It was 101 degrees when I got off the plane

Do you guys know how glad I was when this blog went bold on Google Reader?

Home's pretty okay-- nice to see the fam but I don't think I could spend more than a week here before I became REALLY bored.

My favorite moment so far was at Jonah's award ceremony the other night. He was receiving an award for participation in the special olympics. Of course, when they called his name, he was too scared to get up in front of everyone, so he threw himself on the floor and covered his ears. As his big sister, knowing what's best for him, I dragged him up to the edge of the crowd, pulled him to his feet, and pushed him out into the open.

Quickly, he realized how much he loved this attention. So many people standing and clapping, all just for HIM! So he walked as slowly as possible, pausing on occasion to cup his hand over his ear and urge the crowd on for more clapping with his other arm. If it died down, he would start it up again. He finally made it up to the front (to accept the award from our mother, btw, the head of the school board), when he took an ENORMOUS bow and spent at least one more full minute creeping away while applauding himself before I dragged him off. I thought I would die with laughter. He cannot NOT make a scene.

Hope you guys are having more eventful times than I am... Off to Oregon on Sunday though! Terrifying.

brawlmore

I mentioned this to a lot of people, but the Baltimore Freedom Academy is one of the coolest places in the world. I might work there after I graduate. It's a charter school, so they don't have to do standardized testing. There's about 400 students overall, chosen by lottery through the Baltimore City system. The curriculum is open. It's all project-based learning. So teaching geometry would involve, for example, planning and building a garden. Teaching government would involve doing research and interviews with city social workers.

My mom might teach English there next year. She just had an interview.

When she went in, she ran into Bill Zorzi.



Zorzi wrote for The Baltimore Sun for 20 years, and then was a writer for The Wire. He actually played himself in the 5th season, if anyone recognizes him. He is now the journalism teacher at the Freedom Academy.

According to wikipedia, "As a reporter Zorzi has been described as tough and cranky...He is an acerbic and profane presence." Kind of an understatement for anyone that has seen the show.

Post-Carleton, if I worked at a 400-student charter school with my mom and Bill Zorzi, I'd be pretty happy.

In other home news, I'm happy, busy and sweaty (it's miserably humid). I've gone to the zoo, 2 hangout roofs and 3 of my favorite restaurants in less than 24 hours.

I'm particularly excited about seeing these guys on Saturday:

Overheard in Charlottesville

Hey.

As I walked back to the lab from lunch today I overheard two really depressing conversations. Both occurred within the same 2 block span in designated smoking areas outside of the hospital. Both people speaking were older ladies. And both were weathered looking, low level hospital employees. The conversations are transcribed as best as I can remember, meaning nearly verbatim.

Conversation one:

"So then after my husband got laid off and tried to kill himself I decided that I should try to kill myself. After I got out of the hospital we were both put on anti-depressants and it's really strengthened our relationship."

Conversation two:

"That's the problem with marrying an alcoholic: they're either hittin' you 'cause they're drunk, or they're hittin' you 'cause you're tryin' to stop 'em from gettin' drunk."

Summer oh eight boys.

Oh, and here's the video we watched in the backyard the other day. Dan asked me to post it so here it is:



Xoxo

Listen

KNUCK IF U BUCKED THIS BITCH ROUND TOWN.

Summer is around the corner...

Believe me when I say I'm sorry

So a few nights ago, I was hanging around the Reub after closing, and these two shady characters sidled up and asked if I could spare a cigarette or two. "Sure," I said--I was in a good mood, and I've been watching my intake, anyway. So these guys and I smoked and talkd for a while, and ended up hitting it off.

"What're you guys up to now?" I asked.
They exchanged glances, and then looked back at me.
"What're you up to?" one asked in an obviously portentous voice.
"I dunno, what're yooooou up to?" I was pretty drunk, and I suppose this kind of joke might've made you guys laugh a little, but my new friends seemed a little thrown, especially since I couldn't stop laughing at myself.

After a long pause, we all regained our composure. One of the guys--I think he had a goatee--pulled a small phial out of his coat pocket.
"Ever heard of adrenochrome?" he asked?
"Of course," I replied, as if I wasn't lying.
"You want some?"

I've already mentioned that I was pretty drunk. Long story short, I invited the guys back to my place, dropped some adrenochrome into some Wild Turkey, and threw it back. BAD IDEA.

The next thing I knew, it was 3:30 this afternoon and I was shirtless on the living room floor. I still can't remember a thing, but apparently some crazy shit went down, because the house is a shadow of its former self. I'm showing this to you bros assuming you're going to see it soon anyway; there's no way I can mop this up by Sunday:






I guess I've learned my lesson the hard way. I am NEVER doing drugs EVER AGAIN. I promise, you guys, everything will be back the way it was as soon as possible.

For now, maybe this'll cheer you up:I don't know who took this picture, but they took it with my cellphone and then sent it to my T-Mobile photo album. I had no idea it existed until today (I used the same system to take the above photos). How often do I make this face?

C'ville in the news

http://www.cnn.com/2008/CRIME/03/28/interstate.shootings.ap/index.html?iref=mpstoryview

I went to high school with this dude. That track team that they say he was on? Yeah. I was on that team.

It's country out here, I'm tellin' ya.

Xoxoxo

house liveblog

This is the first ever house liveblog.

6:19 PM: Tom just put his shirt back on. Thank god. That was getting distracting and I've got a liveblog to do.

6:20 PM: The song just changed. It was Dr. Dog. Now it's some whiny lady who I've never heard before.

6:22 PM: Tom informs me the band is called "The Do." It's actually pronounced "The Doo," which I find pretentious.

6:22 PM: Tom has been clipping his nails and, sure enough, there is a disgusting heap of nail clippings all over his crotch. Narsty.

6:25 PM: I'm sitting on the floral couch in the living room. Jose De La Torre has slept on this same couch for the past 3 days. I barf a little.

6:27 PM: Tom informs me the band is also French, which excuses the pretentious name, I think.

6:29 PM: I check my e-mail and get something from Chelsea Clinton (I subsribe to the Hillary Clinton listserv for kicks.) This is what she tells me-

Dear James, When I heard that Elton John was throwing a concert in New York for my mom's campaign, I knew it was going to be a night I didn't want to miss. Want to join me there?

I think it's a little scandalous that she would ask me out like that. I forward it to many prominent bloggers.

6:31 PM: Tom informs me that he wants to go to the liquor store and asks if I want to come. I'd like to get pretty soused tonight, so I end a historic liveblog to get some pbr.

JPoole: The Mystery Deepens

Colin: JPoole has been removed from YouPorn. And if you google "jpoole youporn" it shows it was once on the site but is now an invalid link. Shit's nuts. Bros: this will all make sense soon enough.

VA

I've been in Halifax, VA for a couple days now.

Yesterday, my cousins and I went for a NASCAR race, which I enjoyed unironically.

Things to sincerely like about NASCAR races:
1. VRRRRRRRRROOM!
2. People-watching. There's a lot of weird looking people lurking around the stands. People with oddly placed facial hair. People who are obese in weird places.
3. Watching a car pass another car. To do this, you have to get part of your car next to the car in front of you when you're going around the curve. On the straightaway, you then put the pedal to the medal and pass the guy. Both of these things- the positioning to get next to the car, and the burst of speed after- are riveting.
4.Beer. You can bring as much beer as you want.
5. The smell. It's a mix of farts, burning rubber, body odor and fumes.
6. Crashes. When there is a dramatic crash, the entire crowd stands up, points, and says something like "Ooooooh shit!" Drivers don't get hurt because they're so well-protected within the cars. But the smoke and loud noise are exciting.

In my time here, I've also shot a gun, picked a tick from my thigh and drove a pick-up truck.

All y'all are a bunch of fuckin' pussies.

Colin, I just wanna dance with you

I'm sick of reading shit like blah blah blah, I'm getting a job, college is over, I'm a working man, this is when the fun stops. Fuck that. When I get out of college I'm only partying harder than ever, I'm gonna take all sorts of pills and take bike rides across the city with hot chicks.

Love of Flying

Hey.

On my flight this afternoon from Minneapolis to Cincinnati, the man sitting one row ahead of me on the opposite side of the aisle fell asleep on his own jowls. He was a fairly rotund man, but even so, his jowls were disproportionately large. I watched him prepare for sleep by kinda burrowing his chin down a little bit until roll after roll of skin folded out from under his neck and collapsed, landing on his shoulder. Comfortably supported from being nestled in his flabs, his head was cushioned and upright. He fell asleep almost instantly.


That man knows how to live.

Happy Spring Break '08 everyone.

it's over

Bros Win Forever, Superbowl XLII Edition

It was one of those things. Does lightning strikes twice? Is Colin eating two pieces of pizza at once?
They were older, wiser.
Dan Buckelieter says: “Jonah, you went from know-nothing to being the guru.”
It is chaos but we grow. Bros Win Forever: one year later, what does it mean?
It’s complicated, you know. That chick kissed that guy, but such is life in the 21st century.
Aluminum, cylindrical, contains that sensual brew. Tom sips it down, wantonly. Gently clasped between his fingers, at the end of his limped wrist, the can alternates red and white. He hasn’t taken a sip for over a minute.
Somewhere in the kitchen a cell phone rings. Erika answers it as she leaves the room. One woman fewer. The bros are winning.
They were buffer, hotter.
Only Eric is smiling. The curls on the corners of everyone else’s lips fall flat, or worse.
It was a different mood from last year. But a superbowl story is a superbowl story. Tom Petty--I mean, what’s there to say? He’s good at what he does. I hope they play “Refugee”.
New Amsterdam?
The lights from the camera begin to flash. A heart appears in the middle of the stage, and the first guitar chords are struck. Suddenly a phallic-appearing guitar explodes into a heart, and some people begin to rush the field. Tom Petty looks cool, composed, like he’s done this a million times before. Only half the eyes in the house are actually paying attention, however. Jonah looks absentmindedly into his computer, Masha is picking some lint off her sweater, and Erinrose and Andrew are heavy into a make out session in the back of the room, taking breaks here and there to munch on veggie chix.
Tom says “Oh yeah,” as he grabs a bottle of Johnnie Walker. Jonah and Tom begin to discuss the situation of a Carleton alum currently teaching at Philips-Exeter. Turns out Andrew went to P-E, Erinrose lets us know as she takes a break from making out. The first song ends. (note to Colin: fuck you, Colin)
I won’t back down. I’m taking this computer out for a joy ride, no matter what Greg says. This stage is collapsible. What times we live in. Hey-ya. You know.
Then a knock came on the door.
“Heron police”
Heron police?
“Underwater crimes? You called the right people. We’re herons. And police. Waterfowl gonna bring you down.”
“Man, I don’t know what you’re even talking about. I’m clean. Been clean since ‘86”
“Oh shit, game over!” Dan Buckleitner yelps, as he makes for the door. Turns out he got in a little trouble at the bottom of the Cannon back in the late 90s, and the heron police had finally caught up with him. He broke for the window, but those herons, man, those fuckers can fly. They had him cornered.
“Alright, Dirty Dan,” the chief of Heron Police bellowed in a deep, sexy baritone, “The jig is up. No more dancing for you, brother. I mean, I can’t take this dance metaphor much further, but I just turned off the fucking music. No more jigging. Confess, or you are smoked salmon, you fuck!”
“I don’t give respect to no fucking birds, man (bird),” Dirty Dan retorted. “Your legs are skinny as fuck. If I just touch your knee, you’re going down!” He proceeded to bust some rhymes:

Danny Buckleitner, hella Mich-y
I’m about to bust some rhymes and feel silly
Born in the burbs, so I came here to rock
Heron Police, you can suck Dirty Dan’s @#$%

You punk ass, you look like a little lady
I’m about to hold it down like Tom Brady
I tip ya ass like I tip the pass
Behind the back, dawg, yo’ ass is straight-up grass

Burn bridges like I’m sick, but my rhymes make me sicka
Check out my photo albums, post ‘em all on Flickr

Dirty Dan then took out a cigarette and smoked it in an act of rebellion.

All of the sudden:
“BROS!”
Randy Moss slammed on the door.
“Randy?” Kevin said.
“You guys,” said Randy, “Have you been wondering why I’m not doing so hot in this super bowl? It’s because I’m not me. That’s a robo in there. Remember the robos?”
“Shiiit!” said Detective Heron. “We musta got a bad tip. You get off easy, Dirty Dan Buck--THIS TIME.”
“Randy, what about the robo? We gotta shut it down. But can we? Can we really stop the course of the superbowl. Life water?”
“I know what you mean my friend,” said Randy, online. “But do we have a choice?”
“I don’t think so,” said Scarlett Johansson, who took a moment off of chomping on Colin’s meaty package to contribute to the conversation.
“Looks like the bros are going to Arizona!” said Greg. There were high fives all around.

Act II, Arizona, the stadium where the super bowl is being played.

A taxi pulls up in front of the stadium. The bros file out.
“I don’t have any cash on my person, you guys got this,” said Greg
“No, you bros have done so much already, Randy Moss has got this,” said Randy Moss. Randy fucking Moss.
“Thanks Randy!” said Dan. But which Dan?
No time to ponder such question, the bros are already on the move, in the underbelly of Arizona University’s labyrinthine stadium.
“Where the fuck did Scarlett go?” Colin asked.
“It doesn’t matter now,” Greg observed, “We’re lost in the labyrinthine underbelly of the University of Arizona’s stadium!”
“Just because you mixed up your word order the second time doesn’t mean that you didn’t just repeat yourself,” said the reader.
“I was repeating myself before you were self-aware, bitch,” Greg retorted postmodernly.
If you hadn’t already figured this out, this isn’t just any labyrinth under the University of Arizona’s stadium. It’s the labyrinth, and the Centaur is fucking pissed. He comes roaring around the corner like a rabid demon from the ninth circle of hell, swinging a monstrous battleaxe.
Luckily, Randy has his game-time wits about him, and proceeds to juke out of the Centaur’s path. “Randy Moss,” says Randy Moss.
Now it’s all in Moss’ head. He’s got a clear path straight to the goal line, which is what Randy Moss calls the exit of the labyrinth. Certain football experts call it the end zone. We disagree. But it’s not up to us. Randy Moss takes it in to the exit (end zone) and tastes freedom.
Suddenly, Ride of the Valkyries started blasting over the speakers. Sarah King started flapping her arms, only to be reminded that Valkyries can’t fly. It’s a weakness of their kind.
The writers tacitly vow to never mention a woman again on any terms that aren’t derogatory and sexual. Here here!
Randy Moss finds himself in the end zone and begins to lift his hands towards God in celebration. But the crowd remains silent. Cruel fate. The ball had not found its way into his hands. Instead, it bounces lopsidedly ten yards behind him and rolls out of bounds. No points here.
Randy moss undoes his chin strap and returns to the sideline, dejected.
“Aw man Randy, we’re sorry,” said Greg.
“Want me to suck on your penis and make you feel better?” said Kevin.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” said Randy.
Eye contact is made between the bros. Who turns down a BJ from Kevz?
“A robo?”
Well done reader.
“I’m really not sure where I come into this scenario,” said the reader, “and what’s more, I’m alienated by Colin’s blowjob fetish. I recommend he get a blowjob for real and stop suppressing his sexual energy.” (Colin’s note: fuck you Tom)
“Nice diagnosis, reader. Maybe I was wrong about you,” Greg complimented, “but we’ve got bigger fish to fry. The Giants just scored a TD, and the Beergurat is only two stories tall. REALITY CHECK (Greg ALWAYS yells in caps)!”
Jeff Gordon was upset. He had been watching the liveblogging from the sidelines, ready to bounce at 180 mph, powering through with more horsepower than you knew existed. NASCAR was a dying sport and he knew it. He was desperate. Something had to be done in order to bring the sport back into prominence. Gordon knew exactly what that was.
“Aha!” cried Jeff Gordon. “I know how to save my “sport”. I’ll have Kurt Warner quarterback my car. He’ll toss my car from here to yaya and victory we‘ll surely be mine. I‘ll be the prettiest car at the race.”
Thus NASCAR was saved from certain doom, except that it isn’t 1999 and Kurt Warner isn’t particularly good anymore. But that isn’ t that important in the context of this epic tale. Unfortunately the world outside Alabama didn’t care that NASCAR was saved. Oh, and Erik Ulberg did, too. You know, Swedish heritage and all. Damn Swedes.
Leah Karels declared a vendetta against all things Swedish.
Except Swedish fish. And ABBA.
Meanwhile, the Giants declared a vendetta against all things badass by not going for it on 4th and 1. Eli Manning proceeded to get fucked by the biggest assholes I know because he is a pussy, and every pussy I know gets fucked by assholes. But maybe that’s just the beer talking.
“Are you pooping on me?” Sarah interrupted.
The rat simply stared at her, beady eyed.
The two stared at each other until Lindsey gripped it, lifted it, and set it on her shoulder. It being the rat.
Meanwhile, it was getting down to the nitty gritty. Whatever that means. We are all Patriots, excluding those who don’t really fall under that category.
Oh my God!!! The 2000 Baltimore Ravens are storming the field demanding the Vince Lombardi trophy. Never mind, Roger Goodell brought to their attention that you have to win your conference to play in the Super Bowl and they went away. Crisis averted, although it looks like Ray Lewis stabbed a couple more people. He also got Leah pregnant. Lucky her.
Imagining Leah pregnant makes me uncomfortable, let’s change the mental image.
The Giants hoist their Super Bowl trophy in the air. Victory.
Wait, scratch that. With 2:42 remaining, the Patriots score. The room groans. The people in the room groan too.
“What an arrogant asshole,” Tom says. I’m not sure to whom he is referring. Probably to Greg, who has been suspiciously absent the second half..
Storm clouds collect, and frogs start raining down on the proceedings. Daniel Day Lewis clobbers some priest with a bowling pin. Mark Wahlberg’s huge prosthetic penis makes an appearance. Yes, folks, the end is approaching, but we still have a few moments of emotional climax, when the outro music plays, and everyone wonders “Did that Paul Thomas Anderson masterpiece really just end?” That is this game. The Patriots have scored. The Giants need a first down, and if they don’t get it, they WILL lose. 4th and 1. Well, Eli Manning, are you Daniel Day Lewis, or that priest guy whose name no one knows?


I’m so, so sorry, Bridget.