"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.

Don't believe what those so-called "scientists" tell you...

The human body was originally designed to live in hot water. Maybe we've come from a planet where the entire surface is covered in three to five feet of water at roughly 150 degrees ferenheit, or maybe the earth itself used to be like that, and some environmental catastrophe destroyed our hot water paradise, but the fact of the matter is that the ideal environment for human existence is hot water. I don't mind telling you, I could've stayed in that shower all day if the hot water hadn't stopped coming. True story. Of course, my theory might imply that in its ideal environment, the human body is a formless pink prune-looking thing, and that wouldn't really be conducive to the already difficult (or perhaps not difficult enough) task of propogating the species. Yeah, probably wouldn't happen.
Cedar roping and Christmas lights still grace various surfaces throughout the house, and pine needles are beginning to pile up on the carpet, in anticipation of Christmas get-together number three, due to take place in a few more days. Much as I love seeing relatives, and much as I appreciate their interest in my life, I'd kill to have no one ask me anything about myself, my education, my employment prospects, etc... Hm. Now that I think of it, that's probably a bad thing. It might mean that I should either be happy enough about where I am in life to not mind telling people about it, or should be doing something worth talking about. I suppose that I could always scare them into praying for me by telling them that all I want to do with my life is ride a skateboard and play guitar all the time, occasionally breaking to smoke a cigarette, or get a new tatoo. Of course, those who know me well enough to know that I hate smoke, have no tatoos, and can't skateboard or ride guitar might not be fooled that easily. Details schmetails, I just need to tweak my dreams a bit. Hm... Rodeo rider? Nah, they'd never beleive it. Astronaut? Nope, they'd just tell me that on the way to doing that I could become a successful engineer. Blah, I suppose that I might as well bite my lip and succumb to the onslaught.

Christmas Eve-ish

Hello. I don't suppose that between travelling to in-laws and shopping till you feel like droppings and chesnuts roasting on an open fire right down Santa Claus Lane you feel particularly up to reading this thing, but I feel like writing on it, and as the title implies, it's all about me, baby. It's Christmas time, which still feels wonderful to say if you stop and think about it, but you have to be careful about context and traffic signals and all. I was doing some shopping for gifts this week (yeah, I know, shock), and it struck me just now that I didn't really do so with all that much attention paid to giving the darn things. I just wanted to give the gifts that I would be expected to give, and hopefully no one would hate what I gave them, and within a few weeks they'd forget that it was me who gave them that thing that they never use. I was reflecting on this with a friend, and for some reason the ever popular A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens came to mind, where Scrooge wakes up on Christmas day and, feeling as if he's got a new lease on life, sends a boy off to find a huge turkey, and then sends the turkey to his faithful and impoverished employee's family. My thought process didn't exactly make a lot of sense, but the scene popped into my head because the gift of turkey wasn't expected. Scrooge just felt so darn Christmasy that he sent the biggest turkey money could find off to the Cratchets, unsolicited (now that I think of it, Cratchet's a sort of a silly sounding name, but I'm no Charles Dickens). God bless us every one indeed. I realize that this was important because earlier in the story he's the stingiest man alive, but it still managed to make me feel silly for just buying presents because that's what you do for Christmas. No, I'm not trying to make some point about how our beloved holiday has become too commercialized and all that, goodness knows that if that's what you want to hear there are plenty of people to say it to you, I'm just trying to say that for me at least, the whole thing can get so automatic. You put up a tree, you buy gifts for the people you like and a few people who you don't like, but it would be socially difficult to get away with not giving them gifts, you decorate your house, you make one hell of a meal (not to mention the cookies-you can't forget those), you wear a few garments for the first time since they were given to you last Christmas, you think about the poor in our cities and our soldiers in foriegn countries for a few days, and when it's all over you drag the tree out to the curb (or put it in its box back in the basement if you're one of those people), clean up the wrapping paper and various nondescript spills, and go back to your everyday existence, because that's what you do for Christmas. Hopefully somewhere in the middle of all that you also manage to sit down and spend a few precious hours with those people, but some people don't. I guess I'm just bemoaning (I know, it's so unlike me to bemoan anything) how taken-for-granted it all is, at least by me, when Christmas itself is so deliberate. What makes Christmas special is that God himself deliberately did what was not expected of him by anyone and became Man. The world changed. Man's relationship with God and with creation was altered. God humbled himself so much as to become a man! Anyways, I guess I'm just trying to say merry Christmas and a happy New Year to you, sorry if I got a little wordy in there. Do your shopping, cook your turkeys, say a prayer for the poor and the sick, don't forget to ask for peace in the world and try to have faith that someone can deliver it. Put up a big Christmas tree and decorate it with as little attention to home decorating conventions as possible (let's face it, a dying evergreen tree covered with trinkets and lights is never going to be all that tasteful, might as well have some fun). Smile when you're driving alone at night and you pass by a life-sized nativity scene, and every time someone tells you "Happy Holidays," respond with an even more cheerful "Merry Christmas," and try to say it like you've never gotten to say it to anyone before, and it's been all bottled up inside of you. Aw heck, you know what to do much better than I do. Merry Christmas, I hope that it's one full of joy, love, and peace.

I'll be home for Christmas...

Heya kids! Sorry that I completely dropped the ball on posting for over two weeks, I hope that someone still reads this. My only excuse is that blogging is rightfully not among the highest of my priorities, and just to give perspective on the last week, neither are sleeping and eating. Still, whiner-uh, martyr that I am, I suffered through it all with herculean fortitude, or something. All in all, finals weren't all that bad, and I managed to take a break on the weekend in the middle of them long enough to bruise my tailbone in an embarrasing sledding accident. I spent the next few days cautiously sitting down in the most comfortable chairs I could find, and then slowly adjusting my weight so as not to put any on the afflicted tailbone. The worst part about the whole sore bum incident was that there was no way to garner the least bit of pity from my peers, who were too amused after hearing that I had fallen on my arse while attempting to sled down a hill standing up on the sled to muster up even the least bit of convincing sympathy. I'm a martyr, what can I say?
In any case, I finished with my last final on Wednesday morning, after spending the night in the snack bar frantically studying for the thing and consuming enough coffee to kill Keith Richards, and on Wednesday evening I headed home, having made sure that I'd forgotten at least one thing that I'd want during my nearly month-long break. In all seriousness, I should plan ahead next time to bring something that I don't need, and then I can plan to forget it, even though I'm also planning to bring it. Much simpler, you see.
The last few days have been pretty busy, but with nothing unpleasant, catching up with friends and family and going to parties and such. Nothing to complain about there, even for me. That's all for now with the life update, but here's one more thing a friend sent to me: If you copy the link below into your web browser, and follow some directions, you should be able to watch a fun video of someone taking this whole Christmas thing entirely too far. Enjoy!

www.snopes.com/photos/arts/xmaslights.asp

A day late and a dollar short

Greetings, friends! I hope that you're all well. Life's a bit crazy for the next little while, but I figured I have to update in order to keep at least one of you reading this silly thing, since my last post is two weeks old. Thanksgiving was wonderful, I got to spend some time with people who I'd been missing, eat a lot of food, hold my new neice for a bit, go bowling, make a snowman, and dance the night away. Ok, so I lied about the dancing the night away thing, you caught me. Papers are progressing slowly, but I'll have them done on time, since that's my only option. Tests are coming up, but so far I've been in good health, so I may beat my two-year streak of being ill during finals, but I shouldn't jinx that. I submitted my application to graduate from this fine institution of higher learning today, and baring the possibility of failing any of my classes I'll bid adieu to Hillsdale College in may. On one hand, that seems like a very long time, but on the other hand, not so much. It's Advent, which is nice. I tend to need every reminder possible that nothing's forever and He's coming back at some point. It beats getting bogged down in the day-to-day stuff, which I have a tendency to do. My room's cluttered with laundry dirty and clean, books and papers and class handouts and writing utensils everywhere. Nothing's where I once decided it should be. I find that my room often serves as a metaphor, or maybe just a direct reflection of the rest of my life, so I'd better clean up and organize both. Days seem shorter this time of year, and I sometimes wonder where all the time I used to have is gone, and why I've accomplished so much less than I set out to. I guess that's life, though. Echoes and whispers and walks on moonlit nights where you can see your breath and your ears get so cold that they hurt all pile up like words on a page that nobody bothered to organize into complete sentences and thoughts, and no one seems to be going anywhere but they're always walking anyways. Cars can slide on roads better than they roll sometimes, and things can fall apart much easier than they can be accomplished most of the time, not much we can do about that than put the cork back on the chablis, get up outta the easy chair and keep trying to treadmill uphill. Yessir, we run a tight ship around here, as long as time keeps breathing down our necks, but don't expect too much or else you'll be angry as hell when you find out your snot-nosed brat got that tatoo without asking you, and she's hanging out with absolutely the wrong kind of sweater-wearing pansy. Hell, he might even play guitar, and you know those guys ain't goin' nowhere. Light, smoke, crash, burn, et cetera, you couldn't hit the floor unless you fell on it, which you're probably going to do pretty soon.

I'm going to be so hot in Japan...

So I was walking out of Hillsdale's NASCAR-themed diner after brunch on Sunday with a few compadres, when a trio of well-dressed Japanese people who looked so far out of their element that they might as well have come from another planet walked up to me with a TV camera and a microphone and politely asked if I knew anything about Michael Sessions, our new 18-year-old mayor. They explained that they were the New York-based American correspondents for some Japanese TV station or another, gathering "people on the streets" segments for their coverage of Sessions' election. I warned them of my lack of informedness, but since they're the media they seemed to welcome this, so they stuck a camera and a microphone in my face and I told them that I knew very little about the whole ordeal and was somewhat skeptical of the ability of someone to fulfil civil service who has only just become eligible to vote, but that I admire his ambition, they asked a few more random opinion questions, and we parted ways. I sort of expected to run into Rod Serling on the way back to the car, but he didn't show up, so I'm compelled to beleive that the surreal episode really happened. There were even witnesses. Weird.

Not to degrade the folks, they had to drive their news van out from NY to some obscure hick town in Michigan and they have my pity, but why does anyone in Japan care about Michael Sessions? I barely care, and I've lived in this town for the last three school years (no, I'm not registered to vote here). In other election news, although you've probably both heard by now, everyone's favorite thug named Kwame somehow managed to get re-elected to the Mayorship of Detroit this month, despite rampant and well-known corruption throughout his administration. The only effect this has had on me personally thus far is that I've ceased to feel sorry for Detroit the way I used to. At this point, they've got what they deserved. Get elected once, shame on Kwame. Get elected twice? Shame on Detroit. Shame.

Today I had to bring the trusty carhart out of retirement, and I expect that it will probably stay in use until March. It really has been beautiful, though. Even as I write there's a light dusting of snow blowing around in the heavy winds, and if I step outside, my face will be frozen within a few seconds. Ah, winter.

Finally, I've stolen some pictures from the inimitable Jonathan Walker's blog (http://corkfork.blogspot.com/), which he took at a recent Searching For Shoes gig, again featuring yours truly on bass. Enjoy!

Noah on guitar

Tory on vocals and keys, and me on bass

Josh on drums

Cameron stepped in to work his magic on the keys for one song, and a splendid time was had by all. That's all for now I hope you're both having a great week thus far. Thanksgiving is only a week away...

November, Part II

I did it again this morning. After showering and brushing my teeth, I put shaving cream into my hand, put it on my face, rinsed the excess shaving cream off my hand, and shaved (No, I promise I won't give you my whole day with this much detail). Why is it that I never manage to put the right amount of shaving cream in my hand? I always, always put too much shaving cream on my hand, and then always end up rinsing it down the drain. I've been shaving how long? Since I was fourteen? I don't even know. Ye gads, how much shaving cream have I wasted in that time? How much money have I wasted on shaving cream that I never ended up using? Aaaaaaaaah! I'm a failure! Ok, sorry. That was the random thought of the day, I apologize. The rest of the day was pretty normal (actually, come to think of it, so was shaving), not much to report. It's been quite windy today, and for the first time in years I had short hair and wanted to wear a hat. This is not to say that I haven't worn hats in years, mind you, I often wear hats. Ok, why am I even talking about this? Moving along.

Reens finally got her Lucy pics developed and sent them to me this morning, I have to admit that I got a bit choked up. I haven't seen every baby in the world ever, but she definitely has to be the most gorgeous of the bunch. Alright, this is ridiculous. I'm giving up sleep to post on my stupid blog. I'm going on my evening walk, and then to bed. Good night.

November

A cloudy autumn day today, although not especially cold. The past weekend's wind and rain have taken the majority of the leaves off of the trees, but they haven't lost their color yet, and now colorfully blanket the ground, offering a nice contrast to the sky above, and the moist air carries the familiar and somehow comforting scent of dying leaves.
Life's busy as it always is, but I'm trying to look at it as an adventure more than just drudgery, the way I see it the difference is mostly in the way you approach it. It certainly doesn't always work, and sometimes I catch myself wishing I was at home. Somehow after three years here it still doesn't feel much like home. Campus life can still seem like a strange environment at times, with the irregular schedule, and the fact that everyone I relate to is within three years of my own age and doing almost exactly the same thing with their life at the moment. Oh well. Like I said, it's not bad. It just feels odd when I stop and think about it.
Last night I spent about an hour playing bass with some friends on a few tunes, which was fun. I looked up while playing to see at my own reflection in a pane of glass, and couldn't help but remark "Man, that guy looks old." Not especially old in a practical sense, I'm barely in my early twenties for crying out loud, just older than the seventeen-year-old with long hair and baggy jeans who used to play that bass. Even now, the image in my mind of me in a flannel shirt and jeans, with a beard and the increasingly apparent early symptoms of male-pattern baldness is sadly comical. I'm not saying that I'm especially more mature than I used to be (I suppose that the contrary is even possible), but then I guess I'm not really sure what I'm saying at all. It was just odd, that's all. Either way, don't put on any airs when you're down on Rue Morgue Avenue, I hope you're enjoying the autumn weather, and that life isn't too busy to stop and sit down every now and again, but I guess that if it wasn't you wouldn't have time to read this, would you? Come to think of it, I shouldn't have the time to sit down and write this nonsense. In spite of that, I'm sure that the slacker hidden not-so-deeply under my skin will come out again to put up tommorow's ramblings, so check back if you think to.

Donna eis requiem

A bit of a crazy week thus far, although that doesn't leave me too much of my own life that's actually worth relating. "Today, I did homework and took tests, and tommorow I'm writing a paper." Fantastic. The good news of the day (and good news it is) is that my first neice was born today, a healthy little kiddo with blue eyes (duh), weighing in at a little over eight pounds. She was born at about noon, and I got the news a little after two, which for my family may in fact be the fastest communication on record. Anyways, that's far and away the coolest thing to happen all week. The only problem is that the kid was born just a few days after the end of my four-day weekend at home, and there's almost no chance whatsoever of my being able to come home this comming weekend, which leaves the time at which I'll be able to meet the new bundle of joy a complete mystery. Oh well, I'll figure something out. The rest of the week is looking about par for the course, research to be doing for papers to be writing, piano lesson to practice for, my life to sort out, etc... The break was a lot of fun, I didn't really do much except hang out with sibs and friends and girlfriend and go to a few parties. Considering that I don't usually celebrate holloween, this one was actually pretty fun, and I getting to see my friends in goofy costumes was nothing but a good time. Anyways, that's all for now. I'm sorry about the relative brevity of today's post, I'll try to give more updates as events occur.

"We're gonna break the monster's back"

"The Edge is from the future" explained Bono, in a really weird introduction to the song "Miracle Drug," from U2's newest record How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb. Silly as the following ad-libbed story about Edge's (yeah, that's what he calls himself) arrival in Dublin on a spaceship may have been, I'm tempted to agree with Bono's (again, yeah) assertion about his bandmate. From the opening notes of "City of Blinding Lights," through the rattle and hum of "Bullet The Blue Sky" (during which Bono sang lines from "When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again" and Edge went into a lengthy prog-rock solo), to an acoustic encore of "Stuck in a Moment" and "Yaweh," and not forgetting to stop along the way to play such classics as "With Or Without You," "I Will Follow," and "Still Haven't Found," (to name a few), the band put on what I can only describe as one heluva concert. Bono's dramatic flair, not to mention his great vocals, was out in full force, The Edge was rocking his guitar like the world was about to end and he knew how to get off of it, and Larry and Adam (who either couldn't think up funny pseudonyms for themselves or shunned them in an attempt at balancing things) rocked steadily and heavily enough to keep it all perfectly together. Showmanship and spectacle were also a big part of the show, with crazy lighting, crowd pleasing antics, and the slight smile that stayed on Adam's face for the entire show.A highlight for me was when the lights went up to reveal Larry Mullen and half of a drum kit moved to the front of the circular stage (it encompassed part of the audience), from which he dramatically played the song standing up, until the bridge, at which point he ran back to his kit at the back of the stage, leaving Bono at the front of the stage to don a white headband and bang on the drums like an excited child, until Larry Started the now instantly recognizeable drum intro to "Sunday Bloody Sunday." So cool.
Anyhoo, I'm going on break starting after class tommorow and lasting until monday, which I'm ridiculously excited about, so between an amazing concert, three days of classes, and a four-day weekend, this is looking to be a pretty darn cool week. Anyways, I wish you all a good week whatever you're doing, maybe I'll run into some of you in the next few days. Here's another few pictures of u2 live, although none of them were taken by me.Yay Larry! Yay normal-named members of U2!

"My mind is on the brink..."

Hello one and one. Thanks to Gec and Reens for eventually posting on last week's balogna (no pun intended) post. Yes, I am aware of how bad it was. That said, our commitment to mediocrity here at D.Cous. Enterprises ensures that last week's post will most likely not go down on record for any period of time as our worst post. Also, it appears that I was wrong in my calculation of a good time to post regularly on this thing, since I said Tuesday Afternoon, and the last three posts have been a full day later. So, how does Wednesday sound? Good? Good. The week thus far has been a bit exhausting, due to an abnormal load of papers and tests and all. I didn't get anything done school-wise over the weekend, as I skipped town on Friday and headed up to pay a visit to the girlfriend. I apparently picked both a good and a bad weekend to do so (not that I really picked the time, I was invited), since I had a great time visiting Lindsey, but two of my brothers called me to invite me to stuff back home that same weekend. All in all, I got the better end of the deal to be sure, but I did miss a rock concert with Neil and Garrett, and an epic U of M game with B. Why do I not get calls like this on the weekends when I'm going home? The weekend was fun, Saturday was big for college football, which we followed on and off while tailgaiting at the Grand Valley vs. Saginaw Valley game with some of Lindsey's friends and some folks from the community there (I got a few of those "I knew your parents years ago" introductions). I met my oldest brother's fifth grade teacher, and my sister's former roomate's mother (no kidding, it's that small a world). The game itself was crowded and very spirited, I'm pretty confident that I was the only one in the student section who was wearing a Hillsdale sweatshirt (GVSU and SVSU both destroyed my school this year). We also (at Lindsey's insistence) went and saw the film Serenity over the weekend, which was not the best space western I've ever seen (yes, there are more, and I know how nerdy that claim makes me sound), but it was really pretty entertaining. That may not actually be a controlled experiment in film reviewing though, since watching nearly any movie with Lindsey is funnier, and no, I'm not trying to sound cute. She pointed out/made fun of the fonts used for every peice of text in the credits and previews (the text in the movie, except for the name of the ship, is all in chinese for some reason, I guess the future's weird). Anyways, I should go in search of my first meal of the day, maybe I'll add in smaller posts from time to time inbetween the weeklies. Over and out.

Is you is or is you ain't roast beef?

I was watching telly the other day (a generally bad idea), and saw a commercial for an Arby's (TM) sandwich. There was nothing particularly interesting about this commercial, except that it revived the old question in my mind: What is it about Arby's roast beef that makes it look and taste nothing at all like regular roast beef? I admit that this isn't a question for the ages, but I didn't set up this blog as a philosophy message board. Who knows? Maybe future philosophers and historians will one day look back at us with the four eyes that will become a common trait among the few surface-dwellers left after the inevitable nuclear holocost and wonder what our obsession was with roast beef that wasn't really roast (and probably not beef), with yellow-colored vegetable oil that's supposed to look like butter, with soybean byproducts that are molded into the shape of turkeys, and most of all, what exactly was bologna? After spending hours of the day contemplating this, they'll probably have their trained space apes carry their hideously shrivelled bodies down to the Temple of Forseable Outcomes, where they'll play ceremonial chess games in which the kings and queens have hemophilia and die after three turns. Whoa, don't know where that came from. Anyways, it has been said by certain people that they do not read my blog posts because I don't break them up into paragraphs, so how about I do this:

There, that ought to keep things interesting. I saw the new Wallace & Grommit movie (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0312004/) the other day, which was a lot of fun. At about three bucks, the movie ticket wasn't really a huge investment, but I have to admit that having rather liked the three previous W & G short films, I did have relatively high hopes. It was a bit funny going to this movie, since at 21, my two friends and I realized quickly that we were the only people in the theater who were anywhere near our age. The majority of the theater was full of children (not surprisingly, it's a cartoon), accompanied in a ratio of about 3:1 by either a parent (the youngest of whom were probably around thirty), or grandparent. After sitting through a string of previews for the seemingly endless fart joke that they're calling this year's family film offering, Dreamworks S.K.G. (the distributors, but not the producers of W & G and Chicken Run, both made by Ardman Animations LLC) treated us to a computer-animated short film, apparently in an effort to prove to us once and for all that they are not, much as they would like to be, Pixar. Sorry guys. Whoops, time for another paragraph break.

Whew! After showing their logo a few more times (Jonathan pointed out that Dreamworks would really really like you to associate them with this movie), the film finally got started, and all was right with the world. All in all, I would have to give the movie a rather favorable rating (I don't beleive in stars or thumbs or whatever else), since I think that I laughed louder than any of the children in the theater, and probably even loud enough to wake a few of the grandparents. The stop-motion (nope, not an oxymoron) animated film stars Inventor and Cheese enthusiast Wallace and his anthropomorphic (yet speachless) dog Gromit as high-tech pest control specialists in a vegetable-crazed village somewhere in rural England, who must deal (humanely of course, this is a children's movie) with an infestation of rabbits who threaten the village's gardens on the eve of the annual produce festival. If this doesn't have the makings of a great film, I don't know what does. As in previous (although shorter) Wallace & Gromit outings, (hang on, another paragraph break, this time mid-sentence)

sight gags and all-around Britishness abound (at one point an angry mob runs to a stand labled "Angry Mob Supplies" to buy pitchforks and torches), with perhaps two jokes being more off-color than you would expect in a G-rated movie. Whoops! Out of time for today. If you happen to have children to bring to this movie (not that I do) I'd reccomend it, or if you're like me and aren't terribly embarrased about watching cartoons. I hope you are all having a good week, more to come!

Who needs punctuality when you can have tardiness for free?

Hello whoever and however numerous you may be, at least I check this thing. Please forgive two late posts in as many weeks, where have my manners gone? I just don't know what I shall do with myself. There's an interesting article in Today's paper, which I unfortunately cannot link you to (the Wall Street Journal's online edition is a separate subscription), but thought was nonetheless intriguing: A small, obscure organization of New England history buffs called the Aaron Burr Association (I know, sounds like a good band name) has come forward with the news that they've discovered a living direct descendant of our nation's third vice president, more famous for being the man who killed founding father Alexander Hamilton in a duel in 1804. Burr was married in 1782 to a British army officer's widow, a woman ten years his senior, with whom he had one daughter named Theodosia (What an awful name! True, it was her mother's name as well, but that's hardly an excuse). The couple also had one son who died in infancy (unfortunately quite common at the time), and Theodosia is not known to have had any children, so that Burr was heretofore considered to be without direct descendant. Enter Mrs. Louella Burr Mitchell Allen, a retired nurse who now resides in Philedelphia, whose family has an oral history and some sparse documentation that links her to Philedelphia barber and free black abolitionist John Pierre Burr, allegedly the illegitamate son of Aaron Burr by one of his household servants (Whew! that seemed less complicated before I decided to write it all down). In any case, this claim (although no DNA testing has occured) has been quite welcomed by the Aaron Burr Association, who are eager to garner new information and clear their namesake's good... uh, name. Yeah. The big problem with this is that like many illegitamate families, there really isn't much documentation or concrete evidence of anything that Mrs. Allen can bring forward to do this, all she can say is that her wing of the Burr family always thought well of Grandpa Aaron (Actually, Great-great-great-grandpa Aaron), even though he was too busy not being married to grandma and running for political offices to really be around all that much. Maybe I'm not much of a historian, but I'll actually be dissapointed if the new findings clear up the Burr story much. I don't really want the truth to be buried, but the story as it stands is a pretty good one, if it's true. Burr's a genuine piece of American history: This guy was the great grandson of evangelist/revivalilst Jonathan Edwards. He was at Valley Forge with Washington. In the election of 1800, he ran for vice president alongside Thomas Jefferson. The problem is that our electoral system at the time was not quite the well-oiled machine that it is now (seriously, it's gotten a lot better), and the ticket was not technically divided. This means that everyone who voted for Jefferson also voted for Burr (naturally, since they were running together for President and Vice President), so that when the votes were counted it was determined that they had tied. No, I'm not kidding. Anyhow, in the event of this happening it's supposed to go to congress to decide the winner (U.S. Constitution, Article II, Section I). The general story goes (as I recall) that Burr saw here an opportunity to win the presidency for himself, which would've been the most cowboy move in American history had Burr's old law partner and former Secretary of the Treasury Alexander Hamilton not used his influence with key members of congress to push things in Jefferson's direction (Congress voted a tie 35 times before finally choosing Jefferson). The behind-the-scenes rivalry between Burr and Hamilton continued, with Burr blaming Hamilton for his political failures including his loss in the election to the governorship of New York in 1804, until July 11, 1804, when Burr (still Vice President of the United States, mind you) shot Hamilton at ten paces in a duel. A duel! Not every day you hear about that happening. Nobody was jailed, no cops were called. The Vice President shot the former Secretary of the Treasury! Actually they both fired, but Hamilton, who'd spent his military career as Washington's aide-de-camp and not in a combat command, missed. Burr was later accused of trying to start a war with Spain in order to grab some of the Western territories belonging to spain and start a new country, but he was acquitted. His first wife had died after twelve years of marraige in 1794 (but I'd say the spark of the relationship was gone beforehand, since Mrs. Allen's great-great-grandfather was reportedly born a few years before then), and he did not remarry until he was 77 years old in 1833, when he wed another widow. That one didn't last all that long either, since she left him and sued for divorce within a year of the wedding, which he finally granted her on the day he died, in 1836. Well, that's a little bit 'o history for you this week. I hope you didn't learn too much, partly because you've probably heard all of this before at some point, and partly because I'm pulling much of this from memory and it's probably not all factually true. In any case I wish you a good week, feel free to post and say hello at any time. I must now go off to my tennis class (yes I'm taking one, and yes it's to fulfil a phys. ed. requirement), hopefully to improve on my partner's and my own fortunes from the first round of our class' mixed doubles tournament, in which we were destroyed. Oh yeah, in the interest of respecting the law, my sources for this post were primarily Greg Ip's article in today's Wall Street Journal entitled Fans of Aaron Burr Find Unlikely Ally In a 'New' Relative, And the following web sites: http://www.ushistory.org/valleyforge/served/burr.html ; http://odur.let.rug.nl/~usa . Thanks for checking in!