What does Snoop Dogg use to clean his clothes?

Earlier in the week, I ranted about MegaWatt aka PigVomit. I didn't portray her in the most positive light. But I'll be honest: she's not that bad. She's a little wacky, to be sure. But at least she can be nice...usually. She's obsessed with lymph and questions, she lacks basic social skills (like chewing with her mouth closed), she curses like a sailor and she carries a sawed-off shotgun wherever she goes, but she can be a decent human being.

If you want to find a real termagant, you need look no further than MegaWatt's assistant. She's a real harridan. The bottom of the human barrel. Made from the slag remaining after soul's are purified for departure to Earth, her sole purpose is to make your life miserable. You specifically. Whoever is reading this, she hates you.

She's such a bitch, she makes unicorns cry. She's pro-choice simply because she wants a food source. She's single-handedly responsible for the murders of Lincoln, McKinley and Kennedy. She created the military embargo on helium that resulted in the Hindenburg being filled with hydrogen because she knew exactly what would happen. She created AIDS. She's such a bitch that Elton John, Buckcherry, David Bowie and Andre Benjamin are working on a compilation song just about her*.

If you can't tell, I don't like her. Allow me to illustrate:

I was standing in the hallway outside our lecture hall for the Manufacturer's Suggested Retail Price meeting. That day's lunch was Eegee's. Delicious Eegee's sandwiches. And she didn't get the slushy stuff with it. Bitch. See what I'm talking about?

I kid, that's not all. I was standing around with several (upcoming) second years and one first year. For anonymity, we'll refer to the first year as Bono. That's Bono, not Bono. I wouldn't want you to confuse the U2 guy with Cher's ex-husband**. Oh, and I'll refer to the bitch as Sean Hayes.

Anyway, we were all standing around eating when I left to get some cookies. I should point out that Sean Hayes had earlier ranted about people wasting cookies. Apparently somebody threw away a whole oreo. The scandal! It never occured to her twisted little mind that maybe it was dropped on the floor or into the garbage on accident. Psycho...

When I returned from my cookie gathering expedition (on which we lost three brave men), I discovered a veritable savannah of sandwich greens in the middle of our med student sewing circle. Apparently Bono had dropped a whole sandwich and had only picked up the big pieces so far. Naturally, we started making fun of him. And I assumed he'd be cleaning it up. He got into med school, he must be at least half decent.

On or around that time, Sean Hayes walked up and just started staring at the food. This is the conversation that transpired:

Montgomery: Uh...MegaWatt did that. (joking, as usual)
Sean Hayes: Yeah, well I'll be the one cleaning it up or we'll lose access to the room.
(at this point I was thinking, "Big loss. These meetings are pointless, and there are plenty of other rooms to use. Like the classrooms, ya crazy biznatch." But things got awkward so I tried to break the tension with another joke)
M: Well, the mess isn't in the room. It's in the hall. We should be fine.
SH: (several seconds of uncomfortable silence) Use your brain.
(she said this with the kind of scorn reserved for a mother speaking to the guy who killed no less than three of her children)
M: It was a joke, lady.
(hehe, I can't believe I called her "lady" - both because it shows the contempt I have for her which I rarely do so openly and because it illustrates that I can't take nasty people seriously)

Then she started bitching about god knows what. I tuned her out. Bono started cleaning up the food, which I figured he would anyway. Then she started saying at least he has some respect for cleanliness. Whiskey tango foxtrot? He was the cause of the mess. I guess she didn't know that, but fuck her. Not "butt fuck her." Gross.

She joined in the cleaning and started bitching about her back surgery. It's called Karma, lady. If I was god I would've broken your spine, too. Personally. "For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten son, that whosoever beith a bitch shall have a 32" DeMarini Voodoo Aluminum Bat delivered unto thine lumbar vertebrae."

And you know what? I helped clean too. Why? Because I'm a different kind of bitch. I half pitied her, half didn't want to look bad and half wanted it to be done sooner so she would leave. I regret it. I should have spilled more on the back of her stupid head. She's a Stupid Head.

After the cleansing was complete, she started whining again. "The high schoolers are cleaner and they have respect for their elders." Guess what? They're too naive to realize that their elders don't always deserve respect. Being a post-menopausal, nasty secretary*** with hatred for anybody younger or more successful than you does not qualify you as deserving of respect. Maybe if she was nice, even every once in a while, I might show her some respect. But her horrible, vicious enmity causes me to loathe her. I'll never respect you because you yourself are incapable of respect.

This little encounter put me in a sour mood for the rest of the week, which is probably exactly what she wanted.

This is probably one of my most spiteful posts ever...hooray?

*If you guessed Bitch is Back, Crazy Bitch, Queen Bitch, and Roses (respectively), you win! Also acceptable: Crocodile Rock, For the Movies, Ziggy Stardust and Hey Ya!
**I realize I'm still being ambiguous
***this is in no way an insult towards secretaries. I just realized that I never said what she did.

Putting the BS in MSRP

I feel bad. I feel like I lied to my loyal readers last week (I couldn't care less about my disloyal readers). In the post dated 19 June 2006 I claimed to be doing autism research this summer. That's not really true. I thought I could impress you guys by gussying up my work. But that's not what I'm doing. I'm a liar. I filthy, dirty, no-good, Saul-esque liar.

In truth, what I'm doing is shoceling the excrement of uncastrated male bovine animals. The Program even gave me my own shovel, although it looks surprisingly like a green 3-ring binder.

Yes, they throw enough crap at us to fill a 1988 Ford Festiva. I'm thinking of starting a mushroom farm. Pointless paperwork, pointless lectures, pointless pornography, pointless porcupines, and giant hair. It all adds up to wasted time and requests for Montgomery to increase the size of his handwriting. That's right, a request not made since high school has resurfaced. That should show you how dumb this extra work is.

Let me start where they started: a question. Actually, that's where the started, where they continued and where they'll be long after I'm gone. The director (MegaWatt) is obsessed, obsessed with questions. Everything in the program is "question this" and "question that." She wears a Question Mark Bling Necklace. If she's approaching you, at about 50 feet you'll see a mass of hair and a giant gold question mark. Here's an artist's rendition of what she would look like after a thorough shaving:

So any piece of paperwork we are given is guaranteed to have no less than 12 incidents of the word "question" on it. She crazy.

The first assignment we were told to turn in was simple. Simply stupid, that is. It read, "What is the best question you've ever had? Why?" Ooh, tough one. I can tell you the worst question I've ever read. What the hell does it even mean? It's such an ambiguous, open-ended waste of time assignment. I was really tempted to respond with:

Did the removal of King Kong from Skull Island significantly impact it's ecosystem? It's a good question because it's difficult to answer. You'll have to fight the crazy natives to do research, if they're still alive. It's also good because it spans several subjects: botany, biology, primatology, herpetology, entomology†, anthropology, archaeology, Jack Blackology. Further, it concerns the fate of humans. If King Kong was the dominant predator, he might have been keeping evolution and proliferation in check. By removing Mighty Kong, other creatures might have shifted into power, allowing changes in species numbers and abilities. If they develop the ability to fly long distances, the world could be in danger. Finally, giant animals and dinosaurs are cool

But I didn't. I made up some BS about the brain.

The rest of the assignments are similar. We have to keep "ignorance logs" of the questions that we think of during the week. You know how many questions I have during the week? Somewhere between "zero" and "ask me again and I'll kill you." At least, no questions that are socially/scientifcally acceptable. I really don't think they'd appreciate:

What did the five fingers say to the face?
Can Transformers have sex?
If we could create a pill that, when fed to frogs, would make them explode, could we use frogrenades as a viable weapon?
Why is Who Framed Roger Rabbit such an amazing movie?
Why don't pools ever have diving boards any more?
Who put the bomp in the bomp bah bomp bah bomp?
Who was the first person to decide that eating bee vomit is a good idea?

See, these are the kind of questions I come up with. I'd get in a lot of trouble if I voiced them, which is true of about 86% of my thoughts.

They also made us ask questions about lymphedema. But not legitimate questions. Things I'm really curious about. No, we had to approach it as though we had never seen it before. But I have seen it before. We learned about it already. It's just lymph backup. But MegaWatt loves lymph almost as much as she loves questions. Her email is lymph at UA email suffix. Seriously, who does that? Use your last name like the rest of us. If I was like her (aside from already having killed myself), I would have made my email "zombie at UA suffix" or "disneyland at UA suffix." Actually, that sounds kinda good...

Aside from the paperwork, we have biweekly meetings. They come in two varieties: painfully boring lecturers rambling about their pointless research and painfully arrogant lecturers rambling about their pointless lives. Really, a whole lot of fun. At least they give us free food. Which, I might add, is getting progressively more unhealthy. Here's what we've had so far at the Tuesday meetings: Eegee's subs, Pizza, Wendy's, Taco Bell, and more pizza. Wendy's and Taco Bell were hilarious. They just went to the dollar menu and bought a bunch of burgers/chicken nuggets and burritos/tacos/soft tacos, respectively. Haha... Oh, the thursday meetings are catered with red vines, cookies and pretzels. We're med students. We know about nutrition.

Speaking of food, MegaWatt's mouth is always full of it. She'll start talking to the group (without a microphone while everybody else is talking so you don't notice her) immediately after shoving a whole slice of pizza in her maw. You can see little bits of food flying out as she blathers about questions. And she chews with her mouth full. It's sickening.

That reminds me: it was requested that I give her a new name. I was told that MegaWatt wasn't good enough. Hmm... I'll steal a page from Howard Stern: her new name can be PigVomit. Because she's a pig and she makes you want to vomit. Is that good enough, crew?

That's enough complaining for now. Sorry for the poor quality of this post, my brain is melty from writing. Maybe I'll stick my head in the freezer...

†not the study of Entenmann's

Great, Chuy! Great! Always thinking with your stomach!

There are few things more uncomfortable than running into somebody you knew long ago, say high school or early undergrad. You have to get out of your car, exchange insurance info and file a police report. And if it's bad enough, you might have to buy a shovel and some lye at Home Depot and take a long drive through the desert in a "borrowed" car. Such a hassle. And those vultures circling. Rude...

But in all seriousness, it is very awkward when you run into an old acquaintance. Especially when they're working. Even more especially when their work has a very conspicuous tip jar. God, now you have to feign interest in that person, place your order, and make it obvious that you're tipping. How about I walk out back, shoot myself in the foot and we'll call it even.

It's a situation I'm sure we've all been in. You steal one of your girlfriend's free Chuy's dinner coupons she got from Empire Glass and head out for a relaxing, solo dinner with a minimum of human interaction. But since you also stole Chuy's coupons from a friend who is in Alaska for the summer, you've been going to the same Chuy's twice a month and you're worried they might start to notice with their judging eyes. So you go to the other one. No, not that one. Yeah, that's the one. Really, a pretty common scenario.

So I'm standing there placing my order when one of the dudes behaind the counter looks at me and says, "You went to PV, right?" At first I thought he was aksing if I have been to Pavia, Lombardia in Italy. Confused, I was about to respond with "No, and I resent the allegation." But then I realized that he was referring to Paradise Valley (High School), my old alma mater. "Yes I did," I say - still confused. I don't recognize this guy at all.

"I went there, too. Your name's Montgomery†, right?" he asks. "Sure is," I say. "That's my name, too," he replies.

At this point in the conversation, I'm sure you could have seen my expression change from one of confused intrigue to annoyed displeasure. Now I remember this guy punk douchebag tool. He was a year behind me and I remember him being a total ass. He used to hang out with the losers that weren't in the academic, athletic, or social crowds. You know the ones, they're at every high school. They just stroll around and try to belittle people in jealousy, but they're not smart enough to do it in a clever or funny way. Making annoying comments, contributing nothing. They're not there to shop. They're not there to work. They're just there.

So I pretend to appreciate the chance encounter in order to avoid a loogie in my fajitas. FYI, Wikipedia defines loogie as

a slang expression for a mass of phlegm and saliva that is ejected from the mouth. Loogies can range in color from a pale yellow to olive green.

That's disgusting. And I really don't want one hidden under my pile of fish and onions.

I hold this sham conversation for as long as I need to in order to not look like a dick. I learn that he's graduating in August with a degree in "Media," whatever the hell that means, and that he's going back to Phoenix after that. I tell him that I'm a grad student (for whatever reason, I feel arrogant or something when I tell people I'm a med student. No reason why, either. I'm weird). Beyond that, I have nothing to say to him. The following things are all I could think of at the time:

*So...are you still an asshole?
*I'm surprised you got into college.
*Media, eh? That's a waste of a degree. Must've been an easy four years.
*If I could punch you in the face right now, I just might.
*If your goal in life was to look like the overweight, washed up version of Fred Durst that will show up on Behind the Music in 20 years because he needs the money to hang out in a strip club drunk and screaming about who he used to be, mission accomplished!
*How about that local sports team and/or college? They're really doing well/poorly...

And I think all but one of those would result in an olive green ball of phlegm and spit nestled snugly in a womb-like coating of guacamole. Curse you social niceties!

Lucky for me, he was quickly called away to clean something or pour some soda or deliver food. I escaped to the Chips and Salsa, then sat in the corner facing the TV (and only the TV) pretending to be interested in college baseball. And really I wouldn't be surprised if something was in my food anyway. I'm just hoping my attempt at being nice resulted in a slightly higher spit-to-phlegm ratio (SPR in the biz). It was delicious.

Farva: Hey, does that look like spit to you?
Ramathorn: Yeah, it does actually.
Farva: Ah, fuck it.

†Name changed for anonymity

Autism-Quixotic Investigation

I'm not sure if I've officially discussed my summer plans on here, so I'll do that now. After all, it is the reason I've been slacking on this blog. Well, that and binge drinking. And Free Cell. And pogs. And amateur taxidermy.

As you might surmise from my (hopefully) giggle-inducing title, I'm researching autism. It's an interesting project for lots of reasons: nobody knows what causes it, many adults with autism say it's just a personality trait (not a disorder), and because it's used as a plot device in tons of TV shows and movies. Anything with a pop culture tie-in is okay in my book. Apparently I've got a book. I'll title it Things that are okay, by Montgomery. #1 in that book will be zombies.

It's a sweet gig. I got all my NIH grant money up front, which is nice. And I've got access to an unstoppable army of autistic savants with which to double said grant money at Desert Diamond Casino. Plus, all the data has been collected so I get to work mostly out of the home. It's going to give me some kind of sick pleasure knowing that people are reading data analysis I performed whilst bare-ass naked. Muahaha...

Before you get your hopes up, realize that I'm not going to be curing anything or solving some big mystery. My research mostly relates to factors which impact the age of diagnosis. Why might a kid not diagnosed until late in life? Besides going to a doctor that works from the back of a van behind Sears, of course. That guy also gives free mammograms, by the way. He's full coverage and he accepts HMOs...exclusively. Just tell him Montgomery sent you.

Random tidbit: there are quite a few famous people with autism spectrum disorders, I've discovered. Daryl Hannah, aka Elle Driver, aka California Mountain Snake was diagnosed as 'borderline autistic.' Dan Aykroyd claims to have Asperger syndrome (the same thing Allantois probably has). Satoshi Tajiri invented Pokemon and he has Asperger, as well as a last name containing many dotted letters. And who can forget Marimba legend Thristan Mendoza? I know I can't...

At the end of the day, my brain usually feels melty from staring at numbers on my computer screen all day. That's usually why I don't write. And why I'm thinking of cutting this post short right now. Plus, it's binge drinking time...

Cordozar Calvin Broadus, Jr

D-Rock managed to email me the other day. Odds are, he was reminded of me during one of his sorority ass paddling porn expeditions (this is his Summer of Porn™ - his words, not mine). Then, his random fist-smashing must have somehow resulted in a legible message. And for once it wasn't riddled with profanity.

He requested that I post pictures of his new puppy. After my initial shock that he had a small animal in his possession and had yet to throw it on the George Foreman Grill, I decided to oblige.




It's a beagle, which I'd like to point out is very similar to the word "bagel" - yet another reason I'm surpised D-Rock hasn't eaten it. According to my Dictionary widget, a beagle is "a small, sturdy hound of a breed with a coat of medium length, bred especially for hunting." Why you'd want to hunt something that cute, I have no idea. Especially with those short little legs. It's hardly sporting.

They named it Snoopy (Lady-Rock is a Snoopy fan) and according to D-Rock "she's so freakin cute I think she needs to be on the internet." He used to say that about me...sniffle. When I asked why he named a female dog Snoopy, he yammered on about tom-toms or some such nonsense. Then I remembered that D-Rock missed the lectures on the "naughty bits" during anatomy, claiming them to be "an abomination unto the Lord Xenu" (also his reason for skipping all of Genetics and Biochem, and for not eating havarti). He legitimately doesn't know the difference between boys and girls. Whenever he pays a woman to spend any time with him, they usually respond to his curiosity with "Uh...it fell off."

As you can see, she is totally adorable. Especially in contrast to D-Rock's mug in what I shall deem the Worst Picture of D-Rock Ever. Seriously, that is not how he looks. In fact, I'm pretty sure that's a Big Boy. Not to be confused with Big Boi. At least the picture captured him in the act of smelling/tasting that poor creature. I give it 3 months, tops...

In totally unrelated news
I did one of my random Site Meter checks to see how people are getting to my website and I made a new discovery: Montgomery Road is on the 4th page of results if you Yahoo search for "sorority ass paddling." Oh man, so funny. People looking for porn and sex are way off track. Suckers...

Site Meter = Hilarity

CO-Counsel, part bet

Here are some other highlights:



I totally got stopped by airport security before the flight out. Racial profiling, I swear. I got frisked. But the big guy cuddled with me afterward and made me feel special. He still hasn't called, though. Bastard.



I really don't know who this kid is. But he got in the way of a picture and he really freaks me out. Jibbly...



Yep. Lots of alcohol.




Legal Counsel stuck her hand in a chocolate fountain. She's...she's special.



Legal Counsel's aunt's ranch. We stayed there for the last two days. It was an amazing 460 acres (186.16 hectares) of fresh air and green stuff. They were so nice to us, it was great.




I got to ride a horse and pretend to be a cowboy! I really low-quality cowboy who was at the total mercy of the horse. I'm not sure if horses can smell fear, but this one could smell inexperience. Whenever I'd try to get him going fast, I could practically hear him neighing, "Yeah, right. I'm keeping it at pony ride speed." And whenever I did convince him to trot it up a notch, it made my ass hurt. Unlike D-Rock's mom, I'm not accustomed to receiving a pounding on my back end like that.

Lack of riding skill aside, it was a lot of fun. The horse did all the work! Big dumb animals. We toured the property and saw some cows. Cows! And an awesome view of Denver:



I wish I knew how to quit you.†



The lovely Legal Counsel modeling the Chuck It, the greatest thing ever invented by humans (NES was invented by aliens, so it doesn't count). Basically it's just a plastic stick, which you should all know is more than enough to entertain me for hours. And entertain for hours it did. It lets you throw tennis balls for dogs without having to touch the slobber, and much farther than you'd normally be able. I spent much time throwing into a) the lake to watch them swim after it (and as creature bait), and b) into a field to try to clear the landmines.





The Denver Airport has a problem with bringing the following items onto airplanes: chainsaws, lighter fluid, rifle powder, blow torches, mid-19th century lamps, knives, brass knuckles and hand grenades. Really? Cause I was totally planning to bring my complete anti-zombie arsenal onto the plane. Thanks for letting me know.

Oh, and the whole time we were there, her family kept referring to me as Legal Counsel's fiance. It was a little weird. They also kept referring to me as "your highness" and asking how it felt to discover the cure for "everything." What has she been telling them?

†not really

CO-Counsel, part aleph

Before I begin, I'd like to make a comment about an earlier post. During the Facial Hair Odyssey™, I called the following facial hair pattern "The Whitfield" - for the sole reason that Dr. G. Kerr Whitfield is from North Carolina (I assume the Raleigh-Durham area, since the only area of NC that I know).

Well, I was a little disappointed in myself for that name. I could have done better. Thankfully, I have other people to think for me. And they did better. Namely one Mr. Chris Wie, aka Wee Man. He commented that I looked like Morgan Spurlock. Brilliant. If I had that kind of comedic insight, I would have crammed two fistfuls of french fried potatoes into my maw before taking the picture. I also learned that Wee Man has the same thought that I do whenever I see that DVD: "I want french fries." Congratulations, Mr. Spurlock, you accomplished the opposite of what you set out to do. Now shave that handlebar stash, for the good of the country.

I'll be honest, I think he only made the movie so he could eat Mickey D's around his Vegan girlfriend. Moving on...

29 May 2006 marked one of America's favorite 3-word phrases: Free Porn Monday! No, that can't possibly be right. What was it? Ah yes: Three Day Weekend! Sweet! I'm not really sure what the holiday was. Labor Day? Columbus Day? Arbor Day? I don't remember. But as a result we get two gifts - a weekend which is one day longer followed by a week which is one day shorter. Life is good.

To celebrate this fine time, Legal Counsel and I flew out to Colorado to visit her family. But this wasn't just a random visit. A pointless excuse to get free room and board. No, there was a celebration happening. A joyous event to be celebrated by friends and family...and apparently SO's of family which have never met before. This merry observance? Legal Counsel's cousin's B'nai Mitzvah. She was becoming a bat mitzvah.

Legal Counsel's patriarchal side of the family is Jewish, so for those of you not in the know let me explain. When a jewish girl or boy turns 12 or 13, respectively, they are said to be a son or daughter of the commandment, not respectively. It marks the time when they become an adult. At this time they spend months studying the Torah; when they're fully prepared they perform a reading during a following Shabbat. And apparently the girls gain the ability to shapeshift into a winged rodent, or something like that.

So we flew out the preceeding Friday and stayed until Monday night. A good time was had by all. Her whole family was really nice, and my discomfort at invading a family function quickly dissipated. Part of the reason for that increased comfort level was the copious amounts of alcohol flowing from every direction. Which leads me to believe that Colorado is home to the Big Rock Candy Mountain (according to the creepy, child-recruiting Hobo lyrics circa 1897, not the cleaned up kids version. look it up).

Fellow '09 Bryan Foley tried to tell me there'd be alcohol, he really did. But I didn't believe him. He said, "I bet the party will have an open bar" to which I replied "It's a party for pre-teens - why would there be alcohol?? Also, stop touching my leg like that."

But he was totally right. There was an open bar at the bat mitzvah reception. And at everybody's house. Pretty much wherever I went, there was alcohol. At the reception I had 3ish glasses of wine, the world's most delicious cosmo, some bitter Czech beer and a fifth of vodka. I think...I don't really remember. At one of her aunt's houses, tequila was practically being poured down our throats. And I finally got to experience the joy that is intravenous whiskey.

You all know how much I hate to stereotype (with the exception of hippies, Frenchies, fraternities, sororities, Republicanies, D-Rock's families, Canadians, short people, tall people, fat people, thin people, robber barons, Australians, bikers, MSRP administrators, NASCAR fans, Swedes, SUV drivers, those guys that put the little things on the end of shoelaces, communications majors, drum majors, John Major, Major League Soccer, British soccer fans, Fandango users, engineers, scientists, surgeons, old people, young people, break dancers, film critics, bloggers, crop dusters, Inuits, sports fans, guys that play basketball thinking they're good, anybody at the rec, hair-weave vendors at the mall, mall shoppers, skateboarders, artists, musicians and Abe Vigoda). But I have to say that Jewish people love them some alcohol. I don't think I was ever more than 10 feet or 3 minutes (whichever is smaller) from alcohol. And yet I didn't even get one sip of Manischewitz wine. Sad...

In part bet, I'll go over some other highlights of the trip.

I think it's time we stop, children, what's that sound?

As I discussed in my previous post, I have moved 1.5 dozen times in the past 4.75 years. Doing the math, that's 85.5 moves per year. No...wait...that can't possibly be right. About 3.75 moves per year. Yeah, that's more like it. That's roughly 4.15 moves/year Canadian.

You don't bug out that many times without learning a thing or two. Thing the first: the best place to get boxes in Tucson is the WalMart on Speedway and Wilmot(?) late at night while they're stocking. They're all over the place. Just be prepared to run with your arms full. Thing the second: if I guy asks if you've got any crack, never respond with "No I don't, friend. But would you mind watching my stuff for a bit wile I make a run for packing tape?"

But most importantly, I've discovered the most horrifying sound in human existence. A noise that will send shivers through the bones of any person, no matter how tough they are. Worse than Celine Dion singing, Allan laughing and D-Rock sucking cream cheese off his fingers combined. A tumult so unnerving it might possibly melt your brain. That din? The sound which emanates from the back of a U-Haul during a move. It happens every time. No matter how well you pack or how cautiously you drive, that sound will reverborate from the walls of your truck.

Usually it happens as soon as you hit the gas. The nervous foot of a driver in a foreign vehicle. You'll give it just a little too much gas, or maybe not quite enough. Whatever the case, the truck with shudder into motion or vibrate into a near-stall. Then the sound comes.

The sound of everything you own shaking around. Falling over. Breaking. Exploding. Lamps, computer parts, books, dishes, Victorian feinting couches, delicate electronics, Ming vases. All come crashing down. Bed frames falling onto carefully packed boxes. Sofas hopping onto keyboards. Carefully stacked drawes reinforced by mattresses and desks come tumbling down, turning your personal property into a macabre game of Jenga.

And if you want to put yourself through real Hell, try driving over a speed bump. Double the fun. First you get the sound of your van hitting the bump slightly too fast. This collision lifts the body of the truck at just the right speed to send your belongings sailing into the air. Then you get a moment of silence. The eye of the storm. Just enough time for you to think, "maybe they just got jostled. maybe..." Harumph! The second sound. A hideous echo. Insult to injury. The signal that years of history have been suspended mid-air, then unceremoniously dropped onto the unforgiving steel floor of your transport.

Your mind races with the possibilities. What happened? What do I own that would make that noise? Was that glass? What did I forget to tie down? Did I just hear a pig squealing? How much damage was done? What did I do to deserve this?

Your truck turns into Zeus' personal game of Yahtzee. Your life converted to a self-contained demolition derby. And behind that cold metal wall, you can't do anything about it.

Of course it's never as bad as it sounds. You look in the back and things have just settled into more stable locations. No harm, no foul. But the potential was there. And you had no way of knowing. As a result, your heart fills with fear and you start to panic. Terrifying.

Or maybe I'm just an overreacting bad driver. Who knows.

Living (in sin) with Legal Counsel
Technically I was living with her before, but let's not split hairs. What does that phrase even mean? Is it like the old Looney Tunes episodes where they'd sharpen an axe and drop a single hair on it to prove how sharp it was? Or is it a hairstylist phrase gone mainstream? I'm getting off subject. Living with LC...

It's great. She's great. We're mostly moved in and it feels great to have a bedroom which doesn't contain a desk. I love the layout and I love the company. No offense, Scoobies, you guys were great. That house was actually a lot of fun. But sometimes you just feel like lounging on the couch without worrying if you're bugging other people. Not that they ever said anything, but my mind just starts worrying about other people's feelings. Sickeneing, eh? I'm getting off track again...

We haven't had much time to chill at our place. Unpacking, bat mitzvah trips to Colorado, Cruises for LC, her work in Phoenix, my work here. It's all a big mess. But the little time we have spent here has been perfect. I'm just glad we're together in our own place.

Wait...our own place? Am I becoming a grown up? No, that can't be right. Poop jokes? Still funny. Cartoons? Still cool. Total disregard for personal responsibility? Still present. Okay, I think I'm safe. Still a child. It's going to suck when my maturity level reaches teenager. That'll be awkward.

This post brought to you by Milton Bradley, a division of Hasbro:

Milton Bradley, makers of Jenga and Yahtzee. Did you know we also made Marble Madness for the NES? Remember that game? So do we. Milton Bradley. We'll bring out the kid in you.

Any day now I'll be getting sponsors...

I like two move it, move it

Two weeks and three days ago, I finished my first year of medical school. To celebrate, I did what any young punk full of piss and vinegar would do. I drove over 100 miles the next morning to help a friend move. In this case, that friend was Larkitect.

A little background. Let me say this: Larkin is my boy. Both my dog and my dawg. We go way back. I met little Larkitect (little in this case meaning young, although I could do a short joke. But I won't. I'm better than that. Isn't that right, little guy?) way back in high school. Sophomore year if I remember correctly.

His family moved out here from back east hoping to claim their 65 hectares under the Homestead Act. I was there to comfort them when the Maricopa County Sheriff's Department informed them (at gunpoint) that the Federal Land Policy and Management Act of 1976 ended homesteading in every state but Alaska. Ever since then, he and I have been like this. (I'm crossing my fingers to demonstrate the point, which you can't see. It would make typing difficult, but I still use the hunt-and-peck method)

We were previously two-thirds of the Three Amigos with the now derelict Matthew J. Since MJ's tar/feathering, we have been the Two Amigos. The Ambiguously Gay Duo; if you've spent time around us together, you'd know how fitting that appellation really is. We're BFF. He's the Blue to my Frank "The Tank." The Siegfried to my Roy. The Mario to my Luigi. The Bunsen to my Beaker. Watson to my Crick. Sacco to my Vanzetti. Beaumont to my Fletcher. Burke to my Wills...okay, that's enough.

Long story short - when Larkitect needs my help, I'm all over that like stink on D-Rock. Nevermind the fact that moving a member of the Larkitect family automatically grants you a free Safeway sandwich. So...very...delicious. No, that didn't influence my decision at all.

Let me back up a little. Several weeks previous to this move, I received an eVite from Ange and Larkitect. I was evited to a "Demolition Party" (which I later would refer to as a "wrecking ball," thinking myself oh-so-clever). If you know me, you know my love of destruction. As soon as I read "demo..." I was in. Which is the reason I get sucked into so many demonstrations of tupperware and Pampered Chef gear.

Despite the name, this was no party. It was all a clever ruse intended to get some free labor out of your humble narrator. There was no punch. There was no pie. No balloons or streamers and not a single donkey. They actually made me do work. So next time you're invited to a "Demolition Party" or "Spring Cleaning Party" or "W-2 Party," think twice. That's my only advice.

At least it was the kind of work I enjoy. The kind with crowbars and sledgehammers and power saws. I ripped up all the carpet in the house, helped tear down a wall and smashed the headlamps out of a Mini Cooper. Again - sorry about that, pal. All in all a good day. With a Safeway Sandwich. Drool...

Cut back to two weeks and three days ago. I drive up to Phoenix to join in the festivities of the "Moving Party." Did you guys really have to trick me again? That was just cruel. Again, a fun day. We had an ex-professional mover who helped us fully pack the U-Haul, 3D Tetris style. We discovered horribly putrescent potatoes (awg, rotten). We ate Safeway sandwiches. Another good day.

So I finished up a long, grueling day of labor in the Arizona sun. To celebrate, I did what any young punk full of vinegar would do. I drove over 100 miles back to Tucson to move my own stuff. That's right. Larkitect and I moved on the same day. And I helped move both domiciles.

Fortunately for me, Legal Counsel had moved most of the small stuff by the time I got back. Probably cursing my name with every step. To be fair, I did suggest that we wait or that I blow off Larkitect. But she would have none of it. She's so cute.

The small stuff is the worst, so my moving exploits late Saturday night went by quickly. Just the furniture and some of the straggling small stuff. We were able to get everything moved and the U-Haul returned by the end of the night. And I'm pretty sure the place next door to the U-Haul was getting burglarized when we returned the truck. Suckers...

Let me consult my post of 7 November 2005. I composed the following list of times I've moved myself or others:

Myself
1. Phoenix to Graham-Greenlee, August 2001
2. Graham-Greenlee to Phoenix, May 2002
3. North Phoenix to Norther Phoenix, Summer 2002
4. Phoenix to Kaibab-Huachuca, August 2002
5. Kaibab-Huachuca to Phoenix, May 2003
6. Phoenix to Corleone, July 2003
7. Corleone to Phoenix, May 2004
8. Phoenix to Marana, August 2004
9. Marana to Fox Point, April 2005
10. Fox Point to Chez Scooby, November 2005
Others
1. Gramps, Summer 2001
2. The Larkitect's Family, Summer 2002(?) - hotter than a Dutch Oven, remember Larkitect?
3. Gramps, Summer 2002(?)
4. Gramps, Summer 2004(?)
5. Legal Counsel, Summer 2005
6. Legal Counsel's Sister, Fall 2005

Now add to those 2 lists (respectively):

11. Chez Scooby to Hazen Townhouse, May 2006
and 7. Larkitect and Ange, May 2006

My grand total is now 18 moves in less than 5 years. I'm seriously considering consolidating all my possessions to: my laptop, a Korean War era army cot and whatever clothes and DVDs will fit in a duffel bag. Then I'd be full-on, Carny-style nomad. The sweet life.

This post is getting way too long. I'm surprised if you're still reading. I'll finish it up tomorrow, when I'll share the discovery I've made in the midst of these numerous relocations. And possibly gush about how happy I am living with Legal Counsel.

This post brought to you by Safeway.

Did you know Safeway sells freshly prepared sandwiches? Ask for one at the deli counter. Safeway. Ingredients for Life.

Oh my god. It's Montgomery. He's gone from blow to suck.

I've been slacking on the old blog lately, I'll admit it. I want to write, I really do. But every time I set out to, I feel like I should be doing something more important. With moving and research and all, there's tons to do. Which sucks, since I really enjoy writing.

Ironically, I've been in the mood to read lately. It's actually doubly ironic. First, because I feel bad about writing but not about reading. And second, because of who I am. Being a child of the 80s, I've been bombarded by movies, music, television, music television, movie television, musical movies and the internets since birth. The irreparable damage this has done to my atention span usually prohibits me from reading anything longer than a fortune cookie. As a consequence of my information technology exposure, one of the oldest forms of information storage has been rendered useless to me. Add this to the list of other consequences: a crippling dependence on the internets, myopia to the point of being legally blind, and sterility.

Despite my desire to read, no books sound interesting to me. The DaVinci Code is popular right now, but the premise does not appeal to me at all. Controversy related to Christian mythology? Yeah, I'm the target audience. Right. The Joy of Cooking is also quite controversial, but still not my speed. And there is no good zombie fiction out there. Or non-fiction for that matter. Not since The Zombie Survival Guide was published, at least.

To remedy the situation, Legal Counsel and I wandered around a bookstore last night. Oh, and there was something about her needing a book for her Law and Huge Manatees class. I don't really remember. Anyway, we strolled around and thumbed through the books for quite some time. It combined my two favorite hobbies: randomly jumping from topic to topic and touching other people's stuff. I had fun.

Eventually we found her book - Middlesex by the Virgin Suicides guy...girl? I don't know Anyway, it's about transgendered peeps and was recommended in several of my classes. I didn't find anything of interest for myself. Until we hit the register. Like a little kid in a grocery store, I was drawn in by the fancy displays near checkout. Except instead of Snickers with Almonds it was Haunted by Chuck Palahniuk.

I've only finished chapter one and all I have to say is Damn. Now I understand why the description on the back contains the following adjectives: "stomach-churning," "disturbing," "queasy," "appalling," "disgusting," and "filthier than D-Rock's whore mother." And I think it'll only get better from here.

I'll try to write more tomorrow. Legal Counsel is leaving town for a cruise. When the cat's away, the mice will blog.