Something’s fishy

Today I went to lunch with some folks from my alma mater, John F. Kennedy Middle School. Ying organized it so that we could eat at Chili’s with my eighth grade Spanish teacher, Señora Segovia, and see the kid she left us for half of a year to have. I got to meet her mom, too. Nice folks – they sent pictures, too (though by the time Lucia’s grandmother took them, Kyle G, Caitlin, and Lauren had left).

On another note, I started the IB-required Group 4 Project today with Kyle B, Doug, and Zach. We were initially going to catch fish and put them into containers of varying population densities, but when the fish that we caught were about the same size as the food pellets that we bought, we decided that it would probably be best if we just bought the fish.

We went to the pet store and met the smartest fish man on God’s green earth. He told us what to do and how to get started and then rambled on into a fifteen minute speech about nitrates and nitrogen gas and ammonium and this and that to the point where I just stood there and said, “yeah” and “uh huh” for lack of a better, more educated response. I couldn’t put together my answers to his oration because I was so taken aback from his outrageous knowledge of everything to do with aquatic life. I think if there were an Olympic event in the subject, he would win the gold, silver, and bronze without any sort of contest.

Thank you, fish man. I will never forget you.

Two Quart Quandry

My priorities have recently become tragically skewed in a dilemma comprised of two entangling devotions.

Today, the lovely Ms. Lauren Parker instant messaged me with the oh-so-wonderful news that she had her first glass of eggnog of the new autumn season. Particularly excited about the fact that T.G. Lee has bestowed upon all of society the sweet nectar that is nog, I rushed to Publix to pay for my $3.69 half gallon jug of the essence of God.

But then I began to think as I stepped onto the scale in the store. Since summer, I lost 20 pounds. And because eggnog is particularly fattening and I love it, I reached this inevitable conflict of interests: do I disregard my outward appearance for the sake of the tastiness of the nog or do I watch my weight and drift daily through life depriving myself of my one true love of the winter months?

Oh, woe is me.

Memory Monster

The elbows are the dirtiest places on my body. The only rationale behind this assertion is that, because the skin on the elbow is continually stretched and constricted with arm movement, the skin forms little pockets of dirt that cannot be washed off without some pretty extensive lathering.

For the past three weeks, I’ve been telling myself, “Self, you must wash your elbows!”

I remind myself of this only when I am high and dry. It seems that whenever I step into the shower, I enter a realm of the supernatural. The only logical hypothesis is that some memory-draining, awareness consuming monster must live in the shower pit and is kept in its blue and white cage with only a thin sheet of plastic hanging from a rusty aluminum rod.

I’ve failed to remind myself to pay special attention to these spots every day for the better part of a month. My ‘bows have gotten so grungy, fellow classmates in Spanish class could today see the brown spots and took no hesitation in pointing them out to me. Thanks for the reminder, folks.

I’m hoping that consciously explaining my situation will raise public awareness (and lessen notions of my ill-hygiene) while at the same time wedging into my subconscious a command to abscond from the memory monster in my bathroom.

Buen provecho

School is in full swing, and as such I haven’t been able to update much during the week. School has consumed me and there’s nothing I can do to combat that but go every day and make the best from a situation in which I would prefer not to be in.

For example, at lunch on Tuesdays and Thursdays, the a la carte line in the lunchroom sells steak burgers. These aren’t your normal hamburger – oh no. They are twice the size and, though they cost a whopping $2.75, I’m willing to throw out the extra buck for superior processed “meat” topped with melted “cheese.”

The new steak burgers (or so they call them; I don’t see any steak in there) have made me such a happy man that I can make it through the week virtually unscathed. Such a fact just goes to show that food makes life worth living.

Either that or it just sustains us until we inevitably die. Either way.

You got pwned

When I was at the store today with my mother (because she was the only one who would play with me because Homecoming took it out of all my friends), I was thinking.

When I’m a man of independent resources and a steady income, I’m going to exclusively buy store-brand items. Meat, cheese, milk, soda, aspirin; it’s all the same in every respect except pictures on the box and price.

However, there is one product that I will not skimp on. If you dare bring me the store brand ultra thin and sandpaper-esque toilet paper, I will disown you.

And if I don’t own you, I’ll push an amendment through Congress with my charm and good looks to reinstate slavery, purchase you as my slave as to make me your proprietor, then push through Congress with the aforementioned charm and good looks an amendment that again abolishes slavery just to say that, because of your ill-fated decision to pursue savings over quality, I disowned you. And don’t think I’m bluffing; I hold a great influence over Congress. I can’t tell you why though – you know, classified CIA inspector stuff.

In any case, it’s only Charmin Ultra Double Roll for me. Nothing else can satisfy, even if it’s on sale.

Homecoming Huzzahs

Homecoming week is insanely overrated. Girls pacing in the hallways talking to other girls about “him,” everyone dressing up for exceedingly lame theme days in the week leading up to the dance, and, yes, even the dance itself.

There are only three aspects of this week that have me somewhat excited:

First, there is a general lack of schoolwork. Teachers, for some reason, see what I do not in regards to this occasion and, as such, they aren’t assigning much work. Huzzah for controlled apathy!

Second, Wednesday is the only good theme day, especially for the Juniors this year. We are dressing in the garb of the 1970s: the decade of Welcome Back Kotter, Richard Milhouse, and the later years of the unwarranted military action in Viet Nam. In fact, I just went to the local Salvation Army to find pants that complement my and white leather shoes. Huzzah for the attire of the poor people who saw the last of the Volkswagen Beetles roll off the line in 1974 to make way for the ever-lame Superbeetles!

P.S. I will, however, be going to dinner on Friday night at Angellino’s. What can I say, I’m a sucker for buffets.

Winter jazz, Summer blues

After enduring the torment of the recent hurricane season, I have decided to release an official statement welcoming winter (seeing as how there is no autumn to speak of in this subtropical climate, I’ve decided to leave that salutation to the nerds up north who collect leaves or whatever it is they do). But the question arises: when, if ever, will Mother Nature bestow upon us the refreshing cool air?

You know it’s here when you wake up in the morning and, upon stepping on the tile floor in the bathroom, the frigid ceramic appeases your fiery soul, fueled by months of heat and/or humidity. The night before, you’re none the wiser, but in that fleeting moment – that blip of existence that otherwise would be meaningless – you are rejuvenated for another whole year; rejuvenated enough to start complaining about the cold and impatiently waiting for summer to arrive.

In the past, the cooler October airs have come in just in time to welcome the Clearwater Jazz Holiday, but I’ve never been. So, I made the decision today to bring in the cold months at Coachman Park from 14 – 17 October while hearing some stellar music. You may join if you’d like.

Say yes to crack

Some people are down-pushers. Others are yankers. Me? I’m a side-cracker.

If ever I realize that I indeed have feet, and protruding from their central mass are these little appendages called toes, I have the urge to do it. First, though, one must tenderize the muscle by way of backward stretching against a hard floor. Then, to get the little buggers in the mood, one has to massage the mutual skin shared in the trenches between each individual podiatric battlefield. Only then, my friends, can the cracking commence.

Granted, it can’t be done too regularly. And most of the time I don’t manage to even consider it. But when the urge comes and I am in a position inclined to crackage, it remains one of the few joys left in this world for me.

Therefore, like the radicals that have cultivated the human paradigm in the past, I propose that all persons wishing to live happy, healthy lives crack their toes. By whatever means possible, if people hear the joyous little snap of the socket a few times per week, I believe that the human experience in this world can be made more bearable, if not enjoyable for those in dire, crackless states.