Bologna

Merriam Webster defines it as “a large smoked sausage of beef, veal, and pork; also : a sausage made (as of turkey) to resemble bologna.” And I would agree – its bologna.

But it’s pronounced “baloney.” Come to think of it, Merriam Webster also defines such a word in that whimsical book of theirs: “pretentious nonsense : BUNKUM — often used as a generalized expression of disagreement.”

So, what we have on our hands here are two different words! Up until five minutes ago, I thought it was “bologna” in all contexts. Like, for example, when that Flick character on A Christmas Story argues with Shwartz about the notion that his tongue would stick to the flagpole, he cries (phonetically), “BALL-OH-NEE!” For sixteen years I always thought it would have to have been written “bologna” in the script, and for sixteen years I thought that such a spelling would be outrageously aesthetically unpleasing. Now I have been shown the light.

But what about other uses of bologna, not necessarily relating to pretentious nonsense? Admit it, it’s a funny word, but you’re telling me, Mr. Webster, that I’m supposed to spell it like you say even when I know full well that’s not how it sounds? When one uses the word “bologna” in somewhat humorous ways, I find that it takes away from the comedy when one spells it as if it were a deli meat.

So, here I am, submitting that whenever we aren’t talking about meat or a city in Italy, we spell it “baloney.”

QED

Rank Offence

O, my offence is rank it smells to heaven;
It hath the primal eldest curse upon’t,
A brother’s murder. Pray can I not,
Though inclination be as sharp as will:
My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent;
And, like a man to double business bound,
I stand in pause where I shall first begin,
And both neglect. What if this cursed hand
Were thicker than itself with brother’s blood,
Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens
To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy
But to confront the visage of offence?
And what’s in prayer but this two-fold force,
To be forestalled ere we come to fall,
Or pardon’d being down? Then I’ll look up;
My fault is past. But, O, what form of prayer
Can serve my turn? ‘Forgive me my foul murder’?
That cannot be; since I am still possess’d
Of those effects for which I did the murder,
My crown, mine own ambition and my queen.
May one be pardon’d and retain the offence?
In the corrupted currents of this world
Offence’s gilded hand may shove by justice,
And oft ’tis seen the wicked prize itself
Buys out the law: but ’tis not so above;
There is no shuffling, there the action lies
In his true nature; and we ourselves compell’d,
Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults,
To give in evidence. What then? what rests?
Try what repentance can: what can it not?
Yet what can it when one can not repent?
O wretched state! O bosom black as death!
O limed soul, that, struggling to be free,
Art more engaged! Help, angels! Make assay!
Bow, stubborn knees; and, heart with strings of steel,
Be soft as sinews of the newborn babe!
All may be well.

Had to memorize that beast for Powell’s class. And I made it cry to its mommy.

A Late One

This past week I went with my youth group to tour colleges around America’s eastern states. Soon into the trip, we found ourselves at Transylvania University in Lexington, Kentucky. Those kind folks let us eat in their cafeteria, and yes: it was typical college food.

Or so I thought, until I stepped up to the soda fountain. Coke? No. Sprite? No. But then, like a glimmering beacon in the Midwestern sky that illuminated my meal and, inevitably, my life, shone the logo of a soft drink called Ale-8-1. Now, a plain white background with a red ALE81 on the back would normally dissuade me from partaking in such a beverage, but just before I stepped away from the fountain to fill up my cup with another cola, I saw the subtitle on the label for Ale-8-1: “Kentucky’s Soft Drink.”

“Kentucky’s soft drink?! A whole state of refined citizens such as the loyal Kentuckians can’t be wrong!”

So with that, a beautiful relationship began. Before the end of the meal consisting of one grilled cheese sandwich and an entire plate full of creamed corn, I had downed 4 glasses of the most glorious ale and, like a child at the end of Frosty the Snowman where Frosty melts, lowered my head into a weep knowing that I would never see my beloved Ale-8-1 again – it being Kentucky’s Soft Drink and all. I doubt Kentucky would want to share such a blessing with dirty old Florida.

As I walked out of the college and to the van which was about to depart for Nashville, Tennessee, I saw it. Just like the beacon that shone so brightly in the soft drinks line minutes before, the machine emitted sort of a glow; not a light that would catch the normal person by surprise, but a certain difference was noticeable between the Ale-8-1 and the other dim and uninviting machines. Sure, it looked like it was 40 years old. Sure, most of the buttons didn’t work. And sure, 60 cents is an odd price for a soda. But there it stood, coaxing the dimes from my pocket and filling my stomach with liquid sunshine.

I bought two cans that day, and all the convenience stores around were closed. Two cans were all I could afford, and one actually made it home with me tonight. It stood in the fridge and, as it became cold, I’m pretty sure I could hear faint cries from the insulated realm of frigid consumables crying for the mercy of this newcomer: “Don’t hurt me, Ale-8-1! We do respect you, master! You are our king!” Never heard another beverage cry for mercy? Believe me, the orange juice can act like a little schoolgirl.

As I sit back and drink it now, I can’t tell why I like it. It’s sort of like ginger ale, but without the ginger. A watered down cream soda and a less-carbonated Sprite, so to speak.

It could be the fact that there is a mere 37mg of caffeine within it’s delightful splendor. But I’ve never really been a stickler for health content; that must not be it.

Maybe it’s the name. Sure, “Ale Eighty-one,” You say. And that’s what I thought until I saw the vending machine. The soda fountain read Ale81, but the machine read Ale-8-One. So, for about two days I supposed it to be pronounced “Ale Eight One.” Until, of course I read upon the can that I purchased for sixty cents, “A late one.” You would think that a person such as I, one who can spot a lousy pun from a mile away, would be able to decipher such a name in a speedier time than that. Nevertheless, it is indeed “a late one,” a name that boggles my mind further and increases my love for the beverage.

I still don’t know what it’s all about. Nor do I care. As I sit here and drink the last of the perfection that was successfully canned back in Elizabethtown, Kentucky, I can’t help but mourn the fact that unless I obtain a credit card and order some from the internet or move to beautiful Appalachia, I will never again taste the glory that has grazed my taste buds for the past week.

I salute you, Ale-8-1.

SL Aftermath

“http://www.afterthetour.com/

Student Life is cooler than you.

Rock on.

What a time to live.

What a time to live.

You flip a switch and there, the room is lit.
You turn a knob and water flows into your sink.
You sit down at your computer and are able to communicate with someone from the other side of the world.
You can send a letter from Florida to Alaska for 37 cents.
If you’re hot, you can pull a cord from the ceiling and blades will circulate the air to cool you.
You can let your fingers do the walking and call across the planet through wires and satellites.
People come and take your trash from you every week.
Toilet paper is quilted for our comfort.
Invisible waves travel through the air constantly and are made into sounds and pictures by our radios and television sets, respectively.
Although we may not realize it, air, the one substance that keeps us alive is all around us at any given moment.

So when you think you have it bad, take a look at all the things you have and try not to take them for granted.

Grey Poupon

Ms. Pac Man

Some people might tell you it’s all about timing.

Sure, knowing when to steer right and left is important, but the key is to know your opponents, not to just steer clear of them at all costs. You cannot dominate your enemies until you first associate with them.

Blinky, known earlier as “Shadow” will just follow you. He gains speed as dots are collected and, when provoked, can be merciless.
Inky tries to do the same as his Red counterpart, but to no avail. However, one shouldn’t underestimate his speed and agility.
Pinky, while he is a threat, travels the farthest route to you as possible. Not too frightening, but for a lone yellow sphere in a world of ghosts, he can be right freaky.
Sue is the woman of the bunch. She may be a token character, but the orange beast stands guard to the area while her brothers do the dirty work.

But knowing how the little fellows operate isn’t enough; one has to actually spend time with them to see what they like. What route to take. How their eyes move before they turn. And, after a while, you begin to relate to them.

Me? I think I’m like Pinky. Why? Certs me.

As the Table Turns

Thursday evening, approx. 7:00 PM EST
Sharf is at the house, and after working since 3 on Kolhoff’s project thing (that we didn’t have to present anyways), the English homework, and the Math project, we decide to hang out in my room. Soon we’re playing with the turntable I bought a week ago for a dollar at my church. On was the Sound of Music soundtrack and, us being the curious teenagers we are, decide to speed up and slow down the turntable. Not such a good idea, because as we (in Doug’s words “tried to make Julie Andrews sound like Barry White”), the turntable stops completely.

Now, I’m no electrician, but I was able to dissect it and I found that a fuse blew inside the guts of the beast. So I spent all of Saturday night trying to find one of these bloody fuses that apparently haven’t been manufactured since 1974. On Sunday I ended up going to Radio Shack with Nikki and the fella there said, “I didn’t know turntables had fuses in ‘em!” Knowledgeable associate, indeed.

After getting a fuse with the lowest voltage they make, we decided to look for a thrift store to buy some tunes. As I should have known before, not many thrift stores are open on Sundays. Oh well, after 3 hours of searching, one open thrift store, and $9.15, here’s what I got:

Steve Miller Band – Fly Like and Eagle
Steve Miller Band – Book of Dreams
Peter Frampton – Frampton Comes Alive!
Yes – 90125
Herb Alpert’s Tijuana Brass – South of the Border
Herb Alpert – Rise
Harry Belafonte – Folk Songs with Harry Belafonte
Bachman Turner Overdrive – Best of BTO
Electric Light Orchestra – Face the Music

I found $.95 a bit steep for used LPs, but who am I to complain?

Kaboom

Yay for bomb threats and not having to present in Kolhoff’s class or turn in my math homework or go to Physics 6th period.

———-

In other news, shaving is worthless. I cut my lip an hour ago and it’s still spurting.

Bah.

Shoutcast

Now presenting:

The Least Sucky Radio Station on the Internet

…at least, when my Winamp’s playing.

Edit (2/13/2011): Of course this isn’t still active. You can access my last.fm profile here, though.