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…would a person not bat an eye at this:

My club makes me laugh out loud.

To my left, I watch Mad Max’s frizzy-haired girlfriend run for her life from post-apocalyptic road thugs.

Ahead of me is a dance floor packed with 25 women and -3 guys dancing their hearts out to It’s Raining Men.

To my right, two bouncers crowd the ladies room, mops in hands, urgently cleaning up whatever mess I’m glad I didn’t get to see.

The histogram indicates I usually post every 3 to 6 days.  Regrettably, I let 12 days lapse between my previous post and this one (depicted as broken red line).  Clearly this instance was unusual (but not anomalous) as it lies in the tail region.

I’ve got excuses upon excuses on why I did not get around to writing this week, but I will spare you those.  Let me say that it won’t happen again.

Year after year, I serve on our department’s graduate student admissions committee; the most labor intensive, monotonous, pain-in-the-ass duty our department grants us (current students) the “privilege” to do.   I’d rather stay home in my dank apartment, chew on tin-foil and shove thumbtacks under my fingernails than sit hour-after-hour ranking people.  No student ever serves on the admissions committee more than once, except me.  Why?  Because I hate hosting/babysitting/ego-stroking visiting scholars even more–even if it only lasts a day or two.  That’s our alternative.

There is another reason I volunteer: reviewing fantastic applications makes me feel small, unimportant and undeserving.  I torture myself this way to expose my own insecurities and bludgeon them.  One day, all that will remain will be one confident, thick-skinned, unmerciful badass.   Dispute that thug-logic.

Four more to go through tonight.  Gods grant me the strength.

On a lighter note: some guy “got busy” (with some girl (or at least I think she was)) in the A Pizza Mart bathroom the other night.  If witnessing Digital Underground lyrics realized isn’t inspiring–even if the medium was some obnoxiously pubescent hipster dude–I don’t know what is.

Back in Portland, when my friend bought his car, his dealer said “come on man, give us some credit… this isn’t 82nd Ave.” Not only did I buy my car on 82nd, I took the bus to the prospective car lot and deboarded right in front of the salesmen. Negotiating prowess must skip a generation because my dad’s tactical shrewdness I did not inherit.*

The fact that the car I bought was stripped of it’s rear speakers, the stereo was inoperable (i.e. “locked out”) during the test drive, and the salesman claimed he did not have the code to “unlock” it, would have raised some flags for your average used car buyer. Not for me and my turnip truck-fallin’ bumpkin ass. Two weeks and $100 later, a (legitimate) Honda dealership unlocked my stereo and I was eager to finally listen to CDs in my car!

Disappointed was I. The system only generated sound in the band of like 163 to 164 Hz. It would only accept CDs when it damned well felt like it, and would only play them if I tapped “the correct” sequence of taps on the display face. In a spectacular example of 1995 technology, CDs would skip for 5 minutes following each and every road disturbance, no matter how minor. [I embellish here, but not much.]

Fast-forward to 2005. The morning before the first midterm of the first class in the first quarter of my first year, it snowed. I emerged from my domicile to find my driver’s side window bashed out and my fantabulous stereo swiped. The driver’s seat lay partially covered in a peaceful white blanket adorned with a sprinkling of tiny blue cubes. My first thought: “Of all the respectable car stereos in Wallingford, why’d they go to the trouble of stealing a stock stereo out of a ’95 Civic? That’s like snagging the one cat turd in a sea of Almond Roca… FUCK!” Rushing inside, I searched for plastic to cover the cavity. Zip-lock sandwich bags and packaging tape were all I could find. Hurriedly, I MacGuyvered up a quilt, covered the hole and high-tailed it to my class.

Two weeks ago. After three years of car-stereolessness, my friend took pity and gifted me a battery powered CD player (and batteries) for Christmas. A very thoughtful gift that I very much appreciated on my drive up from Woodland.

Thank you Carolyn.

*Though I should give myself some credit:
Salesman: “How about this Dodge Neon.”
Me: “No thanks, I’ve heard they have problems.”
Salesman: “Oh, you just need to replace the head-gasket at 80,000 miles–they’re notorious for that.”
Me: “Isn’t that synonymous with ‘shitty car’? How about that Honda hiding back in the corner over there.”

A couple nights ago I submitted the following application to the online dating service: www.sugardaddie.com. Careful I was not to violate their stipulations for membership. Still, after composing my description I was far from convinced they would actually accept me. So, I screen-dumped the application before hitting submit, just in case they wouldn’t grant me access again. Unfortunately my worry came true; the next morning they did not grant me access to my application or the site. No explanation given. I guess I’m just not their kind of people. Truthfully, I’m guess taking this rejection kind of hard…why don’t they like me? I’d like to think that the reviewers took the time to carefully review my application, description and all. More likely, they rejected me outright when I selected the “less than $100,000” income bracket.

My great grandma Dangerfield was born and raised in Something-or-other-shire England. She brought with her all sorts of weird traditions (and superstitions) that ruled her thoughts and deeds into her late nineties.

I hope I got some of those longevity genes–or perhaps there was some truth to her ideas.

Anyways, every Christmas Eve, on great-grandma’s instruction, my grandma would pour brandy over carrot pudding (supposed to be plum, but a dark, motley, bread-composed mass all the same), turn out the lights and set it ablaze. Blue flames encapsulated the lump; they oscillated about it’s surface for a good 2 minutes or so. We ooed and awed. It was then cut it up, an alcohol-derived sauce was portioned over the pieces which were finally distributed to its audience for consumption. It really didn’t taste all that great. But I loved the warm, stupid feeling I felt after eating it.

Thanks go to my family for nurturing my love for alcohol at a young age!

Displaying super-human patience, my parents endured mine, and my sister’s, unrelenting feedback on their in-car track selections (without strangling us) while simultaneously driving one of the worst cars ever built (’86 Ford Tempo). While forcing us to listen to their bad music (rated below) could be considered child-abuse, we made sure to make their listening experience miserable at every opportunity.

[I] Would have liked to go out last night but my raised-in-California-ass fears driving in the snow–especially with bald tires. Last year, I found myself climbing the treacherous snow slicked hills of downtown Seattle in my not so heavy or powerful Honda. I tried to put on chains but they flew off 20 feet later. That experience I dare not repeat. To add insult to injury, I discovered this motherfucker…

…this morning as I scraped off my windshield.

Waaah!!!