Just a booger on the fingernail of the Universe

That's us. Actually we're much smaller.

I was following along with my friend Wood's Astronomy class and learned some really cool stuff. Everywhere you look on the internet, it is mentioned how difficult it is to grasp the age of the Universe and Earth. Big numbers don't explain the concept very clearly. So this example (also, found everywhere on the internet) was kind of stunning.

If you compressed the timeline of the Universe into a calendar year, meaning the Big Bang is January 1st and present day is midnight, December 31st, here's what it would work out to...

• January 1st - The Big Bang (the Universe begins to form)
• February - Our Milky Way Galaxy forms
• August - Sun and planets form
• September - Oldest known life (single-celled organisms) forms
• November - we see the beginning of multi-cellular organisms
• December 15 - Cambrian Explosion (burst of new life forms)
• December 17 - Emergence of first vertebrates
• December 18 - Early land plants
• December 20 - First four-limbed animals
• December 21 - Variety of insects begin to flourish
• December 24 - First dinosaurs appear
• December 25 - First mammalian animals appear
• December 27 - First birds appear
• December 29 - Dinosaurs wiped out by cataclysmic event
• On December 31st, in the morning, is when any speck of human ancestry appears on Earth
• 12/31 - 10:15a - Apes appear
• 12/31 - 9:24p - First humans to walk upright
• 12/31 - 10:48p - Homo erectus appears (shut up, Beavis)
• 12/31 - 11:54p - Anatomically modern humans appear (that's SIX minutes before midnight, brothers and sisters)
• 12/31 - 11:59:45p - Invention of writing
• 12/31 - 11:59:50p - Pyramids built in Egypt
• 12/31 - 11:59:59p - (1 second before midnight) Voyage of Christopher Columbus

It was only about 12,500 years ago that the very spot where I sit today (killing time during the slow part of the academic year) was only just beginning to thaw out from the last Ice Age.

The thought terrifies and amazes me all at the same time. We humans have done so much, it seems, in such a short time. My parents were watching black and white television and standing, umbilically connected to the rotary phone on the wall. My grandparents were driving early cars, and listening to radio programs at night. And yet, a look at geologic time shows just how small we we really are in the big picture.

Tap that French Baguette

You see it in a quite a lot of movies. "Top Gun" comes to mind. There's a shot where Goose taps the gas gauge in a futile attempt to will the indicator to show there's more fuel (maybe it was Merlin). Occasionally, I'll notice that in movies. I don't know why I see that kind of stuff, but somehow I can pick up on it when it occurs. I suppose it's a device used by the director to emphasize just how dire the straits are for our heroes.

What I DON'T comprehend is the seemingly ubiquitous appearance of the French baguette in movies. You might not have noticed it before, but it's there. The pretty young woman on an adventure in a cobblestoned village, riding her bicycle, a French baguette resting comfortably in her basket. Why?

I've got it in my head to make a note of every movie I see the woefully uncredited French baguette appear in.

By the way, bonus points if there are carrots accompanying the baguette, with the green tops still attached, or whatever it is that's green and leafy. Both in a paper bag? Hat trick. Join in if you wish. Maybe we could turn it into the American Film Institute...AFI's Top 100 French Baguette movies. I'll start:

Blade: Trinity - Jessica Biel plays a vampire hunter undercover as a frumpy lady with a baby strapped to her chest. Nestled in her right arm? Hat trick.

**Dateline: 10/5/12 - Breakfast at Tiffany's. One in bag and later two in bag. Sweet.

Eat My Ennui

From an email to Trish:

Tuesday was the first Composition class and the instructor told us then that we'll need a composition journal (specifically) and a pen in a color ink other than black or blue, because we will be correcting each other's papers on occasion (I'm think I'm gonna get beat up after class when that time comes). Not only did she speak that out loud, but it's clearly written on our syllabus.

Today (Thursday) I was early because it's been snowing all night and I didn't want the Comp Professor to give me the hairy eyeball, so I got to school about 20 minutes early. She was not in the room, but popped in at one point before class, talking on her cell, and wrote on the board, "I will be 10 minutes late," and then left again. One young lady walks in with a weary sigh, starts unpacking her stuff and sits down. I'm quietly engaged in The Man in the Iron Mask on my iPhone (Stanza app....free books!) (that's where the sesquipedalian quote came from that I sent you earlier, but you probably knew that). She blurts out, "What time does this class start, anyway?" Mind you, this is the second class we've had, she has a schedule of her classes, AND it's on a PRINTED SHEET ON THE WALL OUTSIDE THE CLASSROOM. I answer without looking up "10:25" and she goes back to the sighing. I go back to the reading.

An acquaintance of hers enters the room and sits next to her. They are chatting and now I can't read this smarmily written book so I just start screwing around with the other apps on my phone. They go into great length about the instructor's request for a different color ink pen.

"I don't know why the woman wants different color inks. You'd think blue or black would be easier to read than these other colors."

"My mom's friend is an English teacher and she gets the composition journal but she didn't get the different color ink, either."

"I told my aunt, 'My Composition teacher is mean, and she wants us to call her Professor or Doctor.'"

"I think I might transfer out of this school to UWEC. They don't even start till the 18th and they get, like, a week off in a month and, like, another week off for Spring Break."

I myself don't quite understand why recent high school graduates are here. Globe is TWICE the cost per credit hour that UWEC is. I would think the only people I'd see here, which is pretty much a business school (with commercials...does this mean I'm in a cheesy school and no one will hire me with a degree from "Acme U"?), is people like me who are already in the workforce and need a faster and, therefore, more aggressive pace to get BACK into the workforce. Globe is 12 weeks on, 1 week off, through the entire year, so technically you could get a Bachelor's degree in three years at the most.

I'm a dick. I get that. But you can imagine how hard it was for me to keep my mouth shut. I didn't even want to explain to them the reason for the different color ink. AGAIN. It's like I'm into mental S&M. I'm LOVING just listening to the dumb, but TORTURED by not wanting to correct them, because I TOTALLY do. It's intoxicating, I tell you. But I'm keeping my mouth shut. I have this unreasonable, if not snotty, fear that I'm going to be found out as the "smart kid" in class and then everyone's gonna be making me cut open their GD frog, copy my notes, do their homework and then hang me by my drawers from a coat hook. All for my mad skillz, yo. Screw that. I'm here to get in, get an edumacation, and get out. With the exception of one guy in two of my classes, who, incidentally, sounds like Larry the Cable Guy (but is smarter and funnier than he lets on), I have NO faith in finding any other students in there I find intellectually stimulating or amusing enough to befriend. The Introduction to Software Development class though, shows promise. That's like hanging out in a garage with a bunch of dudes...if it was a computer room filled with stereotype geeks...good time. One of the conversations was between the instructor and a couple of students about one student's dog and peanut butter.

* * *

So the Composition Professor eventually arrives. She is apologizing profusely for the delay because, "I have cancer. I'm currently receiving chemo and radiation treatments and I was late because I needed to schedule surgery for next week." I look over at those two girls for the first time and now they're looking at me like they got caught. Sure I told you she sounded tough, but she's also looking for some measure of quality out of her students and it seems like I'm the only one in there who gets that. So far, she's the only instructor like that. Unfortunately, she also, like most of the instructors in there, has to cater to the weakest link. I actually kinda like her. She's an actual instructor. She has integrity, standards, expectations. I can respect that.

In my poor opinion, post-secondary education should only be something that people attend when they WANT to be there, not HAVE to. I think it makes a huge difference. Granted, lots of people want to be in college right after they graduate high school, but I figured it was because they wanted to escape their parents and behave badly. I realize that could be a generalization on my part...

Anyway, the Professor passes around the attendance sheet for us to sign. I'm the second-to-last person to sign the sheet and it has about 6 or 7 signatures in orange, green, pink... The Prof gets her sheet back and says, sincerely surprised, "Oh! Look at all the different colors! That's pretty!"

This college thing is gonna be SO fun mentally. Just not Algebra. :)

What I've learned from M*A*S*H

I remember (ever so vaguely) when I was a kid hearing the now familiar strains of the wordless version of "Suicide Is Painless." I'd be trotting upstairs to bed or whatever and hear my dad downstairs tuning into a show that I knew was about war, but never realized was a comedy. Until about 10 years ago when they started showing episodes on the Hallmark Channel in threes or fours after 10pm. Then, I'd use it to fall asleep. But wait, it's a comedy?? Heh, it's not so bad.

And so I'm hooked. I spent WAY too much money on the full series collection (plus movie) and occasionally I'll get the hankerin' to watch it...for the bajillionth time.

I was just watching another episode this morning and it occurred to me I've discovered a few things about the show that you might not realize were there, stored in the scary parts of my brain...

• Korea looks strangely like California.
• Now I know what a "merry widow" is.
• Now I know who Adolphe Menjou is.
• Hitler had a pencil box and it was in Korea, CA being hocked by a local indigenous personnel.
• Now I know where "I'm not so drunk as you think I am" came from.
• Same for "Why don't you let that cut under your nose heal?"
• The C.O.'s office had dirty, dirty windows most of the time. In the cold, it changed to frost.
• Colonel Potter got a male horse (gelding, stallion, whatever, I didn't look that close), but after the first episode where Radar gave it to him, "he" was thereafter named "Sophie."
• Henry Blake's wife's name was originally Mildred, later Lorraine.
• Colonel Potter's wife's name was originally Mildred and stayed that way.
• Acting newbs such as John Ritter, Patrick Swayze, Alex Karras, Richard Masur, Teri Garr, Andrew "Dice" Clay, Ron Howard, and Laurence Fishburne have had guest appearances. There are likely more, but I'm only on season four and can't store all the useless info in the world. Loudon Wainwright III appeared in a handful of episodes as well, decidedly new at his gig as guitar-carrying minstrel. I'm not sure if he's gotten any better at it, I haven't heard word of him since the M*A*S*H eps. Honestly, based off his performances in M*A*S*H, I don't care either.
  
• There was a place in Chicago near the Dearborn Street Station called Adam's Ribs. But there probably wasn't.
• Surplus items from World War II were not unheard of. Beans? From 1943? In the 50's? Ish.
  

She Was Sesquipedalian...A Lot

About a month ago, a bunch of us riders made the 20 minute trip to Menomonie to listen to Turd's band. A carload or two of us met up at a fellow rider's house for pre-gig snacks and conversation. Brother, Anya and I rode up with E and his girlfriend, whom I believe E called "Killer" at one point. Killer is a sweet, very pretty young lady who cracks me up at how unfiltered she is. She isn't rude, she just doesn't hold much back. I can appreciate that; it's a refreshing change from that whole, "What are you thinking?" silliness. Also? It means I'm not a lone female wolf in the pack full of less secure women. Who cares what they're thinking anyway??

So we're sitting in the kitchen, stuffing our faces with some good eats and seemingly out of the blue, Killer called me out about my big vocabulary.

Killer: "You like to use big words."
Me: "I...what? Sorry." I'm all embarrassed.

She just pointed that fact out where everyone else around me, never, ever seemed to take the same notice quite so to-the-point. So, I dwelled on it for a number of days afterward. Why do I use big words? In the spirit of the impending St. Patrick's Day, my list o'reasons:

• My high school vocabulary books were the only homework I enjoyed doing. Yes, I waited until 10 minutes before English class each time to do the vocab homework, but it was still my favorite. Even now if I happen to see a Reader's Digest, I'll flip to that word quiz (I'm sitting in a bar at Big Powderhorn updating this...the name is escaping me) and bomb through it.
• I absolutely, positively CANNOT do math. That's one of the reasons I take my brother out for dinner so often...I make him figure the tip. I enjoy his company, of course, and it's with great ease that makes me laugh till steak comes out my nose.
• Common, everyday speech becomes so boring, rarely used words make conversation more colorful.
• The big words just stick in my head, like all the useless information I file away for later use.
• Sometimes, they're just funny in the right circumstances. Especially when you're trying to describe a bodily function.
  

So, I'm coming out of the big word closet, here and now. I love the way they flow out of my head and across my oft-stumbling tongue. I LOVE USING THE BIG WORDS! Everybody knows if you find you enjoy something, you tend to excel at it with seemingly little effort. You may think I use big words to impress you or maybe it makes you think I'm a snob, but that's not the case. If it were, I probably wouldn't be able to back the usage up with a proper definition. And nothing's funnier than someone using the wrong big words. I just enjoy using them bigguns. When you decide to call me out, I'll do my best to not take umbrage at your servile proclivity, you varlet.

Silly boy...you have so much to learn about being a geek

Brother and I were watching "Big Bang Theory" last night. In the show, dork uber alles Sheldon mentions something about fusing adamantium to his skeleton like Wolverine. To which, Brother barks a laugh and then looks at me as I look curiously at him.

"Did you miss that?" he asks.
"What?"
"Adam. Ant. Ium?"
"Oh...I never thought of it that way."
Brother hesitates. "Why? What were you thinking?"
I answer, "How you could possibly know what adamantium is when you haven't played a video game since 'Space Invaders?'"
"Huh? What is it?"

..."Nerd Metal."

What The Hell? Round One

I'd like to find:

a rodeo clown
a DMV employee
a "sanitation engineer"
a proctologist
a cop
a luchador
a snake milker
a Milwaukee Brewers Polish Sausage mascot

...and ask, "What the hell?"

Don't do it in the dark

Yeah, getting ready for work without turning the light on invites chaos. Take the other morning, for instance. I went through the entire day before I realized my drawers were on inside out.

Or when I overslept this morning. I hit the off button instead of the snooze and woke up with 10 minutes to spare before Fahjah arrived to whisk us away to work. I threw on a nearby "cleanest, dirty" pair of jeans. I was trying to avoid the pair I wore to the Japanese restaurant on Sunday night and the pair I wore out to the bar in Menomonie Saturday night. They had a non-odor so on they went. Now I'm sitting here and I can distinctly pick up the smell of Japanese restaurant. Awesome. At least this hair-do I'm currently sporting can fly with just running a brush through it.

Of course, getting dressed in the dark doesn't help or hinder your sense of smell, but...what the hell...? My underwear's on inside out AGAIN?

Today's the day I meet the man of my dreams, isn't it...

Moldy Oldie

I started a blog back in 2005 on MSN and only entered a couple of posts into it, but tonight, while driving home through Amish country with Turd after listening to a cover band for a couple of hours, the "caution: horse and buggy" sign reminded me of this post...back when I was a wandering fool who would take any motorcycle available. Fahjah had loaned me his Softail and Brother offered up his Buell (before I crashed it, anyway). Turd, por vous.

Here's the post from Summer, 2005.

So, I’ve been a motorcycle momma for a couple of months now…I’m pretty comfortable on both the Softail and the Buell.

This past Saturday, I took Tom’s Buell out to Augusta/Osseo with Fahjah and his friend Dennis. Things were a-stirring in Osseo (or Augusta…I forget) for Bean & Bacon Days (big Bush’s Baked Beans plant in town). We were traveling to Dennis’ parent’s house outside of town. Awesome place to live…top of a hill…100-some acres of your own property and a constant breeze (poop free smell!). I tell you, in a 2 or 3 mile stretch of road, I’ve never encountered more horse doody, pea gravel or Amish in my life. The Amish wave at EVERYONE. ALL of them wave at EVERYONE. They are completely expressionless, but they wave. I was a waving machine that day. Wave at the Amish boy walking on the side of the road in his suspenders, hat, and bare feet. Wave at the Amish 20-something gentleman in his black carriage (pulled by HUGE blond draft horses) as he goes by. Wave at the Amish girl who stops working in her family’s garden as we ride by and….waves. I waved at every bike too. I figure if you’re lucky enough to ride a bike, you’re lucky enough. Made me wonder…do the Amish hate partying like it’s 1699? Especially with all of us “English” (what the Amish call all non-Amish) in plain sight with all our innovative and high-tech toys and equipment? And, you know, things that make life a little easier, like running water, indoor plumbing, a dishwasher? Especially the kids. I can’t help but think that 11ish year old girl in the garden on a beautiful sunny Saturday afternoon was thinking, “I hate this shit. Where are my damn shoes? I could travel exactly two miles and get a pair of Shaq-Fu Reeboks and waltz through the horse crap in comfort and style. Maybe I’ll pick up a MP3 player and finally get to hear that Weird Al Yankovic song ‘Amish Paradise.’ Then I’m going out to the hill behind the house with my boyfriend and sit in the back of his Camaro complaining about what an asshole my dad is.” I wonder if I was born into that life and, living in 2005, would like it. Maybe if I didn’t know any better….of course, today some Englander just rode by on a horse of shiny metal and leather…there’s a potential better out there. Screw this dress crap. Jedediah, Amos, Father Eldon, I’m outta here. I’m gonna come back and bust a cap in your ass for making me do homework by candlelight. No husband wants a wife with rougher hands than his! And I’m bringing back a set of GOODYEAR’S for that frickin’ buggy!

Anyway, it made me want to stop and just chat. I was intrigued. But I was busy…had shit to avoid and places to go.

Best High School Memory Ever, Or Facebook And My Scanner Are The Devil

Recently, I was forced to join Facebook in order to view pictures from a recent bonfire. I say forced because up until earlier this week, I've successfully fended off the urge to join this sort of website. I realize this might be something akin to old-ladydom. All right, it probably is old ladydom. But here's why the resist: I have lurked in a sportbike forum based out of the Cities and it's filled to the brim with teenagers and twenty-somethings spouting acronyms and adding "z" to everything plural. Take, for example, this "blurb" I stumbled across.

hey guys n grls jst to let ya kno im **** ***** or "****" bt i was a cool down to earth racer on my 03 r6. i was so good lookin to i mean ya c me in my pic i put on my pro. bt i used to ride w the SA group it was a lot of fun i loved it, n i used to fly in airplanes to. n i rode boyd ********s bike w him on the back n he taught me a lot of stuff for riding to. n when i was racin mark crashed me in turn 2 at 165 mph. he didnt want a grl to beat him racing n i was the only grl racin in the race he crashed me in. bt the crash did a bunch of things to me as well lol. It ruined my weight, i was 126 lbs before i crashed n now im like 30 lbs more lol so my weight, my voice i do sound like im drunk bt i cnt drink n i sound like i have a southern accent to a very lil 1 tho lol. n my r arm dnt work rite now lol, well i cld lift it up to my mouth bt yeah guys/grls im a really fun/cool person to be with n hang around to so jst talk to me n get to kno me k? n GUYS N GRLS PLEASE FLIPPIN GO BWLING AT BLAINBROOK BWLIN ALLY ROUND 9PM IT IS A SHITLOAD OF FUN TO I PROMISE YA THAT N I GO BWLIN EVERY WED W FUN COOL FRIENDS OF MINE LOL SO JST GO N ENJOY IT PLEASE IT WLD BE FUN SEEIN YA N MEETIN YA TO K? LOL

Uh, yeah. Moving on.

I never found an interest in myspace. That website hurt my eyes. The layouts and images that pass for "home pages" are enough to make Jackson Pollock switch to an Etch-A-Sketch.

Facebook seems a little more mature. You can't go poking around in other people's profiles unless you register (for free). Once you're logged in, you can search a little more in depth for people, but once you find the intended target, you both have to mutually agree to be friends. This opens up your full profile to them and theirs to you. After Turd said he posted pictures from the bonfire on Facebook, my stupid curiosity got the best of me. Now, after three or four days, I've gone plum ape shit.

First, I add a couple of friends from CVSC (and berate Turd for making me sign up). Before I know it, friends I haven't seen or talked to since high school are showing up all over this here site. The guy who got me hooked on Yes. A woman with whom I was inseparable. Several older classmates I like to think of as my mentors and big brothers and sisters. A couple of guys I had terminal crush for. Trish, of course, and Cheryl, who, without Trish's blog and then my blog, I would've never had the pleasure of meeting (or getting internet cookies from another woman). Even our band director is now in Facebook.

This puts me right now at this computer after having spent, over the course of a few days, hours scanning in old high school photographs and posting them in Facebook. I even scanned some patches and artifacts from band. Where's the anti-drug? Facebookinol, anyone?

All this insanity has reminded me of what might be the oddest event in my Marching Band history. Let me tell you a story...

So there we were, a few days before our state contest. We, the marching band, are rehearsing after dark in the brightly lit parking lot of our West campus. Somewhere, up beyond the reach of the light, stands our band director, a couple of stories up on a scaffold, booming out instructions with a megaphone. It is also a few days before Halloween. As we are taking a quick break from practicing, but still standing in our positions on the striped "field," the giant boulder that sits on the corner of our campus goes up in flames behind us. The rumor was the rock started out as a small pebble and people just kept painting graffiti on it until it was the size as it appeared that day; comparable to a Toyota Yaris. Of course, all those layers of highly flammable paint made the ignition something like a small bomb going off behind us.

There was shocked silence from us, including the staff. As we're watching the rock engulfed in flames, a handful of people come running over the berm next to where we're practicing and run into our set. We, being the well-disciplined marching machine we've become, stand and watch...presumably open-mouthed, as the individuals dance around us, one of them yelling something that today I can't remember, and just as quickly realize we aren't probably reacting as they think we would. As they start to leave, I think I remember hearing our director's wife ask if someone should call the fire department. The director answers, "My dear, how long do you think a rock will burn?" Then more silence. Once again, from the scaffold we hear our stern leader speak, calmly and this time without the megaphone, "Well? What are you all standing there for? Gently put down your instruments...and go get them." To which, we all quietly, almost slowly, and gently, put our instruments down on the pavement, and I swear to you, I remember it like that scene from "Braveheart." One hundred and five high school students (and a few staff members) erupt into war cries, swarm back over the berm and are off and running for the costumed morons. I think we even caught a few of them.

HOW FLIPPIN' COOL IS THAT? I nearly fell out of my chair laughing when I remembered it this evening.

PLEASE NOTE: Future marching bands, watch out for this guy, the ringleader. He probably looks older now.


Somebody back me up on this story. It's so surreal, I'm starting to think I dreamed it. That happens sometimes if I eat too much salt at dinner...

I Bet My Money On A Bob-Tail NAAAAAAAAAAG

My iGoogle page has all these little widgets on it that inform and enlighten. I have a "winder" for a few blogs (yes, my own is in there, self-absorbed much?), another for my email, one for looking up words, one for "totally free crap", etc. One widget that has been most enlightening has been the "How-to of the Day" window. Every day there are two links to various "how-to" articles (remember the "How to dig post holes" blog post?). Today I'm scanning my home page and I see "How to write in Gothic calligraphy" and "6 steps to not being needy." Gothic calligraphy, blah blah blah. Every low-rider sports some kind of Gothic announcement on the windshield and it features prominently in overused tattoos. If it's a ubiquitous trend, I'm not interested.

I click on the "no more needy" how-to, and realize, oh man, that's TOTALLY ME! I'm the neediest of needy. Well, not quite. No one's ever actually said it to my face (though it would've been nice if someone would've clued me in before now), and I've always seen much worse examples of human neediness. Guess the "Jump. Both Feet" mantra should remain relevant only to creative outlets and swimmin' holes. What's slightly amusing to me is that I've started doing some of the suggestions (find a damn hobby, for instance). So "Jump. Both Feet" on again, just not on people or your relationship with them. And since I know people are reading this.... ME! ME ME ME ME ME ME ME! PAY ATTENTION TO ME!!!!

Hey, I'll get the attention where I can.

Thank you for your time.

Pretty In Pink with Sixteen Candles lighting St. Elmo's Fire with The Breakfast Club. Bueller?

I've just run through a clump of 80's movies in my Netflix queue. It made me think of things I miss.

• Polos with the collar up (since popped collar is now taboo, I no longer own polos. They make me look like a butch lesbian, or a Best Buy employee)
  
• Rolling the bottoms of your jeans tight against your ankle (conveniently disguising the fact that the jeans were floods)
  
• Gaping at boys in Cavaricchis (they made their rear-ends look cute)
  
• BKs (never owned a pair, just miss them)
  
• Big hair (at least until you just slightly shave the sides of your head and your mom spots it. Then it's small hair from then on)
  
• Big belts worn on the outside of your shirt (vinyl and pleather works of art)
  
• Soccer hair (now referred to by me as "hockey hair," since hockey players seem to be the only ones still wearing mullets...well, hockey players and rednecks)
• Disposable jobs (McWhat?)
  
• The novelty of driving (eventually legally too)
  
• Egging houses (If a teen buys two cartons at 7-11 at 11:30 at night, no, it's not for breakfast)
  
• The novelty of drinking before your time (with the fear of God and/or parent in you, anyway)
  
• Generra Hypercolor shirts (always fun when your armpits were a different color than the rest of the shirt)
  
• The Benetton shirt I appropriated from my then-boyfriend (it looked better on me. And he was a douchebag)
  
• Immortality (conveniently coinciding with ignorance)
  
• Contest overnighters (especially watching your mom belly-crawl across the darkened gym floor in pursuit of junk food)
  
• Witnessing The Rock bursting into flame (not the wrestler, the LPHS rock on the corner of campus)
• John Cook (this one's going to need to be its own post)
• Passing notes in class (btw, keeping them after 19 years just proves you were a dork in H.S. Or now. Maybe both.)
  
• The feeling you get on the last day of school (boing boing boing boing)
  
• Doing your homework 5 minutes before class (thus freeing up your evenings for what-have-you)
• The feeling you get on the last day of summer vacation (yea friends! boo school!)
  
• That new boyfriend feeling (boing boing boing boing (not specifically that boing)
  
• That first kiss feeling (see previous bullet point. Maybe specifically that boing in this case)
  
• That feeling you get when you back away from your date at the dance when he begins to convulse to the music (Oswald, I'm looking at you)
  
• Decorating your locker (even when you have a 6 inch width to work with)
  
• Indiana Dunes (especially when the car breaks down somewhere between Gary and Chicago. In the dark.)
  
• Boy's cars (A Triumph Spitfire, an AMC Eagle, a 60-something Camaro, "The Green Monster", "The White Monster")
• Scribbling on notebook covers (Mine were mostly movie quotes, of course. The gathering of useless information started fairly early)
  
• Getting out of class early for pep rallies (except that one with the wrestling demo...I would've rather stayed in class)
• Secret clubs, handshakes, insignia (Buttholes, too complicated to explain here, a poker chip with the center punched out)
  
• The pride of public victory (What?? I marched good!)
  
• Chasing each other around campus after a full day of band camp (yes, band camp) with coolers full of ice water (Oswald, I'm looking at you)
  
• Coming home to a crowd of applauding parents (and the occasional giant inflated....purple monkey??)
  
• Marching in the pouring rain at a competition (and still winning)
• Parachute pants (never owned. wanted badly. never received. got over them)
  
• "Quejada" (two parades a year...we didn't play this one enough)
  
• Flashbulbs (those F*$*#ers burned!)
  
• The first note of "Pique Dame" as demonstrated by the crowd (it was like the wave, only toward the back wall)
  
• Chemistry class (mixy mixy, blowy uppy, greeny foamy)
  
• The opportunity to be graciously allowed to "hang out" with upperclassmen (shooting warm tequila without barfing was a plus, but not a requirement. Bonus points for not letting your eyes water)
  
• Being awarded your first nickname ("Bug." Don't ask)
  
• Being late for graduation due to "The Sex" (yes, that's exactly why I look all sweaty and bed-heady)
  
• Watching the sun come up with your friends (nuff said)
  

My own stupid clothes are trying to kill me

I'm wearing a t-shirt today with a fleece zip-up hoodie over it. The hoodie is causing the t-shirt to slide back on my shoulders and choke me. Am I alone here? Is this another one of those universal mysteries?

Useless? Maybe not...

Don't let it ever be said that I didn't try to teach the world to dig post holes.

Working on a project for my job. Have a post in the works, but I'm trying to save my ass at the moment. Will check in soon I promise. Teaser: backwards, couples, all.

Too much of a good thing...

I've ridden the Freaky Tiki approximately 7,000-8,000 miles this season. By contrast, I think I've put maybe 1,000 miles on my Saturn Sedanmobile. Keep this in mind as you read on.

Today, I took my car. When I left work, my car was running on fumes. I arrived safely at the gas station just off the bypass on the way home. I pull up to the pump, and get out. Somebody thinks they're funny and put my gas hole (yes, gas hole) on the opposite side of my car from the pump. I get back in and move the car correctly into position and get out. Ha ha.

Also, I hope my car runs as good on Premium as my bike does. "Why the hell is gas $3.14?? Somebody just told me it's under 3 bucks! ....oh." Damn.

Dahhhh....uhh....

"How does it happen that people stray from social instances and play with packing lists? Who are we to fly in the face of turmoil and dirt? There must be something more than this shape-based pricing."

Huh. That was interesting. I thought I'd start a new post, but suddenly had forgotten what I was going to write about. The sentence above was me just typing the very first words that popped into my head, and when I'd be at a loss, I looked around my immediate area for words to drop in (packing lists, shape-based pricing).

Try it! Post a comment of your senseless sentences. I want to see what your brain comes up with (still can't remember my original topic...).

Because you just can't get enough...

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Thath not guud...Or, Kuj the Wrecked Sprocket (thanks, Momma)

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Not the book. MY Zen and MY Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.

Some riders are diligent and thorough. They will keep track of the life of their tires, their oil, their valves, etc., and will likely be able to rattle off the exact dates for when they come due.

Me?

Well, here's my "diligent" maintenance schedule:

Male in my life #1: "When's the last time you changed your oil?"
Me: "Dunno. Probably time."

Male in my life #2: "Chain looks a little loose...and bindy."
Me: "Really? Guess I better clean and tighten it."

Me: "What's your tire pressures?"
Male in my life #1: "34, 32."
Me: "Okay."

Me: "What's your tire pressures?"
Male in my life #3: "35, 41."
Me: "Okay."

Male #3: "Ooo, look who's starting to show cords!" Motorcycling terminology lesson: "Showing cords" means the tire's BALD. An example from M.N.'s last tire...



Me: "Wow. Must be all those burnouts I've been doing." /end sarcasm
Male #3. (after close examination): "Eh, you've got miles left to go on that tire."
Me: "What, till I SLIDE?"
Male #3: (smirks and drives away...in a car)

And yes, more than one male told me it was time for a new sprocket. I even ordered one, but suffered a shipping snafu, so it was delayed. I did not stop riding. Then I had what could best be described as an "event". Not an accident, nor a surprise...more of a stupid..."Oh hell. Red light. Oh hell. There's a Civic parked there. I should brake here. Oh hell. I'm going much faster than I at first guessed. Oh hell. The front brake isn't enough. I'll add in some rear brake. Oh hell. Is that my back tire sliding around? Oh hell. Oh hell."

Everything did its job. I stopped. I was safe. I even laughed a little...nervously.

El resulto?

You see...a sprocket should have TEETH whereby, engaged by the CHAIN, makes the back wheel turn, thereby making the bike go vroom. No teeth, well, then you're just riding a toboggan. Total count: 21 of 45 teeth remain. I have since replaced that glorious evidence of torque (after riding it that way for two days unknowingly) and hung it on the garage wall as an "offering to the god of speed." Or possibly, more appropriately, "The Buddha of Redneckly Maintenance."

...could you just imagine 24 pieces of aluminum flinging every which way? Wish I had a camera.

Incidentally, I just ordered a helmet camera. And a heart monitor. I'm conducting experiments. And mounting the camera somewhere on Mostly Naked so I can see myself. Yes, so I can see myself.

...you would too.

I'm TOTALLY patting myself on the back for this...

My Blog. I can.

Those of us who populate the sportbike club are of a like mind when it comes to gear. On Sundays, we all wear as much gear as we can. Most of us carry that habit into the remainder of our time on our bikes as well. So when we see a guy on a ginormous-engined sportbike, in a t-shirt and shorts, sunglasses, baseball cap (on backwards, of course...for aerodynamics) and flip flops, we pooh-pooh them as a "squid." Mostly because they do the rest of us "actual" riders no good in the eyes of the non-motorcycling public, but, personally they amuse me because they almost never leave town, likely have not yet crashed in that get-up and had to have ground-in gravel removed from their skin (after my first crash I wanted more gear than I already had on and I didn't even suffer more damage than a jammed shoulder), and they sport HUGE chicken strips on their tires. Yeah, but they look cool and have that giant cc motorsickle. Pffft.

Motorcycling terminology lesson: "Chicken strips" are the unscuffed strips on the outside of the tire tread, indicating that the rider does little-to-no leaning in a turn. Any fool can go fast on a straight. But it takes a special kind of stupid to lean into a turn. And Mister, I am that kind of stupid. See here: First, a photo taken of a squid's 1000cc sportbike outside Gold's Gym...

That lighter colored 1-inch-or-so strip? Chicken. Also, the rider has spent WAY more seat time upright and in straights than any turning. That's what that sharp angle is closer to the center of the tire. This tire would be more commonly found on a cruiser in this condition because cruisers aren't designed to do much in the way of leaning, so instead of a round even wear, the tire develops a flat spot down the center.

Now...after this past weekend and my "graduation (which I will speak of in another post)", here's my tire (shiny bit along the edge is my chicken strip):


I'm pretty damn impressed with myself. But...hey, HUGE TANGENT. That's not what I'm all self-back-patting about. Though I did. A lot. This past Sunday was AWESOME (later post). Back to the squid thing.

Mostly Naked and I were sitting around La Casa de Gasa, when he asked me, "Do you have some kind of software where you can mess with a picture to make it look like something else?" I just happen to be brushing up on InDesign and Photoshop at work to add to my skill set. So I was excited about this project. After posing my subject outside squid-like...mostly naked (status quo)...and a little Googling for the right background...and about seven hours of noobie-style poking around in Macromedia Fireworks...and some nagging to finish the thing...I present Mostly Naked and his squidly impression. In flip flops.

No Mostly Nakeds were harmed in the making of this photo.

Here's the two pictures I used:



Goood job Meeee...

Why am I here, after all?

Given my freakish ability to recall the most useless bits of information, my brother suggested I start a "Ask the Geek" website. I thought maybe I'd start small. And here. After all, this is the pipeline for useless knowledge.

So ask away. No question is too trivial. Occasionally, I even surprise myself when I'm right. I will do my best to answer without searching for the answer. But I will come clean when research is, indeed, needed. Anyway, we all know you're just too lazy to google it yourself...