Heaven's Gateway

My immune system may break down often, but it usually puts up a good fight when it's down. I'm never so sick that I should miss class. The last time I was really weakly, terribly sick was a couple of years ago, thanks to Jenny's dad's fateful prophecy. Otherwise, I'd feel weak for a few days, take some OTC stuff for the symptoms, and be fine.

As for the OTC medication, at the Bo', they give out Pseudoval, ibuprofen, and lozenges for free and the trio works wonderful. Pseudoval is a brand of pseudoephrine, the active ingredient in Sudafed. Works like a charm. Susan may have mentioned something about her doctor father not letting her take it when we roomed together freshman year, something about carcinogens I don't really recall, but whatever. I love the stuff.

And I desperately want some right now. Went to Walgreen's for some Sudafed today and noticed that all the decongestant medicine now proudly carry the label "does not contain pseudoephrine." In its place is phenylephrine, which, I've come to learn, is not half as effective, but also not half as conducive to manufacturing methamphetamine as pseudoephrine. Most major labels are now switching to phenylephrine because of the controversy. Under different circumstances I might poke fun at the Bo' for still handing out for free a drug that can be easily reduced to meth and has a lot more side effects than the widely available alternative, but my entire face is red and sore because I've spent the entire day blowing into tissues non-stop. Right now, I'd like a little no-longer-widely-accepted decongestant. It's not that I want it. I need my fix, y'all. I need it to feel good again.

More, Sir

My parents are very popular this Kwanzaa season. They've been invited out to at least one meal a day for the past week and the invitations just keep on piling. Today, we ate with yet another couple I had never met before. I taught their little girl how to make an origami boat because well, I'm a giver. And an incredibly crafty one at that. I'm mostly cool with the fact that lately, my parents have more of a social life than I do except that my mother seems to feel that eating out so much excuses her from cooking at all. If she's had one big meal of the day already, well, why cook another? This has let to many noodle or dumpling dinners the past two weeks- the Chinese equivalent of having a sandwich of leftovers, pasta and canned sauce, or other fast food as dinner. In fact, since I've been home, I've had exactly one and a half warmly cooked homemade meal. Tonight, the three of us all had something different, a hodge podge of the different left overs found in our fridge. It says something about the food supply in the house when even the leftovers can't sustain us and we have to piece together a variety meal. They all tasted great, but I can't help but feel as if I'm living in a Dickens novel.

Moi: Can I have more rice?

Mother: No. We don't have anymore.

There's snow outside, but if you're reading this, please, send in reinforcements.

Festival of Lights Part II

Before, when I used to get calendars for Christmas, I wouldn't know what to do with those six days between the new year and Christmas, when I couldn't yet dig into my new calendars. Now I know that that uneventful period with nothing on TV and no food in the house is called 'Kwanzaa.'

Now, nouns who were big in '06.

1. Motherlands: Scotland + China. Much of the earlier two thirds of this year was spent discovering my roots and living in the land of my ancestors. I read, I learned, I saw, and immersed myself in the lands. And now, in the last third of the year, I spend my days telling stories from abroad, missing friends from one motherland as I do academic work on another, all in this land I call my second, but most comfortable home.















2. The library. In Eddie Bert, and now back at the Bo', I visit these book barns too often and owe all these institutions too much in late fees (left Eddie Bert Uni without paying any of my dues, suckas!). It says something about one's life when I have a regular spot in the science computer lab, a desk in the main library with my name on it, and have a favorite reading room.

3. V-caffeine drinks: Vietnamese iced coffee. Vanilla milkshake with a shot of espresso. So sweet, so strong, so cold.

Nouns that weren't big in '06:

1. Goat. Lamb. And all their cousins. I don't feel like eating any of you for quite awhile. Especially not in any of the ways I had in Chinar. None of your milk either. Or milk tea. In fact, a ban on all the teas I had in China. And that cow-penis wine. Come to think of it, most drinks I had in China were quite vile, except for my bottled water and iced tea.





2. Immune system. I need to trade mine in. It's failed me everywhere. Hence me falling ill in Eddie Bert, France, Chinar, and now, in the US of A.

3. Procrastination. I wish I had more time for you, I really do. But since the academic year has started, I've hardly had time to put things off. It's really too bad, because we had a good thing going for some years.

The Big Two-O

A lot can happen in twenty days. The ancient Mayans believed that life was a cycle represented by twenty days. President Abraham Lincoln (not a Ford) was assassinated, and his conspirators arrested, tried, executed, and he himself buried within twenty days. Even the longest living Drosophilas live and die within twenty days. I would find you more examples, but I don't feel like googling much.

Twenty days ago, we celebrated my birthday- because it was my birthday. It was also the last day of classes, a day full of snow (per usual, I sort of have a long-term deal with God on that), frantic last minute printing, raising cans and money, and of course, friends. The experience of just sitting there smiling as people sing you happy birthday is exponentially more awkward when the singing is done by your soc class, Band Man included, and all the other students, faculty, and staff present at the Service Learning Symposium.

Here are some pictures from later that day, away from the crowds, with an intimate group of friends, a custom-ordered Chinese birthday cake, and of course, great German food.
It's embarassing how happy Hillary was over my birth.


Jenny and Mac try to look on while Vita-K shows off her ninja skills.

Gak thinks he's the man. Karina and Liz humour him.

Holly and Karina, incredibly excited over the fancy-pants corked beer.

Gak likes pictures of himself, especially when they're posted in blogs.

My two favorite geeks: clotter and bleeder beautifully coexisting.

What a Friend I Have

Sunday morning: Father is at his podium, inviting people to the Christmas eve service at church.

Father: At tonight's service, I have a special friend who is stopping by. I've known him for thirty-some years and today happens to be his birthday. I'm sure many of you know him, too, and he would love to see you here.

Lady next to Me: Oh yeah? What a coincidence! He has a friend coming? Do you know who this special guest is?

Man in front of Me: Um, I'm pretty it's Jesus ('you moron' implied).

Lady next to Me: Oh. (quite disappointed). (Pause) Wait, I thought his birthday was tomorrow.

Man in front of Me: Maybe he made a mistake.

What a relief that Christmas has come and gone. I spent too many hours at church on Sunday. Sort of rocked my translation gig at the evening service, making up for a shoddy job last year. The sheep in the pageant were as cute as ever, and as poor in following stage directions. I heart sheep.

The Food Chain

Mother just told me to fetch the phone for her. And I did. She wanted to tell Neighbor George to send his sons over to pick up some dumplings for their family.

Initial reaction: I thought, "Awn, that's adorable, sharing with our neighbors on Christmas morning."

Second reaction: Then it came to me, Mother has yet to feed me this morning, what's she doing giving away perfectly good food to George's children?"

Third Reaction: Tackled the boys as they crossed the street. Took the dumplings and scarfed them down. The boys survived. The dumplings didn't.

Do not mess with my hunger. Merry Christmas.

Monkey Business

 

So proud of the entry title. Haven't been so happy in so long.

So you thought that being back in the States would mean less pictures of toilets, huh? That the land of abundant water pressure and soft toilet papers would spell the end of my engaged interest in bathrooms? I scoff at your innocence. And mine. I cannot believe I had gone three years without realizing the anomalies of Maine toilet seats. I've very recently spotted a couple in the Bo', and this one here at the local movie theatre. (What? You don't bring your camera with you to movie theatre toilets? That's your loss.) They may exist in other locales, but I have seen them most in Maine. Please not the little indent in the very back of the seat. Why!? Why the added curve? My only logical explanation is that these special seats are designed for people with tails. The added little blip provides added room for the tail. Otherwise, I'm stumped.

On the Chops Block

I am sorry I have been away. My glamorous life of academics, being entered into The System yet again, and riding on the MBTA has kept me far away from Dakota the Computer and too occupied to write.

This should not be a surprise to any of you, but of the four members in my nuclear family, I am not the funniest. Yeah, I was taken aback, too. What will really shock you, however, is that I am not the un-funniest either.

Today, because my life is a non-stop party, I had lunch with the parents and a few of their friends from church. The conversation shifted to a certain anecdote that Father had told during one of his sermons. One lady recounted how funny it was that her husband immediately laughed at the joke when no one else did. Following his own guffaw, the husband instructed everyone to laugh along. "Why aren't you guys laughing?" he had asked, "it's a joke!"

One of those un-laughers was also at lunch today, and defended her choice to abstain.

Dedendant: But Pastor Lee, joke telling is a talent, it requires a gift for it!

Father: Thank you, thank you very much.

Audio Post

I should be sleeping or studying. But instead, a few lines I was playing with. The audio is not optimal, but whatever, I know what I'm saying.

Before you listen, do me a favor and step into the wayback machine, to when baseball was still in season. This starts off, "A Rod. I hear you. My pen is dry-"

Gabcast! Popepotsie #1

Darkness Rising

Light Fixture Update: There seems to be an apparent dearth of qualified electricians or a glut of electrical problems in the state. We may perhaps be on the verge of a total electrical meltdown, with our noble electricians, those quiet and skilled laborer diligently working around the clock, and not even be aware of it. The building manager said that the electrician won't come by until Tuesday morning. Tuesday. As in the day after finals. Marvelous. Where, I demand to know, have all of our electricians gone!? What dark secret is the energy industry hiding this time!? I just want to study at my desk.

The Shining

What's worse than living in a windowless room during the Maine winter? Living in a lightless, windowless room, of course. Tried to replace a lightbulb this morning and instead, pulled out the entire fixture. The building manager came by and although she called me sweetheart (it's not creepy when a nice lady says it), she couldn't fix the light for me. But she did call someone, and perhaps help will eventually come. In the meantime, with the heavy fixture, defective light bulbs still trapped inside, dangling precariously from two wires, I have been told not to walk under the light. But I can't really tell what I'm walking under and what I am not. It's so dark in here.

Value of a Man

I don't go to my adorable country church anymore (now attend a different one with the ASA), but I am still on their mailing list. I love the mailing list.

Today, a plea came looking for a Joseph in the children's Christmas pageant. Chayenne is Mary and none of her friends are willing to be her Joseph, so the role has been opened up to pretty much any male in the church, perhaps a young father. Joseph has been promised a pretty sweet setup: no talking, not even rehearsals are necessary, just stand there and look pleased. The desperate Sunday School organizer ended her email with this exhortation: "Of course, I could just change the script to 'A Single Family Manger Scene' (Not funny, Inge!)"

God bless us, everyone.

Trix are for Kids

Silly first years...

(BCF girls discussing how hard Band Man's 101 class is in comparison to J-Lo's. Now Band Man's classes, work intensive as they are, have been among the most rewarding I've taken at the Bo', both in terms of materials learned and grades.)

Connie: Yeah, I was reading over the syllabus, J-Lo only assigned us three books. In [Band Man]'s class, he had nine on the syllabus!

Moi: Oh no, nine books!?

Connie: AND he assigned a seven-page paper!

Moi: I think you guys just killed me a little inside.

And silly senior...

Remember those soc candidate talks I complain about about once a year? Lots of professors, very few students, very intense? It's senior year, I've grown even closer with the professors and even used to seeing ten of them in contrast to one of me. So what could possibly go wrong? Oh, I don't know. Perhaps reading the email wrong and showing up to the talk half an hour late, not have a seat, have the entire talk interrupted, the candidate pause, and all the professors (eleven from the Bo' this time) stare at me as one of them clears off a chair for me, off to the side of the room, away from the table? Maybe that. Riles smirked a little when she saw me walk in. Not embarassing at all, no. Very suave move.

The Pied President

 

Illustrious Bo' alum and Civil War hero, looking as if he was trying to maintain his dignity after being freshly splattered with whip cream on Friday morning. 

Pieces of Me

 

Exactly a week ago tonight, my toes were savagely stomped on by sharp stilettoes. Quite an alliteration, yes, also quite painful. Now, one week later, my right toes are still bruised and tender. That ought to teach me not to wear open-toed shoes at the Junior Senior Ball, but that's just ridiculous. My shoes and toes were both beautiful that night. The only lesson I've learned is to step on others before they can get on my toes. 

Bring No Challah Back

I don't get it, church, why must you complicate communion? Matzoh and juice. Wine and crackers. What's so hard about that? Why can't we stick to the classics?

This past Sunday at North Harbor, we observed communion with Challah bread. Not only did we use this leavened Sabbath bread, but it was also braided to resemble a baby. It was served in a basket, covered in blanket, surrounded by dried grass, and passed around- a combination manger-Jesus, passover-Jesus, Jewish holidays, and Moses-themed- Lord's-supper. The bread was delicious, albeit odd. The service, as always, was meaningful and a great reminder of Jesus' sacrifice.

Brian: You know, I don't think fetus-shaped bread is going to catch on.

(No, but I wonder how embryo/stem-cell bread will fare with churches).

White Flights of Fancy

So Sarah (Vita-K) and I are deciding the soundtrack for our chemistry slideshow...

Hillary: How 'bout White and Nerdy? Wait, is there anyone that's not white in your class?

(Pause)

Hillary: (Looks at me and finally figures it out) Oh! You're not white. Maybe all the non-white kids can just leave the class...

Moi: Yeah, it's ok. Sarah and I can just wait in the hallways.

Sarah: You're not white!

Moi: I know. I wasn't talking about you. I meant the other Sarah...

Sarah: Oh! You and Black Sarah can wait outside!

Moi: (Sigh, head shake, sigh)

Season's Greetings

In the final push before the final push. Body so tired. Sore. And weak.

Last night, sitting around Vita-K's room, with folks doing physics, anthro, German, art history, and a host of other things, eating breakfast cakes and salsa chips, cookies, chocolate, sour patch kids, we realized we'd gone into reading-period-mode a week early.

Karina: What do you mean reading period mode?

Ben: Eating everything in sight because you're too stressed out?

That's right, Benny Boy.

Hey, There Stranger

It sucks getting spam sent in your own name.

Well, If It Quacks Like a Six-Armed Monster...

I don't know if you remember the Eyeball-
-he's my toy. We're sort of good friends, too. Last time you met, Eyeball was showing hotel Duck who was boss. Today, a new threat has invaded Eyeball's territory (namely my desk).















Meet Tommy Merengue, the six-armed finger puppet that came free with Lightning Reaction (which, btw, still reigns as the greatest game in the world).


Tommy Merengue taunts Eyeball.





























Eyeball climbs up and demands that Tommy Merengue take it back. Tommy Merengue refuses.















Eyeball pulls its arm back.

He swings.













He knocks Tommy Merengue down.









Eyeball celebrates its winning record.










That's Eyeball: 2 Cocky New Toy(s): 0.

Fashion Foibles

Don't be ashamed if you have to look up foibles, man. I had to.

Here's the thing about my semester at Eddie Bert: I made really great friends. And I loved writing about their crazy British ways. But now I'm back at the Bo', and according to Dave, my blog is no longer relevant. At least, it's no longer chock full of people and places he knows. Which is why, in today's special entry, everyone's names have been changed to names of Eddie Bert kids I know. That way Dave will feel like he's reading about his own life.

While sitting around in Fi's flat, drinking Ribena, eating jelly, and jacket potatoes, we started talking about Andy's dress, which looked suspiciously like mine. Except the top part was completely different. Andy complained that his dress was so low and he is so short that the dress revealed too much of his boobs.

Alan, because he knows so much about fashion, then started making helpful suggestions, much to the horror of all the girls in the room...

Alan: Why don't you just wear those doily things that girls wear?
Elle: You want her to wear doilies?
Alan: No, what are those things called? Those lacey, embroidered things girls wear when their dress is cut a little too risque?
Kaz: I don't think anyone in this century has worn any embroidered doilies.
Alan: They obviously don't wear doilies. Maybe this was in the 80's. They wore those doily, lacey, snowflake things! You know?
Hannah: I don't think people wear embroidered snowflakes.

Apparently, the word he was looking for was camisole.

Fi then ran a color test on Alan, asking him to describe her missing jacket. Alan tried to pretend that he wasn't really a boy and that he knew his colours, using 'periwinkle' and 'lavender.' Despite his best attempts, however, he still failed, proving once again that boys know nothing about colours or female dress. The word we were looking for was 'slate.'

The Queen then relayed this story about her brother, who was also a boy and apparently did not know much about female apparels.

Brother: What're you wearing?
Queen: Legwarmers.
Brother: Why?
Queen: They keep my legs warm.
Brother: Don't trousers do that?
Queen: Yes, they do. But legwarmers can, too.

Later on, I used the loo, left the flat, rode down the lift, had some chips (NOT FRIES) and climbed Arthur's Seat. All in a day's work in my favorite city.

Red Socks Nation

I have a pair of Hang Ten socks that are red. Very red. They are new, starting to get dirty, but I think I am falling in love with the pair and thus do not want to give them up and move on to less red socks.

They are my revolutionary socks and my Santa socks all rolled up into one lovely pair.

Like Ehud Before Me

My entire nuclear family is composed of lefties. My mom had all her left-leaning tendencies beaten out of her at an early age, so I consider more a lefty-poser, but she likes to call herself a lefty. My parents used to joke, because joking about the state of Chinese politics can be so funny, that we were true leftists because, unlike other socialists, we were left-leaning on the inside. When my father repeated that line for the zillionth time, but also the first time in years, on Thanksgiving night, I realized that it had taken me twenty-some years to understand what he meant by leftest. I always thought he just meant really, really left-handed. All the sudden, at the dinner table, I perked up and exclaimed, "Yeah! I guess I am a little!" It made me sad that I had been dense for so long. But I don't think anyone at the table noticed, cared, or believed that I would have leftist tendencies.

Anyway, anyone else find it strange that the international emblem of socialist international is a right fist? I thought it was just the silly Democratic Left kids (formerly the Dem Soc) on campus that messed up, but no, it's the international emblem. That's a bit like if the drummer "from Def Leppard's only got one arm" actually had two arms, isn't it? Maybe not so much, but nevertheless, I wanted to give a Rick Allen shout out.

Wayback Machine Goes to Market

 

A man with his merchandise of bamboo mats walking through the crowded market.

In the end, though Body is not so good with words (what with Mind having all the brain power) and Soul not being much of a help (it's literate all right, but not a great speller), Body still managed to triumph over Mind. I am having an incredibly restful break and consequently, completely behind in every single class. And what do I do when the academic going gets rough? Hop onto the Wayback machine, of course- to a time when I didn't have to write about China and the tensions between State and family, I just had to be in China. 

I Am Your Mother

This morning, Taiwan tops the headlines in the NYTimes. Here, for you nonsubscribers, is the cheerful opening:

At times, Taiwanese politics is a blend of opera and blood sport, and this is one of those times. Scandal and outrage, lying and humiliation — all of it messy and delivered in a loud, public fashion — are consuming political life here, as a virtual death watch has settled over the second term of President Chen Shui-bian.

Is the government ridiculous? Yes. But not unlike many other democracies we know.

Speaking of nonsubscribers, Mother succinctly summarized her thoughts on the NYT: "It's just big words." Oh, Bo, you have made me such a snob.

At brunch (not because we're the type of family that eats brunch, but because we were hungry at 10:30am and it is unlikely that Mother will make us lunch), Father commented on how Patriots Coach Bill Belichick's sweatshirt reminded him of Luke Skywalker, thus leading us all down Geek Lane. Father and Mother remembers the characters in a combination of translated and English names...

Moi: ... you mean Obi Wan Kenobi?
Mother: Yeah, Obi Wan. What are they called? That type of good guys?
Moi: Jedi?
Mother: Are Jedis ninjas?
Father: No, no, no.
Mother: What are they then?
Father: They're just Jedis. Jedis are Jedis; ninjas are ninjas.

And that, was my favorite sentence of the day.

Longing for the Jenkins

I don't live the Jenkins family reunion. My family isn't like that. Grandma doesn't bake pies. Uncle doesn't carve the ham. No knitted sweaters, no family rituals, I don't even think my aunts and uncles know when my birthday is. But apparently this Thanksgiving, I've got the token ignorant family member at the table.

I walk into the dining room and hear my mom chatting with my father's cousin, saying things that you don't want to know...

Racist Second Cousin: ... so it's not that they're not smart?
Mother: It really isn't, so you can't just make those assumptions. If my kids hear you say that, they'll call you a racist.

That's right, Mama, we taught you well.

That's All My Folks?

My parents have just come back from a month away in the Motherland. No, not the Motherland of motherlands, not the tartan one and not the commie one, just their motherland. And they have come back as changed people. Sure, we have all changed. Since the last time I saw them, I have become a get-up-at-7am-eat-breakfast-by-8am type of freak. And my parents?

My dad has come back with a pair of Chucks. Not faux-Chucks, as I brought back from the motherland (and dearly love, blisters aside, I mean, do you have sneakers whose tops you can fold down?), but real, genuine, All-Stars.

Moi: Converses? Do you know what these are, Bah?
Father: Yeah, Converse All-Stars snakers. I really like them.

Later, he asked if I wanted to see his new shades.

Moi: Why're you so stylish?
Father: Cool, huh? Don't I look like a Triad boss?

And indeed, he did. Shades, mustache, goatee, and slightly greasy long hair, he looked just like any other Asian villain in action movies. Awesome.

So I'm rummaging through all the food that Mother brought back from the Motherland, seeing if I can bring any little snacks to Advisor Riles:

Mother: Do any of your professors wear extra large?
Moi: Um, could we not be giving clothes to my professors?

God's Little Gifts

My parents love little children. They've long toyed with the idea of adoption and they are pretty good with children. All of this, I think, helps to explain why they rocked as parents when we were little (we, as in Brother and I, not you and I) but have slacked off considerably in recently years.

So I'm talking to Mother on the phone, she is waiting for her luggage at the airport:

Mother: There are so many cute children here, I really want to take one home.
Moi: Do it! Adoption is so expensive. If you can get one for free, go for it.
Mother: But they all look like they're old enough to talk. Those are hard to steal away.
Moi: That's why you need to get one that doesn't speak English. We can teach them Chinese. Oh! A Spanish-speaking one would be ok. We could make it work. No wait, too many people speak Spanish, they'd know...
Mother: Yeah, that's too hard. Does this mean no Mexican children? Do they speak Spanish?
Moi: You should aim for those obscure little European countries. Or countries in Asia minor. Those would be good.
Mother: You are horrible.

Good Clothes, Bad People

While not putting my life to good use, I discovered this site selling vintage inspired clothing. Not 'vintage' in the sense of classic elegance a la Audrey Hepburn, but sweatshirts and shirts that aren't actually old, but are made to look like they've been in your attic for twenty years, yet still oddly expensive. What's more odd about the site is the models that they employ seem to make their clothes less flattering. And thus, I present to you a game I like to call Cute shirt, Ugly Model.

Cute Shirt:

















AH! Ugly Model:

















Don't get me wrong now. I appreciate their use of non-commercial, healthy, real models as much as the next woman, that's not what's at stake here. And some of their models actually look good in the merchandise, but most of them, well, you'll see:

Nice, demure dress(almost a little to plain):

















One model pulling it off nicely:

















Another, not so much:
(I don't even think she's wearing the same dress)

















Lastly, my favorite contrast. Cute dress:

















#&@!?!? Model:

















Why, people, why!? How is this ever a good idea for selling clothes!?

From Body, with Help from Soul

For Body and Bobby

Body:
Look, buddy, I know you're not very bright 'cause I've pretty much got all the brain power, but I will try to use little words to explain. I need you to work with me. In two days, you can get all the sleep you want, plus turkey, stuffing, and I'm sure some other amazing things. We'll even go out for sushi. But you need to work with me here. Until Tuesday afternoon, we cannot have any sore muscles and fatigue, ok? I pretty much need to go the next day and a half without sleeping. I promise it'll be worth it. Do you understand delayed gratification? In a couple of days, you can sleep anywhere you want, in the car, on the couch, the futon, the bed, for as long as you want. I'll even let you just sit and watch TV. But you've got to stay strong, buddy. You do not sleep until told to. And I don't want to hear your whining again, none of that "Oh no, Big Mean Mind is bossing me around," ok? I'm doing this for your own good. Do you want to be working on your feet, doing heavy lifting, scrubbing floors, and working back-breaking minumum wage jobs for the rest of your life? That's right, didn't think so. I wouldn't mind you know, I would get a break. But this is for your own good. I always look out for you.

-Mind

Shots with Scholars

Today's title was brought to you by Matt. Good work, Matt.

This has been a week of stress (to be followed by a weekend, then holiday, then December, of stress). It has been a week of sickness of almost everyone on campus but me (yay, immune system, hang in there). And it has also been a week of smart words from sharp professors. Here along with such highlights are completely unrelated apple picking pictures.

In physics, we had a substitute for a class. Because only in physics would you have a substitute for a college course. We didn't mind, though. Vita-K and I actually rather looked forward to being reunited with our 103 Prof.


(On his in-class demo)
You know, you could very well get excited about all this. I could stare into this all day







Can you feel what's coming? Do you feel it? That's right, integrating!... The type of integrals you probably do for breakfast.




The sun's a very hot place. I wouldn't recommend it as a spring break destination.









And of course, there's the Band Man:
BM: Huh?
Chris: Oh no, I was just nodding in agreement.
BM: It's so rare for me to get that in class.


(On giving pop quizzes)
BM: I think I may have done that in grad school, I was probably drunk... with power.
Moi: You were also just drunk.
BM: Probably, I've repressed much of grad school.





(At Pints with Profs at the Pub, Eve and I are in the middle of two conversation groups, with no one talking to us. We glance around at the professors in conversation, consider their fields, and loudly drop words to grab their attention.)





Eve: How 'bout that psych, huh?
Moi: And physics. When I grow up, I want to be a neurophysicist psych person.
Eve: A neuropsychphysicist? Me, too!
Moi: Exactly! I want to be a neuropsychophysicist.

(Later, when we're talking with a few of profs, most of whom I've never met...)
"Rick": Yeah, that class of 2006. They were a classy bunch. They had real pints.
"Sam": And you didn't have to pay. They paid for their profs.
"Rick": Class of 2006. Weren't they your favorite class? They were mine. I think we had caviar, too, champagne. Everything was free. None of this pizza and Sierra Nevada, real food, real pints.
Moi: Well, they had real profs, too.

(Collective shock at my words, followed, "OHHHH!", "Ooooooh!", "Burn!" and thankfully, laughter. All's cool until Rick leans in to explain what I had said to 103 Prof, who was just joining in.)

Moi: No! No! Not [103 Prof], he was a real prof! Top of the line! Because I had him and he graded me and I'm afraid he'll take back my grade. Please, don't take away my grade. Plus, your office is really close to [current 104 Prof's] office...
103 Prof: And we talk all the time.
"Sam": We talk all the time, too.
"Rick": Yeah, and didn't I hear that you want to be a neurophysicist? You'll probably have to go through us if you want to do that. Good luck with that.

Chariots, The Roof, and My Hand

Why such a flurry of blogger activity? I do not expect to make it out of the next week alive. And even if I do, the coming weeks look to be an academic inferno, and so I post now, before I will not have a chance to sleep, eat, or write, for another month and a half.

Sometimes, when I start missing my Eddie Bert friends, I post pictures of my American ones. The people you are about to see are actually not America's finest offerings of my friends, but they were right there at a night I remembered to bring my camera, and that's all that matters, because convenience is what counts most in friendships...

From dinner last night. MC T-Chu handled the grilling while Elizabeth and I were relegated to domestic pursuits like salad, bread, and dessert.

Elizabeth, making that great dessert native to this great country we call 'Brownie from a Box.'
Multi-tasking Tim, totally not paying enough attention to his zucchini. Who talks on the phone in the midst of grilling?

Don't be fooled by these two, our only boys at dinner. They may look like they're sharing barbeque war stories mano-a-mano, but Tim is actually showing Isaac his newly manicured hand.


Does it look like we had been hanging out by the grill? That was the look I was looking for. To jazz up my pictures, I dragged everyone out of the comforts of the warm kitchen to pose with fire.











O deliciously juicy and plump jalepeno burger. It may look wondrous and innocent, but the burger cost me immense distress. I was in charge of dicing the peppers, and because I was not informed of the intensity of the peppers I was handed and thus did not realize I had in hand a habanero and should have worn gloves (and because I was stupid and don't think before I cut peppers), my right hand burned for the remainder of the night. The pain started slow and didn't get bad until after I got home from dinner. I am not exaggerating when I say my entire hand was in excruciating, crippling pain. It was submerged in an ice-milk bath for most of the night, which did not dull the pain enough. I had to clutch an ice pack and later, a bag of ice, to sleep.



People with healthy, unharmed, fingers enjoying their dinner.