Let me rant and let me ramble

I finished last week exhausted, then worked this past weekend as well, although I at least got to sleep in.

I've spent the first few days of my break sleeping in, but going to bed too late to really get rested on it. I've seen a bunch of friends, as well as my parents and grandmother. I've vegged out rereading old novels I loved when I read them 10+ years ago. I ran errands and took care of shit.

Vespa: $4,299
Tax, title, license: $924
Leather jacket: $100
Insurance premium: $293/yr
Parking: $10/mo
Yes, it's gonna be good. I take my road test on Friday, hopefully I can pick it up next week.

Vic Ruggiero played a 2+ hour set Sunday night. Sweet, it was.

Yesterday I was rather productive. Today I was lazy and listless all fuckin' day. Somewhat of a waste. Relaxing, though not too good for my self-esteem.

I shaved my beard. I still have the urge to clean food off it after I eat. Gross. I swear my cheeks are getting chubbier. Not good.

I ran into Ryan K. twice at the grocery stores this evening. Ryan, I was going to say more about you, but I can't remember for shit at the moment. Sorry.

Tomorrow's a big cleaning day.

Anyone know any places I'd find cool in Seattle? I've got four nights to kill there, and a few days.

After too much fun: Eat to work, sleep to work, work to work, work, work!

Seventeen hours of science fiction at the Music Box yesterday. I'm fucking exhausted. I got home at quarter to six this morning, with the sky light and birds singing the coming of dawn. Of course, I woke up yesterday hungover and probably still a little buzzed from my, ahem, overindulgence Friday evening, after only eight hours of sleep. My body was screaming it needed more, so of course I went out into the world for 20 hours.

There was a really cute nerdy (of course, being a sci-fi fest) girl there who I often caught looking rather keenly in my direction at the Music Box. Unfortunately she was with first some friends, and then one guy met her later, and I was too chicken-shit to just ask if she were seeing anybody and ask her out.

I've been procrastinating at school, and as a result I'm going to have to work my ass off this week. But tests are done; the big thing I've got to do is get my IRB application done so I can send it in after my thesis committee meeting on Thursday morn. Oh, and reschedule a few patients so I can make that meeting. I've also got some records I took on Friday that I've got to organize.

This afternoon shall be spent working, and of course I'll get burned out and quit early. Whatever. After this weekend, and last weekend, and I dunno how many before that, I should be totally sleep-deprived.


On the plus side, I've been totally grooving on the Tim Armstrong/Aggrolites record, or the tracks that have been released online so far. I can't wait for the actual record to be out so I can get the songs all mastered to the same level.

I'm totally fucked.

Dude, I am so fucking plastered right now. We had our departmental graduation dinner tonight and I drank *waaaaaaaaaaaaaay* tooo much. I've already thrown up once in Fado, and Shana and Rob convinced me to take a cab home.

I'm writing this blog entry from my bathroom, and I'm sure you can guess what that means. I'm totally fucked up. It's been years since I've been this drunk. I started out with a plastic bag in my hand and headed for the bathroom right about the time I figured the plastic bag would be inadequate compensation for the shit I've been feeling. I've since upchucked 2-3 times into my toilet.

Moral of the story: know your limits. Don't fuck with them.

Reminding myself to be happy.

My shirt smells like barbecue. I was going to get sushi take-out for dinner, and then Dana told me of a dental student barbecue. So I stuffed myself. I was also standing outside in fifty degrees in a T-shirt. I don't know how much cleaning I'll get done before I conk out for the evening.

Sunday afternoon I was sitting out in the sun in the park across the street, reading. It occurred to me that I emote much more to the sad parts and depressing scenes in books and songs. I've always liked any movie that could make me cry. Hell, crying just feels good sometimes. Sometimes I have to remind myself how it feels to be happy.

I finished reading The Boy Detective Fails last night.

Billy notices his arch-foe, Professor Von Golum, curled beneath the bed frame. Though the old man is asleep, there is a length of shiny wire twisted in his hands, the murder weapon held close, at the ready.

"Professor, may I ask what you are doing down there?"

"I was planning on strangling you as soon as you went to sleep."

"I see."

"Perhaps it was poor planning, but I could not stay awake. It is very comfortable under here."

"Would you like some help out from underneath?"

"No. No, I'm alright. I'll just stay here, if you don't mind."

Billy sighs, turning on his side.

"Professor?"

"Yes?"

"May I ask you a question, sir?"

"Yes, but know it may be the last question you ever ask."

"Have you ever been in love, sir?"

"Oh, my poor, poor childish detective. Surely you must know by now. Love is the invention of man. It does not exist. It is a fairy tale designed to keep order. Imagine how we as humans would behave if we freed ourselves from the idiocy of that one particular idea: what a wonderful world; a world of absolute possibility."

"I think I may be in love, sir."

"May I ask how you know? How can you prove it? You are a detective, no? Where is the evidence? What clues are you basing this foolish assumption on?"

"I don't know, really. It just occurs as a feeling in my hands and behind my knees."

"But can it be placed in a bell jar? Can it be seen under a microscope? How can something as invisible - as insubstantial - as love ever hope to last?"

"I cannot stop thinking about kissing her."

"That is chemistry - or biology - it has nothing to do with hearts and flowers and the like. Do not be confused by what the natural world already knows: We are all, in our own way, completely and totally alone. If love is real, it is a complete and total failing of the intellect. It is utter self-destruction. It is pandemonium."

"Yes, thank you, sir."

"It is my pleasure, Billy."

In the near dark, the boy detective finds his bottle of pills and quickly swallows one Ativan, holding his breath until he is sure the villain has crept out. He looks up in wonder as the soft haze of snow drifts down.

......

Outside it is raining; the boy detective and Penny smile at each other silently, still not touching. Billy, in his blue sweater, and Penny, in her pink hat and brown dress, smile down at their feet, unable to look at each other or even speak. Beside Penny on the bus again, Billy thinks about making a bold move - trying to hold Penny's hand - but for whatever reason, he cannot work up the courage to make such an attempt.

Billy and Penny smile at each other silently from across the booth of the small yellow diner. The table is littered with coffee cups and opened sugar packets and small plastic creamer containers. Carefully, Billy moves these items aside, making a path. Slowly, Billy goes to take Penny's hand and she lets him hold it this time: finally.

......

Penny's brown eyes disappear, hidden as she lowers her head in shame.

"I'm sorry, Billy. I thought...I thought I was ready."

Penny begins crying and leans over and kisses Billy's cheek nervously. She turns, unlocks the door, and runs up the steps. Billy catches a fading glimpse of Penny's white ankle and pink shoe as the door swings closed behind her. He sits on the steps and stares back over his shoulder at the building, frowning. He looks down at his hand, which is, once again, empty.

The boy detective is feeling badly as he rides the bus home that morning. Imagine this is how he feels exactly:

dancing dancing dancing dancing dancing dancing
scissors scissors scissors - heart - scissors scissors scissors

......

The boy detective is on the bus crying. The people sitting beside him do their best to ignore him.

......

To the boy or girl that finds this:
Mr. Howard Lunt, aged 9, hid this April 24, 1902. Congratulations! Put back in spot so others might find.
Signed,
Mr. Howard Lunt, President, Leage of Amateur
Whodunit Enthusiasts

Billy and Penny look at each other and smile. He nods, quite pleased. The boy detective slips the note back into the bellows, seals it up, and lowers the accordion back into the drainpipe. They walk back toward the bus station. The sun begins shining over their shoulders.

We would really like to think that you were holding hands with somebody while you read that last part. If not, you might read it again and ask someone to hold your hand right now. You might then write that person's name somewhere here on this page with a heart glowing around it. Why not? It might be fun.

I still smell like barbecue.

Outtakes

I've been reading Joe Meno's The Boy Detective Fails. It's pretty sweet.

It is none other than Effie Mumford, age eleven, an adolescent, female, and very awkward-looking. What you must know about Effie is that she has won the local, state, and national science fair for the past three years. Also, she is hopelessly in love with amateur rocketry. Additionally, she is an interminable social pariah, a long-suffering possessor of many, many unstoppable runny noses, a silent victim of reoccurring eye infections, and a future prize-winning neurobiologist. One last important fact about Effie Mumford: She does not like to be touched. Not by anyone, not ever.

As per her usual routine, Effie is dressed wildly inappropriately, in her white and purple winter jacket, which she wears year round, well into the hottest months of summer, white scarf around her neck, fur-lined hood pulled up, entirely covering her small head.

......

It is the school library where Effie Mumford goes to hide during lunch period. She does not eat at school. She is too afraid someone will take advantage of her while her mouth is open and that she will eat an item from her lunch which has somehow been poisoned. Poisoning someone does not require much imagination and she believes that, if given the opportunity, her classmates would surely take it.

It is later in the school day that she realizes today is the day of the science fair. She has nothing prepared. Her experiment having been ruined by the death of her rabbit, she walks about the small, terribly arranged exhibits - past a display for a rocket-car of the future, past a papier-mache model of a volcano, past a bumpy bust describing the science of phrenology - to Parker Lane's prize-winning presentation, entitled, "How Water Totally Becomes Ice." Effie Mumford stops and stares, dumfounded, glaring at the horrible Magic-Markered illustrations, the torn and oddly pasted National Geographic pages, and worse, a rectangular ice cube tray from which Parker, grinning, offers samples.

Effie Mumford's small hands turn red, as does her face; what is so bothersome is the knowledge that she could have easily won if she had only tried again. It is this knowledge that makes her cry - not for the murder of her bunny, not about the enduring, pervasive insults, not because of her terrible, taped-together glasses. It is knowing that she could have done better than all of this and did not, which forces the small, shiny tears from her eyes. She has allowed herself, once again, to be defeated by mediocrity, and it is this thought - the apparent triumph of the uninspired and average - that truly makes her angry. Out of both rage and frustration, she purposefully knocks over Parker Lane's poorly assembled display, the poster boards crashing to the gymnasium as Effie runs away.

.......

At the Convocation of Evil, the schedule of events reads:
9:00-9:30: Welcome with coffee and assorted muffins and bagels
9:30-10:30: Break-out groups:
- Crime as Your Career: Investing for the Future
- Kidnapping: More Hassle Than It's Worth?
- High-Grade Explosives from Everyday Chemicals
10:30-11:30: Featured Presentation: A Century of Madmen
11:30-12:00: Featured Panel: To Wear a Mask?
12:00-1:00: Lunch
1:00-2:00: Officers and Sub-Committee Elections
2:00-3:00: Featured Guest: Senator Jonah Klee (R-Texas)
3:00-4:00: Closing Remarks: "Our Evil Architectural Plans"

......

The boy detective has never kissed a girl. Shhh - it is a secret. It make him feel very bad.

......

The boy detective enters the small silver office building and sneaks past a snoring guard into a waiting elevator. When the elevator doors open, he can hear the sound of a vacuum running. He follows the sound and slowly sneaks around the corner of a small green cubicle and finds the lady in pink, now in a pink cleaning smock, leaning over a small white vacuum, running it back and forth, dancing to her headphones, shouting along loudly. It is impossible not to smile, seeing her: eyes closed, feet tapping in place, yelling louder than the vacuum cleaner.

In a moment, the lady stops vacuuming and begins dancing with a tall silver coat rack. One of its rungs holds a suit jacket, which is swying back and forth in time. Then the lady grabs a handful of files and tosses them up in the air. Finding a chair, she sits and spins around, pounding her feet on the top of the desks. Like that, she has climbed up on a conference table and, her face all red and nearly out of breath, she slides down the table, scattering an enormous pile of recyclable paper.

If somehow, through science or magic, we could discern an X-ray of Billy's heart just then, it would look like a lovely, perfectly shaped balloon - the kind sold on Valentine's Day in the comical rounded heart shape - growing larger and larger, filling his chest, his eyes, expanding to the size of the room, as the lady swings her hair around, still dancing.

I sat alone, bored, accomplishing nothing...

Tonight will be the first night I get to sleep before 3am in several days. One of my old professors told me to enjoy the single life while I can. I gave a lecture, which went well. Dana talked me into going for dinner and beer with a simple, "Want to go to Hawkeye's?"

For you historians out there, how do you feel about burgeoning American fascism?


Syncing the drum fills and artillery is kind of haunting.

Three days, no happy ending...

It's no fun when you go on a date with a girl you have no attraction to.

It's frustrating when you want to be with a girl and you can't.

It sucks when you meet a pretty girl and let her go because you know it ain't gonna work.

My ankle hurts from too much dancing.

Despite this, life is grand.

Let's get movin' into action.

It's been a while since I posted anything. I've been fucking tired. Emotionally worn. I've been to shows, taken a road trip, and been bruised and abused. I've gotten sick, recovered, and relapsed. I've lost my voice. I've read easy-read books and taken what is probably the last written final exam of my life. Many of these are interrelated.

Right now I'm eating carrots and drinking beer. I haven't been to the grocery store in almost three months. I've got plenty of beer, though, so stop by if you're thirsty. Mind the mess; I've been procrastinating on the cleaning.

I'm giving a lecture to the dental students about integrating orthodontics into a comprehensive treatment plan, and put together what has probably been the first handout ever written at this school on the subject. It took hours, but I did about 95% of it from memory. I guess I'm learning something. I've been invited to give a one-hour lecture at the Chicago Dental Society midwinter meeting in 2009; I don't think I'll have a lot of cases to show, but I can focus well on research and published articles. Whatever, I've got almost two years. I can't turn this down; do things like that often enough and you don't get asked again.

Hey, Ryan K.: my sore shoulder from the Lifetime show? It was better by the time they finished their set. I'm not worn out, I just need to be loosened up before use.

This weekend should kick ass; even though I'm missing Critical Mass - there are several people I know who are planning to make it to May's Mass - I've got Ska Night, scooter school, four shows, and friends I've not seen in a while. Bitchin'.


Checkers means it's ska.

Geraldo, Fred Phelps, Bruce Lee, and Buzz Aldrin.

Geraldo as the reasonable one:


Fucked up (watch all seven parts):


Cool:


Buzz Aldrin kicks ass:

Everyone except the band looks like a rock star. Everyone except for you can go to hell.

Two quotes from the AVClub's SXSW reporting:

We've been at the Noise Pop party for less than 10 minutes, and we've already seen two ironic New Kids On The Block T-shirts.
..............
A sheriff's-department employee moonlighting as a cabbie tells me he's happy not to be at his regular job during SXSW, because arrestees in the music biz all think they're really important and deserve special treatment in the pokey. Self-important assholes? In the music industry? Say it ain't so.

I took my board exam this morning. I'm drinking beer and cleaning my hole - slowly. Last night I saw Bedouin Soundclash. Very nice. I napped this afternoon. I'm in a good groove. We'll see how that changes when I go back to school tomorrow.

See the world. The Easter Bunny hates you.

Do you really fucking get it? No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no!

DeKalb has a shitty-ass punk scene. Oh, the venues are OK, but the crowd at the show on Thursday sucked ass. Frat assholes pushing people around before the band is even on stage, muscle-bound gorillas who only know how to push people around and don't even seem to realize when the song's over. Fuck, they don't even pick each other up. Some kid charged me, so I grabbed him and dragged him in a circle and then just started pushing him through the pit until we both fell over with about ten other people. I'm waiting on the floor for the other kids to get off my legs so I can get up, and then I see some kid just standing next to me. "Help me up, you dummy!" I said to him, trying to pull my leg free. Jeez. Muscle-headed dipshits in collared shirts laughing at me for dancing rather than throwing my fists around with abandon. I told one of them that I take such insults from jocks as compliments.

The good things: Fake Problems put on a really good set. They remind me of the punk bands from ten years ago, as well as incorporating a lot of Americana, and having a really unique sound. Plus two cowbells on the drum kit. Against Me! put on a pretty sweet set as well. I was one of the few dancing to the new songs, even though I didn't know them - I'd heard a few of them when I saw them last fall, but that's it. I did run into this kid Matt I've met at a few shows, and this girl Carly I've met at shows before too. So that at least was fun.

I've still got sore spots on my knees, my voice is still a little rough, and my muscles are finally unknotting. So overall it was a good show. Last night I slept many many hours. Tomorrow I'm going to catch Bedouin Soundclash at the Subterranean and hope I get enough sleep for Monday morning.

Yesterday I was so damn tired I was falling asleep sitting up at the end of the day. I've pretty much given up studying for Monday's board exam. Everyone from the residents who took it last year to one of the guys that wrote a bunch of the questions on it says we really don't have to worry at all.

I've got the radio show tonight. I'll see how the new studio is, and monopolize a bunch of airtime to play the Big D interview Travis and I did a few weeks ago. I haven't been there in two weeks, and I got a little I've got to get of my system.

You're coming off kind of contrived and pretentious. You're not saying anything we haven't heard before.

Did Critical Mass last Friday. Fun. Dental students came too. Danny showed up later.

I stopped and took pics of people who were taking pics of us, but they all came out crappy. Best Mass in a long time. From downtown to Old Town, Streeterville, to Chinatown, back downtown, the West Loop, and then Danny and I peeled off in Wicker Park to head to the Handlebar for dinner after about four hours and 25 miles.

Fucking cops thought it'd be fun to harass us. So there were five squad cars at the end of the Mass with their sonic blasters going for no good reason. At the front you couldn't hear it, but when we stopped at a liquor store we got back right in front of them, and it hurt. I was talking with some mom who had her kids with her; she'd tried talking to the cops but they just gave a sarcastic thumbs up. I commented that someone somewhere was getting mugged or raped at the moment, and the cops decided to harass a bunch of bicyclists and make themselves look bad in front of grade-school kids. Someone else commented that since the front of the Mass couldn't even hear the sirens, it was like pushing string. Cops are good for something, just count on them being assholes when you don't need them.

I obviously got my bike back from the shop, finally, after I figured out what was wrong. In less than seven months, I completely wore out the chainwheel. I pretty much wore out the whole drivetrain. It was about $300 worth of stuff including the tune-up, but I figure even a new bike would rack up at least $200 worth of wear and tear after next winter.

I'm burnt out on studying. I don't care anymore. I spent all last weekend at school, pulling late nights going over board-review shit. Plus I'm pretty confident in my ability to pass my board exam on Monday. So I've been reading crappy novels - not "crappy," but actually crappy - and letting shit go to hell in a handbasket.

Tomorrow I'm going to see Against Me! I need it. Almost as much as I need sleep. And a shower.

Irony is For Suckers

There are apparently 32 surveilance cameras surrounding George Orwell's home.

Dill is one of the spices of my childhood. Like ambrosia sometimes.

How offensive would you find blackface today?

Referring back to the post I made this weekend about the movie 300: my mom sent me an e-mail with a link to pictures of the Iranian Norooz (New Year's) Parade in NYC. Two images to view: here and here. Feel free to view the rest.

I was a party in Jersey five years ago and I was sitting with an Iranian professor of sociology and he asked me if, as a half-Iranian, I identified as Iranian or not. I replied that I hadn't identified as Iranian until when in second grade I innocently answered the question of what kind of name my last name was and ended up getting chased at recess because of it. The taunts of "Terrorist!" followed me all through high school. After speaking with him, I read his book: The Making of an Iranian Community in America by Maboud Ansari. Although a bit dated, it struck me as inherently true, and there were many things I hadn't considered. His explanation of dual marginality struck me, and I definitely identified with it, choosing what many seem to consider a marginal lifestyle myself.

At least our New Year is based on some astronomical event, like the spring equinox.

A few years ago, some dumbshit foreign policy grad student from University of Chicago had the gumption to tell me that he doesn't believe racism exists since we're all one race. Dumbshit. I agree that we're all one race, but racism is out there and it isn't going to go away for a long fucking time, unfortunately. I'll never tell my kids to deny their Persian heritage, but I hope I never even have to consider the choice.

The only problem I have with people celebrating their cultural heritage is when they use it an excuse to set themselves apart from the rest of us for either selfish or "moral" reasons.

Drunken banking

It's very interesting to do online banking while drunk. I was doing arithmetic out loud. I'm going to read "bad" literature for the rest of the night. Maybe I'll get hungry enough to eat something.

It won't be safe to go out at night when the nerds of junior high unite!

The Onion has a review of the new Revenge of the Nerds DVD. When I was seven or eight, I went to see Ernest Goes to Camp (starring Jim Cleaver as Ernest P. Worrel) and one of the previews was for Revenge of the Nerds 2. It consisted of a fine study with classical music playing until a plush leather armchair swiveled around and Ogre let out his classic "NEEEEEEERRRRRRDDDDSSSSS!!!!!"

The Piraat's feeling pretty good. Tomorrow's Ska Night. I need it, sadly.

Fucking piece of fucking shit.

To top it off, three of the light bulbs of the four in my kitchen burnt out. And they're fucking long-life bulbs.

Remind me never to buy any car from a company that makes something called a Jeep Patriot. I guess that means no Mercedes once I make my millions.

I run head-on into traffic in the afternoon. I've logged the longest miles alone at night inside my room.

Fucking shit day. First we get the announcement of a new dress code for our department only. We're already the best-dressed department in the building, and now we get the news that we have to wear shirt and tie every day. Stupid. The tie especially, since they have been shown to collect bacteria within a few wears and are rarely ever laundered. Plus, it's also been shown that patients do not make any differentiation in quality of care based on appearance.

I got my bike back from the shop. $227 for a tune and several new parts, and the fucking chain is skipping more than it was when I dropped it off. The chain derailed at least a half dozen times on the half-mile ride home. I thought it was marginally unsafe to ride in traffic last week when I took it in, but now it's definitely unsafe. The real pisser is that Critical Mass is in two days and I need to find a bike to borrow. Maybe I'll even buy a second bike since I ride enough and it would be nice to have a spare. It's a pain in the ass to drive or take CTA sometimes.

I've had a 26oz. of Piraat in the fridge for a month. Tonight's the night for it. I want to cry and punch walls.