Here's Staring At You, Kid

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

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

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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...

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.