Visigoths and Meshugas: 2004

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.

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!

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.)

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!

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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?)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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?

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!

What I learned in school today:

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

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!

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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