Chapter LIII: A Rose By Any Other Name

would smell as sweet, Juliet informs us in Act II. But a blog by any other name? That remains to be seen. Effective next Wednesday (July 26), the blog URL will be changed to tryptox.blogspot.com, from the current tryptofantasmic. This modification is win-win because it is easier for me to type, and easier for you to remember. The correct pronunciation of the new name is TRIP-TOE-EX, not TRIP-TOCKS, as some uncultured swine might have you believe.

Along the same vein, I've finished changing the passwords to all my various Internet personas: facebook, myspace, partypoker, crazypenguinsex.com, etc... Yes, that was a joke; I don't actually have a myspace.

Anyways, until a few days ago, my main password was the cumbersome 'salamandostron,' which is a fictional mountain in the Redwall series by Brian Jacques. Circa 2000, when I set up my first password (to hotmail.com) these were my favorite books, and it was a natural choice.

The problem with 'salamandastron' is that it's long and somtimes hard to get on the first try since password fields are all ************** and you can't tell if you've screwed up*. This can be a pain if you're trying to get into one of those sites that lock you out for an hour if you don't get the password right on the first two tries, ie my.calpoly.edu.

Also, some sites (flickr.com) limit your password to 10 characters, so it ends up being 'salamandas' but their devious password field lets you type more than that, so you have to realize what site you're at and what the character limit is, if there is one.

Finally, many sites (turnitin.com, collegeboard.com) require that your password include a non-alphabetic character, which means the password ends up being 'salamandastron1', or, if the previous restriction also applies, 'salamandast1'.

All of this, combined with my crappy memory, was a recipe for disaster that I have finally rectified. The new password is 8 characters long, well within the min/max character restrictions of all passworded sites, and incorporates a number to cover that contingency as well; basically, now I can use the same password for everything, no matter what the requirements are. Out of nostalgia, it still contains a reference to Redwall.

Image of the Day: the original US edition softbound cover

*When I was in second grade, I watched my cousin type his password to something, and triumphantly declared that I knew his password. When he asked me what it was, I told him it was six of the little star thingies. That's the day I learned that password fields are sneaky like that.

Chapter LII: Blograffitti

Image of the Day: Digital Ink Splats (Illustrator, then Photoshop)
In its Help section, Blogger.com describes several excellent ways to increase traffic to your blog.

Most of them are obvious, such as "Write quality content."
Some are more subtle, such as activating the "Email this post" feature.
And a few of them are utterly pathetic. Seriously, bumper stickers with your blog URL? What kind of loser would actually do that? Car bumpers should be reserved for political activism ("KerryEdwards'04") or deep, thought-provoking Star Wars jokes ("That's no moon, that's YO MOMMA'S ASS").

But then I realized that I do some stupid things to promote my blog too. For example, when I set my blog as the homepage on all the browsers in the Library's second-floor computer lab. Fifteen minutes ago.

I am quite literally the only person in the room; I guess no one needs the computer lab on the last day of the quarter. The freedom of being all alone...If I wanted, I could take off all my clothes and dance around naked, then pile up all the keyboards and sacrifice them to the God of the Harvest. I could holler Broadway show-tunes at the top of my lungs (naked), and no one would tell me to shut the fuck up... Tomorrow! Tomorrow! I'll love ya, tomorrow! You're aaalways a day awaaaay!

On the other hand, I could have a freak aneurysm, and no one would be around to call an ambulance.

But I digress. What I was going to say was that I think building site traffic is only half the battle--page hits are one thing, but getting people to stay and read (and heaven forbid, comment) is something else altogether. Every blogger who uses a site tracker service will notice the columns of data indicating hundreds of daily page hits, but an average visit time of less than 5 seconds. People are arriving, but not absorbing.

Thus, the new plan is to put the Image of the Day at the top of each blog entry, thus drawing the prospective reader into the text with an intriguing picture. Hopefully this way, I don't have to write as much "quality content." Or print bumper stickers. Oh yeah, the blog URL will be changing to tryptox.blogspot.com as of next Monday, for ease of remembering. [Reference: the current URL is tryptofantasmic.blogspot.com]

About the Image of the Day...I'm illustrating some of my brother's poems for my Art 181 (Digital Imaging and Design) final project. The relevant passage in this case is "The line between sanity and release is an inkblot tendril." He's been obsessed with inkblots/Rorshach tests for a long time, and I've inherited some of that.

Chapter LI: Vodka Checkers

Drunken text:
i palyed cheackers with my roomate a few mintues ago. he has one of tohose glass boards with th shot gllass pieces that you pit liquirds in to drinky drink from. we uvsed vodka. but not allll vokda. also some orange sjucce and sprte. like a third and athird andathirdandathird or something. i'm not the fcukign chem major. dont remmeber how ti worked. theres 12 pieces. each one gets some ackleehol and smome oranj joooos, and some spirrte. and oyu mix it all up tastylike. buble bublle bblbub oh yeah, earlier i pltyed him nmormal checkesrs, with normal piaces, and i WON, an d i playted with one less piecee than him. and it was aweom.e so i was like, pssshhh, bring it on foolio, you is sucky at the checkrrs, i traoucennece your ass anyaday, drunk or wahtever. so we play and halfeay through, the fucker triplejumps me. one two thre.e FUUKCKKKCKCKKK. cheater sippity sip all the way down, yum. then i lose cauz he take forever to fucking move afdn i cant think.anymore. vodak shots to the head, brains squish squash pish posh mish mash fish fash oh, i got some mroe fishes in the deep blue sea, joi to you and me not fair. =9 also, i knock ovr the rest of the peices. heeheeheheheheee..hm. sleep oh im soryy i havent bloged. busy. skool. jsut watn to sit in the corner and do corsswordpuzzle.s im good at crsoswords. suckat life. delete soryry. jst jmp ovremepleaez d f d

Chapter L: Near-Life Experience

Image of the Day: Cracked
The car is about to explode. I am going to burn to death gruesomely in a gasoline/brake fluid inferno. The police will need to get my dental records from Dr. Shern to identify me...

Irrational in retrospect maybe, but it's my first car crash, and I don't know what to think.

I mean, all my experience with car crashes so far had been vicarious, through movies and TV. And that's what happened in movies--you crash, and then have 30 seconds or so to frantically crawl out of the car before it becomes a giant fireball of death. I can almost see the leaking gas dribble slowly, inexorably toward a fire. Just like in Crash.

A moment passes and the car fails to explode.

Through the haze, I realize I am not going to die. My next thought: 'So that's what airbags actually look like.' I'd never actually seen them before in real life, and they aren't the billowy fluffballs they show in car commercials. No, these were floppy, deflated things, drooping out of their compartments like a grandmother's breasts. They weren't soft either, but coarse like canvas. And dusty.

I have no idea what to do next.

A large man in sunglasses appears at the window, which I had rolled down to let out the smoke. Are you all right? Yeah, I reply. Your lip is bleeding. Did you hit your head? No, I don't think so. OK, you're going to have to pull over to the side of the road. Can you move the car? I'm not sure. Try to.

To my surprise, the car is still semi-operational, and I pull to the side of Interstate 405, by the Fairview exit. There are two other cars parked there. Apparently, when I smashed into the Ford Expedition in front of me at an ungodly speed, I shoved it into the back of the pick-up truck in front of it.

The man in sunglasses comes over again. You're sure you're OK. Do you need an ambulance? No, I'm OK. Did you not see that I had stopped? No, I saw the brakes lights, but it was too late. It happens. Do you have insurance? Yes. Is this your first car accident? Yes. OK. You'll get through this.

I have to kick the door to get out of the car, still half-expecting it to explode. The pick-up truck drives off.

I'm Bill. What's your name? Jerry.

Bill told me the driver of the pick-up had been rear-ended in the same spot a week ago, and no further damage seems to have occurred, so I probably wouldn't be hearing from him. Bill isn't hurt, but he needs his bumper fixed. It is my first time exchanging insurance information, and I don't know what to write. Your name, insurance policy, driver's license, and a number where I can reach you.

We sit in his car until my dad arrives. Bill tells me that he did the exact same thing on a different freeway twenty years ago, driving home from a USC/UCLA football game. Fast lane. Traffic stopped. No time. Smash.

It happens. I thought it was the end of the world, but I got through it. Your parents may want to kill you, but you'll be fine. Don't worry.

My parents come. Bill leaves.

Then the tow truck. 'How much will it cost to repair?' they ask the driver. He gives the car a cursory look. About five thousand dollars...conservatively speaking.

Totalled.

Fuck.

It could have been a lot worse, my dad says on the drive home. You could have hit an old lady in a Civic. Paralyzed or killed her. Gotten your ass sued off. We would have been in deep shit, lost the house maybe. And then there's the guilt--no amount of money can make that go away.

It's funny. After all is said and done, the only person angry at me seems to be...me. I had just gotten used to the idea of having a car, and I can't help but to bitterly self-recriminate. Why didn't I brake sooner/swerve into the carpool lane/pay more attention? I just don't know. 'It all happened so fast,' I believe is the popular refrain.

I think I've learned two important things from this near-life experience. The first is that I'm not invincible and that it's important to be careful on the road and blah blah blah blah blah. You've heard it all a hundred times, but I'm serious. I thought I was a prudent driver before, but there is a certain alertness that you only get after you've been in an accident.

And secondly, I learned that there are considerate people in the world who realize that making someone feel like shit after they've made a mistake is pointless, because they already feel like shit and it doesn't help the situation. And that's reassuring.

It seems I am a pedestrian again... although Diana would say I never stopped being pedestrian at all.

Chapter XLIX: Illusion of an Allusion

Image of the Day: My Letter to the World, that Never Wrote to Me

A long time ago, in a post far far away (Chapter XI: A Glitch in the Matrix), I described the benefits of explaining an allusion right after you make it. On one hand, if the person I'm talking with is uncultured and misses the allusion, he will now grok it. On the flip side, if he thinks I am uncultured, I can dispel his suspicion that I alluded inadvertently.

Today, I read something that makes me wish the writer had followed my advice. Specifically, I'm not sure if a certain title in a magazine is supposed to be an allusion or not.

The publication in question is Men's Health Magazine. As an aside: For many years, whenever I passed the magazine rack at Barnes & Noble, I would wonder what kind of idiot bought those hideous fitness magazines--the ones that put oily, musclebound freaks of nature on their covers. As of last Saturday, I officially became that idiot.

To my credit, it's not an issue of Men's Health per se, but more of a book put out by the editors of Men's Health. It's titled Amazing Abs and actually contains quite a lot of useful information, especially regarding diet (when/what/how much), so I decided it was a good one-time investment.

Anyways, on page 41, there is a small inset under the heading "Waiting For Jell-O" that explains waiting forty minutes before eating dessert after dinner (to let blood sugar levels stabilize). At first blush, it appears to be a clever allusion to Samuel Beckett's play Waiting For Godot (pronounced 'guh-DOH'), punning on the rhyme.

But on closer examination, it isn't so clear. To begin with, 'Jell-O' and 'Godot' don't actually rhyme, since the stress is on the first syllable in 'Jell-O', and on the latter in 'Godot.' Furthermore, there are absolutely no other literary allusions in the entire book, much less allusions to a work as relatively obscure as Beckett's existentialist tragicomedy.

Besides, such an intellectual treat would be non sequitur in a book where the author tries to make every point with a veiled reference to sex. Regarding overtraining: "There is only one thing most men would do a thousand times every day if it were physically possible, and it isn't crunches." Regarding rep pacing: "Each rep of an ab exercise should last slightly longer than you lasted on prom night--4 to 6 seconds." Regarding the benefits of ab training: "ABS WILL IMPROVE YOUR SEX LIFE." You get the idea.

Was I wrong to imagine a Jell-O/Godot connection? Is there anything else it could be a reference to? Paint me confused... Someone rescue me.

A final note: Besides the Jell-O/Godot conundrum, there five allusions in this post. If you got them all, kudos. If not, they're listed in the first comment.

Chapter XLVIII: Que Seurat, Seurat

Image of the Day: Scan of pointillist maple tree, using maroon, yellow, and red gel pens. Click to Enlarge













What color is Georges-Pierre Seurat's hair? You may have no idea, but you have, at some point, seen his most famous painting, titled "Sunday Afternoon on the Isle of La Grande Jatte." The 1886 tableau is regarded as one of the most remarkable artworks of the 19th century, and is widely alluded to in popular culture. Just last night, I saw it featured prominently in a TV ad for Acuvue brand contact lens.

It famously uses pointillism, or the application of varying densities of discrete dots to create an image. In all, "Sunday Afternoon" is composed of over three million individually applied dots of paint and took over two years for Seurat to complete the 7' x 10' canvas. He didn't choose this grueling method on a whim, of course, but was trying (unsuccessfully) to use new developments in optical theory**.

A couple weeks ago, I got some taste of what a pain in the ass pointillism can be by producing what you see above.

I have no idea how many million dots I used, but it took six hours. My hand and brain went numb at the same time and I transformed into a pointillism zombie. Seriously, I only thought about three things in that entire period--'maroon,' 'red,' and 'yellow.' In any case, I'm reasonably happy with how it came out and when I have time during the summer, I plan to redo it on heavier 18" x 24" paper (this was 8.5" x 11") with four colors instead of three. Zebra SARASA, the brand of pen I used, now also comes in orange.

**Specifically, it was discovered that contiguous dots of contrasting color merge to form a single hue in the viewer's eye (more vibrant than if a single color had been used). However, Seurat's dots were actually too big to achieve the dithered effect at normal viewing distances, hence the appearance of graininess that is trademark Seurat.

That's all.

Chapter XLVII: Frequently Asked Questions

Image of the Day: Nothing Rhymes...

Q: When and why did you start blogging?

In my junior year , I started posting daily recapitulations in my AIM profile, focusing on humorous or bizarre incidents. These have since been lost in the mists of time (i.e. the Great Harddrive Formatting Accident of 2004), but off the top of my head, I can recall writing about my grandmother's goldfish named Gorbachev, being sent to detention every day for a week, stupid things my French teacher would do, etc. I guess I wanted my peers to think I was clever, while hiding the fact that my life was actually pretty fucking shitty. After the AIM profile format, I moved to AIM Subprofiles (remember those?), a brief foray into Xanga, and then offline into Notepad, until one fine day in August 2005, when I was browsing the "more >>" tab on Google and came across blogger.com.

Q: Why do you call each post a "Chapter?"

It's just one of my pretentions, as if this blog were the "story of my life" that I am writing one chapter at a time. I considered using "Episode" instead, but didn't, because 'episode' sounds too much like 'octopode' and I fucking hate octopodes.

Q: Who is the intended audience of your blog?

Hmm, that is a very good question. Different posts ("Chapters") have different target audiences; possibly me, people I know personally, poker aficionados, the faceless Internet, or some combination of the above. I usually delete the embarrassingly introspective or boring rants that I later realize only I would read, and only because I wrote them. On the other hand, I don't want to concentrate so much on being funny/relatable that I don't feel free to write whatever is on my mind. I tend to write inductively--starting with a personal experience and then generalizing it.

Q: What happened in November 2005 that prevented you from writing a single entry?

*Shrugs*

Q: Are you really gay (cf. Chapter XLIII)?

Yes. I look up gay porn all day long. <-- A Faustian bargain: I'll get page hits from horny guys typing "gay porn" into Google, but they won't stay to read anything.

Q: What do you have in mind for the future of this blog?

I'm working on a visitor poll to put in the sidebar, as well as concepts for organizing posts for ease of navigation. Perhaps I will change the post format so that the Image of the Day is included in the post summary. Also, I will be opening a mailing list so my regular reader(s) won't have to check in every day, but can get my blitherings delivered straight to their inbox! And finally, regularity.

Q: What is regularity?

"Regularity is defined as the easy passage (without straining) of well-formed stools (neither too hard, nor too soft) at least once every two to three days without the use of assistive devices (such as laxatives). A well-formed stool is soft and flexible..."
- http://www.fruit-eze.com/regularity.htm

With the minor amendment of "stools" to "blog posts," the above definition is suitable for our purposes. I'm going to aim for about two posts a week, released on Sundays and Thursdays, hopefully without straining or resorting to laxatives. I'm trying to become a better writer, and writing more is the first step in that direction. Posts may also become more literary as I experiment with short stories and poetry.

Chapter XLVI: Top Chef

Tonight was the season finale of Top Chef on BravoTV. Top Chef can be described as basically a synthesis of American Idol, The Real World, and Iron Chef in that it begins with a group of chefs living together in a house. The group is whittled down one at a time in a progression of culinary challenges until only the 'Top Chef' remains. That person wins $100,000.

One of two finalists was Tiffany, who was described by many of the other cast members as being a 'bitch.' Certainly, she kept a very brusque exterior during the whole competition, and her cooking philosophy seemed to be more about adhering to abtract ideals of culinary theory than pleasing the real-life clients.

After she lost in the last challenge to Harold, there was a poignant post-challenge interview where her facade cracked a tiny bit and you really saw that she was actually a decent person, who was just trying to win. It's sad that everyone else on the show hated her, and likewise in the viewer polls. I for one, was rooting for her.

It was often stated on the show that the difference between a cook and a chef is that a cook merely follows recipes, whereas a chef creates new ones. Top Chef showed me that, first, food is much more complex than I imagined, and second, that cooking is about much more than just the food. Even before you taste a dish, you see it, and smell it; in addition to flavor, there is texture.

Cooking is the only art that engages all five senses and each of these sensations must be carefully calibrated to achieve a singular effect, which is tailored to the individual client and circumstances. A prewritten recipe details what choices one chef found to be appropriate for one client at one point in time--and who knows, perhaps it may apply well to other times as also. But not always. A top chef must always question the arbitrary directives of a recipe, asking himself what effect a particular direction has, and what should be changed in light of his own needs.

And that's why I left the tater tots in the oven for half an hour instead of eight minutes--NOT because I was playing Literati and completely forgot about them. I used my chef's prerogative to override the silly plastic bag's heating instructions so as to enhance the texture, both visual and physical, of my creation. As Tiffany might say, comestibility is an easy price to pay, when artistic integrity is at stake.

Chapter XLV: Who's Space?

Over the past three years, a website popular with teenagers and sexual predators has emerged called "http://www.myspace.com/" or MySpace, as it is colloquially known. Registered members are able to create a "profile" page wherein they post pictures of themselves committing arson. When hyperlinking to a MySpace profile from some other online social networking construct, it is considered "cool" to incorporate the words "My Space" into a larger sentence or phrase. Examples of this include "MySpaceShip" and the increasingly ubiquitous "Fuck your place, let's go to MySpace."

But you know all that.

In any case, I was perusing a MySpace profile today that linked to a applet titled "How Will You Be Defined In The Dictionary?" Basically you type in your name and it makes up a definition. For example, 'Jerry' returns [noun] Pretentiously academian." 'Tryptofantasmic' returns "[adjective] Extremely extreme!" Finally, 'George W. Bush' is defined as "[Noun] A person with a sixth sense for detecting the presence of goblins."

I always think too much about this shit, so it occurred to me that those definitions are actually fairly relevant. In my academic writings, I have been known to wax pretentious, what with the sprinkling about of 'ipso facto' and 'as it were.' 'Tryptofantasmic' does have a superlative sound to it, and George W. Bush is very paranoid; goblins can be interpreted as a metaphor for WMD.

Of course, I was pretty sure these correlations were coincidental, so I entered real words into the form, to prove to myself that the so-called dictionary didn't actually process what was being typed. However, when I entered 'ugly' it was defined as "[noun] A person who has the ability to be invisible," which, again, is within two degrees of interpretability. Next, though, 'octegenarian' came up as "[adjective] Extremely promiscuous, sexually" and that's just...ugh. So QED.

Image of the Day: Et tu, Brute?
You may recall this image with a different caption (cf. Chapter XXIX). A week ago, I opened a caption contest thread on a forum I post to, and this was the best one. I am almost inspired to create more gummy bear art tailored to other Shakesperean quotes.

Chapter XLV: Another Awesome Debate

My favorite line of argument was regarding the Counterplan.

In our First Affirmative Constructive, we laid out our plan of having Congress repeal Sections 215, 216, and 218 of the USA PATRIOT Act of 2001. Those sections had expanded provisions of the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act (FISA) of 1978, resulting in broader executive authority (ostensibly to fight terrorism) which, we argued, was harmful to the nation because of their impact on constitutionally guaranteed civil rights (1st amendment protection of free speech, and 4th amendment protection against unreasonable search and seizure).

The Negative has two options at this point for the First Negative Constructive--they can defend the status quo, arguing that the PATRIOT Act's modifications to FISA are necessary for national security and that the civil liberties tradeoff is justified; or, they can stipulate that there is a problem with the status quo, but offer a different, presumably more solvent, plan. This Negative took the second approach and advocated having the Supreme Court rule the PATRIOT Act unconstitutional. This is more solvent because the Supreme Court has specific expertise in Constitutional law and will set a binding precedent.

We rejoined in the Second Affirmative Constructive that the current composition of the Supreme Court is heavily biased in favor of President Bush and expanded executive authority, and thus would not rule the PATRIOT Act unconstitutional.

The Second Negative Constructive sidestepped this issue by arguing that the Affirmative plan suffered the same difficulty. A Republican dominated Congress, they said, is just as beholden to President Bush as a Republican dominated Supreme Court, so the two weaknesses cancel out. The Negative argues that the debate must focus on only the relative desirabilities of the two plans, not their relative possibilities of occuring.

However, we reminded them that only the Affirmative Plan had fiat--that is, only the Affirmative plan is assumed to be possible (if not desirable); this concession is made because the Affirmative has the burden of proof of showing that the status quo is undesirable, and that the Plan is desirable. However, the Negative Counterplan is not assumed to be possible, nor is it assumed to be desirable, and the Negative, having forgone their opportunity of arguing for the status quo, has the burden of proof to show both possibility and desirability.

Chapter XLIV: Passing Gas

As of 5:00 PM Eastern, May 14th, 2006, the average price of gasoline in California was $3.24 per gallon. This is an increase of $0.76 from the same date in 2005, and $1.76 from the same date in 2000. Those of you with SUVs undoubtedly feel that this is a terrible injustice, perhaps even a crime against humanity. However, being the eternal optimist that I am (and not having a car), I choose to look on the bright side.

If you think about it, $3.24 really isn't so bad! Applying some simple calculation to readily available data, I compiled the following list of what it would cost if your car ran on...

Diet Snapple - $10.32 per gallon.
Evian mineral water - $21.19 per gallon.
Heineken: $48.00 per gallon.
Cherry-flavored Nyquil: $146.99 per gallon.
Dell black photo ink: $5,787.23 per gallon.
Chanel No. 5: $48,640.00 per gallon (+shipping).
Molten gold: $87,178.03 per gallon (as of 11:20 Eastern, May 14, 2006)
1787 Chateau Lafite Bordeaux wine from the estate of Thomas Jefferson: $35,627,405.10 per gallon.

In fact, the only liquid cheaper than crude oil is seawater. So quit bitchin'.

Chapter XLIII: I'm Gay

Image of the Day: I Heart Boys

I guess I wouldn't want anyone to think that it was a sudden revelation, like I woke up this morning and a rainbow colored lightbulb flickered on over my head. I've more or less known I was gay since 7th grade.

On the other hand, there is a certain concreteness in putting down "I'm Gay" in writing and addressing it (theoretically) to the entire universe. It's more symbolic than anything, since most people in Real Life already know, and those who don't don't read this blog.

It would be dramatic for me to say that this blog post is the culmination of a seven year process of self-discovery, but it's really not. This is merely an affirmation, to myself, and an acknowledgement that I'm ready to be more open with my sexuality.

[Update] Unexpectedly, this has become the most read post. I feel like I should put something profound here, but there's really nothing to add.

Chapter XLII: Cross Examination

Esoteric--policy debate.

Two interesting cross-ex segments from my last practice debate.

Note to the reader: In cross-ex transcripts, the speaker is identified in terms of the constructive speech he gives.
1AC = the person who gave the first affirmative constructive speech
2NC = the person who gave (or will give) the second negative constructive speech. I was the 2NC for this debate.

[1AC has just given his speech, wherein he proposes that Congress repeal Section 412 of the PATRIOT Act]
2NC (me): First off, please read the resolution text so we all know what we're debating about.
1AC: Resolved that the US Congress should substantially restrict one or more of the authorities established by the USA PATRIOT Act of 2001.
2NC: Thank you. The authority you wish Congress to restrict is that of indefinite detention?
1AC: Yes, under the PATRIOT Act the Attorney General can detain foreign aliens indefinitely.
2NC: Your position is that indefinite detention is unconstitutional, correct?
1AC: Yes.
2NC: Which Section of the PATRIOT Act grants this unconstitutional authority?
1AC: Section 412.
2NC: Here is a copy of Section 412 of the PATRIOT Act [Procures document and passes it to other team]. Please point out the specific text which authorizes the Attorney General to detain people indefinitely.
1AC: [A minute of silence as they pore over the text fruitlessly]
2NC: I have no further questions.

Note to the reader: In fact, the much feared indefinite detention supposedly authorized by Section 412 is not explicitly mentioned therein. It is the result of a loophole involving Section 412 and the Immigration Code. Section 412 allows the Attorney General to detain someone for only seven days before he must charge him with a crime or release him. However, it is not stated what must happen after the person is charged--theoretically, the Attorney General can charge the person with a minor immigration violation within seven days and THEN hold him forever. Which is what he should have said.

[I have finished my 2NC wherein I argued that using the Supreme Court to rule Section 412 unconstitutional is more solvent]
1AC: Do you know how many members the Supreme Court has?
2NC: Yes.
1AC: How many?
2NC: Nine.
1AC: So you're comfortable with the idea of nine unelected men deciding the fate of 250 million people?
2NC: I'm sorry, did you say nine men?
1AC: Yes.
2NC: I wasn't aware that Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg is a man. I look forward to hearing your piece of evidence on that.
Judges: [Chuckles]

Note to the reader: I did eventually answer the question, of course. The counterargument I chose for this particular debate was that although unelected, the Supreme Court is composed of the finest legal minds in the country, as determined by the President and Congress (responsible for confirming the President's nominations). Thus, any criticism of a Justice's suitability to rule on constitutional issues is in effect a criticism of Congress's judgement in confirming that Justice. As such, the Affirmative cannot attack my plan in this respect without admitting that Congress is fallible and weakening their own plan, which calls for an Act of Congress rather than a Supreme Court ruling.

Chapter XLI: Sewage Safari

An unsuspecting glass of sewage grazes passively on the countertop. This specimen exhibits a bright red proboscis, the operating principles of which confounds experts to this day, or at least a large portion of a certain Physics 122 class.

The sewage is captured in the prehensile appendage of a bipedal mammal (Homo sapiens sapiens, "human"). The human makes a superficial attempt at devouring the proboscis, but he has been conditioned by previous experience to believe that polystyrene is undigestible and desists.

The main body of the sewage, however, is eminently palatable to the young human and he commences to absorb its stinky beneficence.

In a matter of seconds, it is completely consumed. The bleak landscape the Morro 301 wastelands necessitates eating as quickly as possible. Time spent eating is time that is not spent hunting for the next meal--which, in this harsh environment, is never assured.

Chapter XL: Extra Large

Image of the Day: Glass Sculpture in the University Art Gallery

I am always mildly amused when acronyms have more than one meaning... for example, XL means 40, as well as extra large.

Also, whenever there's something in the news about African rebel groups using RPGs against the government forces, I chuckle--not because I enjoy ethnic conflict, but at the idea of Role Playing Games being lethal weapons. It also seems strange to me that Libertarians get so riled up about labor unions and corporations donating ever larger amounts of money to PACs. I mean, this country is uncultured enough as it is, Performing Arts Centers can use all the funds they can get. And finally, I found it hilarious when the Irish Republican Army laid down their weapons and transformed into a tax-deferred retirement plan.

In an ironic twist, this post will be not be very large at all.

Chapter XXXIX: Sig Heil

For some reason, Nazi references cropped up a lot this week, with the latest and most interesting example occuring in studio today.

Professor Grover was discussing the site conditions for a hypothetical location in San Luis Obispo, on which I will be designing a hypothetical art gallery. Specifically, she referred to the properties of daylight at our latitude and how at noon during the winter, the sun angle is 30 degrees above the southern horizon. To illustrate what that really means, the entire class was instructed to stand up, face the south wall, hold an arm straight out, and raise it 40 degrees.

At that moment, as luck would have it, two girls passed by the open door. They glanced inside and quickly walked away, obviously scandalized by what appeared to be a Neo-Nazi rally taking place in the Architecture building.

This is actually only one of many references to Nazis I experienced this week. Earlier, there was a news segment on CNN about actual Neo-Nazis rioting in Scandinavia.

Before that, I called one of my roommates 'Adolf Shitler' due to his draconian policies regarding the upkeep of our jointly used bathroom.

And on Monday, during my debate round, I said something to the effect that "America's respect for individual liberties is what separates us from Hitler's Germany, Saddam's Hussein's Iraq, and Osama bin Laden's vision for a totalitarian theocracy. If America is willing to compromise its founding principles to buy temporary security, then the terrorists have won, because we will become the very thing we are fighting against." I was Affirmative and arguing that the PATRIOT Act's modifications to the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act should be undone.

Image of the Day: Google Earth/coolzor: Swastika Building at San Diego Naval Base

Chapter XXXVIII: Metaphorically Speaking

In the kitchen of my apartment, there are two trash cans of equal size. One is grey and unmarked. The other is blue and inscribed with the words "WE RECYCLE" as well as the triangular recycle logo. This is not true, however. A few months ago, I successfully imposed by libertarian waste disposal agenda upon my roommates and now we use the two trash cans interchangeably.

That is to say, you can expect to find the same quantity of "recycleable" and unrecycleable material in each one at any given time. For a riveting discussion of why "recycleable" is in quotation marks, and a new perspective on public recycling programs, refer the the essay I wrote here. You will have to wait 35 seconds before the website lets you download it.

I took out the trash in both trash cans today, and there was only one replacement trash bag left, which resulted in the irony of the box that used to contain trash bags being disposed of in the last trash bag that it contained. *Metaphor Warning* I started thinking about old people and how they are always fearing that their children will no longer find them relevant and toss them aside like yesterday's garbage. How was is that Ewan McGregor put it in Trainspotting? Something to the effect of "...rotting away at the end of it all. Pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked-up brats you spawned to replace yourself." A dire scenario indeed.

On the other hand, the empty box was the first thing that went into the trash bag. Perhaps this reflects how the younger generation internalizes the wisdom of its elders. After all, a person's first, and arguably most important, education is from his parents--what we learn in childhood serves as the foundation for everything else in our lives.

Personally, I think I'd rather toss the geezers aside like yesterday's garbage.

Trivia: XXXVIII, the Roman numeral notation for this chapter, has as many characters as the word "Chapter."

Image of the Day: My favorite shirt: Live Si Iloccrob

Chapter XXXVII: Healthiness Month

I decided today that it would be nice to be in shape for once in my life. It might as well be now, when it's still relatively easy to start up some healthy habits. I mean, I could wait until I'm a blind, arthritic, octegenarian with no bowel control (seriously, I've seen these people in the gym), but then I would break my collarbone trying to do a tricep pulldown. And that's not fun (at all).

Sooo....

As of now, May is officially declared Healthiness Month. I'm going to do everything healthy!

But first, a baseline is needed against which progress can be measured. That brings us to...

the Image of the Day: Current State of My Torso




















That picture is actually from a week ago, but whatever. In a month or so, I will take another picture and see what's up. Hoped for improvements and plan of attack are:

1. More defined midsection (rectus abdominus, iliac crest)
a. Augment daily jogging regimen to 5 instead of 3 miles.
b. Drink a gallon of water every day to decrease subcutaneous water retention.
c. Forsake the delightful chocolate chip cookies that Quinn bakes every so often.

2. Thicker chest (pectoralis major, pectoralis minor, serratus anterior)
a. Bench press (incline and decline).
b. Flye machine.
c. Anabolic steroids.

3. Generally look healthier
a. Tan
b. Nipple piercing
c. Bathe in buttermilk.

Hm, so I got less and less realistic as I went along. As you can see, I am already discouraged. Bleh. Healthy is overrated anyway; wealthy and wise is where it's at. What am I saying? To hell with wise...

Chapter XXXV: Bullshit Theory

All college students are aware of the delicate art and science of Bullshit. Indeed, some are hyperaware, and may count themselves among the elevated ranks of 'Bullshit Buccaneers' as defined on urbandictionary.com. Incidentally, urbandictionary.com was originated by Cal Poly alumni.

A mere underclassman as myself would not presume to Buccaneer status, but I would like to submit for the inspection of my peers and betters certain observations on one aspect of Bullshit Theory--inflating the word count.

One effective way to inflate word count in an essay is to use humor in the introduction, because that paragraph has the least real content and does not require any research to write. Also, one must realize that a professor is probably very bored after reading several papers on the exact same topic, so will not notice that the introduction has been artificially inflated--if you hide it behind style. Ideally of course, word count inflation should not be necessary. In a perfect world, you would have so much information as a result of your thorough research over the previous weeks that the problem is too many words rather than too few. Alas, we do not live in that world, so there I am, ten minutes before class, and staring at an essay (written in the previous hour) that is 150 words too short. The solution? Jam-pack the introduction with loads of glorious bullpoo. To wit:

Mother Russia: An Overview of Gender Inequality in the Post-Soviet Era
Two images coalesce immediately when I think of the term “Russian woman.” The first is referenced in the title—that of ‘Mother Russia,’ the squat, practical, gruffly affectionate matron whose role is at home, baking latkes for the babushkas. The second image, of course, is that of svelte Russian spy/assassin whose expertise is seducing Western intelligence operatives and extracting state secrets from them. Though disparate, both of these conceptions arrive via Hollywood—Enemy at the Gates, and Goldeneye, respectively. However, most women in modern Russia do not fit into either of these stereotypes, but must engage the exigencies of modern life (few of which make it to the movie screen). Broadly speaking, the status of women in Russia, vis-à-vis men, will be discussed in terms of the Soviet Era and how it has evolved in the Post-Soviet Era. In particular, economic, political, and domestic issues will be analyzed, and we shall see that the difficulties facing Russian women in these areas are highly interconnected.

175 words to contain 32 words of actual information. I am a genius.

Chapter XXXIV: I Have Alzheimer's

At 10:50, I decided I wanted to go to the gym, which closes at 12:00, for a quick spin on the treadmill. So I left my room and walked about a quarter of a mile before I realized I didn't have my mp3 player. I walked back to my room, where I found a flyer hanging on my door about Sock Puppet night in the Community Center. Basically, you design a sock puppet (they provide socks) and if you make the best one you get a gift certificate for some iTunes.

I go inside, discuss sock puppet strategy with my roommate, and drink a cup of orange juice. Then, I leave again, only to remember a minute later why I had gone back at all. So I go back in...get my mp3 player, and walk the entire three-quarters of a mile down to the gym. Only to realize that I forgot my ID card, which I need to get through the turnstile. And now it's 11:30 and too late to go back. Damn.

However, I only locked myself out of my room five times this year, compared to nine last year. Eleven if you count the two times I spent several minutes trying to unlock a door to the wrong building.

On the other hand, three times this year I've ordered food I couldn't pay for because I forgot my wallet, and that only happened once last year.

Quote of the Day:
"God wants me to eat pepper tonight." - Quinn Wong, after accidentally spilling pepper three feet from the kitchen cabinet onto his unholy concoction of steamed rice, butter, and soy sauce. It landed in a perfectly even spray over his plate and not a speck elsewhere.

Chapter XXXIII: Gainfully Employed

A wise man once said, "My job consists of basically masking my contempt for the assholes in charge, and, at least once a day, retiring to the men's room so I can jerk off while I fantasize about a life that doesn't so closely resemble Hell."

Unfortunately, my current employment --the first I've had in my entire life--is not as exciting as that. I feel more like Patrick Bateman, than Lester Burnham. My job is a sinecure...I don't seem to have any real responsibilities, and I'm overpaid compared to people with the same job title at other departments.

Today I sat at a desk for seven hours, and every 45 minutes or so, someone might drop off a document. I would carefully hole-punch this document and then deposit it in a three-ring binder, in alphabetical order relative to all the other documents in the folder.

I also answered the phone twice. The sad part is when I call my supervisor to ask what I should be doing, nothing really comes up.

The rest of my time is spent doing homework on this computer, which I have affectionately nicknamed The People's Computer, on account of it being publicly funded and therefore belonging, theoretically, to every (tax-paying) Californian.

Hello, People's Computer.

Good Day, Comrade.

...They pay me $8.50 an hour for this.

[Update 5/2/2006] I have more duties now. Yay!

Image of the Day: Jenga Construction I Built on the Toilet While Drunk in the Bathroom

Chapter XXXII: Howell, Revisited

A few months ago, I wrote something about 'a flaming sack of goat feces.' This was not in reference to the peculiar sexual fetish my roommate Darron has, but rather to my perception of Professor Howell's English 253--Romanticism in British Literature--class.

I registered for English 253 with Professor Howell during Fall Quarter, but dropped it after the first day (as if it were a flaming sack of goat feces), and so did 15 other people...out of a class of 35. However, I was not able to replace it with another English class, and nothing fit into my schedule during Winter, so here I am in Spring, registered for Howell's English 253, Tuesdays and Thursdays, from 6 to 8 PM.

This time though, I have no illusions about what I am getting myself into. I KNOW this is going to suck ass, but I'm almost looking forward to it, in a masochistic kind of way. It's sort of like that website goatse.cx. The first time you're tricked into clicking the link, it's so shocking that you close your browser immediately, then shut your eyes for 5 minutes, trying to wipe the image from your retina. I used a similar defense mechanism when confronted with Professor Howell for the first time two quarters ago. But after a while, you become curious and open up goatse again, of your own volition. I think I'm at that stage with this class.

Here are some of the nice things other students have said about Professor Howell on polyratings.com, Cal Poly's student-run, professor rating site:

"I recall how he would come into class slowly everyday, sipping a cup of tea as if he was in great pain. It was the same way with his words, which he said with such anguish that I imagined them trudging forth from the depths of his soul, tearing the flesh on their way out."
"He would take a thought that probably occured to him as he entered this classroom, and visibly and audibly labour his way through the maze that thought created."
"The guy took a half an hour of class just drawing out a seating chart. The way he speaks is like Ben Stein on depressants."
"This was the most boring class I've ever had in my life."

The first time I read those comments, I thought they were exaggerations. They aren't.

In other news, I don't know if Darron actually has a goat feces fetish (flaming, and in a sack, or otherwise). I just wonder if he ever reads my blog.

[Update] As of May 27, 2006, Darron has not commented on the goat fetish allegations contained herein.

Chapter XXXI: Five Lists, With Commentary

Image of the Day: Glass Sculpture by Marvin Lipofsky, on display in the University Art Gallery


















Last Five Movies I Watched:
1. Serenity (A-)
2. V for Vendetta (D-)
3. Cidade de Deus (A)
4. Vanity Fair (C)
5. Supernova (F)

Last Five Foods I Ate:
1. Tiramisu cake (C)
2. Braised short-ribs (A-)
3. Beef bulgogi (B+)
4. Vegetable fried rice (B-)
5. In-N-Out cheeseburger (A)

Last Five Drinks I Consumed:
1. Mango iced tea (C+)
2. Frozen margarita (B+)
3. Orange Gatorade (A-)
4. Ice water (B)
5. Smirnoff Ice (B+)

Last Five Poker Hands I was Dealt:
1. Ace-Jack offsuit (B)
2. Five-Deuce suited (F)
3. Nine-Five offsuit (F)
4. Queen-Jack suited (C+)
5. Jack-Four suited (F)

Last Five Websites I Bookmarked:
1. Bound, Blindfolded and Dead...
2. Adventures in Everyday Life
3. Cal Poly Office of Academic Records Grading Symbols
4. Calories, Carbs, and Alcohol Content in Various Beers
5. Successful Job Interviewing Tips

Chapter XXX: Lorem Ipsum, et al.

As you know, Lorem Ipsum is the name of the Latin derived nonsense text used to fill up graphic design solutions as they are being developed. It is useful because it resembles many European languages in letter distribution, but does not distract the viewer by actually being readible. A web-based Lorem Ipsum generator can be found here (a generator is also built into Adobe InDesign, if you have it).

It goes something like this:
Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Donec et enim. Vestibulum ante ipsum primis in faucibus I fucking hate my life orci luctus et ultrices posuere cubilia Curae...

Ready, AIM, Fire...:
tryptofantasmiC: in civilization II, if you choose to use the world map, your first settlers always start in the middle east no matter what country you are
tryptofantasmiC: USA, aztecs, england...
Xxxxxxxxxxx Xxxx: well that's just great
Xxxxxxxxxxx Xxxx: maybe the USA can get oil off the bat
Xxxxxxxxxxx Xxxx: and not have to fight "wars" all the time

Image of the Day: My Fried Rice Concoction [2 cups steamed rice, 2 tbsp oil, 2 onions, 4 eggs, three handfuls frozen vegetables, one handful salad mix, one handful mushrooms, 1/2 cup soy sauce, 2 chicken breasts].

I know what you are thinking--'Soy sauce in fried rice? Jerry, are you out of your mind?! Or worse, have you turned White and actually think that is normal?!' Neither! In much the same way some men wear pink because they are secure in their masculinity, I use soy sauce on rice because I am secure in my Asian heritage. At least, that's what I tell myself.

You click, but to no avail.

Chapter XXIX: 'S' for Shit

Simply put, V For Vendetta was a terrible movie. To anyone who actually enjoyed it, I can only ask, rhetorically, 'Are you like...a crazy person?' Natalie Portman's weakest performance, I must say.

Other movies I hated, in no particular order:
Waking Life, Vertigo, Final Fantasy: The Spirits Within, The Brothers Grimm

Image of the Day: A For Acupuncture. [Digital camera, and then Photoshop]


I like the gummy in the back with his head tilted, as in 'WTF?'

Chapter XXVIII: The Fucking Cusp [Updated]

I have a B+ in Physics...missed the A- cut by 3 points out of 500. I didn't study for the final because I was so sure I'd make it. Thank you, Professor Baker, for teaching me humility (as well as thermodynamics).

Also, despite scoring 10-15% higher than the median on every exam, I'm ending up with a B+ in Architectural History as well. Missed the A- by 3 points out of 400.

And finally, assuming no curve is miraculously applied at the last minute (a fair assumption to make, in this case), my final grade in Calculus will be 68.5%, also known as D+. This score distribution is here. I was able to deduce that I am bar 38 based mainly on my homework score, which is abysmally low (I only turned in one assignment).

AAAAAHHH!!!!! WHY CAN'T I JUST BE SMARTER BY ONE FUCKING PERCENT?! Or stupider, by the same amount. When I calculated my GPA just now, I missed a parantheses and it came out to 173.539...That would have made the Dean's List for sure.

[Update] Pursuant to an empassioned email I sent to my Calculus professor, he decided to give me a C-. I wouldn't say I finessed my way into a grade boost, since I clearly deserved it, but it was close call. Horray for well composed emails! The email (I am especially proud of my use of paragraph seperations):

Professor Jimenez,
My name is Jerry Fan, ID# 7997, and I was enrolled in afternoon section of MATH 182. I noticed that the final grade distributions had been posted on the class website but not individual grades.

I was able to deduce which bar on the final grade distribution represents me based on my midterm scores. It appears that my Final Exam score is 107/130, and that my raw average for the course is 69%.

I was wondering if you could confirm these figures, or clarify them if they are wrong.

Furthermore, I would like to know if there is anything I can do to show my understanding of the material and demonstrate that I deserve to pass this class.

I think the significant improvement between my midterm scores (F and D, respectively) and my Final Exam score (B) shows that although I did not grasp the concepts at first, I was able to by the end of the quarter, since the Final was cumulative.

Also, whereas I was simply unprepared for the first midterm, I actually did fairly well on the second one, except for the two problems on Arc Length and Surface Area, for which I simply blanked out and scored 1's. Were it not for these two problems, I would have earned at least a C on the second midterm. I made sure to study these two sections much more carefully before the Final.

Finally, I realize I would not be in this situation had I just completed more homework assignments, and I have no excuse for that, besides simply not having time to as result of taking 20 units this quarter.

Thus, although my course average is 69%, I don't believe that a D would accurately reflect my attainment of the learning objectives outlined in the syllabus.

Please let me know what I can do at this point.

Thank you,
Jerry Fan
jcfan@calpoly.edu

In other news:
"There's a great story to be told about atoms and the void: how atoms evolved out of fire and bent space and grew into Homer, Chartres cathedral and 'Blonde on Blonde.' How those same atoms came to learn that the earth, sun, life, intelligence and the whole universe will eventually die." - The New York Times

Image of the Day: Levels-Adjusted Scan Of India Ink Blown With A Straw Across Nonabsorptive Paper

Chapter XXVII: So That's What It Feels Like

Image of the Day: Me, Myself, and I (cheap camera + Photoshop)

Imagine getting out of bed to go downstairs and pour a cup of water. When you reach the top of the stairs and look down, there are a bunch of lions at the bottom of the staircase! And they are messily devouring your older brother.

Now, imagine being chased along a dark beach by a serial killer, and suddenly he shows up five feet in front of you. He holds up what looks like a mass of raggedly cut, semi-translucent silk. It is the skin of your brother, whom the serial killer flayed alive before coming after you.

What would you be thinking right then? If you're one smart cookie, you might think to yourself, 'My older brother was devoured by lions at the bottom of the staircase and they picked him clean to the bone. There is no way that could be his flayed skin.' However, I'm an idiot when I am dreaming, so I was scared shitless.

It's funny, since I get along perfectly well with my brother that his gory death figures so prominently in my nightmares. In all, I can remember five nightmares in which my brother dies.

For some reason, I didn't dream very much after 6th grade until I entered college.

Earlier this year, I had an extremely convoluted and disturbing dream which ended with my mother, in the guise of a giant red ant, trying to seduce me in what used to be my sister's bedroom. I am not kidding. Until thirty seconds ago, I wasn't going to tell that to anyone, EVER, but it seemed germane.

Anyways, all that was background for the totally awesome dream I had last night. It began in my campus bookstore and Dr. Octavius* was impaling people with his arms. I can still see a metal tentacle coming at me through a bloody hole in a man's chest.

Somehow I survived, and the next scene took place in Walmart, which was inexplicably located where the Ralph's supermarket is supposed to be. King Kong was roaming through the aisles and everyone was trying to hide. I realized it was the perfect time to steal something, so I grabbed a VCR and ran out the door and about halfway up the hill to get home.

I heard King Kong behind me so I hid in a bush, but he found me and picked me up and said, 'Even I think you're stupid!' Apparently he was disappointed that I had stolen something and it was telling that the big dumb ape was calling me stupid. Then, he grasped my head with two of his giant fingers and beegan squeezing, clearly intending to kill me for my sin.

When I realized I was about to die, my heart fluttered for half a second, but then I became completely calm, and, in fact, a little curious. I wasn't entertaining any thoughts of an afterlife, but rather what it would feel like to have no sensation at all (oxymoronic though that may be).

And then...I woke up. So that's what it feels like to be on the verge of death. It's very empowering to know that it isn't that scary after all.

Dying in a dream** has been one of the coolest experiences of my life.

*Dr. Octavius is a character in the Spiderman universe, and has six steel tentacles. I don't know why he doesn't have eight.
**'Dying in a dream' has a nice rhythm to it. If I ever start a band, that'd be a good name. Or perhaps, 'A Bloodstained Orgasm.' I thought of 'A Bloody Orgasm' first, but that just sounded like something an excited British woman would say. Like "When Harold told me he wanted a divorce, I almost had a bloody orgasm I was so happy. Lord knows it would be the first one in fifteen years."

Chapter XXVI: I Don't Remember What I Was Trying To Forget (That's Good, Right?)

Up until yesterday morning, the most disgusting experience I'd ever had was crapping my pants on a warm summer day and feeling the poop squish around for 20 minutes while I walked home from school.

But...

Waking up naked and discovering that my pillow and half my face is covered in vomit certainly takes the cake as far as disgusting experiences go.

It's ironic that I made fun of my roommate's 'predilection for alcohol induced vomitting fests' a couple posts back. At least Brian had the presence of mind to get to a toilet.

Apparently he was of some assistance to me in my moment of self-destruction, or so I hear (having no recollection of anything after shot number fourteen).

I am disappointed with myself.

Chapter XXV: St. Valentine's Day

Image of the Day: Scan Of Valentine I Made For Roommate Named Quinn.


















I'm actually quite proud of this design, because it is can be read on several levels. Most obviously, the red hearts connote Valentine's Day, which is the inspiration for this exercise.

There is also an element of humor in that the design takes advantage of the multiple definitions of the word 'card.' It is both a Valentine's Day card, and the Ace of Hearts, a playing card.

This second meaning of 'card' personalizes the design to Quinn because he plays poker online.

Chapter XXIV: PhotoEssay: January

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. I guess my Philosophy 230 professor didn't get the memo; she inexplicably gave me an F for turning in a picture of scrambled eggs instead of an 500 word essay about Descarte's Evil Genius Hypothesis. Maybe her reasoning is that I turned in 500 words too many?

Anyway, it's been almost exactly a month now that I've had a digital camera (actually the first camera of any type that I've ever owned) and it didn't come with a manual or anything, so I had to figure it out intuitively, sort of like if you give a gorilla a fog horn. He sort of pokes at it and tries to eat it and then it lets out an earsplitting noise and he drops it and grunts at it menacingly and then tries to eat it again. That was basically me with the camera.

The following is an abbreviated documentary of my first month interacting with the strange beast known as Sony Cybersot 3.2 Megapixels.


This was the very first picture I took, during a slow moment in my evening. I wasn't aiming at anything, but appear to have captured the corner of my monitor.


For my second photographic tour de force, I turned on the lights. Two face down playing cards in the foreground lend an air of mystery. What rank and suit are those cards, you wonder to yourself.



The title of this work is Instant Trevi, Just Add Nymphs. For some reason, the pile of unwashed dishes reminded me on the Trevi Fountain, where nymphs frolic on a gigantic travertine base (65 feet long), carved to look like natural rock.



Stuffed bear. Blogger does wierd things when you upload .png files and usually I would try this again, but I think the creepy eyes are more interesting than the original photograph.


My state provided illumination device. It works by sucking in the darkness when you turn it on.












Tree #1.










If I'm not at home, I'm probably here, the Architecture Building. That sounds like it should be funny for some reason. The Architecture...Building. Besides exemplifying the New Brutalist movement in architecture, the prolific use of concrete steps and austere metal railings inadvertently created a skateboard Mecca. Security cameras were installed to ward off delinquent highschoolers who sneak in on the weekends.



A triptych of bulletin boards.










Cerro Vista (my apartment complex) in the late afternoon. That blue column near the center has a giant button on which you are supposed to run to and press if you are being chased up the steps by a rapist. There would probably be about 120 people watching from the windows, but none of them are going to call the cops. Remember Kitty Genovese.



Much like Cristo and Jeanne Claude's The Gates in Central Park, all that remains of Darron's inflatable chair magnum opus is photographic evidence. They began peeling off the wall about three hours after they were installed. Plan B is to wait for a rainy day and use them to slide down a muddy hill.



Tree #2.









Quinn and Brian, fresh from Wal-Mart and installed in their spacious new home. Yes, those are poker chips on the bottom; I wasn't going to pay $6.99 for a bag of pebbles.


Darron attempts to terrorize Quinn, but Quinn, busy looking for food, is unaffected.





Darron attempts to terrorize Quinn, but Quinn, busy looking for food, is unaffected.




Boy With Glasses and Protruding Tongue. Alternatively known as Self Portrait #1.








The new fish abode, complete with filter, air pump, and pebbles. The fishbowl is visible in the bottom left for comparison.



Quinn the human.











Quinn the fish. Note the startlingly similar expressions
exhibited by each Quinn upon being photographed.



Brian the human, who has a similar coloration as Brian the fish. However, Brian the fish does not share his namesake's predilection for alcohol-induced vomitting fests, the aftermath of which we are witnessing here.



Origami is not appreciated in this apartment.











This was my second time ever making scrambled eggs. They don't look so good close up.





Brian, on a better day.













Darron, after being fed.











Quinn and Brian visit Paris. Afterwards, Quinn gets lost in the cup for about half an hour.






Concept model of an abstract corner construction consisting of cardboard rectangles suspended by straws, suspended by strings, suspended by brads in the sides. Red ink is used to add a splash of color.

The real thing will use wood, PVC pipe, steel rope, bolts, and liquid latex.

The end! Each of the photographs above stands for about 50 photographs of the same thing. I guess it's a little late to say this, but there won't be any goat porn in this chapter. Sorry to dissappoint you all.

In other news, there won't be an Image of the Day today.