to the effect of "welcome!". you're not supposed to say anything in response- just go about your business and act like they're dead to you. this is hard for me because i've got a knee-jerk reaction to greet people back, so i'm constantly suppressing the urge to welcome them in their stores as i walk in.

i visited one of my two schools today and met some kids in an after school classroom but i'll save that for the next update. i'm using the community center's wifi in the meantime as i wait for A) my foreigner card to arrive, B) A), then getting a cell phone, and C) both A) and B), so i can get internet. as i write this, one of the many wrinkly faced turtles that are the aging night security has walked by AGAIN, armed with his flashlight and white gloves, so i think its time to pack it up. more to come.

Ch-ch-changes

2006-08-21T03:42:00.000-04:00

I hate change!!!1

"But change is good," someone says, from the Red Dragon Inn 24 chat room (circa 1996).

Yeah I know. Fine. But like David Bowie said, it aint easy. Today's been terribly sad for me as I met with and said goodbye to my dear friends and family. I'm leaving them. I'm leaving home. I'm leaving my fucking cats.

Oh fuck, I'm leaving Paddlefoot. And Mama. One of those two little furballs repeatedly slapped my face this morning with their paw, trying to wake me up. How can you not have love for that?

My neighbor, though I haven't ever met him, has been given one to two weeks to live. What a horrible way to die -- knowing that you won't wake up in a couple of weeks. I don't like to be reminded that this happens, and that things have an ending. Just like when I walked away from my desk and to my car in the parking lot last week at work, it came to an end. My job of almost 6 years. People I grew with, people that grew me up. People I probably won't ever see again.

Although relationships can stay the same, people come and go, and this is something that becomes increasingly and painfully apparent at this stage in my life. It suuuucks to say goodbye to your friends, your family, to girls you never had the brass to say I Like You and step into the revolving door of life, but I guess, though, that when you exit you'll find yourself in a good place- a different place. I've never liked the transitory nature of all things but if there was a redeeming feature about it, it would be that every ending is a new beginning.

I'm allowed to bring only 140 pounds of my life with me to Japan. How do you pack for that? Its not easy.

Anyway, I should return to that, and with some luck I'll return home in 4 months or so and will see all the faces that make me happy (including the ones with whiskers: you know who you are). I won't have internet for a few weeks so until then, this is my last post. If I can ever learn Dreamweaver I'll make my planned website, nr7000.com, on which I'll be able to streamline my thoughts and photos from across the pond to share in a sort of one-stop-shop for all things Nicky.

Later, peeps.

On The Event Horizon

2006-08-19T20:16:00.000-04:00

NR7000.com is coming soon.

Also coming soon: life in Japan.

Plastic Underwear

2006-08-11T00:53:00.000-04:00

Today I abandoned my recent habit of jogging after work for an equally healthy but infinitely more gratifying session of NAPPING. Waking up occasionally from the nap to the tune of every single light in the basement being flipped on by my siblings, I felt a little more refreshed, if groggy, and continued to amaze myself at my ability to somehow rotate my shirt backwards whilst sleeping.

Being that I had Jimmy John's for lunch this afternoon -- going against all natural instinct inside telling me to run far, far away, wetting myself for added defense -- I awoke with my stomach in a tizzy.

Blahpt. Squirt. Rrrrrrr. Blopt.

So casting common sense aside for a moment, actually many moments, I followed the attractive smells wafting down from the kitchen and proceeded to eat dinner until my teeth had eroded into smooth, tiny nubs. And so here I am. In pain.

Let's rewind back to this morning at work: sitting stoically at ready position with hand on mouse should an actual task came my way, gazing with baggy eyes and puffy skin into my 17-inch box of pain, I felt a burning sensation coming from two unmistakable places beneath my shirt. Yes, my nipples were on fire.

Haha, no -- nobody brought a super nintendo in the office. It was the lingering pain I felt yesterday while running the track. My god, one has enough things to complain about while running (such as running)- I don't need this too. Aside from breathing harder in an attempt to trick passersby into thinking I was moving faster than evolution, swiftly prompting the women to dial 911, I furtively tugged at my shirt on the uptakes to relieve the horrific pain that came with each purpose questioning step. I considered cutting pancake sized holes into my shirt but started to laugh, causing only more extremely cautious double-takes. Now that I think about it, I would fully endorse this measure for women with similar pain. Liberation!!!

So anyway. Time continues it's unstoppable path toward my departure date, now just 12 days away, and suffice to say I've run dry of all underwear shitting myself in glee. Kroger bags make serviceable subsitutes, I've found out. You just have to work the holes right. I also learned that I'll be teaching at two elementary schools and will have an apartment the size of, approximately, Elvis in his declining years. Did I mention that my rent will be paid for? At this moment I'd like to extend both my middle fingers in the direction of that effete Asian-American boogerhead who I just KNOW banished me to the bottom of the alternates list way back in February during interviews.

12 more days.

Bottoms Up

2006-07-30T13:23:00.000-04:00

Like the battered hand of Shredder reaching up from beneath the rubble, I attempt to return to the world of blogging after what has been an eternity of online time, or about a month. And after carefully examining the link between what I've said on my blog and what I actually do thereafter, I can state without a doubt that I have the teeth-bearing determination and impenatrable willpower of our friend Carol Yager.

"What?" you ask, as you scratch your head and fart a little. Well let me tell you. A lot has happened -- I mean a fucking lot -- since the last update, and I blame this for my conspicuous but healthy absence from cyberspace. Since moving out of my apartment on the southside, I stayed at a furnished flat for a brief period of 3 and a half weeks near downtown (EDITED). This armed me with some knee-slapping stories for the bar, and it was fun to be able to tell them, but as soon as I reported my findings to the group, my time there was seemingly over and I had to move out.

With the knowledge that I had a job lined up in Japan for the end of November, I allowed the 'P' word to creep in and rule my life with an iron fist. I do of course refer to procrastination here, and so every time I thought "do something productive, like roll yourself over at least," the idea was swiftly struck down by the fat little devil on my shoulder seductively whispering "you have 4 months!!" Thus, my well meaning goals of reading, jogging and studying Japanese were very quickly run into the ground in place of less worthy activities, such as nothing. And then. And then!

And then on July 13th, I received a call at work from the Japanese consulate in Chicago informing me that I had been upgraded into the JET Program. You might recall my bright eyed post LAST DECEMBER talking about the application I'd just sent in, and wondering if I'd be sent off to a mountain village that evolution forgot whose chief wore a necklace of human skulls.

Finally, I'm in.

So on August 22nd I will be on an airplane for 13 hours, headed for a year of exciting new experiences in Japan; not the least of which includes having children ram their fingers up my arse (I'll explain more as it happens). These last 2 weeks have been a mad dash to get the proper paperwork in order, allowing me very little time to devote to telling everyone about those dildos, and time is just slipping through my fingers. One benefit to leaving so soon, however, is that I get to live for free at my parents' house. For the first time in 5 years.

You know you're living at your parents' house again when:
- you wake up grabbing for a gun you don't have, then realize "oh, I'm in the basement"
- you flip everything on just for the hell of it
- snacks turn into binges of biblical proportion
- you reach a new area code just by entering the garage

Happy time. But every ying has its yang, and I must say goodbye to the old as I welcome the new here very soon. I'm talking about my job at the CSR, the workplace everyone loves to hate*, one which I'll have an undeniable fondness for when I look back. Recently the heat wave has been so intense that we've kept the air inside the office at a cool 18 Kelvin, rendering it not unlike a morgue, but still with less soul. As distracted as I have been the last two weeks with the news of making JET, I've found it increasingly difficult to concentrate on the tasks handed to me- especially as they're handed to me. Perhaps I'm just subconsciously prepping myeslf for a world of confusion in Japan, but I often find myself nodding and grunting in faux understanding of what I'm told to do.

HER: You wanna hit 'print properties' and then adjust the margins to point 5 on each side.
ME: Yeah.
HER: After that I need you to check and make sure the data all looks right-- the questions imported properly, there arent any wiggy values, that kind of thing.
ME[staring intently, blankly at her comptuer screen]: ookayyyy.

After this I march off, clutching my chickenscratch notes and nodding my head, only to realize after I've reached the safety of my desk that I have no idea what the feck I'm doing.

Bottoms up, Japan.

------------------------
*Or maybe just me

A Quick Note

2006-07-02T14:08:00.000-04:00

I really need to improve my once-a-month posting pace. Anyway, things have been busy as of late: I landed a job in Kobe, Japan teaching English to a client pool made of 45% office ladies.

Yeah.

So anyway, I'm literally in the midst of moving out today and into my sublet for the month of July. Once that is settled, I'll drop a new blog about work restrooms, technique, and associated anxieties.

A quick shout out to my loyal, faceless reader from California. Thanks.

Back to moving.

OK Commuter

2006-06-07T02:44:00.000-04:00

Ah, running.

In response to what has been over the past several months both an alarming shift in my physique and a desperate need to breathe non office-supplied air, I have recently rediscovered the brutal realities of RUNNING. Or, put more precisely in my case, Sugared Retard On The Escape.

Given this scarily comfortable period of sedentary decay, it came as no surprise to me after the run that my body had hopelessly lost touch with certain kinds of physical manuevers, such as movement. This could be seen by the rapid transformation of Cute 12 Year Old Nicky's Love Handles That Grandma Pinched when they seem to have exploded, spilling so far over my jeans that I've been forced to buy shoes for them. On the plus side, I have four legs.

No running exercise is complete without proper stretching, though, and fortunately for me this is something I can do. Confidently striding toward the stretching area, my eyes honed in on the lone person stretching there. Ohnoyoudont. A 300 year old woman was clearly issuing a direct challenge to my stretching prowess, impressively executing the two handed Bar Hang stretch. I'm not sure that she qualified for this stretch being that her feet were planted firmly on the ground... but I digress. After rattling off an intimidating array of toe touches and a full 10-minute primal scream session to get the lungs going, I set off on my quest for 3 laps.

H.o.l.y. s.h.i.t.

I'd grossly over-estimated my ability to move distances farther than my desk to the printer, thus on the second lap I cautiously chose to slow it down, and by that I mean I walked the whole lap. This felt good, but after crossing paths with folk twice my age who were inexplicably still running, and also given the presence of girls, I sucked it up and completed the final lap. It is safe to summarize my running philosophy with this difficult equation:

If: girl
Then: run.

Side note: While running, I passed by couple of fathers playing a game of "pepper" with their sons before the baseball game. Initially one of the portly pops was on the toss-and-catch end of things, aiming to tag the son in the middle, but he soon felt it necessary to take on the roll of base runner. You can kind of tell what happened next; while his son tossed the ball to his teammate on the other end, pops wisely turned his head and was beaned in the face. Haha! It was funny to hear the creative flow of expletives he soon screamed while holding his head, crumbling to the ground and kicking his feet up and down like a child.

Ah well. This whole running crusade brings to light a larger issue, I think, and that is my excessive sense of self-consciousness. My friend Brian observantly noted this last weekend while another friend Anthony WILDLY SWERVED OUR CAR ON THE CHICAGO HIGHWAY because it is apparently funny to do so, assholes. Anyway, this is true to some extent and certainly just days ago at Target. Shuffling in with an unsettling symphony of gastro-intestinal pandemonium, I found myself clutching only that vital pink bottle, beads of sweat pooling at my brow, wondering what the other customers were thinking of the freak who by all indications would explode any second.

"I can't just take this to the cashier," I thought, "not just this. They'll know."

Therefore to "normalize" my basket, I rushed over to the next aisle of logical sequence to Pepto Bismol and ended up with none other than: two boxes of macaroni.

Sigh. Baby steps.

Trouble In Paradise

2006-05-07T13:37:00.000-04:00

I think I've found a new hobby. Reading.

Last weekend my girlfriend gave me a John Deere letter through email, while I was on vacation, and I didn't know it until after I'd gotten back just a couple days ago. It kind of hit me like a ton of bricks. More surprising than anything, but after thinking about it I guess I'm not so surprised.

We'd been together not even three months. I figured I'd be pretty well over it after a few days of shock but like my failed relationships before it, its the last thing on my mind before I sleep and the first when I wake. I've got this kind of problem, I guess, where I'm every bit as avoidant as I am dependent. So when I fall into a relationship, which I in fact secretly love to be in, I tend to want to act as if I'm not in one at the same time. Two years ago I was stunned when a girl-friend of mine, the kind of girl-friend you lose sleep over wishing there wasn't a hyphen, told me with a kind of jarring bluntness that I was "high maintenance."

High maintenance! Fuck.

And like I said, it hit like a ton of bricks. I woke up today and poked around on the intarweb for a few hours and then half-heartedly tried watching tv. I couldn't even find anything to be artificially interested in. So I turned it off. And sat there. Look left, nothing. Look right, nothing again. Silence. And that's when I hit peak bugging because when you're alone in your apartment with no task to carry out and no one to think about, that's when the unanswerable "why me" questions flood your mind. Texting my friend needing advice, he told me to head to Borders, so that's what I did.

As if this relationship didn't remind me again how I'm older than ever before, I had to address this sort of issue with the cashier after buying a Murakami book.

"Did you graduate today?"
"No, I graduated about a year and a half ago."
"What are you doing here, then?"

Say what, bitch?

"Oh, I work on campus."
"What do you do?"
"We do social surveys."
"Ahhhhh, very good. Would you like a Borders card?"
"Sure."
"Phone number?"
"320-XXXX"
"That's my number."
*blink*
"Just kidding."

This woman was at least 55 years old. Anyway, what AM I doing here? Why aren't I... somewhere else? I don't have an answer for that. But for the here and now, I decided that something had to be done to right this ship, to plug me back into society as sad as that sounds. I plopped down in the cafe area with my book, sipping my drink and looking very single. This of course translates to I didn't read much of my book, and stared at the attractive girl over there as if I'd lived in a cave with my cousin Zakkkk my whole life. I probably wasn't helping my own case with my pants at my ankles, but that's altogether another story.

After reading this through it sounds as if I'm trying to work up a date. I'm not. If I were, there would've been mention of fair compensation and a ride back to Dancing Tiger. To get back on topic, I think I've picked up a new hobby; reading. I never really did it in school, ever, but it actually feels very nice to engage my mind a little bit again. For you Murakami readers, let's talk books. Its late now though, but I just wanted to finish draining the emotional hangover. Pass the kleenex.

My next entry might be about the way I cut pancakes.

____________________________
*Reading The Wind Up Bird Chronicle

NOTICE

2006-04-28T12:50:00.000-04:00

If you came here hoping to find a picture of an ostrich, leave now. Just leave.

There aren't any pictures of ostriches on this site, or on the entire internet (I've searched).

Mental Crash

2006-04-17T11:03:00.000-04:00

For the loyal few of you who keep returning to this page, hoping to see a report of my life spiraling out of control, lick your chops.

A few things have happened since the dreaded JET interview -- namely, I was made an alternate. This is both bad and good for me because it was obviously my first choice and one which would provide the best "package" for a foreigner, but also being named an alternate means I can reconsider whether or not I really want to hold out hope for living in a rice field.

I've got a few options now. I'm going to "accept" JET and wait and see if they contact me but I'll also apply to a few of the big english companies like NOVA and AEON. Its not like I live to teach english. In fact, fuck it. But its a job and more importantly it represents the visa necessary to work in JP. Anthony has been offered a nice gig in Chiba at AEON and is currently interviewing with Brian in Chicago with NOVA. My head is spinning from all those prepositions. A huge "plus" for going the private company route is that you're gonna live within striking distance* of a big city. Thing is, for us pampered western workers, benefits would be pretty much nil.

My leading Plan B is probably AEON, but I haven't even contacted them yet. In the meantime I keep going back and forth in my head: am I crazy? do I really want to do this? So people, leave comments telling me that I should.

That's about all. Maybe I'll return to my normal insane blogging sometime soon.

________________
*Zerg rush.!

Interview With An Idiot

2006-03-25T14:16:00.000-05:00

I've been promising a recap of my JET interview experience in Chicago for some time now. I know it hasn't been the requisite 5 months since it happened but it has been a month and change and the time is nearing that I'll find out if my ruse really worked.

Let me start out by saying I don't like Chicago. I don't like the drive to Chicago, I don't like Chicago motorists, I don't like it's slums and I don't like how everyone wants you to tip them. I had my first experience with tipping seconds after I got out of my car. I've never done the valet thing before so when I insisted on carrying my bags to the front desk (because the valet INSISTED on parking my damn car) he looked mildly disappointed, let down.

Please.

I guess I made things even more uncomfortable by stiffing him when off he went to park my car and off I went to eat my fingers the rest of the night because there aren't any fucking restaurants on the strip. After I had my fill of HAND, I called my parents to let them know I was ok. During this call my dad said many things to put me at ease for my big day, among which was "Don't forget to tip the valet guys or you'll be sleeping with the fishes in Lake Michigan." Thanks, dad.

The JET interview the following afternoon was cause for both a golden period of confidence (approximately 14 minutes) and then several weeks of self-doubt and loathing. I felt good enough about my knowledge of Japanese current events and other "quick facts" that in the preceeding days to the interview I studied the intangibles by: buying pretentious coffee-inspired drink at Borders, spreading papers all over, listening to my iPod and feverishly touching myself beneath the table. Ok, ok, I wasn't really listening to my iPod.

I feel as though I said some good things -- my mission is 'internationalization', helping the kids grow as people, teaching them the c-word -- and that I said some regretful things. We all know I'm good at that. My 'demo lesson' on an American holiday was predictably bland (Christmas) and not wholly American now that I think about it. I failed so miserably at that that they had to cut me off -- "that's enough, thanks."

What's done is done, though. Despite some horrific interview moments I think I accomplished what I set out to do, and that was to appeal to the panel's emotions more than, say, demonstrate my inability to teach english. Today is 25 March and I should know my status with JET sometime within the next 12 days. To be honest I'm excited and scared shitless at the same time.

Regrettable Unforgettables

2006-03-06T12:02:00.000-05:00

In keeping with the theme of blogging 5 months after I should, I've compiled a list of regrettable things I do on a regular basis which have put me in socially awkward positions.

With my old age (24), senility’s icy cold grip has begun squeezing my neck and at work, especially, I've felt the effects. No longer can I proofread a survey in decent time, such as an entire work day, without considering suicide or burning it outside during lunch hoping my bosses will forget the survey (the one we were contracted to do) ever existed. Anyway, the fact that I've lost my mind has led me into several inescapably uncomfortable situations in the office over the last few months. Examples:

The Wig. Every morning I retrieve my center’s mail at the dorm front office. This always provides a good break in my day, a transition period between the silent, early morning surliness and teeth gnashing rage that consumes me after lunch. I fucking hate proofreading surveys. This little field trip of mine also provides a chance to say hi to a few happy faces before resuming my task of rapid decomposition. I was handing some mail over to the supervisor and noticed unusually purply-brown sheen on her hair. Not one to really inspect things I glance at nor think about them, nor yet realize I don’t in fact have any game, I found myself complimenting her on how nice her hair looked.

“It’s a wig.”

And here was when I promptly left, tail between my legs. What would you have done? Right.

I Love You. Sometimes that mad little scientist I believe is turning cranks, writing things down, and advising me what to say from somewhere deep inside my scattered mind computes something funny and like a receipt emerging from whateverthefuckitscalledthatreceiptsemergefrom, out comes a joke so horrifically regrettable that I’m lucky I don’t show up on several “Sex Offenders Near You” sites. Well, not that bad. Take for instance one day in the office. The five of us assistants are working diligently on things. One of us, let’s call him SteveDave, kindly took our portions of a task and was doing them for us, prompting a female coworker to remark, “SteveDave, we love you for doing that.”

Sensing comedic opportunity, the mad scientist dropped his clipboard and ran over to a type-writer to punch out what I was to say in the coming seconds, something that to this day still haunts me. I waited for immediate chatter to die down, plus 3 more seconds of silence, and said, flatly,

“I love you, SteveDave.”

Never before had it been so quiet in that office, and never before had I wished so surely to light myself on fire. Either no one understood that I in fact did not love SteveDave or everyone was shocked at such an open, intimate admission of feelings. For those of you scoring at home, SteveDave didn’t say goodbye to me that day like he normally did.

Image Search. Continuing the theme of wanting to burn myself alive, I perhaps had another lapse in good judgment recently. Our beloved friend SteveDave was laughing at an email we received from a woman, rhetorically asking us “What do you say to a 55 year-old woman asking what ‘transgender’ means?” Once again, mad scientist dropped his clipboard and ran over to a primitive looking computer panel, pushed some buttons, pulled some levers. Forgetting that we DO work in social research, revealing all of society’s moral black eyes, and that I DO work with a self-proclaimed “queer” girl who is acutely sensitive to offensive comments, I wisely blurted out without hesitation:

“Do a google image search!! Haha.”

Stop it right now, I know what you’re thinking, I know what she was thinking, and I’m not so callously insensitive as to imply that transgender people equals pictures we can laugh at.

Not necessarily.

What I did have in mind, though, was that you can type in any innocuous search term on Google and receive approximately 1,503 pictures with a hilarious mixture of leather, tubs of Helmann's mayonnaise, and midgets. The humor unfortunately (for me) went unseen and you can imagine the icy cold mind bullets that hit very soon thereafter.

*********
Additionally, and without fail, I maintain my habit of making social blunders in and out of work. I can’t not look at blazingly white teeth, for one. This girl came into work looking for someone and man, she had some chompers. Them shits was WHITE. So I’m talking to this girl and apparently also completely failing in my attempt to hide the fact that I’m staring with mouth open at her pearly whites.

She covered her mouth and continued talking.

I appropriately felt like a freak and later at home tore off my clothes, turned on cold water, and huddled into a ball in the shower, scream-crying myself to sleep.

Oh, it gets worse – I was at the bar and bumped into an old schoolmate / acquaintance. Thing was, I had just returned from the restroom and my hands were wet as all hell. “Dear god,” I’m thinking, “please don’t want to shake my hand.” Perhaps because I am a non-believer, god said “And they shall shake hands. Hahaha.” I had no choice but to give him the wettest, most disgusting handshake he’ll ever have. And most likely the last one from me.

Finally, I end this entry with a complaint of my own. Anyone who uses a mouse and has coworkers will understand that one seemingly loses all ability to work a computer when another stands over them from behind. This was embarrassingly evident last week when one of my bosses oversaw me as I worked the mouse. Nervous and wanting desperately just to make her leave, I accidentally double clicked something which clearly required one click, like a link, and could tell she was mocking me to all hell in her head. There’s no greater feeling of helpless regret than that, my friends. Damn, girl.

I’m out. Next up: short review of my JET interview in Chicago.

on the horizon

2006-02-24T09:39:00.000-05:00

Hey, people:

I'm at work right now waiting on some bosses to get back to me. I've got a queue of posts waiting to be written here SOMETIME. Those will include Ways In Which I Fuck Up, and my recent JET interview in Chicago. I don't like Chicago.

In the meantime here's a list of things I want:
1. DSLR camera.
2. laptop (mac or pc?)
3. I want my hi-tops to arrive in the mail already.

Just an observation -- site meters are great fun. I spend more time cooing over where the hits come from and how long you stay than other important tasks, such as sleeping. Its a bit discouraging, however, that a good portion of my hits come from image searches for "ostrich", "razorback gorilla", and "Anna Nicole Smith" (no joke). I'd like to welcome my new Tokyo viewer also.

Back to work.

You've Won

2006-02-12T17:09:00.000-05:00

I would like to give a special shout out to my faceless reader in CT, who is a consistent viewer of this bullstuff. Incidentally you were the 300th page view since I put the counter up, so you've won this shout out.

Step out of your silence and leave a comment!

Damn, girl.

2006-02-07T22:50:00.000-05:00

"Whatever life holds in store for me, I will never forget these words: "With great power comes great responsibility." This is my gift, my curse. Who am I? I'm Spiderman."
-Peter Parker

Girl,
Let me reveal my true identity to you under the stars at my Costa Rican time share this spring break the 13th through 18th. I promise you I will provide the finest breads available for purchase and, if necessary, I shall pre-ship the bearskin rug so that we may have a more enjoyable freak session on the bathroom tile.

I see you every Thursday A.M. when I come to retrieve the mail on my center's behalf. If only I could bring my favorite wine with me, I would toast to you in an undisclosed room of your choice, since you have access to the building keys. There I will reveal to you both physically and digitally the bond we share.

I will do you so right, it be wrong. Damn, girl.

Baby sweet thing, I take it you do not know that I am Iron Chef Sakai. We passed in the lobby, I was pushing my mail cart and you were striding oh so gracefully like the lioness of the Sarengeti, and all my soul could do was scream "We are friends on facebook, Hotness". It is time to let Sakai work you over proper.

I will request the hot tub be full for our arrival. Scan my profile -- Sakai's profile -- and there you shall begin your trek to my Costa Rican getaway. Remember, whatever variety of fruit tray you so desire. Obviously, I'm ready to do anything to get the Freak on.

Spiderman, I feel you.

Back from the dead!.

2006-01-02T23:36:00.000-05:00

Allo.

I've made some minor cosmetic changes to this blog: limited the front page to 3 posts, re-labeled the archives, made some dinky links, and added two little things in the sidebar, a kanji of the day and some sort of sketch thing. I hope I'll have more ambition toward writing blogs since I feel as though many things I normally would write about (like workplace restroom anxiety and... uh..) aren't being documented in favor of eating like the WORLD CHAMPION SLOB I've become.

So what has happened since my last blog damnear 1 month ago? For one, students finished finals and still aren't here, and to all us Bloomingtonians(?) this is about as good as our lives will ever get. Finals time, I look back on it fondly; 4 months of ups and downs, hard work and stinky group meetings culminating in one painful week of record breaking coffee consumption. And I still don't like coffee.

Christmas came and with it brought me many gifts. And it was good. And then it was bad. I was watching a Japanese drama/love story/comedy with me moms and pops when, during an episode, there was a slight sexual innuendo.

"BLARRRRGHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!1111111,"

went the nuclear war sirens inside my mother's head. And in just a few seconds, pleasant tv watching became a blitzkreig of anger launched by the Purity Police and after said seconds I just got up, took the DVD and left. Didn't talk to or see her whatsoever for the next three days, which could explain the Über emo post I made (and took down, for.ev.er.) But here I is.

I've gotten my self-addressed envelope back from JET which only indicated that they received and are processing my application. It should be another month+/- before I hear that they've fed my application to a goat and I can go back to scratching my eyeballs out for a living. Really though, in all likelihood if I get in then I'll be shipped off to The Motherland by August. So ladies... take note.*

I'm going to try to post more often. That, and to get back on a stable diet/sleeping schedule, be my 2006 resolutions. Grab on tight, bitches.

Booyakasha.
_________________________________
*Oh I forgot, 0 ladiez read this.

I Went To Japan

2005-12-05T21:04:00.000-05:00

In response to both the sobering nothingness that appears to be my future and a rapist's desperation to escape the daily eyeball torture I call "my job," I've completed an application to an absolutely fucking insane teaching job named the JET Program (Japan Exchange & Teaching). If accepted, I will be plucked from my happy, but boring, little town of Bloomington and placed in the middle of a sad, but boring, tribal village known to all as Nottokyo, Japan under the suspicious guise of teaching English. Those in the know will tell you that you will neither teach nor speak much English, but rather participate in the larger mission of 'internationalization,' which means participating in things like competitions to suck seal ass through a straw whilst wearing a flaming kimono. I wait eagerly for the embassy's response.

This provides about as good a segue as I'll ever get to talk about my little trip to Tokyo, which took place 5 fucking months ago now. Anthony landed a summer internship at his old study abroad office right outside Tokyo, receiving a nice stipdend, this time, in exchange for his getting drunk and photographing booth girls rather than just good grades. So, naturally, Brian and I went to go drink with him.

Brian and I flew separately, because this was the logical thing to do, and once I'd reached Los Angeles airport en route Tokyo, I immediately felt a heavy dose of fish-out-of-water wheresindiana-ness and wished very much to suck my thumb to prevent my oncoming tears of racial solitude. I was surprised to find that I would be one of only about 10 "Westerners" boarding the long flight back to The Motherland, which makes total sense now, but at the time I was in denial of this fact while I frantically clung to my last breaths in an English setting. I boarded my plane and minutes later the wave of withdrawl had hit like a ton of bricks:

"SAKEEEEEEEEEEEE! [breathe in] SAAAAAAAAAAAKKKEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"
Repeat ad infinitum.

It took a while for the flight crew to straightjacket me to my seat but I persevered, managing to curl up into a fetal ball wanting some sake. I arrived at Narita Airport and the hilarity of my 10 days of utter confusion ensued. I won't summarize every little thing I did and saw on a daily basis, but I'll try to highlight some of the things that seem to stick out when one visits Japan, like situations requiring the wear of flaming kimonos.

Trains - The Japanese train system is celebrated for its on-the-second punctuality and unparalleled efficiency, two things in stark contrast to American public transport where you're lucky if the driver isn't drunk that day, if he even shows up at all. Tokyo is home to some of the busiest stations in the world, owing to the massive numbers of comatose, suit wearing zombies zig-zagging the city all day in search of the elusive used-panty vending machine.

One night Brian and I met up with a different friend/classmate of ours in the stylish 20-somethings mecca that is Shibuya (Tokyo) and sort of lost track of time between rounds of beer and face-punching insults cast at one another. It became increasingly apparent to us the closer we got to the station that, had we even succeeded in cutting through the wild imbroglio of ticket buyers, Brian and I would miss our train. Turning to our friend, who was well versed in the train schedule and had a place to stay, we all put our thumb and forefingers to our chins and evaluated how Brian and I were going to get home, during which said friend helpfully pointed out to us that we were, quote, “fucked”. Thus began our epic overnight struggle to stay awake until the morning train opened up at 5am, which comprised of a whole lot of NOTHING*.

Waste Removal – My God. Definitely NOT celebrated for their dearth of toilet paper, public restrooms in Japan will often have everything you don’t need, such as your very own personal sumo covered in mayonnaise from head to toe to keep you company in the stall, but lack that vital apparatus aiding in the removal of POO from one’s ARSE. Lucky for us, zillions of little packs of tissues are handed out on the streets as promotion material for businesses, effectively counterbalancing their furious efforts to recycle EVERYTHING under the sun, including the zombie train riding “salarymen” who tend to fall down the platform stairs because they’re actually DEAD.

Ah, recycling in Japan. We at home are thinking that it can’t be that hard; separate bottles and shit from, you know, the wastebasket reserved for vomiting and we’re good. If it were only that easy. In fact, in 1948, following the onset of the occupation, Japan nominated a Director of Environmental Affairs from the same fraternity that produced the Director Of Batshit Insane Subway Horror Planning Commission Person, who is credited with today’s cavernous subway underneath Tokyo by way of:

dropping a wad of rainbow spaghetti onto a map and yelling “I’M DRUKN, PREASE TO MAKE SUBWAY NOW!!!1”

So anyway, someone decided it would be prudent to require garbage be conveniently separated into these simple categories: combustibles, plastics, zombies, torched kimono, chopsticks, and the. list. goes. on.

Language Follies – This category largely dominated my daily schedule of searching for panty vending machines. Just as it had the previous year during the spring break Tokyo class I took. That year, one of my most heart-thumping moments came when I ventured into The Unknown (ie, out of my hotel room) to buy a camera memory card, and, by sheer luck, I found what I was looking for and proudly strode to checkout, card in hand. I gave it to the clerk, immediately looking elsewhere, and then a flurry of staccatoed sound which could have been Japanese royally disrupted the happy state of gaijin** obliviousness I was enjoying. Probably due to my knee-jerk response of,

“Uh,”

the clerk thankfully shifted to changing my 10’000 yen note into a pocket-ripping pile of coins. This year, I kind of terrorized the poor girl working behind the counter at one of Japan’s ubiquitous “conbini” (convenience stores) near Anthony’s apartment by Asking Questions. Only one in five tries would I actually say what I wanted to say (regarding stamps), with the other four being some variation on “my name is Fucktard Magoo and I’m here to eat your face”.

This entry is illegally long and its time to stop the pain. Next entry will possibly return to my woes of fiefdom at work.

____________________________________
*However, I want to add that I didn’t do all-night karaoke with Brian because, well, I aint singin’ to no man till the break of dawn, NUH UH.
**Foreigner

Of Cooking

2005-11-09T09:07:00.000-05:00

Accept my apologies, anonymous friends/strangers; I've been somehow absent from this little retreat of mine for a stretch of over 3 weeks and have very little to show for it, apart from the disgraceful pile of dishes in my sink due to my adventures in the exciting world of COOKING THINGS. If my effort at using pots and pans to make dinner were, say, adapted from the fearless African expeditions of Livingston, and we were to have dinner, the first words you'd say upon view of the unspeakable monstrosity on your plate might very well be "Edible, I presume?"

I've turned to cooking as a means of relaxation after a long day at work, or, as I've come to affectionately call it, "My Pre-Coffin". More on that later. In any event, at its very least, cooking serves to remind us of one of life's most important virtues: discipline. I say this because I'm a relative novice when it comes to subjects like "preparation time" and "things that require utensils", so needless to say my frustration boils over (much like the poor noodles under my watch) and my motivation simultaneously crumbles when something boring happens, such as reading directions. In these instances, which actually turns out to be "most of the time", I sustain myself on a mish-mash of evil, PURE EVIL: lean pockets and "La Mas Rica" peanuts*.

The travesty that occasionally does represent my best effort at making Level 2 Food is impressive only in that you probably haven't seen anything like it before. I'm the Surya Bonaly of culinary arts, if you will; I look fondly back at the '98 Games when, due to her unique and unconventional interpretation of the poetry-in-motion that is ice skating, eager judges were prompted to evaluate her with words instead of numbers, such as "Just what the hell was that??"

What is this I hear? I hear gleeful squealing. Oh, its you, Silent Masses Who Apparently Read This Page. Within the last few weeks my page views have steadily increased, yet with stagnant comment flow, leading me to question how many of you are out there stabbing little Nicky voodoo dolls or clawing at their eyes shouting BEGONE, ACID KING! I WILL DEPLOY SANDSTORM! Then again, despite this minor concern, my firey need for attention is satiated somewhat even IF my readers (however many you are) are as crazy as noted above or are currently rocking violently in your seat, becoming entangled in your cape shouting things like:

"NICKY DUMB HE CAN'T COOK GOOD HAHAHA HE STAND NEXT TO FARTING MAN IN RESTROOM HAHAHA FART HEE HEE NICKY GOOFY LIKE CLOWN"

I'm willing to bet lots of money that if you fall under the latter grouping, you also belong to the annoyingasfuck faction of B97 listeners who waste everyone's retro lunch hour with incessant requests to hear "Baby Got Back" and "Ice Ice Baby". In which case, I wonder how you escaped from your cell and were able to subscribe to telephone service. What's more -- yes...yes, I DO recognize you from the time we were all done go-karting and lining up afterwards when you thought it would be helpful to RAM INTO THE BACK OF ME AT FULL SPEED as I sat ignorant to the rapidly approaching danger and imminent pain that awaited me.

And yes I'm ending this here because I think I've strayed far enough off the subject, which was already kind of hazy to begin with.

_______________________
*I'm eating some right now.

Hold Me Back

2005-10-14T22:54:00.000-05:00

I've surrendered time from my schedule of moping around the apartment waiting to bump into things to give a little more perspective about my anxieties and experiences between the hours of 9 and 5, where my MIND mopes around inside my HEAD occasionally bumping into things, such as brainwaves.

Occasionally.

This intersection of the mind & body provides me with a respite of, ironically, work, distracting from the painful effect of forcing open my dry, glazed eyes as they themselves set the subjects of their lifeless stare ablaze. Yes, nirobert.blogspot.com readers, I'm talking about work; the very place my host body painstakingly morphs into a bigger, slower, weaker life form – right, kind of like Krang but only better at survey research.

Here at the survey scientist's Shangri-La, I die so much faster each day. And by "faster", I mean "a Rolling Stone by 5", for I become the undead, mumbling vegetable bastardchild of Father Time and Mother "Freak of" Nature* with a special talent for looking mangy. In an effort not to ignite the humans around me with the cycloptic microwave beam that’s emitted from my eyes in the morning, I often avoid eye contact if at all possible in passing through the hallway. This is without question very difficult if one also wishes to keep happy relations with one's coworkers. For example, my inner monologue in such a situation might go like this:

Me: Clear hallway! GO.
Me: What're you gonna say if big boss walks out? Is it gonna look sincere??
Stomach: ME HUNGRY FEED NOW GO CAFETERIA DO JOB LATER
Me: Blast! The computer guy!!!1 Stay calm stay calm stay calm...

Him: Howareyou---.
Me: Good. [quickens pace]
Him: Good. [continues on Segway]

After explaining my ideas to so-and-so and come to find that I’d gotten myself a lot deeper in the shit than I ever wanted to, my motivation wilts and I give ‘em the “I’m going to look into this and get back to you” bit and walk the fuck away. Anyone who’s ever been to a bar knows that feeling – when the girl you think you’re getting on well with leans over and, instead of saying ‘let’s go home,’ she says she’s going to the bathroom. Never to return. I’m that person at work because, well, I aint tryin’ to hear that shit; shit.

I get back to my cube, open Outlook, and read an email from a boss who uses italicized cursive AND bolded font to sign their name as if they really wrote it. Now, I know you’re not trying to fool anyone, but don’t think for a second that I feel warmer after reading that. Try patronized, motherfucker -- that’s what’s up.

One final thing: don’t adjust my air conditioner, lest I stick you something cold-blooded with my letter opener. Had a girl turn it off like nothing was up. Hold me back.

Next entry: possibly the re-cap of Tokyo…

-------------------------------------------------------------------
*Sincere apologies to the Rolling Stones; your music is great.

Diversion

2005-10-12T23:31:00.000-05:00

Leave your name and
1. I'll respond with something random about you.
2. I'll tell you what song/movie reminds me of you.
3. I'll pick a flavor of Jell-O to wrestle with you in.
4. I'll say something that only makes sense to you and me.
5. I'll tell you my first/clearest memory of you.
6. I'll tell you what animal you remind me of.
7. I'll ask you something that I've always wondered about you.

Live By The Pen, Die By The Pen

2005-10-06T14:02:00.000-05:00

An uncapped pen is a dangerous pen.

That is all.

Backup Napkin

2005-09-18T15:52:00.000-05:00

I bring my lunch to work.

If I stopped here, this post would signify one of my life's crowning achievements; namely, that I actually went out and bought a pack of those paper brown lunch sacks and make my lunch nightly. I'm not here to gloat, however.

Actually I am. I'm really too pleased with myself and shouldn't write about this but humor me. SO ANYWAY. Within this sack-lunch I usually pack a non-processed fruit item (ie, banana), one sandwich, a yogurt/applesauce, and a drink. Moreover, I supply myself with not one but two napkins.

One napkin is chosen at random as I commence with lunch while the other is kept close at hand. The primary napkin, or "Napkin Alpha" as I say aloud with arms raised, is used for most napkin-necessary situations; finger drying, cheek wiping, littering etc. Rarely is the auxiliary napkin called up from AAA; however, on occasion an emergency spill or miscue in bringing the sandwich to my mouth will unfortunately occur. And rather than using Napkin Alpha, which is by now a wadded up mess, I quickly reach for Old Reliable -- my backup napkin -- and a messy cheek is averted.

Drunk with self-congratulatory bliss, disconnected from the world around me, I lean back, smile broadly, breathe in and then open my eyes. I raise my arms again.

And lunch hath been served.

Office Life

2005-09-14T22:14:00.000-05:00

Since I'm working in a true office environment now, I'm increasingly understanding all the office humor that went over my head in the mid-nineties (see: News Radio). There are definitely career-shifting perks to working in the office such as receiving a new key or getting a Slurpee whenever I please, but I have to say that sometimes its not all its cracked up to be.

For instance, how comfortable is your chair? Does it teter-totter with the shift of a mere proton on the sitter's body? You see, at my workplace there are 4 gradations of chair: 1) things that deserve to be shot well into space (gives you scoliosis by noon), my chair (ok I'll give them this: it has wheels), 3) other boss's chairs (the kind that help you live longer or something), and 4) the $600 throne (it makes you live longer AND sucks yo dick).

How far away from the stairwell is your office? Can you practice your 40-yard dash times on the way to your scoliosis chamber? Well I can, and not only can I do this, but the men's restroom is closest to my office as well. Some may call this a plus. I don't. If some random office dude from the other wing is pooping loudly in there and one exits the restroom, the sound reverberates and, thankfully, finds its way into my ears. And frankly if I'm in there with one of my bosses, say goodbye to the thought of ever #2'ing -- I just can't do it under such circumstances, such stress!

Don't mock me -- you know what I mean. Anyway, I'll have more on my restroom ambivalence later.

How many other Outlook calendars can you view? This is truly one of the premiere status symbols around the office. Yesterday I was firing off permissions left and right for 15 people to view my calendar, however bare it is, and I received only 1 reciprocal add!!1 Please, Your Excellencies, let me see your calendars. Let me LIIIIVE.

These are only a few of the things I get to think about all day long while I'm not at the Vid leveling up or something. Fear not, faceless blog browser, there will be more reflections soon.

Deep Thoughts

2005-09-06T21:04:00.000-05:00

I was doing some thinking at work tonight and realized *POW* that there's always a retarded kid in your class named Jimmy.

boredom

2005-09-06T10:28:00.000-05:00

i've been meaning to write a new post for a while... i know i always say that but i mean it this time*. i tell you what the dilly is:

so i'm here at my new job. same place in eigenmann, but i'm a "research assistant" now, bitches. see, i like it and it gives me job security for a while as well as the phat title, but A) i don't know how long i can stand doing this and B) i don't even have a namecard or goofy t-shirt that has "STAFF" printed on the back. of course, nobody around here has these things BUT THAT'S JUST HOW I DO.

word is bond.

no, surriusly, i like it for now. i have to make a few more critical life decisions here in the next 3 months, namely, do i really want to pursue a japan oriented career (ie, JET, which would mean i leave the country next july)? meh, i dunno. doing that would be fun, but it could seriously interrupt the progress i've finally started to make in the "real world" -- and by that, again i refer to my phat title, biooooootch. what does a man do? make that decision.

i now live by myself for the first time ever. is this really true? yes. while this arrangement is 4 years overdue, i'm also happy with what i finally have, and that is indeed my own apartment. its on the southside away from the teeming human river of STD and other disease i call campus. i have this 3-tiered stand -- and i've been telling everyone this so bear with me -- that i used to house all three of my video game systems, all wired at the same time. say it with me: i just creamed my pants.

the thing with the apartment is that i live in a sort of ghetto. my neighbor is an impoverished grandma of 5 years and has made multiple not-so-subtle statements suggesting she needs financial help and that i seem fit to give it to her. she also calls me "scott" but i've decided not to correct her. anyway.

uh-oh. i just got a meeting reminder in 15 minutes...i forgot to prepare for this. yeah i'm gonna go now.
___________
*i prolly dont mean it

Roll Call

2005-08-20T04:17:00.000-05:00

Holler if you hear me.

I want to know who's reading this.

Supreme Annoyances

2005-07-24T23:18:00.000-05:00

Why do Bloomington drivers have to peel out of the stoplight only to slow back down because they're making a turn just 1 block later? Yes, ass-lickers, I'm talking to you; thanks for racing ahead of me because, for a second there, I thought you weren't going to be able to make your turn, you know, without PASSING ME AND SLAMMING THE BRAKES.

And with the current trend toward healthier living, in other words, opting not to upgrade your vat of coke to a 200 ounce tanker, you'll occasionally run across old and new food products in the store that seek to appeal to this consumer by promoting the only things about themselves which are neither ever here nor there. We all know we don't give a crap about its absense of any "trans fat", whatever that is. Take this new Reese's cookie I saw at Sam's Club*, it was all "Contains 0 grams trans-fat", "Individually Wrapped," and "No Dolphin meat this time!"

Oh Merciful Dooku, what would I do without ESPN'S 50 States in 50 Days segment? Its official: they're just making up programming now. Sportscenter used to be alright, like when they'd show bomb-diggity dunk reels and hourly Top Tens, never pestering us with mind-altering "words" or anything. I was perfectly content slouched in my chair with an embarrassing stream of drool hanging from my chin as I pounded potato chips into my face, watching the images fly by. But now I'm forced to bisect my single attention point, which involves painstakingly bringing the chip to my mouth, and try to compute why my brain has to unscramble the code which is "50 States in 50 Days". All it is is this segment where ESPN graces one state every day (how novel.) and does a useless bit about some face-meltingly boring but apparently noteworthy local pastime, like watching the corn grow.

Please stop this, ESPN.

But then again, without the 50/50 piece tonight on the state of Kansas, I wouldn't have learned that it was once against the law there to put ice cream on top of cherry pie [insert wanking motion here].

_____________________________
*I love Sam's Club and would permanently live there if I could, but I'd have to kick out all the seniors who wear "America" shirts.

Refill Nazi

2005-07-18T04:58:00.000-05:00

Life zombies its way forward in my soul taking town and for me, well, so do my unfailingly embarrassing episodes at The Vid. But you see though, when a level 27 Squiremaster Apprentice Class-A steps to the klub freshly equipped with a costly but SWEET adamantium beetle exoskeleton, he expects to get a little respect.

By respect, I do mean get a free refill on my humble coke which costed you, the bar, nothing GOD.

So anyway, I went there with a girl I know* and instead of buying a beer I decided to go for coke. I heard a few days ago that coke refills are free so long as you tip generously on the first buy. I gave $2 tip for a $1 coke thinking “I’m a Golden God." Also that I’d get some refills.

My friend seems to know this bartender who’s been there since, like, ARPANET was considered “fucking AWESOME" and actually she works with his girlfriend so since I came in with her I assumed that I would let nepotism carry me to my 2nd and 3rd cokes.

Yeah so I finished my first and warned my friend that I was gonna test the story out and either come back with a smile (and a coke) or with blood spilled all over my knuckles and mouth. En route to the bar I saw the bartender that served me, the one she knew, and I asked him “are coke refills free here, or….(am I going to have to Bruce Lee your sorry ass)” and his response was, after a cursory glance at me in my Dirt McGirt shirt (over my impressive beetle exoskeleton), “[wince] Ahhh, no they’re actually a doll—wait yeah…I’ll give you one.”

Damn.

And here’s where it really gets sad. I didn’t know whether simply knowing her would warp me to the front of the line to get my coke* or if I’d have to wait. Standing in the back of an 8-strong line, bartender #2 told me I’d be best to go to the other window in the other room, to which I replied “I already spoke to him (over there).” I got to the front and still no sign of my refill. I see #2 looking at me so what does a retard do?

I pull out some bills in clear view of #2, as if to ready them for payment of a valid drink, and stand idly by, sweating, soiling myself, you name it, waiting for that coke. When it came I put the money away and bolted, and I’m SURE #2 thought I stole it. Fuck that guy; I just leveled up, bioootch.

Level 28. I got back to my seat and of course told the story like I just snapped my fingers and a team of virgins brought to me my coke on a bed of doilies. You have to impress sometimes.

Next entry: my recent vacation in Tokyo.

_____________________________________
* Sigh
** I hadn’t gotten the Warp Flute yet

Webshots Extravaganza!

2005-05-01T03:48:00.000-05:00

I've just signed up for Webshots, a service online whereby you post your ENTIRE FUCKING LIFE for the world to see. Humor me and leave comments on it or guestbook shits or however the heck they have it set up over there.

Also, I hope to have written another entry here soon. I get into this habit of, oh I don't know, doing nothing but search for fallen cheetos around my desk, and I lose track of how much time has actually elapsed. In this case, we'll just say "only a month or so". I apologize. Cheetos aren't that good for me anyway. In fact, if I were riding on a plane in the Himalayas and it went down, leaving me as the sole, unlucky survivor with an Economy Can of Cheetos, I would die sometime during the night. Not for lack of food (well, yes, that) but because the cheetos are so dangerously cheesey that my insides would liquify into an orangey pudding mix, turning me into a human ebola balloon.

So, now that I have uploaded the images I hold so dear to myself and the black hole I call "my soul", you are free to browse your way through every irritating page of them. Only one requirement: you are to hold your nose with one hand and click with the other (we say "multitasking" in the industry) if you look through the Otakon 2004 pics. Don't say I didn't warn you.

I SEE DEAD PEOPLE

I'm an artisan, I guess

2005-04-26T02:16:00.000-05:00

Free report for: Nicholas Roberts
(name has been kept the same to endanger subject)

Artisans are the temperament with a natural ability to excel in any of the arts, not only the fine arts such as painting and sculpting, or the performing arts such as music, theater, and dance, but also the athletic, military, political, mechanical, and industrial arts, as well as the "art of the deal" in business.

Artisans are most at home in the real world of solid objects that can be made and manipulated, and of real-life events that can be experienced in the here and now. Artisans have exceptionally keen senses, and love working with their hands. They seem right at home with tools, instruments, and vehicles of all kinds, and their actions are usually aimed at getting them where they want to go, and as quickly as possible. Thus Artisans will strike off boldly down roads that others might consider risky or impossible, doing whatever it takes, rules or no rules, to accomplish their goals. This devil-may-care attitude also gives the Artisans a winning way with people, and they are often irresistibly charming with family, friends, and co-workers.

Artisans want to be where the action is; they seek out adventure and show a constant hunger for pleasure and stimulation. They believe that variety is the spice of life, and that doing things that aren't fun or exciting is a waste of time. Artisans are impulsive, adaptable, competitive, and believe the next throw of the dice will be the lucky one. They can also be generous to a fault, always ready to share with their friends from the bounty of life. Above all, Artisans need to be free to do what they wish, when they wish. They resist being tied or bound or confined or obligated; they would rather not wait, or save, or store, or live for tomorrow. In the Artisan view, today must be enjoyed, for tomorrow never comes.

Artisans make up between 15 to 20 percent of the population, which is good, because they create much of the beauty, grace, fun, and excitement the rest of us enjoy in life.

i will high-five you.

2005-04-21T20:48:00.000-05:00

Girl,

Why do you not smile at me? Do you smile at all? I'm sorry but you seem so cold. I see you, and I know you see me, yet I feel I am not even a blip on your freakdar. No nod, no thumbs up, sometimes not even a knowing glance, and it just tears me up inside.

Why you gotta be like that, girl? You and I aren't like everyone else. The white cord of the iPod that differentiates us from the apes says so, but do you appreciate our kinship? It doesn't seem like it.

I wait to cross the street at the corner and I see you on the other side. You ALWAYS leave me hanging when I offer my hand for a friendly "high five" when we cross. Always. Girl, you don't even know what that does to me.

Baby, just show me that smile, anything. I want to know that you know I am here for you -- whenEVer you so desire. And baby girl, if you are a dime short to buy that replenishing can of Diet Coca-Cola you need, or even a quarter short, look for me. I'll have the white earphones in my ear with the volume low enough to sense your distress, yet loud enough for Marvin Gaye to inspire me should we freak sometime. Alternatively, the next time you see me ballin' up the sidewalk, look for the white cords...and then look for my penetrating and welcoming gaze. I will high five you.

Let me know, baby sweet thang.

Bathroom Humor

2005-03-31T11:09:00.000-05:00

Its official, faceless readers of my blog: you can now envy me as a Level 27 Nicky with 285HP, 64 FP (!!) AND I’m wearing the strongest clothing available this side of Bowser’s Keep!

I can also procure every frog coin on the Midas River obstacle course.

Whoa! I didn’t say to release a warm and pleasing stream of urine down your legs. Listen, this past weekend, I experienced…something. I don’t really know how to quantify it, but I did pick the flower of knowledge, ride on the airplane of awakening, and single-handedly redefine courage all within one parcep. You do this too sometimes, like that time at Denny’s when you had to stuff down that entire half of your Moons-Over-My-Hammy because A) blisters were forming on your tongue, B) you threw too much of the thing into your mouth at once and C) you were SO FUCKING WASTED, DUDE!!1. But, have you ever leveled up in the bathroom of the Vid? No. Not like this…

No not like that, either, you sick, sick freak.

Its important that we review our keywords and terms. The Buffer Urinal Theory, first put into words by writer-philosopher Dave Barry of the Miami-Herald, states that usage of the men’s restroom actually requires more rules of conduct than the sacred Japanese ceremony of, say, furiously masturbating a tuna fish during a tea ceremony. The Buffer Urinal Theory, or “BUT”, was conceived soon after modern day South America broke off of Africa, due to the urinal industry’s lucrative epiphany that vendors could order no less than three urinals per men’s restroom*. Men simply would refuse to go in two at a time, so at least 1 buffer urinal, installed only as a decorative piece, was required to give users the appropriate space while urinating. Let’s take a look at figure 12B:

Figure 12B
------1-------2-------3-------4-------5-----

Barry’s BUT states that if Urinal 1 is occupied; proceed straight to Urinal 3 or Urinal 5 while not passing “GO” and not collecting $200. Always, if 1, 3, and 5 are taken, the panicked male must look to the stall as the last socially acceptable option available, apart from soiling the wall in the corner.

Sometimes, though, you. just. have. to. go. It was late. My seal had been blown to smithereens already, so, by now, every calling was a Code-Red. And that’s exactly what I faced when I crashed the party in the restroom: urinals 1 and 3 were taken and so was the stall!!@ Never really the wall-pisser myself, I surrendered and stepped up to the buffer urinal. Almost instantly the restroom cleared out, leaving me all alone in the middle, and that’s when it happened.

This dude walked in and correctly chose the stall but happened to yell, of all things, “GIT ER DUN!!!1” in this “Gentlemen, start your engines!” let’s-get-ready-to-rumble kind of way. I was able to hold the laughter in for .9 seconds before he let out these farts that can only be described in musical terms.

Ah, the sound of music. I was quite the bandsman in high school, you know. I played the trumpet and, despite not being the most refined player technically, I put in countless hours of practice, painstakingly leaving it at school overnight. I had one volume, fff*, and one phrasing ability, “slurred”. If nothing else, I perfected this technique. Often, as a sign of great respect during rehearsal, several members of the band would stop playing just to turn around and watch me play.

So, musically, we may describe this man in the bathroom as having started with a sforsando (explosively) and then seamlessly transitioning into a more legato sound -“smooth and connected.” Think "low frequency elephant". It takes a great deal of skill for a wind player to master this, but just iMAGine the discipline required to pull that off through your butt. As they say, “how does one get to Carnegie Hall?” Practice, practice, practice! His song was as brief as it was technically sound; he began a dimenuendolandocalrissian (gradually growing softer) and all fell silent again in the men’s restroom, apart from my uncontrollable laughter.

I knew I had to get outta there with a quikness. I didn’t want to risk breaking the BUT again and it was certainly awkward enough with just the two of us uncomfortably ignoring each other's noise making. Success! I was able to wash my hands and apply a towling before the situation worsened. Let this be a lesson to all: in the most demanding of environments, such as a tea ceremony or using the men’s restroom, you can still level up. Just remember to flush.

Of course, equipping the Experience Doubler Ring helps, too.

________________________________
*Exact dates vary.
**fff -- to play with the lungs of Herakles, God of Men

Greetings, or, "Step off."

2005-03-13T16:35:00.000-05:00

This has been bothering me for some time; not for the reason that I am in some way homophobic (because I'm not), but because I simply don't like:

a) touching other people, especially guys, and
b) social expectations.

What I'm talking about here is that awkward, reluctant-to-take-a-liking-to-you first meeting between guys. This almost always involves some form of touching -- from a quick and sweaty handshake to a swift punch in the face if they remember that you TP'd their house back in high school*.

I've never been a fan of the handshake. This applies to my initial meetings with other guys my own age, as I probably already don't like you before I've ever met you. Hey, tough. I suppose, then, it would be fair for you to pre-judge me the same way. I can deal with that. The thing I would like to avoid, however, is the handshake.

We really don't need to do that. Your hand is definitely filthy -- I saw you gutting the fermented sloth carcas over in the corner with knives made from a string of sharpened Great White penises. My hands are pleasingly rid of anyone else's business but my own and I enjoy it that way. Unless we're about to form a bond stronger than steel, such as in choosing teams on a school playground, I do not need to grab hold of your hand. I gotta eat with mine later on, man, reco'nize.

Word is bond.

Speaking of greeting other guys, I encountered a real-life, ultra "WTF" two weeks ago, and no I'm not talking about when you hit start without warning me and then proceeded to use a 24-hit combo to win the match. That sucked, but I'm talking about when I bumped into who I would consider a friend of a friend, or just someone I'm friendly with who I haven't yet let into my little circle. I said, "Hi, XXX," and he reciprocated, only he put his open palm squarely on my right pectoral muscle.

And he left it there for fully two and a half seconds as he said hello back.

!!! As I said before, I'm not homophobic or anything but there were three-alarm fires, H-bombs, barking dogs and dying angels going off in my control center. "What is he doing!!?" I asked myself. Initially I started to lean back, in a way not unlike dodging a fastball aimed at my nuts, but I stood still (probably from the shock). Something about that took me off guard, and, while it was not a handshake**, I count it in the same category. I think I'm a little too avoidant, perhaps. I mean, I know I AM, a lot, but if I'm making a mountain out of a molehill out of this then leave a comment saying so. If not, then please contact your congress representative and tell him or her to write up a bill making it unlawful for blokes under the age of 30 to shake hands with or surprise chest-press me.

That's all I ask.

__________________________
* This invariably happens to me.
** +5 Approval points for that

I love this quote...

2005-03-13T15:52:00.000-05:00

"If a woman has to choose between catching a fly ball and saving an infant's life, she will choose to save the infant's life without even considering if there are men on base."

-Dave Barry

Its funny because its TRUE.

Proof is in the Pudding

2005-02-23T22:43:00.000-05:00

I don't have internet access at home right now. At first I felt my life was flip-turned upside-down; I didn't know what to do with myself when I got home from work. You know, sit in the chair and kind of reach for the mouse and move it around a few times, click some empty boxes on your desktop wallpaper. But you know what? I've gotten used to it. I started reading a book(!!!11), I'm reviewing Japanese*, and I'm making an honest effort to eat healthy items such as "nothing" for breakfast. I wash down the old road pavement from out by the lake that they like to call "all-wheat pita bread" with Dasani Water. Let me tell you a little bit about this ill shit:

M, take note. You all "Bottled Since 1931". What else you got, huh? That secret formula involving two atoms Hydrogen, one atom Oxygen, and a WHOLE LOTTA Bullshit (Bs). Your slogan even sucks; take a look at Dasani:

DASANI is the water that makes your mouth water.

As basic as breathing, DASANI quenches thirst naturally and deliciously.

Drink DASANI everyday for one week and see how good you can feel. One thing is for sure. You'll feel great about yourself. And with DASANI's refreshingly great taste, everyday will be a breeze.

You can see why you can't hold a candle to Dasani. Their slogan writers hatch more outrageous shit during the company's Happy Hour than yours have since 1931. Shit, all your writers be DEAD. Let's look at Dasani's formula:

To create DASANI, Coca-Cola bottlers start with the local water supply, which is then filtered for purity using a state-of-the-art process called reverse osmosis. The purified water is then enhanced with a special blend of materials for a pure, fresh taste.

Reverse muthafuckin OSMOSIS. Nobody even knows what that means but I want Dasani water and I mean that. How did they arrive with such an exotic, mouth-watering name? M, once again, you fail miserably. Check this shit out:

In naming DASANI, we wanted the word on the outside of the bottle to reflect the essence of the water inside. To arrive at the name DASANI, we asked people who love water what they thought. DASANI was their answer. DASANI is an original, collaborative creation suggesting relaxation, pureness, and replenishment.

The proof is in the pudding so they say. Or water, in this case.

Oh yeah, I rediscovered my love for marshmallows. You should too.

Working 9-5 is cooler than I thought. Since I'm going to bed earlier, it makes waking up at 7:50am more tolerable, putting it right up there with open heart surgery using Grandpa's rusty scithe from the shed. Life is kind of okay. Because I drink DASANI water.

____________________
*Damn it.

M Brand Water

2005-01-25T22:08:00.000-05:00

"Quality since 1931" isn't just a slogan at Marsh; it is our quality commitment to you and your family. We continue that commitment with M brand Natural Spring Water...the finest quality spring water available. We know your family will like the crisp, pure taste. Enjoy some today!"

BULL SHIT.

M Brand water is the worst thing ever on earth, even more worse than the crusades, the plague, the holocaust and Dave Matthews combined. It is THAT bad and I am not making this up.

When poured, the "water" verges on oozing from the bottle leading me to believe that no kind of water filtration system exists at the bottling plant (Source: Hummel Spring, Liberty, IL) and that they in fact add hard-water molecules, such as clay, to the mix. Their recipe must be a closely guarded secret as I've tasted no other water such like M Brand water. The water is so painfully loathsome when it hits the tongue that I have no other choice but to think that "Quality since 1931" REALLY means "Bottled in 1931".

I feel sick every time I drink this sludge. You know that water is the building block of life, but damned if you would think that while forcing M Brand down your throat. Give me a cup of Alaskan mountain goat urine instead please. God damn.

Don't buy M Brand water. Word is bond on that.

Yogurt

2005-01-19T22:36:00.000-05:00

The main reason I've never liked yogurt is the note (I call it a warning) on the side of the cup that says, "Contains Live and Active Yogurt Cultures."

Gross.

Cleaning this up

2005-01-17T04:01:00.000-05:00

I'm gonna clean this up a little bit and get rid of some posts that don't belong here anymore. I might change the color scheme if they've got some good templates, and regarding other small cosmetic changes, I'm gonna try to consolidate the archive system on the right-hand border to make this easier to look at and browse. Most of my good posts are from several months ago anyway.

Still trying to figure out which direction I want to head in the next 1-2 years...yes, it IS the main thing on my mind right now still, but I'm gonna resume writing about the little things* SOMETIME SOON.

And a certain somebody's got my attention.

---------------
*Like gross cheeseburger links or my hatred for people who put their trash in the water fountain pan.

Photoshop is kind of fun I admit.

2005-01-11T14:06:00.000-05:00

2005-01-02T19:29:00.000-05:00

LAST...
movie you rented = Mr. Baseball
song you listened to = Elevators, Outkast
cd you bought = its been so long...hahaha...um...i can't even recall
cd you listened to = Outkast
person you've called = my mom
person that's called you = eno san
tv show you've watched = i don't watch tv shows
movie you saw in a theater = Meet the Fockers
thing you read = www.yongfook.com food review
meal you ate = beef stew + salad + cake + upland beer w/orange slice @ matt's parent's house
time you went out of state = Halloween, to Washington DC

WHAT...
shampoo do you use = herbal essences of course
shoes do you wear = shoes with the color blue on them
are you scared of = being alone in various ways

HAVE YOU EVER
Gone out in public in your pajamas: no. i hate leaving the house before a shower.
Kept a secret from everyone: of course i have
Cried during a movie: Benji + White Fang
Ever at anytime owned new kids on the block stuff: yep. shared a tshirt w/my sis.
Planned your week based on the TV Guide: no.
Been on stage: yes...and i shook.
Wished you were the opposite sex: no (ask anthony though)

WHICH DO YOU LIKE MORE
Apples or bananas?: apples
Blue or red?: blue
Walmart or target?: target; lesser of two evils
Spring or Fall?: spring

Meh.

2004-12-25T01:49:00.000-05:00

I'm back again. And with nothing helpful to add either, so close your eyes.

I'm bitter right now. Its because I open myself up to certain people sometimes and get my heart broken. In the grand scheme of things, its good for a person to go through that. It just sucks, you know, GOING through it. You're used to waking up and being able to think of someone, and you can't do that anymore. Try telling your heart to be quiet; its hard.

I think I'm dependent on constant forces in my life. I just graduated and now that I'm kind of floating around in the real world, it scares the shit out of me. Its like I've got to go somewhere and look for someone and look for stability. I don't really like using that word, because I think I'm a stable guy...but I just like having someone around, you know? And you never think you've done anything to deserve it. That also is hard to swallow. Meh.

Its 1:07 on Christmas morning and I'm at the computer doing this. I'm not in a terrible state or anything. I'm okay. I'm just trying to write more as a means of "self-help". I'm also here since my dad's in the den assembing Christmas gifts, simultaneously cursing the Chinese and preventing me from sleeping in there. So I'm sorry if this hasn't been funny or witty or whatever. I'm going through some shit and you all have been there before too. I'll be fine. I think now I'm gonna go find a spot in the house and sleep.

The Story of My Life.

2004-11-18T13:44:00.000-05:00

先んずれば人を制す。

Ha ha ha.

2004-10-07T05:28:00.000-05:00

Right now its 5:30am and I'm in the thick of pulling an all-nighter. All this sleep deprivation for a paper of only 1200 words. I'll take it if it gives me more time to keep it real on the side. So anyway, yes, I'm here at the IU main library with my Taiwanese friend Johnny Ho. This guy is a character: a tad shorter than me, mobster-colored (and styled) hair, hip prescription-tinted glasses, and bare feet. He rests alone in a seating area here in the "Information Commons" on a loveseat. There are maybe 15 people situated throughout the commons, including the student employees.

As I've done before when we both have stayed overnight at the library, I have just put a sign on him. Remember, he is asleep. This is what he deserves; public humiliation. Although it IS freezing in here, he is without shoes and socks, lying outstretched on the couch with his headphones on and jacket draped over his chest. His laptop is open, materials out. The perfect addition to this is, of course, a sign placed on his body that reads, "Will write paper for shoes".

I'm in a different area of the commons, but only a 10-foot high wall and about 30 feet separates us. I'm giddy with laughter. Haha!! Someone's laughing at him!

Next Time, I'm Mr. Guanxhaio!

2004-09-19T18:59:00.000-05:00

At Sam's Club they have a policy whereby at the end of your checkout process, if the cashier does not thank you by name, you get to take a dollar that sits in front of the cashier register. The dollar is placed between two plastic panels, set against the sign that tells us to take it IF we aren't thanked by name.

I read that and not a second later my mind was taken with the image of me with a dollar in hand. There was a Korean family in front of us and I monitored the cashier. While folding up the receipt, he looked at the customer's name on his membership card and simply said "Thank you." Maybe this is my lucky day. I eagerly stood in front of the dollar display as the final items were rung up and he took the receipt and my card and said, politely, "Thank you Mr. Roberts."

"DAMNIT!"

He knew what was up; he had a smirk on his face. I should've jumped the counter and slit his fucking throat, that's what I should've done. But instead, I said thanks and left without incident.

I now however have a reason to go to Sam's Club. I WANT that dollar.

Otakon 2004: Plug Your Nose

2004-09-01T02:33:00.000-05:00

Friday, July 30, 2004
Brian and I left for Baltimore early in the afternoon, allowing ample time for the Indy airport's world-renowned, retarded security force. They were, as I had predicted, as rude as they were slow. Problems first arose quite conveniently when we arrived at the ticket counter to claim our tickets through the automated machine. You see, I'm a terrorist.

For those of you who aren't already aware, my name evidently is on a terrorist watch-list at airports across the country. Not because they actually know about all the planes I've terrorized in the past, but because of a supposed "old Iranian guy" who tries to go by my name, Nicholas Roberts, when he flies. Therefore, when I left the country in March to go to Tokyo and now Baltimore, my flight tickets have been callously branded with four S's to put me through the special security line. It didn't matter that my line was 1/10th as long as that of "regular" security; I had to wait thrice as long as Brian, only to prove to the man with the magic wand that I wasn't hiding a bomb in my socks.

So you're probably wondering, "But Nicky, aren't you going to tell us about Otakon?" Yes, bastards. We met our friend Mike at the airport and caught a shuttle toward our hotel in downtown Baltimore. We happened to pass right by the Baltimore Convention Center around 9:30pm-ish, and it was clear: it probably stunk outside. This is because the otaku were frolicking around, both inside and outside the convention center, and no doubt was this putting immense strain on their only line of defense to body odor--their Naruto costumes (which were RoXOrz, BTW). Oh, are you familiar with the word "otaku"? If not, let's just say it means 'fanboy', but anything you can imagine, it was 10x as ridiculous here.

We checked in at our $270/night room at the Hyatt Regency Baltimore and rushed to find the Otakon registration booths. After 30 minutes of being denied by--hey, surprise!--retarded security guards, we decided to take the next reasonable step and just break in. At the registration table, this morbidly obese man (with what looked like coral reef growing on his forearms (???)) helped us with our badges. Finally, no longer were we illegitimate children floating lost in the system. We had badges.

Saturday, July 31, 2004
Got like 4 hours of sleep; had to tune out the sounds of love-making coming from Brian and Mike's way*. The line that had already begun to form at 8:00am outside the convention center stretched hundreds of people. Brian jumped in at 8:30 and shortly after that I politely cut in front of those behind him by "not giving a shit because what are you gonna do, dickweeds?" The doors opened at 9:05 and, luckily, the otaku retained line formation after entering the expansive convention center. Brian and I broke apart from status quo and walked up the stairs directly next to the narrow elevator. I heard a bitch say "Heyyyyy!" to us. Heh. We were on a mission: PROCURE OUR PRESS BADGES AND L'ARC~EN~CIEL PASSES.

We acquired the L'arc pass and headed over to the press station where we picked up our LAMINATED press badges with our names already printed on them. Oh my god, you can suck it so hard, otaku! With Brian, I commenced sauntering around with not only one but two badges on; the press badge around my neck and--let's just call it my "peasant badge"--tied to my belt loop. From that moment on at Otakon 2004, I transcended my already hubristic posture and felt right in judging those for whom only one badge decorated.

Let me say a quick word on the otaku. The night before, we got a chance to stop in at the Otaku Rave. I had never been repulsed, or I should say violated, quite like that. The common assumption indeed is true. They stink....a lot. Ok back to scheduled programming...

Anthony joined very soon after that and we dicked around Otakon until joining the L'arc~en~ciel concert line at 3:15pm. It was an interesting experience having lunch at Burger King that day. I had the rare pleasure of dining with various samurai and other Japanese archetypical anime characters carrying large cardboard swords. Did you know Naruto likes the #2 Value Meal (biggie sized)? So the concert came and went and we had very good seats in the 12,000 seat arena. It was everything we hoped it would be and more. For instance, Ken (guitarist) must have went through 3 or 4 guitars, throwing each one down as it did not perform up to his standards. Hyde (vocals) surprised everyone by changing his lead-in of "Ready Steady Go" to "Ahhh yuuu fukking readyyy??!" For a more in-depth report of this concert, visit http://www.aleong.com/blog/2004_08_01_blogarchive.109141750065231944 and also the linked L'arc page.

For us, now not only was Otakon complete, but so were our lives. Especially Brian's. In celebration, I spent $9 on a beer in a souvenier glass at Hard Rock Cafe later that evening and even that felt good. Our night was capped by some comic relief coming from a passing car on our return toward the hotel. Some exotically dressed otaku dotted the sidewalks in our area, and someone from inside the vehicle yelled out "Fuck Yu-Gi-Oh!" as they sped by.

Sunday, August 1, 2004
Saw our last hours of Otakon 2004 and headed to the airport. You may recall my woes in and around these ports of air. As we were close to the nation's capitol, security was even tighter than at Indy (I know this is hard for you to imagine, but please, try). You might think this is funny, so I'll tell you what happened at the Baltimore airport. With 4 S's marked on my ticket, I was again ushered to the special security line. I shoved my stuff on through the x-ray conveyor belt and made it through the metal detector. Success!! One more step to go and I'm free I thought. After the invasive bag check (I guess if they really wanna touch my drawers, its their prerogotive) another lady checked my ticket for the final time and looked up, somewhat alarmed. "You're not supposed to be in this line. You're in the wrong line."

Thinking that the entire security branch at the airport must have a terrorist watch-list memorized in their heads, I lazed my eyebrows and knowingly said to her, "I think I have a special name. . ." I kind of deliberately paused for a realization that never came. "I'm golden," I thought to myself.**

She certainly didn't react the way I predicted. Once again, she insisted that I was in the wrong place and proceeded in getting louder. Maybe she used to work at the Indy airport, for it was then that I decided to become Rogue Squad Leader and point out to her the four S's on my ticket. "Oh, there they are. You're fine." Thanks, lady. I boarded my plane and left behind a city which probably still stunk of B.O., along with the beggars and their stories of their wives leaving them. I also left behind about $500 of my own money (HOLY FUCK.) but to see L'arc~en~ciel and the sort-of human spectacle that was Otakon 2004, I'd say yes, it was worth it.

-------------------------------------------------
*Huh huh. Huh. Hahahahaha.
**Perhaps because I still had on my press badge.

2004-08-24T23:54:00.000-05:00

My roommate Matt likened sitting on the porch late at night to sitting at the beach listening to the waves. It sounds strange, but it was exactly what I was thinking; the cars actually don't sound that bad as they go by. It's a good place to sit and think, that porch is.

this aint baseball

2004-08-23T09:12:00.000-05:00

I've swung three times. Just still standing there in the batter's box. I guess I should go on back to the dugout.

Game's not over though. I might strike out again, but I'll go out swinging for the fences.

Remember to Inhale

2004-08-18T20:05:00.003-05:00

Feeling like crap lately, not just because of the hot dog I ate at the bowling alley.

man.

Indecision Kills Me

2004-08-03T10:37:00.000-05:00

It's 10:35am and I'm at work right now, but I felt it necessary to write a blog entry on something. I left my work area for a stroll to the water fountain & bathroom and upon entering the hallway I was met with the sight of my boss walking towards me to his office.

Paroxysms of awkardness shot through my mind and body, stunting my already-shoddy ability to make any smooth kind of nanchalant greeting that I could spit out. After first seeing him, I looked down for a few steps and then brought my eyes back up to see if he was still looking at me, which he was, so I thought, "Say something, Nicky. Anything." What was to come out was far and away the most retarded thing ever said from human lips.

"How.. --hi."

What the hell was that? I'm sure he was thinking that too, as he kind of looked at me, muttered something, and entered his office. As the moment passed, I tried to think of other words that "How.." could have sounded like, hoping that he interpreted it that way instead. Nope. Well, it could've been "ow," but again, that would've just been stupid.

This brings up a larger issue, I think. That is, indecision kills me. Last night during one of my throws in bowling, for whatever reason at the last second I changed my mind and decided to give the ball a spin reverse that to which I normally throw it. Result: immediate gutter*. There would have been absolutely no reward to trying this, as I can't do it, so why did I? I also remember back in my little league days-- ok, up until I was 15 -- when I was up to bat. From the moment I set my stance until the moment that something happened after the pitcher pitched the ball, I was going back and forth trying to already decide the outcome. Usually, in an act completely antithetical to success like that described in the bowling situation above, I ended up with an odd sort of compromise; I just laid down on my back a la protestor and had to be dragged off the field several minutes later by park security. I even tried to fake my own death once at 2nd base.**

---------------------------------------------
*And you should've seen the look of absolute disgust on Zaven's face when I turned around.
**Of course it didn't work.

2004-07-25T21:27:00.000-05:00

So yesterday I ate that half pound bean burrito and a soft taco. A few hours later I ate a salad, two dinner rolls, a steak and french fries. Also many cokes. Fast forward to the end of dinner when shit just about hits the fan (literally).

I got a very urgent phone call and it was from NATURE. I sat there confined in the booth because those two fucktards Brian and Anthony (see comments on entry below) wouldn't get up and leave. Eventually, out of sheer luck, a group of otaku walked in and one just happened to double as a former BHSS Japanese class-mate of mine and spring semester classmate of Brian's*. It was then that they finally decided to go, and you won't believe what these assholes did next. They got in their car and tried to block me from getting out of the parking lot in a quick manner. Luckily, I'm smarter than the two of them combined.

I managed to beat them out of the parking lot but I had underestimated them on the roadways. They eventually edged in front of me at 10th Street--from inside my car I could hear Brian's laughter--and they drove like old women all the way down 10th St. Sons of BITCHES!! Again I outsmarted them by taking a detour to my house, thinking they were defeated. Well, they pulled up seconds after I had and ran to my front door (again, see: Nick is smarter). I stumbled over a garbage can, several lawn chairs and a soaked piece of rug over to my back door and ran like hell to the bathroom. Man, let's just say: 2 courtesy flushes.

And 4 encores in the next few hours.

Brian and Anthony, let this be a warning to you two jokers. If you ever do that again, I'm going to be dropping my pants and all Hell will run wild all over the both of you. Good day.

--------------------------
*See also: "special friend"

2004-07-24T16:12:00.000-05:00

Went to Taco Bell today, ordered the Bean Burrito "Especiale" and a soft taco. They gave me 7 napkins. Why so many? I only would need about 2, maybe 3 on account of the "Especiale" (a half pound of beans and shit). But seven? This was easily 3/4 of a centimeter thick. Think of how much paper is simply given away each day, like it grows on trees or something, from Taco Bells all across America. I mean, I'm insulted that Taco Bell would hand me so much supply for cleanup--what are you trying to say, Taco Bell? Ya think I'm a sloppy eater based on our 20 second relationship over the loud-speaker at the drive through? You can't juuuuudge me!! Next time I come through there I'm gonna hand the Neanderthal who's working the drive-thru window an economy-sized bottle of handsoap, a roll of industrial all-purpose paper towels, and then spray them silly with a Super Soaker.

Speaking of paper wasting, I was in the bathroom at work yesterday and had a thought. Yes, really, I did. We have a tall trashcan about waist high in there and it is almost always exclusively filled with paper towel waste that people only used for 5 seconds to get water off of their hands. These paper towels aren't thin pieces of shit either. They thick. It kind of ticked me off for a second that so much paper (trees) goes toward getting Americans' hands dry every day. Since it's designated trash, I'm sure it's not taken away to be recycled either. Sigh.

On a somewhat related topic, I was reading that Beijing will be host to the 2008 Olympic Games. I didn't know this. Cool. But the article was saying that soon China will take over America as leading producer of greenhouse gases (oh no!) and in short measure the country hopes to quadruple it's economy while doubling it's coal usage. At the same time, it stated that there's a rising national intention of becoming a very clean country. How can all of this happen? I don't know the ins-and-outs of coal use but it seems like something non-conducive to a healthy environment. Especially for clean air purposes. I've also heard of energy shortages for huge cities such as Beijing that sometimes can't handle the demand. I'm curious to see how coal will be used. Perhaps I'll create my own Beijing in Sim City and only use coal power plants to power my metropolis.

Now, on an unrelated topic, I also read today that Arnold Schwarzenegger has a 65% approval rating in California! Whoa. And 64% of people think he is doing a better job than they expected him to do. I've heard nothing in the way of how he has handled--or begun to handle--the energy crisis or many-billion dollar state debt (among other things). Maybe he really is takin thangs over. I wouldn't be totally surprised though. His entire life is a success story--from his bodybuilding legend to becoming a top movie star in America to becoming the Governor of California. Did you know he got his business degree from the University of Wisconsin? This begs the question, could Arnold Schwarzenegger be the best salesman in America right now?

2004-07-20T02:41:00.000-05:00

I pondered speeding up tonight when I saw blinking red lights. Don't know why, but I was like "GO! You can zip underneath the bars that are lowering and you won't get hit by the train!" Too bad I pussed out and "stopped" like others.

2004-07-14T12:00:00.000-05:00

Dorm Dads

Every morning, I walk past Willkie Dorm when I walk through campus on my way to work. Normally there's nothing notable about anything during this time, but its that magical time of summer again when "pre-frosh" and their parents stay on campus for a couple of days during Freshman Orientation. Quite frankly, it's funny to see them now, at my hardened age of 22, walking around toting the bookstore's bags and trying to look as cool as possible with their parents 1 step behind. I digress.

While the soon-to-be students are staying at other dorms on campus, IU has given Willkie Dorm to the parents. It's weird because during my walks I've always only seen men going in and out of that place. Maybe IU segregated the parents by sex and has a women's dorm. That would be really funny. So anyway, I got to thinking...do the dads form little cliques on their floors and play pranks on each other like they were back in college? I can imagine one of them excitedly announcing to his friends "I scored some beer!!" followed by a round of high-fives. I wonder if they've stacked the lounge couches pyramid-style yet or pulled the fire alarm. I wonder if there's that one weird guy (dad) who showers in his clothes. One has to wonder.

I think this scenario would be great for a show like Family Guy. Too bad Chris is only about 13 years old, right?

PS -- keep checking the comments sections of past entries, i replied to a few of you~~

2004-07-11T19:01:00.000-05:00

I'm back. Sort of.

It's been a while since I've had a quality post. At first, I wanted my blog to be strictly mounds and mounds of pretentious BS but I realized after the first week that I didn't have the energy to keep up with that. To fill in the gaps, I had started making filler posts. I'm not particularly fond of this, and my efforts lately haven't been very good (see: animal kicking thread, cheap shot at Bush, etc). I've got a few ideas for better posts, but I just haven't had the energy lately to develop them.

God, I was so embarrassed after the animal kicking thread didn't get the response en masse that I was hoping for. If there is one thing that is instant death to me, it is nobody replying to a post I made on a forum or no replies to my blog entry. Give me e-ttention or give me death!

And I know Anthony is going to make fun of me for that last sentence there. Bring it on, bitch. I'm testy today.

p.s. At Target last night I bought Lost in Translation for $10 (!!!1111) and also some Old Spice. However, this time, there was no Mountain Rush. Pissed, I settled for Aqua Reef, a new scent, and it is O.K. I guess.

2004-07-11T03:25:00.000-05:00

Don't lick a Big Red gum wrapper and stick it to your forehead.

IT HURTS.

A LOT.

Transcript of the seconds after I did this:
[2 seconds after] Me: Oh it's not that bad...hmm, can't even feel anything really.
[3 seconds after] Me: Oh FUCK!
[3.5 seconds ] Me: Oh. My. God!!!!!!!!!!!!!
[6 seconds after] Me: (crying)
[10 seconds ] Me: (screaming loudly)

OK. I dare you to do it. And please tell us how it went.

2004-06-23T16:44:00.000-05:00

Two nights ago I bowled a personal record as well as averaging a 180 for my three games: 161, 214, 167. Here's the score sheet from the 214 game:

9/....X....X....9/....X....X....X....s8 1....7/....X 3 6

Needless to say, I'm way too proud of this.

2004-06-20T23:49:00.000-05:00

OK!

It's been a long time since I last posted. I got writer's block and lost a lot of motivation to write anything, most especially after that entry on cheeseburger links. Perhaps it WAS the cheeseburger link that sucked the life out of me. I'm still recovering, and I think I will retain that status for the rest of my life, sadly. Anyway I do have a few things to talk about. Among them are (1) the carnies at the Fun Frolic, (2) getting a free brunch at the Tudor Room, and (3) my revolutionary idea for men's bathrooms.

(1) Ok, so Saturday night we tried getting drunk at Anthony's place (www.aleong.com). The goal was: to achieve drunkenness and migrate to the Fun Frolic. I don't like to drink if I know I'm not going to get face-meltingly wasted, so I had half a beer and called it quits while Brian (his blog) punished himself with 6 shots of "Ronrico Rum."
Let me say a little about "Ronrico Rum" before going on---this shouldn't bear the label of alcohol; in fact it shouldn't bear the label of anything consumable, much less even anything at all. It should be under the poisons section in the supermarket with neon green warning stickers all over it telling you to give it to rats and/or to pour it down your drains to de-clog them. Brian took 6 shots of it, with no chaser. Way to go there, buddy. Anthony also gave up the quest to drunkify himself, as had I, and we set off in my bug toward the Fun Frolic.

There, we were whisked away from the comfortable settings of real life and placed among a wonderland of funnel cakes, roller coasters that plug into an outlet, and rows upon rows of port-a-pottys that let off the most enchanting aromas*. We couldn't stay long, as they closed 10 minutes after we arrived. So, plan B: go to nearby party. Got there, met some IUTV girls we knew, and drank some beer. Sounds pretty normal, right? Well NO! The carneys came!! They arrived in two large pickup trucks, kindly asked the host if there was a party, and before he could even finish indirectly turning them away, they said 'Alright yeah!' and spread throughout the house akin to the way germs attack the body. I couldn't--nor did I want to--get close enough to verify if they really did smell of cabbage. Check out http://aleong.com/blog/index.html for a more in-depth analysis of our carney experience. My personal favorite was the happy dumb guy in his 50's who talked at Brian. Like any good party, it ended with one of the hosts angrily smashing a shitload of stuff in the backyard, including a fooseball table, among other things, in which from what I gather was some form of protest. I believe alcohol was involved.

(2)
As you can see from the diagram above, I visited the Tudor Room at the IU Memorial Union today for brunch. Not only was it special "Sunday brunch;" today was Father's Day AND the weekend of the graduating class of 1439AD's reunion. Oh, this is just f**king great, isn't it? Apart from having been lambasted with the overwhelming smell of Metamucil and ancient, orthopedic shoes, Anthony, Brian and I easily resembled young hoodlums ready to pick the pockets of the living-dead there at the Tudor Room and thus, as such, THE BITCH SAT US DOWN COMPLETELY LAST. We stewed in the holding cell for a good 90 minutes as herds of flappy skin and mothball-ridden clothing crawled on by to their seats. It came down to just us 3 and one other party which had parents, young children, and a Flappy Skinned One of its own. Guess what happened. GUESS WHAT HAPPENED. The table that the lady said was being made for us, after Brian's complaint just 5 minutes prior, was given to them.

We were livid.

Finally, after being sat and well into the meal, our waiter (the same guy who gave our table away) came and told us to just leave after we were done eating. Wait...what? Was he now kicking us out? "Say what, muhfugga" I told him. He clarified: we didn't have to pay since we waited so long. Oh really, is that so, hmm? Well I got news for ya holmes, I wasn't gonna pay shit anyway. They got off lucky this time by telling us first we wasn't gonna pay. Damn straight. I actually think the aforementioned Bitch knew what she was doing the entire time by bypassing us on the list, and if we really waited through all of it then she would have told our waiter to comp our meals. This is my theory. So anyway we got our meals for free and boy did I rape the Tudor Room after I found out the meal was on them! Boo ya!

(3) I've decided to postpone writing the part on improving men's restrooms for another blog entry all its own. I've been writing this one for who knows how long and I really don't wanna blow my wad** all on one entry. So tomorrow I will finish this one off and possibly start another.

Sunny days have returned here.

------------------------------------------------
*these could have also been rides; I'm not sure.
**not my term. I heard it from a businesswoman lecturing my T347 class. So there.

2004-06-11T19:37:00.000-05:00

As a naive child, I never used to believe that it took longer to assemble a fast food burger with less toppings than the default burger.

It all makes complete sense to me now.

2004-06-06T01:46:00.000-05:00

Hmmph.

2004-06-04T02:39:00.000-05:00

I have a dishwasher.

This dishwasher has wheels on it. I have to roll it over to the sink. There I connect one tube to the tap of the sink, and a cord to an outlet. I turn the sink on. That is all I do. Question:

Water goes into the dishwasher, but.....

WHERE DOES IT GO?????11?

2004-05-31T15:42:00.000-05:00

Cheeseburger Links

There should be a surgeon general's warning on the side of these things that says "DO NOT EAT THESE, EVER, OR I WILL COME KILL YOU MYSELF." Let me tell the story.

Coming back from last night's Pacers game, Ben, Elice, Matt and I stopped at a gas station to pick up some drinks/snacks for the drive home. Inside, I took a dare from Ben and Elice to actually eat a "cheeseburger link"--a cheeseburger shaped like a hot dog--and let me preface the rest of the story by saying I was a fool to turn down the $2 they also originally offered me to eat it (in addition to them paying for it).

I buttered it up with some ketchup and mustard (wondering where the "cheese" was since it didn't appear to be on the link) and we marched outside. I took my first bite as we neared the car, and my response to Ben's inquiry on taste was quick and simple: "Bad. Really bad." [Note: I still had the bite of cheeseburger link in my mouth when I said this.] As a matter of fact, another gas station patron who I'm assuming had overheard our dare while inside, passed me on the way out and turned around to laugh at me in only a way another man who had made the same mistake could. Perhaps someday I will laugh at a young, adventurous, cheeseburger link-eating person like myself and thus continue the cycle.

With this talk of the Grand Cycle of the Universe, we should step back for a moment and ask ourselves one obvious question: can the meaning of life be found in a cheeseburger link?

Be cautious not to throw staidness out the window, for this is a matter of immense gravity. What is life, if not to take steps previously unknown, and to digest new, previously unlearned combinations of matter not known to both chemists and cooks alike? ...Digestion. Not the mere breaking down of food into usable enzymes, vitamins and nutrients; rather, we shall look at this "digestion" with the evolution of the species Homo Sapien as our backdrop. Much like the Renaissance, the consumption of a cheeseburger link is an explosion of untold thought, undiscovered emotion, and the assumption that future generations will benefit from my zeal for ascertainment [edit: stupidity]. Like man's progression itself, with knowledge a building whose foundation ages back to the Austrolopithicenes, the journey that began with an innocent dare involving a cheeseburger link finished with a "big bang" of it's own*--the Grand Cycle's own brand of poetic justice, where beginnings and ends lose their meaning, and all we are left with is knowledge. Whoever it was that said "Ignorance is bliss" must have, indeed, sampled the cheeseburger link.

(By the way, in case you were wondering, the cheese was injected inside of the link)
-----------------------------------
*you can guess what that was!

2004-05-29T15:00:00.000-05:00

Cicada Lovin'

Last night I think I either did something bad, or, something pleasingly funny. After thinking about that for a second, though, I guess the two can be one-and-the-same in certain situations. This involves cicada lovin'.

I was entering my house through the back door when--of course--I had to dodge all the cicadas that were either: dead, stuck on their backs, just sitting there, mating, or flying kamikaze style straight to my body. On the step leading to my door, I saw two who appeared, from the scientific induction skills I gained in high school, to be copulating. Let me tell you, this looks absolutly ridiculous--and rightly so, for an absolutely ridiculous bug.

Well, to spoil the fun, I thought it would be pretty funny to kick one of the squirmers on his back over to the couple to create a wonderfully entertaining (and awkward) situation. Mission accomplished. When I kicked him over there, he actually bumped into the other two, who appeared visably uneasy about the whole thing. Well, the squirmer landed on his feet after that and kind of walked gingerly around the other two, as if to apologize for what he had done. [Hahaha! Take that you stupid bugs!!!] Despite what had occured, nature's magic trodded on as the two cicadas ensured the survival of the species for yet another 17 years. Damn it all.

I'm still laughing about this, though.

2004-05-27T04:42:00.000-05:00

Lately, I've been missing the ignition in my car when reaching to start it up. I frustrate matters even worse by refusing to take the .03 seconds to actually look down and find it, instead of what I've been doing so far: poking my key around the general area until I eventually give up and cancel the trip altogether.

You've been warned: if I don't show up, you know why.

2004-05-23T22:21:00.000-05:00

Today I went shopping. I don't really like to shop; that's why I only do it once every couple of weeks, or, whenever it is unavoidable (read: when my only pair of underwear has withered to approximately a string & 4 molecules).

First I went to the CD shop All Ears, which is going out of business. New CDs are $3 off and used are $2 off. There are a few bargains in there I guess, but since I'm strapped for cash, I didn't get anything. I could probably wait to slap down $5 on a Bjork import with only 5 or 6 songs. But anyway: I hate other CD shoppers. No real good reason, I suppose, but I hate it when I've found a good letter of the alphabet to flip through and some ASSHOLE comes and stands NEXT TO ME to flip through another row. Man, give me some space!!! I gots to breathe! That aint my style! I mean, seriously, dude, back the f*** off. I don't know...ya know? It's like, there are a million other CDs in the store, go look over there. I aint moving from my letter until I've finished flipping EVERY jewel case, you hear me? So keep on moving.

Along the same lines--and I probably shouldn't be irked by this but oh well--a hipster walked in and started flipping through his letter of the alphabet at break-neck pace. Ooh! Everybody! Look at Mr. Flips em Fast. He can flip the CDs faster than anyone in this store! Listen to him go!
RAR RAR RARRRRRRRRRRR.

I also went to Target and Best Buy, and out of the three stores I visited today, I came away with only a spray bottle of Febreeze for my car. Have you ever noticed that at Target, you WILL see someone you know? It happens EVERY F***ING TIME. Sometimes you'd like to see that person, other times you wish you hadn't ever left that safe, cave-like enclosure you call your "bedroom." At Best Buy, I saw a guy I used to work with at the CSR...a real annoying type who I was nice to but was always screaming "Kill me now" inside my head when I had to talk to him. I walked into BB knowing I'd be insincerely greeted by some schmuck at the door, so I kept my eyes aimed to the right like I had a mission or something. I heard "Hey, how ya doin'?" and, without second-thought or even guilt at my own insincerity, I coughed out "good." and kept walking. Then the dude said hey again and it was him. Oh dear god. I wanted so much to either leave the store or just die on the spot.

You know what I mean.

2004-05-19T15:00:00.000-05:00

Anti-Perspirant/Deoderant

Bear with me, and don't worry, this won't be gross. I've a little happy story to share (which I am happy about and happy to report) regarding my last purchase of deoderant. Actually, in recent years it has become vogue to call it "anti-perspirant/deoderant" since apparently it achieves two things: it makes you not sweat and it deoderizes the not-sweat. Fascinating product. Since that fateful day when I first realized I needed some, back in Mr. Griffith's 8th grade history class in 3rd period, I've sampled many brands (even the spray-can) and have arrived at what I believe to be the greatest thing. Ever. I present to you now: Old Spice "Red Zone" Anti-Perspirant/Deoderant Soft Solid--Mountain Rush.

Let me first preface this by saying that I didn't used to be an Old Spice guy. In fact, I thought only real big assholes bought this brand since there's, like, a picture of a yacht on the freakin logo. Also, I tried calling the 1-800 number for a free stick, and curiously enough, it was always busy or entirely unresponsive to my call. So, I was a little jaded for a while.

2 years ago I gave it a try, and haven't gone back. But....when I visited my local stand-alone CVS (I still hate going there...you are not a stand-alone kind of store, CVS!!! I hate you!) I was kind of horrified and shocked, really, that they didn't have the "original scent" that I was looking for. How could this be? After panicing (sp?) I gathered myself again and was forced to make a decision...and I chose to stay within the brand, but to try a different scent--Mountain Rush. Really, my main goal in all of this is not to be one of those guys who reeks of the deoderant he is wearing. What I bought brings a daily smile to my face.

Found at www.oldspice.com, you can try to see for yourself what Mountain Rush really is. Keep in mind, though, that this stick is awesome. I'll paste the product description for you: "Are you a big time sweater? Red Zone Soft Solid is our revolutionary anti-perspirant that provides the best form of wetness protection today. The soft solid is absorbed into your skin, and stops sweat before it starts. There's simply nothing stronger." Indeed, quite simply the truest words ever spoken. Mountain Rush smells very subtly like a field of wildflowers in the peaks of Switzerland, a fresh batch of laundry pulled right out of the dryer, or, if you dare, like Heaven. Just as the name implies, it opposes perspiration and will leave you "deoderized". Go out and buy a 2.6oz stick for yourself. Try it.

If you have questions, make a comment below, or call toll free 1-800-677-7582.

2004-05-14T03:12:00.000-05:00

Google Returns =/= Good Supporting Evidence!

Ok so that =/= was my best attempt at the mathematical sign for "does not equal." Anyway. Do you know what really annoys me? When people cite how many Google returns they get on a word or phrase as good supporting evidence for their argument.

"A simple Google search for 'women in the workplace' yielded over 900,830 returns. So, clearly, more women are CEOs and more and more women are earning similar wages on all levels. Also, from this data, . . . "

No, that means nothing, you fool!!

2004-05-14T03:11:00.000-05:00

Buffet Dumpers

Today I was reminded of one of society's ills. This goes hand-in-hand with two of my previous posts regarding the scourge of Mother Earth, Water Fountain Dumpers and Sidewalk Spitters. I bring you now to Buffet Dumpers.

I was at my local China Buffet tonight, seated in a booth beside the wall (where I like to be). I was facing the buffet kiosks observing the action, you know, making sure things are tip-top and operating smoothly. My eyes drifted to the kiosk closest to the kitchen, that is to say, the one farthest away. I spotted something that nearly brought me to tears--TEARS OF ANGER.

I had been dining in the vicinity of a Buffet Dumper. This Dumper had attempted to grab a cooked crawfish (you may also call it a 'crayfish' or 'crawdad' if you are from Bloomington) from the Specialty Kiosk with the tongs, but he failed. Instead of placing the crawfish onto his plate, it slipped through his careless grasp and landed on the floor. Like any Buffet Dumper he acted quickly. He knelt down, picked it up and it seemed, for a second, that his conscience had broken through the ironclad walls surrounding his soul, like a beam of light from a dark cloud. He turned, faced the closed kitchen window (I'm assuming he would have tossed it at the chef), and then turned around again. After another second of back-and-forth indecision, he leaned down and brought his eyes--those Buffet Dumping eyes--to the Sneeze Guard. He scanned the seating area for witnesses and all was safe....UNTIL our eyes met.

I kept my composure, meaning: I stayed in my seat and didn't immediately rush him. My eyes stayed locked on target, and I let him know that what he was thinking was NOT ok. He was damn near close to putting the dirty crawdad back from whence it came. After his eyes met my disapproving ones, for a good two seconds I might add, he acquiesced and placed the crawdad onto his plate. In keeping with his strict cleanliness standards, he wiped his hand off on the seat of his blue jeans and commenced piling food onto his plate. Well folks, a disaster was averted there tonight but you can't always count on me for these kinds of things. Make sure that you let Buffet Dumpers everywhere know that it is NOT ok to put food back into the pile after they have dropped it onto the floor.

The asshole even had the audacity to sit in my section. Catecorner from me. I about flipped my chopstick at him NINJA STYLE.

2004-05-14T03:10:00.000-05:00

Saw a funny

I was walking through the parking lot at the library today when I walked past a guy my age at his car. He had gotten a parking ticket, and instead of taking it, examining it, and promptly stuffing it somewhere in his car never to be thought of again, he flailed his arm in the air and released the ticket at the top and sort of let his arm hang there in the air and fall slowly in a manner not unlike that of intense personal liberation. It was funny because I don't think he was trying to be funny; I think he thought he was a badass.

2004-05-14T03:08:00.000-05:00

While I'm ranting

We're all well versed with my hatred for Sidewalk Spitters. Equally so is my hatred for Water Fountain Dumpers.

A Water Fountain Dumper is one who litters on the water fountain, or, dare I even say, spits into it. This topic is near and dear to me, as I think this is something we should all recognize as a monumental flub, a faux pax if you will, of the Expected Rules of Conduct by which we all (well, some of us) have at least a tattered understanding of. Raised right nearby the barn with the mules and chickens (the Sidewalk Spitters, in other words), are the Water Fountain Dumpers in an overcrowded houseboat which is constantly under seige of capsizing. A bitter bunch, they have nothing but contempt for those who play by the rules. Thus, they dump in water fountains.

Just last Friday in Woodburn Hall, bottom level, I was looking for the nearest water fountain because I was just parched. Parched, I tells ya!! When I came to one, I immediately spotted a hideous sight: someone had placed an apple core on top of the drain on the water fountain. I had to ask myself, "Does this in any way resemble a trash receptacle?" and after a thorough investigation (and by "thorough" I mean "not thorough in any way"), I concluded that it did not. Apparently, a Water Fountain Dumper had been in the area. Asshole. Where the hell do you get off putting an apple core right there, huh?! I don't want to put my face near that! Take it away!

Easy now, Nicky. Save it for later. All I can say is someone better hold me back if I ever find a "loogey" resting somewhere on the pan of the water fountain.

2004-05-14T03:07:00.000-05:00

Spitting

Spitting. There are two kinds of spit: (1) Sidewalk spit and (2) Other. I will briefly talk about (1) and then elaborate on (2), the intended purpose of this post.

Firstly, if you choose to spit onto the sidewalk, you are uncooth. You lack maturity, a sense of respect, manners, and above all, you are undisciplined. Surely not an attractive mix. Sidewalk spitters do not care who is behind them; they do not care who is in front of them. They might care about themselves, but don't assume this much with this group. Raised in a barn alongside mules and winged fare, SS's lack the delicate and unspoken understanding of not spitting on sidewalks. These people enter the sidewalk and true to form, they proudly hurl their superfluous gobs of saliva in every which direction. What is unclear is whether this is a display of deliberate, freewilled social rebellion or a woeful soliloquy of the unlearned. Generally, my conclusions have brought me to the latter. This brings us to an important question, and one that should induce a slight turbulence of moral dilemma in all of us, that is: should we be angered at the ignorant or simply feign sympathy to their muted calls for understanding, and keep walking up the sidewalk? A heavy question indeed. On one hand, we, as members of civilized society, and they, who are de facto participants on a mere account of opposable thumbs, absolutely must cooperate together, as there is no other way around it. On the other, the High Society should not have to tolerate such heathen rule-breaking. I've digressed, however, in my original quest to explore the second form of spitting (2). I shall continue now, with a focused mind, and save the current questions for a later date.

I have brought you now to the inspiration for this post, the realm of "Other" spits. By and large, my experience with spitting is robust. Growing up playing baseball in the leagues by the boonies, I encountered countless exhibitions of the act of spitting, even honing my own form of pinpoint-accurate projection, and therefore, I deem myself an authority on the subject. As such, I dare to transcend the boundaries of our casual perception of the act of spitting and implore your accompanyment with me as I pose deeper questions into the psyche of male spitters.
Last night I found myself enjoying the company of old friends at a fine apartment on South Fess, off of Atwater. Long story short, the brother of the host owns an automatic gun of some sort, and though it was unloaded, his drunken wielding of it brought uneasy trepidation unto myself and my good buddy. So we decided to spend a few minutes outside, you know, to avoid um, getting shot or something. Anyway, after we stepped outside the door and stood for a few moments, I spotted a nearby bush. This bush was about a foot tall at most, ragged, and not that green. Somehow, as if a primitive instinct had kicked in inside of me, I turned and aimed, and without giving it a second thought, spat on the bush. Additionally, only moments later my friend ceremoniously did the same. We both didn't question our own or each other's act to the bush. I had to stare straight ahead and collect my thoughts on this important phenomenon as my friend then started regular converstaion. Why did we just do this, I thought to myself. Do you know why? I mean, when guys go into public restrooms, many times they will first spit into the urinal before, uh, patronizing it. Admittedly, I am guilty of this too. Even dogs find that they must go onto a bush or a tree. I would if I could. But WHY did we both just lean over and spit on the bush as if it were something we needed to do?

2004-05-14T03:05:00.000-05:00

bit o culture shokku.

in japan:

no tipping. even though i knew this well before i came to japan, it is hard to disengage that part of your restaurant-going schema. well, not that hard. i can't get enough of not tipping. also, the service is about 5 times better than america's service. here they thank you for coming in to their establishment, then they continue thanking you until absurdity. the meal will commence with their committing seppuku, or "ritual japanese suicide" whereby one murders self with a sword to the abdomen, in the ultimate form of gratitude and subservience. all around, it is a treat to be a customer here!!

-n