Alright folks...I know I promised lots of updates, but I think we all know how lame I am. So here's what I'll do. I'm going to post a list of story titles of my time in Belgium (and the rest of Europe), and I'll let you choose the next story I tell. Once I've finished telling my story, you'll pick the next one, and so on in that fashion until my stories have been exhausted.

Here are your titles to choose from:

My visit to Deutschland, or Heil Myself!
Oslo, or buried in 8...thousand...feet of snow, and freezing to death.
Under the channel and through the...whatever..., or how I was unimpressed with London (but liked it nonetheless)...with Andalouz goodness
Paris, je t'aime
Son portable était volé! (Her laptop was stolen! In French! But the actually story won't be told in French!)
The Romanians (probably in several parts)
Annemarie's birthday, or how I learned to stop worrying and eat a menu
I'm in ur Parliamentz, sneakin into ur tranzlator boothz
THE Bar Crawl, or can I handle 37 bars in one night?
The Finale, in which I try to get out of Belgium (it's harder than it looks, people!)

Choose! and the secrets will flow like wine. Or word vomit. Or actual vomit. It'll be an adventure!

Hey guys. I'm back. Don't want to be back. Muy jetlagged. Terrible tired. Complete sentences soon. Full post soon.

Wow. I think if they were to give out an award to Worst Updater of Blog Ever, I think I'd probably get it. But then again, I think I should get every award I'm ever up for. Fan-freaking-tastic.

But I digress. Really, what I wanted to expound on today is something that has given me great pause whilst here in Europe: a phenomenon I like to call RGH.

RGH, for those of you who may not be familiar with the term (which should be everybody, considering I just made it up), stands for Really Great Hair. This condition(er) seems to affect every, or nearly so, European male I have encountered in my seven weeks here in Belgium. To clarify, I'm not saying that every European male has enviable hair, or hair cut in such a fashion that one might call it "good" or even "socially acceptable". Indeed, the hairstyles here seem to be stuck in...I don't even know what to call it, except "misguided at best". Mullets abound here with no shame and nary a blink of a passing eye. I mean seriously! these people think it's okay to have a mullet! But my personal favorite hairstyle was first spotted in the security line at the European Parliament. There, two twin Francophone Belgian brothers were sporting what I like to call the "Eurohawk". This Eurohawk is a very special kind of hairstyle, combining elements of the mullet, rattail, and fauxhawk. Not only is there a party in the back, but there's a very pointy party in the front too! I can only assume that these guys were trying to send the signal that they were very into partying.

It's just a matter of time until I see a flock of seagulls cut.

With all this criticism of the hairstyles, you may be wondering (and with good reason) how on earth these men have RGH? The answer is simple. Really Great Hair is not, as is commonly believed, an aesthetic judgment on the hair of the individual. Rather, RGH comes from an excess of time and though put into the care, design, and preparation of the hair. These guys must spend approximately as much time on their hairstyle as Parliament does creating written declarations. (A lot) With the washing, drying, blow drying, prep, gel, product, mousse, and moulding of the hair, one wonders just how they ever manage to be so fashionably dressed in their overly tight slacks to show off their bulges (points to whomever can name that reference). Gag me with a spoon.

But life is not all awkwardness here in Europe. I'm meeting some really great people and going on really great trips and drinking really great beer. In fact, I'm going to Oslo (woot) by myself (laaame) this weekend. More on trips later, though. For now, it's the not study game! Yay midterms!

Hokay. Here we go--the story of how I got here:

When you've flown as much as I have, the novelty of being in a several-tonne aircraft defying the laws of physics and not being reprimanded for it wears off. Eventually, it just becomes spending several hours in an uncomfortably small space where people don't respect your personal area and there isn't enough leg room. Despite all that, I was pretty excited for my 4:15pm flight out of Houston, arriving in Frankfurt at about 9:15am (GMT+1). That's a ten hour flight. Even on Lufthansa, probably one of the best airlines in terms of service, ten hours is way too long to spend on an airplane. But I tried to make the best of it, and overall it was a pretty good flight. Except, of course, for the fat guy sitting next to me. Well, I say sitting next to me, but probably sprawling all over me is a better description.

And then, of course, there was the food. Amazing. Seriously. These Germans know how to do mealtimes right, I'm not kidding. We got REAL FLATWARE and REAL SILVERWARE served with our meal. In economy class, no less. Amazing! That's all I can say, really.

As to the flight crew, they were, well...German. Perhaps it's the whole "tried to take over the world multiple times" thing, but Germans really intimidate me. I don't exactly know why, but they just do. And there it is. It's out. I'm scared of Germans. Not to mention that they were hot. Seriously. This was, without rival, perhaps the most physically attractive flight crew I've ever had serve me. I felt so ugly compared to them...probably Lufthansa should implement an attractiveness threshold for their passengers so that they are not so overwhelmed by the flight crew.

Anyway, I arrived in Frankfurt at 9:10 in the morning local time, jetlagged and groggy from my inability to sleep on the flight due to extreme discomfort and fat persons. I had an eight hour layover there, so I had planned beforehand to leave the airport and come back, thus giving me an opportunity to explore a new city. Sounds like a good plan, right?. WRONG! Getting out and coming back in weren't the problem. No, I had no major dilemma with German security, (excluding the fact that they apparently thought my laptop was a bomb, but no harm, no foul. Or fowl.) The problem was that I was miserably tired and cold. I ended up spending only about three hours in the city (and much of that lost on the subway--perhaps the most extensive subway ever, ever. Check it out on wikipedia or something). The city was very imposing, and extremely German, and thus I had significant issues forcing myself to enjoy my time there. I was new in town, and didn't speak the language (which I'm sure wouldn't have been a problem, had I tried to talk to someone), but I was just overall miserable in Frankfurt. I did try to snap some photos, though, but my camera decided its batteries were dead. Turns out, it's a lying sack of crap.

I returned to Frankfurt International, where I eat lunch and try to find my gate. Which of course is not posted, as my flight's not for another five hours. Of course. I then spend the next four hours waiting for the flight and trying not to fall asleep, and failing, and then finally, they post the flight information and soon I'm off to Brussels National. We land in Brussels, I get my bags, and find the train station with no problem. Waiting on the platform, I hear the most comforting message possible (repeated in French, Flemmish (but really Dutch), German and English):

"Attention ladies and gentlemen. There have been pickpockets working at the train station, so it is advisable to keep a close eye on your belongings. Thank you."

Wonderful.

Fortunately, I make it to the institute without getting robbed, but the drama's not over yet. Not by far. The institute, of course, is closed when I get there
I spent about twenty minutes wandering the streets of Leuven with my suitcases, trying to find a way into this building, but to no avail. Just as I'm about to have a nervious breakdown, I see a hotel at the end of the street the entrance to the institute is on (Pater Damianplaan), and I inquire first about the institute, and then about a room. Thank god they had one available, or I might have just curled up in a gutter. But I made up to my room and collapsed on the bed. As it was only 8:30pm local time, I tried to force myself to stay awake and watch the BBC. I made it about an hour and a half.

Fortunately, I was able to check into the institute Saturday morning (remember I had left my house about Thursday at noon), and found out that I would be rooming with the two other guys from CUA studying here, Nick and Craig. Which was a relief. And now I'm here. I've been here for about a week, and I'm definitely loving it. I'm really excited about the semester. The classes seem pretty good, and I'll start working at the European Parliament on the 23rd of January (though I still don't know for whom I'll be working). Life is good here on the Continent. Despite my travails getting here, I'm quit satisfied.

(Oh, PS: the food is amazing. Seriously, there are no words to describe it. Light years beyond the Pryz.)

Okay...so I know I haven't done this in...a long time...but I figured I might try again. As most of you probably know by now, I'm going to spend the next four months in Brussels, Belgium. I'll be taking classes there and interning at the EU parliament. As I expect to have lots of adventures, I decided this might be a good forum to write about them. I'm flying out on Thursday, I'll be in Frankfurt Friday morning. I have a day long layover in Frankfurt, and then I'm in Brussels Friday night.

Anyway, sorry for the unfunny entry...just giving a heads up that the journal's back, so check up on it!

Next post probably won't be until sometime Saturday, after I'm feeling less jet lagged.

"Finally, a plea: All I want this winter is a big snowfall, something above 6 inches. That's it. That's all I ask for. It can be 70 degrees and sunny for the rest of the winter, as long as there is just one week where it is cold, and, during that week, it snows. Just once. But alot of it. That's it. That's all I want."

Heh heh...looks like I got my wish.

Ridiculously warm January, then 9 inches of snow Saturday night and Sunday. (BTW, it's supposed to be 60 today--bye bye snow)

Snow = teh roxors. Maybe pics later.

UGGGHHHHH!!!!! I had to say something about the snow in December, didn't I? I couldn't just look at a good thing and leave it there, could I? I mean, we got several inches of snow! Then I go home, and everything's burning up cause it's 80 degrees and dry as a bone. Winter is messed up. I blame the baby panda. No wait, he's too cute.

I blame my roommates. Damn them!

Oh, and by the way: if anyone who can control these sorts of things is listening and cares, how about some cold weather? Pretty please?

So we got our second accumulating snowfall last night. After the greater-than-(finally)-predicted snowfall on Monday-Monday night (4 in), last night's snowfall was really a huge tease. 3-6 inches, they said. Snow and ice, they said. School cancellations, they said. WRONG. Do you know how much snow we actually got last night? 1.5". That's it.

BUT

At this time last year, we hadn't even gotten below 32 degrees yet for the winter. So two snowfalls already is pretty good. Except that it snowed Monday, and last night, and more snow is forecast for next Monday. And next Friday. If this keeps up all winter, I think I might actually get sick of snow. Which, I feel, would be horrible.

Finally, a plea: All I want this winter is a big snowfall, something above 6 inches. That's it. That's all I ask for. It can be 70 degrees and sunny for the rest of the winter, as long as there is just one week where it is cold, and, during that week, it snows. Just once. But alot of it. That's it. That's all I want.

Is that so much to ask? I think not. So somebody, get on it. No more of this tease

So I haven't written in a while. A long while. I figure that the longer between entries, the more excited you will be to get them...all 3 of you who regularly check me...

But who am I kidding...the only reason I'm writing this is because I have a politics paper that's due tomorrow and is absolutely refusing to write itself. Which is possibly the most annoying thing in the world. I don't mind writing the papers, except when I do. And this is one of those times that I do, so I expect a little help from the paper, i.e., that it will write itself. But it's not. Bastard.

So I've been busy the last few months (thought not too busy to waste a good amount of time goofing-off, as my roommate will attest to), but I've been relatively on top of things, which allows me to notice the weather--the absolutely ridiculous weather here. Now I'm not talking about the temperature roller-coaster, going from 70 to 25 in two days, that stuff happened at home, on occasion. No, I'm referring to the thing where the trees turn colors. The last two Septembers/Octobers here, the trees have done this crazy thing where they turn colors and then drop their leaves. I'm convinced that they're affected by some sort of tree disease (LSD elm disease, perhaps?), but no one will listen. Sometimes it sucks being so keenly brilliant.

Additionally, it is now December, which is my favorite month of the year. Winter is finally setting in, and the holiday season is in full-swing. Many of you are under the impression that the rampant consumerism that has become Christmas is somehow 'bad', demoting the meaning of Christmas of whatever. This is false! As everyone knows, Christmas is about jingle bells, ho-ho-hos and kissing pretty girls under the mistle toe. And presents. Lots of presents. Be warned: the only way to ensure that one is loved is to count the number of presents one receives on Christmas. But even this is not enough! One cannot just get many presents, one must also get expensive gifts. People who love you don't give you crappy cheerio art. Please.

In all honesty, though, I love going to shopping places around Christmas. Seeing two grown adults fighting over the last doll/videogame/whathaveyou just brings a smile to my heart. Ahhh. Peace, love and brotherhood. Could life get any better? I submit that it cannot!

At any rate, I must take my leave of you, good persons. It looks like the cocaine (I think they call it 'snow' here) is about to fall from the sky again.

Oh, and lights, please:
"...and on Earth peace, and goodwill toward men."

"That's what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown"--Linus Van Pelt

I'm dying.

I'm sorry. I know that this must come as a tragic shock, but believe me--there's no one more sad about the tragic loss the world will have to suffer thanks to the lack of my presence than I am. These legs, the ones you see here, they are my last. And I'm on them. This is it. This is my tragic, untimely demise. How awful for you all.

A few instructions for my funeral:

First, please make sure it's well attended. I'll be watching from the after life, and I do plan on having the ability to smite all the uncool people who refuse to attend.

I'd also like an open casket. I feel that I owe it to society to give them one last look at my beautiful face. In that same vein, please cremate my remains after the funeral. I wouldn't want some creepy necrophiliac defiling my corpse...a legitimate concern considering how amazing I am.

Finally, I'd like my ashes spread over the beatific faces of all my admirers--even the ones who won't admit that they are my admirers. Don't worry, I've got a list.

As for my possessions, I'd like them dumped in the ocean, that they may be an example to my followers that worldly goods have no meaning. Also, so that the unworthy (i.e., all of you) cannot get their inferior hands on my crap.





UGGGHHHHHH.....Drugs...I need drugs...
And a non-viral computer...
And less to do...
And an ego boost...

As Hurricane Rita prepares to make landfall near my hometown, Houston, I've spent much of the last couple of days (and, as the hurricane strengthens, it would seem even more of the next few) on the phone with my family. During times of crisis, you tend to learn alot about the true nature of the people around you.

Like my dad.

I love my dad. I mean, he's my dad...I'm pretty sure there's some sort of contractual obligation to that effect. But there are times...many times...

You know those redneck hicks that the news services always interview right before a hurricane makes landfall, who, in their incredibly thick accents (often so strong that they cannot be understood) tell the poor, unsuspecting reporter that they "ain't gunna evakyooate"?

That's my dad.

I've been talking to him over the last couple of days, and as the storm strengthens, trying to convince him that he needs to leave with my mom and sister and brother, but no go. He's telling me that he's chargin' up the videocamera, ready to take him some video and have himself a hurricane party!

*sigh*

Nevermind that the eye is forcasted to go directly over our house.
Nevermind that straightline winds at that time will likely be 100+ mph.
Nevermind that this is the third most intense hurricane on record.

Keeping in mind, of course, that one of my earliest memories is of my dad, on top of the roof of our house, taking footage of a tornado as is passes by.

And there's no place I'd rather be. Like father like son, I suppose.

Here's to you, dad. Have a hurricane for me.

Today: Tuesday of DOOM!!!

A normal Tuesday in the life of Nolen here at Catholic consists of being woken by the whistling and clicking of my roommate as he arises at 9:30 to begin preparing for his 10:30 class. Bastard. What I don't understand is why the hell he can't wait for class until 1:30 like normal people (aka my suitemates and me)?? Damn him!

At anyrate, he's gone by 10:20 or so, so I go back to sleep for a leisure lie-in until around noon or so when I drag my ass out of bed (or am dragged by Justin) for lunch. Then I go to my one class at 1:30, and I'm done by 3. And that's my Tuesday.

Not today.

Today, I got to practice whoring myself out to the highest bidder.

Schedule:
Wake up at 9:30, go to Metro station
Spend one hour on the Metro going to Rockville friggin MD
Cross a damn highway to get to the AFLAC building
Tell AFLAC interviewer exactly what he wants to hear, that I love communication and thus would make a great addition to his team
Cross a damn highway to get to the Twinbrook Metro stop
Spend another friggin hour on the train going back to the other side of DC
Go to class, take a quiz
Go to the Pope John Paul II Cultural Center for another session of prostituting myself
Tell JPII interviewers exactly what they want to hear, that I love communication and thus would make a great addition to their team
Go back to room and shower...again

(Notice the explicit lack of eating. I'm so hungry I could eat at Arby's)

And all of this on the hottest day I've spent in DC thus far.

All of this is to explain to you, in case you don't know, the process of the job interview. Like the world's oldest profession, the job interview is merely a vehicle through which the prostitute (aka interviewee) sells his/her body to the john (interviewer) for as high a price as she or he can get. Unfortunately, for the ugly ones, it's not alot.

It's still better than the second part...selling my soul to the vengeful corporate gods...of DOOM!!!

I'm done. Sorry that this wasn't all that funny.

This weekend was it. The most dreaded weekend of the entire year. Worse even than Christmas shopping weekend. Worse even than the creature-feature marathon on SciFi. This...was Tax-Free Weekend ::cue ominous Bernard Hermann score::.

Tax-free weekend, for those of you out-of-state losers who don't know, is the one weekend per year where the state government recinds the regressive sales tax on clothes, shoes, and backpacks (office supplies used to be included as well, but alas, it is no longer). But why, you might ask, does a savings of a mere 8.25% make such a huge difference?

And here is where the most evil weekend of the year comes into being.

Not only is the entire weekend tax-free on clothes, shoes, and backpacks, but many--nay, most!--stores find it to their advantages to implement sales...sales which generally discount these items at 40-60% off of the original price.

For the nation as a whole, the Friday after Thanksgiving is the busiest shopping day of the year. In the state of Texas, the busiest shopping days of the year are the Friday-Sunday before school starts (Wednesday for my brother and sister muahahahahahahaha >:)).

Friday and Saturday, of course, were the two days my mother decided to take us kids shopping...

God help us all...

Friday:
Work till 5. Picked up by mother, shop from 5-8 + dinner yum!
Shopping for me: Kohl's. 2 shirts, 2 pairs of pants...no one else finds anything. I'm almost done, but I can see that this is just beginning. Consider suicide (what kind of Live Journal would this be if I didn't mention suicide every so often ;)), but I'm Catholic, so I'd probably be sent to hell. Which is were I already am, so what's the point of ending it all? Next stop: Katy Mills Mall, otherwise known as 13-year-old central, or The Ninth Circle of Hell. Walk in Old Navy. Turn around immediately and walk out. Wait for family to finish in Old Navy at a "safe" distance of 5 m. Van Heusen is next. I don't think I'm quite ready for sweater vests. Finish hooray!

P.S.: Buying sweaters is an extraordinarily difficult thing to bring oneself to do in the beginning of August in Houston.

Saturday:
Sleep in while some shopping is done with sister...thank god! Still, must get up relatively early to beat the traffic going to Memorial City Mall. It is a sad commentary on both the state of the roads in Houston and the consumer mindset of its citizens that major traffic jams can be created by a sales tax exemption...
Get to Mem'l City at 11, shop till 4.
Stores I go to: American Eagle, Aéropostale
Stores I wait outside while my sister shops (my brother, the lucky bastard, finished his shopping last night, and so was given a stay of execution for Saturday):  Gadzooks, XXI, Journey's, Gap, Buckle
Number of times I thought about jumping, but was then thwart'd by lack of such great heights from which to jump: seventy-billion
The look on my face: Priceless
Also thwart'd: No lunch at Panera!!! Blast!!!


BUT
There was comic relief provided for me. In the form of a half-naked guy...which seems not so fun at first, but just wait. There was this shirtless (and hairless--his entire top half was as shaven as Greg Louganis! Including his head!) Anyway, one of the rent-a-cops at the mall spotted him and tried to talk to him, but he ran! By this time, there was a crowd beginning to gather, and a game of "Catch the Shirtless Guy" began. Always a fun game. Darting left and right, Half-Naked Guy wove through the crowd, but anyone could see from the fluorescent malllight glinting off his shini, bald head and torso, he could not keep this up. Sure enough, though, he was soon picked up by a member of the HPD, who, suprisingly, did not beat him into submission! A first! Well, he was taken into Hot Topic...::snicker:: Hot Topic ::snicker::, and forced to buy a shirt, and then ticketed. If you ask me, though, being forced to wear a shirt from Hot Topic ought to be punishment enough...

You are passing through entry 6 into neighborhood 6

Bane of my fucking existence...

the Wit (69% dark, 21% spontaneous, 22% vulgar)

your humor style: CLEAN | COMPLEX | DARK You like things edgy, subtle, and smart. I guess that means you're probably an intellectual, but don't take that to mean you're pretentious. You realize 'dumb' can be witty--after all isn't that the Simpsons' philosophy?--but rudeness for its own sake, 'gross-out' humor and most other things found in a fraternity leave you totally flat. I guess you just have a more cerebral approach than most. You have the perfect mindset for a joke writer or staff writer. Your sense of humor takes the most effort to appreciate, but it's also the best, in my opinion. Also, you probably loved the Office. If you don't know what I'm talking about, check it out here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/theoffice/. PEOPLE LIKE YOU: Jon Stewart - Woody Allen - Ricky Gervais

My test tracked 3 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender: You scored higher than 99% on dark You scored higher than 0% on spontaneous You scored higher than 10% on vulgar

Link: The 3 Variable Funny Test written by jason_bateman on Ok Cupid

Just thought you might find that interesting. Don't expect a whole
bunch of quizzes/lists that you probably don't care about on
here...this one just accidentally slipped by. They might from time to
time.


In other news, my dad was watching this ridiculous show on TV tonight.
I'm not quite sure what it's about (other than ketchup), except that it
was a great deal of pro-ketchup propaganda. Also, some anti-salsa
propaganda, too...


The only thing that really stands out in my mind is a scene in the show
where they have a bottle of ketchup and a jar of salsa outfitted with
Rock-'em, Sock-'em Robots-type arms, and they were in a boxing match
against each other. I guess that's because salsa it ketchup's natural
enemy? Anyway, with each hit landed, the fight would pause, and a
statistic (either showing how ketchup was doing better than salsa in
sales or vice-versa, depending on who landed the hit) would pop up on
the screen. Ultimately, it ended up with some statistic that, at first,
seemed like salsa had won, but then they "clarified" it, and we saw
that ketchup was really doing better than salsa. Clearly.

What was also everclear (ironically, what the creators of the program
must have been drinking) was the reason for the ketchup propaganda. I
mean, really...with the invasion of the infidel salsa, the world could
become a terrible place! Imagine it: a world where more people chose
salsa than ketchup....dreadful, isn't it? But fortunately, there is
still enough ketchup to fight back the salsa menace!

So remember: Buy ketchup! And victory bonds! Because if you don't the
terrorist win!

My brother got crabs today.

That's right. My little, 7-year-old brother got crabs today. He went with his friend and his friend's mom to Galveston and got crabs. Although it's not too clear from whom he got the crabs, I'm pretty sure he got crabs from his friend's mom.

Hermit crabs!!! He got hermit crabs today!!!! Although you wouldn't be able to tell from the way my parents were acting about it...

I come home from an exhausting 9-hr shift at the bookstore, having had to fix messes left from the night before, and I notice as I'm (NOT) pulling into the driveway the reason I'm not pulling into the driveway: some family friends are visiting and dropping off my little brother from their day at the beach. The mother, Bev, had bought both boys (my brother and his friend) two hermit crabs each, and from the looks of it, had gone all out...terraria, food, shells, sponges, and hermit-crab-raising books, not to mention the hermit crabs themselves. So my dad can't resist ragging on her a little bit.

Tomorrow is my dad's birthday.

In response to my dad's teasing, Bev teases back that one of the crabs is for him. That's right...she starts saying that she gave my dad crabs for his birthday. So my mom can't resist joining in on the crabs pun...and then my dad starts, too...and then there are three 45-year-old people sitting at my kitchen table making VD jokes! While I'm trying to eat, no less!! It's all I can do to keep from losing my dinner all over the table.

Seriously. People in their mid-40s making crude VD jokes. What is the world coming to?

A new play brought to you by the people who are funnier than Woody Allen! (Which, come to think of it, isn't saying much)

(LORETTA is ringing up a particularly difficult customer with a large pile of books)
CUSTOMER (staring at the register screen): Why is it costing so much??
LORETTA: I haven't taken off the credit yet. If you'll just wait a minute, I can tell you your total.
LORETTA finishes ringing up the purchase
LORETTA: That'll be $25.08.
CUSTOMER: Why am I paying so much??
LORETTA: Well, every time you come in, you have to pay money. Today, you're only paying the handling fee--10% of the credit used, plus you went over your credit by about $6--of which you'll only pay $3. Had you gone to Barnes and Nobles, you would have payed around $200.
CUSTOMER: Well, we'll have to start again. This is just too much for me to pay today.
LORETTA flushes the ticket and begins again
CUSTOMER (after LORETTA has rung up the book): How much was that one? I'll need to put that one back.
LORETTA (noticing that the sale isn't making sense anymore): Okay, why don't you figure out which books you want, and then I'll ring you up?
CUSTOMER goes through books. LORETTA begins to ring up the books again.
CUSTOMER (as Loretta is ringing up the books): You know, lately I've been asking God for help. Do you ask God for help sometimes? (no response) I've been asking God to help me have more integrity. I've been building me a team to help me have more integrity. God's on my team. Will you be on my team, too?
LORETTA , by this time, is slamming down the books as she rings them up.
LORETTA (shouting): NO, I DON'T WANT TO BE ON YOUR TEAM!!!! YOUR TEAM SUCKS AND YOUR KIDS ARE UGLY!!! I'M GONNA JOIN MY OWN TEAM!!!!
Several EMPLOYEES rush in to restrain LORETTA.

Scene.

NOLEN is ringing up LADY WITH BAD TEETH while LORETTA is ringing up UNSUSPECTING CUSTOMER
LADY WITH BAD TEETH (to UNSUSPECTING CUSTOMER): Oh, I see you read Nora Roberts!
NOLEN: Who is evil and must be destroyed...
LADY WITH BAD TEETH (continuing): I just loooooove Nora Roberts. She's my favorite arthor (yes, arthor)! I eckspecially loooove her tree-ologies! Don't you just loooove her tree-ologies?
UNSUSPECTING CUSTOMER (politely, as though trying not to awaken and anger a sleeping lion): Oh, yes. They're very nice.
NOLEN and LORETTA try to hold in their laughter at "tree-ology"
LADY WITH BAD TEETH: Her tree-ologies are just wonderful! My favorite tree-ology of hers is her Chesapeake tree-ology. It's just so wonderful!!
NOLEN (unable to stop himself) (with laughter): Wait, wait...are you serious? Ma'am, I don't think Nora Roberts wrote any books detailing the study of trees. Or the number three. And I'm pretty damn sure that her Chesapeake trilogy has nothing to do with trees. Just romance. Look, moron: the word is "trilogy". Say it with me, now: "trilogy. Triiiilogy. Tri-lo-gy." There. Wonderful. Now please leave until you know how to read.
NOLEN and LORETTA collapse in laughter.

Scene.

The preceding scenes are based (however loosely) on real events with real illiterate people.

Day 1: Friday, July 15 Harry Potter: T-minus DEAR SWEET JESUS!!!!! and counting.
Get up at 8:15 (AM!!! WTF!!!). Pouring rain...Means a feast or famine at the bookstore...only in this case, it's more like "Forced to eat until you end up like that guy in Se7en" or "plesant fasting to induce much-needed weight loss". It started out as the latter, ended up as the former...not wholly unexpected, as EVERYONE AND THEIR MOTHER made plans to get the Harry Potter book that night. Thank god I didn't have to be there then...or on Saturday, which was busy as hell, apparently. Still. Soooo many books...sooo many people wanting Harry Potter...And of course, my mother is worried about her (20-year-old) baby driving all the way to Waco by himself (which he's done before), and so calls me starting at about 10:15 non stop until I finally pick up the phone. This, of course, is on my cell phone, which I CANNOT answer at work. So, of course, she does not call me there (she claims she thought I wasn't working until later, but I'm pretty sure it was all part of a diabolical plan).
Hoping it ends. 3 does not come quickly enough.
3 o'clock (yeah, right. Try closer to 3:30). Close register. Make purchases at the store. Do not get out until 3:45...crap. So behind. BUT it's PAYDAY!!! YAY!!!!
Errands to run before I can go on the road:

1. Deposit my paycheck
2. Get money from the bank
3. Go to Target and pick up a memory card for the camera
4. Pick up my mother's dry cleaning (it turns out that that was what she'd been calling me about)
5. Go home
6. Turn off A/Cs
7. Pick up recycling bin from the curb
8. Shave
9. Put suitcase in trunk
10. Leave

What actually happened:

1. Realize camera's batteries are dead
2. Run home to charge camera
3. Realize I still have Kirsten's cell phone
4. Run back to store
5. Deposit paycheck
6. Withdraw money
7. Run to Target
8. Pick up dry cleaning
9. Run back home
10. Shave
11. Put suitcase in car
12. Turn off A/Cs
13. Leave
14. Remember that I forgot the recycling bin, so run back home
15. Leave again, this time for good...

at about 5pm...an hour after I'd planned to be on the road. The trip up to Waco (about a 2.5-3 hour drive) was relatively uneventful, except for me missing a turn, and almost getting hopelessly lost. But I'm just that good, so I didn't get lost.
I win. Also, iPods are wonderful things.
After travelling through shitsplat towns in central Texas with names like "Sealy" and "Brenham" and "Rosebud" and "Golinda", I arrive at my uncle's ranch, just outside of Waco, TX. And my entire family on my dad's side is there. Literally. Relatives I haven't seen in 7 years are there. This includes my Aunt Sam (whom I haven't seen since she and my uncle divorced more than 10 years ago), and my cousin Hannah, whom I haven't seen in 16 years. And they all remember me.
Weirded out...
But other than the initial re-introductions, and the accompanying obligatory comments on my increased growth and other changes in appearance, I had to give the same speech about 16 billion times...along the lines of "I'm majoring in Politics and English Lit, I really like DC, I'm still living on campus next year, I will live in a suite with three of my good friends, I hope to study abroad sometime soon, and I'll probably get my Masters after college."
Other than that, the night was pretty uneventful...and I got my own hotel room :D

More later

I think that the only thing that could possibly be worse than going to the dentist right before you have to go to work, is going to the dentist at 8 AM right before you have to go to work. Seriously. I had to drag my ass out of bed at 7 AM so I could get ready to go to the fucking DENTIST!!!

By the way, in case you hadn't noticed, I hate dentists. It is definitely my least favorite place in the world. And this was a new dentist.

For some reason, my dad felt the need to change my dentist over the summer. I think it was because I had become far too accustomed to the old one, and he wasn't causing me nearly enough pain. Of course, he couldn't schedule the appointment for sometime in the afternoon, when I would be more alert and...well, sane, really...

I guess that would just take all the fun out of it.

So there I am, 7:45 in the morning, trying to remember my address (and only coming up with lyrics to Bette Midler's "Wind Beneath My Wings"---god, I hate soft rock), dealing with the mountains of paperwork that accompany any new medical office. I finally finish, and am being lulled back to sleep to the "soothing" sounds of Celine Dion...::shudder::...when they call my name.

Did I mention that I hate mornings?

Well, I do. And I hate people who love mornings...at least, I hate them in the morning. I hate the morning sun, I hate the damn birds chirping out my window, I hate being removed from a reclining position in the morning. Basically, I am a very angry person in the morning. And my oral hygenist was chipper...shoot me in the face! I do my best to remain plesant, but damnit, it's hard!

Fortunately, I didn't piss her off...I think. With oral hygenists, it's really hard to tell.

And then there was the actual cleaning...
Worst. Thing. Ever.

First, they poke and prod about your mouth. God forbid you should have any cavities, or else=IMMENSE PAIN! Then comes the scraping. Where they scrape each ane every tooth, front, back, and sides. With a pick. And then they proceed to stab your gums. And they're suprised when your gums bleed! Of course, it's all your fault; you're not flossing correctly! Nevermind the ICE PICK they're STABBING THE HELL OUT OF YOUR GUMS WITH!!! Finally, they get the worst-tasting tooth cleanser...I hesitate to even call it toothpaste...and pour immense quantities of it into your mouth, ostensibly cleaning your teeth. Yeah, right. I'm pretty sure that the only reason they do it is so that there is such an awful taste in your mouth that you'll never want to eat again. The dentists seem to be fighting a war...not on the gum disease known as GINGIVITIS, but on the food industry. I'm pretty sure that gingivitis is just a ruse, designed to blind the populace to the true evil sinisterness that is the American Dental Association.

But it's over with, and I don't have to go back for another six months...can you say GIANT CONSPIRACY?

It's all clearly laid out in the movie Marathon Man. All dentists are evil former-Nazis hell-bent on getting diamonds stashed in apartments and drilling into un-anesthetized teeth (which is the third most painful thing ever).


Christian Szell: Is it safe?... Is it safe?
Babe: You're talking to me?
Christian Szell: Is it safe?
Babe: Is what safe?
Christian Szell: Is it safe?
Babe: I don't know what you mean. I can't tell you something's safe or not, unless I know specifically what you're talking about.
Christian Szell: Is it safe?
Babe: Tell me what the "it" refers to.
Christian Szell: Is it safe?
Babe: Yes, it's safe, it's very safe, it's so safe you wouldn't believe it.
Christian Szell: Is it safe?
Babe: No. It's not safe, it's... very dangerous, be careful.
Christian Szell drills into Babe's tooth
--Marathon Man (1976) Christian Szell played by Sir Laurence Olivier, Babe played by Dustin Hoffman

I just saw the movie Amélie (starring Audrey Tautou and Mattieu Kassovitz) last night. Hurrah for movies that keep up my French!

Anyways, one of the sort of minor points in the movie was how Amélie Poulin found pleasure in the small things in life, like skipping stones or putting her hand into a sack of grain...which had this weird orgasmy French-movie effect on her, but I digress. That got me to thinking...one can truly find immense pleasure in the small things in life, like quiet bookstores, or finding lost money in your pocket, or ham sandwiches.

Ham sandwiches must be one of mankind's greatest achievements. Some may prefer it on white, I personally like mine on wheat at about 12:30 in the morning. Mayonnaise is crucial--too much, and the mayo is all one tastes. Too little, and one may as well eat dry bread, and no one wants that. For the cheese: Kraft American singles. I know full well that it is not real cheese, but this faux-cheese-charade put on by the Kraft company gives the ham sandwich its truly *delicious* quality. And two slices of ham. No more, no less. You see, the ham is like emo music...too little, and you wonder where it's gone in your life. Too much, and you want to kill yourself.

And that is perfection on earth, ladies and gentlemen.

I just finished making my own little attempt at perfection, and let me say...Mmmmmm...sacrilicious...::drools:: I feel filled and fulfilled, satisfied and happy. I could die a happy man tonight.

Oh, and incidentally, as I was removing a frozen pack of ham from the freezer for future deliciousness, a frozen turkey brick fell out onto my foot...it hurts like a BITCH!!! (although I don't know exactly how a bitch feels...presumably quite bad) This just goes to show you: turkey, while healthier than ham, is an inferior meet.

Which leads me to a few words of wisdom my friend Hat left me..."See, the problem with food, is that it's good." So true.






"Is that the sound of a ham sandwich being made?" he asked himself.
It deliciously was.

All right, so it's a little late for the requisite 4th of July post, but bite me and read this as I explain to you the wonders of rednecks bucking natural selection and the joys of going to parties where one knows no one else.

And it goes a little something like this:

So I'm invited to this party by one of my friends, William, at work--you know, the bookstore with illiterate customers. I think to my self, "all right, that'll be a fun distraction from my normal 4th of July festivities, which center around me sitting at home doing nothing." It's only sometime afterword that I realize that there will probably be very few (if any) people I know at this party, and by this time, it's too late to do anything about it. Funtimes. So I figure, what the hey (wtf is up with that phrase anyway??), it'll be a good opportunity to go Bunburying

You don't know what Bunburying is??? Tsk, tsk...go read your Oscar Wilde.

Anyway, back to the story. I arrive at Will's house at a little after 6-ish, after getting lost in the damn neighborhood, thanks to crappy directions (If you're reading this, William, Get back to work!), and guess what...I'm the only one there!!! So I think to myself "Greeeeat, this isn't going to be totally lame." I mean, I was expecting at least somebody besides William's girlfriend to try my new identity out on...and besides, how boring can you be to be unable to get more than a guy you know from work and your girlfriend to come to your party?

Turns out he just told me to arrive like an hour before anyone else would show up.

So people begin to trickle in, both William's friends and Jenna(his girlfriend)'s friends, only about half of whom William knows. So I spend most of the night being not introduced to anyone. Seriously. William's mother had to introduce me to the first of his friends to show up, so I'm pretty much milling about, listening to the various meaningless drivel--excuse me, conversations (Jenna has only just graduated high school, so there were quite a few rising senior "women" at the party)--going on around me. Finally, I get sucked into a converstation about religion, and can try out being Bunbury.

Trying to come up with the conservative Catholic answers to questions can be alot of fun...and also really difficult to say with a straight face. Although, I must confess, I fudged a bit, and took a gamble. You see, most of the people I was talking to had already said that they were Baptist, and the vast majority of them were pretty dumb, so I decided to start to play with some of the mythology surrounding the Catholic church. Namely, exorcisms.

Me: Well, I'm about to take a leave of absence at Catholic to go study at the exorcism school in the Vatican (which is real).
Stupid girl: Are you for real?? They have that?
Me (indignant, with some condescension): Of course! Don't you believe in Satan's presence on earth?
Stupid girl: Well yeah, I guess...
Me: Then why is it so suprising that there would be people who want to get rid of it...especially when it invades people?
Stupid girl: Ohhhh...wow yeah...I guess I didn't think of it that way. So you're really going to do that sort of stuff?
Me: Yep.
Stupid girl: Sounds like fun!
Me: Sure, if you consider almost getting your body possessed by demons fun. (And then I give her a look which says "I've seen so much more than you. Why do you insist on being stupid around me?")
(I walk away from the conversation, ostensibly for a coke.)

Fortunately, it was a pretty big party after all, so I was able to make a fairly clean break from that line of conversation. And with minimal whispering around me, too!


So now we get to part two of the party: Rednecks and their Toys, or Why Darwin is Wrong

For a good portion of the night, when I wasn't Bunburying, I was outside with William and several of his more...let's say "colorful"...friends, blowing shit up. Funtimes to be had there, of course.

Let me just say this about the 4th of July: it is a holiday designed by and for the nation's rednecks, hillbillies, and hicks. It is the day when we celebrate our inbred heritage by doing incredibly stupid things with incredibly dangerous substances. (While there was no alcohol at this party, quel naïf(ve) if you think that that is the case across America.) To prove this hypothesis, that the 4th of July is the ultimate redneck holiday, let's look at some demographics: in states where there is a lower incidence of hick-ness, fireworks are more likely to be banned. In, say, Texas--the home of the redneck trailer trash--fireworks are pretty much required of all citizens. Look at any street in Texas starting about the middle of June, and you will see rows and rows of firework stands, each more tempting than the next, until finally, you see the mother of them all: Buy one, get 14 free. And that doesn't even begin to count the year-round firework warehouses. Always ridiculous.

Before I begin to relate the events of Monday the fourth, a personal anecdote, to convince those who needed convincing that I'm trying desperately to break free from my redneck past.

It was the 4th of July when I was about 7 or 8. My dad and my uncle had decided that this was the year they would do it. This was the year that they would go WILD on the 4th of July (and no, I'm not talking about the adult "reality" movie seen on late-night infomercials). My dad and my uncle decided that it would be a good idea if, instead of, say, putting the money into a college fund account for their oldest, they would blow $300 on fireworks. That night, they proceeded to set them off. One of our neighbors and friends at the time was a police officer for the Tulsa PD, and earlier in the week, he had raided the evidence locker, and "borrowed" some confiscated, homemade dynamite. While setting off the fireworks, the police officer told my dad about the dynamite, and my dad's eyes got as big as those of a child on Christmas morn who had discovered that Santa had brought him a live puppy.The officer went into his house and brought my dad the stick of dynamite. The fireworks were halted as my dad lit the fuse and ran. One huge explosion later, and the curb near my house is missing a fairly large chunk.

So now you know where I come from, and we can go back (or is it forward?) to last Monday.

Of course, there were the traditional Roman Candle wars. And of course, there were guys playing Jack Be Nimble (a game, apparently, in which one runs and jumps over (or more often, through) a lit fountain (you know, the ones that shoot colored sparks into the air)). We even threw mortars (the ones that are shot into the air and make pretty explosions) into the sewer...which is actually pretty freakin awesome. But perhaps the biggest proof that Darwin is wrong about natural selection lies in the fact that we (I say "we"...I never actually did this, I was just there to bear witness) were also throwing these lit mortars into a bucket of water. Out of which they would often jump, and then proceed to make their final explosions. And--now here's the kicker--no one died. No one was even harmed in the least! Explain that one, Mr. Charles-Darwin-I-Know-Everything-About-Natural-Selection!!!

And of course, there was the requisite lighting of an entire box of crackle bombs, Black Kat wars and bonfire.

And then there was the Diamond Flyer. This is a fountain that is supposed to shoot sparks and then fly into the air. Unfortunately, it apparently takes too long to do this, so one of the more hick-ish members of the party decided he was going to play Jack Be Nimble with it. He was an instant away from jumping over it when suddenly it shot into the air!!! He was literally an instant away from becoming eligible for a Darwin Award.

Too bad.

So that was my fourth...certainly a memorable one, if nothing else.