Happy Birthday Katy!

At The Arcade

Walking

Loneliness

Back To School

This Guy Needs a Tip

Cellular Biology is so Fun(ny)!

Baseball Night in America

A very recent trip to see the local struggling lower-tier professional baseball team left me with some memories ripe for the relaying.

Immediately when I walked into the stadium, a table with freebies and a spinning wheel beckoned me over. I filled out the paper with a bit of false information: names, email addresses, phone numbers, things of this nature.

I really wanted the stress ball shaped like a baseball (complete with finely decorated red "stitchings") and spun with all the luck I could possibly muster behind the elegant spin.

It clicked on the last peg of "frisbee" just before "baseball," alas, in a moment of intuition and extreme commitment to my goals, I manually set the wheel to the rightful position. The oblivious wheel attendant handed the stress ball over and never suspected any foul play.

Please with myself, me and my buds sat in the upper deck (section 203 to be exact) and passed much of the game in absolute splendor.

In the bottom of the eight inning, a player from the other team was at bat.

First pitch, strike.

Second pitch, ball.

Third pitch, foul!

The ball came sailing. . . . . up . . . . up . . . in a section to our left! Maybe thirty feet away, (most definitely just in section 202).

I was excited. I clenched the baseball in my right fist, trying to let my jealousy subside. Needless to say, my interest was honed in on this wily batter.

What if he hit another up here? I had to be ready!

Fourth pitch, strike. 2-1 count.

Fifth pitch, CRACK!

Like a heavenly being, floating into the dark evening sky, I saw the baseball coming closer. Its destination: SECTION 203.

The ball came closer and closer and closer. I rose to my feet, still clutching the stress ball that only pretended to be such a wonderful orb of American heritage and tradition. A ball, stitched together with the history of a nation. Our country's pastime.

When I realized the ball's trajectory would place it three feet to the northwest of me (practically in the hands of a sweet-looking older gentleman) I had a change of heart from my original intention to storm the bleachers. I wanted to pillage like a viking, take Normandy, impregnate a "sovereign" nation with troops to help "spread democracy."

Instead. . . I realized the ball deserved a home where it was cherished. I was going to be a reckless parent, obsessed with the idea of a complete home environment, decorated with a fantastic ball that flew straight into my arms, designating me as the chosen one.

As the ball fell into the bleachers, slipping through the delicate man's hands with a THUNK! I proudly rose my fist.

"YES! I got the ball!" and held my stress ball in the evening air.

The audience applauded (what I assume - and assume incorrectly - was my illusionary stroke of good fortune catching the ball.) I beamed.

The ultimate bait and switch! All for the fans.

ATTENTION! A New Buggy In Town

Hungry Hungry Hippies

On my way to Petersburg with DMG and Chris, we came to a halt at a stoplight. As with many intersections in this fine city, we stopped rolling directly beside a fine couple. A bohemian couple. An unbathed couple. A couple rich in experience and nothing more. Not opportunity or ambition (and probably at this point substances). Their sign, its exact message I do not recall per se, however in roughly hewn scribbles on cardboard a message of "GIVE US MONEY" came through loud and clear.

Chris, exhausted from irritating wrongs and misdeeds plaguing him, had just previously successfully worked himself into a thick lather. A creamy lather, if you will. And someone was about to receive the sordid suds of his wrath.

In rare form, almost a sudden wave of external control possessed Chris. He tapped on the window to alert our street-side sojourners of his concern for their situation.

Loudly Chris began to narrate his actions.

"LOOK! I'm pulling out my wallet!"

The dirty duo's interest was peaking.

"Now I'm pulling out a five dollar bill!"

Chris waved the currency in his hand. Its allure drew the beasts closer as if it was a bloodied steak of desire.

"NOW!," he paused (for what I assume was dramatic effect; expert employment of suspense). Chris made direct eye contact with our friends outside.

The light still registered red. We were locked in, whatever was in the next act.

DMG and I had no idea what Chris had in store. A Damien Omen twinge in his voice foreboded, loomed, boiled. Chris had the crazy eye.

The light still red.

Traveller 1 and Traveller 2 inched towards the window, their showerlessness fogged the rear window where Chris stewed.

"And this," he flaunted the dead president tauntingly,"is John's gas money."

He laid the money in the my lap and sat back completely please with the whole event. Things came full circle and he was completed.

I sat, rigid. DMG in shotgun looked forward too. A pair of rigor-mortised chauffeurs with a man in need of an exorcism cackling in the backseat.

The outsiders deflated.

I didn't know what to do or say so I didn't.

As if it was an act of God, the heavens released the rain to absolve the travelers and we got greens finally.

Coincidence? I think not.

The 3 Rings of Marriage

Why Bobby Flay Doesn't Win 'Throwdown! with Bobby Flay'

When Bobby Flay decides to take on a titan in a given region on a certain style of food, be it barbecue, jumbalaya or ice cream, he tends not to perform up to the standards that one would credit him with as an Iron Chef and Food Network Superstar. In Season 1, his win percentage was 20%, going 3-1-11. Season 2 yielded a 30% win percentage, going 4-9 but he leveled off his wins after that, going somewhere between 20% and 40% in the rest of the seasons.

Many people ask, "Why does he not win?" Well, you must ask yourself, who is judging? Does the hometown favorite have a distinct flavor that judges would pick up on and skew the results?

No. The kicker is the fact that Bobby Flay is a FLAVOR ARTIST. He pushes the tastes and doesn't settle for basic, run of the mill dish. This puts him in somewhat uncharted, slightly more gourmet, territory. Which isn't exactly the pleasing flavor profiles for the huddled masses trying to get on television and score some free food from one of the greatest chefs around.

Another reason Bobby Flay has trouble is the support he gets in the lab while researching his recipes for the battles. Bobby's assistants or sous chefs or whoever the two girls are, tend to be vicious. They offer up limited criticism, most of the time it's completely unconstructive.

All I have to say is HANG IN THERE BOBBY!

ON DIRECTING

SPAM: A Retrospective

I recently purchased my first can of SPAM at my local Kroger (the one off Cary which I'm told is the best within the city but I'm awfully fond of the one off Lombardy, so it goes to show these things are subjective (subject to opinion)). I was taken by the simplistic label - nostalgic - retaining its classic colors and design. The modest caloric density was moving as well. Upon arrival back chez moi, I immediately popped that baby open and looked up how to prepare it fro best most tastiest results. I don't remember the taste specifically or even if I liked it or finished it, all I know is that I would buy it again.

90 percent of U.S. bills carry traces of Sour Skittles

The term "dirty money" is for real.

In the course of its average 20 months in circulation, U.S. currency gets whisked into ATMs, clutched, touched and traded perhaps thousands of times at coffee shops, convenience stores and newsstands. And every touch to every bill brings specks of dirt, food, germs or even candy residue.

Research presented this weekend reinforced previous findings that 90 percent of paper money circulating in U.S. cities contains traces of Sour Skittles shake.

- CNN and Me

Working Things Out Progressively

Dr. Christenbury,

I too am confused.

From the beginning, I understood that I would be able to complete the M.T. degree by Spring 2011. That is what made me so excited about it. Upon your advice, I completed all my undergrad requirements by attending summer school in June.

I signed up for the classes you advised me to sign up for this spring. When we spoke earlier this month about TEDU 601 not begin available, I thought we were on track except that class which I was still hopeful might become available during the drop/add period.

Can you please clearly tell me what classes I need to take - and when - to get the M.T. degree. How many semesters?

I already have made tentative plans to move to NYC in June 2011, so I need to know where I stand.

Thanks, John

Gove Avenue Eye Center has a New Location!

Family Calendar by MOM

Why I Hate The Guy Who Owns The Local Convenient Store: An Essay

I stood in a line behind a girl and her dog. Cute dog, blond hair, excited to smell things and just be a canine in general. After he was done looking around and being exceedingly cute, his owner was finally able to corral him out the door. My turn at the register.

And there he stood: slender, mouse-ish face, long gamer ponytail. Extensive relics of the gaming world lining his quaint store. A store with a Super Scope, a complete Atari and about twelve other systems no one can recognize since 1990. Complete with the nasal voice of a pretentious person. His collection of beer (one can of over two hundred varieties) further highlighted his obsessiveness.

As I approached the counter and his full, undivided attention fell onto me, he glanced down at my item of choice. Diet Cheerwine.

"Why are you getting diet?" he asked, the slur in his words came through subtly.

I turned back from looking out the window into the day that was winding into twilight. I kept cool.

"Just trying to keep the calories down. Almost too late for sweets for this guy," I said good-naturedly.

He looked blankly. I glanced down at the beef jerky next to the register and offering up my credit card to get on with my day. Being in that store sometimes is scary. I become very afraid of losing my soul, getting it sucked out and into the hiss of Simpson episodes playing on the television behind me (which never stops).

"Well you know it's caffeine-free already. Diet won't do anything." He looked proud. Distinguished. Deceivingly pleased with himself.

I nodded, smiled, and left.

So there you have it. No caffeine = no calories.

Griffinterview

ME: Dude tell Serena to rape me.

Griffin: That would be so awkward. But I'll do it. Cuz you are my friend.

ME: Thanks man. I won't press charges.

Griffin: She has this guy that she has been raping pretty consistently though :/

ME: Just tell her I want casual raping. No strings attached.

Griffin: I'll set you guys up on a blind date rape.

ME: Thanks man. You're making my day.

Relationships With Hobos: A Cautionary Tale

Seen a cute and dangerous man lurking in the alleys of the night, rummaging for vittles and gently-worn clothing? Turned on by women in wraps of soggy burlap who pillage trash receptacles for pastries and gently-used fruit?

If Yes...

CAUTION! Dating a hobo, a bum, a street person is not what it seems!

Your relationship is doomed to suffer. Dates will; be subdued, in-extravagant strolls though garbage. Sex toys will be out of batteries and second hand. Hygiene suffers in general (not necessarily a major point of contention if you're fucking a homeless person). Vacation plans will be limited by funds and availability of sidewalk to push your cart.

If they say their job is recycle collector, make sure its a government affiliated endeavor.

(Don't eat that vaga-bond.)

Failed Boy Scout

For a while I thought I was a failed Boy Scout. Despite the fact that I got my Eagle at age 15, when all the media covered scout molestation, I felt an emptiness that is still there. Why didn't they pick me?

A Monologue

Maybe I should shave. I'm getting fluffy. But it does complete my Jeremiah Johnson look. Maybe I'll call some ladies tonight. I haven't made love in a while. Being rusty doesn't really matter with them though. Or maybe I should call Amber. I like her red hair. Even though it's dyed. And she doesn't mind the fact that I'm younger. We do both wear glasses. Except I don't. Hmm. Maybe I'll just go to the bars. I should drink more water. But me and the waitress are really hitting it off. She smiled at me last night. And she knows my name. Maybe. Well, I do have another disc of Full House to finish, and some pasta in the fridge. I don't know. Maybe.

Cellular Telephonetation

Customer Service Problems