Visigoths and Meshugas

Say Goodnight, Gracie

2007-07-10T12:59:00.001+03:00

Notice: I know some people are going to be too lazy to read this all the way through. Long story short: this site is no longer active. But fear not. It is being combined with my other site to form a new site in an effort to consolidate and prettify stuff. This post is cross-posted both at the other site and at the new site.

Life's a funny thing, they say.

I started blogging in 2003, as a sophomore in college. It was at the encouragement of a few friends who found my goofy sense of humor funny, and were willing (even eager) to read humorous pieces I had written. And boy, were they goofy. Some of the most creative (and dare I say inspired?) stuff I've written came out of that period, actually. And much to my surprise, people started reading. Not the 'public,' whoever they are, but people I knew - my siblings, and other friends and family - people who I wasn't even writing for originally. They actually found me genuinely funny. It was weird. My siblings, both older, never seemed to really admire me for anything, and now, it seemed, I was impressing them, and their friends. It was very cool, a real ego boost. And time went on, and I continued updating, with the occasional 3-month dry spell. I never got to the point of posting regularly or particularly frequently, likely due in a large part to my commitment to producing original work, rather than linking to other people's creations. Well, that and procrastination....

Allow me to digress here for a minute. I was something of an oddity in the blogging world. Most bloggers maintain readership by posting often. Typically, either these posts involve descriptions of their day-to-day lives, something which one never really runs out of material for, or they'd post links to other creative work, occasionally with added commentary. I was not prepared to broadcast the details of my life to the general public, and I didn't want to exist remora-like, living off the scraps left by the real producers of writing, images, music, and video. I wanted to be one of those producers, by writing relatively impersonal, humorous pieces. And that's pretty hard to do regularly, or it was for me, anyhow. But I kept at it, because even though my number of daily hits rarely crept above 10, it also didn't really sink down to zero. People were reading, so I continued writing, albeit sometimes infrequently. About a year and a half after starting blogging, it occurred to me that I had what to write that wasn't goofy and humorous. The material I had in mind was downright serious. And so I had a problem. I couldn't just post those pieces on the original blog, like nothing was different, because I didn't want to turn away readers who had come to expect humor. But I still wanted to share my thoughts on weightier matters than the odd contents of my fridge.

So I started a second blog.

This just compounded my problems. Ideally, I would have a regularly updated blog, with many readers and an active and lively comments section. By creating a second blog, for my 'serious' stuff, I was splitting my efforts and my readership, and ultimately hurting my progress in reaching my goals. But what could I do? I kept updating both blogs, and people (still very few) read both. I wanted to upgrade. But how? Well, for starters, if I was going to maintain two blogs, when one could probably suffice, I could at least make them both stand out. Thus began the big redesign. After a few false starts, I redesigned each blog in turn, from the bottom up. The functionality remained the same, but they got all dressed up in what I thought were nice makeovers. Still, while I wasn't getting at the main issue, I ran into others. Blogger wasn't giving me the flexibility and control I wanted to have with my site, nor did I have online storage to use. Plus, the web addresses were long and cumbersome - there were regular readers who sometimes forgot them. So I decided on a new non-solution, something I'd been planning on doing anyway. Enter the as-yet-unused bitsofink.com. I thought it was a neat little title which happened to be available - using a play on the word "bits" to connote digital writing, and a kind of meshing of the past and present, something I try to aim for in my writing. (Ok, so I guess that sounds a little pretentious. Mea culpa.) So then the question was "now what?" Well, I could (and did, actually) import the two blogs into one, hosted at bitsofink. But this wasn't a solution either - not yet, anyway. People would need to be redirected to the new site (actually, not such a difficult problem to solve), plus, what would become of the new designs? They centered around their banners, and the new combo-blog would be called something different. So if I wanted a new site, I'd need a new design. I got as far as designing the banner, which I just dropped into a (fairly boring) pre-made template. But I continued updating the two Blogger sites, and nothing really changed.

Finally, the final straw came. You see, as I continued writing in the 'serious' blog, I found that I was writing more and more personal material. And life has a way of not being easily placed into 'humorous' or 'serious' boxes. Life just is, and we just live it - lovely and crazy and giddy and depressing as it is. It's sometimes so terrifying you have to laugh, and sometimes so laughable you have to cry, and sometimes, it's just wabi-sabi. So I was coming up with posts that didn't belong in one of the two blogs, but somewhere in-between. So I decided I'd just have to bite the bullet and do it. So I worked on a redesign that I think is nice enough to justify the move and the abandonment of the old sites. I've imported all of the old posts and even marked them with which blog they originally came from (using fun little icons. I still have a few things to tweak, and I need to clean up the old imported posts so they look right and such, but things are more or less up and running. Now I can get back to posting in earnest, and maybe even persuade some of the other bloggers who read my stuff to throw a link or two my way (hint, hint) to help me finally get this operation off the ground. The old sites will remain up, and I'll put up a notice to that effect within a week, but all new updates will be at the new site.

Phew, who knew blogging could be such hard work?

Conversations, Part 2

2007-07-02T11:45:00.001+03:00

So I seem to get weirder when I get more tired. I finally got my American (VOIP) phone line working at something like 1 or 2 in the morning, so I called some friends to let them know. After all, for $200 / 15 months, it's free to call anywhere in the U.S. (Nice, eh?) So I called my friend R, and we had this conversation:

[Phone rings.]
Me: Hey.
R: Who is this? Jesus?
Me: [Hesitating] Yes.
I have a mission for you. Go out and buy lots of flamingoes. Buy all the flamingoes. Form a flamingo army.
Tie them to your waist, and [dramatic pause] fly, fly, fly.
Fill the sky with pink.

R: What???

Me: I don't know. You said I was Jesus.

R: Yeah, but- what??

Me: Never mind.

Conversations

2007-06-18T14:20:00.000+03:00

I seem to have some of my more interesting conversations online. Take this one, from today. I was complaining about not getting enough sleep to my friend Eli:

Eli: may i suggest a method?
set an alarm for when u want to go to sleep...

me: And train a monkey with a tire iron to knock me out when he hears the alarm?

Eli: and treat it like the wake up alarm
lol
yeah, that might work

me: Been there, buddy.

Eli: ah
ok
i never knew u had a pet monkey, though
that's pretty cool

me: Well, I don't have one anymore!
The migraines were unbearable. And there was that incident with the guest.

Not Spam, Exactly....

2007-05-24T23:45:00.000+03:00

An actual email I just got:

from Ski Safe <onlinequote@skisafe.com>
to Trevor Rans <_______@gmail.com>
date May 24, 2007 6:15 PM
subject Thank you for using SkiSafeWeb (2819240821)
Thank you for your interest in insuring your craft with Ski-Safe. We have assigned a password so that you can access your records later, either for this quote (if we have been able to provide it), or for another one that you might want. If your quote required approval, it will be accessible after we have reviewed it.

Your password is [removed] and you can change it any time. We also have representatives standing by to help you and are happy to take your call at 1-800-225-6560.

My actual response:

from Ilan <_______@gmail.com>
to Ski Safe <onlinequote@skisafe.com>
date May 25, 2007 12:10 AM PM
subject Re:Thank you for using SkiSafeWeb (2819240821)

Dear SkiSafe and SkiSafe affiliates/loved ones,

I do not recall expressing an interest in insuring a craft with you, nor is my name Trevor. However, as I do not, to my knowledge, own a craft of any sort currently, I would be very interested to see the craft you speak of. I would even go by the name Trevor if you would prefer. What sort of craft is it? Does it have skis, as the name of your company would imply? If so, how does it navigate on non-slippery terrain (e.g. the road outside my friend Bobby's house, where there are several large, intimidating potholes)? Or perhaps it is a craft of an as-yet unspecified type. If so, can I choose? I believe I would choose a hovercraft (that, or a jetpack, but I hear that jetpacks tend to chafe). Yes, I think a hovercraft would be a fine choice. (They had one in that film, Back to the Future - I highly recommend it. It stars Michael J. Fox and an older fellow, whose name I cannot recall. He's the one with white poofy hair like Einstein.)

In sum, please let me know where and when I can pick up my hovercraft and how much the insurance you are offering will cost.

Thank You,
Ilan/Trevor

I will keep you updated with whether they write me back.

Update: They responded. Proof that some organizations have a sense of humor:

from Onlinequote <onlinequote@skisafe.com>
to Ilan <_______@gmail.com>
date May 25, 2007 12:31 AM
subject RE: Thank you for using SkiSafeWeb (2819240821)
Thank you for injecting some levity into what might have been an arduous day.

Had you requested a more ordinary yacht or jet ski we might have been able to accommodate you, but alas, none of our programs cover hovercrafts (or submarines) so we must regretfully decline.

However, I appreciate your lending credence to the statement of Galileo Galilei who said:

"I do not feel obliged to believe that the same God who has endowed us with sense, reason, and intellect has intended us to forgo their use."

Have a great weekend!

[name removed]

Who Was that Masked Infection?

2007-05-21T23:33:00.000+03:00

So, short post. I was sick last week. All of it. I had all the wrong stuff coming out of all the wrong orifices at all of the wrong times. I went to the doctor twice and the immediate care place twice, and had needles put in, fluids taken out, other fluids put in, etc. And they still don't know what it is I am just now getting over. They checked for what they thought it was (Death-Causing Spiridium from Mars) and it came up negative, and...that's it, it seems. So, I decided to help them out by giving them a picture, featured here. If I had to guess, I'd say that they may have been thwarted in their identification attempts because it normally appears in the wild in a clever disguise.

Ping-Pong with the Army

2007-05-08T14:44:00.000+03:00

I went to the lishkat hagiyus, the army recruitment office, last week. It was suprisingly organized and efficient. Until the end.

In the end, I went into the final office, where they tell you, bottom line, what's going to happen with you.

They told me that I didn't have a giyus (enlistment) date yet, but I would get one when I got a profile (i.e. the number that represents your fitness). So I wasn't done with them yet. Let's start the cameras rolling...

Me:Am I not allowed to leave the country until you give me a date [as previously had been indicated to me]?
Girl 1:Yes, you won't.
Me: When will I have a profile, then?
Girl 1: When you bring in the medical documents that you're missing.
- Begin quest for the missing documents. -
Girl 1: Go back up to the 2nd floor, and walk into an office and ask what documents you need to get a profile.

Scene: second floor office, several minutes later.
Me: I need to know how to get my profile.
Girl 2: Did you see the doctor here?
Me: Yes.
Girl 2:: (Checking computer) Ok, let's look at your profile.
Me: (Waits)
Girl 2: You don't have a profile yet.
Me: Yes, I know. How do I get one?
Girl 2:You need to bring the required medical documents.
Me: Right. Which ones?
Girl 2: Oh. (Passes me off to another girl.)
Girl 3: (Checking computer) You need some missing medical documents.
Me: (Through clenched teeth with a strained voice) Yes, I know. Which ones?
I get passed off to a 4th girl who says she'll be with me soon. I sit patiently until I don't feel like it any more, then go back into the office.
Me: I need to know which medical documents I need to get to get a profile.
Girl 5 (or maybe this was Girl 2 again): Isn't someone already helping you?
Me: Yes, but I don't know where she went.
Girl 5: She'll be with you soon. She hasn't forgotten about you. [She had.]
Girl 4 finally walks by, and I follow her into the office.
Me: Which medical documents do I need to get?
She turns to the other girls expectantly.
Other Girls: You need medical documents.
Me: (Head explodes.)
(Practically yelling) But which documents?
One of the girls (I am fairly certain either Girl 2 or Girl 3) checks the same computer they've been checking all along.
Girl 2/3: You need to come back for a psychological examination.
Me: (Really wondering 'what about the documents?' but certainly not curious enough to bring that up again) When?
Girl 2/3: We'll call you.
Me: (Not taking any chances) When will you call me?
Girl 2/3: Within two weeks.

And I'm spent.

Generation Gap?

2007-05-07T00:10:00.000+03:00

An actual conversation between me and my parents. I'm honestly not sure if this is going to make me want to talk to them more in the future or less.

Mom: have u used your webcam? we also have one but haven't tried it yet
me: Not yet.
I feel that it's a bit too early in my career to start uploading compromising videos to the internet.
...
Mom: no no no compromising videos, just your face when we are talking. or else we'll upload those baby pix!!
me: Which ones?
There are lots more of Noam and Tali. I'm the 3rd child, remember?
Mom: how about the bathtub shots?
me: You don't have those of me.
Mom: want to bet?
me: Yes.

[long pause]

Dad: mommy is busy fruitlessly trying to find compromising pix of u
me: I know.
...
Dad: ...now Mommy is more determined than ever
don't b surprised if a Noam picture is claimed to actually b u
me: I won't.
I think I can tell the difference. Not sure.
Dad: uh oh, u should never challenge your mother, she found some
me: No way!
In an album?
Dad: how about dressed up as a classic nerd 4 Purim
me: Not good enough. She said "naked."
Dad: Or being hugged and kissed by Judy E. at camp when you were a wee one
me: Or "bathtub" at least.
So?
...
Dad: How about topless in the back yard?
me: Still not doing it for me...
Dad: The Purim nerd is pretty bad
Dad: But the mother is still on a quest, still looking for naked
Dad: Busted, found the bathtub
with a girl
me: No way!
That's Noam!
Which girl?
Dad: Tali
Since she's bigger than u in the pic, it has to be you
me: Is this a naked picture of Tali, where I just happen to be there and naked?
Dad: Just found 11 more
many at the beach in public
me: I am "b'shok."
That's Israeli for "in shock."
Dad: U and Tali are sharing a bathtub
There are also solo shots of u
me: ....
Dad: can we stop --- your mother doesn't give up and I'm hungry. This could go on all night now. I'm gonna waste away to nothingness, dying of starvation
all because you challenged your mother
u should know by now you can do that
especially if u think you'll ever win
me: I'm stubborn. You should know that by now.
Dad: BTW, it's a good humbling lesson for marriage as well
just something to keep in mind
me: ...and we're back to this.
Dad: how about the three of u naked in an outdoor shower
me: Ok, now you're just making stuff up. [Editor's note: otherwise, I should go back in time and turn them into Child Services]
Dad: U want compromising, we got plenty, now go out and find a girl so we can thoroughly embarrass u
me: ...I'll work on it. -sigh-
Dad: have a great night. I'm going to eat the woodwork (or other inedible stuff not nailed down, while your mother searches the archives.
Seriously, have a great night. Talk to u tomorrow.
me: Ok.
Later.
Dad: bye

I am speechless. For me, that's a big deal.

I Think I'm a Clone Now

2007-05-02T22:25:00.000+03:00

A while ago, in January, while I was training in the U.S, Nefesh B'Nefesh called me to ask if needed any help with my aliyah. It went something like this:

GUY: Ilan, hi, this is [whatever his name was; we'll call him Stanley] with NBN. I was wondering how we can help you with your aliyah.
ILAN: I already made aliyah.
STANLEY: You did?
ILAN: Yes.
STANLEY: When?
ILAN: August.
STANLEY: Oh.
-awkward silence-
(Recall that he's calling my American cellphone)
ILAN: I'm in the U.S. now. [pause] But only for a short while.
STANLEY: Oh.
-awkward silence-
STANLEY: Well, if you want, you can still apply for our services. Give us a call when you get back.
ILAN: Sure, thanks.
STANLEY: Bye.
ILAN: Bye.

I'm not sure if he ever realized that not only did I make aliyah, I made it with NBN. In truth, NBN is a wonderful organization, which does amazing things for many people, myself very much included, so I shouldn't make fun of them. But it was funny. I think I downloaded their application twice or something, and I'm in their database twice, so that in their files, there's one Ilan who planned out the aliyah process, made aliyah, even got a generous cash grant from them; and one Ilan who never quite got off the ground.

Parallel universe much?

Kitten Leasing

2007-04-30T08:17:00.000+03:00

So, on a scale of 1 to disturbing, should I be scared by the fact that the email indicated in this screenshot is not spam, but rather, sent by a close friend? My life is...different than other people's.

Question Thursday Extravaganza

2007-04-20T18:29:00.000+03:00

So... I've moved into my apartment and things are starting to calm down (see the response to Lauren's question below for more info on that) and to make up for missing the last few Thursdays, I am going to answer every single question I've received to date. Granted, that's only eleven questions, but that's all I got. Hmmm...perhaps it would be more impressive if I said I'm going to answer every single question while submerged upside-down in a 200-gallon tank of water. You can't see me right now, so let's assume I'm bubbling away here, answering in my own damp fashion¹. Ok, so here we go:

Eli: Why?
Answertron 3042: Because I said so. Kids? Kids? Stop fighting back there, or no porridge for a wee- Ow! That's it! Once more, and I will turn this blog around. No rollercoasters, no funnelcakes, no watching slaves getting fed to lions, do you hear me?

Eli: Why me?
Answertron 3042: According to one popular theory in modern physics, there are an infinite number of possible universes in existence. Hence, in a smaller, but still infinite number, there are an infinite number of Elis all asking "Why me?"² If you got this infinite number of Elis in a room together (yes, it would be a big room) and gave them an infinite amount of time with an infinite number of typewriters, a lot of Elis would probably get pretty stained with all that ink. Other Elis would form a free-market economy, using the typewriters as a currency, while still others³ would use the typewriters as crude weapons, vying for brute-force dominance of the infinite Eliverse...
In other words, um, I dunno.

Stuart: What's the best place to store nuclear weapons around the house so the kids don't get into them?
Answertron 3042: Nebraska.

Stuart: Can white men sing the blues?
Answertron 3042: Yes, if you upset them enough. Try telling them that their pimped-out Escalade doesn't make them look 'ghetto.' Or drill a hole in one of their yachts. Or remind them that they are just cogs in a consumer-driven, laissez-faire free-market economy, where while nothing's truly free, value is placed on nothing, resulting in overindulgence in their drab and meaningless existences in a vain attempt to ignore the desperate ennui slowly sapping all life from their bones. Then kick them in the groin really hard. That should work.

Stuart: Can blue men sing the whites?
Answertron 3042: Only in Canada. You sicko.

Stuart: What is the circumference of Rosie O'Donnell?
Answertron 3042: Three Olsen twins.

Stuart: If a woodchuck would chuck as much as it could chuck, if a woodchuck could chuck wood, doesn't the woodchuck have a pretty boring existence?
Answertron 3042: Who are you to judge the woodchuck community? They have had many great contributions to society, including the invention of sporks, the concept of irony, and vocal intonations indicating the end of a thought. (Before woodchucks, people would poilitely wait for a few seconds of silence before replying in a conversation. Dramatic pauses were dreadfully difficult, and a episode of West Wing would take 3 hours, at which point the actors would all collapse from exhaustion from all that walking and talking.⁴)

Stuart: How many licks does it take to get to the Tootsie roll center of Tara Reid's brain?
Answertron 3042: Now you're just being plain mean. ::crosses robotic arms:: That's it. I refuse to answer. Now go to your room, Stuart, and think about what you've done.

Reb Chaim: Here's a question for you: The Torah says that during the Exodus the Jews did not have enough time for their bread to leaven, so they ate unleavened breads, which is why there is an obligation to eat Maztah on Pesach. However, let's say they had enough time for their bread to rise, they still would not have eaten leavened bread because it's Chametz and it was Pesach, so why do we need the reason that they had no time for the bread to rise, just say they didn't eat leavened bread because it was Pesach?
Answertron 3042: So the children would ask. No, seriously - both happened, and there are two different aspects to matzah, each part of a (somewhat ) separate holiday that starts on the 15th of Nissan.

Lauren: What is wrong with the Thursday question thing?
Answertron 3042: I am now in fully functioning order, ma'am, and I suggest you be more sensitive in the future. How would you feel if someone asked you what was wrong with you, then you went and told the teacher and the other kids heard and didn't let you play with the nice red ball and you got stuck with the stupid blue ball and you could only play with Harold, the kid with all the food allergies and the inhaler, but who needs those other kids anyway and no, I'm not crying. I just have a cold.

Lauren: And how serious are the Thursday questions allowed to be?
Answertron 3042: As serious as you want. Mind you, I won't necessarily answer serious questions seriously. I might even answer them ironically.

Lauren: Is it too late to submit a question?
Answertron 3042: Can't.... continue.... questions too.... meta.... ::Answertron 3042 explodes, leaving pieces all over cyberspace.::⁵

We are going to deliver all answers using the new, high-tech Answertron 3042, to expedite the answering process, and because robots are freakin' awesome.
Some of those Elis have tentacles.
Probably including the tentacled Elis.
Plus, William Shatner couldn't get a word in edgewise, but I'm not saying that was a bad thing.
Lauren, you owe me a new question-answering robot. And chocolate. I want chocolate.

Do Not Adjust Your Monitor...

2007-04-01T08:57:00.000+03:00

No, it's not your fault. There is currently a glitch in the Question Thursdays system. We are working to hammer it out. In the meantime, though, if you need to get from New York to Dublin, Google has the directions (via kottke.org).

Introducing Question Thursdays

2007-03-21T20:06:00.000+02:00

In order to jump-start this blog again (having finished redesigns of both blogs, plus a bit on an as-yet-unclear project) I'm introducing a brand new program, called Question Thursdays (alternate, more clever titles are welcome and encouraged.) Here's how it works:

Thursday arrives in Israel, whatever the time zone you may happen to be in. This generally happens once a week, though there was that time when NBC scheduled two Thursdays in a row, so everyone could fulfill their must-see-TV obligation. They were showing a Very Special Friends episode (The One Where Ross Becomes a Heroin Addict But Gets Better and Phoebe Blows Up Burundi.)
For 24 hours, you, my adoring readers send me questions - anything ranging from the idiotic to the inane. Seriously, any question at all (yes, you can ask me where you left the car keys, but I'm telling you for the billionth time, they're on the counter next to the phone.) Use the email address in the sidebar*, and don't fret if you feel like sending it earlier in the week.
I will choose one or more questions to answer in a manner of my choosing. Please understand that "in a manner of my choosing" could mean "as I were a 15th-century villiage idiot ('Forsooth, while reading your missive, I didst soil myself in publick.') or it could mean "while riding Tobias, my pet manatee." (He's a magic manatee - much like a normal manatee, only more full of himself.)
You read and commend me for knowing so darn much.

That is all. The answers should be up before Shabbat in Israel. Let's get rolling! And when you're done rolling, send me questions, you dizzy readers.

*Edit: You can Either post your questions or use that email address. See the 2nd and 3rd comments.

Hebrew Lesson

2007-03-02T01:17:00.000+02:00

סבלנות - sav.lan.ut - n. Patience, specifically patience for the speaker from others. Note: there is no word for patience in the other direction.

Going Mad

2007-02-28T15:18:00.000+02:00

This must be what going mad feels like.

So it's almost Purim, the one Jewish holiday totally saturated in silliness. And yesterday, I was dressed up in a makeshift diaper and eyepatch, standing in front of 50 people, sucking my thumb.

And the show hits...a new low.

You see, our office has fun activities from time to time. And Purim, I imagine, is one of the bigger ones. Fine, no problem. But I wasn't in the mood for silliness and fun today. I wanted to just sit and do my work, or at least get distracted accidentally, not intetionally. But one of the managers came in to my cubicle and told me to go. I asked if I have to. She said yes. (I soon expected the German-accented "you veell be go-ink and you veell be enjoyink eet.") So I went.

They introduced the game: each group would use the available materials (pipe cleaners, large pieces of construction paper, etc. to make costumes, and the best costume would get a prize. So our group decided to dress up one of us, and I let them bicker about it, having no desire to participate at all in this silliness. And I got increasingly annoyed and just wanted this silly thing to be over. I was in a bad mood, I guess. So finally, after like seven minutes of this I threw my hands up and said I'd dress up. Anything to get the agony over with. Unfortunately, I hadn't been paying close enough attention to what they were planning on doing, which is how I ended up prancing about the stage, supposedly dressed as Moshe Dayan's great-grandson. This, mind you, in front of many people I had not even met, but who will now likely remember me as "the guy who dressed up as a baby." Great.

Oh, and to top it all off, though I tried washing off the red makeup they used to make me "rosy-cheeked," it just kind of faded, so I looked like I was blushing for a while afterwards. Which maybe I should've been.

That's it. I've entered the Twilight Zone. There's something on the wing, and only I can see it, and no one's gonna believe me.

P.S. I'm back in Israel, for those of you who didn't know. I intend to give you some stories about Arizona and returning to Israel sometime soon. LOTS of writing to do, and a lot of other things. Like finding a place to live.

Life Lessons: Superheroes

2007-01-02T17:45:00.000+02:00

There is a fine line between a superhero and a man in tights who likes to sit on rooftops and watch people. Maybe it's the cape.

Somewhat Super

2006-12-27T22:25:00.000+02:00

In response to a letter I had sent him, a friend of mine emailed me the following:

How's the weather out there? What exactly are you learning during this 'training' period? Are you learning how to build a nuclear bomb from silicone? Really?

Now, this was an odd series of questions, to say the least. I responded in kind:

Ok, you got me. We're building bombs. Not out of silicone - which is used as a sealant, for firestops (whatever those are), and certain types of -ahem- implants. I think you were referring to silicon - without the 'e', which is used in making computer chips. But we don't use those to make bombs either. In any case, the training is going just fine, except for the interesting effects of prolonged radiation exposure. I now lack eyebrows, but have developed some interesting powers. I can now detect mimes at a distance of 100 kilometers and I read people's minds, but only in haiku form. It's a interesting talent, that last one. Often when I try to use it on women, I get something like the following: Creepy guy staring Really have to go get a Restraining order. And sometimes, it's hard to understand what they're saying, so I get things like this: My thoughts don't always Make sense or flow together. Cauliflower duck.

There are some questions better left unasked.

Tweed

2006-12-11T08:53:00.000+02:00

A few weeks ago, I was in New Haven to take a flight to Philadelphia. Mind you, I didn't want to be in either New Haven or Philadelphia, but airports tend to be the kind of place you are with no clue why you're there and a strong desire to leave - like the dentist's office, or Germany. You don't like the place you're going any more than the place you're leaving, but you're at the airport, so what the heck. You fly. This was, without a doubt, the smallest airport I have ever been in. Unfortunately, it wasn't comically small, or this would be a more entertaining blog post. In any case, in the airport was this sign: (I know it would seem that I was drunk or not wearing my glasses, but neither is true.) In case you can't read it, it says "ATTENTION ALL PASSENGERS: TWEED NEEDS YOUR SUPPORT!" Needless to say, this was a bit perplexing. Why would tweed need my support? It seems to be a well-supported fabric, what with the abundance of elderly and/or stuffy British men. And why not promote support of some of the more flamboyant fabrics? Where is the taffeta lobby? The chiffon promoters? (Yes, those are both great band names.) Furthermore, how does one support tweed? Is there a Tweed Workers' Union or a Tweed Foundation? This truly is one of man's great mysteries. (It turns out that the airport is named Tweed, and apparently needs handouts. But I still think that Tweed Foundation idea has merit.)

Get Up, Get Down

2006-12-05T18:48:00.000+02:00

So I said I would tell the story from after I arrived at the airport to go home for Thanksgiving. I get to the airport plenty early, and jump through the various hoops security makes you jump through ("Please remove your jacket, sir. Please remover your shoes, sir.....No, sir - j-just your shoes! Sir, please put your pants back on." "But they were chafing something fierce!") and arrive at the gate with nothing to do for an hour and a half. So I take my suit and my carry-on bag and go to see if I can't get caught up on my email and blog reading. I take out my laptop and behold! There is free wireless internet access, and lo, it is good. Well, I start going through my reading, and soon my 1.5 hours become 3 hours, due to a delay. I realize that I should keep my laptop battery charged for the plane, and I look around and find an outlet. I close my laptop, put it in my bag, and take my bag and suit and go over to the seat with the outlet. Put down suit, put down bag, open bag, get plug, plug in, get laptop, open laptop. And then I think I hear my name over the loudspeaker. Ok, I unplug the plug, close the laptop, put it and the plug in my bag, pick up my bag, pick up my suit, and go and wait in line to talk to the person at the information desk. In retrospect, I think I'm so obsessed with my own name that I just assumed it was me they were calling. I'd probably respond to any name with a reasonable number of vowels and consonants. For example, I could see this scene playing out:

LOUDSPEAKER: Marie Antoinette, Marie Antoinette, please come to the front desk. There's an mob of angry French peasants waiting for you. ME: Hi, my name's Ilan, there's a mob here for me? AIRLINE PERSON: Um, yes...over there. Are you- ANGRY PEASANT 1: Hey, I thought she was prettier! ANGRY PEASANT 2: Hey, I thought she was a woman! ANGRY PEASANT 3: Hey, I thought love was only true in fairy tales / Meant for someone else but not for me / Love was out to get me, that's the way it seemed / Disappointment haunted all my dreams. / Then I saw her face, now I'm a believer / Not a trace of doubt in my mind.... [At this juncture, a wonderfully choreographed dance starts, complete with the peasants twirling their pitchforks and juggling their torches. At some point, the real Marie Antoinette shows up, and the control and grace the dancers exhibit when setting up the guillotine and executing her - without missing a beat, mind you - can be described as nothing short of "masterful."]

Eh, where was I? Oh, right. So, as you see, my tendency to assume everyone's talking to me can dangerous. Beheading-level dangerous, or worse - spontaneous-public-musicals-level dangerous. But nothing so dramatic happened. After waiting for fifteen minutes on line, holding my carry-on and my suit, I get to the front of the line, where I am promptly informed that I wasn't called at all. Shoot, I could've spent that time I wasted in line watching a cat attacking an air conditioner on YouTube! (My money's on the air conditioner.) So I go to sit down again and discover my outlet's been taken. Oh, well. Suit down, bag down, laptop out, laptop open. And then I hear the announcement again. It sure does sound like my name, but they're saying to go to the desk by the gate instead. Well, at least there's no line there. I ask the woman sitting next to me if she heard what name they just called. She says no. (I will note at this juncture that I have no qualms speaking to total strangers. The reverse is not always true.) Close laptop, put in bag, pick up bag, pick up suit, go over to desk. As I'm walking there, I hear an announcement for a woman named Linda with the same last name as me. I pause and check my ID. No, I'm not Linda. It must've been her they've been calling. I go back to my seat, smiling sheepishly at the woman. "It wasn't me," I say, not wanting to seem like a crazy person. She just smiles in my general direction and goes back to her computer. Then (wouldn't you know it) comes another announcement, and they most definitely just called me to the gate desk. Close laptop, put in bag, pick up bag, pick up suit, and march over to the desk. "Did you call _________, party of one?" "Yes are you [checking the list] Ilan?" "Yes." "Oh, well, there's a problem with your assigned seat." "There is?" "Yes, it doesn't exist." "It doesn't...?" "Yeah, there isn't a row 23 on the plane." At this point, I consider going mad, perhaps gibberingly so. I decline. "So....now what?" "Oh, we're assigning you to a different seat." And I get a new boarding pass, and go back to sit down. I was worried for a moment there that I would be forced to sit on someone's lap for the whole flight. I mean, that could be ok, depending on the comfortableness of the lap in question, but non-lap seats are certainly preferable. Anyhow, I put down my suit, put down my bag, sit down, open my bag, take out my laptop, and soon, a plug becomes available, so I plug it in. Then, after a while, the boarding call finally comes. Plug. Laptop. Bag. Go! I stop, turn around and go back. I pick up my suit and go back towards the gate. Sighing, I enter the line for boarding. This is going to be a long flight.

Keeping Me On My Toes

2006-11-17T01:36:00.000+02:00

So...I'm in the airport right now, ready to fly to visit my family and friends back east. My flight should've left 20 minutes ago, but we have yet to board, due to a delay. So I figured I'd blog. It seems I've broken out of my 1.5-year-long posting slump lately. Let's hope it lasts. To get to the airport, I took a cab. I call up the taxi company, order a cab, and try to figure out why the receptionist keeps calling me "honey." (It may have been a reference to how some of my friends in college called me Hunny, but that would be odd, since none of those friends work at the All-State Taxicab company.) So after a half day at work, I go home, gather and pack the last few things, and catch the cab waiting outside. The cabbie is nice and jovial and figures out without me telling him that I'm going to the airport. Nice. We set off at a nice clip, and almost hit another car, but that's ok, since my motto in driving is "a near miss is still a miss." (This being my second driving motto, my first being "The brake is on the left, stupid.") And then as we're going along, the car hiccups, like we ran over something, or the engine is coming down with the black lung. I raise my eyebrows. "What was that?" I ask. "Oh, the air conditioning isn't working." He rolls down the windows. Hmmm. Kind of confused here. "What was that?" I ask again. "I don't know." "You don't...?" "Yeah, I don't know. I am surprised too." This would've been an ok thing to say if he had said it in an adult-being-concerned voice. But no, he said it with a kind of wonderment, as if the car had just started dispensing free candy out of the broken air conditioning vents, and we were just reaping the benefits. Note to self: Design candy-dispensing air conditioning system for cars. Make millions and get a tummy ache. "Oh," I say, unable to properly respond to this. Then he offers some new information. "The check engine light is on....like always." Great. I am going to die. UPDATE: I did not die after all. I'll tell you my in-the-airport story soon, but I think we may be boarding now.

Yes, But Where Do I Find the Lawn Ornaments?

2006-11-16T06:40:00.000+02:00

Want to have some fun? Walk into Bed Bath and Beyond and have the following conversation:

YOU: Excuse me, where is the Bedding Department? BED BATH AND BEYONDER: (pointing) Over there. YOU: And where are the bath items? BED BATH AND BEYONDER: (pointing) Right there. YOU: Thank you. And, uh, where can I purchase the beyond? BED BATH AND BEYONDER: I hate you and everything you stand for. YOU: So...you're all out of beyond? BED BATH AND BEYONDER: There is not enough fire in hell to express the rage I am barely containing. YOU: Hmmm...I guess I'll just look around then. I heard they have the best beyond in town in this place.

Listen Up

2006-11-10T08:36:00.000+02:00

So a few days ago, I posted an audio post, expecting accolades, pats on the back, and a possible Presidential Medal. But alas, I forgot that few people read this, fewer would be willing to sit and listen to 5 minutes of me prattling about waffles and Monopoly and how every male citizen of the Republic of Tonga has a crush on the same girl from Liechtenstein (a country whose primary claim to fame is that they are the largest exporter of false teeth - no joke!), and even fewer would be so bold or generous as to actually post a comment or give me a backrub. No, I'm here, commentless and with an aching back. But I decided to invesigate why I had gotten no real response. I realized that though more people than usual had visited my site - likely due to the actual presence of a new post, of all things. But I don't think people actually bothered to listen to my audiopost because - get this - it was pretty boring. You had to wait till the middle just to get to anything halfway entertaining. I think maybe if I try another time, I should start with a song and dance. Well, you'd only hear the song, but the dance would be hella cool, I assure you. So it seems that instead of actually posting, I posted about how I should post. In other words, I blogged about blogging. It is a well-known fact that bloggers love blogging about nothing more than themselves, the narcissistic ingrates. Note to self: a fun side project/post-modern digital perfomance art: make a blog whose every entry is about why I'm blogging, how I should stop blogging, that I'm thinking about stopping blogging, why people blog in general, or why the sitcom Becker was never really given a fair chance. Find a way to make ridicuous amounts of cash money off of this blog - enough to purchase Gary Coleman, or at least rent him once a month. In the meantime, I leave you with an excerpt from my in-progress novel, Limestone:

Mac woke up and instantly regretted it. He concluded that waking up would just be the first of a series of bad moves that day. He had no clue just how right he was. He rolled sideways and off of the bed. He realized it was not a bed, but a couch. Craig’s couch. He was in Craig’s apartment, he decided, as that was the standard location for Craig’s couch. The word apartment seemed to hold some special importance. He wasn’t sure why. Finally pushing himself up to his feet, Mac decided it was as good a time as any to open his eyes, and tried to. Succeeding on the third try, he discovered that the normally level ground was writhing and twisting like a python, or like he imagined a python might, were it a hardwood floor with furniture on it. He realized that his stomach was trying to tell him something, something urgent. He ran to the bathroom and vomited with gusto. Deciding that he had had such a good time of it the first time, he vomited again.

Vomit jokes. Will they ever get old? No. No they won't.

Moving Into the 20th Century

2006-11-07T08:34:00.000+02:00

So I'm trying something new: audioblogging. Listen, and all will be explained. Let me know what you think, whether you prefer text, etc.
powered by ODEO

Tabernacles

2006-10-06T02:25:00.000+02:00

I wasn't planning on posting. I didn't have anything to post on that I could think of. But then I happened across this post about Sukkot found on the Lansey Brothers' Blog. I just had to leave a comment to that post. Hilarity ensued. Or rather will ensue, I hope. Or maybe despair will ensue. I just want some ensuing to happen, ok?

As I recall (and I am not making this up), according to the halachot of sukkah, you can use a person as part of a wall of a sukkah, provided that 1) the person doesn't move and 2) the person is unaware that he/she is part of a sukkah. So just invite some friends over: Eli: Hey, guys, come over my house for dinner!
Guys: Great! Later that evening...

Guys: Can we come inside?
Eli: No, we're eating out here, because it's Sukkot.
Guys: Oh, right. But where's the sukkah?
Eli: Um...I don't...know. Can you guys stand in lines forming a rectangle? Here, let me arrange you. Now don't move, ok?
Guys: What's going on? Why can't we move?
Eli: It's, it's a game! the, um, the "don't move till we're done dinner game!"
Guys: Dinner? So we can eat now?
Eli: No, not so much.
Guys: Why not?
Eli: Because you're not in a sukkah.

The Guys spontaneously combust due to the volatile combination of frustration and absurdity.
The Rabbinic Sages roll in their graves. Some may even weep.
So there you have it - a simple solution, all laid out. All you have to figure out now is what to do about schach. (Eli: Ok, now wear these branches as hats...)
By the way, women are not excluded from this. Even though the mitzvah of being part of a sukkah is a time-bound positive mitzvah, a woman can be a sukkah wall as much as a man can. However, it may be wise to adopt the custom of not having a sukkah made of both men and women, as it may lead to mixed dancing.

For Your Listening Pleasure

2006-08-11T20:18:00.000+03:00

One of my very first posts, one which to this day, inexplicably, has fans, was my musical debut - the hit song "Blender Man." I'd provided a link which has since gone dead, but has now been revived (without being all zombified or anything). So enjoy, at your own risk. Maybe I'll make some audio posts, if all y'all want me to.

To Pud, or Not to Pud

2006-08-08T08:00:00.000+03:00

While writing this post, I was reminded of a question asked by one of my campers years ago:

Is "pudding" a conjugation of a verb "to pud?" And if so, how does one pud?

Furthermore, I would add, is it safe for children under the age of 18 to engage in pudding without an adult supervisor? Is it legal to pud in Nevada? Can anyone pud, or is it an activity restricted to a select few, trained over the millenia to master the sacred art of pudding? These, my friends, are the questions that our generation must answer. I can only hope, for our childrens' sake, that we're up to the challenge.

Code Red

2006-06-06T23:49:00.000+03:00

The world is going more and more crazy, and this time, at least, it isn't my fault. I recently came across the following on the label on a bottle of Mountain Dew Code Red, a substance with little to negative nutritional value, yet one which aided a great many of my late-night coding sessions:

Contains: Carbonated Water, High-Fructose Corn Syrup AND/OR Sugar...

And/or sugar? And/or sugar?! I'm sorry, but the phrase 'and/or' belongs in insurance contracts, not in ingredient lists. Then again, I suppose that there were early warning signals that Code Red was bad news. First of all, the name: it definitely violates my never-drink-anything-named after-emergency-situation-terminology policy, which I plan on sticking to much more carefully in the future.¹ Second, the color should've been a tip-off. That particular hue is generally reserved by nature for such crucial messages as "I'm a tropical flower! Pollinate me!" or "I'm a particularly good-looking parrot! Let's mate!" or "I'm heat vision coming from Superman's eyes. Die, villain!" Since I am neither Lex Luthor, nor able to pollinate much of anything, nor particularly attracted to parrots (good-looking or otherwise), maybe this isn't the beverage for me. You live, you learn, I guess. "AND/OR?" Sheesh. ________

¹The policy mentioned above is similar to my don't-eat-anything-that-sounds-like-an-Aladdin-character policy. This, of course, is why I do not eat Babaganoush.

Driving to Distraction

2006-04-12T23:29:00.000+03:00

You know what's worse than a fatal automobile collision? A fatal automobile collision with a clown car. I can see the headline now:

TWO-CAR PILEUP LEAVES 53 DEAD; CIRCUS MOURNS

But the thing is, despite the tragedy, it's kinda funny, 'cause, well, they're clowns.

Multimedia Explosion

2006-03-29T19:51:00.000+02:00

Some of you might be wondering where I've been, and what I've been up to. Good question. Thankfully, I have a good answer. Among other things, I was making this video for Purim, the Jewish holiday where we all act a little goofy. Itt's made mostly from fairly undirected clips taken around our house here in Cornell. I would explain further, but I believe this video defies explanation. See the larger version here, and while you're at it, check out the other two shorts we made.

Look Closely....

2006-02-20T17:58:00.000+02:00

Just a quick one for now. Earlier this semester, I was working for Hillel a a mashgiach and a server at one of their events. I ended up in the paper, as shown here: The only problem was that the Cornell Daily Sun got the caption wrong. The person I am serving is misnamed and her graduating year is off by at least one year. Therefore, I took it upon myself to rectify this egregious error. Here's the result: ~~Also, in an unrelated story, our house has started a blog. I'm not sure what'll come from it, if anything, but it could be interesting....~~ UPDATE: That blog is defunct, having gone nowhere. However, they recently started a new photoblog. Check out the CJL photoblog.

Wheelin' and Dealin'

2006-02-08T08:40:00.000+02:00

I don't have too much particularly interesting material from recent weeks due to being somewhat distracted and/or communicating with a superintelligent piece of lint and/or being locked in the trunk of a 1978 Chevy somewhere outside of Poughkeepsie (long story. Don't ask.) But not to worry, as things are calming down / I'm sober / I got out and hitched a ride with this nice (though somewhat...aromatic) trucker. His name is Francis, and we are now fast friends. In any case, I do have an as-yet-unpublished tale of my first traffic ticket. Yes, I have a car. She is called Charlene, and she has served me well. But this is not her story, as she was not the steed upon which I rode. Nay, I rode a lesser beast, known in most circles as a "bicycle." That's right. I got a ticket while riding my bike. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Bicycles and I have a love-destroy relationship. I brought a bicycle up to hilly Ithaca in the beginning of my Freshman year. It was a 13-year-old artifact, but it was in good condition and fairly functional. By the end of the year, having ridden it about a mile a day, straight through the frigid, snow-laden winter, it was, shall we say, in less than perfect repair. Had I been asked to testify before a court of law on the nature of the construction materials of the bike, I'd have to answer "Rust and duct tape. And maybe a tire." More specifically, the seat was mostly covered in/made of duct tape, one pedal had come off, leaving only a metal rod, and the back brakes were no longer functional, making my preferred method of stopping some combination of using my front brakes, slamming my feet into the ground, and driving into snowbanks. But the bell I'd installed still worked, so thank God for small favors. (This way, I could warn people before I ran them over - note the aforementioned lack of back brakes.) Yes, I realized that it was somewhat dangerous. I'd been warned; I believe the phrase that the guy at the bike shop used was "death trap." In sum, though I try to ride safely, and I wear a helmet, I don't always treat my bicycles with the respect necessary to keep them out of the "death trap" category. Which is why, when I was pulled over by a cop on a Spring evening last year, my bike's front-mounted light was broken. Though this bicycle was a new one, it also had broken back brakes, a fact which the cop (let's call him "Officer Fancy Pants") failed to notice. But he did not fail to notice the fact that I had no working light, or that I (courteously, I thought) pulled into the left lane to allow his car to pass, or that it (presumably) had been a slow crime day. He interrogated me as if I were a gun-wielding, baby-orphan-killing, jaywalking cocaine seller, accusing me of, among other things, a lack of respect for the law. Well, yeah; I don't respect it. Not if it's going to cause me to get a ticket for bike-riding, which it turns out it did. I mean, doesn't he have frat parties to shut down, and parking tickets to issue or something? I gave my information to Officer F. Pants in a daze, as he wrote up the ticket, not pausing to think that he had no way to verify any information I was giving him. After all, you don't need to have any form of ID on your person while practicing the seedy crime-filled art of bikery. So I took the ticket bewilderedly, ready to go to court, when Officer Pants offered me one glimmer of hope, in a world bereft of justice and free ice cream for all. With the type of felony I had committed, if the owner gets the bike fixed, and then gets to a cop to sign a form verifying this, before sundown on the next day, he is exonerated. (I was a bit confused about that time limit. It sounded a bit too, um, magic-spellish: "If thou doth get the Signature of Power by the setting of the sun in one day's time, you can lift the Curse of the Ridiculous Ticket...." You know, something like that.) I decided, what the heck, replaced the light, and brought the improved bicycle (still sans back brakes, mind you) to the police station on campus. And - guess what? - I got the signature I needed. ("And lo, it came to pass that the Curse of the Oppressive Fancy Pants was lifted and the younglings pranced and frolicked once again, except for little Johnny, 'cause he's not really into the whole prancing/frolicking scene, not that there doth be anything wrong with that....") Later, I would go on to deliver the form to the judge who was handling the ticket, wrapping up this case nicely. As I left the police station that day, the world looked just a little brighter. Riding my bike away, I broke at least two traffic laws. It felt good.

Back upfront

2006-01-26T19:44:00.000+02:00

Back. Will post soon. Promise Till then, here's what's up.

The 'I don't have time to post' Post

2005-09-29T22:24:00.000+03:00

I have a bunch of new posts lined up, but before I can type 'em up and post them, I have a "few" things to do:

~~ECON Prelim~~ (hopefully, I passed)
~~COMS 330 Design Document for a large-scale database system that may take over my life and/or explode some time around late November.~~
~~STS 355 essay - 3-5 pages on 19th century computers, and how they give me warm gooey feelings inside.~~ (I still have to check whetber the bits I wrote at 4 A.M. are logical, or even coherent. I may be taking bets on that one.)
~~Statistics Prelim~~ (not too painful, but those are the ones to watch out for...)
~~COMS 330 Homework.~~
~~Run around, wildly flailing my arms about and yelling at squirrels.~~
(I also did a bit of general primal screaming for good measure.)
~~Statistics problem set~~ (well, I turned something in...)
~~COMS 474 project, where I have to teach a stupid computer what the stupid word "activate" means. Stupid.~~ I finally got it done, with what I thought were a bunch of errors. it turns out that those errors are not errors, but difficulties that everyone has in making a word-sense disambiguation system. I did ok.
~~Write beatnik poetry for the religious college student~~ Here it is:
Must repent. The end is nigh. Problem sets? I go to a Godless university. Sigh.
Repent.

Arrggh.

Business (Cards) as Usual

2005-07-29T23:45:00.000+03:00

I designed these a few months ago and ordered 500 through vistaprint.com. Ask me, if you want one - I have a lot to spare:

Oh, and if you were wondering, ephebiphobia is "an abnormal and persistent fear of teenagers."

They've Got a Way With B-O-L-O-G-N-A

2005-07-26T11:14:00.000+03:00

True story. A few months ago, I was in Scranton, PA (Motto: "We're not stupid enough to be coal miners...anymore."), visiting family friends with my family. I woke up Saturday morning, and I was laying in bed, and I asked my brother the following question: "If your bologna really did have a first name, and, like, you knew it, then would you really be willing to eat it?" I believe he was speechless. (And for those of you who have no clue what I'm talking about, look here. Cretins.)

Info

2005-07-20T04:52:00.000+03:00

Just a little FYI. I actually started posting seriously on my less inane blog, On One Foot, so check it out. Also, if any of you guys (all 5 of you!) want to get informed of when I update, try using the "subscribe to bloglines" button on the right. It's easy to sign up, and by doing so, you'll make the world a better place to live in. For me.

Grin and Bare It

2005-07-18T06:19:00.000+03:00

It's time to go back in the hazy mists of time to the days when men were men and women were women and cantaloupes were really these advanced beings from Jupiter sent to either destroy all life as we know it or pick up an extra-large Blizzard ^TM at Dairy Queen. (It's currently unclear; our translators are working on it.) In any case, I recall way back in March, that it was Purim, the Jewish holiday of gift-giving, sillines, and, depending on who you ask, either drunken revelry, or sober reflection on how you don't really have to get drunk and how we're missing the point anyway. I was on Spring Break and I went up to the Penn to visit some friends for an extended weekend, and...well, the details are a bit hazy, but everyone assures me that I had a great time and that the nuns aren't pressing charges. So all in all, it was good times. Shortly after that, I returned to chilly Ithaca, and Hillel had a masquerade party. The party was to take place after Shabbat, and while I'd decided earlier that I would attend, I still had no costume that morning. Yes, I suppose I could go without a costume, but I would hate to break a habit of simply being in fine form. Then it hit me. (Don't worry; I recovered.) Why not just go without any clothes on? I mean, dressing up is mostly just about dressing as someone else. In this case I'd be dressing up like a nudist, (or a newborn baby - take your pick.) Or...maybe not a nudist, but a flasher! Yes! My costume could involve not only nudity, but action as well! After Shabbat, I set to work. I had a trenchcoat already, and I realized that wearing my dress shoes with no socks on accentuated my beautiful unclad legs. So I was done from the neck down. Then, to round it out, I borrowed a sketchy hat from one friend, and some apt sunglasses from another. I was set. I had only to go out to the party and expose myself. I know what a lot of you are thinking. "Ilan? You did WHAT?! You've GOTTA be kidding me." (Except for you, Charlie. You're probably thinking "Cheese. What if I was made of cheese?" But you're special, Charlie.) Your incredulity is justified, I must admit, but sometimes, a man has to do what a man has to do, and sometimes those two men are really one and the same. I went to the masquerade, and I gloriously threw open my coat in front of crowds, and while I did not win the costume contest due to blatant favoritism and/or disgust, man, was it liberating. For the benefit of our younger viewers, and in case I ever want to run for a public office higher than Assistant Dogcatcher, I have only included the "before" picture here in plain view. But for those few voyeuristic readers who just need to see it, look here for what's behind the trenchcoat. Don't forget to zoom in!

Back, and better than ever!

2005-07-08T03:58:00.000+03:00

Any Superman fans out there? So do you remember how he died, then was gone for a while, then came back, only more powerful than before? Well, the same sort of thing has happened to me. only I don't wear tights. Not in public, anway. But I am more powerful than before. Scary, isn't it? In any case, I've been a busy bee. First of all, as you can see below, I've migrated all of the old posts from the xanga site to here, right down to the comments. Everything you need should be available through this domain, so to those of you with blogs, change your links. So what have I been up to, you ask? Well, quite a bit, as I will likely discuss in future posts. Let's see...so I'm back in Ithaca, and surprisingly happy about it. Aside from taking a class, I'm working on a super-cool project in Human-Computer Interaction group at cornell. (Take a sec to look at their logo. Yes, it is a little stick figure with a squiggly line to a box, presumably representing a high-tech computer. Apparently, not only is the Information Science department on the cutting edge in HCI, but also in squiggly-line development technologies. My theory is that at some point they needed a logo, and someone drew out this one, likely on a napkin. And then they forgot about it. Silly researchers.) We're developing a nifty little system to help directionally impaired people such as myself find their way around Cornell's sprawling rural campus. I do not know how to tell if a campus is sprawling or not, but Cornell's campus definitely sprawls. It sprawls the begeezus out of Columbia's campus. The system, using GPS and wireless technology, will show a person using a palm computer or a smart phone where he/she is on a campus map. In addition, it will direct users to "hidden collections," such as the kinematic model collection or the brains collection. Supposedly, the brains collection, a set of (disembodied) human brains, are the possession of the Department of Psychology, though I was under the impression that psychologists studied living brains. If my suspicions are correct, the brains really belong to Cornell's Department of Necromancy and Zombie-Related Activity (NeZRAc), but let's just keep that between you and me. So I think that brings you up to date, with the big things at least. I'll give you some of the little things here and there, which much more regularity than once every four months. Oh, and one more thing. If you haven't yet noticed, I've started a second blog, one which will be for more serious stuff - my musings (some Jewish, some not) and maybe a bit of poetry. I have a couple of poems up there, but look for a real introductory post there in the nearish future. Before I sign off, in the interest of full discretion, I should make a few rather important clarifications. I intentionally do not follow the style of many bloggers, who frequently link to humorous or interesting pieces scattered throughout the web and in other blogs. For the time being, at least, I have dedicated myself to bringing you a set of somewhat more original humor than your average blog. Which is not to say that I don't occansionally borrow other writers' styles, but that's an altogether more acceptable and clever form of plagiarism. And being clever is what counts. But the material on this site is original, to the benefit of both the reader and my ego. Which brings me to my next point. This blog, this whole hours-consuming enterprise, is merely an elaborate attempt to boost my ego. As the third of three children, as the kid picked last in gym, as the kid who (no kidding) was fed worms and put in the dryer by his older siblings, it's time to fight back aginst a world which has ignored me and all it has to offer me for too long. I am self-possessed, hear me roar! This blog is for my ego. That is its purpose. The more people read it, the better I feel about myself. I suspect that this is true of many blogs out there, but I am coming out and saying it. You, my readers, are here for my amusement, for my enjoyment. Dance, monkeys, dance! Ah, this is the life. If only these tights didn't chafe so much.

Links For You

2005-03-20T18:45:00.000+02:00

In violation of my long-standing policy of only posting my own original entertainment, and not links to any sort of other entertainment, nor (God forbid) anything truly worthwhile, I present you, dear readers, (all 10 of you) with a link to a rather worthy cause from my friend Alisha:

http://lishhh.blogspot.com/2005/03/mishloach-manot-and-tzedakah.html

In return, I believe I have full rights to take her firstborn child or her first million dollars - whichever comes first.

And when you're done with that, and want some entertaining Purim material, head on over to a site made by dear friends of mine, www.onlytzaras.com. Yes, it's everything you were afraid of. Just go with it.

Reality TV and Other Disasters

2005-03-01T06:05:00.000+02:00

This whole reality TV thing is getting out of hand. I mean, it's gotten out of hand already, but this is worse. I mean, there are the maddeningly mad Martha Stewart-wannabes on "Wickedly Perfect" (the first reality TV show in CT....figures), the disturbing families on "Wife Swap" and "Trading Spouses," the whole digging up emotional scars and picking at 'em on "High School Reunion," and who can leave out that mucus-encrusted gem (or is that "gem-encrusted mucus?") of the Fox lineup, "Who's Your Daddy?" Please tell me that there's a special level of Hell for the producers of these shows. Like one with both "holy wrath" and "great vengeance," with some brimstone mixed in for good measure. What is brimstone, anyway? You never hear about it these post-biblical days. You don't see a newspaper with the headline SEVEN-YEAR-OLD MIRACULOUSLY SURVIVES DANGEROUS BRIMSTONE ACCIDENT "That Was Some Pretty Strong Brimstone," Authorities Say. But that would be cool, wouldn't it? The headline, not the brimstone. I imagine brimstone is very much in the "not cool" category. In any case, back to reality...TV. What's next? Who's going to be able to top that? I'll tell you. Fox is going to strike again, with a show where they just videotape real people being taken out back and getting shot. It's called "When Guns Go Off," and it's sure to be a hit. Ok, so that last one I made up, but admit it: for a split second, you believed me.

Arrrr....You Kidding Me?

2005-02-21T07:01:00.000+02:00

Ok. The natives are restless, and I'm out of excuses. The largest complaint (as measured in square feet) I get about this site is lack of regular updates. So I'm going to try this: In addition to any extra posts I want to add, every Sunday or Monday, I intend to provide you, Dear Readers, with an update the likes of which the world has never seen. I intend to make one more drastic change in the future, namely moving to another site, but I have to add stuff and fiddle with the HTML before I can do that. For now, it's just the weekly update. So, here it goes: My roommate thinks he's a pirate. No, not a software or music pirate, but the kind that plunder on the high seas, sing about rum and dead men's chests, and wear far too much eye makeup. I'm not quite sure whether it's a delusion or an aspiration, but either way, there's reason to show concern. I'm not making this stuff up. He goes around singin pirate sings, and enjoys everything pirate-related, except (hopefully) the whole keelhauling bit. (What is keelhauling, anyway? It's doubtless unpleasant, much like drawing and quartering, thrawing, or garroting, but how does one keelhaul, exactly?) Despite our best efforts to convince him otherwise, he has maintained this position. College students. Can't with 'em, and.... ....that's all I've got. So it was his birthday two days ago, and a mutual friend and I went to Walmart to find him a gift or two. We asked the guy at the front of the store where the pirate section was. Honestly. I kept a straight face, while he struggled to understand what we asking for. Walking away, towards the toy section, I laughed about this. Then I realized that we were making the life of a hardworking, honest American more difficult with our childish joke. Then I laughed again. (I'm going to hell, aren't I?) To make a long story short, we got him a pirate balloon, a plastic pirate sword, a copy of "Muppet Treasure Island," an ice cream cake, a flask, a cup with the words "Drink. Pee. Repeat." on it (that one wasn't my idea, and due to a misreading, we discovered the concept is worsened when you take out the first period from that line), a Nerf-like missile launcher, and an axe, with a sharpener, and we wrapped them in My Little Pony wrapping paper. Let me clarify. The first two weapons are meant as toys, and are relatively harmless, but this was a real camping axe, about a foot and a half long. In case you were wondering, we got him the pirate stuff because of the whole pirate thing, the flask and cup because he's into bartending, and the axe because he like camping. Looking at his presents, you'd think that he was a drunk outdoorsman-pirate who likes ice cream, balloons, and My Little Pony. Man, is he messed up. In any case, I'm not sure what I was thinking. I actually bought my roommate who thinks he's a pirate a real axe, with real and present lodging-in-my-head potential. If this is my last post, please let it be known that I leave my life savings to the Time Cube guy, my stereo to the Flat Earth Society (I hear they throw wicked parties!), and my toenail collection to science. Let it be known, or I'll keelhaul ya. Just as soon as I figure out how.

Truth Be Told

2005-02-08T07:55:00.000+02:00

Ok, so first of all, at least three people asked me whether the implication in the last post was true. Let me get this straight: You guys think that having run over a defenseless animal, I would not only not express deep and sincere remorse, but that I would actually ridicule the poor beast as well as its legal guardian?

Well, yeah. I guess I would. Good call. But in this case, I was making stuff up. I should clarify. Since funny stories are almost always funnier when true, I generally make it quite clear when I am telling a true story. For instance, I might say "I am not making this up," or "This is a true story," or "Leave $1 million in unmarked bills underneath the water fountain by 5 PM, or little Fifi is going back into the well." In all of those cases, I'm serious, ok? In all other cases, assume I'm joking, or assume it might be true - whichever makes me look better. Bear this in mind while perusing these here postings, and you will not be the lost souls you so clearly seem to be, seeing as how you're busy reading this. Remember these rules, because, after all, little Fifi is depending on you.

Driving, Part Deux

2005-02-01T06:56:00.000+02:00

The way I figure, if one is supposed to drive "defensively," and the best defense is a good offense, I acted appropriately.

Unfortunately, the cat's owner did not agree with me.

Hawaii

2005-01-23T11:49:00.000+02:00

I have a birthmark on my arm that kind of looks like Hawaii (if you squint a bit). Yeah, I know people have interesting talents - being able to wiggle their ears, oppress the destitute masses of an undeveloped country, or conjugate Latin verbs (stuck up overachievers in the corner - are you listening?), for instance. But this is Hawaii! We're talking about the 50th state on my arm, for Pete's sake!

Wait. Who's this Pete character, and why are people always worried about his sake? Why don't you worry about my sake every once in a while, for a change? I bet you Pete isn't out there worrying about your sake, while I....Ok, so I don't worry about your sake much either. But hey, at least I'm better looking. And I have that birthmark. I bet you Pete can't top that.

Butting In

2005-01-20T19:53:00.000+02:00

I've been on vacation, and therefore too sluggish to write. Or slug-like, at least.

But I did get a chance to check out that bastion of excellent pop-media magazines, TIME. (By the way, did you notice that TIME magazine's site is actually www.time.com? Wouldn't you think that such an impressive domain name would go to some person or institution who dealt with - I don't know - time? Just my opinion. Then again, it is a magazine whose title is in ALL CAPS, as you can see on its cover as well as its website. That must count for something.)

So, anyway...where was I? Ah, yes, the article in TIME. This article was discussing happiness. I found it rather interesting, and thoroughly enjoyed it. I gave it 4 stars. Or, rather, I was going to do so, until I came across the following (completely unaltered) quote:

Asking people how happy they are, Kahneman contends, "is very much like asking them about the colonoscopy after it's over. There's a lot that escapes them."

Did you catch that? I promise I'm not making this up. Ok, well maybe a bit of context would help you, but I changed nothing in this quote. In case you missed it, let's look at it again:

Asking people how happy they are, Kahneman contends, "is very much like asking them about the colonoscopy after it's over. There's a lot that escapes them."

I'm not sure what to say. Understand that this guy Daniel Kahneman is, according to the article, a Nobel-Prize-winning psychologist from Princeton University. Did he really just compare happiness to a colonoscopy? Did he honestly juxtapose a general feeling of elation and joy with one of the most uncomfortable medical procedure performed in a regular checkup? If this isn't one of the signs of the apocalypse, I don't know what is. Ok, maybe a heavenly rain of fire and brimstone upon the wicked. But in terms of pre-brimstone signs, I'd say that happiness-colonoscopy comparisons are right up there.

And furthermore, the double entendre there is just sick. (Go back and read it again. You'll get it. Then you'll wrinkle your nose in disgust.) I can't touch that one. Not with a ten-foot pole, not with anything. I mean, I'm beside myself. Heck, I'm behind myself. You'd have to be some sort of uncaring bum to use people who need colonoscopies as the the butt of your jokes. Making fun of poor souls such as those is crueler than pulling an old dog's tail. Sick, sick, sick.

Bagels

2004-12-31T22:32:00.000+02:00

Have you ever considered bagel nomenclature? Well, have you? I have. Multiple times, in fact. And, in the process (after 33 or so orange popsicles), I came to some fascinating observations. First of all, other than your standard or "plain" bagel, you usually have your four or so standard types:

1) The onion bagel, which has onions on it. 2) The poppyseed bagel, which has poppyseeds on it. 3) The sesame seed bagel, which has sesame seeds on it. 4) The "everything" bagel, which has just onions, poppyseeds, and sesame seeds on it.

Don't you think that last one should have....well, everything on it? I mean, not just seeds and onions, but also ground beef, a pack of angry bees, and the Queen of England? In fact, as my brother pointed out, if there were a correctly named everything bagel, there could only be one, since it would have everything in it. And now for the philosophically-oriented part: Our universe is big. Really, startlingly, mind-bogglingly big. But many scientists don't believe it is infinitely large. And as such, the universe has a shape, or topology, as the mathemeticians and physicists would have it. So what shape is the universe, you ask? Well, one popular theory has it shaped like a single torus, which is shaped like a tire, or a donut...or a bagel. Yes, my friends. The universe we live in may very well be one big "everything bagel." Oh, boy. I should've proabably stopped at my 32nd popsicle.

Puppies, Anyone?

2004-12-26T06:24:00.000+02:00

Recently, I was discussing gifts with my parents. Often, when someone comes to our house for the weekend, they'll bring wine, or flowers, or maybe some sort of chocolates or pastries. But I think that people limit their imaginations too much. How about bringing a puppy? Think about it for a minute. If you were to receive a puppy as a gift from a guest, what would you do? You couldn't refuse it, as that would be rude. Nor could you simply give it away. I mean, the guest would notice the next time you visited if you lacked the dog. And throwing the dog out is simply out of the question. Yeah, so invite me over sometime. You never know!

Tell Your Friends

2004-12-13T22:39:00.000+02:00

Update: Yes, I know the link is broken. Sorry. Maybe I'll upload an old copy to Google Docs.

Oh, right. I neglected to post this a few weeks ago, when I finished it, but here's a story I wrote. You may find it funny. You may find it enjoyable. You may find it tasty. If you are in this last category, please stay away. You scare me.

Tell Your Friends Tell me what you think. (Oh, and yes, I know that the beginning was mostly ripped from Leading the Blind. But I'm allowed to plagiarize from myself, so you can take your protests and...do something sufficiently nasty with them, probably involving acts illegal in at least 32 of the 50 United States.)

Comment Cards Rock

2004-12-08T01:47:00.000+02:00

Hello all. I haven't posted lately because I've been busy/ignoring you/trying to take over the world, or at least my roommate's half of the room. So there.

But I have been doing some other literary work: You guessed it - I've been filling out comment cards at the local kosher dining hall (it's called 104 West!¹) in order to make this a better and more amusing world, for me at least. I now present to you a few of my more beloved comments:

Can you please use Duncan Hines' brownie mix for making your brownies? I may renounce Judaism if you do not.

Please stop putting nuts in your cookies! I have a severe fear of nuts and toddlers.

I'm lonely. Can 104 West! (formerly Kosher Dining Hall) provide me with a friend? Can I have a (preferrably magical) pony?

Can you please provide decaf tea OR give me control of an underappreciated third-world country? (Not one of the landlocked ones, please.)

Ok, that's it. I'm out like the soap. ____________

¹Yes, the exclamation mark is part of the name, and presumably, one mentioning the name of this institution must properly inflect the words to show excitement or exclamation. It can cause confusion when depression and hunger coincide. For example: PERSON 1: Hey Bob! How's it going? BOB: Hello, Person 1. It's going poorly. My cat just got run over my the tow truck that was towing away my uninsured car that sponatneously crashed into a ttree while I was in bed, having cried myself to sleep upon being dumped by my girlfriend. PERSON 1: Oh, bummer. BOB: Yeah. I'm going to kill myself now. First, maybe I'll grab a bite to eat at 104 West! PERSON 1: That's the spirit!

Illiterate?

2004-11-12T10:32:00.000+02:00

You know, I've found that my tendency to mix up the word NARCOLEPSY with the word NECROPHILIA has led to some awkward situations. Rather awkward.

Munchkins

2004-11-10T06:50:00.000+02:00

One day, when I am president of the world, I will remember all the "little people" who reminded me when I wasn't wearing pants. Thank you, midgets and dwarves.

Happy Birthday

2004-11-08T17:00:00.000+02:00

Ok, I'm keeping this exceedingly brief since I'm in a rush, but I felt obliged to share a new song I wrote for my birthday. That's right - I am now 22, the legal age for hunting rabbits and certain Belgians. (It's a little known fact. If you don't believe me, go look it up.) I recorded and uploaded the song, and you can listen to it over and over again!

Happy Birthday to me!

Yet Another Chicken Post

2004-10-26T03:19:00.000+02:00

Today, boys and girls, we're going to learn about Jews and their wacky Oral Tradition. In a disussion of Hilchot Shabbat (the Laws of the Sabbath), the gemara (Babylonian Talmud, Tractate Shabbat 75a) brings up an interesting case.

Let’s say you own a chicken. You know, the tasty fowl with an IQ lower than its shoe size^1,2. Well, your son wants to play with the chicken. Or more accurately, he wants to play with the chicken’s head. Why? I don’t know. Maybe Toys ‘R’ Us was out of Tickle-Me-Elmo dolls. Maybe he drank some of Daddy’s “special juice.” In any case, he’s crying for the chicken’s head, and as luck would have it, the chicken’s head is (get this!) attached to the chicken, and the chicken is quite fond of its head and unlikely to enjoy your son playing with it. (“Come here little chicken, I just want to- OUCH! My eye!”) So you intend to remove the head to better facilitate its use as a plaything, but it’s the Sabbath, and it’s forbidden on the Sabbath to kill an animal.

“Well, that’s ok,” you say to yourself, “I don’t want to kill it. I just want to neatly remove the bird’s head so I can shut up my kid. Though he’ll probably lose interest in a matter of hours, like he did with the dog³ and the nuclear reactor⁴ I got for his birthday. The ungrateful little brat.”

Enter the Rabbis.

They say, “hold on, big fella. First of all, stop talking to yourself. People are staring. And also, can’t you tell that this is the classic case of pesik raisha?”

“Pe-what?”

“Pesik raisha. Can’t you understand ancient Aramaic? Sheesh. The full phrase is ‘pesik raisha v’lo yamut,’ meaning ‘can you cut off the head and it won’t die,’ a rhetorical question. You see, were you to cut off the chicken’s head, it would become what is technically known as a Decapitated Chicken. As you may know, Decapitated Chickens⁵and in fact, decapitated fowl of all varieties, are wont to die, a condition which greatly impedes being alive. Thus, although your action wasn’t meant to kill the chicken, and you may even want the chicken to survive, it will definitely end up dead anyway, so killing it is forbidden. So go tell your brat to shut up because you can’t give him the chicken’s head until after the Sabbath. Though if you ask us, after the Sabbath you should take him to a therapist, because, frankly, this whole ‘playing with a chicken’s head’ thing is pretty darn messed up right here.”

“Oh boy! Thank you, Rabbis!” you exult. “Now can you please explain this whole ‘kosher’ thing to me? Why do we need to wait for hours between eating meat and milk? Why do we have to use separate dishes for milk and meat?”

“Beats us. You modern Jews are just plain crazy. Back in our day, we could eat Chicken Parmesan.”

“Golly.”

“Golly indeed. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’ve got some threshing and winnowing to do.”

And like that (poof), they're gone.⁶ __________

¹ Yeah, I know. Chickens don’t wear shoes. Not yet, anyhow. ² Chickens are royally stupid. I’m not making this one up. Sometimes, when it rains, chickens will tip back their heads and try to drink, and in the process, they will drown themselves. Did you catch that? They are the only animal on God’s green earth that I know of that drown themselves while on solid ground. Even my cousin Melvin who will likely have “That boy just ain’t right” carved on his headstone, and who has eaten enough Play-Doh to support Slovakia for a year, generally keeps water out of his trachea. ³ “Come here, little doggy, I just want to light you on fi- OUCH! My leg!” ⁴ “Come here, little atom, I just want to pet- OUCH! I’m glowing!” ⁵ Another great band name. ⁶ Bonus points if you can correctly name the movie that that last line was referencing.

The Empire Strikes Back

2004-10-20T05:31:00.000+02:00

I love how these days everything bows to the Yankees-Red Sox games. Meetings are canceled, world dominations are postposed¹, even dentist appointments are rescheduled. I heard that many New Yorkers have stopped breathing in order to better hear the game. This only goes to prove my original hypothesis: That people are 100% blithering, daze-inducing, morons. Absolute idiots. The kind of people who will send me large suns of unmarked bills. Or a pony. I always wanted a pony.

Anyway...what was I writing about?

Ah, yes. I was writing about baseball. (That's funny. That's like the French writing on military tactics.) Well, it's like this. I wouldn't care a great deal about the game, except that it, much like ponies, has deep cosmic significance. The Red Sox versus the Yankees!

It's like Luke Skywalker versus Darth Vader. It's like Indiana Jones versus all the Nazis and that creepy guy who rips out people's still-beating hearts. It's like - dare I say it - Dudley Do-Right versus Snidely Whiplash.

Whoa. That's intense. I have to sign off and take a nap. And check the mail for unmarked bills².

¹ Just ask Kim Chong-il of North Korea - he's rooting for the Yankees and he's an evil dictator. (Coincidence? I think not.) ²That means money, by the way. You spine-wrenchingly half-witted fool.

Driving

2004-10-14T02:27:00.000+02:00

So I'm back here in Ithaca. Yay, Ithaca. The process of getting back here was a bit more interesting than usual. You see, I drove all the way from Connecticut to Ithaca by myself, the longest trip I've driven by a longshot. In any case, I learned a few important lessons, which I will soon impart to you, dear readers. But first, let me issue this cautionary message: If you are now, or ever intend to be my father or mother, please do not read further. That's right. Just click somewhere else. Or go find a shiny thing to play with. Everyone likes shiny things.

No, I'm serious. Please don't go on. I beg of you.

Ok, now that they're not reading (I hope), I can share my acquired wisdom:

When driving... 1. Do not attempt to keep pace with the car with whom you are merging. Neither waving at the other car nor looking guilty helps the situation. Not much, at least. 2. If you stray too far to the right, you'll hear this noise, like "krrrrrggg." That's bad. Don't do that. 3. Don't ever mix up the two pedals, as they do opposite things. This goes doubly for when you're on an onramp to a highway. 4. Note that the blind spot, unlike Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, or the Pope, is not imaginary. It is very, very real.

Waiting for Godot

2004-10-06T03:21:00.000+02:00

Another page from the "Conversations with Roommate" file:

ME: Did you ever read "Waiting for Godot?"

ELIE: Yeah.

ME: What did you think of it?

ELIE: "Waiting for Godot"...hmmmm...makes me want to shoot myself.

ME: So you didn't like it, then.

ELIE: (Completely seriously) No, it was great.

I'm speechless.

Blender Redux

2004-10-03T08:14:00.000+02:00

Is it just me, or does the answer "monkey in a blender" just lead to more questions?

In A Box

2004-09-16T00:28:00.000+03:00

If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all.

In fact, in your case, I'd say that your best bet would be just not to say anything at all, period. Don't worry, though. There's good money to be had in the mime business. Hey, now you're in a box. Try to get out, little mime. Just you try.

Fun With Pouches

2004-09-13T18:48:00.000+03:00

Do you know what happens when you try to cross a duck-billed platypus and a kangaroo?

(Pause for effect.)

Nothing but a couple of infuriated marsupials and severe internal bleeding. I would recommend just gluing a duckbill onto the kangaroo and calling it a day. I hope this teaches as all an important lesson: namely, that "The Infuriated Marsupials" would make an awesome band name. Probably a heavy metal klezmer band, or something.

(Oh, and yes, the band-name line was a shameless Dave Barry reference. Whatcha gonna do about it?)

Bending Space-Time

2004-09-08T21:03:00.000+03:00

You know how people set their clocks fast on the theory that they'll be on time for classes and meetings? Well, I took that theory to its logical conclusion. To make a long story short, there's a rip in space-time in my closet, some guy with a ray gun is using my bathroom, and I think the apocalypse is next Tuesday.

Lemon Drops

2004-09-06T07:26:00.000+03:00

If all the raindrops were lemon drops and gumdrops, wouldn't they end up taking someone's eye out? I mean have you seen the speeds a gumdrop can reach in freefall? And don't even ask about the lemon drops.

Now if all the raindrops were cow flops and pig slop, then...well, it wouldn't be much better. In fact, it would likely be worse. But I would laugh at the people outside. And that makes it all worth it.

Stanford Favorite & Damn Communist Space Dogs

2004-09-02T16:08:00.000+03:00

I know, I know. A new post was long overdue. So sue me. Not for real.

I suppose I should break this into two posts, but I doubt that most people will realize that there are two new ones at once. So, first is this: My brother Noam is a grad student in English literature at Stanford University, and somehow, he finds me funny. So he showed a post or two to his friends out in Palo Alto, CA. He recently told me:

Noam:everyone i know loved the albert thing Noam: the english department at stanford university now acknowledges you as one of the funniest people they've ever read (These are direct quotes, with only his screenname changed to protect him from stalkers and the Mafia.)

So while I'm not sure what this says about the impending downfall of Western civilization, it does give me a huge ego trip. And when you come right down to it, that's what really matters, right?

And here's post number two: I would like to share a brief snippet of my oh-so-interesting life with you lesser mortals. I hope you can handle it. A couple nights ago, I was talking to my roommate Elie about, um, I actually think it was interior design. Anyway, the conversation went, more or less, like this:

ME: We should put up paper on the walls so we can write on them.

ELIE: No. It's a good idea in theory, but it won't work. Like Communism.

ME: Well, Communism had eighty years before it failed. Can't you give this a chance, too?

ELIE: Communism had eighty years, and look at what happened!

ME: What do you mean? They sent a dog into space. That's one less dog we have to worry about here.

ELIE: I don't like dogs either, but-

ME: Then again, if the space dogs come back and attack, it might be bad. So we aren't putting up the paper, then?

ELIE: Damn Communist space dogs.

Here's Staring At You, Kid

2004-08-10T21:51:00.000+03:00

I've been told it's a good idea to look people in the eyes when speaking to them. Surprisingly, though, it's not a good idea to do so when not speaking to them, and when they're a stranger on the elevator. They call that creepy. Go figure.

Chaim

2004-08-10T21:40:00.000+03:00

My friend Chaim "He's From Ohio" Schramm took issue with my inclusion of a link to Eliyahu's blog in my last post. I agree, Chaim. That was a severe oversight, and I am deeply sorry. I should be branded a miserable failure. In fact, this omission has me wracked with guilt, guilt that can only be purged through dreadful punishment. So, without futher ado, I present Chaim's accounts of his sad, pathetic life.

Motorcycles

2004-07-19T20:24:00.000+03:00

You know how people always say "If my grandmother had wheels, she'd be a wagon?" (Trust me, it's a saying. There are other variations on it, but...yeah , I know. You don't care.)

Well, um, WHAT THE #$&% DOES THAT MEAN? If my grandmother had wheels (which she does not), she would not be a wagon. Maybe one of those once-trendy Razor scooters or something, but most definitely not a wagon.

Whoever came up with that saying should be shot.

Repeatedly.

Albert, you are my hero!

2004-07-08T21:16:00.000+03:00

Hey there, to all those out in fan-land,

As many of you may know, I have a job. It's here in beautiful Norwalk (Motto: "Getting stuck on I-95 since 1847.") working at a company, which, for reasons that will soon become clear, shall remain nameless. It's convenient, since it's pretty close to Stamford (Motto: "Hey, at least we're not Norwalk.") Other than that, though, the job doesn't have much going for it. My local taskmasters call it an "internship", from the Latin roots int, meaning "a job," and ernship, meaning "in which you are given a series of mind-numbing tasks, each worse than the last, by cruel, heartless, and balding men, who likely had troubled childhoods and choose to take it out on you rather than on fellow motorists, the way any NORMAL person would, and you are paid next-to-nothing. And circus clowns regularly laugh at you." Believe me, there is nothing on God's green earth that is more humiliating than clowns laughing at you. Nothing. Except maybe turtleneck sweaters laughing at you. So, as the name implies, for my internship, I am paid a grand total of (drumroll please) ten dollars a day. Why do they pay us at all, you ask? Good question. I did some pondering, and came up with this: "Cornhusker's delight." Then I sobered up, and came up with the following scenario. Imagine a boardroom where executives are meeting:

[Note: all names have been changed (to Albert) to protect the guilty]

ALBERT: So, Albert, how's that unpaid internship project coming along? ALBERT: Just swimmingly, sir. (He holds up a report. In one of theose shiny covers that impress executive-type people so much.) ALBERT: Let me see that (Grabs the shiny report, a scans through it, stopping to admire each pie chart for at least 2 seconds. Murmurs to himself.) Hmmm...slavery...troubled childhoods...menial labor... clowns... turtlenecks. (Looks up.) I like it, Johnson. ALBERT: You're supposed to call me Albert in this story, sir. ALBERT: Oh, right. I like it, Albert. ALBERT: Thank you sir. ALBERT: But... ALBERT: But what sir? ALBERT: It's just not humiliating enough. What can we add? ALBERT: Monkeys, sir? ALBERT: How are monkeys going to help us? ALBERT: I don't know sir. I just like monkeys. ALBERT: (Leans back in his chair wistfully.) So do I, son. So do I. But that doesn't make them effective. ALBERT: (Forlorn.) No, I suppose not. ALBERT: (Jumps up from his seat.) I've got it! When you go to a restaurant and the waiter is bad, what do you do to REALLY let him know that you're upset? ALBERT: I rip out a few of his less vital internal organs with a fishhook, strap his ragged still-living body to the underside of my car, drive over really rocky terrain, then tie him to an anthill full of fire-ants to let them finish off the job, sir? ALBERT: No, I mean, what would I do to let him know that I'm angry. ALBERT: Oh, that's simple. You give him a penny as a tip. That way he knows that you haven't forgotten a tip, but that he isn't worth more than a cent. ALBERT: Exactly. Let's give these snot-nosed college interns just enough money so that they know we have calculated their value to us at lower than minimum wage. ALBERT: Brilliant, sir. Just brilliant. ALBERT: Thank you Johnson. ALBERT: Albert, sir. ALBERT: Whatever. (Pours himself a martini.)

So there you have it. I'll just let you ponder that one for a while.

Carl, Nancy, and a Belligerent Dairy Product

2004-06-30T20:06:00.000+03:00

Hello all. Why does this intense feeling of guilt wash over me whenever I finally sit down (or prance about, often) to write after a long hiatus? It's like I owe someone something. (Well, Fred claims I owe him $20 for that bet the other day, but I stand by my position. Donald Rumsfeld resembles a rutabaga more than Donald Trump does.) On a side note, I've noticed that I've been regularly getting at least two hits a day over the past month, despite having not a single update in that whole time. I must just be that cool. So I had this quasi promise-thing to fulfill, and I blew it. My "Over the next week or so" became "over the next month or so," and the child I was babysitting the other day became a savage cowbell-wielding sasquatch, with a penchant for expensive chocolate. Boy, were his parents upset when they came home! I'm sure they'll drop the charges soon enough. But until then, please refer to me as "Sir Commodore." In fact, please do so until further notice. It makes me feel all warm and squishy inside. So...right. Where was I? Oh, I remember. Making fun of you. No, not you - the other one. All your limbs are abarticular and your lugubrious face looks like the underside of a dung beetle, which makes me wonder if dung beetles are born with innate inferiority complexes due to their unfortunate name, that is to say, would a praying mantis make fun of the dung beetles - well not a whole gang of them, maybe just one, since a whole gang of dung beetles could be downright dangerous - and by all this, what I mean to say is you're a big jerk with way too much experience in nanolithography than is reasonable and healthy. Yeah.

Now that I've dealt with the gobs of guilt welling up around me like cream soda, I can get around to the task at hand. Which is, of course to present my new script for either a screenplay for a romantic comedy or a deodorant commercial. I'm not sure yet:

CARL: Oh, Nancy! NANCY: What Carl, what is it? Why do you insist on eating soap? Must you hurt me so? CARL: Yes! (Carl cackles.) Yes I must! (Carl pulls off a mask. He loses an eye in the process. He now looks like a man without his left eye.) NANCY: (Screams in fear.) CARL: (Screams in pain.) CHEESE: (Stands alone.)

And, cut! I may have to fire the cheese. He's been trashing his trailer nightly and I won't put up with it for one more minute.

Experimental Post

2004-05-13T08:04:00.000+03:00

I want to try an experiment. Over the next week or so, I'll be taking "requests" from you, my adoring fans (yeah, both of you).

Using the comment option, or by typing in the chatterbox to the right, provide me with any word or phrase - only one per person, and I'll see if I can't come up with a story about it. Or maybe a song. Or a poem (a haiku, maybe?) I'll work it in somehow. And for Bob's sake, be creative. If all of you end up writing something *boring* like "cupcake warlord" or "walrus spaceship," where's the fun in that?

Think of it as written improv, only without the improvisation part. If not for me, for Bob's sake. Because if you don't, Bob gets it.

Juggling in Tibet

2004-05-10T07:50:00.000+03:00

I made a promise (see the end of the previous post), and I shall deliver. But first a little background:

First of all, everything that follows in this post is, believe it or not, 100% true. Anyway, my childhood friend, for various reasons, has ended up in Tibet. With Buddhist monks. I talked to him about it a few months ago, and, naturally, I was curious about - well, everything. Upon discovering the facts, I felt that the old adage was reaffirmed: The more things change, the more they become completely bizarre:

[Note: I present here, the conversation, unaltered, except to correct spelling and some grammar, to protect the innocent, and to exclude sections that are unnecessary.]

Me: Anyway, so what're your days like? Me: I mean, what do you do? Ben: Wake up, go to language lesson at 9:30, attend local event/lecture until about 1 w/lunch, and then, specifically for me, hang out at a monastery for the rest of the day with my 12 year old American monk friend. Ben: Today I have to write a paper on it. Me: "12 year old American monk friend"? Ben: his name is T. Gyatso Ben: or Brenden. Me: Is the monastery hang-out session by choice or requirement? Ben: he's been a Tibetan Buddhist monk since he was 8 Ben: choice, we all have to focus on something. Ben: one person's doing Tibetan writing, another interviewing refugees Ben: I Ben: 'm teaching monks to juggle Me: Oh, yeah - we all go through a Buddhist monk stage at one point or another. Me: I'm just a late bloomer. Me: (Am I being offensive? I hope not.) Ben: Depends on who you say it to Ben: its kind of hard to offend me. Ben: I told my group leader it was my goal to find the Dalai Lama and beat him up to see if he would still smile. Ben: She didn't like that, Ben: so its a subjective concept .... Ben: and I'm proud to say that I'm only half kidding about the monk juggling thing Ben: like, its not my main focus Me: Nice. Me: I got it. Ben: but I really am doing it Ben: already taught T. Me: I wouldn't expect anything less of you, Ben. Ben: He's got the 3 ball cascade up to about 50 catches.

Wow. This conversation left me speechless. I hope it has a similar effect on you, dear reader. Or that it induces you to send me large sums of money. Either way.

Life, the Universe, and Monks

2004-05-07T08:54:00.000+03:00

Ah, yes. My hit counter has reached - and passed - 1000. Bear in mind, that with my grades being what they are, my ego is pretty much riding on how humorous people find my ramblings. So, now you know - you, the reader, by choosing to or not to visit this site on a regular basis, have the power to raise another human being to the glorious heights of delusional pride, or to dash him on the rocks of despair, until the guts of misery leak out and get all mushy and stain the garments of despondence, which can only be dry-cleaned in the laundromat of complacence. (It's in Binghamton.)

Anyway, in honor of this auspicious occasion, I was going to share with you the answer to the age-old question: "What do Buddhist monks have in common with most circus clowns?"^* But, alas, my allotted time has passed, for I must go to, um, brush....my, um...toenails. Yeah, that's it.

Oh, and visit Binghamton sometime. You'd be surprised.

^* No, seriously. I intend to answer that one. It's a funny story, really.

Fighting the Romans

2004-05-06T09:13:00.000+03:00

Another true story.

Today I walked across campus wearing a toga , with a bow , and a quiver of arrows. You know, the usual.

Is it a problem when the truth really is stranger than fiction?

This is the story...

2004-05-04T00:50:00.000+03:00

I'm rather concerned.

About myself, that is. You see, on my way to class this morning, I found myself singing the theme song to "The Brady Bunch" ...in a poorly imitated French accent.

Seriously, folks. For once, I'm not making this up. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Morning Person?

2004-05-02T16:27:00.000+03:00

Am I the only person who, in the morning, drifts slowly into consiousness, flutters his eyelids open, smiles, then springs out of bed, so invigorated for the new day, that he runs outside - in his bathrobe - and screams at the top of his voice:

"Oh, such a beautiful world! Such a beautiful morning! Why can't everyone and everything just be as awesome as I am? And why the hell am I in Detroit, dressed like a mime?"

Oh, and, despite popular belief, getting dry cement stuck in your eye is no fun at all. But it does give you some optimism. I mean, after all, reasonably speaking, following optical cement, where can you go but up?

Chicken tonight

2004-04-22T07:55:00.000+03:00

And on that note:
If there's one thing that really bugs me, it's incomplete chicken costumes. I mean, if you're going to go to the trouble of dressing up like oversized fowl, do it right, man!

To be a poet

2004-04-21T00:21:00.000+03:00

What I learned in school today:

Gertrude Stein sounds like a large chicken. That is all.

From the depths of hell

2004-04-19T15:57:00.000+03:00

EVIL! EVIL! EVIL!
Sorry. That was just the ol' evil alert. Why did it go off, you ask?
Wait, what's that you say? Oh. Um, so, um, you didn't ask that. You asked if you could borrow my fishing pole, some bleach, and a club-footed puma. I see. I'll be right back.

(an hour passes...)

Ok, I'm back. I'll tell you anyway about the evil alert, and you'll see how sorry you'll be when you find out the reason. You'll be like "I am so sorry, now that I found out the reason," and then later, you'll be like "I was so sorry, having found out the reason." And then much later, you'll be like "I had been sorry..." well, you get the picture. On to the EVIL!

I have a computer science course here at Cornell, CS312. The last assignment of the year - arguably the biggest, was recently posted. In it, the following instructions are written:

"A week after the problem set is handed out, there will be a specification change. This could be a change to the rules of the game, to the language, or to bot features."

Ignoring the details of the project, just think about that one for a second. That's like a history teacher saying "Oh, yes, write a paper on 'The Protestant Reformation and Its Effects on Local String Bean Farmers in Indonesia,' " then two weeks later, saying, "We've changed the assignment to 'Catfish and You: A Retrospective.' And write the essay on a live manatee, not paper."

Crazy? Yes, but not too crazy for computer science. Revel in the heartlessness! Feel the burn! Set your hair on fire!

I'm gettin' a vibe

2004-04-01T07:28:00.000+02:00

Ok, um. Right. Yeah. I've got the feeling that I ought to update this blog. You see, I've been getting these vibes. They're simliar to "smart waves" in that they look like this: -.-.-.-. Anyway, so these vibes said to me, "Hey, Mister Skumperwider*, it's time for some updates, and pronto! After you're done you can do whatever you want - go play skeeball! Go shoot movies! Or people! But now, updates ASAP. Don't make me get out my broccoli..." Well, there are children (or at least easily amused people) watching, so I won't get into it, but let it suffice that they had me convinced. So I made a resolution: I will have been updating at some point. (You see, the vibes don't understand the future perfect progressive. I showed them!) And that, my children, is why Kazakhstanians don't wear cheese....oh, sorry. Wrong document. And that, my children, is why I will update soon. Oh, yes. This wasn't an update. Call it a "pre-update." Or call it Bob. I don't care.

* That's the vibes' nickname for me. I call them Klaus, sometimes.

Stalkerific

2004-02-16T06:57:00.000+02:00

I seem to have been accosted by a denizen of the web with the pseudonym "Evil Stalker Bastard," as featured in my chatterbox on the right. (At least I assume it's a pseudonym. Your parents would have to be pretty twisted to name you that, wouldn't they?) Hmmm. I wonder who you are. You see all I know is that you likely live in a cornell dorm, you use Internet Explorer 6.0 [Mozilla/4.0 (compatible; MSIE 6.0; Windows NT 5.1; .NET CLR 1.0.3705; .NET CLR 1.1.4322)] with Windows XP, your IP address, though it has likely changed, is 128.253.171, you visited on February 14, 2004 at 8:42:48 PM, you didn't click on any links on my website, your blood type is O+, you have a penchant for fancy dinners with white wine and fish, and you get along well with most of your family, except for your little brother, but everyone agrees that something just isn't right with that boy, anyway. Oh, and one more thing - don't wear that brown shirt you've set out for tomorrow. I know it looks cool, but I hear that brown is the new pink. Or maybe the other way around. Or maybe it's gray that's the new lavender? I get confused. In any case, I do know that some colors are really disguised as other colors in this season. Ask my friend Juliana - she's a Textiles and Apparel major, and I think she gets this. Maybe they have a class on knowing what colors really are. Deep stuff.

Anyway, Mr. Bastard, so now who's the stalker, huh?

Clouds

2004-02-16T06:54:00.000+02:00

In other news, I may not get kicked out of Cornell, after all, if I can wade my way through some Big Red Tape. I guess every dark cloud has a silver lining. Except in Ithaca. Where it gets too cold to have clouds that do anything but block out the sun. I was cheering today, when the temperature soared a full 3 degrees above the predicted high. Yes, my friends, it was a whopping 8 degrees Farenheit (for you Europeans, that's 235.6 degrees Celcius, if I calculated it right. Then again, I'm not doing too well in Physics these days, so I could've made a sign error...)

Wow. Did I just spend some precious moments whining about the weather? I apologize. I'm posting this one, but I guarantee something better very soon. Or at least something more disturbing. Just give me a minute.

Pants + Fridge = Excitement!

2004-02-05T22:18:00.000+02:00

My pants are in my mini-fridge. No kidding. It's partially due to the fact that I'm a computer science major. Yeah, alright. I may explain this. Later.

Poll

2004-02-03T22:22:00.000+02:00

So I wanted to do a poll to see what people think - though those who actually read this may not be the best sample of modern trendsetters, it's what I have access to. Send me your answers by posting a comment or clicking here to send me an IM (using AOL Instant Messenger™):

And the poll question is (drumroll, please):

Does this font make me look fat? 1) Yes 2) No 3) The late Strom Thurmond Choose wisely, friend.

Ready, AIM, fire!

2004-02-01T07:07:00.000+02:00

So, based on the fact that I've been getting an unusual amount of hits recently (4 a day or so) without fairly recent content, makes me think that it might be a good idea to add something. But, you see, I just started school, and it occurred to me that I'm taking 21 credits as a Computer Science major. (Translation: I'm going to either be that annoying over-achiever that you love to hate, or one of those people whose friends and neighbors end up on the news saying things like "but he was such a nice guy.") As such, though I've gotten off to a decent start - one whole week without failing - I haven't really been thinking much about what to write. However, do not despair! Friends, Romans, countrymen and Janet (that rather odiferous lady I met last week at the supermarket) - lend me your ears. Or at least read on. Here is an actual IM conversation I had with my friend Ari. I don't know - I started joking, and he played along. I guess I just found it amusing:

Me: So when're you coming? Ari: one sec... Me: Um, I mean Shavua tov. [Hebrew for "have a good week."] Me: It came out wrong. Me: That's what I meant to say. Ari: shavua tov Ari: umm... Ari: i'm not sure when we're coming Me: I see how it is. Ari: i have to check out my calendar, and check with the others Ari: possibly march Me: You don't love me anymore. Ari: unclear Me: What is it? Did you meet someone else? Me: Is it the way I wear my hair? Ari: it isn't true, i tell you Me: Or how I bite my toenails? Ari: Me: I could stop -honestly! Ari: you'll never take me alive!!!! Me: Yeah, grovel, you worm. Ari: ok, you force me into this Me: You won't be going any where without this... Me: <holds up Ari's liver> Me: Ha! Ari: they'll never catch me Ari: aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah Ari: my liver!!!! Ari: it was YOU all along! Me: Uh-huh, and if I go, the liver goes with me. Me: Your call, buster. Me: Anyway, so March, huh. Me: I guess I'll just cry myself to sleep until then. Ari: i'm thinking yeah Ari: i guess so

Similes

2004-01-11T17:11:00.000+02:00

Some similes, for the poet in all of us: Computers are like elephants - they have a good memory and you would want an angry one charging at you. Ideas are like ducks. Both have webbed feet, and both have feathers. No, wait....not ideas, swans. My room in Israel no longer smells like cholent [beef stew]. And there was much rejoicing, and the townsfolk were merry.

I leave in a few days. Less rejoicing, less merriment. Oh,well. I can always take solace in the fact that I am not (last I checked) Michael Jackson, nor am I Martha Stewart.Yeah, that's it. I feel better already.

On Fish

2003-12-17T19:49:00.000+02:00

My finals are swiftly winding down, but it occurred to me the other day, that despite people's insistence that fish is brain food, it is not the best brain food. You what is? Brains. Go figure.

Batting a Thousand

2003-12-15T21:33:00.000+02:00

I know I haven't been updating much. I found out that I have classes, and my boyish good looks and charming personality can't get me the A's I deserve. (I know! I was surprised too!) So I have to hit the books. If that doesn't work, I'll hit my friends. Usually I feel better about myself after that. Oh - I do have one thing to note: There comes a time in every man's life, where he must turn to his fellow man, and explain, calmly and patiently, that the long-john underpants he [the friend] is wearing do not count as pants. I knew that - I just didn't think that my turn to explain it would be so soon.

Like a Rock

2003-12-09T08:00:00.000+02:00

Why does the English language have to be so darn amibigious? When people told me college would be hard, I thought they meant "durable," as in "that's a hard rock," or "that rock is rather hard," or "the harditude of that rock simply astounds me." But nooooo. They meant "difficult," as in "that's a hard rock to lift," or "you see, it wasn't so hard to get that rock down his esophagus, was it? Now let's go out for ice cream - on me." Darn tricksters. I'll get that Webster, if it's the third-to-last thing I do. He still owes me ice cream.

Haircuts and Nonsense

2003-12-01T05:48:00.000+02:00

A mixed bag today. Firstly: There are three types of people in this world, not two, as previously thought. Thank you. Secondly, I recently got a haircut, and I noticed an interesting social phenomenon. People say "nice haircut" as a replacement for "I want you to know that I am aware that your hair is notably shorter than it was in the recent past," because the latter sounds stupid and isn't a compliment. Not that I'm self-conscious about my looks, but I'd like someone to come up to me, peer at my now-lighter cranium, and say, quite nonchalantly, "Don't worry - it'll grow in, I'm sure." I would really believe a future compliment from that person, wouldn't you? And lastly, I had an...interesting day today. Read more about it here: http://www.xanga.com/home.aspx?user=Evenstar08 in the posting from today (11/30) and the first comment following it.

Because We All Need Mitigation, Sometimes

2003-11-20T00:44:00.000+02:00

For once, a true story. Yesterday I went outside my house to find a van with the words "Radon Mitigation" written on it. I probably ought to have just gone back to my room, assumed the fetal position and whimpered in my bed till I fell asleep, but, you see, this didn't strike me as that unusual. At lunch, I was talking to a friend, and he explained why. We always have these random guys walking around, testing, poking, prodding, fixing - who knows. It's not clear that anyone calls them or anything. They just kind of show up and do stuff. Like mitigate radon. Like a radon mitigation fairy, only you don't need to lose a tooth to get a nice, new, shiny non-life-threatening environment. I think any guy with overalls could just walk into my house and start playing with wires, power tools, rocket launchers - whatever - and no one would pay him no never mind. Definitely not if he also has a clipboard. But who calls them? Likely our housekeeper, or the house manager, right? That's what we thought. But as my friend pointed out, what would prompt them to call a radon mitigation man? Were they hanging out in the basement, chewing the fat, joking around, when all of a sudden they noticed something in the corner, and exclaimed, "Whoa, that radon looks like it needs mitigating, ASAP!" ? I guess some of life's mysteries are best left as mysteries.

Congrats, Dani

2003-11-18T05:53:00.000+02:00

So as for the riddle - Dani wins, because, well, I dunno, I thought she needed points. The scores are as follows: Dani: 10 Jeff: -10 Oilers: 17 IBM: +1¹/²

Rambling On

2003-11-17T08:16:00.000+02:00

Hello world. Last year I wrote a couple of pieces for the Cornell Lunatic, the humor magazine here. I thought I might share one that I found funny.

The Ramblings Of A Disgruntled Freshman

by ilan

I think my roommate is a cannibal. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Some of my best acquaintances are cannibals. (They have a club and meet in my basement on alternate Wednesday nights.) It's just that he keeps looking at me funny and licking his lips. Those looks make me sort of uncomfortable and funny inside. It's like he's dissecting me with his eyes. I've tried dropping subtle hints, like “seeing as how I'm so skinny, it wouldn't really be worthwhile to kill me, even with an extra-sharp knife like the one on your wall,” and “I once tried eating my flesh, and it doesn't taste good,” and “Jeffrey, please don't eat me.” However, I don't think he's getting the hint, seeing as how he has a large, bubbling cauldron in the room. I think that's against the House Rules. I thought of talking to my RA, but he freaks me out a little as well. When my parents were helping me move in, he was really nice. One thing he said bothered me, though: “I'm sure your offspring will have minimal difficulties integrating into the larger Jameson Family Commune Unit.” Back where I come from, they call someone like him a “Canadian,” and take him out to the pillory in the town square to be pelted with rotten fruits and/or vegetables. Anyway, he got really weird only after my parents left. They walked out, and a minute later, I was on the floor, in chains. For what seemed like days, I was subjected to a horrifying series of tortures involving fire, needles, ferrets, Spam, Tae-Bo, and Kevin Costner's Waterworld. I've recovered since then, and despite the rough start, I kind of like my RA. He's got that whole Stalin-chic thing going for him. My advisor's nice, I think. I haven't seen her much, except brief glances when she was ducking behind a wall or rushing into her office. I have a hint of a notion that I should consider thinking that she might be avoiding me. Maybe I came on too strong when I asked for advice. In all fairness, she didn't specify that our questions can't be of a medical nature. After much deep contemplation, I have come to the conclusion that acapella is a crime against humanity. I'm getting used to the bureaucratic maze they’ve created for us. I wanted to drop my PE course (Intro to Telekinesis) because of a schedule conflict. I went to the University Registrar in Day Hall, who promptly sent me to the Engineering Registrar in Olin. The Engineering Registrar sent me to the PE offices in Teagle Hall, who sent me back to Day. They sent me to Wegman's, to pick up a box of cupcakes, then to Olin again. Olin sent me back to Day, who sent me to Haackenweiler Hall. A few hours later, I realized Haackenweiler doesn't exist and returned to Day, to find the secretaries snickering. They sent me to some guy named Gus in the basement of Bailey Hall. Gus and I sat down to a nice home-cooked meal (try his fish soufflé!) and he sent me to Olin. The nice folks at Olin, after much...persuasion, agreed to gracefully allow me to fill out the proper forms. So, after filling out an Add/Drop form, an insurance form, an I9 form, a W4 form, a 401(k) form, and a 5th grade spelling test, I was on my way to get my advisor's signature. I caught her easily, as she jumped down an elevator shaft. (Word to the wise - a cleverly placed bear trap can be a tremendous time-saver.) She signed my form, and I happily returned to Olin. Upon arriving there, I discovered that the secretaries had been replaced with three monkeys (two howler monkeys and one lemur). I swatted the lemur out of the way and entered my registration info into the computer myself. While I was at it, I enrolled the two howler monkeys in Advanced Particle Physics, and the lemur in Textiles and Apparel. I'll let the wonderful people at Olin sort that one out. [Score: Ilan: 1, Big Red Tape: 0] Overall, I guess my complaints aren't so bad. Beginnings are always difficult, if not life-threatening. Maybe I should try going to some classes, or at least shower once a week. So if you're in the area, stop by my room. If I'm not there, I'm sure my roommate will invite you in for dinner.

I'm King of the World!

2003-11-13T08:39:00.000+02:00

What if we lived in a world where you judged a person's worth not based on virtue, beauty, or intelligence, but simply based on the length of his or her toenails? Wouldn't that be neat?Well, it would for me, anyhow.

Blog and Jeff's Excellent Adventure

2003-11-12T08:57:00.000+02:00

Two things: 1) Dani, a good friend of mine, has started a blog. I like the word blog. I could say it all day. Blog, blog, blog. And when that gets boring I can say other fun words, like "blubber," and "expeditiously," and "flesh-eating bacteria." So, um, right. Where was I? Oh, yes, the blog. Blog, blog, blog. So much fun. So check out http://chikkimunkee.blog-city.com/ for some good times. 2) I am still waiting for more answers to my riddle. Here's an incentive - anyone who gets it right gets 10 points. That's right, folks, it's anyone's game.Well, anyone except for Jeff. We hate Jeff. In fact, he gets -10 points now just for living. Yeah - how does it feel now, buddy? Not such a big man without your blue inflatable giraffe herd, now, are you? What's that I hear? Nothing? I thought so.

Riddle Me This

2003-11-11T18:20:00.000+02:00

A Tuesday riddle: What is polka-dotted, has an unusally powerful tongue, likes walruses, and answers to the name "Twinkie?" (No, it isn't your Aunt Tillie, though I'm sure she's a very nice person.)

Leading the Blind #2

2003-11-11T05:58:00.000+02:00

Leading the Blind, installment #2: Chimba awoke to darkness. He then opened his eyes. More darkness. He fought a valiant battle against the soggy leaves and a couple inches of snow, emerging to a rather unpleasant view of New York City’s Central Park in the dreary month of December. He stood up on shaky, uncertain legs, which swiftly became certain that they did not want to be used. Chimba was thrown back onto the ground, and after several increasingly pathetic attempts at righting himself, he decided that there was nothing up in the air that was so interesting anyway, and conceded victory to gravity. He then propped his head up with one arm and commenced a study of his surroundings. Snow covered much of the ground, though most of it was no longer white, happy snow, but gray, belligerent snow, that had been tracked in by pedestrians from the dingy streets of the City. There were the usual accoutrements of a city park – benches, scattered trees, now bare of leaves, and numerous signs telling you never to walk on the grass, or always walk on the grass, or that you can only walk on the grass “if you are this tall” – or something like that. By the position of the sun in the sky, Chimba could tell that it was pretty early in the morning, which in part explained why he was alone in a public park. Almost alone. Which brings us to the other common feature of city parks, namely, the crazy pigeon-yelling man. “Crazy Joe,” the people called him, and aside from that, they generally left him alone. (Actually, his real name was Crazy Max, but he just didn’t have the heart to correct them.)

Leading the Blind #1

2003-10-31T03:58:00.000+02:00

Here is the first (admittedly short) installment of the story of Chimba, tentatively titled Leading the Blind: It was one of those days. You know, those early spring days, when the flowers are just starting to poke their sleepy little heads out of the thawed ground, when the small woodland animals scurry about doing whatever it is that woodland animals do so frantically, when the air is so crisp you can eat it as a breakfast cereal, and when the sun and breeze combine in just such a way that everyone seems happier, and even the crazy guy who lives in the park sounds just a bit nicer when he yells at the pigeons about world politics? You know those days? Well, it wasn't at all like that on this particular day. No, the flowers weren't just hiding anymore; they'd packed their flowery suitcases and moved to Miami, the woodland animals were drawing straws to figure out who was "expendable," the air was soggy, and, yes, the crazy guy was particularly belligerent when yelling at the pigeons about the corrupt government of the Republic of Mallomar. On such a day, our story starts. On such a day, Chimba awoke. ...and that's what I have so far. I have a few more things bouncing around in my head. They'll come out eventually - like splinters.

Chimmmmba!

2003-10-24T07:59:00.000+02:00

That's it. I've decided to write the story of Chimba. It's about a lovable yet misunderstood fake mute midget from Ancient Greece who oversleeps a few thousand years. Possible sub-plots include world domination, the extinction of the human race, and cheese, while mimes and other street weirdos will be sprinkled in for good measure. I will then cook it on HIGH for 30 minutes (25 minutes at higher altitudes), and let cool, while basting with, I don't know, maybe some irrelevant supporting characters. Either that or dogs. Big ones, with sharp teeth. The first installment will appear in some finite number of days.

Aphorisms Redux

2003-10-16T01:11:00.000+02:00

A few thoughts: You can't always get what you want, but if you try real hard, you just might find, that you wake up in a pool of your own vomit next to a powerful one-legged woman named Edna, who is wielding a rolling pin menacingly. The road to hell may be paved with good intentions, but the policemen probably have cooler uniforms than on the road to heaven.

Ask not what you can do for your country but what you can do in a playground with a socket wrench at 3 in the morning.(You'd be surprised.)

Sing us a song...

2003-10-07T21:46:00.000+02:00

I wrote a new song today. It's another take-off on a Billy Joel song. This one, parodying "Piano Man," is called "Blender Man." And here's the best part: I made an mp3 of it. Make sure to listen to it all the way through, to get the full effect of my genius:
powered by ODEO If that doesn't work, you can access the mp3 here.

Call Me Beethoven

2003-10-03T06:06:00.000+02:00

In honor of my prospective major, I have written a song. I call it "My Major in C-major." (I'm so clever!) The tune you likely know, but you might have to study the words to become familiar enough with them to sing it from memory. Bear in mind that it's a work in progress, so some of it may be a bit rough around the edges: My Major in C-major by Ilan (to the tune of "We Didn't Start the Fire," by Billy Joel) Computer Science, Computer Science, Computer Science, Computer Science Computer Science, Computer Science, Computer Sci-ence Computer Science, Computer Science, Computer Science, Computer Science Computer Science, Computer Science, Computer Sci-ence (Instrumental) Computer Science, Computer Science, Computer Science, Computer Science Computer Science, Computer Science and Computer Science Computer Science, Computer Science, Computer Science Computer Science, Computer Science, Computer Science CHORUS We didn't Computer Science It was Computer Science Since Computer Science We didn't Computer Science No Computer Science But Computer Science Computer Science, Computer Science, Computer Science and Computer Science Computer Science, Computer Science, Computer Science Computer Science, Computer Science, Computer Science, Computer Science Computer Science, Computer Science Computer Science, Computer Science, Computer Science Computer Science, Computer Science, Computer Science, Computer Science Computer Science, Computer Science, Computer Science, Computer Science Computer Science, Computer Science, Compu-ter Science CHORUS BRIDGE (this is a bit tricky) Computer Science, Computer Science, Computer Science, Computer Science Computer Science, Computer Science, Computer Science Computer Science, Computer Science, Computer Science Computer Science, Computer Science, Computer Science (Neato Instrumental) Computer Science, Computer Science, Computer Science, Computer Science Computer Science, Computer Science, Compu-ter Science Computer Science, Computer Science, Computer Science and Computer Science Computer Science, Computer Science, Computer Science, Computer Science CHORUS Computer Science, Computer Science, Computer Science Computer Science, Computer Science, Computer Science Computer Science, Computer Sciencemania Computer Science, Computer Science, Computer Science Computer Science, Computer Science, Computer Science Computer Science, Computer Science, what else do I have to say? CHORUS Computer Science, Computer Science.... ...and that's all I've written for now. I'm working on the rest. If you have any suggestions, post them. Also, I have an idea for a similar song, called "Computer Program," but it's only in its early development stages.

Picture This

2003-09-30T05:59:00.000+03:00

In the spirit of the New Year, I've decided to do some things I ought to have done a while ago, like my homework, studying, learning, showering, and staring at trees until they back down. You know, the usual. I figured I'd show you some less well-known emoticons: ¿('o')¿ = A person who's sad, 'cause her earrings are larger than her head. _<('-')_> = A person doing pushups, to work off steam, 'cause his girlfriend just dumped him, and it really wasn't fair, since he didn't forget her birthday, but for personal reasons, he doesn't recognize the birthdays of people with an "x" in their names, and she should respect that, but noooooo, she has to walk out yelling something about not using her cat for batting practice and storing his toenails in the glove compartment. Women. Ah, well, more pushups. (%5$)\/ = a doggy. (Squint a little, and you'll see it. Maybe have a stiff drink first, THEN you'll see it.) And I'm spent.

Alarm Clocks Are For Losers

2003-09-24T14:05:00.000+03:00

I'm a little tired today. I've noticed that when you don't sleep for a while, you start seeing things - like beds, and pillows, and beds with pillows in them. Then you see your clock telling you it's the wrong time (sometimes you can really HEAR it telling you, if you stay up long enough!), then you see the clock on the floor broken. It serves it right for telling you the wrong time. That's right, go back to bed, little one, the mean clock doesn't REALLY have psychokinetic powers. Then you see people yelling at you that you slept on their floor and left a big puddle of drool on the floor. You try to blame the pink squirrels that are swooping down from the ceiling, but they just keep hitting you with their fists and potato peelers. They hurt. You see more things. You see blood, blood everywhere, and so many people have papercuts, and you see a pice of paper in your hand. You see it has "Don't forget to pick up canned peaches" written on it. And now more people are yelling at you, but you tell them it was Horace or Chimba (yeah - we'll get to Chimba later, I promise) but to no avail. You see gravity reverse itself, and you end up on the ceiling. You see a bed on the ceiling. You see pillows. You see an unusually hairy Keanu Reeves near the bed, but you don't care. Chimba will take care of him. You see the insides of your eyelids again, and then more darkness, then maybe some crocodiles in tutus, then darkness again. That's what you see when you stay up too late. That and toasters. Yummy, yummy toasters.