The Jogosphere

I just made that up. Clever, right? It's where my mind goes when I jog -- into the jogosphere, where I am Superman.

That's all I have to say about jogging.

Now I will talk about:

Life's Path!

You see, I need to make some decisions. Mostly about grad school. I need to pick a program, and since I will almost definitely be attending Hofstra (if they reject me, I'll buy a gun and join a militia), I'll have many options. And, well, there are so many options, and my internal debate is so complex, that I'm just not getting into it here. Instead, just know that my nights are sleepless and my days are filled with vacillations, during which I've got it all figured out until I don't. Since all this to-ing and fro-ing is exhausting, I retreat to the television where I can watch The Real Housewives of Orange County, which is the most surreal thing I've ever seen. How can these millionaires possible pretend that they have the same everyday problems as the rest of America? Yet I'm convinced they do. They are very convincing. For example, one of them is a single mom trying to send her kids to college while simultaneously suffering buyer's remorse after purchasing $10,000 earrings. I feel her pain. I feel her struggle. And when the jewelry saleswoman says that this lady bought something she "desperately needed," I feel that, too. And I'm not being snarky about this. I'm serious. Their problems are so normal, but just on a larger scale. Except for their children, who mostly seem to be assholes. How did these normal women raise such assholes? That's the part I don't get.

I do not have glaucoma.

Not that I really thought I did have glaucoma, but I got new glasses at LensCrafters a month or so ago and the dude there who did my eye exam said he was "concerned about [my] pressure." So I finally got to an opthamologist this morning and had it confirmed that not only do I not have glaucoma, but I am at low risk for glaucoma. Three cheers for something not being wrong with me for once.

Now that I know my eyes are healthy, I'm going to go stare into the sun.

You know what's good?

Salami is good. So so good. It's greasy and fatty and spicy and you can wrap it around cheese and crackers and hard bread, and even enjoy it with wine. Fucking incredible. And where does it come from? Pig parts? I don't believe it. More likely there is a magic salami palace in the sky and if you do the magic salami dance magic salami rains down upon you. Salami must come from the heavens. It is that<>that good.

Why the Ivy Leage can blow me

I just read about the "plagiarism scandal" surrounding Harvard sophomore Kaavya Viswanathan, and it's actually made me feel a lot better about not getting into Harvard or Stanford. I don't want to seem like the guy who's just bitching because he's got some sour grapes (though maybe that's what I am). I definitely liked both Stanford's and Harvard's programs best of all the ones I looked at, and, as more and more teachers tell me there's a huge job shortage for any but science and math teachers, I would absolutely love to have the golden ticket that comes with an Ivy League diploma.

But check this shit out:

In a profile published in The New York Times earlier this month, Ms. Viswanathan said that while she was in high school, her parents hired Katherine Cohen, founder of IvyWise, a private counseling service, to help with the college application process. After reading some of Ms. Viswanathan’s writing, Ms. Cohen put her in touch with the William Morris Agency, and Ms. Viswanathan eventually signed with Jennifer Rudolph Walsh, an agent there.

Ms. Walsh said that she put Ms. Viswanathan in touch with a book packaging company, 17th Street Productions (now Alloy Entertainment), but that the plot and writing of “Opal” were “1,000 percent hers.”

Getting into the Ivies involves hiring a private counseling service and getting hooked up with a "book packaging" company? Why does that sound a lot like you have to buy your way into these places?

Getting some guidance on the application process makes sense. I hired Kaplan to help me, and for a few hundred bones I got some very valuable insight on my application essays. But there's something, I dunno, suspicious, about a counseling service that can put you in touch with a book packaging company as well as get you into top schools. (Read about what a book packaging service does, here.)

Or, in other words (since I'm feeling muddled and verbose): if someone is hooking you up with a company that's going to give you the plot, the characters, the outline, and the first four chapters of a book, and then pay you a half-a-million-dollar advance to "write" the book even though your writing style is unexceptional, what would you suspect that same person is doing to get you into Harvard? Is there a fill-in-the-blanks process for that, too? I wish someone would have told me about it.

I guess I'm naive.

The Unbearable Lightness of Being Debt Free

In the interest of counting my financial chickens before they've hatched, it looks like I've nearly gotten myself out of debt. I have (or will imminently have) paid off my Amazon.com card, my WaMu card, and my Kohl's card. A few months ago I polished off my Apple Loan. And I've paid my motorcycle insurance for the year as well. This leaves me with college loans to repay, and my motorcycle payments. I feel free. I am a cigarette thrown from a car's window on the L.I.E.: I'll stay afloat for as long as there is turbulence to keep me going, yet inevitably, gravity will have its way with me (imagine those final orange sparks leaping across the ground like ballerinas fired from a cannon!). And what is this metaphoric gravity, you might be wondering? It is the HP L2335. I have wanted one for so long, and the payments would be sooo sooo small (the way peanuts are small, yet packed with protein and satisfaction). Oh, the hunger.

The Da Vinci Suck

Just finished reading the Da Vinci Code. Huge disappointment. I was hoping to have another Harry Potter experience, where I come late to the party but still find myself caught up in all the excitement. Instead, I found the book completely bland. The characters are flat, the mechanics of the quest aren't particularly interesting, and the payoff is poor.

However, the history and research that Dan Brown bases the book on are interesting (in spite of his liberties and errors) and I'd bet reading the straight academic work is more rewarding than sifting fact from fiction within The Da Vinci Code, so I'll be adding some more non-fic to my Amazon.com wish list. Yippee.

Rain is bullshit

I could be out jogging. Or biking. Or riding my freakin' motorcycle. But noooooooooooooo -- it's freakin' raining. Again. Two days in a row. Three, almost, since Friday was crappy also. What the fuck, man? We don't even need rain anymore. Rain is obsolete. Between global warming, in-ground sprinkler systems, and bottled water, it's time for rain to realize that its day is done. It's over. Time to say goodbye. And don't come back again until we need some snow, which is about all rain is good for until we start importing that, too. Fucking rain.

Motorcycle ups and downs

To recap: Several weeks ago, I had my first wipe out. Among other things, this resulted in a broken shifter lever, which meant I couldn't ride until I got a replacement. Though many people recommended assorted online retailers, I decided to order the part from the dealer since I'd just gotten the bike and was feeling the goodwill that comes from a positive shopping experience. Well, that goodwill is completely used up, and I definitely won't order parts from them again. Here's the saga:

So I go to the dealer and order a new part. They charge me $30 more than the part would have cost had I ordered online, nearly doubling its price. They say it will take a week to come in, but two weeks later I stop by and ask if the part has arrived and they tell me it'll be in "on Monday" (which was another three days away). I show up on Thursday and ask about the part and they say it's been there for 11 days and that someone should have called me (not to mention that someone could have told me it was there when I asked about just a few days earlier). So that was three weeks of riding down the tubes all because the dealer's parts department is totally incompetent (they also ordered the wrong parts for some stuff my dad needed -- and they again forgot to call when the parts came in, and the sales department "mishandled" a bunch of the paper work for my dad's bike, which caused yet more inconvenience). Though the dealer started out strong, in the end they get an F. So sad.

Meanwhile, I'd signed up for lessons with a local riding school. Their idea of scheduling a riding lesson is to call at 12:30 in the afternoon and demand I call back by 1:00 if I want to reserve a spot for 9:00 am the next morning. Who can manage stuff like that? Maybe it's because I only work part time, don't have a family to take care of, and am basically a freewheeling lolligagger, but my time is just too scheduled to be able to make such last minute commitments on the spur of the moment. Maybe if they'd given me a full 45 minutes to try to work something out, I could have made it happen. But whatever. After leading me on like this for weeks, they finally decide that they don't want anyone who hasn't signed up for their over-priced "4 lesson package" (4 lessons for $400, as opposed to individual lessons at $75 a pop -- you figure it out) and say they're going to refund my money.

At this point, I was three weeks without a bike, and lacking formal lessons, which I desperately want so as not to have another wipeout. And the jury is still out on the Motorcycle Safety Foundation courses. I sent them a deposit two weeks ago and haven't heard a peep from them since (and their phone just keeps on ringing.) Actually buying the bike had been so easy, but after only about two months of ownership, everything else about it has become a huge pain in the ass.

Fortunately, after putting on the new shifter lever and going for a few short jittery rides to and from the beach, I at last got out today (on Easter! The Day of Rebirth! The Day of Miracles!) and had a fantastic ride exploring some back roads around my house, and I am once again feeling confident that I will actually learn to ride this thing without killing myself.

I still really really really want formal lessons. And I really really really want to take the MSF course. Hopefully all of that will happen before September. In the meantime, I'm going to keep my spirits alive by listening to Michelle Pfeiffer sing Cool Rider from the Grease 2 soundtrack.

Cleaning your dog's anal gland

I didn't know that dogs (or any animal) had an anal gland; nor did I know these precious little nodules needed to be "cleaned." Alas, the things I learn when my parents come home from the vet. Which is where their wiener dogs went for their annual checkup this morning. And when they came home they stank like shit and burnt fur. Which is not exactly the smell I'd expect an anal gland to make (I mean, the shit, sure; but burnt fur?). The process for cleaning a dog's anal gland involves the vet sticking her finger up the dog's butt. Which makes sense. However, I would not have guessed that the dogs would have liked this (which they did. a lot.). Does this mean the dogs are gay? Or just sexually unrepressed? Or does the fact that they're neutered have something to do with it? Some days, life's mysteries overwhelm me.

Hi, 8US!

To answer the inquiries, the blog is not dead. Merely taking a little break. From which I have now returned. At least for as long as the weather is lame. When the weather is not lame anymore, blogging might once again become sporadic. Also, I wasn't off sulking over the Harvard thing. The hiatus began before the letter even showed up. But I do appreciate everyone's concern. (The internets are where my friends are!) What I was doing was eating a lot of Kashi Go Lean Crunch. Have you had this cereal? It is quite good. I just finished a bowl (and another box) only a minute ago. For those of you doing Weight Watchers, it's only three points for 1 cup. For those of you lowering your cholesterol, it's high in fiber and protein, and low in fat. For those of you who like things that taste good, it tastes good. My only complaint is that the box is too small -- too small to make a pirate ship out of, and too small to last me more than a week and change at roughly one bowl (cup) a day. Perhaps there are larger boxes of it available somewhere. Boxes big as boots. Boxes big as 10-gallon hats. Boxes dressed up with bows and lace. Then I could eat until I died. (Which I guess would be ironic since Kashi is supposed to be health food.)

Harvard

Rejection letter received today.

That is all.

First crash!

Just had my first crash!

Fortunately, I was going slow enough that I didn't kill myself. My right arm is sore, and I suspect I would have broken it had been going faster (I think I just pulled some muscles or something -- it doesn't hurt when I move it or squeeze it, which is what I suspect would happen had I broken it), and I scraped up my knees (just got my new JR Alter Ego jacket today, but I'm still waiting on the pants). The bike took the worst of it. The shifter peg broke off, as did a metal bit I haven't identified yet. The left side of the handle bar is also messed up pretty badly. Otherwise it wasn't so bad. Mostly it's annoying, as now I have to get it fixed before I can ride it again. I guess the dealer will pick it up?

I'm not sure what I did wrong. I think I saw myself making a turn to wide and in my effort to get control I accidentally revved the throttle, and that was it. The throttle is super sensitive, and revs at the slightest touch, and I've suspected it would get me eventually. I guess the lesson I've learned is that I'm going to be more patient until the bike's controls are second nature to me.

Body update

At my lightest, I was about 215. Presently I am 226. This was disheartening until I got one of them fancy scales that measures body fat as well as weight and saw that my body fat has actually decreased (by about 1 percent), which means most (perhaps all) of the weight gained is muscle.

And I am feeling quite pumped these days. You should see my guns! Two tickets to the gun show! Everywhere I go I ask people to feel my arms, and boy are they impressed. I know I'm impressed. My arms are impressive. Let me impress upon you the high impressiveness of my mighty arms. Arms like sledge hammers. Boom! They are mighty. My arms = power. I would post pictures of them, but there aren't enough megapixels in the world to capture my bicepular glory.

Still, I'm a little softer in the middle than I'd like to be, especially since I want to buy some pinstripe pants. Pinstripe pants, per se, do not require thinner middles; I just don't want to have to replace them right away. Or have to replace the rest of my wardrobe which mostly needs replacing already. You see, after the pinstripe pants, I want to buy one of those Gordon Gecko shirts, maybe some suspenders, and a bunch of cigars, and hang around looking like a Wall Street power broker. And I don't want to drop a few hundred bucks on clothes before I drop twenty more pounds and then have to go buy new clothes all over again. Because I am cheap. I won't pretend to be frugal. I am not frugal. I am a miser. Fortunately, I work with kids and none of them know the difference. Except for the 6-year-olds, who notice everything. "What's in your teeth?" "Your socks don't match." "You were alive in 1980?!" They're incredible. And so it is for them that I want to buy pinstripe pants. They, more than anyone else -- more than me, even -- will appreciate the whole Wall Street power broker look. And they will emulate it because I am the coolest tutor in the tutoring center because I own an X-Box and a motorcycle and have read The Phantom Tollbooth.

Thus you see that this all part of my plan to re-invent the 1980s. Not all of it -- just the miserable ethics and WASP fashion elements. Greed is good. Bad fashion is better. But '80s pop fashion -- aviator sunglasses, Don Johnson blazers, powder blue suits, fluorescent leg warmers -- is crap. We do not need that shit. No. We need a return to values. We need to get back to the things that made America great. And those things were pinstripe pants and cigars -- a wardrobe that embodies the middle finger, which is the sexiest lifestyle of all.

Motorcycle update

After a total of 3 hours of practice, I am now permitted to drive my motorcycle to and from the beach. Formerly, the routine was that I followed pops down and then he let me ride around the parking lot. But today I managed to get the bike into third gear, and even did a whopping 40 mph for a little bit. And so far I still haven't crashed (or killed myself or lost a limb or become paralyzed). I executed some decent figure eights, too. All in all, I'm taking to the bike much faster than I anticipated.

My next major areas of practice are better shifting, and better control of the bike around corners while at speed (ie, slowing down in time to begin a turn (as one should not brake while turning) and shifting up and down on either side of the turning process). I also need to get sunglasses right quick, since at 4 o'clock the sun is at an angle that makes riding west impossible.

And I need a protective jacket and pants and boots, since going down at 40+ mph will suck bad enough without having to worry about road rash (and worse). On my regular bikety bike, I regularly do over 20 mph, and break 30 when there's a nice hill, and I know that if I were to crash at those speeds it would suck but be generally survivable. Cyclists deal with that all the time. But there was something about watching my speedometer click up to 40 today that made me realize I was entering a whole new level of pain should I crash at that speed. (At the same time, I saw a ton of people out riding today in very non-riderly clothes. I wonder if they're dumb or if I'm paranoid.)

I'll also need to get new rearview mirrors, as the ones I have now are useless. And I'll probably buy a windshield sooner than I'd originally expected.

Motorcycling is about to become a very expensive part of my life.

It's worth it, though. The bike is such a chick magnet.

These are the real banes of my existence

Ignore for a moment (or don't) that this post at Absorbascon starts out being about comics; it is a perfect analysis of the human condition and the role of art therein.

Now go fight some crime.

Anecdotes

Special thanks to special people for the anecdotes below. Heart.

Americans remain thankless for being Americans:

Guy behind me in line, I swear to God:

"I want a coke."

"Oh, well sir the Pepsi Fountain is right over ther--"

"Fuck Pepsi, Pepsi gives people AIDS. I want coke."

"Well, they uh... have Mountain De---"

"Same shit, different color."

I think he wound up getting some Dr. Pepper, going outside, pouring it into the flowers before tossing the cup into the trash.

And I'm reminded why I hate America, and why we deserve a good ass-whipping and to be downgraded to a 3rd world country in a state of emergency for a good few months. So that we be goddamn thankful for this shit we have. Pepsi, Coke, BFD --the kids in Africa who do have AIDS don't get to choose between two different sugar waters because they don't get to down enough clean water as it is in order to counter balance the poison we pump into ourselves --- PEPSI OR COKE.

I'm so mad at myself right now for not jumping all over him. I hope he never comes to my eating spot again.


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AND: "to make you hate Red Bull even more..."

Red Bull buys MetroStars, renames team

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Interesting that these are both beverage related. I wonder if what we drink is making us stupider.

Moto Movies

In honor of the new motorcycle, I've bumped Tron (fun!) and Torque (cheese!) to the top of my NetFlix que. I suppose I should add Easy Rider (old school!) to the list also, but somehow that feels like I'd be taking myself too seriously.

Stanford

Got the rejection letter from Stanford today. Kinda pissed, but not surprised. I was hoping to at least be accepted there even if I might not have been able to afford it in the end. This also gives me serious doubts about whether or not I'll get into Harvard. And since I foolishly missed the application deadline for Hawaii, I will most likely wind up at Hofstra. Which isn't bad, though I really really really wanted to get the fuck off Long Island.

Anyway, when I originally applied to Stanford, I felt it was a shot in the dark mostly because I was worried I'd be a crappy teacher. But after working at Huntington Learning Center for a while, and getting great reviews from students and their parents (rumor has it that I'm one of the most-requested tutors), I can honestly say it's Stanford's loss for not taking me. And I'm not one of those people who says stuff like that just as a way of cheering himself up. I'm too pessimistic for that kind of mind trick to work on me.

So now I need to start re-mapping my potential future. Don't know where I'm going or how I'm getting there (other than by motorcycle, motherfucker!), but the future is like a small china doll perched precariously on a high shelf, waiting for a cat to knock it off. What does that simile mean? I don't know.

Motorcycle!

It just arrived and is in my garage and I'm going right now for my first lesson on it! Psyched!

If I can dig up a working digital camera I'll post pics later. In the mean time you can look here, though it looks much nicer in person.

Keep your fingers crossed that I don't die! (Or that I do die if you don't like me. I'm good either way.)

Open Letter to: Red Bull

Dear Red Bull USA,

I am writing to let you know that your commercials are so bad I refuse to buy your product until you change them. I am also starting the TV Watchers Against Suck-Bag Commercials non-profit activism group to organize a nation-wide boycott of your product until our demands for non-sucky commercials are met.

Sincerely,
Mustapha Mond

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What commercials do you hate?