I need some mental floss

It’s super annoying when you get songs stuck in your head. It could happen because of any influence; I find it to occur when I hear a song right before I go to sleep or as I get off of the bus going to school. And all day (or until another nestles itself within the friendly confines of your memory), you’re whistling and singing that bloody song over and over again. Even when you have to be quiet, respectful, or the like – there you are, gently humming it until someone hits you on the back of your head. It is as if your head is a broken jukebox hit too hard by the Fonz that unceasingly permeates that one song.

It wouldn’t be so bad if you knew the song, either. But you just have a general idea of the chorus and a vague recollection of the tune. So you hum the tune and think the lyrics until you get to the point of the song that you don’t know; then you start again, as if you were given the holy power to alter, nay, completely slaughter the song in question. This process goes on for hours, in some cases days, until one of two things happens: you die, or another stupid song stages a coup and throws the currently domineering ditty from power within the realm of your consciousness.

And so I leave you now, wishing to purge Kansas’ Carry On My Wayward Son from my mind.

I suck.

Taryn yelled at me the other day and said I was neglecting those of you with no lives, so after a week, here’s the token entry.

Actually, I haven’t been slaying you with my unceasing wit because I’m a very busy man. I started driving school on Tuesday. I get up early in the morning so I can go stand outside (not in a car, the school can only afford nine) for 4 hours until 12. Having so much time to converse with the good folks there, I have come to many conclusions:

If I were a circus animal, I would want to be a tiger.
If I could kill someone with any garden tool, it would be a rake. Not those hard, pitchfork types, but the kind made of flimsy aluminum as to perpetuate the dying process.
Cones are retarded.

Wow, that’s not many conclusions at all. I’m really, really not in the mood to write. I think I’m gonna go now. Sorry to disappoint.

Life is just a beach so far out of reach

Last night I went to Egle’s party at the Den. Nice place (especially because we had the Hockey game on). I gave her a nice present wrapped in pretty rose wrapping paper with a potato and twenty bucks inside. Also included was this note:

All my life, I’ve envied girls who go to birthday parties and get their friends intricate, complicated, and personal gifts that just suit their style. I’ve always been the typical guy, throwing 20 bucks at the birthday girl and eating cake. But not this year. This year, I made it a point to try to get a gift for you; something thoughtful that you would really enjoy. In efforts of giving you the perfect present, I asked myself, “What do I know about Egle?” It was then that I realized I don’t know all that much about you, except that you’re Lithuanian. I had a great idea: I’d give you the country’s main agricultural product as sort of a memento, a reminder of the great motherland. So, after a quick trip to Google, I found that the main agricultural export of Lithuania is grain. After searching high and low, near and far, I couldn’t find any to give to you. Apparently they don’t sell raw wheat here in the U.S., one of the largest wheat economies of the known world. I did the next best thing and included the second most populous agricultural export of Lithuania, the potato. But then I realized and said to myself, “Self, you’re giving the girl a potato.” So here’s 20 bucks.

Today I took advantage of the environment I take for granted and, like a real Floridian, I went to the beach. This experience has only reaffirmed my opinion that the beach is an inefficient, silly place to go.

First, you have to wait in gobs of traffic, which wasn’t so bad today, because we took a detour down Drew Street, behind Coachman Park and bypassed downtown traffic. After averting the roundabout, we traveled up to North Beach and set up camp.

Now, think about this logically with me.

Every year, millions of tourists come to bask in the light of the single brightest object in our solar system, which has been proven to cause skin cancer. No big deal – after all, we’re on vacation.

Every year, millions of tourists come to swim in our sea. Well, technically it’s a gulf, filled with bacteria and harmful animals. No big deal – after all, we’re on vacation.

Every year, millions of tourists come to lay down in our sand. Sand, which I might add, that the city of Clearwater spends millions on each year to be trucked in and spread due to our deteriorating coastline. No big deal – after all, we’re on vacation.

Every year, millions of tourists come to buy our outrageously overpriced merchandise. I’m not saying that this is necessarily bad, but when I have to pay $2.25 for a coke at Pier 60, I’m gonna start complaining. But no big deal – after all, we’re on vacation.

It’s an odd concept, this “beach.” People go to sit on a field of dirt and to swim in the world’s toilet. I’d much rather be sitting home, in the air conditioning, with a cold drink by my side.

Now, I’m not bashing the beach, don’t get me wrong. Tourism is this city’s main income and because of Joe from Chicago wanting to give me all of his money, the roads are paved where I live and my life is generally more pleasant. I merely cannot comprehend what would make the beach an attractive place to go. Perhaps if I lived in Topeka, Kansas, I would feel differently and I would despise my city’s… corn.

Death by Mouse

I’m home alone this Saturday night because my mom went to a funeral party.

Funeral party? Seems rather abstract. Someone dies, so you invite all of your best friends over to boogie down. I love it.

In fact, when I die I request, nay, demand that my funeral be held at Chuck-e-Cheese. I realize the games are worse there than say, Celebration Station, but they serve beer there. I wouldn’t want to deny anyone their God-given right to drink themselves into a painless stupor following the death of a dear friend. In fact, to maintain the quazi-cheerfulness of the occasion, it’ll be a costume funeral. That’s right, no one gets in without a minimum of dyed hair and a silly hat. So if you’re a crabby McGee who won’t play, you can stay out of my funeral and hang out at the Burlington Coat Factory next door. Party pooper.

I left my funny in San Francisco

So, today as I leave school on the bus, I’m explaining transcendentalism to Trizis when, two blocks away from school, our bus driver screams, “Aaah!” Actually, it was more like, “Aaaaaaghagahagahhhahahhhhahahahahahhhhhhh!”

And then the brakes slam on; apparently a car ran a stop sign and hit our front end.

No big whoop, our driver was crying and made sure everyone was okay, we were. And so, the great quest of May 14th, 2004 to get home was on.

You would assume that another bus would come, and shortly after the fire engine and highway patrol car came, one did come. It pulled up. And sat there. Three minutes went by, and it drove away. Ugh.

While waiting, our bus driver asked through a flood of tears: “Is everyone sure they’re okay?!?!” We responded that we were, and she would turn around. Then, twenty seconds later she would inquire again: “Is everyone positive they’re okay?!?” Again, we said we were. This endless cycle went on until the lovable fireman came onto the bus and went to every seat and asked, “Is everyone sure they’re okay?” Needless to say, we were a bit miffed but we understood that such a line of questioning might be necessary for insurance purposes.

Then, the school administrators came in golf carts. Well, only Liem was in a golf cart; the others were in a Saturn, but that’s essentially the equivalent to a golf cart. Then each of them came into the bus and asked, you guessed it, “Is everyone sure they’re okay?” About this time, an hour had passed and we had moved zero feet and filled out two pieces of paper. We were bored, so Trizis and I played Indian War with 48 cards.

Then the bus came, and according to Greglass, it was the same bus that pulled up and then went away before. How’s that for efficiency with gas costing 2 dollars per gallon these days?

By the time I got to the bus stop, I had made a reputation for myself on the Indian War front, gaining many cards having only started out with one. Then I came home at 3:30PM EST and ate a sandwich.

Public Restrooms

By their very nature, public restrooms are very awkward places.

If you’re a guy, urinals have the capability to backfire on you. Sure, they’re convenient. Sure, they don’t require a lot of work on your part, but they have the potential of disaster. I’m not complaining about the fixtures themselves; running water is a commodity that we as a society could never teach ourselves to live without. However, the people who indulge in the porcelain handiness can make your experience a nightmare.

It never fails: Sometime in your life you’ll be standing there, minding your own business, when all of a sudden he comes in. Sure, there’s a row of twelve urinals and you’re the only one in the bathroom, but he takes it upon himself to come and do his business right next to you.

It’s not like a Boy Scout helping a little old lady across the street to earn his Merit Badge or anything, but this fellow apparently thinks you need help. You’re nervous and you want to empty yourself as quickly as possible to alleviate the tension between you and this overly friendly stranger who’s exposing himself just eight inches from you, but the stress that has just been created makes you stop. You can’t do it. Thus, the encounter is elongated.

The worst kind of neighbor is the talker.
“How about those Mets?”
“Some weather we’re having.”
I’m not at all an unsociable person; if someone talks to me on the street or in the local convenience store, I’ll converse with him, if only for a short time. But this is taking it too far. When a man is doing his thing in the only place he sees fit, when he’s gotten an iota of time to himself, it is simply deplorable for another to ruin that solitude.

But no matter, you stand there… waiting. Waiting for something to happen. You’re not quite sure what – for your newfound friend to leave, for you to get the courage to bolt, for a ton of bricks to fall on your neighbor’s head, something.

But then what? After you’re done, do you stick around to wash your hands? That would make the encounter even longer. But if you don’t you risk being thought less of by the others in the room. Either way you’ll have to make some sort of sacrifice, which makes bathrooms a social disaster for men.

But it’s not just for men, oh no. Women have it rough, too, sitting in those little stalls with so much to worry about:
What if someone peeks through the 1 inch crack between the door and the wall of the stall? Will you smile, ignore it, or make some quip about looking at your crack?
What if the lock fails and someone swings the door wide open? After that, will you have to hold the door closed with one leg as an added reinforcement?
What if you run out of toilet paper? Do you call to the person in the stall next to you and violate the unwritten law of no talking in bathrooms?

The woman’s restroom is a ticking time bomb for disaster, just like men’s. A hoard of strange people cramming into poorly kept, unclean rooms and emptying themselves is not my idea of fun. Potential confrontation with the unknown masses scares me, and that is why bathrooms are strange, weird places.

Adventures of Armando

The other night, my grandmother (who is normally the very reserved Southern type) came to the door. I greeted her with, “Hi, grandma, how’re-

“I need your father out here right now.”

Well, so much for friendly hellos. I sent my dad out and, as would be expected, the rest of my family followed. All except me. You see, my family has a tendency to make scenes. Not so much my family as my grandmother. Well, anyway, everyone went out and I was a curious onlooker from the window.

In my grandmother’s car parked in the street, there sat an elderly Latin American man. He looked rather comfortable – we had given him bottled water from the refrigerator in the garage and he just sat there, talking with my brother.

His name was Armando.
He was from Cuba.
He didn’t speak English.
And he forgot where he lived.

Somehow, in my grandmother’s mind, an inclination to talk to this fellow spurted up and here he was. We called the police and soon an officer came.

She was the most beautiful police officer I have ever seen. I forget her name, but I’m sure it was sexy. There’s just something about a woman with a gun in uniform that strikes me as, well, awesome.

She came and went, as did Armando. I miss them both. I hope they’re okay.

———-

In other news, some freshman thanked me for that Web site for English vocabulary lists I made last year. I had forgotten about that, so I went to check out the site. Being a 2-year old Geocities site, it’s riddled with pop-ups, so I moved all the files here as a final resting place. That should take care of things.

Distribution

Given:
1 Yearbook is approximately 5 pounds.
1 box of yearbooks contains 8 yearbooks.
There were approximately 1670 yearbooks to be sorted and distributed today.
There were 18.5 boxes of un-named books.

Conclusions:
1 box of yearbooks weighs 40 pounds.
There were 209 forty pound boxes to be carried and sorted.
There were 148 un-named books.
1522 books were alphabetized in the Destinations lab.
All in all, the yearbook staff lugged 4.18 tons of yearbooks around campus during the last two days.

If you find a problem with the yearbook, screw you.