The last day of 2004. Good riddance.
Friday, December 31, 2004
Wednesday, December 29, 2004
Bangor has a quasi-professional baseball team now that I've gone. To my *infinite* delight, the team is called "The Bangor Lumberjacks", and the burly, red-headed mascot is "Jack Timber." Note the symbol for the team: a bat-axe. My GOD, this is genius. I will spend the rest of my time here roving the town looking, hopefully not in vain, for merchandise.
19.
Today, the Maine Bureau for Somethingorother came forth with the official number of persons murdered in the Pine Tree State for 2004.
Nineteen.
Nineteen people were murdered in THE ENTIRE STATE OF MAINE IN 2004. This is the highest number recorded in Maine's history.
Places Rated Almanac rated Bangor, Maine, as the third safest community to live in in the United States. So, because you are all cruel, you are thinking:
1) Since there are, like, fifty people who live in Maine, isn't that a terrifying statistic rather than a comforting one?
2) Aren't y'all too busy gutting moose and rubbing frostbite off to kill?
3) Maine? Isn't that near Boston somewhere?
Of course, the number of people lost to the undead and to Paul Bunyan's murderous rage--and, we can't forget about the clown--well, that number goes unreported. For good reason: Maine is Vacationland! 1/4 of our state's revenue! Don't go out after dusk!
The new year is rapidly approaching, and I would be lying through my pointy teeth if I said that I wasn't ready to be utterly quit of 2004. It's been a nasty, bitter year for the Dom-ster. I've been formulating my New Year's resolutions for quite some time. I have, in past years, thought that New Year's resolutions were hokey wastes of my precious, albeit bizarre, time. One, and only one of these will be the Big Winner!
I resolve to not laugh when nuns trip on ice.
I resolve to no longer ask for "extra gravy" when I order...uh... gravy.
I resolve to stop spending so much of my paycheck on grain alcohol.
I resolve to no longer support the 2008 Genocides with financial donations.
I resolve to spend more time with my friends/loved ones and balance my life more.
My bet's on the nun one.
This morning I woke up and ate my favorite fatty treat: bacon. Mmmm... greasy, fatty shards of pork...
Have a great night, Bangor.
Dom
Nineteen.
Nineteen people were murdered in THE ENTIRE STATE OF MAINE IN 2004. This is the highest number recorded in Maine's history.
Places Rated Almanac rated Bangor, Maine, as the third safest community to live in in the United States. So, because you are all cruel, you are thinking:
1) Since there are, like, fifty people who live in Maine, isn't that a terrifying statistic rather than a comforting one?
2) Aren't y'all too busy gutting moose and rubbing frostbite off to kill?
3) Maine? Isn't that near Boston somewhere?
Of course, the number of people lost to the undead and to Paul Bunyan's murderous rage--and, we can't forget about the clown--well, that number goes unreported. For good reason: Maine is Vacationland! 1/4 of our state's revenue! Don't go out after dusk!
The new year is rapidly approaching, and I would be lying through my pointy teeth if I said that I wasn't ready to be utterly quit of 2004. It's been a nasty, bitter year for the Dom-ster. I've been formulating my New Year's resolutions for quite some time. I have, in past years, thought that New Year's resolutions were hokey wastes of my precious, albeit bizarre, time. One, and only one of these will be the Big Winner!
I resolve to not laugh when nuns trip on ice.
I resolve to no longer ask for "extra gravy" when I order...uh... gravy.
I resolve to stop spending so much of my paycheck on grain alcohol.
I resolve to no longer support the 2008 Genocides with financial donations.
I resolve to spend more time with my friends/loved ones and balance my life more.
My bet's on the nun one.
This morning I woke up and ate my favorite fatty treat: bacon. Mmmm... greasy, fatty shards of pork...
Have a great night, Bangor.
Dom
Tuesday, December 28, 2004
OK, what the hell?
Today I went to the mall. The Bangor Mall. 98 stores and kiosks worth of "friendly" sales staff, certainly NOT picked-over wares, and many many many children who were bored to the point of death and looking for something to loot or vandalize.
Best of all: the Dollar Store. Inside was a dizzying array of crap ripe for the picking. In the back, in the rapidly depleting "Holliday"--yes, misspelled--section, I found three polyresin Wise Men. As mentioned before I have a freakish affinity for those magi. When I walked up to the checkout counter, I expected the perky saleswoman (and by "perky" I mean listless) to say "Three dollars and 15 cents", but instead, she said "One dollar and fifty-eight cents." They were half off, in case you, too, were a liberal arts major.
The freakishness:
My Ozarkland St. Anthony de Padua ALSO cost $1.58. To the penny.
The implications are thus:
1) Anytime I purchase polyresin Judeo-Christian statuary it will, inevitably, cost $1.58. This is regardless of how many statues (apparently) are purchased.
2) This is, surely, a sign that I must become a priest. I'll jockey to be sent for missionary work in some freakish, humid (Godless!) country, where I will use my razor-honed anthro-senses to learn about the people whose cultures we will systematically destroy.
Sigh.
Have a good night, Bangor.
Lumberjack Dom
Best of all: the Dollar Store. Inside was a dizzying array of crap ripe for the picking. In the back, in the rapidly depleting "Holliday"--yes, misspelled--section, I found three polyresin Wise Men. As mentioned before I have a freakish affinity for those magi. When I walked up to the checkout counter, I expected the perky saleswoman (and by "perky" I mean listless) to say "Three dollars and 15 cents", but instead, she said "One dollar and fifty-eight cents." They were half off, in case you, too, were a liberal arts major.
The freakishness:
My Ozarkland St. Anthony de Padua ALSO cost $1.58. To the penny.
The implications are thus:
1) Anytime I purchase polyresin Judeo-Christian statuary it will, inevitably, cost $1.58. This is regardless of how many statues (apparently) are purchased.
2) This is, surely, a sign that I must become a priest. I'll jockey to be sent for missionary work in some freakish, humid (Godless!) country, where I will use my razor-honed anthro-senses to learn about the people whose cultures we will systematically destroy.
Sigh.
Have a good night, Bangor.
Lumberjack Dom
Monday, December 27, 2004
Bitter Bobby's rebuttal.
Today I was reorganizing some of my remaining possessions here in Bangor (and, by reorganizing, I mean "packing up and taking up to the frigid bat-infested attic), I came across a paper I wrote my senior year about starting a business in Papua New Guinea. It was a lame final project for my "Peoples of the Pacific" class. When I saw the paper, the gorge rose in my throat, but I couldn't remember why. Had I gotten a bad grade on it? I flipped quickly to the back and saw the hard-won A-. Then I saw it: the commentary written underneath. Ooooh, the commentary. Here goes! Feast on the evil.
(Following commentary on the paper)
"Stylewise, I hope you will forgive me for saying, you have some significant writing problems. Your punctuation seems OK, but you are quite 'wordy', your sentence constructions are often unnecessarily complex (and sometimes incorrect) and your word choice is quite often inapproriate. Please don't take this as a blast of criticism; I'm just wanting to alert you to difficulties that I think need your attention. By all means, run through my handout again and, if you've not already got it, get a hold of Strunk and White (see syllabus). One can improve writing style, but it takes a lot of hard work and practice - I know this from experience."
I remember sitting in my desk-chair reading that and thinking: when does Professor (Blankety-blank!) go home? Did he drive today? How much will it hurt when I cut his Achilles heels out from under his car, where I've been lurking for hours?
Of course, he couldn't help it: he's British. Yet it cut me, cut me so deeply!
(The Kahlua Mudslide is taking the edge off.)
It's been three years since he wrote that. But in the end, HE doesn't have a blog that people read! Just those big, scholarly books and articles about New Guinea that have made him world-famous! Dammit!
Have a great night, Bangor.
Lumberjack Dom
(Following commentary on the paper)
"Stylewise, I hope you will forgive me for saying, you have some significant writing problems. Your punctuation seems OK, but you are quite 'wordy', your sentence constructions are often unnecessarily complex (and sometimes incorrect) and your word choice is quite often inapproriate. Please don't take this as a blast of criticism; I'm just wanting to alert you to difficulties that I think need your attention. By all means, run through my handout again and, if you've not already got it, get a hold of Strunk and White (see syllabus). One can improve writing style, but it takes a lot of hard work and practice - I know this from experience."
I remember sitting in my desk-chair reading that and thinking: when does Professor (Blankety-blank!) go home? Did he drive today? How much will it hurt when I cut his Achilles heels out from under his car, where I've been lurking for hours?
Of course, he couldn't help it: he's British. Yet it cut me, cut me so deeply!
(The Kahlua Mudslide is taking the edge off.)
It's been three years since he wrote that. But in the end, HE doesn't have a blog that people read! Just those big, scholarly books and articles about New Guinea that have made him world-famous! Dammit!
Have a great night, Bangor.
Lumberjack Dom
Sunday, December 26, 2004
Okula gittim.
"I went to school."
Thursday afternoon I went with Marleina to her two wee schools to enlighten youngsters about the glories of the Land of the Galloping Mare's Head (Turkey, duh). I spent time with three classes at the Cave Hill School. I talked a lot. I showed a lot of pictures. I wrote a lot of Turkish on wipe/blackboards. In the end, I'm proud to say that those children went home knowing these things:
1) Turks poop in ceramic holes in the ground, and do so while standing up.
2) There are things older than their parents ( gasp!) in Turkey.
3) They know how to say "elf" in a Uralo-Altaic language.
Of course, the children were flying high on about ten pounds of sugary treats apiece, and there was a hum in the air of eager anticipation and the almondy stench of revolution. There are many of them; so few of us. I learned a few things, too. Children don't want to learn how to diagram a Turkish sentence. Children who live in wee Maine towns called "villages" and whose parents make livings from the sea will not have heard of a weird religion called Islam. But, I also learned to latch on to that one kid in the class, the singular one, who is paying attention and will actually be affected by what you say. I don't know how teachers do it, day in and day out, giving and giving until they could puke coathangers only to have kids ask:
"So, do those people pee in that hole, too?"
Today I have spent most of the day tending to my eye, which looks like I was at the recieving end of a linebacker's suckerpunch. I've showered and eaten but I haven't yet gone outside, which is fine with me. For the first time in a long time, I have been able to sit in front of a television and not feel guilty about it. I've been able to pick up a book that I was not--shrieeeeek!--reading for one of my soul-crushing classes. I've been able to eat without fear of starvation at the end of the week. Further, let us neglect to mention the sordid story of how a ten-pack of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups passed through my digestive system; it's too much.
A gentle snow is falling over Eastern Maine, and Bangor is hunkering down for a beslaked post-holiday slumber. Well, some of us are. Somewhere, Bangor's only prostitute--a fortyish woman who wears bellyshirts and definitely should not--is dolling herself up and getting ready to walk the Joshua Chamberlain Bridge in scuffed Payless boots. In the darkness of Bass Park, a 39 foot tall fiberglass statue of Paul Bunyan waits for the streetlights to go out to clamber down from his pedastal to kill. Shifting restlessly in the surrounding forests, shiny-eyed undead slaver thinking about that one lonely post-holiday shopper who lingered outside a little too long. And in the canals downtown, gaily colored balloons reflect dully off of the rushing Stillwater, held aloft by a clown who does not have a name. And the man who brought all of these creatures to life shall soon repose, perchance in his cushiony coffin, about twelve blocks from here in an antebellum lumber baron mansion. Well, he didn't make up the prostitute. She's just out there, scary in her own way.
I haven't been out much in Bangor, but I've already started my "Wow, I'm running into you and pretending I didn't hate you with the fire of 1,000 suns in high school/college, and, by the way, have you lost weight?" counter. It's up to two so far.
1) The hussy who caused a scandal at Bangor High School my senior year by getting herself in a "family way" and not being able to adequately name the daddy. She'd had it narrowed down to about four when she left school, gravid and bitter, never to return. With her was a child of no more than three (certainly not the one she concieved during pre-senior summer) and she was looking puffy in the midriff; her litter grows.
2) Well, I don't hate this one. Actually, she was a really good friend of mine from college. In our small department, she'd managed to impress everyone with her top-notch grades, her leadership skills (she presided over the Anthropology Club) and her happy, cheerful demeanor. When I saw her cashiering at the Bed Bath and Beyond, my heart chilled in my chest. She'd dreamt of going on to bigger and better things; fieldwork, a PhD, and professorship. Here's hoping that my stint in the corn will make me, at least, worthy of being an undermanager at a fine retail establishment. Man, anthropology? Turkish Studies? I am going to die hungry.
The Benadryl is kicking in. Off to the bliss of midwinter slumber.
Have a good one, Bangor.
Lumberjack Dom
Thursday afternoon I went with Marleina to her two wee schools to enlighten youngsters about the glories of the Land of the Galloping Mare's Head (Turkey, duh). I spent time with three classes at the Cave Hill School. I talked a lot. I showed a lot of pictures. I wrote a lot of Turkish on wipe/blackboards. In the end, I'm proud to say that those children went home knowing these things:
1) Turks poop in ceramic holes in the ground, and do so while standing up.
2) There are things older than their parents ( gasp!) in Turkey.
3) They know how to say "elf" in a Uralo-Altaic language.
Of course, the children were flying high on about ten pounds of sugary treats apiece, and there was a hum in the air of eager anticipation and the almondy stench of revolution. There are many of them; so few of us. I learned a few things, too. Children don't want to learn how to diagram a Turkish sentence. Children who live in wee Maine towns called "villages" and whose parents make livings from the sea will not have heard of a weird religion called Islam. But, I also learned to latch on to that one kid in the class, the singular one, who is paying attention and will actually be affected by what you say. I don't know how teachers do it, day in and day out, giving and giving until they could puke coathangers only to have kids ask:
"So, do those people pee in that hole, too?"
Today I have spent most of the day tending to my eye, which looks like I was at the recieving end of a linebacker's suckerpunch. I've showered and eaten but I haven't yet gone outside, which is fine with me. For the first time in a long time, I have been able to sit in front of a television and not feel guilty about it. I've been able to pick up a book that I was not--shrieeeeek!--reading for one of my soul-crushing classes. I've been able to eat without fear of starvation at the end of the week. Further, let us neglect to mention the sordid story of how a ten-pack of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups passed through my digestive system; it's too much.
A gentle snow is falling over Eastern Maine, and Bangor is hunkering down for a beslaked post-holiday slumber. Well, some of us are. Somewhere, Bangor's only prostitute--a fortyish woman who wears bellyshirts and definitely should not--is dolling herself up and getting ready to walk the Joshua Chamberlain Bridge in scuffed Payless boots. In the darkness of Bass Park, a 39 foot tall fiberglass statue of Paul Bunyan waits for the streetlights to go out to clamber down from his pedastal to kill. Shifting restlessly in the surrounding forests, shiny-eyed undead slaver thinking about that one lonely post-holiday shopper who lingered outside a little too long. And in the canals downtown, gaily colored balloons reflect dully off of the rushing Stillwater, held aloft by a clown who does not have a name. And the man who brought all of these creatures to life shall soon repose, perchance in his cushiony coffin, about twelve blocks from here in an antebellum lumber baron mansion. Well, he didn't make up the prostitute. She's just out there, scary in her own way.
I haven't been out much in Bangor, but I've already started my "Wow, I'm running into you and pretending I didn't hate you with the fire of 1,000 suns in high school/college, and, by the way, have you lost weight?" counter. It's up to two so far.
1) The hussy who caused a scandal at Bangor High School my senior year by getting herself in a "family way" and not being able to adequately name the daddy. She'd had it narrowed down to about four when she left school, gravid and bitter, never to return. With her was a child of no more than three (certainly not the one she concieved during pre-senior summer) and she was looking puffy in the midriff; her litter grows.
2) Well, I don't hate this one. Actually, she was a really good friend of mine from college. In our small department, she'd managed to impress everyone with her top-notch grades, her leadership skills (she presided over the Anthropology Club) and her happy, cheerful demeanor. When I saw her cashiering at the Bed Bath and Beyond, my heart chilled in my chest. She'd dreamt of going on to bigger and better things; fieldwork, a PhD, and professorship. Here's hoping that my stint in the corn will make me, at least, worthy of being an undermanager at a fine retail establishment. Man, anthropology? Turkish Studies? I am going to die hungry.
The Benadryl is kicking in. Off to the bliss of midwinter slumber.
Have a good one, Bangor.
Lumberjack Dom
Saturday, December 25, 2004
Merry...aw, hell.
This morning I awoke to unwrap my gifts with a sty in my eye. Yes. Allergic. To. Dogs. Plus, my mother's been vomiting and...uh... all day.
Tinsel.
And.
Tears.
As usual. :)
Good night, and Merry Christmas.
Lumberjack Dom
Tinsel.
And.
Tears.
As usual. :)
Good night, and Merry Christmas.
Lumberjack Dom
Friday, December 24, 2004
So. One Christmas my mother decides to make two mistakes. One: making salt-tack ornaments. Two: letting me have paint. To enrich our tree with the wonders of the season, I made some fun ornaments that reflect my own inner desire to bring the random to our tree. Clockwise: Indonesian angel, albino reindeer, Jolly Plantation worker (ahhh! offensive!), African American Santa and, in the middle, Chinese teddy bear. Boy, am I gonna get letters on these.
Wednesday, December 22, 2004
Fa la la la la, la la la *hork*
In the distance, the Penobsot glowers under about ten feet of ice. The sun rose today at about 1 and will set again at 4; it's all I can do to not hum the refrain "Life in a Northern Town" under my breath. Tonight, whilst I gut the moose I shot this afternoon and prepare the flesh for consumption, clad in ten layers of flannel, I will look to the starry heavens for the crimson curtains of the aurora borealis and listen for the insane-child-being-slaughtered laugh of the loon keening over the wastes. Later, I will retire to my Good n' Plenty-box-sized room and gently massage the ghastly grayish spots that appeared on my extremities.
It's touch-n-go day at Bangor International Airport, which means that gigantic military aircrafts are in a continuous loop of touching down, lifting up, and generally making a din. The fact that I live about four blocks from the airport isn't lost on me when I first get home; after about three days I don't hear them anymore. Until then, I'll keep the laser-sighted sniper rifle close to my bed, and oiled. Nothing says "suck" like being woken up by hundreds of tons of gray steel trying to lift itself into the clear frigidness of the Maine heavens. I suppose it could be worse. I could be listening to the sound of airplanes as they approach, laden with explosives, eager to snuff me and decimate my people and savage my homeland. Fa la la la la!
Tonight I will be going to Ellsworth (halfway between Bangor and Bar Harbor) with two of my old college roommates, who've, oh, gotten married. I know this because I was the best man at their wedding. Anyway, I'll be going to Marleina's elementary school to talk to children about Turkey. I've got a map, some overhead projector images, and some fun postcards. I've been mentally preparing all day. What will I say? Perhaps more importantly, what can I NOT say?
Scenario One:
Me: So, children! This is a mosque! Can you say "MOSK?" Yes! These people filing into the mosque believe in Allah!
Child: Who's Allah? My daddy tol' me that Allah fella's the devil.
Scenario Two:
Me: This is me, at a really old ruin! It's the Temple of Artemis at Ephesus! People used to believe that Artemis was the goddess of the hunt, the moon, and of virgins!
Child: My daddy tol' me that Artemis chick theyah's the devil.
Sigh.
My sister's lovebird, Tuki, is bored out of his skull, and to combat this he pleasures himself constantly on his perch whilst emitting low, vague clucking sounds. He's rubbed his nether-regions featherless.
The sun's setting. It's 3 PM. Off to flay my carcass.
Good night, Bangor,
Lumberjack Dom
It's touch-n-go day at Bangor International Airport, which means that gigantic military aircrafts are in a continuous loop of touching down, lifting up, and generally making a din. The fact that I live about four blocks from the airport isn't lost on me when I first get home; after about three days I don't hear them anymore. Until then, I'll keep the laser-sighted sniper rifle close to my bed, and oiled. Nothing says "suck" like being woken up by hundreds of tons of gray steel trying to lift itself into the clear frigidness of the Maine heavens. I suppose it could be worse. I could be listening to the sound of airplanes as they approach, laden with explosives, eager to snuff me and decimate my people and savage my homeland. Fa la la la la!
Tonight I will be going to Ellsworth (halfway between Bangor and Bar Harbor) with two of my old college roommates, who've, oh, gotten married. I know this because I was the best man at their wedding. Anyway, I'll be going to Marleina's elementary school to talk to children about Turkey. I've got a map, some overhead projector images, and some fun postcards. I've been mentally preparing all day. What will I say? Perhaps more importantly, what can I NOT say?
Scenario One:
Me: So, children! This is a mosque! Can you say "MOSK?" Yes! These people filing into the mosque believe in Allah!
Child: Who's Allah? My daddy tol' me that Allah fella's the devil.
Scenario Two:
Me: This is me, at a really old ruin! It's the Temple of Artemis at Ephesus! People used to believe that Artemis was the goddess of the hunt, the moon, and of virgins!
Child: My daddy tol' me that Artemis chick theyah's the devil.
Sigh.
My sister's lovebird, Tuki, is bored out of his skull, and to combat this he pleasures himself constantly on his perch whilst emitting low, vague clucking sounds. He's rubbed his nether-regions featherless.
The sun's setting. It's 3 PM. Off to flay my carcass.
Good night, Bangor,
Lumberjack Dom
Tuesday, December 21, 2004
"Random security screening", my ass.
So. I am home; it's -3 outside without the windchill and the mighty Penobscot, which is, uh, 75%saltwater, has completely frozen on the surface. Fantastic. That'll make my dip into the Atlantic at Seal Harbor all the more...interesting. Stay posted on that one.
It's been a year since I had flown, and now I remember why. Making the entire experience all the better was the fact that my terminal in Cincinnati (Indianapolis to Cincinnati, by the way, is a--brace yourself!--20 minute flight) was entirely filled with people whose nerves were frayed to the point of suicide/homicide by several flight cancellations. As each flight got cancelled, an entirely new sector of the waiting room rose to their feet with their pitchforks, torches and fancy suede purses and began to hunt down the "helpful" airport staff to dismember them. It's small wonder that most of the counter staff sported cans of Mace the size of one of those fancy econo-size cans of Raid in designer holsters and brandished their tasers/stunguns/jungle red Lee Press-On Nails menacingly. As I watched a woman whose flight to Memphis got cancelled smear her face with Vaseline so that she wouldn't get cut in the ensuing rumble, I thought: Merry Effing Christmas.
The best part of all, though, was the "random screening" portion of my trip in Indianapolis. It was "random" insofar as the check-in lady saw my bearded ass coming and--I watched her do it!--she hit the little red button on the console that printed "SSSS" on my boarding pass. I pulled back my lips and hissed at her like a jungle cat; her Lee Press-On talons gleamed in the harsh flourescent light. So I went to the screening place with a heavy heart. The woman took my ID and looked at my boarding pass, which had the Scarlet Letter emblazoned on it, and asked me to "step aside" for "special treatment." She was like Josef Mengele with sensible shoes. I went into the special shatter-proof, bomb-resistant glass box and was instructed to strip nekkid and bend over like a show-pony to wait for my "cavity search" from a 350 lb Scandinavian woman named Ursula. My fellow inmates looked at each other with full knowledge that we'd not be leaving Indianapolis as whole men and then it dawned on me: they were all bearded, olive skinned Middle Eastern/North African/South/Southeast Asian men. No women. No children. No Aryan-types to be seen anywhere. I suppose I would have been angry, but I was to busy trying not to let Ursula see how much she was emasculating me.
Nah, I just had to take off my shoes and coat and then they rifled through my stuff. But the part about the "randomly selected" was true. I'd write a strongly-worded letter to the Department of Homeland Security, but since I technically work for them sorta-kinda, that might not be the best plan of action. So, until the West stops seeing men with beards, chains with Arabic lettering on the pendant, tattoos of a Muslim country's flag and the same flag as a patch on the carry-on as potential suicide bombers, I will have to take one for all the rest of you. It's OK; Ursula's hands are pleasantly warm.
Two things about flying and then I will stop bitching... about flying. OK, so, during the fun "just in case we're gonna die" demonstration, the flight attendant shows us all, grinning like an escaped lunatic in a kindergarten playground, how one puts the mask over one's face and how the "mask's oxygen bag may not fully inflate." Uhhh... like you'd be caring about the bag inflating if that mask popped down out of the secret overhead cupboard? Me, I'd be screaming like a seven year-old girl who'd found a bloody clown under her bed. I'd faint from lack of oxygen in mere moments due to said screaming; survivors would later recall of me: "I tried slapping him and putting his mask on, but he became combative and tried to ravage me with his incisors." Second: why is it that the further away from big cities one goes, the more and more savage the flight attendants are? I walked onto the plane from Cincinnati to Bangor and the flight attendant was just finishing up gnawing on the charred human skull she'd been snacking on in the galley. She eyed the small child who was to be flying alone with a gleam in her eye; if that kid ever made it off that plane, I'll sell you my kidney. Is there a direct correlation? Only brine-hags will service flights to places with less than a million people? Bangor, population 40,000, is apparently serviced by an airborne flotilla of the unholy, and shall be for all eternity: we die here as fast as we are born. Good times.
This morning (hahaha! morning! if you call "1:30 PM" morning!) I awoke and staggered to the bathroom for the morning ablutions. Greeting me in the bathroom was my cat, Po, who was described as "pure evil" by the SPCA staff woman while crossing herself. She was waiting in the bathtub, behind the curtains, hoping she could draw enough blood to sustain herself until she could find a smaller, more unfortunate creature. After fending her off with a stool and a whip, she disappeared to her lair at the bottom of the stairs, where she licked her wounds and vowed vengeance. I got in my shower and was confronted by not one, not ten, not fifteen, but TWENTY different shampoo/conditioner products. My heart froze in my chest: one of these, and only one, could be used by the plebe without fear of my sister's unique brand of justice. I was reminded of the scene in "Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade" when Indy must choose which one is the Holy Grail. That poor Nazi bastard, why, he "chose poorly." So I took the shampoo that smelled the least expensive and lathered up--lathered, rinsed and repeated--and went about my day. It remains to be seen tonight if my sister, while making her rounds around her vile keep, will notice the shampoo missing and will come to me in the dark of night. C'mon, it's Suave! 67 cents a bottle!
Well, all the best from the mother-ship.
Have a good night, Bangor.
Dom
It's been a year since I had flown, and now I remember why. Making the entire experience all the better was the fact that my terminal in Cincinnati (Indianapolis to Cincinnati, by the way, is a--brace yourself!--20 minute flight) was entirely filled with people whose nerves were frayed to the point of suicide/homicide by several flight cancellations. As each flight got cancelled, an entirely new sector of the waiting room rose to their feet with their pitchforks, torches and fancy suede purses and began to hunt down the "helpful" airport staff to dismember them. It's small wonder that most of the counter staff sported cans of Mace the size of one of those fancy econo-size cans of Raid in designer holsters and brandished their tasers/stunguns/jungle red Lee Press-On Nails menacingly. As I watched a woman whose flight to Memphis got cancelled smear her face with Vaseline so that she wouldn't get cut in the ensuing rumble, I thought: Merry Effing Christmas.
The best part of all, though, was the "random screening" portion of my trip in Indianapolis. It was "random" insofar as the check-in lady saw my bearded ass coming and--I watched her do it!--she hit the little red button on the console that printed "SSSS" on my boarding pass. I pulled back my lips and hissed at her like a jungle cat; her Lee Press-On talons gleamed in the harsh flourescent light. So I went to the screening place with a heavy heart. The woman took my ID and looked at my boarding pass, which had the Scarlet Letter emblazoned on it, and asked me to "step aside" for "special treatment." She was like Josef Mengele with sensible shoes. I went into the special shatter-proof, bomb-resistant glass box and was instructed to strip nekkid and bend over like a show-pony to wait for my "cavity search" from a 350 lb Scandinavian woman named Ursula. My fellow inmates looked at each other with full knowledge that we'd not be leaving Indianapolis as whole men and then it dawned on me: they were all bearded, olive skinned Middle Eastern/North African/South/Southeast Asian men. No women. No children. No Aryan-types to be seen anywhere. I suppose I would have been angry, but I was to busy trying not to let Ursula see how much she was emasculating me.
Nah, I just had to take off my shoes and coat and then they rifled through my stuff. But the part about the "randomly selected" was true. I'd write a strongly-worded letter to the Department of Homeland Security, but since I technically work for them sorta-kinda, that might not be the best plan of action. So, until the West stops seeing men with beards, chains with Arabic lettering on the pendant, tattoos of a Muslim country's flag and the same flag as a patch on the carry-on as potential suicide bombers, I will have to take one for all the rest of you. It's OK; Ursula's hands are pleasantly warm.
Two things about flying and then I will stop bitching... about flying. OK, so, during the fun "just in case we're gonna die" demonstration, the flight attendant shows us all, grinning like an escaped lunatic in a kindergarten playground, how one puts the mask over one's face and how the "mask's oxygen bag may not fully inflate." Uhhh... like you'd be caring about the bag inflating if that mask popped down out of the secret overhead cupboard? Me, I'd be screaming like a seven year-old girl who'd found a bloody clown under her bed. I'd faint from lack of oxygen in mere moments due to said screaming; survivors would later recall of me: "I tried slapping him and putting his mask on, but he became combative and tried to ravage me with his incisors." Second: why is it that the further away from big cities one goes, the more and more savage the flight attendants are? I walked onto the plane from Cincinnati to Bangor and the flight attendant was just finishing up gnawing on the charred human skull she'd been snacking on in the galley. She eyed the small child who was to be flying alone with a gleam in her eye; if that kid ever made it off that plane, I'll sell you my kidney. Is there a direct correlation? Only brine-hags will service flights to places with less than a million people? Bangor, population 40,000, is apparently serviced by an airborne flotilla of the unholy, and shall be for all eternity: we die here as fast as we are born. Good times.
This morning (hahaha! morning! if you call "1:30 PM" morning!) I awoke and staggered to the bathroom for the morning ablutions. Greeting me in the bathroom was my cat, Po, who was described as "pure evil" by the SPCA staff woman while crossing herself. She was waiting in the bathtub, behind the curtains, hoping she could draw enough blood to sustain herself until she could find a smaller, more unfortunate creature. After fending her off with a stool and a whip, she disappeared to her lair at the bottom of the stairs, where she licked her wounds and vowed vengeance. I got in my shower and was confronted by not one, not ten, not fifteen, but TWENTY different shampoo/conditioner products. My heart froze in my chest: one of these, and only one, could be used by the plebe without fear of my sister's unique brand of justice. I was reminded of the scene in "Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade" when Indy must choose which one is the Holy Grail. That poor Nazi bastard, why, he "chose poorly." So I took the shampoo that smelled the least expensive and lathered up--lathered, rinsed and repeated--and went about my day. It remains to be seen tonight if my sister, while making her rounds around her vile keep, will notice the shampoo missing and will come to me in the dark of night. C'mon, it's Suave! 67 cents a bottle!
Well, all the best from the mother-ship.
Have a good night, Bangor.
Dom
Sunday, December 19, 2004
So yesterday I bought a tiny bronze statuette of the Hindu god Ganesh, known for his elephant's head, from a blind white Hare Krishna in a incense-reeking Bloomington shoppe. Ganesh removes obstacles; hence, he now lives on the tiny platform under my computer monitor. Here are some pictures I took of my new buddy. Clockwise, Ganesh napping soundly on my palm. Second, Allagash Ganesh: the truth is out there. Third, Ganesh cavorting merrily under my computer monitor. Finally, Loch Ness Ganesh, blurry and rising from the waves.
So: last night I went to Denny's with Keith. At the checkout counter there was one of those tanks filled with water and bubbles and tiny colored platforms; the idea is to catch coins on the platforms, and then you win something. The coins go to charity. Anyway, on a whim I moved the little knobby thing that maneuvers the platforms and let a dime go into the water. To my amazement, it landed on one of the platforms! I didn't think it was possible to actually WIN at that thing, and by the looks of horror from the staff, they'd banked on that, too. I looked at the list above the tank: I'd won a piece of apple pie! Yes! Since we were leaving, I made the hostess put it in a box, and later, in the leisure of my own home, I consumed it with gusto. Three cheers for yet another impossible thing I've pulled out of my ass this semester.
Friday, December 17, 2004
Lazarus.
Oh, how I've missed the sweetness of the blog; it lingers on my palate and fills me with the divine sensation of utter contentment. This is as I imagine it would be like to be a cow, quietly ruminating cud in a clover-filled pasture. Thankfully, though, I don't have to worry about being stunned in the head and, while I still live, having my trachea torn out of my slashed neck. Thanks for ruining beef for me too, P.E.T.A.com. I'm all about truth, but come on: there's nothing quite like a cheeseburger, especially when I make them. (My secret is basil and thyme).
Like he who walked from his grave, still bedecked in his funerary shroud, I have come forth from finals week unscathed. In an act that rivals the construction of the Pyramids of Giza for sheer stubborn will, I got a B+ in French. If I actually cared about French any more than I care for hearing about your hemhorroid treatments (they used frikkin' lasers!) I'd have gotten an A. Yet, the act of not caring is eerily liberating. Nobody goes to grad school for shits and giggles; you have to care overly about every damn thing. Well, bite me! French class is evil. And now, in a mere day, I will go home to my beloved Maine for holiday festivity, sleep, and at least one polar dip off Seal Harbor (pictures to follow said event).
Today I went Christmas shopping with Keith, who should have backed out of the deal the moment he heard it issue forth from my lips. Yet, lured he was by the promise of Chick Fil-A and their legendary sweet tea; to the Bloomington Mall we went, and of course, it was plane-wreck-in-the-Andes-munchin'-on-your-buddy's-carcass bad. It was hot, it was full of people with the fun "holiday zeal eye-glaze" look, and it smelled like a combination of bad church-lady perfume, skater-dude patchouli, cookies baking and the ripe stench of wanton consumerism. It was all I could do to stay, but I, too, was on a mission! Must! Find! Perfect! Gifts! Family! Friends! Will! Hate! Me! If! I! Do! Not!
While browsing through the stores amid the sounds of children screaming as if being stabbed with hatpins, we found a store that hadn't existed a month before. It was a fun Christian bookstore. What drew us to the shimmery storefront was not the promise of the new Jars of Clay CD or books with titles like "I Hate My Life But Jesus Loves Me" but a small costume kit meant for a wee boy or girl. It was the Book of Ephesians armor kit. In it, one could find:
(One) Loinbelt of Truth.
(One) Breastplate of Righteousness.
(Two) Shinguards of Peace.
(One) Shield of Faith.
(One) Helmet of Salvation.
and
(One) SWORD OF THE SPIRIT.
You think I am lying. I would say to you: nuh-UH! How could I lie about this? More importantly, WHY would I lie about this? I was chilled to my very marrow. (By the way, the "inspiration" for this costume set is the Book of Ephesians, Chapter 6, verses 13-18.) Some child, this very Christmas, will unwrap their very own SWORD OF THE SPIRIT with which they shall smite the unbelievers! Or their little sisters! Whichever comes first! I don't think I have the words to describe to you what was happening in this 24 year-old brain when I saw that, yes, small children can dress up like wee Hebrew soldiers to DEFEND THE FAITH. Wow. And we think the Muslim world is effed-up.
It sorta reminded me of a Christmas, long, long ago, when I unwrapped a present sent to me by my grandmother Barbara (dad's mom). Inside was a doll. Not only was it a doll, but a boy doll dressed in sackcloth. His cheeks were a bit sunken in and his eyes gleamed unnaturally. By his side was a staff. Well, give up on who my mystery doll was? If I said "I wandered in the desert eating locusts and wild honey", would that clue you in? Yes. I was in possession of my very own John the Baptist doll. Now, even at that tender age, I was acutely aware that John the Baptist hadn't died peacefully in his sleep at the tender age of 432 like some of these biblical people; no, John was beheaded. Thankfully for my warped playtimes, John's head conveniently popped off so that I could, in the company of a jury of Ninja Turtles, carry out his sentence. As it says in the Bible, John's head bounced three times on the ground, and at each spot, a fountain of milk issued forth. The head then said "Jesus!" and then expired.
Cheery.
Finally, social commentary for the night. How, and when, did it become socially acceptable to wear leisure items to school, and indeed, public in general? Why is it amusing for people to wear pajama bottoms and slippers to their Calc class? Or the mall? Or to the dining halls? Or to your bar mitzvah? Or your bail hearing? What's happening here? I would never, in a thousand years of insanity, dream of leaving my home in such attire. When I went to the University of Maine, there was a guy who'd go to Hilltop Commons in a nasty blue bathrobe. Do you really want to be remembered as Bathrobe Boy? As someone who paid dearly for being a teacher's pet in grade school and high school, the thought of drawing more attention to myself seemed like signing my own death warrant. Well, needless to say, if I should spy you talking on your cellphone in the mall with pajamas on, I will point, laugh, and shake my head at your folly. I'd advocate public pantsing for you, but haven't enough tears been shed?
Now that things have simmered, rest assured, my devoted, that I shall be a 'blogging mofo once again.
Good night, Bloomington.
Dom
Like he who walked from his grave, still bedecked in his funerary shroud, I have come forth from finals week unscathed. In an act that rivals the construction of the Pyramids of Giza for sheer stubborn will, I got a B+ in French. If I actually cared about French any more than I care for hearing about your hemhorroid treatments (they used frikkin' lasers!) I'd have gotten an A. Yet, the act of not caring is eerily liberating. Nobody goes to grad school for shits and giggles; you have to care overly about every damn thing. Well, bite me! French class is evil. And now, in a mere day, I will go home to my beloved Maine for holiday festivity, sleep, and at least one polar dip off Seal Harbor (pictures to follow said event).
Today I went Christmas shopping with Keith, who should have backed out of the deal the moment he heard it issue forth from my lips. Yet, lured he was by the promise of Chick Fil-A and their legendary sweet tea; to the Bloomington Mall we went, and of course, it was plane-wreck-in-the-Andes-munchin'-on-your-buddy's-carcass bad. It was hot, it was full of people with the fun "holiday zeal eye-glaze" look, and it smelled like a combination of bad church-lady perfume, skater-dude patchouli, cookies baking and the ripe stench of wanton consumerism. It was all I could do to stay, but I, too, was on a mission! Must! Find! Perfect! Gifts! Family! Friends! Will! Hate! Me! If! I! Do! Not!
While browsing through the stores amid the sounds of children screaming as if being stabbed with hatpins, we found a store that hadn't existed a month before. It was a fun Christian bookstore. What drew us to the shimmery storefront was not the promise of the new Jars of Clay CD or books with titles like "I Hate My Life But Jesus Loves Me" but a small costume kit meant for a wee boy or girl. It was the Book of Ephesians armor kit. In it, one could find:
(One) Loinbelt of Truth.
(One) Breastplate of Righteousness.
(Two) Shinguards of Peace.
(One) Shield of Faith.
(One) Helmet of Salvation.
and
(One) SWORD OF THE SPIRIT.
You think I am lying. I would say to you: nuh-UH! How could I lie about this? More importantly, WHY would I lie about this? I was chilled to my very marrow. (By the way, the "inspiration" for this costume set is the Book of Ephesians, Chapter 6, verses 13-18.) Some child, this very Christmas, will unwrap their very own SWORD OF THE SPIRIT with which they shall smite the unbelievers! Or their little sisters! Whichever comes first! I don't think I have the words to describe to you what was happening in this 24 year-old brain when I saw that, yes, small children can dress up like wee Hebrew soldiers to DEFEND THE FAITH. Wow. And we think the Muslim world is effed-up.
It sorta reminded me of a Christmas, long, long ago, when I unwrapped a present sent to me by my grandmother Barbara (dad's mom). Inside was a doll. Not only was it a doll, but a boy doll dressed in sackcloth. His cheeks were a bit sunken in and his eyes gleamed unnaturally. By his side was a staff. Well, give up on who my mystery doll was? If I said "I wandered in the desert eating locusts and wild honey", would that clue you in? Yes. I was in possession of my very own John the Baptist doll. Now, even at that tender age, I was acutely aware that John the Baptist hadn't died peacefully in his sleep at the tender age of 432 like some of these biblical people; no, John was beheaded. Thankfully for my warped playtimes, John's head conveniently popped off so that I could, in the company of a jury of Ninja Turtles, carry out his sentence. As it says in the Bible, John's head bounced three times on the ground, and at each spot, a fountain of milk issued forth. The head then said "Jesus!" and then expired.
Cheery.
Finally, social commentary for the night. How, and when, did it become socially acceptable to wear leisure items to school, and indeed, public in general? Why is it amusing for people to wear pajama bottoms and slippers to their Calc class? Or the mall? Or to the dining halls? Or to your bar mitzvah? Or your bail hearing? What's happening here? I would never, in a thousand years of insanity, dream of leaving my home in such attire. When I went to the University of Maine, there was a guy who'd go to Hilltop Commons in a nasty blue bathrobe. Do you really want to be remembered as Bathrobe Boy? As someone who paid dearly for being a teacher's pet in grade school and high school, the thought of drawing more attention to myself seemed like signing my own death warrant. Well, needless to say, if I should spy you talking on your cellphone in the mall with pajamas on, I will point, laugh, and shake my head at your folly. I'd advocate public pantsing for you, but haven't enough tears been shed?
Now that things have simmered, rest assured, my devoted, that I shall be a 'blogging mofo once again.
Good night, Bloomington.
Dom
Sunday, December 12, 2004
Saturday, December 11, 2004
Hold on, wait a minute.
Tonight I went to the Main Library here at IU, which devoted Life in the Corn acolyte Brooke described aptly as looking like "the bastard child of a Borg ship and a Triscuit." It's been an entire semester and a summer since I have stepped foot in there, and for good reason: it's windowless, airless, soulless and smells like tears, desperation, anticipation and the latest designer imposter scents that all of the vapid wear. That, and the moment I go there, I am usually assaulted by international students eager for some immigration advice. It's moments like those that I wonder how much a burkha costs: if they can't see your eyes, they can't make eye contact with you. Plus, I hear them there burkhas come in dazzling arrays of drab colors, like Leprosy Gray, InfectedWound Gray-Green, Hole of Calcutta Black, and Hypothermia-while-hiding-in-the-Tora-Bora-Mountains Blue.
Sigh. Come tomorrow it will be one week-- VON VEEK!--and I get to go home to a state that has, oh, a frigid North Atlantic coastline, vast coniferous forests filled with the blood-drinking undead and tree-weasels, and lots of hard-bodied sea-spiders upon which one feasts with drawn butter and blueberry pie.
But until that time, I must make do with my decreasing level of holiday festiveness and the general malaise I feel at the completion of every semester. The other night I went to the Bed Bath and Beyond store here in the Republic, filled as it was with cheery Christmas music (if I hear Rudolph the Red-Nosed-Reindeer one more time, I am going to go into the woods with a semi-automatic weapon of Northern Irish make and not come out till I find that damn deer and make him pay) and the cloying stench of hundreds of Christmasy candles, wax tarts, and air fresheners. However, when Keith and I walked outside, there was a cart filled with dramatically clearanced items.
Hanukkah items.
Now, I don't imagine that there are too many persons of The Book here in the Republic, so it begged the question as to why they had ordered so much. There were fancy menorah candles. There were, and I am not kidding in the least here, Hanukkah finger puppets (dreidel, menorah, etc.) as well. And--and here my heart began to race--very inexpensive, fancy embroidered handtowels. With the discount, they'd have been only a dollar apiece.
I bought four.
Yes. For $4.20 I managed to raise my Festive-o-Meter by at least ten points; it was getting low enough that I was going to have to have gone to the mall for some good-old-fashioned small child shivving. Of course, I am not Jewish. Sometimes I say fun Yiddish things, the legacy of having grown up in multicultural New Jersey (Motto: We have culture! We have vegetables! Also fish-rendering factories that make you want to projectile-vomit through your eye-sockets!). But yeah, if I can feel like it's a nice time of year because of someone else's religious artifacts, then I say, bring that effing junque on, tout de suite.
Not too long ago I went to see Alexander with Keith, Tony and Tony's girl (space) friend. I had looked forward to seeing this movie for months and months and months. Finally! The story of one of history's greatest..uh...men...would be told on the Golden Screen! How he grew up in the shadow of his despotic father! How he became a man while on the back of a horse, conquering the known world! To say I was disappointed in the movie would be like saying that some people died during World War II. Three hours of bad bad BAD acting, horrible dialogues, and horrendous dye-jobs made for a near-wrist-slashing. I've never come so close to walking out of a movie in my life. That'll teach a history buff to go to "epic" movies ever again. The best part, though, happened not on the screen but right beside me, when Keith (a classically trained musician) saw that the Babylonian harp that one of the harem-hussies was playing was wrong.
"OH MY GOD! That's not Babylonian! That's a reproduction of the Sutton Hoo ship-burial Anglo-Saxon lyre!"
He said this very very loudly. It went downhill from there. It was all I could do to calm him. It was almost as bad as when I watched Gladiator for the first time and Commodus (Joaquin Phoenix) was killed in a gladiatorial battle. That's not artistic license. That's treason. Anyway, Keith recovered. It made my heart warm to know that someone out there is as... weird?... about things like that as I am.
When Keith told Brooke about how that woman was playing the Sutton Hoo lyre, she said:
That BITCH!
I guess you had to be there. I almost moistened my undergarments.
While working on this paper (due Thursday! AHHHHHH!) about militant Sikhism and the martyrdom complex that has come out of it, I was struck yet again by how it is that people can feel so strongly about something that they'd be willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for it. I wondered: do I feel that strongly about anything? I mean, other than if Bruce Hornsby asked me to; I'd kill for that man like a mujadiheen. And, while I have never looked back when it comes to Turkish Studies, I remembered how much I cared for and was interested by those fun turbaned South Asians. For a moment, I thought: Sikh Studies! Yes! Then I thought: what, am I insane? Time will tell. Hey: maybe there are Sikhs in Turkey!
Anyway, I am off to dinner, then back to the soul-crushing paper. All of you students: keep your chin up. Just think of all that fun wastey-waste time you will have soon, at home, where things make sense, and it will all seem better.
Good luck, Bloomington.
Dom
Sigh. Come tomorrow it will be one week-- VON VEEK!--and I get to go home to a state that has, oh, a frigid North Atlantic coastline, vast coniferous forests filled with the blood-drinking undead and tree-weasels, and lots of hard-bodied sea-spiders upon which one feasts with drawn butter and blueberry pie.
But until that time, I must make do with my decreasing level of holiday festiveness and the general malaise I feel at the completion of every semester. The other night I went to the Bed Bath and Beyond store here in the Republic, filled as it was with cheery Christmas music (if I hear Rudolph the Red-Nosed-Reindeer one more time, I am going to go into the woods with a semi-automatic weapon of Northern Irish make and not come out till I find that damn deer and make him pay) and the cloying stench of hundreds of Christmasy candles, wax tarts, and air fresheners. However, when Keith and I walked outside, there was a cart filled with dramatically clearanced items.
Hanukkah items.
Now, I don't imagine that there are too many persons of The Book here in the Republic, so it begged the question as to why they had ordered so much. There were fancy menorah candles. There were, and I am not kidding in the least here, Hanukkah finger puppets (dreidel, menorah, etc.) as well. And--and here my heart began to race--very inexpensive, fancy embroidered handtowels. With the discount, they'd have been only a dollar apiece.
I bought four.
Yes. For $4.20 I managed to raise my Festive-o-Meter by at least ten points; it was getting low enough that I was going to have to have gone to the mall for some good-old-fashioned small child shivving. Of course, I am not Jewish. Sometimes I say fun Yiddish things, the legacy of having grown up in multicultural New Jersey (Motto: We have culture! We have vegetables! Also fish-rendering factories that make you want to projectile-vomit through your eye-sockets!). But yeah, if I can feel like it's a nice time of year because of someone else's religious artifacts, then I say, bring that effing junque on, tout de suite.
Not too long ago I went to see Alexander with Keith, Tony and Tony's girl (space) friend. I had looked forward to seeing this movie for months and months and months. Finally! The story of one of history's greatest..uh...men...would be told on the Golden Screen! How he grew up in the shadow of his despotic father! How he became a man while on the back of a horse, conquering the known world! To say I was disappointed in the movie would be like saying that some people died during World War II. Three hours of bad bad BAD acting, horrible dialogues, and horrendous dye-jobs made for a near-wrist-slashing. I've never come so close to walking out of a movie in my life. That'll teach a history buff to go to "epic" movies ever again. The best part, though, happened not on the screen but right beside me, when Keith (a classically trained musician) saw that the Babylonian harp that one of the harem-hussies was playing was wrong.
"OH MY GOD! That's not Babylonian! That's a reproduction of the Sutton Hoo ship-burial Anglo-Saxon lyre!"
He said this very very loudly. It went downhill from there. It was all I could do to calm him. It was almost as bad as when I watched Gladiator for the first time and Commodus (Joaquin Phoenix) was killed in a gladiatorial battle. That's not artistic license. That's treason. Anyway, Keith recovered. It made my heart warm to know that someone out there is as... weird?... about things like that as I am.
When Keith told Brooke about how that woman was playing the Sutton Hoo lyre, she said:
That BITCH!
I guess you had to be there. I almost moistened my undergarments.
While working on this paper (due Thursday! AHHHHHH!) about militant Sikhism and the martyrdom complex that has come out of it, I was struck yet again by how it is that people can feel so strongly about something that they'd be willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for it. I wondered: do I feel that strongly about anything? I mean, other than if Bruce Hornsby asked me to; I'd kill for that man like a mujadiheen. And, while I have never looked back when it comes to Turkish Studies, I remembered how much I cared for and was interested by those fun turbaned South Asians. For a moment, I thought: Sikh Studies! Yes! Then I thought: what, am I insane? Time will tell. Hey: maybe there are Sikhs in Turkey!
Anyway, I am off to dinner, then back to the soul-crushing paper. All of you students: keep your chin up. Just think of all that fun wastey-waste time you will have soon, at home, where things make sense, and it will all seem better.
Good luck, Bloomington.
Dom
Friday, December 10, 2004
Three months.
It's been three months since I sat down on a lonely Saturday afternoon and began this blog. It simultaneously doesn't seem that long ago and also like I have been doing it since the dawn of humanity. Hominids still stalked the African plains, all nekkid and hairy, waiting to die, waiting to live, waiting for true bipedalism. I was writing this blog when London was a malarial swamp and the foundations of the Great Wall were laid by paranoid, xenophobic Qin Dynasty toadies whose broken and hobbled bodies were thrown into the works as fill. I was writing this blog when Athens consisted of caves hewn into the side of a big, flat rock that would become the Acropolis. I was writing this blog when Rome was an Etruscan settlement on a river that nobody had taken the time to name. I was writing this blog when Cher was actually an organic being and not a singing piece of Tupperware and when Madonna actually WAS a virgin.
To all of you who continue to read this drivel, thanks. If you are Catholic, reading this blog every day means one less century or two in Purgatory; if Hindu or Buddhist, you'll be released from the Wheel of Existence; if Muslim, there is no need to visit Mecca; if Sikh... uh... well, you'll see Punjabi on here every once in a while. I got nothin' for you.
Last night, I took my French final exam. The sensation of freedom, momentary as it is, is much like what I imagine dogs in pounds feel like when they get picked; you laid your best tricks on the line, like sitting, begging, and rolling over, and then in the end, you get to go home. Of course, that's where the metaphor ends: next semester, I will continue to be basted on a hellish spit by Francophone imps in the Readings in French for Graduate Students part II.
Freedom, that is, if I passed it. If not, I will--and here, I just threw up in my mouth a little--have to take it again next year. Nothing, save having my lymph nodes torn out by ferrets, would delight me more.
One time, long ago, I knew a woman who asked me if I had a Swiss Army knife in my backpack. Apparently, she'd found a dead seagull in the parking lot of the Maine Center for the Arts and, uh, wanted to sever one of its wings so that she could use it in a wiccan ritual.
There. That's the whole story. Well, I mean, other than the fact that I stood and looked at her for like ten minutes without blinking, wondering how in the hell I meet the people I meet. (If you attended UMaine from 1992-2002, you will know this woman; trust me.)
One. Last. Class. To. Go. Of course, it's Ottoman. What better way to spend a dismal Friday afternoon than poring over 13th century texts written in a language you don't even come close to being able to read, or understand? I'm an intellectual sadist, apparently.
Well, off I go. Try to stay out of trouble, all y'all.
Dom
PS. This marks, despite what the counter says, my 101st post. Wow.
To all of you who continue to read this drivel, thanks. If you are Catholic, reading this blog every day means one less century or two in Purgatory; if Hindu or Buddhist, you'll be released from the Wheel of Existence; if Muslim, there is no need to visit Mecca; if Sikh... uh... well, you'll see Punjabi on here every once in a while. I got nothin' for you.
Last night, I took my French final exam. The sensation of freedom, momentary as it is, is much like what I imagine dogs in pounds feel like when they get picked; you laid your best tricks on the line, like sitting, begging, and rolling over, and then in the end, you get to go home. Of course, that's where the metaphor ends: next semester, I will continue to be basted on a hellish spit by Francophone imps in the Readings in French for Graduate Students part II.
Freedom, that is, if I passed it. If not, I will--and here, I just threw up in my mouth a little--have to take it again next year. Nothing, save having my lymph nodes torn out by ferrets, would delight me more.
One time, long ago, I knew a woman who asked me if I had a Swiss Army knife in my backpack. Apparently, she'd found a dead seagull in the parking lot of the Maine Center for the Arts and, uh, wanted to sever one of its wings so that she could use it in a wiccan ritual.
There. That's the whole story. Well, I mean, other than the fact that I stood and looked at her for like ten minutes without blinking, wondering how in the hell I meet the people I meet. (If you attended UMaine from 1992-2002, you will know this woman; trust me.)
One. Last. Class. To. Go. Of course, it's Ottoman. What better way to spend a dismal Friday afternoon than poring over 13th century texts written in a language you don't even come close to being able to read, or understand? I'm an intellectual sadist, apparently.
Well, off I go. Try to stay out of trouble, all y'all.
Dom
PS. This marks, despite what the counter says, my 101st post. Wow.
Tuesday, December 07, 2004
Gnu.
So. Today, in North Liberty, IN (10 miles South of South Bend), a man was trampled and head-butted to death by his pet wildebeest.
His.
Pet.
Wildebeest.
A gnu. Death by gnu, his coroner report will state. Now, correct me if I am wrong, but wildebeest are native creatures to East Africa, where they roam in picturesque herds. They killed Mufasa in "The Lion King" for shits and giggles. Now, they've taken another life.
I've always said that I was raised by wildebeest. Now, more than ever, I understand why I am the way I am.
Good night, Bloomington.
Dom
His.
Pet.
Wildebeest.
A gnu. Death by gnu, his coroner report will state. Now, correct me if I am wrong, but wildebeest are native creatures to East Africa, where they roam in picturesque herds. They killed Mufasa in "The Lion King" for shits and giggles. Now, they've taken another life.
I've always said that I was raised by wildebeest. Now, more than ever, I understand why I am the way I am.
Good night, Bloomington.
Dom
Monday, December 06, 2004
You've GOT to be kidding me.
Avast! The end of this semester is in sight! I am simultaneously thrilled and ready to chunk all over myself. This has, without a doubt, been the longest semester that has ever, in the course of humanity, existed. Like a convict in his airless cell, I have been carving the days of this semester into the baseboard of my desk. Too many. Too damn many. What's worse is that all of the things I should have been preparing for long ago (and by "things" I mean, oh, huge exams and papers that, once written, will have their own moons and gravitational pulls) I have been neglecting, if not downright ignoring. I'm not a bad student; it's just been a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kindof semester. What makes it all the better is that I will be enrolling in all four of the classes I am in again next semester, as these are all first parts of two-part classes.
Keep them sharp objects away from me.
Oh, I can hear you now: Quit yer bellyachin'! You did this to yerseff! No'bdy made y'all go back to school! There are kids in Ee-thee-ohpya and that there Africa place who eat flies and tears for supper!
That's true. I took a special picture of myself giving those of you who say this my response; a quick email will have it sent expediently to your inbox.
Today, I read that some woman out here in the corn (Hobart, Indiana... no, I have no effing idea where that is, either) has decided to put her father's ghost up for sale on eBay. Her. Father's. Ghost. This is because, apparently, the old man kicked it in the house she now shares with her son, who is afraid of the spirit. I have three comments about this.
1) Oh. My. God.
2) OK, so as a kid, I would have sold my pinkie finger to have a ghost in my house. How cool would that have been? The restless dead, playing He-Man with me? Telling me gruesome stories at night with a flashlight? Rattling chains up in the attic to make my sister urinate on herself? That kid is dumber than a sack full of hammers. He's going to grow up to be... well, uh, grow up is too strong. He's going to age in his mother's basement, playing video games and watching the Sci-Fi channel and drinking Caffeine-Free Diet Coke. His mother will have to pay someone to "get with" him. Scared of his own grandfather's ghost? What a dumbass.
3) MY parents would have had this reaction if I'd said I wanted them to sell my grandfather's ghost:
Mom: You're dumb.
Dad: You're dumb; also, a girl.
Then I would have gone to play with the used syringes, razorwire and the cardboard box I got for Christmas, waiting for one of them to get drunk enough to want to beat me with the horse-urine-soaked hook. (Hahaha! Just kidding, Mom and Dad! At least that's what I told the Human Services people!)
Today at work, a Kuwaiti student (this can all be verified! not lying! ask Jenny!) came up to the Front Desk to ask me questions. She's delightful and I always enjoy talking to her. Today, she began her conversation with, and I quote:
"I don't know why I have never told you before, but you look JUST LIKE MY UNCLE! Especially when you smile; yeah, do that again! My sister, when she comes, will say the same thing! Just like my uncle!"
So, apparently somewhere in the wastes of desert Kuwait is a man (obviously in his 40s or 50s, judging by how old the student is) who looks just like me. Score. Oh, and somewhere in Turkey, I look like another man, married to Surye, whose brother-in-law felt need to harass me in Ephesus.
HER UNCLE! That's a new one.
So, I lit some incense (patchouli, I think: either that or "baboon's rectum while in heat", as they both smell the same) and found the Ouija board, which I had slid under my refrigerator as "punishment." Hope it liked all of that slut's wool (New Englandism: look it up).
After clearing my aura (ahahahahahahaha! clearing my aura! my aura is raw-sewage brown all day, every day!), I summoned "Mitch", who was gored by one of the running bulls at Pamplona.
"Mitch": I...t...p...i...e...r...c...e...d..m...y...s...p...l...e...e...n.
Me: Mmm-hmm. That was a really really ascenine thing to do, "Mitch." Playing "chicken" on the railroad tracks would have been a cheaper way to toy with death, I am sure.
"Mitch": G...e...t...o...n...w...i...t...h...i...t.
Me: So, "Mitch", why do I remind so many people of their fathers/uncles/brothers-in-law?
Do I have a certain, as the French say, a kind of... I-don't-know-what?
"Mitch": Y...o...u...j...u...s...t...l...o...o...k...g...e...n...e...r...i...c...a...n...d...o...l...d.
"Mitch" and I had a lengthy discussion, wherein I told him how, in excruciating detail, he could eff himself.
But maybe he's right. I dunno.
Well, all the best to everyone. It's finals time! Seventh Circle of Hell! Cehennem!
Have a great one, Bloomington.
Dom
Keep them sharp objects away from me.
Oh, I can hear you now: Quit yer bellyachin'! You did this to yerseff! No'bdy made y'all go back to school! There are kids in Ee-thee-ohpya and that there Africa place who eat flies and tears for supper!
That's true. I took a special picture of myself giving those of you who say this my response; a quick email will have it sent expediently to your inbox.
Today, I read that some woman out here in the corn (Hobart, Indiana... no, I have no effing idea where that is, either) has decided to put her father's ghost up for sale on eBay. Her. Father's. Ghost. This is because, apparently, the old man kicked it in the house she now shares with her son, who is afraid of the spirit. I have three comments about this.
1) Oh. My. God.
2) OK, so as a kid, I would have sold my pinkie finger to have a ghost in my house. How cool would that have been? The restless dead, playing He-Man with me? Telling me gruesome stories at night with a flashlight? Rattling chains up in the attic to make my sister urinate on herself? That kid is dumber than a sack full of hammers. He's going to grow up to be... well, uh, grow up is too strong. He's going to age in his mother's basement, playing video games and watching the Sci-Fi channel and drinking Caffeine-Free Diet Coke. His mother will have to pay someone to "get with" him. Scared of his own grandfather's ghost? What a dumbass.
3) MY parents would have had this reaction if I'd said I wanted them to sell my grandfather's ghost:
Mom: You're dumb.
Dad: You're dumb; also, a girl.
Then I would have gone to play with the used syringes, razorwire and the cardboard box I got for Christmas, waiting for one of them to get drunk enough to want to beat me with the horse-urine-soaked hook. (Hahaha! Just kidding, Mom and Dad! At least that's what I told the Human Services people!)
Today at work, a Kuwaiti student (this can all be verified! not lying! ask Jenny!) came up to the Front Desk to ask me questions. She's delightful and I always enjoy talking to her. Today, she began her conversation with, and I quote:
"I don't know why I have never told you before, but you look JUST LIKE MY UNCLE! Especially when you smile; yeah, do that again! My sister, when she comes, will say the same thing! Just like my uncle!"
So, apparently somewhere in the wastes of desert Kuwait is a man (obviously in his 40s or 50s, judging by how old the student is) who looks just like me. Score. Oh, and somewhere in Turkey, I look like another man, married to Surye, whose brother-in-law felt need to harass me in Ephesus.
HER UNCLE! That's a new one.
So, I lit some incense (patchouli, I think: either that or "baboon's rectum while in heat", as they both smell the same) and found the Ouija board, which I had slid under my refrigerator as "punishment." Hope it liked all of that slut's wool (New Englandism: look it up).
After clearing my aura (ahahahahahahaha! clearing my aura! my aura is raw-sewage brown all day, every day!), I summoned "Mitch", who was gored by one of the running bulls at Pamplona.
"Mitch": I...t...p...i...e...r...c...e...d..m...y...s...p...l...e...e...n.
Me: Mmm-hmm. That was a really really ascenine thing to do, "Mitch." Playing "chicken" on the railroad tracks would have been a cheaper way to toy with death, I am sure.
"Mitch": G...e...t...o...n...w...i...t...h...i...t.
Me: So, "Mitch", why do I remind so many people of their fathers/uncles/brothers-in-law?
Do I have a certain, as the French say, a kind of... I-don't-know-what?
"Mitch": Y...o...u...j...u...s...t...l...o...o...k...g...e...n...e...r...i...c...a...n...d...o...l...d.
"Mitch" and I had a lengthy discussion, wherein I told him how, in excruciating detail, he could eff himself.
But maybe he's right. I dunno.
Well, all the best to everyone. It's finals time! Seventh Circle of Hell! Cehennem!
Have a great one, Bloomington.
Dom
Sunday, December 05, 2004
"Ik onkar; sat naam; karta purkh; nirbhau; nirvair; akaal moorat; ajooni sabhang; gur parsaad." OK, since you don't speak Punjabi: "There is one god; truth is the name; the Creator; without fear; without hate; timeless and without form; beyond birth and death, the Enlightened One; can be known by the Guru's grace."
Sat sri akal.
Punjabi: Truth is highest.
Little known Dom-fact: did you know that I am in a book?
It's true. When I was a junior in college, I worked with my professor and mentor, Cynthia K. Mahmood, on piecing together an easily-readable, smallish book of her previously published articles about Sikhs and India so that when she testified in Sikh asylum cases she'd have something handy to give to the judge for some background reading. Anyway, I spent months scanning articles, formatting them, removing previous formats, checking for spelling and grammar errors, and of course, drinking heavily from a hip-flask. In the end, Cindy left the University of Maine's anthropology department for an endowed chair at the Joan Kroc Institute for Peace Studies out here in the corn, at Notre Dame, and I never knew what became of the project that took much of my blood, tears and those wee clots I assumed to be pieces of my liver.
One day I get an email.
"Domonic: Guess what? You're in a book now."
That's all it said. When I Googled her ass, I found it: A Sea of Orange: Writings on the Sikhs and India. With swiftness unbefitting of my size, I bought it and within two days, it came to my home, encased in shrinkwrap. In the preface, she says:
This collection could not have been put together without the help of Domonic Potorti, my student assistant at the University of Maine....
MUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! My name! In print! In a famous person's book! About Sikhs! Oh wait, that could be bad. Looks like I am not going to be able to go to India anytime soon. You see, Cindy isn't so well-liked in India. First, she gets savaged in Patna for defending the rights of some indigenous Indian hill-people; after defending Sikhs in the US, Canada and the UK for asylum, she was politely asked not to return to the country.
You see, sometimes Sikhs kill people. Lots of people. Sikhs are now engaged in a virtual civil war with the Indian state, and doing fieldwork with some in California and Massachusetts, I got to meet some who'd, uh, totally ended other people. In a way, it was terrifying to be in the presence of murderers, but it's hard to be mad at Sikhs. Some of my fondest memories of my undergraduate career were of working with the Sikhs. Going to a Dunkin' Donuts with men in saffron turbans and swords and asking townies politely to stop staring at my South Asian friends. Driving back from the BART station in the gurdwara-mobile with Punjabi gurbani (hymns) blaring on the radio. Waking up before dawn to watch the Guru Granth Sahib being woken from its slumber (it's the Sikh holy book and is believed to be alive), perfumed, and fanned before being herded into the langar hall for 5 AM curries, roti and steaming, milky chai, with Indian donuts and prashad for dessert, all the while in the presence of dozens, if not hundreds, of pictures of young men with AK-47s who'd gone to the Punjab to fight for faith and nation. In the dim of one night's post-prayer chai-sessions, watching a forty-ish Sikh take off his turban and lovingly rub jasmine oil and comb his waist-length hair.
Sigh. Magic.
Anyway, I am reminded that I am in a book as I sit here, reading it for an unnecessarily huge paper I have to write about jihad in the modern world. Life is so cruel sometimes.
Well, I'd best get back to it.
Degh, tegh, fateh.
Waheguru ji ka Khalsa, Waheguru ji ki fateh.
Good night, Bloomington; good night, Amritsar.
Dom
Little known Dom-fact: did you know that I am in a book?
It's true. When I was a junior in college, I worked with my professor and mentor, Cynthia K. Mahmood, on piecing together an easily-readable, smallish book of her previously published articles about Sikhs and India so that when she testified in Sikh asylum cases she'd have something handy to give to the judge for some background reading. Anyway, I spent months scanning articles, formatting them, removing previous formats, checking for spelling and grammar errors, and of course, drinking heavily from a hip-flask. In the end, Cindy left the University of Maine's anthropology department for an endowed chair at the Joan Kroc Institute for Peace Studies out here in the corn, at Notre Dame, and I never knew what became of the project that took much of my blood, tears and those wee clots I assumed to be pieces of my liver.
One day I get an email.
"Domonic: Guess what? You're in a book now."
That's all it said. When I Googled her ass, I found it: A Sea of Orange: Writings on the Sikhs and India. With swiftness unbefitting of my size, I bought it and within two days, it came to my home, encased in shrinkwrap. In the preface, she says:
This collection could not have been put together without the help of Domonic Potorti, my student assistant at the University of Maine....
MUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! My name! In print! In a famous person's book! About Sikhs! Oh wait, that could be bad. Looks like I am not going to be able to go to India anytime soon. You see, Cindy isn't so well-liked in India. First, she gets savaged in Patna for defending the rights of some indigenous Indian hill-people; after defending Sikhs in the US, Canada and the UK for asylum, she was politely asked not to return to the country.
You see, sometimes Sikhs kill people. Lots of people. Sikhs are now engaged in a virtual civil war with the Indian state, and doing fieldwork with some in California and Massachusetts, I got to meet some who'd, uh, totally ended other people. In a way, it was terrifying to be in the presence of murderers, but it's hard to be mad at Sikhs. Some of my fondest memories of my undergraduate career were of working with the Sikhs. Going to a Dunkin' Donuts with men in saffron turbans and swords and asking townies politely to stop staring at my South Asian friends. Driving back from the BART station in the gurdwara-mobile with Punjabi gurbani (hymns) blaring on the radio. Waking up before dawn to watch the Guru Granth Sahib being woken from its slumber (it's the Sikh holy book and is believed to be alive), perfumed, and fanned before being herded into the langar hall for 5 AM curries, roti and steaming, milky chai, with Indian donuts and prashad for dessert, all the while in the presence of dozens, if not hundreds, of pictures of young men with AK-47s who'd gone to the Punjab to fight for faith and nation. In the dim of one night's post-prayer chai-sessions, watching a forty-ish Sikh take off his turban and lovingly rub jasmine oil and comb his waist-length hair.
Sigh. Magic.
Anyway, I am reminded that I am in a book as I sit here, reading it for an unnecessarily huge paper I have to write about jihad in the modern world. Life is so cruel sometimes.
Well, I'd best get back to it.
Degh, tegh, fateh.
Waheguru ji ka Khalsa, Waheguru ji ki fateh.
Good night, Bloomington; good night, Amritsar.
Dom
Friday, December 03, 2004
"You remind me of my father."
Last night, one of my roommate's friends uttered those dread words, not once, but TWICE, whilst we were conversing. She said this like it wasn't, oh, I dunno, totally effed up. She giggled each time; it was the kind of giggle that makes paint peel from walls and causes dogs to form into packs.
O.K. now, people: what the hell is it about me that reminds you of your fathers? I mean, other than the fact that I am porking all y'alls moms. Go ahead! Tell me! I swear I won't be offended!
This much I know is true. At least once a month SOMEONE I know tells me that I remind them of their father. Fortunately, none of these people have been people I have dated, because then I would have to hang myself. But nonetheless, I have no idea what's going on. I mean, I have never:
*Spoiled your Christmas morning by being drunk and urinating on myself whilst trying in vain to light a moist cigarillo.
*Threatened you with "the strap" if you didn't get good grades.
*Stuck my finger into a cupcake you really really wanted so that you would refuse to eat it, thus allowing me to fill my belly with the golden goodness (OK, so that happened to ME, not you.)
*Killed a nun and then told you that if you told anyone, I'd kill your pet kitten, too.
*Built a rickety "playhouse" in your backyard over that Native American burial site, allowing all of the neighborhood children to contract tetanus because it was constructed whilst I was high on glue and didn't hammer all of the nails in.
So, why do I remind you of your dad? WHY? Because I am old before my time?
Sigh.
Last night I had a dream wherein I lived out one of my ultimate fantasies. No, nothing X-rated. So, I am in a hazy bar filled with burly bikers, all of whom seem to be engrossed in getting high, trading women for booze and eating nachos. I walk in and they all stare at me like I am wearing a tutu. Maybe I WAS wearing a tutu; I didn't look down. Plus, my tutu is at the dry-cleaners. Anyway, so one man walks up to me and sits down next to me as I cradle my bottle of beer and tells me that "my kind" isn't allowed in his bar. I was like, "What 'kind' am I?" He's like, "You know, your kind." So I slammed my beer and took the neck of the bottle into my manly hands and busted the base of the bottle on the bar. Then I took the neck and the jagged remains of the base and I brandished it menacingly in the biker's face. I then told him that he'd have to drag my limp, battered carcass out before I would leave. He looked at me like I was Charles Manson's lovechild with John Wayne Gacy and got up and left.
What a girl.
Anyway, I am interested to know why it is I remind you of your father, if I do at all. After I read each post, I will take a shot of the Mexican tequila I have in my cupboard; there is a goat on the bottle. Tequila, incidentally, that my father brought home to the US for me from South 'a the Bawdah. See? I bet YOUR dad doesn't give you Latin American liquor.
Have a good one, Bloomington.
Dom
O.K. now, people: what the hell is it about me that reminds you of your fathers? I mean, other than the fact that I am porking all y'alls moms. Go ahead! Tell me! I swear I won't be offended!
This much I know is true. At least once a month SOMEONE I know tells me that I remind them of their father. Fortunately, none of these people have been people I have dated, because then I would have to hang myself. But nonetheless, I have no idea what's going on. I mean, I have never:
*Spoiled your Christmas morning by being drunk and urinating on myself whilst trying in vain to light a moist cigarillo.
*Threatened you with "the strap" if you didn't get good grades.
*Stuck my finger into a cupcake you really really wanted so that you would refuse to eat it, thus allowing me to fill my belly with the golden goodness (OK, so that happened to ME, not you.)
*Killed a nun and then told you that if you told anyone, I'd kill your pet kitten, too.
*Built a rickety "playhouse" in your backyard over that Native American burial site, allowing all of the neighborhood children to contract tetanus because it was constructed whilst I was high on glue and didn't hammer all of the nails in.
So, why do I remind you of your dad? WHY? Because I am old before my time?
Sigh.
Last night I had a dream wherein I lived out one of my ultimate fantasies. No, nothing X-rated. So, I am in a hazy bar filled with burly bikers, all of whom seem to be engrossed in getting high, trading women for booze and eating nachos. I walk in and they all stare at me like I am wearing a tutu. Maybe I WAS wearing a tutu; I didn't look down. Plus, my tutu is at the dry-cleaners. Anyway, so one man walks up to me and sits down next to me as I cradle my bottle of beer and tells me that "my kind" isn't allowed in his bar. I was like, "What 'kind' am I?" He's like, "You know, your kind." So I slammed my beer and took the neck of the bottle into my manly hands and busted the base of the bottle on the bar. Then I took the neck and the jagged remains of the base and I brandished it menacingly in the biker's face. I then told him that he'd have to drag my limp, battered carcass out before I would leave. He looked at me like I was Charles Manson's lovechild with John Wayne Gacy and got up and left.
What a girl.
Anyway, I am interested to know why it is I remind you of your father, if I do at all. After I read each post, I will take a shot of the Mexican tequila I have in my cupboard; there is a goat on the bottle. Tequila, incidentally, that my father brought home to the US for me from South 'a the Bawdah. See? I bet YOUR dad doesn't give you Latin American liquor.
Have a good one, Bloomington.
Dom
Thursday, December 02, 2004
So, apparently I have a deathwish. While driving back to the corn from the wheat (Kansas is NOT a corn state, I was informed by several surly Kansasians), I stopped at a Flying J for petrol. When I went inside to browse the hopelessly tacky souvenirs, I felt a pang in my belly. So, I went up to the counter and lo, they were selling various deep-fried treats, including this here "meat n'bean burrito." It was 99 cents. The lady wrapped it with utmost care and sealed it with the "flavor tape" for my dining convenience. I went outside and promptly took a picture of it; after all, if it ended up taking my young life, my family would need evidence to sue them into the ground.
Waiting to die, waiting to live...
...waiting for an absolution that will never come.
My devoted,
It's finals crunch time, and my blogs may be more intermittent. But: you can do your part in ensuring that I get through this semester without having to take my own life! Here's how!
1) Go to your neighborhood stockyard.
2) Purchase a beast.
3) Ceremonially slaughter said beast on an altar befitting the deity to whom you ally whilst supplicating for my safe passage.
Got that?
Have a great one, Bloomington.
Dom
My devoted,
It's finals crunch time, and my blogs may be more intermittent. But: you can do your part in ensuring that I get through this semester without having to take my own life! Here's how!
1) Go to your neighborhood stockyard.
2) Purchase a beast.
3) Ceremonially slaughter said beast on an altar befitting the deity to whom you ally whilst supplicating for my safe passage.
Got that?
Have a great one, Bloomington.
Dom
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