Day of the Blog

My Halloween costumes (when I wear them) have been getting more complex over the past few years. They’re definitely more detailed and fancy than my costumes as a child. As a kid, my typical costume was a black shirt and jeans with a cape. Add fangs and voila: Dracula. Add a sword and you have Zorro. Add an unholy vortex wear my chest cavity should be and you’ve created Karl Rove. Now that I think about it, my family reused that cape a bunch of times. Ah well, free candy is free candy. Delicious. Especially from the creepy guy down the street. His candy made me feel pass-outy.

Then there was the king of kids’ kostumes. The penultimate option in Halloween gear. The Franklin Pierce of candy-begging disguises. The boxed mask/shirt combo. You know what I’m talking about – the cheap ass costume claiming to be Frankenstein, The Wolfman or Oliver Miller consisting of a mask of said creature and a shirt with their picture on it. Seriously…what the hell? Why would Frankenstein’s monster were a vinyl shirt with a drawing of himself on it?? I get the mask – the mask is a classic. But the plastic-y shirt made no sense. Who’s idea was that?

Soulless Marketing Guy 1: We’ve got a mask but that’s not enough for a box set. What can we add?
SMG2: Guns?
SMG1: No.
SMG2: Drugs?
SMG1: No!
SMG2: Dead hookers?
SMG1: Get the hell out of here!
SMG3: A plastic smock with a picture of the creature on the mask?
SMG1: Brilliant! That’s not even a little ridiculous!
Janitor: I'm going to kill you all.
SMG3: Get back to work!

It makes no sense. But as a kid, I loved it. I was a dumb kid…

Now let’s consider my newer costumes. A few years back I was a circa 1970s street pimp. Ingredients: purple suit with leopard trim, matching hat and cane. Bake at 350º for 3 hours. This year, a kickass zombie outlaw with a hot saloon girl companion. Contents: torn up bloody shirt, dead-guy makeup, bullet hole, tattered duster, chaps, skull hat, and Legal Counsel. 72% of your USDA recommended dose of undeath. With new picture goodness:

I think this trend of costume improvement is consistent with most people who actually dress up. But why? Several reasons, I suppose. First, we are willing to waste more money than our parents. Second, a desire to relive childhood. Third, attempts to impress friends. Fourth, it’s an excuse to dress like a freak (looking at my childhood pictures, I dressed like a freak pretty much every day). And lastly, a desire to filling a soul-sucking emptiness not present in our youth. Right guys? Anybody else? Tear…

I just wish I was a woman…it’s amazing how often I find myself saying that. They get to dress slutty, throw on bunny ears and call it a bunny costume. Same goes for mouse, cat, vampire…pretty much anything. If they wear next to nothing on Halloween, nobody is going to complain. Or any other day for that matter. But as soon as Montgomery shows up with his naughty bits hanging out and a dead raccoon on his head, he’s a sex offender. Damn double standards. It’s symbolic, people. It’s not my fault if you can’t figure out the metaphor.

Some other random thoughts:

A very popular Halloween costume for ladies this year is the circa 1920’s flapper. I keep seeing them at all the festivities I’ve visited and at many a costume shop. They should go the whole nine: only drink bootleg hooch and invest all their money in the stock market, which will never crash. It’s a really bizarre trend, but I like it. It must be the popularity of that new book, “The Great Gatsby.” 23 skidoo….

Watching D-Rock eat the cream out of an Oreo brand cookie was the creepisest thing I’ve ever seen. It will haunt my nightmares. Scariest Halloween costume idea of the year: D-Rock with an Oreo. I just threw up a little.

“Chickens = retarded” – D-Rock’s notes, 28 October 2005

Get the title of this post? This is my third Halloween post/post involving zombies on my blog. The third of Romero's Dead trilogy was Day of the Dead. Understand? No? I give up...

If you can't beat 'em...*

After years of hoping and dreaming, my wish came true. I became a zombie:

Not only that, but I had a hot lady zombie by my side with whom I can shuffle around Earth for all eternity. Awesome.

We wore these costumes to the med/pharmacy/nursing school Halloween party. I was a zombie outlaw, which Legal Counsel stated was perfect for me upon seeing it. I have to agree. In order to be the sickeningly cute couple that we love to be, we wore matching outfits - she was a zombie saloon girl. Sort of. She added a boa, boots and cosmetic touches to a gothic sorceress costume in order to make it old west style (since saloon girl/cowgirl outfits are either trashy or poorly fitting - seriously, one size fits all looks horrible unless you're at the heavy end of "all," which Legal Counsel definitely is not). I think it ended up looking great - she's so smart. We also added bullet hole stage makeup (jaw hole for me, chest/heart hole for her), which I've always wanted to do.

I know what you're thinking. "But Colan, you've dedicated your life to defending against zombies. You're humanity's only hope. And you're brilliant and sexy. Best human ever, really. You're just so cool and..." Please, stop, you're making me blush. I know I've built up a stockpile of food and weapons, and i've spent thousands building a zombie-proof shelter. But deep in my heart I've always known - it's hopeless. Eventually they'll break through my defenses, I'll run out of food or I'll run out of ammunition. They can keep going forever and we can never stem their growth. Sooner or later, we'll all be zombies. So why not embrace it?

I'm not sure what kind of zombies we were, however. If you're not a licensed zombologist like myself, you probably think all zombies are the same. Common rookie mistake that might cost you your life in the coming living/undead battles. Walking Corpses can generally be put into one of three categories:

Classic (Romero) Zombie - made popular in such documentaries as Night of the Living Dead, Dawn of the Dead, Day of the Dead and Land of the Dead. These are the slow moving, flesh eating undead most people think of. Motivated solely by a taste for human flesh, with limited fine motor function, slow movement and average to above-average strength. Sometimes seen using simple tools (i.e. rocks to break windows), and possibly capable of using firearms (but with poor aiming and no reloading). However, they display no higher brain functions beyond remembered use of tools. Usually kills by swarming and surprise.

ROLD (O'Bannon) Zombie - perhaps a slightly evolved version of the Classic Zombie. This type was observed by biologist Dan O'Bannon in his shock-you-mentary Return of the Living Dead. Basically the same as a Classic Zombie, but with a specific taste for human brains (which might be a more nutrient-rich food source). Theories suggest that evolution favored zombies who eat brains (faster kills, more nutrients), leading to this subtype.

Modern (Snyder) Zombie - created by an entirely new source, not related to the first two types. Seen in such news reports as 28 Days Later and (the new) Dawn of the Dead, this breed is fast moving, highly aggressive and seeks any human flesh. More dangerous than the first two, it can often defeat a human one on one. Aggression prevents knowledge of brain function or tool useage. Greater physical ability.

Whatever the case, they'll eat you. They'll eat you good. Just aim for the old brainbox and you'll survive a little longer. Unless it's Zombie Montgomery or Zombie Legal Counsel. In that case, just give up and let us eat you.

Halloween is so fun...

*Seriously, though, you can't beat them.

Habitat for Humanity's Survival

This weekend I worked at Habitat for Humanity with Legal Counsel and J-Bone. It was pretty fun. But I'm a white-collar fancy lad, so I wasn't too suited for the work. I got to drive stakes into the ground with a sledgehammer, nail things together and use a power drill. Manly work. Unfortunately, Legal Counsel and J-Bone out-manlied me. They painted baseboards. How can I compete with that? I think one of the colors was eggshell - the most manly of all colors.

The whole time I was there, I had one theme constantly in my head. Maybe it was because of the Halloween Season. Maybe it was the recent Onion article on the subject. Or maybe it's because I'm always thinking about this particular idea. But I couldn't help considering how this housing development would stand up against a zombie attack.

I didn't instantly think about zombie defenses, of course. I'm not crazy. The first thing I thought about was the number of weapons available for battling the shambling undead. They had sheds full of tools: hammers, sledgehammers, picks, screwdrivers, shovels. You name it. Screwdrivers might be best - quick stabbing with little chance for getting stuck in partially decomposed brains. Sledgehammers are too slow - if you've got a dozen festering hands reaching for you, you need speed not strength. Picks and shovels would be decent, with shovels being preferred of the two. Hammers I'm torn on. They are fast, but there's a high likelihood for getting snagged. Fortunately, there's a whole box. A veritable plethora. If you lose a hammer in the decaying recess of their skull, just grab a new one. No prob. But you are cornering yourself in a shed...hmmm...

I'm going to go ahead and say power tools of any kind are a no-no. Don't get me wrong, the rapid motion of the instrument will make short work of their putrid flesh. However, the wail of a chainsaw or pounding of a jackhammer will draw the living dead from miles around. Especially with no cars drowning out the noise. You've got enough worries as the moans from their lifeless mouths draw more of their hoard. Trust me. Power tools should only be used if you plan to leave the area within the hour.

And that's just the shiny tools. There are numerous bits of wood and metal that can be used in a pinch. J-Bone even found a nice, sturdy board with several jagged nails sticking through. That's perfect for fending off the animate corpses questing for your living flesh. The dozens of available vehicles can be used to reinforce doors and walls, after being used to run down the rotten zombies. Of course, you run into the sound problem again.

After surveying my surrounding for potential spontaneous defense, my mind started wandering towards creating defenses before the dead rise. Fortune favors the prepared mind (although I don't think Louis Pasteur had zombies in mind when he said that). We were already building houses - why not fortify them against the walking dead?

For example, I was working on a wall to be put around a house. You first have to dig a trench to set the concrete foundation, then put in rebar posts and finally build the wall around it. Here is what I propose: widen and deepen the trench, then put the wall on the inside but make it 10-12 feet tall and have it surround the whole house with only one opening. If the decomposing bastards can get over the pit, they'll still have to get over that wall. And guarding one entrance is much easier than guarding the whole perimeter. Optionally, rebar can be planted on the outside of the trench and bent at a 45º angle away from the house. This will snag the monsters before they even reach the pit. And throwing some razor wire on top of the wall wouldn't be a bad idea.

And if we're already building a wall, why not surround the whole development? This will allow people to walk between houses, and allow them to get fresh air and exercise. And if you've got an open area, you can plant a garden for fresh food. This will buy you time until help arrives (ha, like that's going to happen...I mean, have hope!). It also provides yet one more barrier against the mounting zombie menace.

The last few suggestions are common sense. Reinforce all walls with thicker wood and metal, if possible. Use shatterproof glass on all windows and provide metal shutters. Steel doors instead of wooden doors. Stockpile food, weapons and ammunition. Canned and dry goods, of course: non-perishables. For weapons, use crossbows and silenced guns. Swords are fast and quiet. Come on people, just think. Only you can prevent zombie apocalypse.

On a related note, I purchased Stubbs the Zombie yesterday. It's an XBox game that allows you to play as the zombie. It's awesome.

There's a lot of wackos out there.

Seriously, Bush. Seriously.


Bush's choice for Federal Reserve Chairman, Ben Bernanke. John Nichols, brother and accomplice of Oklahoma City bomber Terry Nichols. Same person.

Now Bush has a TV villain, movie villain and real villain in high ranking positions. It's disturbing.

WE WANT PRENUP

Let me start by saying that we have figured out the "My Humps" dilemma. After consulting Legal Counsel and her crack legal team, a consensus was reached. It was determined that Fergie's "hump" is her bum, while her "lumps" are her breasts. This explanation makes total sense in the song, so my brain has slightly solidified. My favorite alternate theory, however, involves a delicious play on words. Apparently, a euphemism for a woman's genitals is "camel toe." I've never heard it, but I was told. Camels have humps, so it was suggested that Fegie's "hump" is her vagina. But that was just a fun theory. I don't think Black-Eyed Peas lyrics are that smart.

But for every ridiculous set of lyrics, you can find a heartbreaking work of staggering genius (hey, that would make a good book title). A song with lyrics so clever they make Boy George weep. In a few hundred years, this song will be referred to as "classical music." The ideal antidote the aneurism inducing "My Humps," it actually makes you smarter after listening to it. In this case, I'm referring to "Golddigger" by Kanye West (featuring Jamie Foxx).

The song is remarkable. I'm not going to analyze the specific lyrics this time, but I will give you a synopsis. The song itself is really a series of vignettes, narrated by Mr. West. Vignette A describes Kanye's love for a woman who some might suggest Kanye avoid. She spends her time in beauty salons, holding her Luis Vuitton (hey that rhymes). However, she has four kids (which Kanye is forced to drive around in his Benz) and has been seen with such celebrities as Busta (Rhymes) and Usher (Rhymes). Which leads some people to believe she is just looking for cash. Despite all this, Mr. West loves her - possibly because of her "ass like Serena." To be honest, Kanye, I think you've been struck booty blind.

Vignette 2 describes the plight of another gentleman, who must pay child support for 18 years (as stated by law). He's a football player forced to give all his money to this...golddigger, I guess would be a good title. She lives in a house bigger than his and spends the child support on sub-par plastic surgery - apparently she looks like Michael (Rhymes). And yet, this high-paid athlete is forced to drive a Hyundai, like D-Rock. And to further add to the irony, it turns out the child isn't his. But he didn't find out until the kid's 18th birthday. I see this story as a potential continuation of the first. A warning to Mr. West of things to come. A cautionary tale with the moral: WE WANT PRENUP.

Vignette the last takes on alternate view, this time singing about the woman. She's with a man without much in the way of liquid assets. After they go to eat, he ends up washing dishes to pay. But he's going to make it in life - he's got ambition in his eyes. He's going to go from Datsun to Benz. I don't know cars...is that trading up? While this man is working and struggling, all of his "balling" friends are hitting on this woman. But Kanye suggests that she stay with him - he's going to make it, after all. But he's going to leave her for a white girl. Snap.

So that's the song. And it's a gift from the gods. Kanye West is a modern Prometheus, stealing the "fire" that is this song from the gods and giving it to us mere mortals. Too bad he'll have his liver eaten by buzzards for all of eternity. Thanks, Kanye! But seriously, I'm pretty sure Kanye West is a deity, or at the very least a saint. I'm pretty sure he'll be canonized* after he dies. You want three miracles? Here you go:

1. He once hit a paraplegic in a wheelchair with his car. The result? Total spinal recovery and the ability to fire lasers from his fingertips.
2. One restless night, he got up at 2:35am and started writing his train of thought on a cocktail napkin. 45 minutes later he had what is now referred to as The Holy Bible.
3. He defecates soft-serve ice cream.

Isn't that good enough, Pope Benedict XVI? Jeez...


*canonized = fired from a cannon by the Pope

She's got me spending...

Every few years a song comes along that alters the pathways in your brain. A song so ridiculous, you don't know what to do. A lyrical paradox. Simultaneously brilliant and ridiculous, fun and depressing, art and...not art. With lyrics so asinine you want to vomit while singing along. Tunes currently being studied to determine if they cause aneurisms, impotence or super-powers. To crazy to ignore - You don't want to listen, but you most. A siren song of absurdity so enthralling that you can't change the radio dial, inevitably leading to your own insanity. And the most recent euphonic oxymoron to make its way to the canon: a song by the Black-Eyed Peas entitled...sigh...My Humps.

Most of the song consists of Fergie saying, "My hump" repeatedly. I'd guesstimate about ten times in a row. It grows old quickly while growing on you. So at about "my hump" number 5, you're sick of hearing it but you're singing along. And I can't figure out to what she is referring, but I have three theories. Theory the first: she is referring to her breasts. This is supported by what she says after "my hump" #10 - "my lovely little/lady lumps." Yes, I know it's ridiculous. But I also know you love it. But saying "humps" and "lumps" would imply small breasts, which she shouldn't brag about. Theory the second: she is singing about the verb, actually implying "humping." This is just filthy and I'll have none of it. Theory C: she is a hunchback with great self-esteem.

The next wacky aspect is Will.i.am's melodic pickup lines. In addition to admitting that Fergie has him "spending all [his] money," he sings the following questions/compliments(?):

What you gon’ do with all that junk? All that junk inside that trunk?
What you gon’ do with all that ass? All that ass inside them jeans?
What you gon’ do with all that breast? All that breast inside that shirt?

As flattering as those questions are, they really don't work in clubs. Trust me. And I thought "junk in the trunk" was in reference to a big ass. Why the redundancy, Will.i.am? And why is breast singular? Did Fergie get a radical mastectomy? Or does she just have one "super boob" in the middle of her chest? So many questions, so little time. If you're curious, her responses are: "get you love drunk off my hump," "make you scream," and "make you work," respectively. And getting somebody drunk off your hump is just a whole new set of questions. My head is going to asplode right here in class.

At one point she talks about "Se7en Jeans." I got that spelling from a lyrics website. Are the jeans named after the Brad Pitt/Morgan Freeman movie Se7en? If so, that's fucked up.

Fergie later requests that somebody "mix [their] milk with [her] cocoa puff...milky, milky cocoa." I don't know what that means! But the one idea I have is rather dirty. And illegal in 11 states (with an additional 4 states making same-sex milk/cocoa-puff mixing illegal until Lawrence v. Texas 2003). Even worse than the innuendo is the product placement. Black-eyed Peas, you sold out. Why not, "mix your milk with my chocolate-flavored puffed-grain cereal?" On a side note: I really don't understand anti-cocoa puff legislation.

I just touched the tip of the "My Hump" iceberg. You should give the lyrics a read sometime. On second thought, don't. If you're reading this, you're probably cool. And I don't want your brain to melt and slide out your nose. Except you, Saul. Go ahead and read. You've got nothing to worry about.

The Truffle Shuffle

Some interesting discoveries about The Goonies, courtesy of IMDB:

The pirate ship was entirely real. All the shots were filmed in the ship, not on separate stages. After the film, it was offered to anyone who would take it, but sadly, no one wanted it, so the ship was chopped into scraps.

What the hell? There are so many things wrong with this statement, so many reasons it shouldn't be true. First, it's a pirate ship. Second, it's from The Goonies. Third, it's One-eyed Willie's pirate ship from The Goonies! They couldn't find one person cool enough to take this ship? Not even Corey Feldman? I think a bigger problem would be that nobody is worthy of owning it. But to say no one wanted it? I was 2 when the movie came out...I wanted it!

Richard Donner kept both One-Eyed Willie's head and a model for the ship.

Richard Donner kicks ass. "What's that? Oh, not much. Just ONE-EYED WILLIE'S HEAD!!!1!"

The number of times a character says the word "shit" (or its derivative, "bullshit") is nineteen, not counting the line "Holy S-H-I-T!"

Sweet. Gotta love those foul mouthed Goonies. That's tied for the most number of "shit" sayings in a kid's movie with Aladdin.

The cast was not allowed to see the pirate ship before the scene was shot. When they did see it, some of the kids said "holy shit!" so the scene had to be re-shot without them cursing.

So the actors themselves cursed like cute little sailors. Awesome. It was probably Feldman's influence. Or Senor Spielbergo.

The last name of the brothers who are chasing the Goonies is Fratelli. Fratelli means "brothers" in Italian.

It's so damn literal.

Cyndi Lauper co-wrote the theme song "Goonies R Good Enough", and shot a music video that features a cameo by the film's executive producer Steven Spielberg.

That song was great. They should mention that the video also featured Captain Lou Albano. "Who is he?" you ask. He was a professional wrestler. But even better - he played Mario on The Super Mario Brothers Super Show. I friggin' love the mid- to late-eighties. and yes, Lou Albano is in the running for "Hippest Cat Ever" - an award that needs to change its antiquated name. On a related note: what ever happened to Cyndi Lauper?

Mouth (Corey Feldman) wears a Purple Rain (1984) t-shirt throughout the film.

Corey Feldman: you da man. And so is Mouth.

The name "Rube G" can be seen painted on the contraption that opens the yard gate for Chunk near the beginning of the movie.

Rube Goldberg references instantly make any movie awesome. In this case, more awesome.

According to Sean Astin, he was allowed to keep the treasure map used in the film. However, the map was lost forever when his mother discovered it several years later, thought it was just a crinkled piece of paper, and threw it in the trash.

Sean Astin's mom...you better watch your back.

So what happened to The Goonies?
Sean Astin (Mikey) - he's Samwise Gamgee...and maybe he has other jobs that don't matter
Jeff Cohen (Chunk) - he's an entertainment lawyer...how sweet is that? Truffle Shuffle = instant case win
Jonathan Quan (Data) - fight coordinator for such movies as The One and X-Men. kickass
Corey Feldman (Mouth) - sigh
Josh Brolin (Brand) - he was in Hollow Man...haha
John Matuszak (Sloth) - sadly, he died in 1989 of heart failure. HEY YOU GUYS
Lou Albano (not in movie) - still looks like Ron Jeremy

So the success of The Goonies is pretty hit or miss. But in general, they're all pretty cool.

On to less important things: Land of the Dead came out on DVD yesterday! How awesome is that?! And I totally didn't know until late last night. I'm a jackass. But I'll get it today. It will be mine...oh yes, it will be mine.

Hey, this is my 50th post. Cool. As a gift for sticking with me, I give you this: a statue of a monkey riding a turtle:

You know what I hate? A guy in a blue suit.

There's one right behind me, isn't there?

Yeah...one of my professors was sitting behind me for that last post, so the post was short. I didn't want to display my slacking so prominently. Maybe they're wise to my shenanigans. He might have been on lookout. If that's the case, I'll have to start sending threats. Again.

So I got scolded for such a short blog post. At least it made D-Rock laugh. But he's an easy audience. I'll jiggle my keys at him right now...yep, just as I thought. He giggled a lot. Anyway, it seems that I get in trouble for no updates and for short updates. My fans are so demanding. I'm going to turn into a diva. Can guys be divas? It doesn't matter. I'll be one either way.

So...what to say? I cooked last night. I made a tasty, buttery chicken dish with rice pilaf and steamed vegetables. I love that word: pilaf, peel-off, pillow. It was tasty. The weirdest part of the meal was the chicken preparation. I found a recipe online and it asked for a "buttery round cracker" crumb coating. Seriously. That's what it said. Just write "Ritz," you weirdos. Maybe i should say I cooked "small, land-bound fowl."

I thought it sounded kind of bizarre and maybe a little white-trashy. But it had great reviews from people who cooked it, so I gave it a try. It was delicious. So juicy, so tasty, so unhealthy. So what? It was our 9-month, we can splurge. We should have a relationship baby now, but I don't know what that means. Should we start trying to hook up our single friends? No. Nobody likes those couples. It only works when Julia Kim does it. Thanks again, Julia!

Legal Counsel then admitted that as a child she sampled a delicacy known as "Captain Crunch Chicken." I'm sorry, "Cap'n Crunch Chicken." How awesome is that? It combines my favorite things: cereal militia and small, land-bound fowl. I'm really curious about it. I wonder if I can make it using Oops, All Crunch Berries." Drool...

As tasty as my meal was, Legal Counsel went and showed me up with her dessert. It was a strawberry/peach mix baked under a brown sugar/oatmeal crumble served with ice cream...I'm drooling just thinking about it. It was so exquisite. Words don't even describe. I'll have to invent one...fantastalicious.

The lecturer is now discussing the thoracic duct...quack, quack.

Bile Ducts

Quack, quack.

...and you're to blame.

Today is the 9 month anniversary of the day I met Legal Counsel. Awesome, I know. I also know that it's not an anniversary if it isn't an increment of one year. But guess what? Shut up.

And today we dissected the heart. Coincidence? I think so. But still amusing. It's not ironic, though. It's not even Alanis Morissette "ironic," aka unfortunate. So don't even try. It's just fitting and cool. Even though the heart has nothing to do with emotion*. Curse you science! You improve and ruin everything!

I have a problem with the dissection process, though. We keep pulling out organs and yet we have no canopic jars. What the hell is that?

Also, I think we should have dissected the heart at the beginning of the year. Before we sliced up the arms, shoulders, back, chest and head. Even before we cracked the ribcage. Just have Short Round come into the lab with a few Sankara Stones and pass them out to the med students. I saw that documentary, it's all you need. "Okey Dokey, Dr. Jones."

I love you, Legal Counsel!



*yes, the heart is influenced by emotion. And I suppose it can very indirectly impact emotion. But quit getting technical on me. Damn. It's just a blog, jerk. You don't appreciate me! I'm leaving! No - not this time, reader. Your sweet talking won't get me back this time. What? I'm brilliant? And sexy? You really think so? Okay, I'll stay. But this is the last time...

Wax on, wax off

I'm going to level with you. I don't understand karate. At all. It just doesn't make sense to me. The two reasons usually given for its existence are self-defense and exercise. I really don't see either of those things happening.

Legal Counsel and I were walking through Park Mall and they had some "Active Kids" display. Mostly it was just an excuse to push RC cars, Lemonheads candy and Jack Daniels in the middle of the mall. But they also had kids showcasing karate moves in the middle of the booths. It was a very obviously choreographed display seeing as how the person on "defense" would throw a block and just wait for the other kid to attack it.

And that's the way I always see karate. Aside from movies, television and Chuck Norris, it is just people dancing around each other. The only way it would help is if your attacker has studied the same dance moves as you. I always imagine somebody in a fight taking a karate pose, then getting laughed at and clocked upside the head with a fist, bottle or Stanley Cup. But I'm a little biased towards good old fashioned street brawlin', a la Donald Gibb from Bloodsport

The main flaw in the self-defense plan is that you have to assume that the other person will follow the same rules as you. Unless you're attacked by a gang consisting of Ralph Maccio, Hilary Swank and Pat Morita, they're going to fight like normal people (and if Pat Morita is attacking you, you've got bigger problems - your best bet is to fake dead, like with a bear, and even that only works with him about 40% of the time). Nobody is going to confine their hits to certain areas, pull punches, shun weapons or keep their rabid lemurs on a leash. Your cross-block isn't going to stop somebody who isn't pulling their punches. And it certainly won't stop a lemur.

And I never see them dancing fast enough to get a workout. They just throw a little punch or kick, yell a little "K'yah" then go back to the "legs straddling an imaginary saddle" position. I drive by a dojo on a regular basis, where I catch glimpses of the routines. I also get stuck in traffic on a regular basis, where I get more prolonged views. And they never look like they're exercising. It just looks like half-assed fighting. I prefer fighting with my whole ass.

Another weird thing is that the students spend half their time learning to fall over. I'm always seeing one person throw a weak punch while the other fakes a fall, WWF style (not World Wildlife Federation). But I guess learning to fall without hurting yourself is important if you're using karate as self-defense.

Not all martial arts are bad. Well, they might be. But I haven't had the exposure to other forms necessary to judge those books by their covers. Except maybe capoeira. It looks a little too much like breakdance-fighting. It's another martial art that is more style than substance, and kinda makes you look like a jackass. Karate and capoeira both seem like you'll be adding insult to your own injury. Other martial arts might be okay. Kung Fu (Keanu style) is particularly good for battling computer programs. And that one where you act like a monkey seems pretty sweet.

One last thing: people who do learn martial arts, karate or otherwise, are so damn smug (usually - I'm basing this off of people I've met, which is admitedly a small sample). They always think they are such hardasses because they spent a sizeable portion of their life on a soft mat. They spent enough time and money (their money or their parents') to get a colored belt. Wow. I guess it gives you confidence and helps with intimidation, but seriosuly, it's not that great (unless you really study - under a master, dedicating years to it - so you actually can defend yourself...you probably have to go to Asia to be a real badass). Once you learn a martial art, it should be mandatory that you receive an ass-beating. Just to get rid of that arrogance.

On the plus side, it makes for some cool movies and fight scenes.

This post is subtitled, "Talking out of my ass about something I know little about." But I'm still right...

This post turned more rant-y than I expected. Oh, well.

Use your aggressive feelings, boy. Let the hate flow through you.

More similarities:


If they appoint Harriet Miers to the Supreme Court, it will be awful. She'll rule in favor of The Empire every time. The Rebel Alliance doesn't stand a chance, especially when Associate Justice Han Solo retires...

Why does everybody in the Bush administration look like a TV or movie villain?

"John" Hancock

Legal Counsel and I were at the Borders in Park Mall the other day. She was looking at books and being smart. I was looking at books and pretending to be smart (I don't know how to read). Well, being around those words for so long caused a buildup of knowledge, which I needed to release in liquid form. Whilst in the bathroom stall, I saw the following message:

Lost Soulz
J*Boogie

Upon seing this communiqué, my mind swarmed with questions. First and foremost, a question which always enters my head when I see this kind of graffiti. If you're going to tag your name on something, why a bathroom? Do you really want people to associate your name with defecation? Is your ultimate goal in life to have somebody see your name while sitting on a toilet? Scrawling your name in a public place is one thing. A freeway sign, the wall of an adult book store and the front of the White House all make some sense. But the crapper? Come on, people. Maybe take the next step and write your name in the bowl.

Maybe it's just boredom while in the WC, which we all get, that leads to writing your signature in the John. But these people willingly bring a writing instrument into the restroom, showing malice of forethought. But if you've already got the tool and the time, why not do something creative? Write a clever limerick. Recreate the Mona Lisa. Solve the Goldbach Conjecture. Just be original.

Another question arises from my own pseudo-jealousy. How can I get my group of friends to adopt a Team Name. Legal Counsel's crew call themselves the Scooby Gang, which is pretty cool. But how do you start that nomenclature and get it to stick? I've tried at various points to call my circles (friends, lab groups, etc) "Team Awesome," but it never sticks. Unfortunately. Which is a shame, since I could then be Captain Awesome. I'm a master of nicknames, but only on a 1 person level. I need to figure the group name method. But I have to say, naming yourselves "Lost Soulz" is a serious cry for help. Why not just call yourselves, "Guys Who are Desperate for Parental Involvement"?

And I've always wondered how the s-to-z conversion occurs. Whilst picking names, does this exchange occur:

J*Boogie: Wouldn't it be cool if we replaced the s with a z in SOULS?
Francois: How would LOST ZOULS be cool?
Dieter: No, you jackass, he meant LOST SOULZ. Which I think is cool.
Francois: Oh...right...that's cool...
J*Boogie: (muttering to himself) Actually, I did mean LOST ZOULS. Ouch, my feelings...

I, for one, wouldn't have the guts to suggest the Z-switch. You put yourself at risk for serious mocking if it doesn't catch on. The same goes for throwing in X's (Applejacks->Applejax, which is a cool gang name) or dropping E's (Extreme Philanthropists->Xtreme Philanthropists). None of those spelling switches are cool, yet they keep popping up. How and why?

Maybe the misspelling comes as an accident. One guy in the group, let's call him Saul, doesn't actually know how to spell the team name. Then it just propogates, either to maintain consistency, to make Saul feel less dumb or because they actually think it's cool. Who knows what the case is for Lost Zouls. My guess is that none of them know how to spell.

I have no problem with J*Boogie. That's actually a pretty cool nickname.

Open Wide. Wider.

Engineers love Chipotle. Doesn't matter where you put it...

Wait. Eww. Let me start over.

As an undergrad, I developed a theory. A theory which I believe should be upgraded to postulate status (especially with the minor changes to be discussed later). My theory is that all engineers love Chipotle (the restaurant, not the chile - well, maybe the chile). It's a fact. They love the place. Go to any college campus with an engineering department and you'll find a Chipotle nearby. Engineers can eat Chipotle every day. I've seen it.

Whilst studying in the Optical Sciences building, we used to walk to Chipotle for lunch, on average, twice a week. Every time we went there, we'd see our professor eating that sweet ambrosia. For the sake of anonymity, let's just call him "Mike N."...no, wait - "M. Nofziger". That's better. He was an awesome professor. his lectures were fun and he is brilliant. He's a great professor and engineer. And he loves Chipotle.

Maybe he just went there every day we did. Maybe he saw us there and thought we ate Chipotle every day, too. Maybe the CIA invented Chipotle to win a bet with the FBI, who believed nothing could be more addictive than Crack (I believe "suburban crack" was the working name for Chipotle). Whatever the case, a swarm of engineering students and their professors would eat there almost every day. And thus a theory was born.

But I've recently discovered that my theory is insufficient. It's too narrow. It doesn't cover Chipotle's grip on society. First, i discovered that med students love it. We've had our free lunches catered by Chipotle. I see students there all the time. D-Rock's only friend is a Chipotle burrito named Esteban. Chipotle has a strangle hold on the stomachs of the medical community.

And it has even reached the world of law. The lovely Legal Counsel, who has the distinct honor of being the only person with the will power necessary to eat anything less than the full 1300 calorie monster, enjoys the joint. And the rest of the Scooby Gang cotton to it as well (law students all). Especially J-Bone and Soneera. You probably thought that lawyers only feed on blood and tears, didn't you? That's just for sustenance. For pleasure, they consume Chipotle. So now I see that Chipotle is flowing through the bloodstream of engineers, doctors andlawyers.

So my theory is going through a revision. Loving Chipotle is not just a requirement for being an engineer. In order to work or study in any professional* field, one must love Chipotle and be willing to eat it at least once a week. And the farther you get in your field, the more you must love Chipotle. Undergrads? Once a week. Bachelor's degree holders? Twice a week. Master's degree holders? Thrice a week. Doctors and Esquires? A whopping four times each week. Sorry folks, it's a requirement.

I'm not sure if being a professional makes you love Chipotle, or if loving Chipotle pushes you toward professional careers (maybe to pay for your addiction). Learning this would require further research. That is why I am asking you, Ladies and Gentlemen, for additional funding in order to continue my studies. Thank you for your time.

*professional careers: engineering, medicine, law, pharmacology, etc. Engineering and most fields requiring more than a BA/BS
--End Research Proposal--

Whenever I eat a Chipotle burrito I feel like a hamster eating one of those food pellets. And when the giant aliens conquer Earth and keep humans as pets, that's probably what they'll put in our food bowls. Just a big ol' pile of Chipotle burritos. Hopefully our water jug is full of Coke Zero. I can't wait.

My burrito has 60g of fat, and 1243 calories. How about yours?

Happy Colobus Day!

Second Monday in October. You know what that means: Med School is back in session! And apparently it is Colobus Day. Here in the colonies, it is a day to celebrate the slender African monkey with silky fur and a long tail who didn't discover America. Hooray!

I had planned to update this monster over the break, if for no other reason than to entertain The Lark-itect. But it didn't happen. The virus I was done with last Monday wasn't done with me. It proceeded to kick my ass for the rest of the week. But now I'm mostly better.

Probably the worst symptom was my sore throat. It felt like my body was trying to turn itself inside-out, starting at the pharynx. Fortunately, Legal Counsel advised me to purchase some chloriseptic. Obviously, I was hesitant to buy and use anything with the word "septic" in its name. But I acquiesced, since Legal Counsel is smarter than me.

For those of you not in the medical profession, such as myself (at least I hope I am - I've been writing prescriptions for about three weeks), chloriseptic is a numbing throat spray. I must admit that I was initially excited. It was a blue spray. Of course I was going to pretend I was spraying Windex down my throat. I know you were all thinking the same thing. It's just too fun to pass up. And it numbs whatever it touches. That conjures visions of all sorts of shenanigans.

But all my mischief came to a crashing halt once I used it. The stuff is awful. The taste and smell of it make me want to spray it in D-Rock's eyes. More on that later. And it only lasts a few minutes, as Legal Counsel pointed out. I'm a simple enough creature that a few minutes is enough to make me forget my pain for hours (since I'll stop paying attention to it). But for higher life forms, it just isn't sufficient.

The taste and smell. Aah, the taste and smell. Smell is the strongest scent in your memory. And one whiff of this concoction whisked me back to my childhood. The days of my mother in nursing school. The days of her preserved anatomy cat. In the closet. Of our house. Haunting my nightmares. Chloriseptic smells exactly like that preserved cat. Not a pleasant thought when that analgesic mist is floating within your mouth. Dry heave.

That connection quickly gave way to a more recent memory. The taste and smell of chlorispetic exactly match the smell of the cadaver wetting solution in my anatomy lab. It gives me the jibblies. Not only that, but it was the same color too. The stuff I was spraying in my mouth matched every property of the stuff I use to keep my corpse from drying up. Or maybe the wetting solution is used to numb the cadavers so they don't feel what we're doing to them. Okay...that was an unsettling thought. I probably shouldn't have typed it.

On the plus side, I now know what to do if I ever get a sore throat in lab...

Foosball is the Devil!

Midterms are done. Thank God. Now I can finally get back to the things that really matter: blogging, foosball and Legal Counsel. Not in that order. The actual order of importance is reversed.

Regarding the first item on the itinerary: I haven’t been blogging for two reasons. The first is a wedding. A very fun wedding. Congrats Flynn Ivy Carey and Erin Ivy Carey! The second reason is best summed up here. It’s like the Brothers Chaps were reading my mind.

Ah…foosball. The game of kings. As a med student, I have to find a way to pass away the hours. Most other medical students choose studying. Interesting choice, but not the way I’d go. No, my distraction came from the medical student lounge. Like a shining beacon in the night, it called to me. A siren luring me from the seas of knowledge onto the rocky shore of tabletop sports. Yes my friends, that beacon…was a foosball table.

Most of the second years prefer ping pong, it seems. But that’s a jerk game. Everybody who plays takes it way too seriously. It’s a little scary and a little sad. I’ll call it scad. But the foosball table is all fun and frivolity - funolity. Good times are had by all. And it’s the game of the third and fourth years, thus making it cooler.

We play pretty much whenever we can. After class, before class, instead of class, lunchtime – you name it. The usual MS1 gang consists of myself, D-Rock, Py-Man, Allan Test, A Jota, Devine, and Wi-Fi. God I love nicknames…

Foosball fills so many of my needs and fits conveniently on one tabletop. My need to have a distraction from studying? Check. My need to destroy my carpals and give myself some kind of joint syndrome? Check. My need to humiliate D-Rock? Check. My need to pretend I’m a giant watching regular sized amputees play soccer and do backflips? Check. It’s perfect.

This weekend I expanded my foosball horizons. Whilst chilling at The Shanty after the wedding, I spotted a slightly dimmer beacon. A siren with a slightly hoarse voice. There was a foosball table in the corner. I’m offering a warning to anybody reading this. And to make sure it sticks, I’m making it all caps, bold, italicized and underlined: DO NOT PLAY FOOSBALL AT THE SHANTY. Seriously.

First off, the table is warped. Watching the ball roll is like watching the patrons at the bar. It wobbles back and forth and you’re never sure where it’s going or when it will stop. And there’s a chance it will pee on the table. Second, it only gives you 5 balls. So unless the game is a blowout (virtually impossible, given the loopy table), you’re going to need to shell out more money.

And I expected so much from the table. Why? Because there was a sign saying that if you block the goal, you’ll be removed from The Shanty permanently. That’s the kind of respect of foosball table deserves, but they were only paying it lip service. The table was crap. It was as though I was on the Castaway island, and Tom Hanks had just made a foosball table out of driftwood, Port-A-Potty walls and shoes to keep himself occupied. Except Wilson would have spit in his face for making that crap.

Standing in stark contrast to that abomination was the God-like foosball table I saw at Price Club (not Costco) yesterday. Constructed with an oak veneer and mahogany trim, this beauty had silver rods and score keepers. And the little one legged players were each painted to look like a person. It was the most beautiful non-Legal Counsel thing I’ve ever seen. It’s the kind of device used to settle arguments on Olympus. It’s what the Lady-of-the-Lake would have thrown at King Arthur to convey Supreme Executive Power had she the upper body strength. If you put this apparatus in the break room of the CDC, they’d have every disease cured by the following Thursday just so they could spend the rest of their lives playing on it. In short, it is the pinnacle of human accomplishment.

If you’d like to see heaven, just click here. It says $545.99, but the one Legal Counsel and I saw was only $299.99, so it might be a different table. But even this one is good enough for me to drop out of med school just to get a job to pay for this thing. And for a house large enough to have space for it. As it stands, it would probably take up my whole living room. If any eccentric millionaires would like to take me on as their ward, that foosball table would be a good start.

That’s enough foosball ranting for one day. Now I believe I’ll melt into a puddle on my couch, since I have a week off.