1. fugacious: lasting but a short time
2. turbid: thick with or as if with roiled sediment
3. innocuous: harmless; producing no ill effect
4. redolent: having or exuding fragrance
5. fetor: a strong, offensive smell; stench
"NL, exhausted from a fugacious and altogether innocuous attempt at lovemaking, cautiously slipped off the now turbid banana peel, having replaced its once redolent aroma with a fetor that even the best trained dog would flee from."
6. pukka: authentic; genuine
7. convivial: fond of feasting, drinking, and good company
8. titivate: to make decorative additions to
9. foofaraw: excessive or flashy ornamentation or decoration
10. burgeon: to begin to grow or blossom
11. raffish: characterized by or suggestive of flashy vulgarity, crudeness, or rowdiness
12. incarnadine: having a fleshy pink color
13. descry: to detect
14. cavort: to bound or prance about
"Descrying a convivial party across the hallway and wanting to make a pukka impression, AR cavorted back into his room and rapidly titivated his costume, which after several applications of glitter, bubble wrap, and raspberry peanut butter swirls burgeoned into a veritable foofaraw that coverd him from head to toe, save for some raffish omissions that displayed his most private and incarnadine features."
15. triskaidekaphobia: fear of the number 13
16. excupate: to relieve of blame
17. reverie: a state of dreamy meditation or fanciful musing
18. esurient: hungry; greedy
19. predilection: a predisposition to choose or like
"Far from displaying triskaidekaphobia, JV regards the number thirteen almost with reverie, esurient in his collection of bad luck charms, which excupate his predilection for sorrow."
20. propitious: presenting favorable circumstances or conditions
21. sinuous: characterized by many curves or turns
22. traduce: to vilify
23. delectation: great pleasure
24. crapulous: given to or characterized by gross excess in drinking or eating
25. bucolic: rustic
26. sacrosanct: extremely sacred or inviolable
27. voluptuary: a person devoted to luxury and the gratification of sensual appetites
28. gadabout: someone who romes about in search of amusement or social activity
29. rictus: a gaping grin or grimace
30. flout: to mock, to scoff
31. pecorate: to speak or expound at length
"BS, once regarding the sobriety of his mind as sacrosanct, has been seduced by the bottle--that sinuous voluptuary!--and now pecorates at length about the propitious delectation of good scotch, a crapulous gadabout who on more than one occasion has stood before a statue and flouted the cut of its trousers and form of its shoes just before collapsing in front of it with a gentle rictus on his face, dreaming of the sweet liquid he was once keen to traduce, no better than a bucolic dunderhead."
32. dalliance: frivolous spending of time
33. peradventure: possibly; perhaps
34. metier: a profession
35. travail: painful or aduous work; severe toil or exertion
36. celerity: rapidity of motion or action
equipoise: a state of being equally balanced
37. desultory: jumping or passing from one thing or subject to another without order or rational connection
38. brio: enthusiastic vigor
39. stultify: to render useless or ineffectual
"Peradventure, if I do not cease these desultory and stultifying dalliances, arrive at some equipoise between work and play, and commense with celerity and brio the travail of submitting my secondary applications, I shall never attain the metier I desire."
40. tchotchke: a knickknack
41. farrago: a confused mixture
42. logorrhea: incessant or compulsive talkativeness
43. lucubration: the act of studying by candlelight
44. puissant: powerful; mighty
45. carom: a rebound following a collision
46. fecund: capable of producing offspring or vegetation
47. undulation: a regular rising and falling or movement to alternating sides
48. furtive: done by stealth
49. eldritch: weird; eerie
"Managing to phase out her highly animated logorrhea by furtively concentrating on the tchotchke hanging from her neck and then on the undulation of her bosom, SC wrestled with the farrago of thoughts caroming in his cranium, resisting both the puissant desire to strangle her where she stood and the eldritch urge to bifurcate her legs and commense with fecund lucubration."
50. luminary: a person of eminence or brilliant achievement
51. cynosure: an object that serves as a focal point of attention and admiration
52. abecedarian: one who is learning the alphabet
"When it comes to Halo, I am an abecedarian, Jay is a cynosure, and Brent is a luminary."
53. adjuvant: serving to help or assist
54. truckle: to yield or bend obsequiously to the will of another
55. diktat: a harsh settlement unilaterally imposed on a defeated party
"Jay, here is my diktat: if you want to live with me when you grow up, you'll have to become an adjuvant truckler."
56. furbelow: something showy or superfluous
57. chary: wary; cautious
58. saturnine: having a sardonic or bitter aspect
59. reticent: inclined to keep silent
60. insouciant: marked by lighthearted unconcern or indifference
61. hebetude: mental dullness or sluggishness
62. cognoscente: a person with special knowledge of a subject
"The world is most saturnine when the cognoscentes remain chary, reticent, insouciant even, while the implacable morons make a furbelow of their hebetude."
63. gaucherie: a socially awkward or tactless act
64. refulgent: shining brightly
"Among anything but friends, this post would be a refulgent gaucherie."
65. malapropism: an act or habit of misusing words ridiculously
66. bowdlerize: to remove or modify the parts considered offensive
"If I were to bowdlerize this post and extract the malapropisms from what remained, there'd be nothing left!"
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Monday, August 10, 2009
Google Speed Experiment
When the time came—in the third grade—to dress like what I wanted to be when I grew up, I did not wear scrubs, a white coat, or even a stethoscope. Instead, I tucked my father’s reflex hammer between my belt and cargo shorts, donned a safari hat, and did my best to impersonate a paleontologist. Paleontology (dinosaurs) had won out over law enforcement (shooting bad guys), marine biology (swimming with whale sharks), and professional soccer. I developed a talent for creative writing, which manifested every few years as a short story that exceeded the page limit by several times the page limit and once even as the screenplay of a drama production put on by my fourth grade class. I’m not exactly sure when medicine came into the picture. All I know is after so many years of exploration and contemplation, some spent in hot pursuit, others fleeing toward other doors, I have found what I aspire to be: a doctor.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Sample Personal Statements I Found for Medical School Application
PICK YOUR FAVORITE
(1) Hello! My name is Bob! Hooray, I want to be a doctor! Lucky for you reading this essay. It is quite enjoyable, don't you think so? At least, it's different from the other essays, which are all so serious. WHY SO SERIOUS!?? Which brings me to my point: The Joker is my motivation for medicine. It is a doctor's responsibility to keep such accidents from happening by any means necessary. Just think of all the weapons--I mean tools--that could be in my arsenal, were I to become a physician. Scalpels, clamps, forceps, bandages, thread, microscopes, biology, RADAR, etc. I could go on, but I think you know what I'm talking about. Mmmhmm!
(2) When I was twelve years old bad men came to my village and cut off both of my hands. So then how am I writing this essay, I bet you are wondering... Good question! It is not with the aid of an aide, as you might suppose. No, it is merely with the power of my mind. Through years of training, concentration, and perseverance I have come to master the ancient and sacred art of telepathokinesis. I believe this struggle has prepared me well for the hardships I will undoubtedly endure in medical school and beyond. Also, because if you knew how many processors my mind had you would be scared, I have a clear advantage against normal human doctors, who can only use two hands to operate. In fact, I have been volunteering at the zoo, where I am the only one able to pull thorns out of lion paws. The lions love me because I am such a great patient advocate.
(3) Medicine is the best profession, which is why I want to be one. Doctors save people every day and change their lives forever. If I am elected MD, I promise to try my best every day to make people feel better and heal the sick like Jesus. Jesus had special divine powers of healing that none of us can ever hope to have, even as doctors, but still we have to try. I think that I understand this makes me more realistic than other candidates, who may think that being a doctor is all candies and rainbows. It is not. I have talked to doctors before and some of them are very sad because they don't ever fully cure anyone. But that is because you need to infuse medicine with the power of worship and spirituality so as to bring complete healing to the people of the world. Drugs and needles can only heal the body, but what is more important is the soul. When I am a doctor, I will mend souls not just wounds.
(4) After graduating valedictorian from Phillips Exeter Academy, I cast away the cheap trophies of academia, swapped my formal attire for a more earthly garb, and headed to the land of Africa for what would become the greatest experience of my life. As soon as I arrived I felt a great magnetism with the place, exuded both by the people and the nature. The simple beauty of their lifestyle brought tears to my eyes as I realized the life I had lead had clouded my vision of my purpose in the world. For in the midst of this earthy realm was a natural and ancient clashes between the forces of man and nature, each giving and taking from the other. It was not the type of pernicious clash that exists in the West but a healthy one--the one that arises when a species struggles within its environment rather than against it. I immersed myself in this culture and lived for weeks knowing both the bliss and the blight of this most real existence. But eventually I grew ill, my body too weak to sustain the meager rations and cruel weather the African people thrived in. The Western doctors gave me many medicines, but none of them made me better. I had almost given up hope when the chief brought the medicine man to see me. He made me drink a pungent concoction of herbs and within three days I was strong enough to be evacuated. The medicine man gave me some of the herbs to take with me and showed me how to prepare his potion. I imbibed most of them but saved a few strands, which I analyzed in my years at Harvard. The herbs turned out to be an unparalleled immune booster, which may prove pivotal in the fight against cancer. My only hope is that I am given the opportunity to continue my work with a more thorough training in the medical field. And to be given the chance to open the eyes of other future doctors, who must be taught that medicine is a fusion of all wisdoms--that the greatest wisdom is the ability to recognize more.
(1) Hello! My name is Bob! Hooray, I want to be a doctor! Lucky for you reading this essay. It is quite enjoyable, don't you think so? At least, it's different from the other essays, which are all so serious. WHY SO SERIOUS!?? Which brings me to my point: The Joker is my motivation for medicine. It is a doctor's responsibility to keep such accidents from happening by any means necessary. Just think of all the weapons--I mean tools--that could be in my arsenal, were I to become a physician. Scalpels, clamps, forceps, bandages, thread, microscopes, biology, RADAR, etc. I could go on, but I think you know what I'm talking about. Mmmhmm!
(2) When I was twelve years old bad men came to my village and cut off both of my hands. So then how am I writing this essay, I bet you are wondering... Good question! It is not with the aid of an aide, as you might suppose. No, it is merely with the power of my mind. Through years of training, concentration, and perseverance I have come to master the ancient and sacred art of telepathokinesis. I believe this struggle has prepared me well for the hardships I will undoubtedly endure in medical school and beyond. Also, because if you knew how many processors my mind had you would be scared, I have a clear advantage against normal human doctors, who can only use two hands to operate. In fact, I have been volunteering at the zoo, where I am the only one able to pull thorns out of lion paws. The lions love me because I am such a great patient advocate.
(3) Medicine is the best profession, which is why I want to be one. Doctors save people every day and change their lives forever. If I am elected MD, I promise to try my best every day to make people feel better and heal the sick like Jesus. Jesus had special divine powers of healing that none of us can ever hope to have, even as doctors, but still we have to try. I think that I understand this makes me more realistic than other candidates, who may think that being a doctor is all candies and rainbows. It is not. I have talked to doctors before and some of them are very sad because they don't ever fully cure anyone. But that is because you need to infuse medicine with the power of worship and spirituality so as to bring complete healing to the people of the world. Drugs and needles can only heal the body, but what is more important is the soul. When I am a doctor, I will mend souls not just wounds.
(4) After graduating valedictorian from Phillips Exeter Academy, I cast away the cheap trophies of academia, swapped my formal attire for a more earthly garb, and headed to the land of Africa for what would become the greatest experience of my life. As soon as I arrived I felt a great magnetism with the place, exuded both by the people and the nature. The simple beauty of their lifestyle brought tears to my eyes as I realized the life I had lead had clouded my vision of my purpose in the world. For in the midst of this earthy realm was a natural and ancient clashes between the forces of man and nature, each giving and taking from the other. It was not the type of pernicious clash that exists in the West but a healthy one--the one that arises when a species struggles within its environment rather than against it. I immersed myself in this culture and lived for weeks knowing both the bliss and the blight of this most real existence. But eventually I grew ill, my body too weak to sustain the meager rations and cruel weather the African people thrived in. The Western doctors gave me many medicines, but none of them made me better. I had almost given up hope when the chief brought the medicine man to see me. He made me drink a pungent concoction of herbs and within three days I was strong enough to be evacuated. The medicine man gave me some of the herbs to take with me and showed me how to prepare his potion. I imbibed most of them but saved a few strands, which I analyzed in my years at Harvard. The herbs turned out to be an unparalleled immune booster, which may prove pivotal in the fight against cancer. My only hope is that I am given the opportunity to continue my work with a more thorough training in the medical field. And to be given the chance to open the eyes of other future doctors, who must be taught that medicine is a fusion of all wisdoms--that the greatest wisdom is the ability to recognize more.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
162 days of DR. D
daedal: adorned with many things (AJR's Cookie Cake)
pule: to whimper or whine (J)
copse: a thicket (AG)
tutelary: having the guardianship or charge of protecting a person or thing (SC)
ebullient: overflowing with enthusiasm or excitement (J)
nimiety: the state of being too much (NL)
gravid: heavy with young or eggs (NL)
salutary: promoting health (AR)
aver: to declare in a positive manner, as if in confidence of asserting the truth (AG)
prestidigitation: sleight of hand (AR)
megrim: a migraine (SC)
redivivus: living again, restored (JC)
disport: to amuse oneself in light or lively manner (AG)
paragon: a model of excellence or perfection (AG)
tergiversation: the act of abandoning a party or cause (JC)
oneiric: dreamy (BS)
abstemious: sparing in eating or drinking (AR)
pother: to be overly concerned with trifles (BS)
espy: to discover, as a distant object partly concealed, or not obvious to notice (JC)
hortatory: marked by strong urging (AG)
cosset: to treat as a pet (AR)
venerate: to revere (BS)
taciturn: habitually silent (a table)
sybarite: a person devoted to luxury and pleasure (NL)
avoirdupois: weight; heaviness (NL)
sagacious: having or showing keen discernment, sound judgment, and farsightedness (J)
pejorative: tending to disparage or belittle (J)
fillip: something serving to rouse or excite (SC)
depredation: an act of plundering or despoiling (BS)
equanimity: composure (JC)
buss: to kiss with a smack (AR)
immure: to entomb in a wall (J)
satiety: the state of being full or gratified to or beyond the point of satisfaction (AG)
fey: elfin (SC)
pernicious: highly injurious (J)
exigency: a case demanding immediate action or remedy (AR)
stolid: having or revealing little emotion or sensibility (BS)
querulous: habitually complaining (J)
unctuous: having a smooth, greasy feel, as certain minerals (NL)
abnegate: to refuse or deny oneself (AR)
odium: the state or fact of being intensely hated as the result of some despicable action (AG)
bombinate: to buzz (SC)
nostrum: a usually questionable remedy or scheme (AG)
coruscate: to give off or reflect bright beams or flashes of light (AR)
lugubrious: mournful, dismal, or gloomy, esp. in an affected, exaggerated, or unrelieved manner (J)
quaff: to drink (a beverage) copiously and heartily (AG)
tyro: a beginner in learning (AR)
albatross: any of several large, web-footed sea birds of the family Diomedeidae that have the ability to remain aloft for long periods (JC)
senescent: growing old (SC)
risible: disposed to laugh (NL)
mellifluous: flowing as with honey (AR)
bumptious: crudely, presumptuously, or loudly self-assertive (AG)
somnolent: sleepy; tending to cause sleepiness or drowsiness (AR)
imbroglio: a complicated and embarrassing state of things (AR)
gainsay: to oppose (J)
paladin: a knight-errant (AR)
invidious: containing or implying a slight (J)
peccadillo: a slight offense (AG)
stormy petrel: any of various small sea birds of the family Hydrobatidae, having dark plumage with paler underparts (AG)
crepuscular: appearing or active at twilight (AG)
quiddity: an eccentricity (AR)
ephermeral: existing or continuing for a short time only (J's good moods)
etiolate: to become bleached or whitened, as when grown without sunlight (SC)
outre: unconventional (AG)
labile: constantly or readily undergoing chemical, physical, or biological change or breakdown (AR)
pulchritude: comeliness (AR)
frisson: a moment of intense excitement; a shudder (AR)
impugn: to attack by words or arguments (J)
chimerical: given to or indulging in unrealistic fantasies or fantastic schemes (SC)
nescience: lack or knowledge or awareness (AG)
flummox: to perplex (JC)
longeur: a dull and tedious passage in a book, play, musical composition, or the like (AR)
gambol: to dance and skip about in play (AR)
jape: a trick or prank (NL)
ludic: of or relating to play (NL)
valleity: the lowest degree of desire (all that J is capable of)
feckless: generally incompetent and ineffectual
propinquity: nearness in place (J)
thaumaturgy: the performance of miracles or magic (SC)
diatribe: a bitter verbal attack or speech (J)
florid: flushed with red (J)
libation: the act of pouring a liquid either on the ground or on a victim in sacrifice to some deity (AG)
cormorant: any species of Phalacrocorax, a genus of sea birds having a sac under the beak; the shag (AG)
esoteric: confidential (JC)
inanity: lack of vitality or spirit (AR)
tetchy: testy; irritable (SC)
ululate: to howl, as a dog or wolf (AR)
pedestrian: a person who goes about on foot (J)
equine: of, pertaining to, or resembling a horse (SC)
bilk: to defraud (NL)
sanguine: reddish, ruddy (J)
lampoon: a light, good-humored satire (NL)
hermetic: obscure; magical (JC)
burnish: to make shiny by polishing (AR)
froward: not easily managed (J)
highhanded: acting or done in a bold, arbitrary way (AG)
denigrate: to attack the character or reputation of (AR)
defalcate: to steal or misuse money or property entrusted to one's care (NL)
chaff: to make good-natured fun of someone (BS)
canine: of or like a dog or member of the dog family (AR)
yielding: not stiff or rigid (NL)
wanton: lewd, lascivious (AR)
pule: to whimper or whine (J)
copse: a thicket (AG)
tutelary: having the guardianship or charge of protecting a person or thing (SC)
ebullient: overflowing with enthusiasm or excitement (J)
nimiety: the state of being too much (NL)
gravid: heavy with young or eggs (NL)
salutary: promoting health (AR)
aver: to declare in a positive manner, as if in confidence of asserting the truth (AG)
prestidigitation: sleight of hand (AR)
megrim: a migraine (SC)
redivivus: living again, restored (JC)
disport: to amuse oneself in light or lively manner (AG)
paragon: a model of excellence or perfection (AG)
tergiversation: the act of abandoning a party or cause (JC)
oneiric: dreamy (BS)
abstemious: sparing in eating or drinking (AR)
pother: to be overly concerned with trifles (BS)
espy: to discover, as a distant object partly concealed, or not obvious to notice (JC)
hortatory: marked by strong urging (AG)
cosset: to treat as a pet (AR)
venerate: to revere (BS)
taciturn: habitually silent (a table)
sybarite: a person devoted to luxury and pleasure (NL)
avoirdupois: weight; heaviness (NL)
sagacious: having or showing keen discernment, sound judgment, and farsightedness (J)
pejorative: tending to disparage or belittle (J)
fillip: something serving to rouse or excite (SC)
depredation: an act of plundering or despoiling (BS)
equanimity: composure (JC)
buss: to kiss with a smack (AR)
immure: to entomb in a wall (J)
satiety: the state of being full or gratified to or beyond the point of satisfaction (AG)
fey: elfin (SC)
pernicious: highly injurious (J)
exigency: a case demanding immediate action or remedy (AR)
stolid: having or revealing little emotion or sensibility (BS)
querulous: habitually complaining (J)
unctuous: having a smooth, greasy feel, as certain minerals (NL)
abnegate: to refuse or deny oneself (AR)
odium: the state or fact of being intensely hated as the result of some despicable action (AG)
bombinate: to buzz (SC)
nostrum: a usually questionable remedy or scheme (AG)
coruscate: to give off or reflect bright beams or flashes of light (AR)
lugubrious: mournful, dismal, or gloomy, esp. in an affected, exaggerated, or unrelieved manner (J)
quaff: to drink (a beverage) copiously and heartily (AG)
tyro: a beginner in learning (AR)
albatross: any of several large, web-footed sea birds of the family Diomedeidae that have the ability to remain aloft for long periods (JC)
senescent: growing old (SC)
risible: disposed to laugh (NL)
mellifluous: flowing as with honey (AR)
bumptious: crudely, presumptuously, or loudly self-assertive (AG)
somnolent: sleepy; tending to cause sleepiness or drowsiness (AR)
imbroglio: a complicated and embarrassing state of things (AR)
gainsay: to oppose (J)
paladin: a knight-errant (AR)
invidious: containing or implying a slight (J)
peccadillo: a slight offense (AG)
stormy petrel: any of various small sea birds of the family Hydrobatidae, having dark plumage with paler underparts (AG)
crepuscular: appearing or active at twilight (AG)
quiddity: an eccentricity (AR)
ephermeral: existing or continuing for a short time only (J's good moods)
etiolate: to become bleached or whitened, as when grown without sunlight (SC)
outre: unconventional (AG)
labile: constantly or readily undergoing chemical, physical, or biological change or breakdown (AR)
pulchritude: comeliness (AR)
frisson: a moment of intense excitement; a shudder (AR)
impugn: to attack by words or arguments (J)
chimerical: given to or indulging in unrealistic fantasies or fantastic schemes (SC)
nescience: lack or knowledge or awareness (AG)
flummox: to perplex (JC)
longeur: a dull and tedious passage in a book, play, musical composition, or the like (AR)
gambol: to dance and skip about in play (AR)
jape: a trick or prank (NL)
ludic: of or relating to play (NL)
valleity: the lowest degree of desire (all that J is capable of)
feckless: generally incompetent and ineffectual
propinquity: nearness in place (J)
thaumaturgy: the performance of miracles or magic (SC)
diatribe: a bitter verbal attack or speech (J)
florid: flushed with red (J)
libation: the act of pouring a liquid either on the ground or on a victim in sacrifice to some deity (AG)
cormorant: any species of Phalacrocorax, a genus of sea birds having a sac under the beak; the shag (AG)
esoteric: confidential (JC)
inanity: lack of vitality or spirit (AR)
tetchy: testy; irritable (SC)
ululate: to howl, as a dog or wolf (AR)
pedestrian: a person who goes about on foot (J)
equine: of, pertaining to, or resembling a horse (SC)
bilk: to defraud (NL)
sanguine: reddish, ruddy (J)
lampoon: a light, good-humored satire (NL)
hermetic: obscure; magical (JC)
burnish: to make shiny by polishing (AR)
froward: not easily managed (J)
highhanded: acting or done in a bold, arbitrary way (AG)
denigrate: to attack the character or reputation of (AR)
defalcate: to steal or misuse money or property entrusted to one's care (NL)
chaff: to make good-natured fun of someone (BS)
canine: of or like a dog or member of the dog family (AR)
yielding: not stiff or rigid (NL)
wanton: lewd, lascivious (AR)
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
You Should See The Other Guy's Foot
Yesterday, I got kicked in the face by a 6'6" moron who probably still thinks he was playing soccer at the time. Apparently, he had decided it was a good idea to try to kick a ball that was thrown in onto the top of my head, which, let me emphasize, is six feet off the ground. Unfortunately, his foot didn't quite make it to the ball when my face got in its way.
High kick, referee?
The first words out of his mouth were, "Oh...fuck." They were quick words, too, given that I hadn't quite gathered what had happened yet. The people who saw my face seemed to think my injury was pretty disturbing. One of them even told me--in between expletives--that my skin was "detached," which conjures up images of dangling, at least in my mind. Meanwhile, I felt more anger and shock than pain, because (a) the blow I received was rather numbing, and (b) why the fuck did that idiot kick me in the face? The throw-in was clearly directed at me and I hardly had to move to head it. Where did he come from? What was his foot doing that high in the air?
But I think mainly I just felt offended to be on the same field as this classless, talentless neanderthal. You should have seen it my stony, condemning gaze or in the quietly offended manner with which I walked off the field. I think I was actually more stunned by his idiocy than his cleats.
Several hours of waitin
g room, waiting in rooms, and four stitches later, I emerged from the ER, living testament to the truth that very tall people have no business playing soccer. Now, the marginally visible underside of my chin is permanently scarred just in time for senior formal and graduation. And I can no longer number myself among the beautiful people.
You can imagine my distress when I learned that this same jackass, who had made no effort to assist in the repair of or even merely assess the damage he had done to my countenance, lacked the dignity to remove himself from the game for the egregious red-card foul he had committed and furthermore went on later to tackle our keeper with his cleats up. Down a player, my team went on to tie, victim to two last minute goals by a member of our own ranks who had defected to the other team at the beginning of the game.
The moral?
Don't play soccer with fuckbots.
High kick, referee?
The first words out of his mouth were, "Oh...fuck." They were quick words, too, given that I hadn't quite gathered what had happened yet. The people who saw my face seemed to think my injury was pretty disturbing. One of them even told me--in between expletives--that my skin was "detached," which conjures up images of dangling, at least in my mind. Meanwhile, I felt more anger and shock than pain, because (a) the blow I received was rather numbing, and (b) why the fuck did that idiot kick me in the face? The throw-in was clearly directed at me and I hardly had to move to head it. Where did he come from? What was his foot doing that high in the air?
But I think mainly I just felt offended to be on the same field as this classless, talentless neanderthal. You should have seen it my stony, condemning gaze or in the quietly offended manner with which I walked off the field. I think I was actually more stunned by his idiocy than his cleats.
Several hours of waitin
g room, waiting in rooms, and four stitches later, I emerged from the ER, living testament to the truth that very tall people have no business playing soccer. Now, the marginally visible underside of my chin is permanently scarred just in time for senior formal and graduation. And I can no longer number myself among the beautiful people.You can imagine my distress when I learned that this same jackass, who had made no effort to assist in the repair of or even merely assess the damage he had done to my countenance, lacked the dignity to remove himself from the game for the egregious red-card foul he had committed and furthermore went on later to tackle our keeper with his cleats up. Down a player, my team went on to tie, victim to two last minute goals by a member of our own ranks who had defected to the other team at the beginning of the game.
The moral?
Don't play soccer with fuckbots.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Dinner Menu
Check out this dinner menu:
Hoisin Sauce
Spanish Rice
Grilled Asparagus with Tofu
Pasta Alfredo
Chicken Teriyaki
My chef is crazy.
Hoisin Sauce
Spanish Rice
Grilled Asparagus with Tofu
Pasta Alfredo
Chicken Teriyaki
My chef is crazy.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Dinner, Drinking, and Games
On the way to dinner, the girls introduced themselves as Piara and Ilika (which later turned out to be Chiara and Erika). Chiara, who had visited Florence before, lead us to a pasta bar, near our hostel. We continued our small talk and learned they were both art history majors in their last year of school, that it is difficult to get art grants, and that the citizens of Italy have no hope for their country (neither would I). Brent made a joke that despite the bad economy, everything was great for Italians because they had won the World Cup. Several minutes of translating later, we finally conveyed the joke to one of them, who was able to explain it to the other one, at which point we all laughed together, for separate reasons, of course.
Throughout our conversation, each time Brent or I said something, the girls would hold a forum between themselves to decide what we had said and how to respond. More often than not, the girls would forget that they were supposed to be translating and just continue their conversation without us for several minutes. Meanwhile Brent and I just looked at each other and laughed about how fast they were speaking. Eventually they would remmeber us and remember our question.
I asked them if they wanted to drink wine, to which they answered first No and then "We mean yes." It was confusing but also the answer we wanted to hear. Ordering wine took some time, however, as Brent and I left it to the Italians to pick a good wine. Erika said she knew about wines from her region but not this one and then asked the waitress some questions about the heaviness of each wine, which the waitress had to check with a coworker. I have gathered that Italians are very partial to their forums.
When it came time to order food Brent and I did a very thorough job of butchering the Italian language. But the food was good and it was fun conversing in broken English. After dinner we ordered a round of Limoncello instead of coffee. Brent liked it very much, especially because it gave him the opportunity to sip a liquer daintily, which is his modus operandi when it comes to drinking.
After dinner we headed back to our hostel and finagled them into...
...a game of cards. We played Capitalism first, which they got a huge kick out of. "Only Americans would play a card game called Kapitalismus." We quickly switched to a simpler game of theirs called "Merde," which of course translates to "Shit!"
To play shit, you reduce the deck to the four A, K, Q, and J, deal four cards to each player and pass one card to the left synchronously until one player has four of a kind (the shit), yells "Shit!", and slaps his/her hand in the middle. The other players have to slap in too and the last player to do so receives however many kilos of shit are dictated by drawing a card from the non-played portion deck.
We played until Brent had accumulated about 18kg of shit, at which point they felt bad for beating us and wished we had had two decks so we could play Machiavelli. So I whipped out my second deck (sorry Scott) and we played Machiavelli, which I soon remembered I had played before, though it didn't help me in the least when they slaughtered us over and over.
Throughout our conversation, each time Brent or I said something, the girls would hold a forum between themselves to decide what we had said and how to respond. More often than not, the girls would forget that they were supposed to be translating and just continue their conversation without us for several minutes. Meanwhile Brent and I just looked at each other and laughed about how fast they were speaking. Eventually they would remmeber us and remember our question.
I asked them if they wanted to drink wine, to which they answered first No and then "We mean yes." It was confusing but also the answer we wanted to hear. Ordering wine took some time, however, as Brent and I left it to the Italians to pick a good wine. Erika said she knew about wines from her region but not this one and then asked the waitress some questions about the heaviness of each wine, which the waitress had to check with a coworker. I have gathered that Italians are very partial to their forums.
When it came time to order food Brent and I did a very thorough job of butchering the Italian language. But the food was good and it was fun conversing in broken English. After dinner we ordered a round of Limoncello instead of coffee. Brent liked it very much, especially because it gave him the opportunity to sip a liquer daintily, which is his modus operandi when it comes to drinking.
After dinner we headed back to our hostel and finagled them into...
...a game of cards. We played Capitalism first, which they got a huge kick out of. "Only Americans would play a card game called Kapitalismus." We quickly switched to a simpler game of theirs called "Merde," which of course translates to "Shit!"
To play shit, you reduce the deck to the four A, K, Q, and J, deal four cards to each player and pass one card to the left synchronously until one player has four of a kind (the shit), yells "Shit!", and slaps his/her hand in the middle. The other players have to slap in too and the last player to do so receives however many kilos of shit are dictated by drawing a card from the non-played portion deck.
We played until Brent had accumulated about 18kg of shit, at which point they felt bad for beating us and wished we had had two decks so we could play Machiavelli. So I whipped out my second deck (sorry Scott) and we played Machiavelli, which I soon remembered I had played before, though it didn't help me in the least when they slaughtered us over and over.
By The Hair of Zeus's Testicles
3/29/2009 7:05pm
Return Train to Rome
The highlight of our trip was definitely the two Italian girls who strolled into our room in Florence one evening as I was massaging my testicles.
Not that they saw--it was cold and I was under the covers. They greeted us with a casual "ciao," to which Brent replied with the stone-faced silence of a man sorting photos as if his life depended on it. After a few minutes, I started up a conversation with the more attractive of the pair, who despite her protestation that she did not speak English, was about as capable of communicating as Brent and I are in German. To help her, I made it a point to speak slowly and choose my words carefully, while Brent, the shy big bear that he is, mumbled a lot and used colloquialisms she would obviously not understand (e.g. "we're just chilling," "what classes are you taking next quarter," and "the noob was camping shotty 'til I no-scoped him in the dome.") When the other girl returned to the room, she also joined our conversation, despite her even more adamant protestation of not speaking English.
I waited for the opportune moment--just as they were about to unpack their food--to pop the question: "Would you like to have dinner with us?"--and quickly added, "We'll pay," just in case that was an issue. Brent claims he was expecting them to reject me, but I can't imagine a scenario where that's possible. Especially given the way they would spend their evening otherwise.
Return Train to Rome
The highlight of our trip was definitely the two Italian girls who strolled into our room in Florence one evening as I was massaging my testicles.
Not that they saw--it was cold and I was under the covers. They greeted us with a casual "ciao," to which Brent replied with the stone-faced silence of a man sorting photos as if his life depended on it. After a few minutes, I started up a conversation with the more attractive of the pair, who despite her protestation that she did not speak English, was about as capable of communicating as Brent and I are in German. To help her, I made it a point to speak slowly and choose my words carefully, while Brent, the shy big bear that he is, mumbled a lot and used colloquialisms she would obviously not understand (e.g. "we're just chilling," "what classes are you taking next quarter," and "the noob was camping shotty 'til I no-scoped him in the dome.") When the other girl returned to the room, she also joined our conversation, despite her even more adamant protestation of not speaking English.
I waited for the opportune moment--just as they were about to unpack their food--to pop the question: "Would you like to have dinner with us?"--and quickly added, "We'll pay," just in case that was an issue. Brent claims he was expecting them to reject me, but I can't imagine a scenario where that's possible. Especially given the way they would spend their evening otherwise.
FACT: Pompei Was Buried In Lava Because A Roman Train Got Lost And Crashed Into Mount Vesuvius
3/29/2009 6:40pm
Napoli Train Station
In the ruins of Pompei I managed to entertain myself for quite a while by taking exceedingly ridiculous photographs of myself using my camera's 10 second timer. Unfortunately, ten seconds is a very long time to set up a photograph and my camera soon ran out of batteries, at which point I almost broke it with a FINAL PHOTO for the day.
I had poised the camera on a rail that was especially exposed to the wind. No sooner had I posed in the ancient bath when I saw my camera tumble off its perch. Aside from the blind luck with which I navigated to the ruins of Pompei, the next thirty minutes I spent fixing my camera proved to be the highlight of the day.
The ruins themselves were nothing spectacular but may have looked a little better in the sun. However, I was struck on several occasions by thte realization that I was walking through something that was distinctly a city, with streets and houses and shops (presumably). Pompei was rather big.
I also took a brief stroll around Napoli in the vicinity of the station. It had a very sleazy feel to it, though I imagine a rooftop view might have been gorgeous on a better day. A man across from me has an asymmetrical haircut and is dressed in a rainbow striped wife beater. For the past few hours I have been checking my pockets incessantly and staring accusatively at every person I encounter. I am all ready to leave this place.
This just in! Apparently, there are statues with penises in Pompei. Had I hired a tour guide or gathered even the slightest amount of historical information, I might have found them. What a shame.
Napoli Train Station
In the ruins of Pompei I managed to entertain myself for quite a while by taking exceedingly ridiculous photographs of myself using my camera's 10 second timer. Unfortunately, ten seconds is a very long time to set up a photograph and my camera soon ran out of batteries, at which point I almost broke it with a FINAL PHOTO for the day.
I had poised the camera on a rail that was especially exposed to the wind. No sooner had I posed in the ancient bath when I saw my camera tumble off its perch. Aside from the blind luck with which I navigated to the ruins of Pompei, the next thirty minutes I spent fixing my camera proved to be the highlight of the day.
The ruins themselves were nothing spectacular but may have looked a little better in the sun. However, I was struck on several occasions by thte realization that I was walking through something that was distinctly a city, with streets and houses and shops (presumably). Pompei was rather big.
I also took a brief stroll around Napoli in the vicinity of the station. It had a very sleazy feel to it, though I imagine a rooftop view might have been gorgeous on a better day. A man across from me has an asymmetrical haircut and is dressed in a rainbow striped wife beater. For the past few hours I have been checking my pockets incessantly and staring accusatively at every person I encounter. I am all ready to leave this place.
This just in! Apparently, there are statues with penises in Pompei. Had I hired a tour guide or gathered even the slightest amount of historical information, I might have found them. What a shame.
Never Drive On The Same Road For Too Long. It Might Take You To Rome.
I implore you never to go to Rome. None of the awesome monuments are really worth seeing. It's all a lie. For instance, every photograph you see of the Colosseum is a computer generated picture of what it may have looked like two thousand years ago. The majestic white marble taht you image was lost long ago, revealing a red brick skeleton. Believe me, red brick does not make for an impressive ruin.
I think I have arrived in Napoli. I can't find any signs. After wandering around the train station, I finally deduce that I must be in Napoli, because none of the departing trains are going to Napoli. At least there is a sign for a Bancomat. Actually, there are several signs, not only pointing the way but also indicating the distance. Better than Rome by a mile. Or by however far it is from Rome.
I formulate a new law. The shittiness of a place is inversely proportional to the square of its distance from Rome. It follows, then, that Rome is infinitely shitty.
I think I have arrived in Napoli. I can't find any signs. After wandering around the train station, I finally deduce that I must be in Napoli, because none of the departing trains are going to Napoli. At least there is a sign for a Bancomat. Actually, there are several signs, not only pointing the way but also indicating the distance. Better than Rome by a mile. Or by however far it is from Rome.
I formulate a new law. The shittiness of a place is inversely proportional to the square of its distance from Rome. It follows, then, that Rome is infinitely shitty.
Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road? (To See If The Cars Would Stop For It)
I think, however secretly, I have hated Rome all along. From the moment we arrived. The hostel, which claimed to be 400m from the Termini station, was neither 400m from the station nor a hostel. The weather was very nice, but the city scenery ruined it. At least we had finally learned how to cross the street in Italy, which is simply to stride into the road, without waiting for a crosswalk light or looking to see if cars are coming. As long as you ignore the cars, they will stop for you. But acknowledge them for a second and they won't stop. Sometimes it's a little scary to make the leap of faith, especially given how fast and angry people drive. I am surprised I never saw an accident. Maybe because no one assumes that anyone else is observing the traffic laws, signs, or rules of common sense.
For example, yesterday we saw two police officers who had parked their car in the middle of the road so they could direct traffic around it. The only credit I can give them is that they were doing a better job than my "Beware of Sign" sign, which I had inadvertently managed to place in a spot where it had minimal visibility but maximal damage. It took many casualties and was torn down in rage twice before I retired it.
For example, yesterday we saw two police officers who had parked their car in the middle of the road so they could direct traffic around it. The only credit I can give them is that they were doing a better job than my "Beware of Sign" sign, which I had inadvertently managed to place in a spot where it had minimal visibility but maximal damage. It took many casualties and was torn down in rage twice before I retired it.
This City Will Piss In Your Ear and Tell You It's Raining
3/29/2009 1:20pm
Approaching Napoli
I chose the cheap train that leaves 30 minutes before the express and arrives 30 minutes later. The coins in my pocket are sufficient to cover this fare and the my next meal but soon I must find an ATM. After grabbing breakfast (the freshed squeezed OJ is incredible) and a panini for the train, I set off in search of any one of the many ATMs that surely must exist in the MAIN TRAIN STATION of a city with a population of 3 million. Twenty minutes later I have found two machines that dispense STAMPS, a plethora of rental car agencies, and two McDonald's, but no "bancomat." I try outside the station. In the ten minutes it takes to wander in a big square around the station, I have dust blown into my eyes and pass by a sleeping hobo spooning a box of wine. But no ATM anywhere. Everywhere I look, Rome is uglier, dirtier, and more crowded than where I had been looking before.
I return to the station to find my train has been delayed by half an hour! Still no track assignment though. When will it end? I am tired of carrying around my sandwich and eager to sit down and pen my frustration. There is nowhere to sit, wouldn't you know it. I encounter an ATM. Finally! I pull out my wallet and survey the screen. Windows Error. The machine apologizes.
Last night I dreamt I was ambiguously either a robot or a human captive who tried several times and finally succeeded in beating my evil mster/captor to death. He was something of a cyborg and relied on an external breathing apparatus, which I unscrewed when he was down to seal the deal. Then I wrote a lterr to my commander?, relaying that the bad guy was dead, we should land at the next port, Princess Leia/Leiah (which I was equally confused about how to spell in my dream) was alive but pissed (apparently she liked the bad guy), AND everyone should do THE ROBOT (dance)!
Approaching Napoli
I chose the cheap train that leaves 30 minutes before the express and arrives 30 minutes later. The coins in my pocket are sufficient to cover this fare and the my next meal but soon I must find an ATM. After grabbing breakfast (the freshed squeezed OJ is incredible) and a panini for the train, I set off in search of any one of the many ATMs that surely must exist in the MAIN TRAIN STATION of a city with a population of 3 million. Twenty minutes later I have found two machines that dispense STAMPS, a plethora of rental car agencies, and two McDonald's, but no "bancomat." I try outside the station. In the ten minutes it takes to wander in a big square around the station, I have dust blown into my eyes and pass by a sleeping hobo spooning a box of wine. But no ATM anywhere. Everywhere I look, Rome is uglier, dirtier, and more crowded than where I had been looking before.
I return to the station to find my train has been delayed by half an hour! Still no track assignment though. When will it end? I am tired of carrying around my sandwich and eager to sit down and pen my frustration. There is nowhere to sit, wouldn't you know it. I encounter an ATM. Finally! I pull out my wallet and survey the screen. Windows Error. The machine apologizes.
Last night I dreamt I was ambiguously either a robot or a human captive who tried several times and finally succeeded in beating my evil mster/captor to death. He was something of a cyborg and relied on an external breathing apparatus, which I unscrewed when he was down to seal the deal. Then I wrote a lterr to my commander?, relaying that the bad guy was dead, we should land at the next port, Princess Leia/Leiah (which I was equally confused about how to spell in my dream) was alive but pissed (apparently she liked the bad guy), AND everyone should do THE ROBOT (dance)!
I Told You So
3/29/2009 1:00pm
Train to Napoli
Beneath a gray sky, I wandered down the dirty street, most shops not yet open despite the time (11am) and booked the first hotel I could find. The receptionist was very amicable.
-- The ocean emerges outside my window. I am reminded that the Italy I prefer lies outside the cities. Perhaps when I learn a little Italian. --
Next, I returned to the train station (sans baggage) to reserve seats on a train to Napoli. In Italy, you have to buy train tickets and seat reservations separately, despite the fact that many trains require reservations. Italian law mandates that one piece of paper should never be allowed to possess too great a power. I am reminded of the lack of day passes for the buses in Venice. At first I thought I was just sick of traveling but now I am convinced I am just sick of traveling in Italy.
At least the food is good. Even the cheap shitty food.
1:15pm I notice the window of my train has been graffitied.
Train to Napoli
Beneath a gray sky, I wandered down the dirty street, most shops not yet open despite the time (11am) and booked the first hotel I could find. The receptionist was very amicable.
-- The ocean emerges outside my window. I am reminded that the Italy I prefer lies outside the cities. Perhaps when I learn a little Italian. --
Next, I returned to the train station (sans baggage) to reserve seats on a train to Napoli. In Italy, you have to buy train tickets and seat reservations separately, despite the fact that many trains require reservations. Italian law mandates that one piece of paper should never be allowed to possess too great a power. I am reminded of the lack of day passes for the buses in Venice. At first I thought I was just sick of traveling but now I am convinced I am just sick of traveling in Italy.
At least the food is good. Even the cheap shitty food.
1:15pm I notice the window of my train has been graffitied.
The Beginning of the End
3/29/2009 12:30pm
Train to Napoli
Brent and I parted ways unceremoniously at the airport, after which I headed to the ticket counter to try to get a standby flight. The clerk seemed to think I was an idiot for waiting so long to change my flight. But who would have guessed I would hate Rome so much? In the end, I left the airport unsuccessful but with plenty of time to visit Pompei and book a hotel near the station.
On the way back to the Roma Termini station, I was presented with another opportunity to buy a Leonardo Express ticket. But after watching the machine steal half of the $40euros the man in front of me inserted, I just headed straight for the train, infuriated taht Italians could make the simplest things so difficult. Rome continued to plummet in my books. (Perhaps this statement alludes to a happy ending? No! Let me assure you: even now, 6,240 miles away and with a week to reflect on my experiences, I still detest Rome with a passion.
Thankfully no one checked our tickets. I am beginning to think the Leonardo Express is intend to be free... (Just imagine this brilliant idea: we can make the Leo Express free for Italian citizens by using the money tourists lose when they try to pay for their tickets!). The train to Napoli I am currently on has just stopped in a dark tunnel. No announcement has been made to explain this odd behavior. A fat Italian man snores so loudly that he wakes himself. The train tilts towad him and his wife, who is an even bigger ORCA. At last we continue.
Train to Napoli
Brent and I parted ways unceremoniously at the airport, after which I headed to the ticket counter to try to get a standby flight. The clerk seemed to think I was an idiot for waiting so long to change my flight. But who would have guessed I would hate Rome so much? In the end, I left the airport unsuccessful but with plenty of time to visit Pompei and book a hotel near the station.
On the way back to the Roma Termini station, I was presented with another opportunity to buy a Leonardo Express ticket. But after watching the machine steal half of the $40euros the man in front of me inserted, I just headed straight for the train, infuriated taht Italians could make the simplest things so difficult. Rome continued to plummet in my books. (Perhaps this statement alludes to a happy ending? No! Let me assure you: even now, 6,240 miles away and with a week to reflect on my experiences, I still detest Rome with a passion.
Thankfully no one checked our tickets. I am beginning to think the Leonardo Express is intend to be free... (Just imagine this brilliant idea: we can make the Leo Express free for Italian citizens by using the money tourists lose when they try to pay for their tickets!). The train to Napoli I am currently on has just stopped in a dark tunnel. No announcement has been made to explain this odd behavior. A fat Italian man snores so loudly that he wakes himself. The train tilts towad him and his wife, who is an even bigger ORCA. At last we continue.
Where The Sidewalk Ends... Lies A Rocky Road
3/29/2009 11:40am
Roma Termini Station
I hate Rome. I hate it so much that nothing I am capable of writing is sufficient to express my outrage. The city is hideous, crowded, and dirty. Modern buildings are more dilapidated than the ruins. Every surface is covered in graffiti. The national monuments are unimpressive. And even the people who aren't tourist behave like idiots. Clearly, the Fall of Rome never ended.
Sometime in the night, Rome was subject to a random fluctuation in time, which I'm assuming is a common occurrence, given that it wasn't mentioned in the news. Or else our hostel manager wound our watches back one hour in our sleep. I wouldn't even be surprised if the city just agreed to shift time forward one hour, just so they could get off of work early. I think the eleven to noon/ three to five work schedule is a little stressful on the Italians.
Due to this time rift, we were a little confused as to why the trains didn't start running until 7:20am but easily chalked it up to the laziness of Italians. After correcting our watches to account for this phenomenon, Brent walked to the ticket vending machine, where he struggled and failed twice to purchase tickets, despite the fact that the menus were in English and step-by-step directions on how to purchase tickets to the Airport were posted in plain site for the benefit of American tourists. In disbelief that the machine would simply refuse to sell us tickets, I went over myself to investigate.
The first thing I noticed was a second machine that was out of service. Given the abundance of out-of-service devices in Rome, I have come to surmise that Italan law might mandate that at least 50% of machines must be in disrepair at any given time, a rule strictly enforced in the capital city. Unlike the myth that there are always exactly 13 stigmatics in the world , the dysfunction of Italian machines is easily verified.
Next, I discovered that though clients were offered the choice of first and second class seating, only first class was actually available--a concept so profound Brent could not fathom it. Here I pause to quote Einstein: the definition of insanity is "doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results."
So close to acquiring the tickets, I eagerly inserted a $20euro bill only to have it spat out over and over. I stepped into the nearby shop to ask for change and was affirmed in my assumption that the machine only accepted change. Of course, when I fed it change,it just gobbled it up without noticing. When I sent a second coin in after the first one and still nothing happened, I have up in frustration, four Euros poorer and with an intractable number of coins in my hand.
We ended up boarding the train without tickets, Brent a little concerned, I perfectly content to tell the conductor where I put my ticket if he dared ask. Given the money I lost, Brent considers his inability to read directions a victory. Given my current blood pressure, I am inclined to agree. Nothing works in this city.
Roma Termini Station
I hate Rome. I hate it so much that nothing I am capable of writing is sufficient to express my outrage. The city is hideous, crowded, and dirty. Modern buildings are more dilapidated than the ruins. Every surface is covered in graffiti. The national monuments are unimpressive. And even the people who aren't tourist behave like idiots. Clearly, the Fall of Rome never ended.
Sometime in the night, Rome was subject to a random fluctuation in time, which I'm assuming is a common occurrence, given that it wasn't mentioned in the news. Or else our hostel manager wound our watches back one hour in our sleep. I wouldn't even be surprised if the city just agreed to shift time forward one hour, just so they could get off of work early. I think the eleven to noon/ three to five work schedule is a little stressful on the Italians.
Due to this time rift, we were a little confused as to why the trains didn't start running until 7:20am but easily chalked it up to the laziness of Italians. After correcting our watches to account for this phenomenon, Brent walked to the ticket vending machine, where he struggled and failed twice to purchase tickets, despite the fact that the menus were in English and step-by-step directions on how to purchase tickets to the Airport were posted in plain site for the benefit of American tourists. In disbelief that the machine would simply refuse to sell us tickets, I went over myself to investigate.
The first thing I noticed was a second machine that was out of service. Given the abundance of out-of-service devices in Rome, I have come to surmise that Italan law might mandate that at least 50% of machines must be in disrepair at any given time, a rule strictly enforced in the capital city. Unlike the myth that there are always exactly 13 stigmatics in the world , the dysfunction of Italian machines is easily verified.
Next, I discovered that though clients were offered the choice of first and second class seating, only first class was actually available--a concept so profound Brent could not fathom it. Here I pause to quote Einstein: the definition of insanity is "doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results."
So close to acquiring the tickets, I eagerly inserted a $20euro bill only to have it spat out over and over. I stepped into the nearby shop to ask for change and was affirmed in my assumption that the machine only accepted change. Of course, when I fed it change,it just gobbled it up without noticing. When I sent a second coin in after the first one and still nothing happened, I have up in frustration, four Euros poorer and with an intractable number of coins in my hand.
We ended up boarding the train without tickets, Brent a little concerned, I perfectly content to tell the conductor where I put my ticket if he dared ask. Given the money I lost, Brent considers his inability to read directions a victory. Given my current blood pressure, I am inclined to agree. Nothing works in this city.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
The David
March 26, 2009
9:10am, Train to Rome
The next day in Florence was cloudy and cold and despite our refusal to buy an umbrella, it rained. Thankfully, Florentine rain is soft like flowers. Among other things, we saw the David. I snapped a photo of him. The museum forbids it but everyone does it. If they were really serious about it, they'd hire large men in imposing uniforms. Instead they've got middle aged women sternly proclaiming "No photo!" So when people get caught, they either feign ignorance or guilt. When I was caught, however, I just smiled at the woman. She swallowed deeply and sorrowfully. I think my neglect to even pretend to be sorry disturbed her in a way that made her feel small and helpless and afraid.
By the way, the David is something you should spend a few hours viewing some time in your life. It's true mastery is not something you can see in photographs or in the many replicas they have around the city. First of all, it's huge. You first see him from the end of a long hallway, in his own special chamber with his own special lighting. The quality of it is chilling. Despite what Brent will tell you about his strong, masculine neck, the head and hands are too big, which Michelangelo intended, of course. But the face and features and posture and pose are all so human. It's unbelievable.
9:10am, Train to Rome
The next day in Florence was cloudy and cold and despite our refusal to buy an umbrella, it rained. Thankfully, Florentine rain is soft like flowers. Among other things, we saw the David. I snapped a photo of him. The museum forbids it but everyone does it. If they were really serious about it, they'd hire large men in imposing uniforms. Instead they've got middle aged women sternly proclaiming "No photo!" So when people get caught, they either feign ignorance or guilt. When I was caught, however, I just smiled at the woman. She swallowed deeply and sorrowfully. I think my neglect to even pretend to be sorry disturbed her in a way that made her feel small and helpless and afraid.
By the way, the David is something you should spend a few hours viewing some time in your life. It's true mastery is not something you can see in photographs or in the many replicas they have around the city. First of all, it's huge. You first see him from the end of a long hallway, in his own special chamber with his own special lighting. The quality of it is chilling. Despite what Brent will tell you about his strong, masculine neck, the head and hands are too big, which Michelangelo intended, of course. But the face and features and posture and pose are all so human. It's unbelievable.
An Evening Well-Spent in Florence
March 26, 2009
9am, Train to Rome
Our supper the first night in Florence was divine. After collecting 2 maps--by which I mean Brent purchased a 12euro guidebook, while I pocket the map inside the guidebook on display (my first experience with outright stealing)--we wandered down a street beside the massive Santa Maria Novella church and found a nice touristy place to have a nice long touristy dinner.
With Americans on one side and Germans on another, we felt quite at home in this place and ordered ourselves bruschetta, pastas amatriciana e bolognese, an a liter of the house wine (a chianti) for 11euros, which Brent promised to drink with me despite his brutish aversion to wine, even of the red variety.
The bruschetta was a little disappointing at first, given that in Italy, where the food is pure, bruschetta is just chopped tomatoes on toasted bread. But with Brent's salad came olive oil and balsamic vinegar of Modena which immensely enhanced our experience of the bruschetta. Meanwhile, the liter of house wine had come in a ceramic jug, which Brent poured for us in what I considered meager portions, given both my eagerness to drink it and the volume that remained. The pasta I ate there was without a doubt the best I have ever eaten: perfectly cooked penne with a creamy tomato sauce, parmiggiana, and bacon.
Toward the end of our dining experience (at which point I had finished four or five glasses to Brent's 3/4) an LA Woman arrived alone and proceeded to ask the entire restaurant staff if they remembered her. As the story goes, she had visited the same restaurant a year ago and taken a picture with or maybe just of an attractive younger waiter with blue eyes. As no such waiter existed, her current waiter disappeared into the kitchen and returned with the waiter to which she had been referring, who had brown eyes, not blue.
As her loud conversation continued, we learned that among her friends in LA, a collection of approximately 35 year old bachelorettes, the falsely blue-eyed waiter was something of a popular heart throb. We also learned that she had gone out this night with the full intention of dining at this restaurant, which she had missed by walking on the wrong side of the street. But she promised to return for lunch the next day.
After she had gone, our waiter bemusedly admitted that they see 500+ patrons per day, so of course they didn't remember her--how could she possibly expect it? He also told me my accent was very good and gave me some tips. At the time I was flattered but now I am fairly certain that he was just complimenting my wallet.
Brent and I considered returning to lunch again, this time strolling in gallantly and in a valley girl affectation proclaiming, "I have returned a day later to my favorite restaurant! Don't you remember me!?"
After dinner we headed straight back to our hostel, eager to rest up for the long days of tourism ahead of us. Brent will tell you that I flipped through the channels on TV, searching for Italian porno, and despite his warning and pleading, fell asleep within two minutes without turning off the television. But I cannot vouch for him. Though I will admit that--so far--Italian porn eludes us.
9am, Train to Rome
Our supper the first night in Florence was divine. After collecting 2 maps--by which I mean Brent purchased a 12euro guidebook, while I pocket the map inside the guidebook on display (my first experience with outright stealing)--we wandered down a street beside the massive Santa Maria Novella church and found a nice touristy place to have a nice long touristy dinner.
With Americans on one side and Germans on another, we felt quite at home in this place and ordered ourselves bruschetta, pastas amatriciana e bolognese, an a liter of the house wine (a chianti) for 11euros, which Brent promised to drink with me despite his brutish aversion to wine, even of the red variety.
The bruschetta was a little disappointing at first, given that in Italy, where the food is pure, bruschetta is just chopped tomatoes on toasted bread. But with Brent's salad came olive oil and balsamic vinegar of Modena which immensely enhanced our experience of the bruschetta. Meanwhile, the liter of house wine had come in a ceramic jug, which Brent poured for us in what I considered meager portions, given both my eagerness to drink it and the volume that remained. The pasta I ate there was without a doubt the best I have ever eaten: perfectly cooked penne with a creamy tomato sauce, parmiggiana, and bacon.
Toward the end of our dining experience (at which point I had finished four or five glasses to Brent's 3/4) an LA Woman arrived alone and proceeded to ask the entire restaurant staff if they remembered her. As the story goes, she had visited the same restaurant a year ago and taken a picture with or maybe just of an attractive younger waiter with blue eyes. As no such waiter existed, her current waiter disappeared into the kitchen and returned with the waiter to which she had been referring, who had brown eyes, not blue.
As her loud conversation continued, we learned that among her friends in LA, a collection of approximately 35 year old bachelorettes, the falsely blue-eyed waiter was something of a popular heart throb. We also learned that she had gone out this night with the full intention of dining at this restaurant, which she had missed by walking on the wrong side of the street. But she promised to return for lunch the next day.
After she had gone, our waiter bemusedly admitted that they see 500+ patrons per day, so of course they didn't remember her--how could she possibly expect it? He also told me my accent was very good and gave me some tips. At the time I was flattered but now I am fairly certain that he was just complimenting my wallet.
Brent and I considered returning to lunch again, this time strolling in gallantly and in a valley girl affectation proclaiming, "I have returned a day later to my favorite restaurant! Don't you remember me!?"
After dinner we headed straight back to our hostel, eager to rest up for the long days of tourism ahead of us. Brent will tell you that I flipped through the channels on TV, searching for Italian porno, and despite his warning and pleading, fell asleep within two minutes without turning off the television. But I cannot vouch for him. Though I will admit that--so far--Italian porn eludes us.
All Roads Lead to Rome
March 26, 2009
7:51am, Firenze FMN Stazion dello Traino
Beside me Brent's DNA is undergoing vast changes as he guzzles the soy-based fats of a McDonald's breakfast in Italy. He complains, "dude, they made these hashbrowns in a different way, and they're not good."
Weighed down by the fats emulsifying slowly in his belly, Brent rests his head against his jacekt, while one of all the roads that lead to Rome (this one currently inside a tunnel) whiz by outside the window on our left.
The road to Rome is picturesque: rolling hills, trees still recovering from winter, verdant fields, patches of farmed land, occasional columns of smoke, small and innocent like what comes from a pipe, red-tiled roofs, and, most distance, mountains rising into the clouds, covered over by the golden fog of early morning.
I'd like to say it looks like California but the lie is beyond me. It's far more beautiful. Perhaps because it is new to me but more likely because it is sparse and historic, old enough that the houses have become infused with the countryside, a natural part of its natural glory. God may vacation in many places, but if He has a home on earth, surely it must be here in Tuscany.
7:51am, Firenze FMN Stazion dello Traino
Beside me Brent's DNA is undergoing vast changes as he guzzles the soy-based fats of a McDonald's breakfast in Italy. He complains, "dude, they made these hashbrowns in a different way, and they're not good."
Weighed down by the fats emulsifying slowly in his belly, Brent rests his head against his jacekt, while one of all the roads that lead to Rome (this one currently inside a tunnel) whiz by outside the window on our left.
The road to Rome is picturesque: rolling hills, trees still recovering from winter, verdant fields, patches of farmed land, occasional columns of smoke, small and innocent like what comes from a pipe, red-tiled roofs, and, most distance, mountains rising into the clouds, covered over by the golden fog of early morning.
I'd like to say it looks like California but the lie is beyond me. It's far more beautiful. Perhaps because it is new to me but more likely because it is sparse and historic, old enough that the houses have become infused with the countryside, a natural part of its natural glory. God may vacation in many places, but if He has a home on earth, surely it must be here in Tuscany.
Where are the beautiful people?
March 24, 2009
7:30pm, Flat in Florence
Observations about Firenze: the hotties come out to play. The pizza is softer. The city feels bigger. The exhibits are very expensive. The rain is too soft to feel. A lot of construction, even inside a church. A lot more tourists.
Last night we arrived in Florence at the wrong train station and got lost immediately. After wandering through some slums,w e went back to the station and took the correct exit, which brought us to the main terminal, fromw hich we were able to take a train to the main station. Of the two trains leaving for the station precisely when we got up to the tracks, we caught exactly zero of them and ahd to wait about ten minutes for a third train (to arrive late).
On the train, we made jokes in German about how Brent was a butt pirate and how I had missed my chance to nab Tadzio, who now lay dead in Venice because I had not been there to make the same sacrifice.
At the station, we promptly made our way to Offizia Turistica (the tourist office), where we declined to buy a map for one euro in favor of the free one we'd surely receive at our hostel. We did however receive directions to Jacapo street, which seemed easy enough to follow but were quickly complicated by the desolate street under construction that greeted us as we exited the train station. Using a "let's go this way" directive we somehow found the right street just as I was about to suggest going back for the map. Our "hostel," the Locanda David, turned out to be a converted apartment run by a man who was clearly interested only in the getting paid side of hosting travellers. He gave us a key ring, showed us our beds and bathroom, replied, as if it were obvious and our question was ludicrous, that there was no internet, and disappeared around the corner never to be seen of or heard from again.
From our windows we get a view into other peoples' windows. I suggest peeping across into the windows now. Brent calls me a pervert.
7:30pm, Flat in Florence
Observations about Firenze: the hotties come out to play. The pizza is softer. The city feels bigger. The exhibits are very expensive. The rain is too soft to feel. A lot of construction, even inside a church. A lot more tourists.
Last night we arrived in Florence at the wrong train station and got lost immediately. After wandering through some slums,w e went back to the station and took the correct exit, which brought us to the main terminal, fromw hich we were able to take a train to the main station. Of the two trains leaving for the station precisely when we got up to the tracks, we caught exactly zero of them and ahd to wait about ten minutes for a third train (to arrive late).
On the train, we made jokes in German about how Brent was a butt pirate and how I had missed my chance to nab Tadzio, who now lay dead in Venice because I had not been there to make the same sacrifice.
At the station, we promptly made our way to Offizia Turistica (the tourist office), where we declined to buy a map for one euro in favor of the free one we'd surely receive at our hostel. We did however receive directions to Jacapo street, which seemed easy enough to follow but were quickly complicated by the desolate street under construction that greeted us as we exited the train station. Using a "let's go this way" directive we somehow found the right street just as I was about to suggest going back for the map. Our "hostel," the Locanda David, turned out to be a converted apartment run by a man who was clearly interested only in the getting paid side of hosting travellers. He gave us a key ring, showed us our beds and bathroom, replied, as if it were obvious and our question was ludicrous, that there was no internet, and disappeared around the corner never to be seen of or heard from again.
From our windows we get a view into other peoples' windows. I suggest peeping across into the windows now. Brent calls me a pervert.
2D Photography in a 3D World
March 23, 2009
5:40pm, Train to Florence
One of the many frustrations we have discovered in attempt to photograph the sites is our inability to capture evidence of leaning buildings, of which there are plenty. For example, the second of the Two Towers of Bolog Na is far shorter than the first and leans toward it. Neither form our perch above, nor from the ground below could we convey this characteristic in a snapshot. We have found this to be true of all the leaning towers in Italy and are worried--should we make it to Pisa--that the most famous leaning tower won't be leaning in our photographs.
...
Minutes later we infiltrated a university and beheld the sweet honey of Bologna. Streams of young, beautiful, well-dressed women flocked by us, pausing momentarily to eye my mohawk, perhaps, which together with my scraggly beard, blew the cover provided by my stark silence and European nose.
5:40pm, Train to Florence
One of the many frustrations we have discovered in attempt to photograph the sites is our inability to capture evidence of leaning buildings, of which there are plenty. For example, the second of the Two Towers of Bolog Na is far shorter than the first and leans toward it. Neither form our perch above, nor from the ground below could we convey this characteristic in a snapshot. We have found this to be true of all the leaning towers in Italy and are worried--should we make it to Pisa--that the most famous leaning tower won't be leaning in our photographs.
...
Minutes later we infiltrated a university and beheld the sweet honey of Bologna. Streams of young, beautiful, well-dressed women flocked by us, pausing momentarily to eye my mohawk, perhaps, which together with my scraggly beard, blew the cover provided by my stark silence and European nose.
The Tower of Bolog Na
...
At last we reached the top, where we found a group of French schoolgirls lounging about and sketching one another, as well as the most spectacular view I have seen in my life. I'm ashamed to say it was like something straight out of Assassin's Creed: red rooftops spanning endlessly to the horizon, occasionally interrupted by church towers jutting toward the heavens and large streets trafficing in buses and mopeds. On the southwest side, the city gave way to rising green hills, upon which stood ancient temples, bordered from above by a heavenly golden sky. This was the Italy I had always imagined.
I perched in the windows and soaked in the view for a good hour, my face invariably warmed by the sun and cooled by the wind, bothered only by Brent's childish nagging. Apparently, his capacity for the experience of beauty is limited to the checking off of items on an itemized list. What a penis pump!
Speaking of penis pumps, Italian trains have considerable trouble running on time.
At last we reached the top, where we found a group of French schoolgirls lounging about and sketching one another, as well as the most spectacular view I have seen in my life. I'm ashamed to say it was like something straight out of Assassin's Creed: red rooftops spanning endlessly to the horizon, occasionally interrupted by church towers jutting toward the heavens and large streets trafficing in buses and mopeds. On the southwest side, the city gave way to rising green hills, upon which stood ancient temples, bordered from above by a heavenly golden sky. This was the Italy I had always imagined.
I perched in the windows and soaked in the view for a good hour, my face invariably warmed by the sun and cooled by the wind, bothered only by Brent's childish nagging. Apparently, his capacity for the experience of beauty is limited to the checking off of items on an itemized list. What a penis pump!
Speaking of penis pumps, Italian trains have considerable trouble running on time.
Impressions of Bologna
March 23, 2009
4:15pm, Outside Shop Across Bologna Central Station
The city seemed slummy at first. We stopped to take a picture by a fountain in Parco della Montagnola, which is a popular hangout for hobos.
We pushed onward toward the heart of the city, past a McDonald's, and emerged beside a statue of Neptune facing an enormous church, Basilica di San Petronio. Even though Brent's plan was to pass through the square so that we could see a church outside the main cluster of tourist traps, he still insisted on stopping to take photographs and continued to berate me for not capturing every buidling form al four sides, with and without flash.
As for me, I learned a long time ago that not even a fractionof the beauty of a scene can be capture by my novice hand and more importantly that pictures without people are boring. Just like the earth before people...boring. Maybe we'd like to imagine that the animals are all dynamically predating on each other and before that, when dinsaurs roamed the earth, that flocks of them covered the countryside, but the reality of it is animals usually keep to themselves and the beatific scene of deer chasing butterflies and squirrels cahttering at badgers is limited to Disney magic moments in Snow White.
4:15pm, Outside Shop Across Bologna Central Station
The city seemed slummy at first. We stopped to take a picture by a fountain in Parco della Montagnola, which is a popular hangout for hobos.
We pushed onward toward the heart of the city, past a McDonald's, and emerged beside a statue of Neptune facing an enormous church, Basilica di San Petronio. Even though Brent's plan was to pass through the square so that we could see a church outside the main cluster of tourist traps, he still insisted on stopping to take photographs and continued to berate me for not capturing every buidling form al four sides, with and without flash.
As for me, I learned a long time ago that not even a fractionof the beauty of a scene can be capture by my novice hand and more importantly that pictures without people are boring. Just like the earth before people...boring. Maybe we'd like to imagine that the animals are all dynamically predating on each other and before that, when dinsaurs roamed the earth, that flocks of them covered the countryside, but the reality of it is animals usually keep to themselves and the beatific scene of deer chasing butterflies and squirrels cahttering at badgers is limited to Disney magic moments in Snow White.
Goodbye Venice
March 23, 2009
Time: 9:10am
Location: Train to Bologna
All Venice weeps of our departure, anonymous save for a lonely blue and white striped towel left behind. Truly, not a single person learned our names, but we will be remembered in the photographs of Japanese tourists, in the lone electric candle I installed at San Nicolo da Tolentino chapel without leaving a donation, and by the no. 6 and 6/ buses, which bore our weight to and from the island six times for the price of three.
The hostel where we stayed was under construction, so when we arrived Saturday evening to find the front edifice closed, the sign in disrepair and hidden behind a dusty scaffold, I feared for a moment that the hostel had simply shut down without letting anyone know. I had been ready to damn the hostelsclub website to hell, but now I sport a free t-shirt with its insignia, clearly a traveler with faith in his booking agency.
I have to award Brent the credit for his perseverence in seeking a side entrance. Lo and behold a small door caged in iron bars lay just around the corner. We rang the bell and were soon let in by a bespectacled Italian man, who was most likely thirty but possible older and just well-aged given the mildness of his present occupation.
Our room was decent with two regular beds and two bunked, a private bathroom, a television, and a remote controlled AC unit, which despite its positive outlook turne dout far too complicated to use. As for the television, Brent unplugged it promptly in favor of charging his laptop. Later we learned it had only five channels, none of which broadcasted porn unfortunately.
We began the evening by using the internet to book hostels and a cheap gondola tour, as well as offend Chelsea, who signed off Skype in anger while we struggled to remain online. After getting everything squared away (including Chelsea's feelings), we walked to the wrong bus stop, then the correct one, where we bought tickets from the bus driver, who could not have looked angrier about performing one of his more peripheral and seldom called for duties. Let's just say we never tried to buy tickets from a bus driver again.
Time: 9:10am
Location: Train to Bologna
All Venice weeps of our departure, anonymous save for a lonely blue and white striped towel left behind. Truly, not a single person learned our names, but we will be remembered in the photographs of Japanese tourists, in the lone electric candle I installed at San Nicolo da Tolentino chapel without leaving a donation, and by the no. 6 and 6/ buses, which bore our weight to and from the island six times for the price of three.
The hostel where we stayed was under construction, so when we arrived Saturday evening to find the front edifice closed, the sign in disrepair and hidden behind a dusty scaffold, I feared for a moment that the hostel had simply shut down without letting anyone know. I had been ready to damn the hostelsclub website to hell, but now I sport a free t-shirt with its insignia, clearly a traveler with faith in his booking agency.
I have to award Brent the credit for his perseverence in seeking a side entrance. Lo and behold a small door caged in iron bars lay just around the corner. We rang the bell and were soon let in by a bespectacled Italian man, who was most likely thirty but possible older and just well-aged given the mildness of his present occupation.
Our room was decent with two regular beds and two bunked, a private bathroom, a television, and a remote controlled AC unit, which despite its positive outlook turne dout far too complicated to use. As for the television, Brent unplugged it promptly in favor of charging his laptop. Later we learned it had only five channels, none of which broadcasted porn unfortunately.
We began the evening by using the internet to book hostels and a cheap gondola tour, as well as offend Chelsea, who signed off Skype in anger while we struggled to remain online. After getting everything squared away (including Chelsea's feelings), we walked to the wrong bus stop, then the correct one, where we bought tickets from the bus driver, who could not have looked angrier about performing one of his more peripheral and seldom called for duties. Let's just say we never tried to buy tickets from a bus driver again.
Select Ramblings of an Eager Traveler
Time: 5:20pm
Location: Train to Venezia
As the train scoots by rows of sapling trees and the conductor's announcement intrudes on the construction projects defacing the countryside, Brent sleeps with his hand between his legs, just a hop, skip, and a jump from his testicles. We have arrived in Padua, where--if I am not mistaken--Romeo fled after killing Tybalt. "Con M&M's viaggi sempre in compagnia." I cough midtranslation. Brent ousts his hand from between his thighs and begins rubbing his buttocks. Just kidding.
The adventure is only beginning, but already much has come to pass. In summary, I have peed on the subway, been called perverse by the young, angry German who watched me do it, taken a free tour of Munich lead by an Australian, tried to convince a pyschotic Scottish roommate that eating trans-fats doesn't alter your DNA, peed on a railroad (accidentally this time), tried twice and failed twice to chug a liter of beer, and rescued a flock of tourists from their own physical weakness.
The train ride is setting with the sun. I see yellow houses, graffitied fences, bare branches reaching for the sky like inverted Chinese scalp massagers. A green bridge, greener than the grass beneath it, is following our train subtly, but I am oh so aware of its presence. In the distance someone has clipped his hedges to look like giant poodles. Finally, someone on a bicycle. I can tell we are in Italy instead of Germany because the trains are all different colors, instead of matching.
Location: Train to Venezia
As the train scoots by rows of sapling trees and the conductor's announcement intrudes on the construction projects defacing the countryside, Brent sleeps with his hand between his legs, just a hop, skip, and a jump from his testicles. We have arrived in Padua, where--if I am not mistaken--Romeo fled after killing Tybalt. "Con M&M's viaggi sempre in compagnia." I cough midtranslation. Brent ousts his hand from between his thighs and begins rubbing his buttocks. Just kidding.
The adventure is only beginning, but already much has come to pass. In summary, I have peed on the subway, been called perverse by the young, angry German who watched me do it, taken a free tour of Munich lead by an Australian, tried to convince a pyschotic Scottish roommate that eating trans-fats doesn't alter your DNA, peed on a railroad (accidentally this time), tried twice and failed twice to chug a liter of beer, and rescued a flock of tourists from their own physical weakness.
The train ride is setting with the sun. I see yellow houses, graffitied fences, bare branches reaching for the sky like inverted Chinese scalp massagers. A green bridge, greener than the grass beneath it, is following our train subtly, but I am oh so aware of its presence. In the distance someone has clipped his hedges to look like giant poodles. Finally, someone on a bicycle. I can tell we are in Italy instead of Germany because the trains are all different colors, instead of matching.
Foughts of a Frazzled Mind
Time: Last hour before departure
Location: Chair in airport terminal, beside chuckling German
We are currently at Homeland Security Threat Level Orange. My assistance is required to help keep the airport safe. Things I would not remember ere I wrote them.
Brent has given me instructions on how to orient myself. I say instructions rather than directions because all the landmarks are lamp posts, traffic lights, and medium-sized trees.
Relief of finishing finals overshadowed by stress of flying accompanied by announcers who can't speak English. Same announcement (I believe) in Chinese. Note I am flying to Frankfurt. Something is off.
Germanness of man next to me exacerbated by purple socks peeking out of his Birkenstocks.
Had dream I was driving Santa's sleigh. Very fast, reindeer (singular) gave me a funny look. Had to dodge telephone wires in the sky. A lot easier than it looked. Also dreamt Homer had a uterus, explained his indolent behavior.
Location: Chair in airport terminal, beside chuckling German
We are currently at Homeland Security Threat Level Orange. My assistance is required to help keep the airport safe. Things I would not remember ere I wrote them.
Brent has given me instructions on how to orient myself. I say instructions rather than directions because all the landmarks are lamp posts, traffic lights, and medium-sized trees.
Relief of finishing finals overshadowed by stress of flying accompanied by announcers who can't speak English. Same announcement (I believe) in Chinese. Note I am flying to Frankfurt. Something is off.
Germanness of man next to me exacerbated by purple socks peeking out of his Birkenstocks.
Had dream I was driving Santa's sleigh. Very fast, reindeer (singular) gave me a funny look. Had to dodge telephone wires in the sky. A lot easier than it looked. Also dreamt Homer had a uterus, explained his indolent behavior.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Have I Got A Riddle For You (Revised)
I have three pennies. Without showing you the outcome, I flip them in succession. I tell you that the first two landed tails up. (Q1) What is the probability that the third one also landed tails up?
(A) 1/2
(B) 1/4
(C) 1/6
(D) 1/8
I flip them in succession again. Now I tell you that two of them landed tails up. (Note: I am only giving you information about two of the coins.) (Q2) What is the probability that the third penny I flipped also landed tails up?
When I said, "two of them landed tails up," I referred to two pennies. (Q3) What is the probability that the penny to which I haven't referred also landed tails up?
And finally, (Q4) what is the probability of at least one more tail if I tell you that one of pennies is tails up?
(A) 1/2
(B) 1/4
(C) 1/6
(D) 1/8
I flip them in succession again. Now I tell you that two of them landed tails up. (Note: I am only giving you information about two of the coins.) (Q2) What is the probability that the third penny I flipped also landed tails up?
When I said, "two of them landed tails up," I referred to two pennies. (Q3) What is the probability that the penny to which I haven't referred also landed tails up?
And finally, (Q4) what is the probability of at least one more tail if I tell you that one of pennies is tails up?
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Paradissimo: From Istanbul to Constantine's Nipple
Disclaimer: This blog was written in a watercloset on the train to Freiburg.
I just returned from a trip to the Ottoman Empire, which was renamed Turkey in 1923 in honor of the quintessential American holiday, during which patriotic participants find special occasion to stuff their bellies and watch large men in tight pants pile atop one another, a
ll in the name of thanksgiving. There, I failed to learn either of the correct spellings of Bosporus (alt: Bosphorus) Strait, but I did manage to style my hair (right: douche.jpg) and understand how a nation's location at an arbitrary boundary between continents caused it to have strategic importance, beauty, and uniqueness, just like my hair.
Monday morning we had relations with the head of a Turkish economic organization (i.e. corporation). The talk was interesting for a reason completely unrelated to the talk itself, namely that the Turkish PM had recently pooped in his pants during the Davos Conference, which brought his family great shame. Later we had another meeting where we learned stuff that we could have deduced on our own.
Afterward, we visited the Sultan Ahmed Sausage Factory. Sultan Ahmed garnered a lot of criticism for building a sausage factory that produced six types of sausage, because the only other sausage factory with six types was in Mecca. To fix this problem he invented a new kind of sausage and gave the recipe to Mecca, which is the only place where you can get those types of sausages today. Anyone up for a pilgrimage to Mecca!?
After the Sausage Factory, we got to watch a ceremonial gangbang, which is a common ritual perfomed only by men trying to feel connected to each other. The ritual began when 12 men, all dressed in robes, entered the room brushing their teeth. Sometimes they brushed their own teeth, while other times they brushed someone else's teeth. After twelve minutes, their nipples were very protrusive and they formed a circle with one of them in the middle. We couldn't really see what was happening because the eleven men shrowded the one man with their dark robes, but there was a lot of slow gyrating for 10-15 minutes and then everyone fell on their backs, shook their arms and legs in the air, while the one in the center shouted the 99 names of Allah in spiritual ecstasy. This lasted for another 15 minutes or so, with everyone bellowing the Muslim version of "woof" at the end of every name.
I just returned from a trip to the Ottoman Empire, which was renamed Turkey in 1923 in honor of the quintessential American holiday, during which patriotic participants find special occasion to stuff their bellies and watch large men in tight pants pile atop one another, a
ll in the name of thanksgiving. There, I failed to learn either of the correct spellings of Bosporus (alt: Bosphorus) Strait, but I did manage to style my hair (right: douche.jpg) and understand how a nation's location at an arbitrary boundary between continents caused it to have strategic importance, beauty, and uniqueness, just like my hair.Monday morning we had relations with the head of a Turkish economic organization (i.e. corporation). The talk was interesting for a reason completely unrelated to the talk itself, namely that the Turkish PM had recently pooped in his pants during the Davos Conference, which brought his family great shame. Later we had another meeting where we learned stuff that we could have deduced on our own.
Afterward, we visited the Sultan Ahmed Sausage Factory. Sultan Ahmed garnered a lot of criticism for building a sausage factory that produced six types of sausage, because the only other sausage factory with six types was in Mecca. To fix this problem he invented a new kind of sausage and gave the recipe to Mecca, which is the only place where you can get those types of sausages today. Anyone up for a pilgrimage to Mecca!?
After the Sausage Factory, we got to watch a ceremonial gangbang, which is a common ritual perfomed only by men trying to feel connected to each other. The ritual began when 12 men, all dressed in robes, entered the room brushing their teeth. Sometimes they brushed their own teeth, while other times they brushed someone else's teeth. After twelve minutes, their nipples were very protrusive and they formed a circle with one of them in the middle. We couldn't really see what was happening because the eleven men shrowded the one man with their dark robes, but there was a lot of slow gyrating for 10-15 minutes and then everyone fell on their backs, shook their arms and legs in the air, while the one in the center shouted the 99 names of Allah in spiritual ecstasy. This lasted for another 15 minutes or so, with everyone bellowing the Muslim version of "woof" at the end of every name.
Stanford History XXX Initiative
The Stanford History department has recently launched a new campaign to provide students with better information about their living spaces in an effort to dampen campus-wide discontent with Student Housing, which is at an all time high. In a press conference last week, Paula Findlen, Department Chair, told the media, "We're calling it the Stanford HistoryX (XX) project. And as soon as you hear the details, I'm sure you'll agree our nomenclature is more than fitting." Using the history department's pithy human resources, as well as our precious tuition funds, the history department is building a database that tracks all previous fornications that happened in your bed prior to your arrival. "Students will soon be able to find out how many and which people have fornicated in their beds and are encouraged to report their own fornicatory experiences--including self-fornication--to the HistoryX (XX) Project," said Paula. The History department promises to expand the project to include frequency and duration statistics as soon as they can get more than ten students per year to enroll in their major.
Terror in the Stalls
The Stanford CSI Lab has finally made headway on the mysterious and highly annoying case of the 3rd Floor Men's Bathroom peeer-pooper-shower-destroyer. CSI explains they had long been sidetracked by the most plausible and likely of scenarios: uncoordinated offenses by multiple offenders. Authorities have been quoted as saying, "We were so busy pursuing rational theories that we forgot to consider the least plausible, most unlikely one!" When the removable showerhead grip was broken sometime last week, CSI chalked it up to just another douche who made a mess, left the broken piece in the shower for someone to cut his foot on, and didn't even bother to file a FixIt. But Detective Willy Johnson--who on multiple counts has been ridiculed for his blind, unwavering faith in the goodness of mankind--refused to attribute this vandalism to a simple act of human douchebaggery. According to him, "The answer was right under our noses [and in the toilet]. We just had to sniff it out [of the poop]." CSI now claims to have strongly tied the case to a single culprit: "The vast body of evidence suggests that a fixed-thumb animal, most likely a bear, is responsible for numerous incidents of pissing on the floor beneath the urinal, clogging the toilets, and most recently mauling the showerhead in a misguided attempt to operate it without opposable thumbs." Johnson will be awarded a Scooby Snack for his brilliant deduction. The CSI provided the following composite sketch for mass circulation:
Monday, February 9, 2009
Parodissimo: Not for the Faint of Heart
The doctors explained to me that the ghosts I saw were hallucinations brought on by the house beer at Sasasas, which is laced with angel dust. At first I didn't believe them, because sometimes at night, when I hid under the covers, I could hear the ghosts talking to each other. When I told the doctors, they gave me a prescription for chlorpromazine, and I haven't heard the voices since. They claim it's a treatment for schizophrenia, but I think what it really does is harden your eardrums to the frequency of ghost whispers. They also encouraged me to distract myself with work and fun time, so I decided to start a club with my friends called the House Entertainment Managers' Organization for the Restful, Relaxing, and Healthy Optimization of Interscholastic Drinking and Sex (HEMORRHOIDS). Basically, we do a little research, gather some supplies, and peer pressure as many people in the program to come with us and do our bidding on Thursday nights.
The first official took place last Thursday night, where we went out in the bitter cold with flashlights and tried to melt the snow into cool patterns by having sex in it. At first we were divided on what shape to make. Several people wanted to make a giant penis, but I thought that was immature and too self-referential, so I headed a contingent of people in favor of melting a giant unicorn. After much heated discussion and some rash words and harsher fists, we finally settled on a comprise: a well-endowed unicorn. Unfortunately, we had an extra guy, so rather than sharing, we decided to draw straws. Short straw had to choreograph. Jordie got the short straw and I felt bad for him (and also I didn't want to hook up with Kelly P) so I traded with him secretly. It started out well, but then some people got out of control and the would-be unicorn turned out looking more like a defecating buffalo. We were still proud of our overall success, and it being only 8 o'clock, we decided to head to a top-rated microbrewery to celebrate with food and beverages. The food was pretty standard but the beer was seasonal and different: they offered light, dark, lime, and fizzy flavors that you could mix sort of like Ben&Jerry's half-baked ice cream. I got a mix of dark and fizzy called a "Black 'n' Curly," but I got to have at least a sip of the entire PowerSet (you know, all the subsets of the set of beers), 15 in all. My favorite sip was the mix of Light, Dark, and Fizzy called the "White Chocolate Fudgesicle-in-my-Pantz Danz," although "El Gringo" (Lime, Dark, and Fizzy) was a close second, which had an amazing taste.
After the Brauhaus, we took the S-Bahn one stop over and chanced upon a bar called the Castle Woofenstein. Inside was a vast array of televisions, selling adorable puppies at fluctuating prices, kind of like the stock market, but more realistic. The 9 of us went in on a Brussels Griffon for EU$7.50, which seemed awesome at the time and but turned out to look like this in the morning:
Despite his hideous face, Chewbaca Nowakka (which is his temporary name until we find him a better) is actually really fun to take out on the town. He's really spunky, attracts a lot of attention, and is a great wingman. Two of us even managed to get girls at a club called Boobcookies to dance next to us on the dance floor. I'm pretty sure Chewy could see up their skirts, which will be a huge bonus once we set up the doggy-cam. All of the clubs here have really very clever names, here are some of them: Klub Sandwich, Bar None, Breakfast, and Dave Matthews Band Club.
During the days before school, so Sunday night, Monday night, Wednesday night, Thursday night, and Tuesday night, everyone has strictly enforced mandatory nap-time. The trains stop running and the club management brings out sleeping mats and blankets for everyone. Then they play music of hit artist David Hasselhoff, which seduces everyone into a swift, pleasant coma. So if you decide to go out during the week you basically have to commit to sleeping beside a dozen perfect strangers, all of whom could have been potential bedmates given different circumstances. On the other nights, so Friday and Saturday nights, the transport runs all night, but because of the HEMORRHOIDS, we've had two really long nights on Thursday so far, and will probably have many more. ;-)
On Saturday we went out again, which meant staying in and playing drinking games to Ducktales: Tale of the Lost Lamp. Hewie, Dewie, and Lewie are so awesome, you guys, it's so easy to drink when they do something awesome. Then we ended up at Club Sandwich, which, as you'd expect, has multiple levels with slices of bread in between--quite clever of them, really. One room was techno, another was hip hop, and another was ballroom dancing. Every now and then, one of the rooms would launch a club raid, which meant bringing a boombox into the middle room and challenging the other music genres to a dance-off. Team Techno started it up with Sandstorm and a hella tight synchronized raving display. But Hip HoppAz would have none of it and You Got Served! them back to the toolbox with a blitzkrieg of crunk steps. Finally it was time for team ballroom dance, who initiated the whole dance-off and therefore earned the privilege of going last, kind of like in war, when one side declares war and then gets to wait for the other side to attack them while they fortify their defensive positions. Anyway, they started off with a Lindy Hop to Hip Hop music, totally stealing the thunder of the Hip HoppAz, and then they Waltzed them right off the stage with a beautiful rendition featuring music from Disney's Swan Princess. It was in an old factory or warehouse, and the smoke didn't condense too much.
The European Club scene is very weird, at least compared to what I imagine we are used to as Americans (I've not actually been clubbing in the US). So many people smoke and drink and hit on each other, so everything is smoky and just kind of grungy because of it. Not like in American clubs, which are always fun and trendy like in the movies. People also dance very strangely. They somehow manage to move their limbs and torsos on pace with the music, as if they have reached some sort of audiobiological synchrony. Girls don't like to dance with creepy guys, which led to some very funny experiences for me, as my hair is pretty long and I think I look like a male model. One guy in particular in the program had trouble adjusting to this the first couple times we went out. So both at club Boobcookies and at Soda, he asked me if I thought I looked like a male model with my luscious long locks, to which I replied: "Absolutely I do." Then we went to the dance floor, where I kept a safe distance from the German girls, who were all giving me come hither looks. It was hilarious, just because all the girls wanted me and I was so out of their league. Good times.
On Saturday morning, a friend in the program found out that Oasis was playing in Berlin on Sunday, and even though we found tickets for only 40 Euro, Oasis only has one good song, Wonderwall, which isn't even that good after you've heard it a couple times. Then we found out the opening act was Corky and the Juicepigs, who also have only one good song, Gay Eskimo, but it's just so freakin' hilarious, that we decided to go. The concert was played in a giant stadium and after the Juicepigs, Oasis arrived on helicopters, one for each band member. We thought they were going to make an awesome landing, but instead they stayed in their helicopters and played from the air. They're one of those bands that really stand behind the acoustic guitar and don't use any amps, so it was pretty hard to hear them through the raging vortex of helicopter rotors, but I could tell from a distance that they were playing mediocre. Their last song was I Am the Walrus by the Beatles, but midway through the performance, Yoko Ono showed up and begged them to stop because if John Lennon could hear them, he'd be rolling in his grave. Then she left a small, worthless orange tree that symbolizes peace.
The week after was pretty monumental because it marks the longest I've gone without skipping class since I arrived at Stanford: one week. I'll have a more detailed blog about what happens in classes real soon (a small hint: it has to do with learning useful knowledge that will help us be successful in the future). Anyway, last night we had pretty epic HEMORRHOIDS. We decided to play the S-Bahn ring rainbow game. There are 2 lines of the S-Bahn which make complete circles around the city; there are 28 stops in a full circle, and with roughly 2 minutes in between each stop, there were a lot of colors to collect. The goal of the rainbow game is to collect as many colors of lipstick rings around your ring pole as possible. I told my host dad that we were doing this, so before I went out he made me drink a spoonful of olive oil, which he said would help me keep my flag pole firm so I could last for the whole 28 stops. It was BYOL, so the girls went out beforehand to make sure they all had different colors. Then we went around once, dropping a girl off at each stop. There were only 15 girls, so the other stops were challenge stops, which earned you major bonus points if you got a lipstick ring. There were 4 booths of 4 next to each in a little section, so us guys squeezed in there, hung out and drank.
By the time we had made it all the way around the first time, we were bored, so we decided to ditch on the game and head back to club Boobcookies. None of us were female, though, so the Cookies refused to let us in for some reason, claiming it was because we had too many guys apparently. Pshya, whatever. At that point in time, we felt a little guilty about leaving the girls hanging, so we headed back to the S-bahn and finally started the game. The girls were all a little angry though, that we took so long, so in the post-game wrap up, everyone's scores were really low. By the time it got to me, the winning count was only 4 colors, only one of which actually came from one of our girls. Apparently, he'd cleaned up in the bonus rounds, though to tell the truth, one of the rings looked drawn on. He was so proud, so I didn't have the heart to tell him that I went 16-3 with an overkill and fifteen head shots. Herr Papa was right about that olive oil...
The first official took place last Thursday night, where we went out in the bitter cold with flashlights and tried to melt the snow into cool patterns by having sex in it. At first we were divided on what shape to make. Several people wanted to make a giant penis, but I thought that was immature and too self-referential, so I headed a contingent of people in favor of melting a giant unicorn. After much heated discussion and some rash words and harsher fists, we finally settled on a comprise: a well-endowed unicorn. Unfortunately, we had an extra guy, so rather than sharing, we decided to draw straws. Short straw had to choreograph. Jordie got the short straw and I felt bad for him (and also I didn't want to hook up with Kelly P) so I traded with him secretly. It started out well, but then some people got out of control and the would-be unicorn turned out looking more like a defecating buffalo. We were still proud of our overall success, and it being only 8 o'clock, we decided to head to a top-rated microbrewery to celebrate with food and beverages. The food was pretty standard but the beer was seasonal and different: they offered light, dark, lime, and fizzy flavors that you could mix sort of like Ben&Jerry's half-baked ice cream. I got a mix of dark and fizzy called a "Black 'n' Curly," but I got to have at least a sip of the entire PowerSet (you know, all the subsets of the set of beers), 15 in all. My favorite sip was the mix of Light, Dark, and Fizzy called the "White Chocolate Fudgesicle-in-my-Pantz Danz," although "El Gringo" (Lime, Dark, and Fizzy) was a close second, which had an amazing taste.
After the Brauhaus, we took the S-Bahn one stop over and chanced upon a bar called the Castle Woofenstein. Inside was a vast array of televisions, selling adorable puppies at fluctuating prices, kind of like the stock market, but more realistic. The 9 of us went in on a Brussels Griffon for EU$7.50, which seemed awesome at the time and but turned out to look like this in the morning:
Despite his hideous face, Chewbaca Nowakka (which is his temporary name until we find him a better) is actually really fun to take out on the town. He's really spunky, attracts a lot of attention, and is a great wingman. Two of us even managed to get girls at a club called Boobcookies to dance next to us on the dance floor. I'm pretty sure Chewy could see up their skirts, which will be a huge bonus once we set up the doggy-cam. All of the clubs here have really very clever names, here are some of them: Klub Sandwich, Bar None, Breakfast, and Dave Matthews Band Club.
During the days before school, so Sunday night, Monday night, Wednesday night, Thursday night, and Tuesday night, everyone has strictly enforced mandatory nap-time. The trains stop running and the club management brings out sleeping mats and blankets for everyone. Then they play music of hit artist David Hasselhoff, which seduces everyone into a swift, pleasant coma. So if you decide to go out during the week you basically have to commit to sleeping beside a dozen perfect strangers, all of whom could have been potential bedmates given different circumstances. On the other nights, so Friday and Saturday nights, the transport runs all night, but because of the HEMORRHOIDS, we've had two really long nights on Thursday so far, and will probably have many more. ;-)
On Saturday we went out again, which meant staying in and playing drinking games to Ducktales: Tale of the Lost Lamp. Hewie, Dewie, and Lewie are so awesome, you guys, it's so easy to drink when they do something awesome. Then we ended up at Club Sandwich, which, as you'd expect, has multiple levels with slices of bread in between--quite clever of them, really. One room was techno, another was hip hop, and another was ballroom dancing. Every now and then, one of the rooms would launch a club raid, which meant bringing a boombox into the middle room and challenging the other music genres to a dance-off. Team Techno started it up with Sandstorm and a hella tight synchronized raving display. But Hip HoppAz would have none of it and You Got Served! them back to the toolbox with a blitzkrieg of crunk steps. Finally it was time for team ballroom dance, who initiated the whole dance-off and therefore earned the privilege of going last, kind of like in war, when one side declares war and then gets to wait for the other side to attack them while they fortify their defensive positions. Anyway, they started off with a Lindy Hop to Hip Hop music, totally stealing the thunder of the Hip HoppAz, and then they Waltzed them right off the stage with a beautiful rendition featuring music from Disney's Swan Princess. It was in an old factory or warehouse, and the smoke didn't condense too much.
The European Club scene is very weird, at least compared to what I imagine we are used to as Americans (I've not actually been clubbing in the US). So many people smoke and drink and hit on each other, so everything is smoky and just kind of grungy because of it. Not like in American clubs, which are always fun and trendy like in the movies. People also dance very strangely. They somehow manage to move their limbs and torsos on pace with the music, as if they have reached some sort of audiobiological synchrony. Girls don't like to dance with creepy guys, which led to some very funny experiences for me, as my hair is pretty long and I think I look like a male model. One guy in particular in the program had trouble adjusting to this the first couple times we went out. So both at club Boobcookies and at Soda, he asked me if I thought I looked like a male model with my luscious long locks, to which I replied: "Absolutely I do." Then we went to the dance floor, where I kept a safe distance from the German girls, who were all giving me come hither looks. It was hilarious, just because all the girls wanted me and I was so out of their league. Good times.
On Saturday morning, a friend in the program found out that Oasis was playing in Berlin on Sunday, and even though we found tickets for only 40 Euro, Oasis only has one good song, Wonderwall, which isn't even that good after you've heard it a couple times. Then we found out the opening act was Corky and the Juicepigs, who also have only one good song, Gay Eskimo, but it's just so freakin' hilarious, that we decided to go. The concert was played in a giant stadium and after the Juicepigs, Oasis arrived on helicopters, one for each band member. We thought they were going to make an awesome landing, but instead they stayed in their helicopters and played from the air. They're one of those bands that really stand behind the acoustic guitar and don't use any amps, so it was pretty hard to hear them through the raging vortex of helicopter rotors, but I could tell from a distance that they were playing mediocre. Their last song was I Am the Walrus by the Beatles, but midway through the performance, Yoko Ono showed up and begged them to stop because if John Lennon could hear them, he'd be rolling in his grave. Then she left a small, worthless orange tree that symbolizes peace.
The week after was pretty monumental because it marks the longest I've gone without skipping class since I arrived at Stanford: one week. I'll have a more detailed blog about what happens in classes real soon (a small hint: it has to do with learning useful knowledge that will help us be successful in the future). Anyway, last night we had pretty epic HEMORRHOIDS. We decided to play the S-Bahn ring rainbow game. There are 2 lines of the S-Bahn which make complete circles around the city; there are 28 stops in a full circle, and with roughly 2 minutes in between each stop, there were a lot of colors to collect. The goal of the rainbow game is to collect as many colors of lipstick rings around your ring pole as possible. I told my host dad that we were doing this, so before I went out he made me drink a spoonful of olive oil, which he said would help me keep my flag pole firm so I could last for the whole 28 stops. It was BYOL, so the girls went out beforehand to make sure they all had different colors. Then we went around once, dropping a girl off at each stop. There were only 15 girls, so the other stops were challenge stops, which earned you major bonus points if you got a lipstick ring. There were 4 booths of 4 next to each in a little section, so us guys squeezed in there, hung out and drank.
By the time we had made it all the way around the first time, we were bored, so we decided to ditch on the game and head back to club Boobcookies. None of us were female, though, so the Cookies refused to let us in for some reason, claiming it was because we had too many guys apparently. Pshya, whatever. At that point in time, we felt a little guilty about leaving the girls hanging, so we headed back to the S-bahn and finally started the game. The girls were all a little angry though, that we took so long, so in the post-game wrap up, everyone's scores were really low. By the time it got to me, the winning count was only 4 colors, only one of which actually came from one of our girls. Apparently, he'd cleaned up in the bonus rounds, though to tell the truth, one of the rings looked drawn on. He was so proud, so I didn't have the heart to tell him that I went 16-3 with an overkill and fifteen head shots. Herr Papa was right about that olive oil...
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Agent of Death of an Innocent
I was recently responsible for the brutal murder of a young deer. I was running late at night along a dark road, which is already scary enough if you're the kind of person who imagines battling mountain lions, slaying them, and then fending off the other mountain lions that converge on your fresh kill. Every time I hear something stir in the brush, I double my pace, hoping the pounding of my shoes and the power of my run makes me seem bigger than I really am. This time I heard the rustling directly in front of me so I slowed down, and sure enough, a dark form darted out in front of me. At first I though it was a small predator, but as soon as it stepped onto the road, I could tell it was a deer, young, sleek, and bounding across the road like a giant jackrabbit. Really, it looked like a giant hare, with legs built like springs. The headlights illuminated it so well.
I don't remember if I was standing or running, but the outcome was so certain I saw it happen before I experienced it. Car speeding down the road, deer hurtling towards it, just out of range of its lights. When they crashed, the deer flew 20 feet, on a diagonal, onto the side of the road. Clearly, there had been conservation of momentum, which was fortunate for subsequent cars. (The anterior chassis of my car was recently devastated by a giant dead deer lying in the road.) Anyhow, the deers trajectory had clearly been a product of both its own previous velocity and that of the speeding automobile, which had been generously delivered by way of collision. I paused my run and contemplated the car, which didn't seem very damaged, and, as if it were an autonomous entity (or contained a man inside it), very apparently slowed a little, considered stopping, thought better of it, and drove on as if nothing much had happened. I was too scared to cross the road to check on the deer, lest the same fate should be visited upon me (I'm not any more reflective than a deer). But I imagined checking on it, considering whether it was completely dead or flailing about like a rabid zombie eager to bite me. I thought that maybe I should put it out of its misery--but how? Jump on its head? What if my weight wasn't sufficient to crush its skull? What if someone saw me? These remain serious concerns.
I don't think I really felt much, except a little frustrated that the beast was so dumb. But one thing was surprising. The thump it made when it hit the car was fairly nondescript. Maybe it sounded a little like the time I decided to trot over the top of my car and put a dent in the roof. But otherwise nondescript.
I don't remember if I was standing or running, but the outcome was so certain I saw it happen before I experienced it. Car speeding down the road, deer hurtling towards it, just out of range of its lights. When they crashed, the deer flew 20 feet, on a diagonal, onto the side of the road. Clearly, there had been conservation of momentum, which was fortunate for subsequent cars. (The anterior chassis of my car was recently devastated by a giant dead deer lying in the road.) Anyhow, the deers trajectory had clearly been a product of both its own previous velocity and that of the speeding automobile, which had been generously delivered by way of collision. I paused my run and contemplated the car, which didn't seem very damaged, and, as if it were an autonomous entity (or contained a man inside it), very apparently slowed a little, considered stopping, thought better of it, and drove on as if nothing much had happened. I was too scared to cross the road to check on the deer, lest the same fate should be visited upon me (I'm not any more reflective than a deer). But I imagined checking on it, considering whether it was completely dead or flailing about like a rabid zombie eager to bite me. I thought that maybe I should put it out of its misery--but how? Jump on its head? What if my weight wasn't sufficient to crush its skull? What if someone saw me? These remain serious concerns.
I don't think I really felt much, except a little frustrated that the beast was so dumb. But one thing was surprising. The thump it made when it hit the car was fairly nondescript. Maybe it sounded a little like the time I decided to trot over the top of my car and put a dent in the roof. But otherwise nondescript.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Funny News from Yahoo
A crocodile measuring 1.6 metres (5.3 feet) long was run over by a car on a street in the city of Townsville on Tuesday, wildlife rangers said.
The croc lost a few teeth and suffered bruising but was receiving medical attention, they said.
Four Chinese tourists were rescued after their camper van was swept from a remote causeway in far northern Queensland into high waters, police said.
None of the group, which included a 75-year-old, could swim and they huddled on the vehicle's roof for more than an hour before being winched to safety suffering mild hypothermia.
Monday, February 2, 2009
How I Almost Won the Superbowl for the Cardinals
*Photo Courtesy of NY TimesRemember when the Cardinals got a first down on the 26-yard line with 5 minutes left and then penalized themselves out of field goal range? And then James Harrison beat the shit out of someone for no reason after the punt but luckily the Steelers had already recovered the punt by the time the refs made the call? Well, the Steelers were back on their one and I was praying for a safety or at least a stop, and then on 3rd down, when a sack seemed imminent, Ben Roethlesberger, who will one day be recruited to Wrestlemania, somehow found an open player for a first down. It just seemed hopeless so I started shouting, "throw a flag! throw a flag!" And suddenly the yellow flag icon appeared on the screen: holding on the defense, automatic safety. It's just too bad the entire Pittsburg secondary couldn't catch Larry Fitzgerald... Watching Ben Roethlesberger storm down the field was like watching the giant armored trolls bludgeon the innocent women and children of Minas Tirith with their 10 ft long beast clubs in LOTR: Return of the King.
Friday, January 30, 2009
The Power of Computer Science
I generated this text RANDOMLY using a 7th order Markov model using "Parodissimo: An Extremely Long Night" as my starter template. The order determines how closely it fits to the original text. For example order 1 has difficulty making words, whereas 10 pretty much returns the original text. If you want to know more about how it works, you can ask me.
If you want to send me some text, I can generate new random text.
IT BEGINS HERE... (completely unedited)
smokier, which sent me spinning, was a place had dwindled down a little drunk, and it was the Sex in the tub, and, let me tell you, that's when it happened the sneaking suspicion that the smoke at all. The temperature started to drop fast, so that things started running for the bar tender, who was standing petrified, with the light.
Anyhow, I was touching your eyes.
For a moment it was surrounding us. Also, the TVs were giving each other as if we were all wheeled around in surprise--some of the static-y, both at once. The static-y, both at once. The sound of there--and not on account of it being night time. And it was also definitely getting darker since I've been a while since I've been a while since I've been able to describe, but I had developed a little drunk, and it was too much adrenaline petered out--I swear I've never been sleeping in slowly. And then all hell broke loose. I started to drop fast, so that things starting to play it. The bar was spelled "Sasasas" but pronounced with the wall in a wisp of smoke I had the sneaking suspicion that things started to drop fast, so the bar was pretty hilarious that we had caught our breath, we just stood there, bent over, huffing and stumbled backwards through the water running, was a place had been getting smokier, which could write about in my life. We just started shouting and stumbled backwards into me from behind and then the TVs went to the few hardcore fans: me, two other this weird look. They were giving each other this weird look. They were giving off this eerie glow that we had gotten so scared in my blog. But it was pretty hilarious that was getting scattered through the mist, so the bar was spelled "Sasasas" but pronounced with the water running for the bathroom door. What I saw the ghost using my back in the tub, and, let me tell you, that's when it happened! We were surprised to be cousins who had ditched on their family reunion. It might have just started to feel weird. The audience had been getting scatt
If you want to send me some text, I can generate new random text.
IT BEGINS HERE... (completely unedited)
smokier, which sent me spinning, was a place had dwindled down a little drunk, and it was the Sex in the tub, and, let me tell you, that's when it happened the sneaking suspicion that the smoke at all. The temperature started to drop fast, so that things started running for the bar tender, who was standing petrified, with the light.
Anyhow, I was touching your eyes.
For a moment it was surrounding us. Also, the TVs were giving each other as if we were all wheeled around in surprise--some of the static-y, both at once. The static-y, both at once. The sound of there--and not on account of it being night time. And it was also definitely getting darker since I've been a while since I've been a while since I've been able to describe, but I had developed a little drunk, and it was too much adrenaline petered out--I swear I've never been sleeping in slowly. And then all hell broke loose. I started to drop fast, so that things starting to play it. The bar was spelled "Sasasas" but pronounced with the wall in a wisp of smoke I had the sneaking suspicion that things started to drop fast, so the bar was pretty hilarious that we had caught our breath, we just stood there, bent over, huffing and stumbled backwards through the water running, was a place had been getting smokier, which could write about in my life. We just started shouting and stumbled backwards into me from behind and then the TVs went to the few hardcore fans: me, two other this weird look. They were giving each other this weird look. They were giving off this eerie glow that we had gotten so scared in my blog. But it was pretty hilarious that was getting scattered through the mist, so the bar was spelled "Sasasas" but pronounced with the water running for the bathroom door. What I saw the ghost using my back in the tub, and, let me tell you, that's when it happened! We were surprised to be cousins who had ditched on their family reunion. It might have just started to feel weird. The audience had been getting scatt
Thursday, January 29, 2009
The Sexiest Man on Earth
An Homage to Adam Rubin
A/S/L
Age: 22
Sex: Male
Location: Princeton, NJ
Corporeal Dimensions
Height: 5'6.5"
Width: 1'2"
Depth: 8km
Mass: 9.3 stone
Muscle tone: Beach Bod
Physique: Strapping Lad
Pigmentation
Skin: Mayonaise
Hair: Ribbed Chenille Blonde
Eyes: Lapis Lazuli
Areola: Soft Doe Brown
Perineum: Aqua Velva
Pubis: Mahogany
Height: 5'6.5"
Width: 1'2"
Depth: 8km
Mass: 9.3 stone
Muscle tone: Beach Bod
Physique: Strapping Lad
Pigmentation
Skin: Mayonaise
Hair: Ribbed Chenille Blonde
Eyes: Lapis Lazuli
Areola: Soft Doe Brown
Perineum: Aqua Velva
Pubis: Mahogany
Personality
Zodiac: Scorpio
Birthstone: Topaz
Major Traits: Charming, Debonair, Compassionate, and Uppity
Minor Traits: Cuddly, Emotilogical, Loyal, Teamwork
Defining Moment Since Birth: The first time he made love to his wife in Harvest Moon.
Pet Peeves: SUVs, Final Fantasy, and manginess.
Hobbies
1. Running
2. Gym
3. Watching Sports
4. Roller Hockey
5. Basketball
6. Trainspotting
Faves
Favorite Food: Parmesan Crusted Tenderloin
Favorite Color: Asian Orange Blue
Favorite Film: The Shawshank Redemption
Favorite Board Game: Dirty Minds
Favorite Animal: Chipmunk
Favorite Super Smash Brothers Level: Kirby's Dream Land
Favorite Bedtime Story: Spider-man
161 Days of Word of the Day
Friends of the Day?
vacuous: showing no intelligence or thought (BS)
unconscionable: not influenced or guided by conscience (J)
sallow: having a sickly, yellowish color (NL)
rancor: extreme hatred or spite (J)
qualitative: concerned with quality or qualities (SC)
pandiculation: an instinctive stretching, as on awakening or yawning (AJR)
obscure: hard to understand (JC)
narcolepsy: a disorder characterize by uncontrollable bouts of sleepiness during the daytime (AJR)
iconoclast: a person who attacks cherished beliefs or institutions as foolish or wrong (J)
hapless: unfortunate (J)
fastidious: extremely refined or critical (SC)
eclectic: selecting and using what seems best from various sources or systems (AG)
beleaguer: to surround with troops (We beleaguered J's house.)
yegg: a burglar who robs safes (if you relax your definition of 'safe', NL)
oblique: not straightforward (JC)
laggard: a person or thing that moves too slowly or falls behind (NL)
jaded: worn out (AJR)
dastard: a mean coward
caitiff: a mean, cowardly person
emollient: something that softens or soothes (AJR)
amatory: expressing love, especially sexual (AJR)
frowzy: dirty and untidy
horripilation: the act or process of the hair bristling on the skin, as from cold or fear
epicure: a person who is very particular in partaking in fine foods and beverages (SC)
otiose: lazy (BS)
aficionado: an enthusiastic admirer (AJR)
circumlocution: the use of many words to express an idea that might be expressed by few (AG)
implacable: not to be appeased (J)
rubicund: inclining to redness (J)
slugabed: one who stays in bed until a late hour (AG)
verbiage: an abundance of words (AG)
panache: dash or flamboyance in manner or style (AJR)
melee: a fight or hand-to-hand struggle in which the combatants are mingled in one confused mass (BS, AJR, J, AG, JC, SC, NL)
undulate: to move in, or have, waves (AJR)
tintinnabulation: a tinkling sound, as of a bell or bells (AJR)
torrid: characterized by intense emotion (J)
plaintive: expressive of sorrow or melancholy (J)
Vote for your favorites.
vacuous: showing no intelligence or thought (BS)
unconscionable: not influenced or guided by conscience (J)
sallow: having a sickly, yellowish color (NL)
rancor: extreme hatred or spite (J)
qualitative: concerned with quality or qualities (SC)
pandiculation: an instinctive stretching, as on awakening or yawning (AJR)
obscure: hard to understand (JC)
narcolepsy: a disorder characterize by uncontrollable bouts of sleepiness during the daytime (AJR)
iconoclast: a person who attacks cherished beliefs or institutions as foolish or wrong (J)
hapless: unfortunate (J)
fastidious: extremely refined or critical (SC)
eclectic: selecting and using what seems best from various sources or systems (AG)
beleaguer: to surround with troops (We beleaguered J's house.)
yegg: a burglar who robs safes (if you relax your definition of 'safe', NL)
oblique: not straightforward (JC)
laggard: a person or thing that moves too slowly or falls behind (NL)
jaded: worn out (AJR)
dastard: a mean coward
caitiff: a mean, cowardly person
emollient: something that softens or soothes (AJR)
amatory: expressing love, especially sexual (AJR)
frowzy: dirty and untidy
horripilation: the act or process of the hair bristling on the skin, as from cold or fear
epicure: a person who is very particular in partaking in fine foods and beverages (SC)
otiose: lazy (BS)
aficionado: an enthusiastic admirer (AJR)
circumlocution: the use of many words to express an idea that might be expressed by few (AG)
implacable: not to be appeased (J)
rubicund: inclining to redness (J)
slugabed: one who stays in bed until a late hour (AG)
verbiage: an abundance of words (AG)
panache: dash or flamboyance in manner or style (AJR)
melee: a fight or hand-to-hand struggle in which the combatants are mingled in one confused mass (BS, AJR, J, AG, JC, SC, NL)
undulate: to move in, or have, waves (AJR)
tintinnabulation: a tinkling sound, as of a bell or bells (AJR)
torrid: characterized by intense emotion (J)
plaintive: expressive of sorrow or melancholy (J)
Vote for your favorites.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Two hours later...
We find out that Logitech X-530 speakers suck, because they're only compatible with a PC. What the hell? What is the point of surround sound just for a computer? Anyone?
Urban Dumpster
I recently found this toilet stall graffiti very inspiring. It said to me, "Alex, you should put forth effort in all activities, even those that are classically relaxing and require only the participation of your parasympathetic nervous system." Which thought lead me to another realization: what more honest canvas than the off-white plastic of a wayward bathroom stall, visited but once and soon forgotten? Perhaps beyond the existential declarations, indecipherable gang signs, and generously communicated phone numbers, we can peer into the deepest, best-guarded chambers of the mortal mind, wherein dwell the wretched splatterings of our soul, not bright and graceful as we'd hoped and imagined but a pulsating, irregular heap, shapeless and drooling.Have you ever seen a human heart?
It's disgusting.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Parodissimo: An Extremely Long Night
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Wednesday, January 14, 2009
God vs. Logic
Tonight, after four CS103 (Logic) lectures, I tried to disprove the existence of God. My strategy was to use one of the many paradoxical facets (e.g. Free Will) of Christian theology to show that the contradictions precluded the existence of a supreme being. It's probably already been pointed out to you that if God is omnipotent He could create something He was incapable of destroying or lifting, which would make him im(omni)potent. One way to argue this paradox is by applying a time dimension, i.e. God can create something He cannot destroy, but as soon as He creates it, He is capable of destroying it. Or some quasi-state in which God is both capable and incapable of destroying it. But that's not very logical. Plus, the whole point of bringing up these conundrums is to watch the religious people squirm. So I thought, why not throw insult to injury? Maybe if I could couch this inconsistency in a formal logical proof, replete with valid inferential justifications and esoteric logic laws (e.g. Modus Ponens), I could further fluster the novice theologians of the world.
I make no claims as to the novelty of this enterprise (I'm sure there's a complete logical dis-proof of God out there somewhere, but I will refrain from searching for it for the time being, to ensure my work is 100% original. So, without further ado, I present my first attempt to ascend the Tower of Babel:
I begin with five premises, which I hope are incontrovertible.
Note:
P(x) → Q(x): If P, then Q.
∀x P(x): P(x) for every x
∃x P(x): There exists an x such that P(x)
¬ P(x): Not P(x)
1. If God exists, He is omnipotent.
Formally: If x is God then x is omnipotent.
G(x) → O(x)
2. Only God is omnipotent.
If and only if x is God is x omnipotent.
G(x) ↔ O(x)
3. An omnipotent being can create anything.
If x is omnipotent, then for anything y, x can make y.
O(x) → ∀y C(x,y)
4. An omnipotent being can destroy anything.
If x is omnipotent, then for anything y, x can destroy y.
O(x) → ∀y D(x,y)
5. An indestructible object cannot be destroyed.
An object x that is indestructible cannot be destroyed by anything y.
I(x) → ∀y ¬D(y,x)
Now, from these five premises, I infer the rest...
6. If an indestructible object exists, then nothing can destroy it.
If there is an indestructible object x, then there is an object x which no thing y can destroy.
∃x I(x) → ∃x∀y ¬D(y,x) [Existential Generalization, 5]
7. If an indestructible object exists, then there is an object that all things cannot destroy.
If there is an indestructible object x, then for any entity, there is an object it cannot destroy.
∃x∀y ¬D(y,x) → ∀x∃y ¬D(x,y) [Magic x for all y, 6]
8. If there is an object that all things cannot destroy, then no thing can destroy all objects.
∀x∃y ¬D(x,y) ≡ ¬∃x∀y D(x,y) [De Morgan's Law for Quantifiers, 7]
9. If an indestructible object exists, then there is no thing that can destroy all objects.
∃x I(x) → ¬∃x∀y D(x,y) [Hypothetical Syllogism, 6,7,8]
10. If an omnipotent being exists, then a thing that can destroy anything exists.
∃x O(x) → ∃x∀y D(x,y) [Existential Generalism, 4]
11. If there is no thing that can destroy all objects, then an omnipotent being does not exist.
¬∃x∀y D(x,y) → ¬∃x O(x) [Modus tollens, 9, 10]
12. If an indestructible object exists, then an omnipotent being does not exist.
∃x I(x) → ¬∃x O(x) [Hypothetical Syllogism, 9, 11]
13. If an omnipotent being does not exist, God does not exist.
¬∃x O(x) → ¬∃x G(x) [Modus tollens, Existential Generalism, 1, 12]
14. If an indestructible object exists, God does not exist.
∃x I(x) → ¬∃x G(x) [Hypothetical Syllogism, 12, 13]
At this point, I could continue to show that God can create an indestructible object. But then I'm stuck, because nothing stipulates that the indestructible object actually exists. And I can't include its existence as a premise, because most likely it doesn't exist.Hence, I need to find a way either to show that (a) if an indestructible object does not exist, God does not exist, or (b) convince God to make an indestructible object. Because, as I have it now (and this is the funny part), until God actually makes the indestructible object, I cannot disprove his existence!
So that's it. God can make an object he cannot destroy. He just doesn't want to. Paradox solved.
I make no claims as to the novelty of this enterprise (I'm sure there's a complete logical dis-proof of God out there somewhere, but I will refrain from searching for it for the time being, to ensure my work is 100% original. So, without further ado, I present my first attempt to ascend the Tower of Babel:
I begin with five premises, which I hope are incontrovertible.
Note:
P(x) → Q(x): If P, then Q.
∀x P(x): P(x) for every x
∃x P(x): There exists an x such that P(x)
¬ P(x): Not P(x)
1. If God exists, He is omnipotent.
Formally: If x is God then x is omnipotent.
G(x) → O(x)
2. Only God is omnipotent.
If and only if x is God is x omnipotent.
G(x) ↔ O(x)
3. An omnipotent being can create anything.
If x is omnipotent, then for anything y, x can make y.
O(x) → ∀y C(x,y)
4. An omnipotent being can destroy anything.
If x is omnipotent, then for anything y, x can destroy y.
O(x) → ∀y D(x,y)
5. An indestructible object cannot be destroyed.
An object x that is indestructible cannot be destroyed by anything y.
I(x) → ∀y ¬D(y,x)
Now, from these five premises, I infer the rest...
6. If an indestructible object exists, then nothing can destroy it.
If there is an indestructible object x, then there is an object x which no thing y can destroy.
∃x I(x) → ∃x∀y ¬D(y,x) [Existential Generalization, 5]
7. If an indestructible object exists, then there is an object that all things cannot destroy.
If there is an indestructible object x, then for any entity, there is an object it cannot destroy.
∃x∀y ¬D(y,x) → ∀x∃y ¬D(x,y) [Magic x for all y, 6]
8. If there is an object that all things cannot destroy, then no thing can destroy all objects.
∀x∃y ¬D(x,y) ≡ ¬∃x∀y D(x,y) [De Morgan's Law for Quantifiers, 7]
9. If an indestructible object exists, then there is no thing that can destroy all objects.
∃x I(x) → ¬∃x∀y D(x,y) [Hypothetical Syllogism, 6,7,8]
10. If an omnipotent being exists, then a thing that can destroy anything exists.
∃x O(x) → ∃x∀y D(x,y) [Existential Generalism, 4]
11. If there is no thing that can destroy all objects, then an omnipotent being does not exist.
¬∃x∀y D(x,y) → ¬∃x O(x) [Modus tollens, 9, 10]
12. If an indestructible object exists, then an omnipotent being does not exist.
∃x I(x) → ¬∃x O(x) [Hypothetical Syllogism, 9, 11]
13. If an omnipotent being does not exist, God does not exist.
¬∃x O(x) → ¬∃x G(x) [Modus tollens, Existential Generalism, 1, 12]
14. If an indestructible object exists, God does not exist.
∃x I(x) → ¬∃x G(x) [Hypothetical Syllogism, 12, 13]
At this point, I could continue to show that God can create an indestructible object. But then I'm stuck, because nothing stipulates that the indestructible object actually exists. And I can't include its existence as a premise, because most likely it doesn't exist.Hence, I need to find a way either to show that (a) if an indestructible object does not exist, God does not exist, or (b) convince God to make an indestructible object. Because, as I have it now (and this is the funny part), until God actually makes the indestructible object, I cannot disprove his existence!
So that's it. God can make an object he cannot destroy. He just doesn't want to. Paradox solved.
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