Today's Best Headline

Ok, I know I promised to take it easy on the Links, but when one sees the headline "World's Tallest Man Saves Dolphins In China," one simply must share it with the world. Also, the Republic's unofficial photographer and pop culture connoisseur extraordinare linked me to the full-length (six minute) animated short "The Wolfman," directed by Tim Hope. I had only seen a shorter version released some years ago as a hilarious television commercial for the Sony Playstation 2. The longer version is far superior. Happy Thursday!

Nightmares of Yesteryear's Stale Gingerbread...

Hello, friends! I do hope that you've been well, I suppose that I have. I've been meaning to sit down and post a few thoughts on this blog of mine for a good week or two, and now that I sit down in Espresso Royale, cappuccino and laptop in hand, I find that I've really startlingly little to say. I guess that isn't so startling after all, though. Christmas is fast approaching, and although I'm reminded of it every time I use the internet, turn on the radio, or enter the grocery store, I guess I'm still in denial about it. I love Christmas, I actually do. In fact, I love nearly everything about Christmas. I like parties and friends and relatives who I don't see often enough. I even like Christmas music, in moderation. I guess now I'm just getting into my annual gift anxiety stage, where I have yet to complete any fraction of my Christmas shopping. My Christmas shopping ritual tends to be about the same every year, a mind-numbing experience of not knowing what I'm looking for when I leave to go to the store (or stores), and then (predictably) not finding it. The root of the problem might even be something truly depressing. Perhaps I don't know the ones I love well enough to be able to pick out good gifts for them. Anyways, since some of them might (by chance, or perhaps stemming from an overdeveloped sense of loyalty) read this post, and I don't want anyone to think that I'm trying to play the martyr card ("you have no idea how hard it was for me to pick out that gift you don't like"), I'm probably better off apologizing for being overly indecisive. I'm sorry.
Moving along, Reens and I set up the Christmas tree last night, that was fun. It turns out that my Type-A sister has a method for doing just about everything, including wrapping lights around the branches of the Christmas tree just right. Or else. She's funny. I also got to hear various fecetious repetitions of the phrase "It must be nice living with a man," which apparently has been said to her about us living together by various people, much to her amusement. I can't figure out what exactly people mean by saying it, to be honest. I mean, it's me. I'm not exactly Mr. Fix-It. I'm taller than Reens, but I think that's about all I've got on her. She's better at fixing stuff and owns her own tools. Nobody says "must be nice living with women" to me, expecting that they do my laundry and cook for me, although to be fair, my sister sometimes takes pity on me eating my crappy bachelor food and offers me something resembling nourishment. Ok, I've babbled enough for one post. I wish you all well, do take care.

It's the little things we do...

Wow, I suppose that all of the spam comments on my last post are the price I pay for neglecting this thing for so long. I should also say that it might be inappropriate to make fun of Diane Rehm's voice, since it is apparently due to a rather unpleasant condition, and as such I am sorry if I have offended anyone's sensibilities. I still say that the person on the phone sounded just like her, whatever her malady. I'll get back into regular posting soon enough, although I'm afraid that I haven't enough time presently for a full-blown update. I'm afraid that I may have to restrict the comments in some way, shape or form, but in the meantime, I just ask that any of you who post comments (for which I'm quite grateful, it feels good to know someone reads this thing, for whatever reason) refrain from doing so anonymously. I would also like to repeat my policy of not using anyone's full name on the blog (or anywhere else on the internet for that matter) without their consent. Also, while I encourage any and all of you to post links in the comments to whatever you think I'll find interesting, do not click any links that are posted anonymously, or by someone whose screen name you are unfamiliar with. Thanks for checking back, I'll have more posts up soon.

Random

I swear, I just got off the phone with Diane Rehm. You know, NPR's ultra-liberal talk show host, who sounds like a chain smoker who's just been punched in the throat. Ok, I shouldn't be too harsh on her, I believe that she has/had some sort of throat ailment, and for that she has my sympathies. Either way, the woman with whom I was just on the phone sounds exactly like her. She of course claimed to be someone else, and I played along, but I was tempted to interrupt her and say "Is this you, Diane? How'd you get this number? That's the Diane Rehm I know, always a joker." Darn me and my politeness. Now she probably thinks that I had no idea, and she'll be laughing her already strained vocal chords to the point of combustion (can they combust? I'm no doctor). I just hope she doesn't mention in on her show on Friday, then everyone will think I'm a gullible idiot. Maybe they already do.

It starts...

Yep, it's happening. I've probably only been lucky to have escaped it this long, but it's happening. I was walking through the grocery store tonight, and I thought I'd been a good shopper. I didn't even become irate and ask the stock clerk why the bath soap is halfway accross the store from the shampoo, and goodness knows I wanted to. Nothing against the guy, he's working the late shift at Meijer, so it's probably best that I didn't comment on this ridiculous situation for which he was obviously not responsible. I did think about it, though. Maybe the Meijer security people picked that up on their security cameras somehow. Whatever the reason, Meijer decided to subject me and my fellow shoppers (of which there was a surprising number, considering the late hour) to a little aural torture. I was already accross the store and in the correct isle to find the aforementioned soap when it hit. It started out as something sort of like techno, but then over the top of the slow electronic beat came a somewhat deep and gravelly female voice with a slight twang, which sounded roughly like what I imagine llamas sound like when they become constipated and are about to die the most painful bowel-related death imagineable: "Aaah'll have a bluuuuuuuuueeeeee Christmaaaaaaas without yooooooooooouuuu..." Ye gods. It's November. I won't be able to enter another store until perhaps New Years without being subjected to seven different Easy-Listening versions of Bobby Helms' awful "Jingle Bell Rock," perhaps followed by Kenny G laying down an instrumental version of "It's the Most Wonderful Time Of the Year," which will make you believe that you have died and gone to hell, and that the devil plays alto saxophone. It makes me wish I'd bought all the food I'll need for the next month and a half while I was there, curse my lack of foresight! Of course I'll have to buy Christmas gifts or something like that (I'm told that this is done this time of year, usually by advertisements telling me to "give the gift of _____ ," where you fill in the blanks with a product name such as "Cars," "Diamonds," or "Llama Skin Coat"). Maybe I can buy gifts online, I'm in the 21st Century, after all. Either that, or perhaps I'll get disowned by all of my family and friends by the time December 23rd (the day I usually get around to doing my shopping), that's never too remote a possibility. Ok, I'm babbling and I need sleep. In fact, I need to have slept. Whatever. I'm sorry I haven't posted in a while, and that this is all I could think of to say for now. I'll try to be better, if only because more time writing on my blog might mean less time spent in stores where they play Christma--er, Holiday carols. Stay warm out there, kids.

Monday

Today was one of the few times when I went home during lunch (it's a very short trip) to put in a load of laundry only to hear the clarion call of the beer in my fridge. Yep, one of those days. For the record, the beer's still in my fridge and I never seriously entertained the idea of consuming it, in case anyone out there thinks of me like that. Instead I consoled myself with thoughts of clean laundry, and in the car I mellowed to Eric Clapton's sweet sweet guitar playing and pining for another man's wife. Ah, the blues. I've been told that I have a few hang-ups, and I'll not argue with the assertion, but I'm still never comfortable with womens' undergarments in the laundry. I have a feeling that this isn't the sort of thing I should be admitting on the internet, but I'll draw some comfort from the fact that I never use my complete real name on this blog (that's right, you have no idea who I am). I also have a feeling somewhere in my gut that a phobia such as this isn't entirely normal, although I could be wrong, and all the same I don't feel that it's half as irrational as it is. Or isn't. Whatever. I don't have any real problem living with women (in some function or other, I've lived with women for most of my life), and the pros outweigh the cons to be sure. I like living with women. I even get free baked goods periodically (heh heh, periodically), and that can't be bad. Still, I can't seem to get past this one. Perhaps it means I'm doomed to eternal bachelorhood, but I rather hope it doesn't--I'm a terrible cook. Stop talking about this Cous, you're digging a hole for yourself that you shall never escape.
Only another 8 days until election day (should that be capitalized? I don't know), and it can't happen soon enough, as far as I'm concerned. It means that I'll stop receiving unsolicited mailings and phone calls and television ads informing me of why this is the most important election in our lifetime, and what those nasty nasty Republicrats and Democrans are doing to our country. My favorite ad so far has been a cartoon of Dick DeVos shipping a crate marked "JOBS" off to China. Silly Dick DeVos, jobs are for unions. The other catchy one is "DeVos is DeCeptive," found on the bumper of many a rusted Volvo around town. A catchy ad to be sure, but I'm not really impressed by the rhetoric. I mean, is Dick DeVos deomonstrably deceptive? I don't doubt the danger, but don't you think the mere accusation is a little... dubious? Ok, I'm reaching for that one. I'm not a D.D.V. fan boy or anthing like that (he's certainly done his share of negative campaigning), but I haven't heard any actual complaints about the man being a pathological liar or antying like that. It might as well say "DeVos stole my baby." Much as I'm sick of politics, there are actually some interesting referendums on the ballot, so be sure to read up on stuff before next Tuesday. Also, if any of the ads on television or in the mail have helped you make up your mind about the issues and candidates, do us all a favor and DON'T VOTE. Ooh, my old professor the constantly entertaining Gary "don't have to live like a refugee" Wolfram has a little editorial out on elections, you should check it out. Hat tip to Jonathan on that one, by the way. Other than that, have a good week and watch out for the mud that's getting slung left and right around here. Oh yeah, and don't drink the yellow milk. Heh heh heh, milk.

Udder Confusion

Hey kids! Sorry about the lack of posting for a while, I guess it's the price I pay for having nothing to say. For those of you who haven't read either my mother's post on the topic or the related Ann Arbor News story, or if you just want a slightly less biased (ha!) opinion on the matter, you've come to the right place. First off, I want to tell you to ignore those two links I gave you up there and listen only to the soothing sound of my typing hands, but I imagine that you've already read the news article and first-hand apology (I mean that in the Socratic sense, she's not sorry), so I'm just going to attempt to editorialize here.
Last Friday morning found my mum and sister-in-law waiting in a back alley in Ann Arbor with a largish crowd of folks with pony tails and Birkenstocks and maybe the occasional "man with no name"-style poncho, who had all driven (or perhaps carpooled to save on greenhouse emissions) there in old Volvos that are now held together only by bumper stickers which read "Free Tibet," "I break for Jake," and perhaps "I'd rather be in Ann Arbor." What, you may ask, could possibly have drawn these people away from their homeopathy boutiques and used record and book stores on this Friday morning? Milk. That's right, just like the stuff the rest of us buy at gas stations and grocery stores at our convenience. Well, almost just like it. What makes this milk so special? It's unpasteurized. Unpasteurized? Isn't pasteurization that process by which the bacteria in milk are killed? Yup, but let’s leave that for later. For now, let’s just content ourselves with the knowledge that two otherwise sane people whom I love very much were standing there on a Friday morning waiting to buy dirty milk out of the back of a truck. In an alley. On purpose. And then, suddenly, in the blink of an eye, nothing happened. Seriously. The sketchy milk truck didn’t show. Close to 100 hippies were stuck there in an alley, awaiting the arrival of a truck that simply would not arrive. Awkwardly, they stood around with their hands in their pockets, probably thinking to themselves that it’s getting a wee bit cold to wear Birkenstocks, and perhaps making awkward small talk to one another about how they never forgave their parents for not accepting their lifestyle.
What had become of the truck and its high-bacteria bounty? It had been stopped en route from the organic dairy farm by sheriff’s deputies serving a Michigan Department of Agriculture warrant to seize the sketchy milk and Farmer Rick’s cell phone. They also swiped his computer back at the farm house. Little did Farmer Rick realize that his weekly back-alley drop-offs had been to 99 honest crazies trying to get their bacteria fix, and one undercover agent from the Michigan Department of Agriculture. An undercover agent, baby! Every MDA worker dreams of this kind of assignment. “Son, I need someone to infiltrate an organic dairy co-op, and they tell me you’re the best. Here’s your ‘Jerry Lives’ t-shirt, and the keys to your 1979 Volvo. In the car you’ll find an 8-track tape with further instructions, along with some live bootlegs of Crosby, Stills, Nash, & Young.” Hahahaha, those jokers at the MDA, what will they come up with next?
According to the news article (which, by the way, more than pushes the limits of impartial journalism), Farmer Rick has done nothing illegal, and has yet to be charged with anything. Apparently there’s a loophole in Michigan law which allows the co-op to buy the milk by leasing part-ownership of the herd, or something like that.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m actually against laws that keep people from buying unpasteurized milk when they do so with full knowledge of what they’re buying. We can still legally buy alcohol and tobacco, can’t we? Sorry, I’m just not looking to the State of Michigan to save me from myself. That said, I personally find the whole ordeal to be about the funniest thing I’ve heard all month. I’m sorry to those of you who’d already heard the whole story, I’ll try to post something else in a timely manner. Until then, I wish you well.

Sunshine on the bottom of my feet means I must be layin' down

Rumor is that they threw out the circus clowns and brought in a bearded lady act instead, though it probably won't make any difference, that is if you're not a circus clown. Not much to report for the week really, different day with the same porridge in your bowl, if you know what I mean. That's not actually bad, mind you, although sometimes it feels that way. Sometimes the days start to feel like the mirrors on your wall looking back at you with the persistent disdain, in spite of all the Sun King's best intentions and your hard-earned respect being wasted at the feet of the lonely. Not much you can do about it really, that's just how the world turns on Tuesdays, or whatever day it is in Singapore. I'll write more when I have more to write about, sorry.

And when the dam bursts we'll all float back to from whence we came.

Ok, I usually avoid the news during election years, but the other day I stumbled across more evidence that New York City and its denizens are not of this earth. Yeah, crazy. I suppose that after you make it illegal to smoke in bars (Earth to New York and its wannabes: they're BARS!), this was the next logical step. The only thing left for them to do is to have social workers sitting in bathrooms to make sure we wipe our arses and wash our hands (Incidentally, this is what my girlfriend does for a living, heh heh). I don't think this will really go through this time around (wait a few years), but all the same I'd check the campaign funds of NYC politicians for money soaked in Canola oil, or whatever is you substitute for hydrogenated oils. On the other hand, I might be too cynical. Maybe they're not actually trying to grease their palms with campaign funds and they're not actually insane. Of course, the only option that leaves is that they're just trying to prepare the way for the mother ship. I'm pretty sure that I don't want some politician on a mission telling me what they think I should be eating. All I have to say is that they can have my fragel... when they pry it from my cold, dead fingers! By the way, it has come to my attention that not everybody knows what a fragel is, or why it is the best thing ever invented by man. All I can say is that if it's been more than a week since you last had a fragel, go get one.
In other news, I'm afraid we have seen the public disgrace of yet another once-beloved hero of our childhood. I'm never surprised to see another very unflattering photo a messy-haired movie star or athelete with a cocaine mustache staring at me from the cover of a tabloid in the supermarket checkout isle with some headline about spousal abuse while driving while under the influence of drugs, but I expected better than this from Paddington. Where did you go so wrong, old friend? Anyways, that's all for now. I don't want to overwhelm you with the lack of paragraph breaks and the overabundance of Links. Ok, I'm sorry about that one. If you don't get that joke, I have more respect for you than I have for myself.

Being For The Benefit of Mr. Cous.

Hello, friend. I don't suppose that you've been pining away for another post on this thing, but since you can't have too much of a good thing, you can probably put up with a pretty hefty amount of a bad thing, too. Am I wrong? I thought I'd take this time to fade out, having nothing really to talk about, but as the post has only just begun and my last post was a long review that you won't want to read, I'd better throw in some filler that you'll read and wish that you hadn't. Yes. On with the filler! I've been following the headlines about the Pope's supposedly "inflamatory" comments, but have been too disgusted to actually read what's going on. I suppose that you might call it irresponsible to not actually follow the details, since you never know when I might have to defend His Holiness or my faith in general against someone who reads the New York Times like most Christians don't read the Bible, but I really don't see this as even being that relevant. The media's jumping on the Pope for saying something politically incorrect. No kidding. Is the Pope Catholic? I'd be more worried if the media actually liked the guy. Honestly, the only thing he could have said that would have pleased the media and political establishment in general is if he said "Um, everyone just do whatever you want and don't worry about the consequences. Jesus was a reallly nice guy and he wouldn't want anyone to make some sort of moral assesment of any actions or ideas or their implications. Also, Islam is peace. While nothing is actually wrong per se, it's very not nice to imply that your religion might be closer to truth than anyone else's." Anyways, as you can see, I'm in no mental state to engage in any kind of intelligent thought right now, and I'm ranting. Come to think of it, I'm not sure what my mental state would have to be in order to make an intelligent post. I've yet to attain it, whatever it is. Sooner or later you have to realize that it's not really going to make a whole lot of difference whether you're hearing that sound from outside your head or if its just some ringing in your ear from too much shouting in the art galleries where Dr. Mournful's finest work is never on display, but where you can find his finer mediocrities without much trouble to the police or anyone else in this town know where I can find a telephone that takes American change? Times change. You can argue that Time is a human construct, but I don't think that it is. Clocks are a human construct, but I'm pretty sure that Time would exist without them, and without calendars on the wall telling you what to do all the time you might actually break down and do what you've wanted to do all along but never had the time because of the worrysome sound of water coming from the ceiling in the room that you'd just repainted-and suddenly we're back to paint and it's time (back to time as well, although we technically can't leave it behind anywhere either way) to wrap this up and wish you a fine evening before it becomes morning and you have to get up and do your chicken dance all day until you can't lay any more eggs and farmer John will come around with his axe a-swingin' and whiskey on his breath. Maybe tommorow won't be the day, though, so maybe we'll have time to have a pint and talk it all over on some evening when we're both free. We'll see.

An Overly Long Review of Bob Dylan's Modern Times

First off, I feel compelled to warn you that this is a Bob Dylan album. If you’ve already given Dylan an honest and open-minded listening and either still can’t get past his oft-maligned voice or simply aren’t fond of his somewhat weird folk rock injected with postmodern imagery, you’re probably not going to like this album. I can’t fault you for having different tastes than my own. That said, I can’t help but think (probably because of the degree to which I personally am fond of Mr. Dylan’s music) that there are some (perhaps many) who haven’t given the guy a chance, and this album is a pretty good opportunity to do that if you’re up to it. The only disclaimer I can offer is that there are at least six or seven (some might put that number closer to 30) versions of Bob Dylan floating around out there on record, and if you’re expecting to hear the guy who sings songs like “Lay Lady, Lay,” “Blowin’ In The Wind,” or “Like A Rolling Stone” the way they sounded in the ‘60s, you’re not going to get it. There, that’s off my chest.

For all the hats he’s worn over the last forty-five years (lately he’s been wearing a Stetson), Dylan’s still at his core a folk singer, and throughout Modern Times he constantly and unabashedly revisits and borrows from the folk and blues canon, seamlessly writing new songs around old lyrics and themes. Backed by the current five-man lineup of his ever-changing touring band, Dylan croaks out blues and croons ballads from behind his guitar and piano, throwing in a few bars of harmonica where needed.
The album starts out with “Thunder on the Mountain,” a nice upbeat blues tune with somewhat typical weird Dylan lyrics that don’t make much sense, but sound cool. With some slick guitar work and a superb rhythm section behind Dylan’s sneering vocals, you’ve got an all-around good album opener.
Next comes “Spirit on the Water,” a somewhat sour love song set to an easy-going jazz standard-sounding piano tune, carried by an upright bass and some airy guitar fills. I guess I’d have to call it a pop song despite its seven-plus-minute length, and also despite the fact that “pop” music like this stopped being mainstream at least forty-five years ago. Not the voice you’d expect to hear crooning out this song, but it works so well you wonder why you didn’t.
“Rollin’ and Tumblin” picks up speed and turns up the guitars again, sounding to me sort of like Dylan's mid-sixties hit “Maggie’s Farm,” if it had been written by John Lee Hooker.
What better way to follow up a heavy blues song than with “When the Deal Goes Down,” a slow waltz that again finds Dylan playing piano, accompanied by a steel guitar and violin.
You could call “Someday Baby” a re-imagining of the blues standard “Worried Life Blues” to some extent, with the rhythm section laying down a nice groove into which Dylan weaves his vocals. One of the highlights of the album to be sure, catch it on the latest iTunes + iPod commercial on telly if you watch that sort of thing.
“Workingman’s Blues #2” is, unless I’m mistaken, Dylan’s most political song in at least the last decade, or at least the first verse is, so I’m actually quite surprised at how much I like it. It might be because after lamenting the fact that “the buying power of the Proletariat’s going down” early on, the tune pretty much turns out to be more of a blue-collar love song. Also, if you’re an absolute geek like me, you might notice how much the instruments here sound like much earlier Dylan. To me it sounds like Dylan in his mid sixties has transported himself back to the mid sixties to sit in on a song recorded one take after “Just Like Tom Thumb’s Blues,” but I can tell that I’m losing you. Seems to me that everybody’s got something that they’re a geek about, this is mine. Sorry.
“Beyond The Horizon” is another jazzy love song, or so it seems to be. To me, it seems that perhaps he’s referring to a place/state of life that’s impossible to attain, and singing whistfully about happiness that’s never to be. Give it a listen, either way it sounds pretty nice.
Hmm… I’m not sure what to say about “Nettie Moore.” The lyrics to the verses make less and less sense as the song progresses, but the beautiful chorus and the sadness conveyed throughout make it one of my favorite songs on the album. Good stuff.
Things pick up again with Dylan’s cover/re-write of the old blues song “The Levee’s Gonna Break,” recorded and performed in various different versions over the years, the most famous that I can think of being by Led Zeppelin. Dylan and the band manage to be upbeat yet subdued here, giving the song a much more chilled vibe than its otherwise urgent lyrics suggest.
Ten songs into the album and you’ve reached the closer, “Ain’t Talkin’.” As is not uncommon with Dylan albums, the final track here is slow and acoustic, and it could be one of the eeriest sounding songs in Dylan’s extensive catalog. While most of Dylan’s songs don’t seem to be directly about himself, this tune somewhat suggests that sadly the singer/songwriter is no closer to finding the answers to life’s questions than he ever was. The tune’s final seconds are to me one of the more musically brilliant moments on the whole album, when, after dangling between a few minor chords for the whole song, the band slowly cycles into a major chord so perfectly that you almost forget how gloomy a song it actually was. It’s also got some pretty cool poetic biblical references in there, too.
Anyhoo, it’s a good CD and if you’re up for it I’d highly recommend it. Of course, as I said I’m a huge Dylan fan, so take anything I say about his music with a grain of salt. Also very much worth picking up are the sophomore releases (both from early summer) by Keane and The Zutons. Keane kicks up their weirdness in the production department a notch, and The Zutons Turn up the guitars and kick up the tempo bit, but both albums are carried by strong songwriting and production, and are further evidence that good pop music can only come from England. Sorry for an even-more-self-indulgent-than-usual post, I’ll try to have something more normal up here soon. Have a great week.

"I don't get no respect."

So I was watching the big Notre Dame/U. of M. game on Saturday, which was enjoyable. I'm not the world's biggest sports fan (I don't have time, what with working out the logistics of 50WD and all), but I do like football, and it was more than a little gratifying to see #11 Michigan win their road opener by wiping the floor with an old rival, who happen to also be the no. 2-ranked team in the country. Ah, Autumn. Anyways, watching the game I was struck once again by the striking resemblance that Fighting Irish head coach Charlie Weis bears to the late comic Rodney Dangerfield. Sure, Weis is a little fatter and a little less dead, but I have to think that I'm not the only one who noticed this. I didn't watch the post-game press conference, but I like to imagine that Weis' comments went something like this:

“So I went down to the stadium today, stop me if you’ve heard this one. I was havin’ the time of my life until I realized I was supposed to be coaching a football game, instead of watchin’ the cheahleadahs. This football team I got, they don’t give me no respect. I tell ‘em to run the football, they run 11 yahds in the whole game! I tell ‘em to pass the football, they pass it right to the other team! I shoulda been coaching the cheahleadahs, they were doin’ what I wanted ‘em to do!”

"When you're in your little room..."

Greetings, friend(s). It's been a decent-ish few weeks behind the scenes at the Republic of D.Cous., various things going on.
I spent Labor Day weekend road tripping to and from a wedding in Iowa, which was actually quite fun. I was expecting the trip to be a drag and the wedding to be fun, but they both turned out to be a great time. I rode out with people who I mostly didn't know very well, and we had a great time getting better acquainted and playing mad libs and making more inside jokes about other parts of the trip than any group of people probably should.
Bob Dylan's new album Modern Times came out on August 29. If you're reading this you probably have some idea of how big a Bob Dylan fan I am (much to your chagrin, perhaps), so watch for my review of the disk in a day or two. I won't blame you if you decide to skip it, but I thought I'd try my hand at writing a review, and it's just not finished yet.
Yesterday was my 22nd birthday, which I'm pretty sure makes me officially old. I had a nice dinner celebration with a few friends, and I'm having dinner tomorrow with my family, so I guess I get bonus points for spreading my birthday out accross three days. It's been a good life so far, many thanks to all of you who have helped to make it so (some of you have probably done so completely by accident).
I went to Cedar Point for the first time in at least a decade over the past weekend, thanks to an invitation from friends. There are a fair amount of new rides since I was last there, and at the time I was too scared to enjoy the few rides I did try (I was something of a nervous kid, as I'm sure you can imagine). This time around was much more fun than my few remaining shards of memory from the first trip, but I have to admit that I don't think I'll be going back any time soon. I'm not sorry I went, don't get me wrong. I enjoyed myself, though it's not the sort of thing I would've done of my own volition. The problem really was that I got pretty sick from the roller coasters and didn't end up going on all that many. More evidence that I'm miserably old, I guess.

"Diamonds are forever, Mr. Bond."

So I picked up a Dr. Pepper for the first time in a while yesterday, and discovered that they've once again updated their packaging. The new can advertises that "Dr. Pepper" was established in 1885, when it was most likely peddled by snake oil salesmen as "Doctor Pepper's Marvelous Cure-All Elixir," and could supposedly cure rheumatism, typhoid, influenza, and could even be used for the treatment of various Indian attack-related injuries. I can see the ads now: "Out here on the frontier, I perty much only need three thangs: ma gun, ma Bible, and a six-pack 'a Doctor Pepper's Marvelous Cure-All Elixir!" (notactuallyproventocureanything
sideeffectsincludelossofsleepnauseaandinsomecasestoothdecay). The new can design also advertises that Dr. Pepper is made from "an authentic blend of 23 flavors." Apparently somebody recently told the Dr. Pepper people about the existence of Mr. Pibb, Dr. Thunder, and various other off-brand alternatives, and they're desperately attempting to prove their product's superiority. "Oh, hello Mr. Pibb. I notice that you've been making a pop that's very similar to mine. You probably think you're pretty clever, but what you don't realize is that mine is an authentic blend of 23 flavors! How many flavors are in your little soda? One? Two? Yeah, that's what I thought. Clear out the substitutes, there's a new Sheriff in town. A sheriff with an AUTHENTIC BLEND OF 23 FLAVORS, biatches!" Ok, sorry. I have no idea why I'm writing about this.

Moving along, I'm thinking of putting a link onto the blog that will let you donate money to me, since a lot of other sites seem to do this. Of course, all you get for donating to them is the satisfaction of paying for a site that you'd previously been viewing for free, and maybe sometimes they'll throw in a "bonus membership street team" phrase, where they'll give you a t-shirt (but only if you donate more than $25 or something like that), and you get to feel outright smug about donating to the site. It's like the Good Book says, hombres: "Why waste your money on what is not bread? Your wages on what fails to satisfy?" For donating to The People's Republic of D.Cous., you won't just get a t-shirt and a smug look on your face every time you view my blog. You'll get no t-shirt whatsoever, and the look on your face won't be smug, no. It'll be outright distorted by a twisted maniacal grin, knowing that you have helped me get one step closer to 50% world domination. Total domination might be in the works, we'll see, but first I need some money. My plan is so simple that it's absolutely brilliant, and I'm only telling you about it because I need the money to implement it, and because you read my blog I trust you. I'm going to create a shoe. A pair of shoes, really. I haven't run the computer simulations yet, but it might have to be a very big pair of shoes to get the desired effect. It might even have to be several small pairs of shoes. As I said, due to research funding limitations, this plan for 50% world domination is still very much in the planning phase. Where was I? Oh yes. Shoes. Intrigued yet? Yes, I'm aware of the many questions that must be racing through your capable mind right now. How is D.Cous. going to achieve 50% world domination by making shoes? Does this have anything to do with Dr. Pepper, and if so, what? Is anybody watching me right now, or is it ok to pick my nose? I'll answer those questions in reverse order, for dramatic effect: Thirdly, yes. You're always being watched, and no, you probably shouldn't pick your nose in front of them. It's rude. Secondly, no. The bit about Dr. Pepper was just to get the casual Republic of D.Cous. reader to stop reading. The frontier was settled, the railroads were built, and the Indians were relegated to reservations and casinos by 1885, everyone knows this. No one must know about what I have to say. No one except me, and you, and of course Reginald. I'll be the brains of the operation, obviously, you'll be the financier, and Reginald will (as always) be the silent partner. Now then, to your first question. As I said before, I'm going to make a pair of shoes, or perhaps several. Some field testing and computer modeling will need to be done to determine the size and quantity of the shoes, once the funds start rolling in. Now comes the important part, the part where the shoes give us the power to rule 50% of the world: They will be made out of chocolate. Shoes made out of chocolate, my friend! Half the world is already within our grasp, we just have to get our hands on it before the Wal Mart people do. But I'm getting ahead of myself, and perhaps you're starting to lose interest before I get to the really important part. Combining the powers of shoes and chocolate is still only 2/3 of my plan for 50% world domination (50WD), and 2/3 of 50% is only... let's see... carry the two... anyways, it's less than 50%. Yes friends, there is one more element to 50WD (not to be mistaken for WD40, which was actually a miserable failure as a world-domination plan, but turned out to be a pretty good lubricant), without which the first two elements combined are a mere novelty item: Diamonds. That’s right, diamonds. A lot of diamonds. Enough diamonds, in fact, to coat a pair of chocolate shoes in a sparkly glow of unstoppable power. The power to control any and all women on earth, Mr. Bond. Faced with that “super-cute” pair of diamond-coated chocolate shoes, women’s brains the world over shall be like so much putty in the hands of a capable sculptor (not that I can sculpt per se, it’s just a simile). There may be a few minor brain explosions as some women try to figure out whether to eat or wear the shoes, and if they wear them what outfit will they go with, but I think most women will stop before then, stopped in their tracks by the mere concept of a diamond-coated chocolate shoe. They’ll be so blown away it may even take them a while to notice the second shoe. We’ll have complete control over every woman on earth within minutes, which is, if my math is correct, roughly 50% of the world’s population. Of course, once you control all the women, you’ve pretty much already got control of the other half of the world, but I’m getting ahead of myself again. The key elements here are money, money, and money. “Great,” you’re thinking. “I already KNEW I could win women over with money.” That’s as may be, my friend, but I put it to you that Plan 50WD will win over every woman in the world far cheaper than any alternative heretofore considered.
The bottom line is “give money to the People’s Republic of D.Cous.” You won’t be directly helping refugees or orphans or even starving beat poets (I personally guarantee that no money donated to the Republic shall ever go to starving beat poets). Instead, you’ll be helping me achieve world domination, in exchange for loosely defined “gratitude” at some undetermined future date (and that’s a promise you can take right to the bank), after I’ve established myself as supreme leader of earth, and we’ve blasted at least one other planet out of the solar system just for the heck of it. Come on, you know you want to.

Of Rugged Rocks and Ragged Rascals...

Ah, rainy days. The perfect time for relaxing on the couch with a cup o' tea (or coffee, I'm an equal opportunity enjoyer of hot beverages, except for that no-good hot cider nonsense) and that Jules Verne book I didn't quite finish on vacation (icthiological terms are tricky in french, by the way). That's not actually what I'm doing on this fine rainy day, but it still would've been a good way to spend it, all other things being equal. I also enjoy driving in the rain, something I did actually get to do, running an errand or two. It's funny the things you miss when you don't have them. Last summer I spent a month in France travelling mostly by train and on foot, having a fantastic time, and by the end of the trip I missed driving. I'm quite happy to have finished my studies at Hillsdale, but aside from missing friends and professors and such (which I'd expected), I've begun to miss the odd little things. I miss having free, unlimited access to JSTOR (an online archive of academic journal articles) and the Oxford English Dictionary, and a super-cheap subscription to the Wall Street Journal. Perusing the internet during lunch the other day I stumbled accross a nearly 50-page economics paper, and was sorry not to have the time to read it. A few months ago I would've had the paper in hand with a deadline to write a paper, give a presentation, or take a test on it (none of which I enjoy), fully ready to stay up late into night with a cup of coffee (sorry, no tea for late-night studying) and my trusty notebook and highlighter, listening to Miles Davis on my headphones and doodling in the notebook while my mind tried to wrap itself around the theory. Don't get me wrong. I loved France, and I want to go back some day. I also loved college, I just don't want to go back. I finished. I took my four years of classes, made my mistakes, did a few things right (but not too many, gotta keep expectations low), and graduated. In fact, before my diploma arrived in the mail a few weeks ago I was irrationally paranoid that I would receive a call from the Hillsdale College registrar, telling me that I would have to come back to take one more PE class, or another semester of English. I liked English, but I got slightly disilusioned by my freshman litterature class when it occured to me that at least half of the works we were reading weren't originally written in English. I'm not saying that we shouldn't be reading Virgil, Dante, Cervantes, and Augustine (quite the opposite, really), I'm just saying that putting them in a class called "English" is a bit of a misnomer. Sure, we read some Shakespeare, Chaucer, and Coleridge as well, so there were smatterings of English litterature in the English class, but still. Ok, I don't even know why I'm ranting about that. It's not even something I feel at all strongly about. I'm sorry world. They're called "English" classes because they're taught by members of the English department, or perhaps because they expect your papers to be in something at least recognizeable as the English language (by the way, I don't see myself missing writing typed, double-spaced, one inch-margined expository prose any time soon). Well, there you have it. Another post devoid of paragraph breaks or discernable direction. I'm sorry, but not so sorry that I won't do it again, as I am likely to do. Have a good rainy day if it continues to rain, and a good sunny day if it doesn't.

No alarms and no surprises, please.

Ah, back to the helm of The Republic. I must say, it's been a very dreadfully long time, and I wouldn't blame you at all if you're not reading this, as there's a very good chance that you're not. What have I been doing with myself during my hiatus, you might ask? Well, don't bother, it's not really anything to write home about. I did go on vacation with my family and my girlfriend and her family (for those of you keeping track, that adds up to 1,023 people), up on one of Michigan's six lakes named "Long Lake." 'Twas a wonderfully relaxing time, and quite a bit cooler than this 95-degree madness that I've come back to, and I kept my longstanding vacation tradition of sitting on the beach reading for hours, taking occasional breaks to eat, sleep, and mingle with friends and relatives.

Hey hey, a paragraph break! I haven't been keeping track, but that's probably only the sixth or seventh in The Republic's long and proud history. Anyways, let's have a little talk about Japanese Beetles. Hmm... On second thought, let's not capitalize the name, it's only an insect. What do we know about Japanese beetles? Well, there's the name for starters: Japanese is an adjective, meaning "Of or pertaining to Japan," according to the Oxford English Dictionary (OED for short), so clearly the name indicates that the insect in question is or at some point was beleived to be of Japanese origin. Beetle is of course a noun, for which the OED gives this handy little definition:

"The class name for insects of the coleopterous order, having the upper pair of wings converted into hard sheaths or wing-cases (elytra) that close over the back, and protect the lower or true wings, which most species are able to use in flight."

I'm terribly sorry, but blogger is apparently refusing me the right to indent lengthy quotations, so that's the best I'm going to do. Let the record show, however, that those are not paragraph breaks per se, and should not be counted as such. Anyways, where was I? Beetles. Yes. When you combine the words "Japanese" and "beetle," you get a new definition, one which unfortunately cannot be found on the austere pages of that definitive record of the English Language, but which is nonetheless useful: The Japanese beetle is the most disgusting animal known to man. Anyways, Reens (My sister and landlady) and I returned from our vacation to discover that our neighborhood was infested with the aforementioned green insectoid monstrocities, who were making themselves as comfortable as pigs in the mud devouring my sister's much-cherished garden. Hundreds of them. Thousands, even. A small amount of research on Reenie's part revealed that the two main ways to dispose of the little buggers are to either pick them off by hand, or else purchase and trap them with a pheromone trap. Being more than a bit vexed with the beetles, and in no mood to pick them off the bushes like so many blueberries, it was the second option which my sister took, and hence asked me to set up the contraption. It's a simple device, really: You suspend a tablet of synthesized beetle sex attractants mixed with some sort of poison (it probably takes a pretty weird guy with a PhD to think of this) over a plastic bag with a funnel in the top, and within a few seconds the horny little bastards fly to it from all corners of the yard, and fall stunned into the bag, where they writhe around in a pile having some disgusting bug orgy/feeding frenzy until the smell of dead bugs begins to counterract the pheromones and the bag has to be replaced for more bugs to show up. Grossed out? I know I am, dear reader (don't you hate it when people patronize you in print by calling you "dear reader?" I know I do), but I'm afraid we're not yet finished with this gruesome tale. Remember how I said said the bugs are writhing around in a pile in the bottom of the bag? That's right, the majority of them are not yet dead. Just for a second, imagine yourself holding a tied-off plastic bag containing roughly a pound of writhing beatles. If you're starting to get phantom itches from imagining that those bugs are now crawling all over yourself, welcome to my world. Feel free to leave my world any time you like and go back to your happy place, assuming that there are no Japanese beetles there. What are we supposed to do with this 1 pound bag of garden pests? We notice that there are tiny holes in the bag (as if the bugs are supposed to be able to breathe or something, I don't know. Ask the guys who make beetle sex attractants for a living, not me). So, Reens comes up with the idea of drowning the little buggers in soap water, which, she says, is rumored to be lethal to them. Figures that something that disgusting would have a fatal allergy to soap, I guess, but being more than a little tired of the sight of the beetles, I take the idea step further and suggest that we put a little bleach into the solution, just for good measure. So, we fill a bucket with goodly amounts of soap, bleach, and just a touch of water (for flavor), and dip the bag-o-bugs into it. So far so good, but after a few minutes we decided to check up on the bugs, to make sure that they had truly all died (you must understand, a bag of beetles does in fact float, so it was never completely submerged). Reenie grabbed the still-dry top of the bag and slowly lifted it up out of the water a few inches, which is when a dark, rust-colored liquid began pouring out of the aforementioned holes in the bag, and clouding the water in the bucket below. Unbelievably disgusting. Methinks that perhaps the bleach and soap don't just kill the bugs, they sort of chemically break them down to a brown pulp. I didn't think I'd be able to eat for days, but somehow I managed to have some dinner, although I didn't want to go near anything crunchy.

Anyways, that's pretty much all I can stand to write for now, the memory's still too vivid, especially considering that every day since then I've gotten home from work to see a fresh new pound of bugs in the bottom of the bag I put up the previous evening. I don't ever want to go to hell, because it's probably where I sent all those bugs, and they're probably pissed. I mean, here they thought they were gonna get free love like it's 1967 all over again, and instead ended up being disintegrated by bleach. Serves 'em right. More posts to come soonish, although I can never make any guarantees as to the quality.

Procrastination on tap 7 days a week

Well well well... I've neglected posting for so long that I'm almost afraid to start doing so again, but a strong sense of duty compels me to splatter my mind's useless meanderings accross the vast and vacant void of cyberspace, if only to keep them out of my everyday conversation. Since my last post I've gone into debt, purchased a car, moved out of the family homestead, and sold every dream I ever had for the price of a bargain rack shirt that no one except you likes, and which doesn't even fit you all that well. Ok, it sort of half fits you, since one sleeve is just the right length and the other is four inches too long, and since both of your arms are same length (roughly, or so I assume), it's a pretty safe bet that it's been on the bargain rack for quite some time, and not without good reason. But what the hell, buy it and learn to sew. I myself barely know where to pick up the pieces and start over, it's been so long. I suppose I could begin again by telling you that (strictly between you and I, you understand) I'm rather unsure if anyone is particularly pleased with what I'm doing with myself these days. I just tell them I'm back to work in the ol' croquet mallet factory for 22 and a half cents an hour, and they roll my eyes and tell me that I'd better get back to school if I don't want to end up like Fat Elvis, still trying to sqeeze my ever-enlarging posterior into the same ol' sequins, fresh from the dry-cleaners and getting a little threadbare, just to come out for one more encore of "Heartbreak Hotel," which is beginning to sound more and more like the story of the train wreck I used to call my life. I usually shrug it off and tell them that I don't plan on being the guy working in the croquet mallet factory forever, no sir. One day I'll be the guy playing croquet and enjoying a few brewskis in the back yard, while my trophy wife tries to settle down our 2.5 kids long enough to take their picture with the camera that costs too much and she doesn't know how to use it anyways and I tried to explain that to her but she insisted and sometimes you have to make those little compromises just to keep the wifey-poo happy. Anyways, that's what I tell them but I sort of embelish the details, just to give the impression that I've got it all thought out, only between you and I, I haven't. It'll all work out somehow though, you'll see. Heaven knows how, but life doesn't often disappoint me, and it's not just because I have low expectations, although I sort of do. Well, that's only half true. I won't get into it right now, because the details would bore you, and we both know how little you enjoy being bored after a long day of doing whatever it is that you do all day. Either way, I'll put in a good word for you with the man upstairs if I see him, and we'll let the world solve it's own problems for the most part, except that someone ought to give Frida Kahlo a pair of tweezers and I think it should be you, only because I don't know her all that well and it might be awkward if I did.

"The benches were stained with tears and perspiration..."

Hey Reginald, guess what? Yup, you guessed it: I'm still alive. I'm also out of college. Weird. To provide the remaining requisite "loch ness monster sighting" evidence, I present the following photograph: If you look closely you'll see that it looks like I'm walking somewhat oddly and might be about to fall down the stairs. I'm actually not, or at least I don't think I am-I don't remember all that much of the actual walking down the stage part of the story. It wasn't the most interesting part, I probably skimmed through it like the musical numbers in movie musicals that don't have interesting musical numbers. The ceremony lasted three hours or so, and I spent most of the speech reading the names and majors of the rest of my graduating class, but it wasn't devoid of interestingness. For example, the guy at the far right in that picture (Dr. Mark Kalthof, I hope I spelled that correctly), who announced our names and degrees as we walked accross the stage to receive our fake diplomas (they say the real ones, like every check that was never received, are in the mail), actually pronounced my name correctly. On a loud speaker. With my family and friends there as witnesses. I was shocked. Maybe stunned. I don't know if I kept walking right away or not, but I suppose I did. I didn't actually notice the applause that I got at the time, but as I was shaking the president's hand he said "You've got a fan club out there," so I expect that I got a noticeable amount. Apparently I had a lot of people pulling for me out there, so thanks. Anyways, that's all for now. Stay tuned for grizzly tales of adapting to life after college for D.Cous.

A fine, fine mess...

Greetings one and one. I'm sorry for scaring everyone except Reens away from reading the blog, I hope you all didn't use to congregate in one place to read it, because if you did then you stood her up at the last get-together, and that's not nice. Today is the day, world. I stayed up all night last night in the snack bar and finished my last final this morning. I don't expect that I failed it, so I guess that means... I'm going to graduate. I've had the cap and gown sitting on my desk for a month and a half now, still in the packaging, afraid to open it up for fear of jinxing my chances. I'm not even superstitious. I guess I'm just having trouble believeing that I've actually been here for so long, or that I'm actually going to leave. It often felt like I'd been here a long time and I wanted to be done, but now I actually have and I will. It's crazy. For all that, it's been an amazing few years here, and I'm extremely grateful to have been able to do it. I've gotten to know some great people and taken some great courses and had a few mishaps and meaderings here and there to make it interesting. I'm still worried about what's next or how I'm going to survive in the real world, since I'm convinced that it's going to be quite different than my last few years have been, but maybe that's why I'm so excited. I get to change my entire day-to-day, hour-to-hour pattern of life, and I get to/have to learn how to do that by trial and error. I'm not guessing that it'll be easy, I know a lot of people who have long-since finished college, and I don't remember any of them telling me that it was by any stretch of the imagination the hardest part of their life. Maybe it was for some of them, but all the same life's not known for being easy. It is known for being interesting, though. I know that mine has been. I'm not saying that if I wrote an autobiography anyone would want to read it, just that it's been interesting for me. Then again, I'm writing a blog about my life that usually gets read by one or two people. I guess I'm better at guilting people into stuff than I thought. As usual, I'm babbling. That's all for now, I'm looking forward to seeing whoever makes it out for my commencement on Saturday. The weather outlook's not great, so unfortunately it'll probably be down on the basketball court instead of outside, much to my chagrin. So to sum up: Sorry, thank you, basketball court. Good day.

"See the world in green and blue..."

Hey Reginald! Sorry I haven't written in a long time, I guess I've been busy or something like that. My coughing fits are steadily becoming less frequent and my sinuses are clearing up enough for me to smell the blossoms all over campus, so everything's going fine on that end. I received my first final via e-mail yesterday, so I'll be working on that this afternoon. Then I have to go over some Beaumarchais (Le Mariage de Figaro, upon which is based the italian opera of the same name) and various other French readings from the rest of the semester, but really the stress level's pretty low at the moment. I mean, nothing is due until Monday, and that seems like such a long ways off.
Hey, a paragraph break! I'll probably be hitting the snack bar tonight, which means I'll have to contend with the lady who works there, which (believe me) is no small feat. I don't want to be mean, but this woman may very well be pure evil. Here's a candid photo of her, taken stealthily by one J. Walker (This image is not for the faint of heart): Honestly, she has that expression on her face all the time, like when she's asked politely to make food for money, which requires her to get up from watching television. I'm not kidding, she's just rude to everyone who goes up there, and most people aren't the least bit rude to her. Also, she charges money for ice water, which she already only serves when you buy food. Seriously. I should be safe though, I'll be wearing a cross.
I ran into Mrs. Abel, my tennis instructor from last semester, in lunch today. Considering that the class had two sections of 20-30 people that semester alone, I'm always suprised when I run into her and she remembers me. She wished me well with graduation and everything and we chatted for a few minutes, she's very nice.
I was advised today in random conversation (not with Mrs. Abel) to drink while studying, and then drink right before taking the final, and apparently this will actually improve my chances of getting an A. Yeah, ok buddy. Whatever works for you. I think I'll adhere to more traditional study methods, since they've served me pretty well for the most part during the past few years.
Anyhoo, I'm gonna drag the lappy up the hill and try to find a decent spot outside with some wireless internet action going on, then crack open the books while researching and listening to music on the lappy. Yeah, sometimes it's tough to be me. Try not to feel too sorry for me. Have a wonderful day, Reginald.

"I have to admit it's getting better, a little better all the time..."

Hey all, another short post here for now. Thanks a lot for the prayers and well-wishing and everything else, my fever finally quit me sometime yesterday afternoon, and while my other symptoms are still hanging around, it's a remarkable relief to feel somewhat human again. After Mama of all people called and told me to go see a doctor I drove accross campus to the student health service. The nurse there was a nice lady named Maureen Cousino (no relation), and after a few general questions about my symptoms and everything else she showed the doctor in. It wasn't a long visit, he didn't seem too phazed by anything I told him (neither was I, I just didn't like having it), and asked a few of the standard "where are you from/what are you studying" questions. Nice guy. He gave me a prescription for some antibiotics, wished me luck with graduation and everything else, and took off. "You almost made it the whole four years without coming here" said Ms. Cousino sympathetically, as she gave me a small bottle of pills and showed me the door. "Yeah," I said. "I tried."

Influenza: Day V

Sheesh, you'd think it would take me less time to get over this thing. The last few days are all sort of a blur of lying under a blanket shivering, then suddenly sweating and taking off the blanket, then shivering again and putting the blanket back on, with the occaisional coughing fit thrown in for good measure. Every time I fall asleep I keep expecting to wake up feeling somewhat better, or at least rested, but so far that's turned out to be disappointingly untrue. So yeah, I feel selfish asking for prayers for myself, but I really need to get over this, with the semester drawing rapidly to a close, being sick is about the worst possible thing to happen. I hope you are all doing well, thanks a lot for everything.

A Public Service Announcement:

Just to clear up any possible misconceptions, the quasi-dedicated staff of The People's Republic of D.Cous. does not approve of the flu. Under no circumstances do we encourage contact or experimentation of any kind with the flu. Readers of our publication are advised to avoid the flu at all costs, because it may be harmful to your health. We also feel obliged to dispel any fears that reading our blog will result in contraction of the flu. To the best of our knowledge, there is no correlation between readership of this blog and contraction of the flu. The fact that our entire staff has been infected (quite by accident, we assure you) has been attributed (accurately, we feel) to conicidence. Thank you, and have a pleasant week.

Coffee From Above

So I was meandering through one of the classroom buildings just now, feeling more than a little spacy and tired, when I turned a corner and there, in the hallway, was the most beautiful sight I've ever seen: It was a table with a white tablecloth, a glass bowl full of ice, a few bottles of water, a pitcher of cream, some sugar packets, and... coffee. Crackbucks coffee, nonetheless. I swear I heard a choir somewhere, just holding a dominant chord in various forms, climbing to the very top, nay, above the top of the human vocal capacity... I looked around, but the entire floor of the building was empty. Deserted. I looked back at the table, wondering at what point the ethereal choir would have to stop to take a breath. After pondering the situation I found myself in for a few microseconds, I reached the conclusion that any reasonable person would: God wanted me to have this coffee. Not being one to refuse such an obvious example of divine providence, I poured myself a cup, put in a little sugar (not too much), put in some half-n-half, and drank. The choir resolved to tonic and faded to silence. Beautiful silence. Caffeinated silence. Within a minute or two, the first cup was gone. I looked, half-surprised to find that the table was still there. I poured myself a second cup, and walked slowly away, thanking heaven for once again providing for me from its merciful bounty.

Whatcha gonna do about it?

Hello Reginald. I was just sitting here minding my own business the other day when someone walked up to me and said “Hey, what’s the difference between you and a Norwegian kayak maker?” “What?” I asked, somewhat annoyed by the direction he was taking the conversation which ten seconds earlier had not existed. “The kayak maker has a freakin’ job!” He said, and then walked away playing his panpipe and humming rhymes about the coming end of Life As We Know It (LAWKI), Northwestern Canada’s premier television game show in which the contestants have to distinguish between questions asked in nonsense syllables and those asked in the Inuit language. Who cares? I’ll bet the Inuit people do, having their language made fun of like a circus clown on a tiny bicycle falling off of a cliff and onto the next topic of conversation: Petroleum. Just kidding, I sure as shoe polish don’t want to talk about petroleum. I recently discovered that Macadamia nuts coated in chocolate taste delicious. I’d never had any before this week that weren’t buried deep within cookies of the same name, and those weren’t terrible, but I’d have to say that they were better in chocolate. Yes indeed, if you remember one thing which I tell you it should be that things are as they were when they weren’t as yet included in the current order of things that are presently but didn’t used to be. See what I mean? That’s what that nay-sayer with the panpipe will never understand when he’s driving through the sleet in his borrowed Escalade pretending to be somebody’s best friend’s lawyer suing the pants off some poor restaurateur who happened to serve tea at one hundred degrees Celsius the way it ought to be served, Fuzzy Math (FM) notwithstanding. So I was thinking about the Mayfair the other day, not that I’ve ever seen a Mayfair or know exactly what it is, but I’ll bet that it’s pretty nice, because the word has a pleasant ring to it. Anyways, for the sake of LAWKI (and many other acronyms I’m sure), I’d better get to reading some Beaumarchais and studying for a test of my fortitude, which could come and go as it wishes, at any given time. I wish you the best of luck, Reginald. I’m sure that it shall all right itself in an odd sort of way, as it always does this time of year, so hold onto your hat and hope for the best and nothing bad will hurt more than a bee sting in the eye, which I believe would hurt a great deal. Best to avoid the bee’s nest altogether and not to wantonly throw rocks.

Remember me?

Hello blog fans of the earth. Miss me? I apologize for my lack of consistency in posting on this thing, I really don't have much of an excuse. Can't complain about life lately, I went home for the Easter Triduum, which was great. School plods on as usual, which isn't so great, although I'm still enjoying it for the most part. Only four weeks to go, which is still longer than most college students have. For some reason my fine institution of higher education (IHE) decided that we'd rather have a really long Christmas break than a decently long summer. Not a great idea as far as I'm concerned, but who asked me? Four weeks to go... I'm really pretty excited about the whole thing, although the uncertainty of what's to follow still bothers me at times. I'm not even sure where I'm going to live after packing my car full of my belongings and heading for home. The good news is that I have a few options to choose between (assuming that none fall through), so life could be a heck of a lot worse. On the other hand, the decision would be quite a lot easier if I had fewer options. We’ll see. I’m sure it’ll work out alright. That’s all for now, I’ll try to have some thing more interesting to write soon. Have a good week!

What Have We Learned?

Courtesy of the Wall Street Journal's "Best Of The Web Today" feature, here's a funny/sad little anecdote for the day: Apparently an Orlando-area public school thought that it would be a good idea to teach kids about the Holocaust by making some arbitrarily-selected group of them wear yellow stars, and restricting them from using the drinking fountains. Brilliant, or rather it would be brilliant, if that was the way that children actually learned these things. When asked about the little social experiment, one boy simply said "the only thing I found out today is I don't want to be Jewish." Way to go, guys. Way to go. Personally, I think that it's far less important to empathize with the people who were mistreated than it is to learn that there was no reason to mistreat them, or for them to be mistreated. It seems that in this case you can either teach kids that it's wrong to mistreat Jews, or you can just teach kids that it sucks to be Jewish, because Jews are victims. Anyways, have a good weekend. More wonderments to come in due time.

There once was a student in college...

...And one day he lept o'er a tall hedge. Sorry kids, I've no chance of coming up with the rest of that limerick. Hm. I suppose it's not a limerick, then. Oh well. So, how are you? I don't honestly know if you're still there, and if you're not I can't exactly blame you. I really ought to work on finding my niche in the blog world. You know, where I offer something that other people don't offer, or at a better price. Unfortunately, everyone and their uncle does pretty much the same thing I do with my blog with their own. On the other hand, girl pants: I can offer no explanation for this image, suffice to say that if anyone's reading this they probably know who's lower half is squeezed into those Levis. Certain references to the film "This is Spinal Tap" spring to mind. In other news, the wonderful bounty of the internet has yeilded hilarity yet again. Far to the Southwest, in the land of bratwurst and beer, there is a place called the Milwalkee Institute of Art and Design. I know what you're thinking, "what's so funny about art school?" "What," you ask? It's art school, for crying out loud! They teach you how to make crap, and then describe it as the deepest thing ever created by man. Ok, to be fair, I've never been to such an institution, and I have the artistic ability of a dead pufferfish, but I'm about to argue that the students at MIAD are no Picassos themselves. Anyhoo, at this fine art school, they have a program of study called "Time-Based Media," which in non-art speak might be called "Film." Paydirt. PAY DIRT. Ok, I can't really explain what I'm about to link to, I'm just going to give you the link, and let the chef d'oeuvre speak for itself: click here. Well, that's all for now, friend. I do hope that everything is well in your part of the world. Stay out of girl pants, unless of course you're a girl, in which case I can't help but recommend them. TTFN! Ta ta for now!

The Ides Of March

Nothing new to say today, just thought I'd remind you all that Julius Caesar was stabbed on this date. Yay history. I feel compelled to tell you that I got this image from this site, via google image search: http://www.newark.k12.ny.us/staffpages/
laganat/RomeD-M/images/JuliusCaesarDeath3_gif.jpg

March Madness

Ok, so this post doesn't really have anything to do with the NCAA tournament, I just have a thing for alliteration. Spring break's rapidly approaching (although hardly rapidly enough), which means that professors think that this week will be a great one for loading up on tests and papers. The thing is, they're probably right. The fact that I'm stressing out all of this week will probably make break itself feel pretty darn good. For that matter, it had darn well better make break feel even better than it otherwise would, or I'll become upset, and goodness knows that the last thing that the men and women who are responsible for my education want is for me to be upset. Yeah. So I got home on Saturday evening to find a friend of mine sitting on the couch hanging out in my house, so being a good host I offered him a glass of wine. Having received said wine, my guest (and The Republic of D.Cous.'s unofficial minister of photography) had the audacity to berate the container in which I had served him his wine. "You serve wine in a canning jar?" Said he, with a look on his face which indicated that he thought the remark was rather clever. "Yeah," I said, pouring myself a Mason jar of my own. "We're classy like that around here." The rest of the evening was spent emptying the bottle of Bloomington, Indianna's finest red wine, discussing philosophy and litterature, and trash-talking while putting one another's nonexistant Soul Caliber II skills to the test. Not that good a game really, but it was a decent diversion at the time. Ahh, college. In case you haven't figured it out by my selection of anecdotes, the weekend was pretty uneventful. Still, I didn't manage to get everything done which I should have, and so here I find myself in the grimy snack bar up the hill, taking a break from reading Oliver Williamson's influential 1985 article on "the governance of contractual relations." Don't let the title put you off though, it's one heluva page turner. The snack bar's one of my favorite study spots, but not for any of its merits, if indeed it has any. The only thing that makes it at all superior to other on-campus locations is that the lighting is much more comfortable, and is not made up of frantically flickering flourescents (dig that alliteration), that gradually corrode one's will to live. Frankly, I think that the reason that I keep coming back to this smoky, dirty, sometimes noisy place is that it's just uncomfortable enough an enviroment to make studying a distraction from it. Anyways, I hope that everyone's having a good week, and I say "everyone" because apparently readership may be up to as many as five people. I'm totally gonna let this get to my head. But seriously, I look forward to seeing those of you who will be in the general vicinity of home next week, and I wish you well.

Once Upon A Friday Night Road Trip

Ok, here's the disclaimer for this post: I'm stupid. I hear voices and do what they tell me to do, or something like that. Maybe I was fed paint chips as a kid. That's my excuse for why, when housemates Matt and Dean invited me to make a one-night road trip to Columbus and back to see our mutual friend Ann in a play, I accepted. It would only take away one night of studying, I reasoned, and I've been feeling pretty eager to hit the road for somewhere (or nowhere) for a while now. Of course, the amount of time it would take was hardly the worst drawback to the trip: as mentioned above, the play was in Columbus, Ohio. Worse yet, the very actress we were going to see is a Hillsdale graduate, studying for her masters (in theatre) at that place that should never be named. You know, the big college in Columbus. In her defense, she hates it just as much as we do. So, it was not without a great sense of foreboding that three Hillsdale students who happen to be devoted Michigan fans began our long journey south, towards Mordor. It was good to be on a road trip, and the shortness of our time reminded me somewhat of the times (yes, plural) when the guys and I headed to Ottowa, Ontario and back in two days. Fortunately, this was significantly closer, but still pretty crazy to drive there and back in one night. What else could we do? Stay in Columbus? Why it's preposterous to even think of, I'm sure you'll agree. After a few hours of riding in the car, listening to music, and cursing Ohio every few minutes, we passed the first road sign, upon which were written those fateful words: "Now entering Columbus." I say the first, becaus we promply passed another sign that said "Now entering bladiblahblah (not Columbus)," and then in equally short order another sign which said "Now entering Columbus." Odd, we thought, but not terribly odd--At least not until the third and fourth times we found ourselves entering Columbus, and on a relatively straight section of freeway. By the fifth time, it was just ridiculous. Are we in Columbus, or not? Apparently the sign company offered the municipality of Columbus a great deal on those signs, and they decided to put them everywhere. Then we saw another sign, the horror of which made us forget that there was ever a man or a place or anything else that might have been named Columbus: "O--- S---- University, next exit." We got out to take a quick picture (you see Matt in front, then Dean, I'm taking the picture), passed another sign that informed us of our entrance to Columbus, and headed on in.We found the theatre without too much trouble, cursing our miserable fate and the red and white street signs marking the streets with unspeakably hideous names, like "woody hayes boulevard" and "buckeye drive," and parked directly in the shadow of the football stadium. The ring was getting to be unbearably heavy, and Matt offered to carry it for just a little while, but I refused. It was my burden to bear, and mine alone.
The play was an obscure (ok, I've never heard of it. It could be quite famous for all I know) 19th century Russian comedy (translated, thank heavens) by Nikolai Gogol, called "The Government Inspector," and the plot revolved around a paranoid small-town mayor and his cabinet attempting to appease (and bribe) a man who they beleive to be an undercover inspector from the capital. I know, it sounds dated, but it was quite well executed, and infused with some brilliant comedic timing, and we all laughed hard enough to forget our environs for two and a half hours, less a fifteen-minute intermission. After the play, we met Ann (who was wonderful as Marya, the mayor's daughter) outside of her dressing room, went out for a congratulatory bite and a pint at a nearby pub (we left and re-entered Columbus twice in the half-mile or less drive), which considering the location was a decent place, stopped at Ann's place, and then hit the road. We considered urinating on the stadium before leaving, but there were security guards present, so we left, entered, left, entered, left, entered, and finally left Columbus, and headed for home, scanning the radio and singing along with oldies to keep ourselves awake. It was too early (or rather, not early enough) in the morning to even mention when we got back, so I hit the sack until noon, and now must spend the rest of my weekend being more responsible. I hope that both of you are well, check back again soonish, and I'll try to have another post up for you.

"Come on, take me to the mardi gras..."

It's Fat Tuesday, boys and girls! Yeah, I barely noticed either. I didn't even get around to going and buying paczkis or anything. Oh well, maybe next year. Ooh, now (21:30 EST) I'm suddenly feeling tempted to run out and buy paczkis right bleedin' now. Not even kidding. Just the thought of stuffing my face with a huge, custard-filled, powdered-sugar monstrosity makes me salivate at the moment. You know what? I'm going to. I'll be back.

"I wanna be wanna be wanna be Jim Morrison."

Don't we all? Sorry I've not been behind my promises to post more often, turns out that I've had a lot of schoolwork this week. Oh well. I guess that's what I get for going to college. I'm kind of shocked that it's already miterm season, I'm already behind on reading, and already spending late nights caffeinated out of my mind wondering why the heck I bother. Other than the craziness though, life's pretty good. I still get a chance to pick up my bass or sit down at my piano and play a bit sometimes, and whenever I step outside I can always look up and thank God for everything that I've received today. Speaking of thankful, today was the fourth anniversary of the death of the great Chuck Jones. Not that I'm thankful that he's gone by any means, great cartoons about greedy ducks and suave rabbits and overly optimistic coyotes are always something to be thankful for. Anyways, it's 1:00 in the morning, I've finished my paper, and I'm going to bed. I should be able to post something enlightening (I use the term flippantly) tommorow, I guess tonight's post is my inner teenager posting to his imaginary myspace. I guess that means that I should say something like "Love like you've never been hurt" and probably mention that I'm listening to the latest All American Rejects or Fallout Boy CD or whatever, and how it really hits me right where I'm at, yo. Yeah, that darn girl who broke my heart. Should I also be pissed at the 'rents for something? I'm no good at this.

My love is like a red, red violet. Wait, wait... that's not right. Magnolia? Daisy?

Hello again. Yes, it's been another week since I last posted, and that means that I should post again, lest my four readers cease their digital meanderings in my direction, and I never hear from them again. Sadly, or perhaps not so sadly, not too much of consequence has occured in the last week, just school and friends and music and what-not to consume the hours, although in far from equal porportions. This morning I checked my student email to discover that my inbox was full of junk emails that someone thought would be rather clever to send to the entire campus. Of course, once someone goes to the trouble of sending one to the world, thirty other people of equal maturity decided that they'd just hit "reply to all" and send along their little messages of annoyance to the whole campus. Yeah. After cleaning the rubbish out of my inbox, I considered reading through my deleted items folder, rounding up a posse, and giving each and every spammer (about thirty individuals, some with multiple emails to their name) a good, old-fashioned punch in the face, but I thought better of it when I considered that the average person could probably beat me at fisticuffs. I'm still pretty confident that they deserved it, though.
There, that's the rage and vengance segment of our program, and now we move on to a lighter subject: Poppyseed muffins. You may think them ridiculously ordinary, but poppyseed muffins are actually one of the most significant inventions of the last two centuries. Discovered entirely by accident one Sunday morning in Dorchesterbrigdeshire by a rather clumsy housewife named Mavis, circa 1824, the wholly remarkable phenomenon that is the poppyseed muffin can perhaps best be described by one word: Jellyfish Market. Alright, you caught me, that's two words, but I think that you can now begin to understand just how remarkably important a thing we're talking about. I mean, one doesn't throw the term 'jellyfish market' around lightly, good heavens above. Anyways, the poppyseed muffin remained in obscurity, its myriad benefits hidden from the larger world, until they were discovered by Emile de Chancoineaux, while vacationing in the English countryside in 1871 (although to be completely honest, he was vacationing mainly in order to get out of serving in the Franco-Prussian War, which would not suprisingly end badly for the French shortly thereafter). Chancoineaux introduced his own version of the poppyseed muffin in his Paris salon in 1873, where it was giddily consumed by the intellectual elite of the time, many of whom were hoping that it was a cheaper form of opium. It was of these very same muffins that novelist Guy de Maupassant was speaking when he uttered the now-famous words:"cette tarte me plait," or in English: "I like this tart." Indeed, poppyseed muffins had caught parisians so much by suprise that they didn't even have a name for them, and resorted to calling them tarts. Jellyfish market, indeed.
Whoah. Sorry, I have no idea where that all came from. I've spent the majority of the last two days in an armchair in my room, reading economics and french books, occaisionally getting up to plink a few notes on my piano or make a cup of coffee or tea. Yes, I'm afraid that my life is that uninteresting most of the time, although it's seldom unpleasant. I'm afraid that (as you can clearly see) I've very little to talk about at the moment, and for that reason I shall leave you until next time. I'll try to update in a few days rather than a full week, and maybe have something interesting to talk about by then. We'll see. Thanks for being yourself, I wish you the very best.

An Inquiry Into The Nature and Causes of The Sloppy José

"Don't piss on my leg and tell me it's raining," as a certain professor of mine is fond of saying. By the same token, don't give me sloppy joe meat in a flour tortilla and try to tell me that I'm eating a taco. Unfortunately, that's exactly what they do at the cafeteria which circumstances more or less beyond my control force me to seek "nourishment" from. The good news is that no food consumed there is likely to remain in my body for any more than half an hour, so its immediate adverse effects tend to be short lived. The long-term effects are harder to guage, but include a significant loss of faith in mankind, as well as a propensity to starve one's self rather than subject one's intestines to another barrage. To think I used to complain about the food at home. To think that I was home-schooled, only to be subjected to cafeteria trash as a college student. Dear heavens, what did I do wrong? There is something rotten in the state of Michigan, indeed.
The weekend was fun, I went up to visit Lindsey for Saturday and Sunday, hopefully without being too much of a bother to her. Linds was a great hostess, and even cooked--twice! She never ceases to amaze. She did however point out the font Copperplate everywhere she saw it over the weekend (on 20+ distinct products, nonetheless), which was really pretty funny until I started noticing it too. It now may drive me insane. I'm really not the kind of guy who notices fonts much (except MS Comic Sans, whoever uses that will be first against the wall when the revolution comes), so hopefully the madness will be short-lived.
The superbowl was about the same as it always is, funny how the ultimate championship in pro football is seldom the most interesting game to watch. It wasn't bad, but there was nothing to imply that it was any kind of clash of titans, as they say. It's also the one time of the year that we actually eagerly await the commercial breaks. Funny how that works. For the record, "brown and bubbly" is the worst slogan for a diet cola in the history of the world. Sure, diet pepsi is in fact brown and bubbly, but so are a variety of other things that one really doesn't want associated with one's product. Things like poop. There, I said it. Poop. Come to think of it, "brown and bubbly" would be a pretty effective slogan for a sewage hauler. It's humorous, and what can you do to distinguish yourself from other sewage haulers? That's right, make poop jokes. Actually, maybe they all do that already. But enough about sewage. So I was watching congress on CSPAN the other day...
Well, that's all for now. I'll try to update again in a few days, and hopefully by then your expectations will be lowered to the point of being amused. Have a good week!

If only I could put in words the music that I hear...

Hello again. Not much to report of late, I'm afraid. I'm already behind on reading for all of my classes, and need to frantically catch up before it piles sky high. Oh well, I'll manage. Alan Greenspan's been replaced by Ben Bernanke, Sandra Day O'Connor's been replaced by Samuel Alito, and (as is not unusual) the only Oscar category worth following is the Best Animated Feature Film Category, a three-way race between Hayao Miyazaki's Howl's Moving Castle (I haven't seen it yet, but a Miyazaki film can hardly be anything but brilliant), Tim Burton's Corpse Bride (also haven't seen it, and I'd be willing to bet that Burton does more acid than Jimi Hendrix did, but still I hear good things), and Nick Park's Wallace and Gromit: The Curse of the Were Rabbit (I did in fact see this, and it's great). Of course, this still won't entice me to watch the Oscars any more than previous years' film offerings have (which, by the way, is not at all), but I'm still interested in who wins, because whichever film does win is likely to merit a longer run in theatres (as happened with Miyazaki's Spirited Away, some years back). Dramas continue to dominate the Best Picture category, which I still think is lame (then again, I'm talking about the Academy of Motion Pictures, or whatever it's called). I mean, do you really want to spend nine bucks (assuming that you buy no popcorn or drinks) to cry in a theatre full of strangers? Yeah, me neither. Anyways, I'll stop blathering on about this and let you get on with your life, which I'm sure is full of more important things. I'll try to at least mention something that I care about in passing next time around. Peace and love and what-not to all of you, good night.

A Sign Of The Times

I went to Wal Mart at 1:00 in the morning instead of going to bed. Don't ask why, it just seemed like the right thing to do at the time. It was either that or be perilously close to having no shampoo or toothpaste this morning, and I wasn't quite ready for sleep anyways. As I wandered the isles, taking the few groceries that I needed and watching the Wal Morlocks stocking the shelves (they were pretty much the only other people in the store at the time), I slowly began to notice the mundane elevator music that was being played on the supermarket sound system at a volume that has been perfectly adjusted to be barely noticeable, but somehow extremely obnoxious at the same time. It's the volume level at which the music in hell is played. You don't even really notice anything about the music, you just hear something like a voice and something like instraments behind it, and curse it under your breath. But then something strange happened: I recognized the voice in the supermarket music. This isn't supposed to happen. You're not supposed to notice anything at all about supermarket music, let alone recognize the voices of its perpetrators. Suddenly the part of my subconsious that recognized the voice found the name that belongs to it: James Hetfeild. Then it all came together. I realized that this was no ordinary supermarket music, it was 80s-90s heavy metal icons Metallica belting out their anthem Sanitarium. Weird.

And now page two: Sandra Banks of Waikiki, Illinois discovered that with a GE/Soft Comfort/Bose mattress/stereo/light bulb, she can sleep one hundred percent better, hear better sound, see better, treat her arthritis, and even fly! Paul Harvey. Good day?

Yes indeed, Reginald. Since whoever reads this blog must almost certainly be a fan of completely useless things, you can download a low-quality mp3 of my song from last weekend here . It's not especially good, but it is moderately amusing. Keep checking in, and I'll keep trying to update this with more useless tidbits.

And Then Suddenly Nothing Happened...

Hello Internet! I assume that no real human being is still reading this nonsense after my complete neglect of the blog for so long, so I might as well address the internet as an entity in and of itself. I'm back in school and that's exciting, taking Economics and French (my major and minor, respectively), supplemented with piano lessons (starting tommorow) and a racquetball class (starting today), to meet a #@*!** physical education requirement. Marvelous. My econ and french classes all seem pretty fun thus far, although the workload promises to be challenging. I just have to fight the onslaught of senioritis when it arrives. On the bright side, I got the opportunity to perform a song that I wrote called "Stilettos" over the weekend, backed up by bandmates Josh and Noah on drums and guitar, and I happen to have pictures (as usual, courtesy of Jonathan Walker). The pink shirt and cowboy hat can be explained by the fact that it's sort of a silly attempt at a country song (a genre that I still do not listen to), and I was trying to be in character. I was fairly happy with the results of the experiment, due almost entirely to my being backed by the right musicians. I myself didn't do as well as I would have liked, but the audience responded favorably, and we all had a great time, so I'm satistfied. The lights get darker sometimes, but not so much that you'd really think to mention it. It's more the kind of dimming where you look around to see if anyone else has that same dumb look on their face that you do, and if at least one person does, then you might venture to say "Ok, did it just get dimmer in here?" Naturally, you say it in such a way as to imply that you merely thought it did, you really aren't quite sure at all, because if you commit yourself to the idea that the lights did in fact get suddenly dimmer, then if no one else noticed it they might abandon all that they previously knew about you (that is that you are a generally sane and well-adjusted sort), and begin to beleive that you're completely bananas. Yup, can't have that happening, not over a loose wire in the lighting, anyways. If everyone really is going to think you're crazy, might as well be because you do things that really are crazy, like call everyone you talk to Reginald, and use their name (that is, Reginald) at least once per sentence in which you speak to them. That would be really good for a laugh, if you really wanted everyone to think you're crazy. Wouldn't you agree, Reginald? Crazy or not I wish you a good week, Reginald, and I hope that next week at this time we shall have another one of these little chats.