Back from Canada, I am.

June 30, 2003

Back from Canada, I am. Off to Mexico, I am. North America truly is the most Northern of the American continents, and the most American of the Northern continents. Also, home to the world’s longest non-militarized border, which is pretty swanky as well.

In other news, man with sword kills 2 at grocery. Seriously, go read the article. “As he roamed the store, employees armed with barbecue utensils, mayonnaise jars and trashcan lids tried to corner him.” Mayonnaise jars: what aren’t they good for?

I’m not quite sure how

June 26, 2003

I’m not quite sure how it happened, but last night somehow a commercial for the DVD of Kangaroo Jack spawned an hours-long heated argument that covered topics as varied as magical orphans, the strength of five gorillas, the infallibility of the pope, and the acts of the apostles. During the course of this discussion, such references as dictionary.com, the Catholic Encyclopedia, two copies of the Holy Bible, some kind of general religious reference text, and our good friend liquid bread were consulted.

Personally, I suspect the hand of Yuengling, otherwise a fine beer, in instigating this matter somehow. Or perhaps the Auff is to blame.

I was able, thankfully, to eventually turn the ensuing heated debate of useless catholic dogma and other assorted bullshit into a heated debate of Aqua Teen Hunger Force. Walking home, though, that somehow turned into an even more heated debate on automatic transmissions and their failure.

Damn, I haven’t even begun talking about yesterday’s other occurrences, like the orgy of nerding that took place in the CUCC, or the hilarious condition of the loading dock afterwards, and Hak’s comm seminar. Whatever, I do what I want.

There’s nothing quite like an

June 24, 2003

There’s nothing quite like an evening with your mother and her best friend that includes 6 pints of Guinness and a reading of Ulysses, all brought to you by the friendly folks at the Swift Hibernian Lounge over on East 4th.

There’s also nothing quite like a sentence as full of tooltips as the previous one. Nor is there anything very much like Hawksley Workman’s recent release, (last night we were) the delicious wolves, unless you count his previous work. It’s good and all, and his voice has some kind of oddly enjoyable beauty despite its quirks, but the man is obviously quite insane, not that I’m complaining.

Soon, as if by magic, a nice digital camera should be arriving at my doorstep. How I loathe the internet and credit cards.

Final non-sequitur of the moment: the story of the luckiest man in the world. He survives various automobile and even airplane crashes, along with 4 marriages, then goes on to win the lottery. Truly, a model for us all.

First of all: Fuck you,

June 17, 2003

First of all: Fuck you, Senator Hatch!

Also: The Onion is absolutely fucking amazing this week. “U.S. Refuses To Allow U.N. Weapons Inspectors Back Into Iraq”… They’ve outdone themselves. My horoscope was pretty dope, as well.

The more I desperately try to do British-style crossword puzzles, the more I realize (a) how rad they are and (b) how absolutely insane the people who can do them consistently are.

Hear ye, hear ye! Let

June 17, 2003

Hear ye, hear ye! Let it be known that the decision to drink as penance must not be entered into lightly. Sure, pain can be quite a good thing, and the redemption it brings is without price, but for heaven’s sake, there is a right way and quite a few wrong ways to go about this. You’ll want to drink enough that your prayers to the porcelain god are on their way that night, not the next morning. If you don’t start puking until the alcohol’s already left your system, you won’t stop puking for about a million years, as your body will decide, for some reason, that not even your own bilious secretions are fit to remain in your stomach. If your body won’t even let bile occupy your gut, there’s no chance that cup of water, bagel-half, or glass of mimosa you’ve got your eye on will stay down, either.

After a few hours of vomiting, you might be tempted to think that it’s over, and that you can safely have a sip of water to clean out the taste of your digestive tract from your mouth. Do not stray down this path, for whatever strays down your gullet, no matter how innocuous, will soon find itself being propelled upwards and out by peristaltic forces beyond your direct control.

On the plus side, after going through the type of ordeal discussed above, you’ll likely have forgotten all about whatever compelled you to mortify yourself; I can only imagine that this means absolution is yours. Also, remember that there’s no better way to celebrate the inauguration of your friend’s new deck than by vomiting off and under it. Vomit on the deck, however, and may God have mercy on your soul. Also sprach Zarathustra, or so I’m told.

In other news, I have mixed feelings about my first encounter with Smirnoff Sour-Apple Flavoured Vodka. On one hand, it’s delicious. On the other hand, reread the above and use your imagination. ^_^;;

To begin, I present a

June 13, 2003

To begin, I present a few observations.

First among them is that it’s probably not very good that I’ve pulled four ‘all-nighters’ in the past week and a half in vain attempts to reset my sleep cycle to something approaching sanity. The way it’s supposed to work is like this: you woke up way too late to accomplish anything or to be tired enough to go to sleep at anything approaching a reasonable hour. OK, no biggie, you just stay up until a reasonable hour tomorrow, by which point you’ll be hella tired and have an easy time falling asleep. Then you just sleep for a bit and wake up at a reasonable hour and presto, you’re back to a good regular cycle. Unfortunately, I think I’ve accidentally turned my sleep cycle into the worst possible thing ever: regular sleep (at godawful times) interspersed with all-nighters at frequent intervals. Fcuk.

In other news, I recently discovered the wonders of the Family Guy drinking game, which works thusly: each player chooses (or is assigned) one (or more) characters on the show. Every time his character(s) speak a line, he drinks. Having partaken of this game while watching “I Never Met the Dead Man” and drinking for Brian and Lois (splitting Lois with the Cos), I made the following discovery: this game keeps you drunk. I’d have said it “gets you drunk” if not for the fact that I can’t vouch for the validity of that statement, seeing as I began the game after staying up 30 hours (see above) and consuming 3 pints and a six-pack. Further testing is necessary.

Two weeks ago, or thereabouts,

June 11, 2003

Two weeks ago, or thereabouts, I downloaded the mp3s for Radiohead’s new album, Hail To The Thief. There I was, listening to the stuff, when it occurred to me that it was good shit. “I like this music,” I said to myself, “It’s simultaneously reminiscent of all of Radiohead’s previous work, much of which was absolutely phenomenal. Also, they decided to play some damn guitars on this album, which is a nice change of pace for them.” Having listened to the album in mp3 form repeatedly, I resolved to buy the CD the day it came out (today, June the 10th). You see, Kazaa did what it is very good at doing: acting as a giant advertisement for music and other electronically-transferable data.

So that brings our tale to earlier today, when the album was released. Being a lazy sack of crap, I didn’t pick up a copy until 6:30 as I was heading to my Colour class. I just hucked it in my bag and didn’t look at it until later, when it turned out it was the Canadian version of the CD. No problem, right? Yeah, except for the fü¢kïng copy protection on it, which politely crashed Explorer on my computer when I put it in my drive to listen to it. Maybe I wouldn’t have cared, if it hadn’t turned out that the mp3s I’d downloaded previously were a different mix from what was on the CD proper (judging from the first 10 seconds of the first track, which managed to play successfully before all hell broke loose). Since the store I got the CD from was already closed, I ran to my local Virgin Oligopoly Store to get a copy of the US release, ostensibly free of computer-breaking crap. Success! You know what? There’s a surprising amount of people at the Virgin Records in Union Square at 11:00 on a Tuesday night. Surprising to me, at least.

All is good now, basically; I’ve got a working CD and it’s already been ripped to mp3s which are residing in my giant winamp playlist. Too bad I had to spend $30 on a $15 CD for that to happen. I’d better be able to return the shite copy tomorrow… I’d be happy to accept store credit, even, since there’s bunches of other music I need to buy. But damn, I’m incensed about this copy protection bullshit. E’en more incensed than I was yesterday and earlier, hard to believe as that may be!

What does it mean when your armpits cry stinky tears?

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