Somewhat Super

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.

Listen Up

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.

Tell Your Friends

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.)

Rambling On

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.

Leading the Blind #2

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

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.