Evil Twin TheoryFriday, August 30, 2002
IT IS STILL RAINING MORE OR LESS. not quite raining but spitting. The weatherman says too little too late. so if that is the case I wish we could return to the regularly scheduled drought. I think the sun may have dissappeared completely and been replaced by the mother of all halogen bulbs. The only way for me to be sure that this is not the case is for the clouds to clear up.
I almost broke down and got a second cup of coffee today. My excuse would have been the weather, plus its cold in my office, but lately any more than my morning mega-cup has been making me feel icky. So I opted out in a amazing display of will power. The entire campus paused for a moment in mute admiration as I didn't go over to the caf and didn't get the cup of coffee. They gave me a non standing ovation as I sat, in a impressive display of training and sheer stick-to-it-iveness, did nothing. I was quite proud of myelf though I'm am far too modest to admit it.
But now I'm a little groggy and a bit hungry so I think I'll spend the afternoon popping tums to stave of the sick hungry feeling and do a bit of work so Monday morning I'll have something to say at the staff meeting.
I talked to Joel briefly today as I strolled across campus feeling flushed proud and sleepy from my victory over King Caffiene. I think I might sit in on the class he's teaching this semester. I can't take it as a student really because i'll be taking two vacations soon and thus would miss three class periods. Vince is in it though so it might be worth it to sit in. Plus haven't taken a class in over a year and I miss them. Next semester however, If I register as a non degree seeking somebody and only take advanced grad classes (600+lvl) when I get my act together for the whole Ph.D. thing some of the classes might transfer in some way. I bet I could take some of the theory based communication classes and make them apply to a program somehow. Flexability seems to be the watchword of program directors the world over.
I thought about taking a creative writing class as well but in the last one the fellow students were too serious and committed. They seemed to look down on me because A) I'm not planning to be the next Robert Frost. B) I appear to be a conformist ( EXAMPLE: everything I'm wearing today except my shoes is Eddie Baur, my shoes are rockports. how square can I get? Ack, I said square ! how uncool, err . . I mean whack, is that?) and 3) I'm older.
So I felt like an outcast and I tried to talk through the stuff we read using my mad analytical skillz honed to a razor's edge by my background in rhetoric and linguistics, sprinkled with the whole cognative psychology obsession and, guess what?, nobody liked that.
One terrible scene played out after reading a short piece and I floated an explanation ( a valid one BTW) for it that linked the poem's imagery to the evolution of language and intelligence in humans ( the poem was about a flame, a tongue of flame even, in a skull or something) The prof, a perfectly nice person and a fine poet in his own right, told me I was 'trying too hard.' Did I back down? Did I subside? No, of course not. I just plowed on through getting more and more embarassed as I picked the poem apart piece by piece noting the elements that supported my thesis while the rest of the class submerged. I'm such a dork. I mean, I was right of course, and I could back my rightness up in a way that is difficult to refute other then saying, 'you're trying to hard' but it didn't matter. No one would take the walk with me from whatever dark corner they were in to enlightment( the whole theory of recent human evolution BTW is founded on a handful of skulls. I wanted to say that too by way of excusing myslef but never did. So now I have. scratch that off my list)
It was my fault really. Not as if there is any use knowing some of this stuff or anything. What burned me was that I felt like I was being dismissed as a show off or something. It's the way I think,' I felt like yelling. I know a lot about it, like some people know a lot about stamp collecting or cross stiching. Not so strange really. By the way the selection of related books keeps growing in Barnes and Noble and the way it keeps popping up in vvariouss mainstream and academic publications I come across I am not alone either. Its what I'm familar with. We all relate moving works of fiction to personal experience right? Welcome to my personal experience.
Okey doke. That felt good. Tomorrow we relive the unfortunate bed wetting incident from my 6th birthday . . or was that my 26th birthday. As I grow older it all blurs together . . .
I almost broke down and got a second cup of coffee today. My excuse would have been the weather, plus its cold in my office, but lately any more than my morning mega-cup has been making me feel icky. So I opted out in a amazing display of will power. The entire campus paused for a moment in mute admiration as I didn't go over to the caf and didn't get the cup of coffee. They gave me a non standing ovation as I sat, in a impressive display of training and sheer stick-to-it-iveness, did nothing. I was quite proud of myelf though I'm am far too modest to admit it.
But now I'm a little groggy and a bit hungry so I think I'll spend the afternoon popping tums to stave of the sick hungry feeling and do a bit of work so Monday morning I'll have something to say at the staff meeting.
I talked to Joel briefly today as I strolled across campus feeling flushed proud and sleepy from my victory over King Caffiene. I think I might sit in on the class he's teaching this semester. I can't take it as a student really because i'll be taking two vacations soon and thus would miss three class periods. Vince is in it though so it might be worth it to sit in. Plus haven't taken a class in over a year and I miss them. Next semester however, If I register as a non degree seeking somebody and only take advanced grad classes (600+lvl) when I get my act together for the whole Ph.D. thing some of the classes might transfer in some way. I bet I could take some of the theory based communication classes and make them apply to a program somehow. Flexability seems to be the watchword of program directors the world over.
I thought about taking a creative writing class as well but in the last one the fellow students were too serious and committed. They seemed to look down on me because A) I'm not planning to be the next Robert Frost. B) I appear to be a conformist ( EXAMPLE: everything I'm wearing today except my shoes is Eddie Baur, my shoes are rockports. how square can I get? Ack, I said square ! how uncool, err . . I mean whack, is that?) and 3) I'm older.
So I felt like an outcast and I tried to talk through the stuff we read using my mad analytical skillz honed to a razor's edge by my background in rhetoric and linguistics, sprinkled with the whole cognative psychology obsession and, guess what?, nobody liked that.
One terrible scene played out after reading a short piece and I floated an explanation ( a valid one BTW) for it that linked the poem's imagery to the evolution of language and intelligence in humans ( the poem was about a flame, a tongue of flame even, in a skull or something) The prof, a perfectly nice person and a fine poet in his own right, told me I was 'trying too hard.' Did I back down? Did I subside? No, of course not. I just plowed on through getting more and more embarassed as I picked the poem apart piece by piece noting the elements that supported my thesis while the rest of the class submerged. I'm such a dork. I mean, I was right of course, and I could back my rightness up in a way that is difficult to refute other then saying, 'you're trying to hard' but it didn't matter. No one would take the walk with me from whatever dark corner they were in to enlightment( the whole theory of recent human evolution BTW is founded on a handful of skulls. I wanted to say that too by way of excusing myslef but never did. So now I have. scratch that off my list)
It was my fault really. Not as if there is any use knowing some of this stuff or anything. What burned me was that I felt like I was being dismissed as a show off or something. It's the way I think,' I felt like yelling. I know a lot about it, like some people know a lot about stamp collecting or cross stiching. Not so strange really. By the way the selection of related books keeps growing in Barnes and Noble and the way it keeps popping up in vvariouss mainstream and academic publications I come across I am not alone either. Its what I'm familar with. We all relate moving works of fiction to personal experience right? Welcome to my personal experience.
Okey doke. That felt good. Tomorrow we relive the unfortunate bed wetting incident from my 6th birthday . . or was that my 26th birthday. As I grow older it all blurs together . . .
Thursday, August 29, 2002
SO, I READ THE WORD 'EPIPHANY' SOMEWHERE, and that started me thinking about old poetry I'd written and posted on my lamer geocities sites way back a long time ago, back when I taught myself HTML, worked at a grocery store, and thought that was all I'd ever do. I went looking for the site and found it. It was even worse then I imagined. Not that I'm such a hot designer now. I don't have an artistic bone in my body. Can't do decent layout. I play around with everything for days before I'm happy with it, and most humilating perhaps, is the fact that I create typoes like God creates raindrops and snowflakes. Anyway I found my old site and it still sucks. But the poetry I like. I know it's a bit angsty and almost no one else will either like or understand it ( not because it's deep, but becuase it's obscure and egocentric) whatever. I'm not going to reveal the site but I will post some of the poems here. I thoght about critiqueing them too. You know, I'll pretend I'm someone else, who happens to have both read the poem and know what their about. I did similar things dozens of times in school, mostly as an undergrad, but a few times in grad school when I stopped being seriosu for a second. It works for me somehow. And that's what's important after all. Me. so here it is a poem by me, about me, and for me. me me me me . . .
The Epiphany Clock
"And we know that the hills and the trees, the distant
panorama
And the bold imposing facade are all being rolled away---" T.S. Eliot, from East Coker
It is like last Sunday,
When the church bells all pealed out our names,
And our song rolled down from the towers,
And poured out over the glitter and dust of the parking lots,
And swept into the streets beyond,
And not a soul save me noticed,
Bowed as we were in our private intent,
And I only nodded to the passing,
Of the notes that meant me,
Over my morning coffee.
Oh, it wasn't every bell really,
Or even a church at all, just maybe the cheesy,
Carillon in the strip mall across the way,
Pounding out stridently,
"The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow."
And yesterday and today,
In separate incidents, a Subaru,
And a nondescript primer gray behemoth,
Bleated out my name in traffic,
Though I wasn't paying much attention,
Gripped as I was in my latest brush with death,
Between red lights.
And what are we to make of,
The irises, and lilies, and snap-dragons,
That arrange themselves in the supermarket,
In secret alliteration, Eye rhymes, and riotous semiotics,
As we pass by in snug propriety?
And the radio,
And the television talk shows,
And the music spectaculars weave,
Seamless backdrops for us,
As we fly between our tiny passions
And what are we to make of,
Cryptic patterns of shadow on glass,
Significant pauses in the bank line,
The chill deja vu as your eyes slide,
Over a magazine cover?
What do they all mean?
These clockwork epiphanies,
When we're not paying much attention?
The Epiphany Clock
"And we know that the hills and the trees, the distant
panorama
And the bold imposing facade are all being rolled away---" T.S. Eliot, from East Coker
It is like last Sunday,
When the church bells all pealed out our names,
And our song rolled down from the towers,
And poured out over the glitter and dust of the parking lots,
And swept into the streets beyond,
And not a soul save me noticed,
Bowed as we were in our private intent,
And I only nodded to the passing,
Of the notes that meant me,
Over my morning coffee.
Oh, it wasn't every bell really,
Or even a church at all, just maybe the cheesy,
Carillon in the strip mall across the way,
Pounding out stridently,
"The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow."
And yesterday and today,
In separate incidents, a Subaru,
And a nondescript primer gray behemoth,
Bleated out my name in traffic,
Though I wasn't paying much attention,
Gripped as I was in my latest brush with death,
Between red lights.
And what are we to make of,
The irises, and lilies, and snap-dragons,
That arrange themselves in the supermarket,
In secret alliteration, Eye rhymes, and riotous semiotics,
As we pass by in snug propriety?
And the radio,
And the television talk shows,
And the music spectaculars weave,
Seamless backdrops for us,
As we fly between our tiny passions
And what are we to make of,
Cryptic patterns of shadow on glass,
Significant pauses in the bank line,
The chill deja vu as your eyes slide,
Over a magazine cover?
What do they all mean?
These clockwork epiphanies,
When we're not paying much attention?
WELL, I WAS VERY PRODUCTIVE THIS MORNING, but the mood seems to have left me. in the past hour i've scanned CNN, MSNBC, Salon, Slate, Arts and Letters Daily and the freaking NASA web site. I think now I'll wonder around and find some coffee or something. rats I just got a call someone is coming to see me in my office i better find something academic to do
Wednesday, August 28, 2002
HOLY CRAP! I was innocently browsing some of the "most recently updated" blogs and I ran across a reference to a web site called "Humans For Sale." Naturally I was interested. This site doesn't actually sell humans , but it does offer a survey that allows you to set prices on particular humans. That seemed fair.
I took the survey which evaulates your worth on a host of important factors including handedness, hairiness(2 kinds), IQ, and uhm . . well . . .Penis Size. I answered all the questions honestly and to the best of my ability. I thought I was pretty tough on myself, but guess what? I'm worth well over 2 Mil! Who knew?
I saw a TV show recently that said the raw materials of a human body ( vitamins, minerals and whatever) were only worth about 10 bucks. Talk about value added! I'm re-evaluating my place in the universe. I'm going to rush right home and tell Lori what a lucky, lucky woman she is . . . and how much she owes me. Really, I'm so flattered. I mean I figured, because of my considerable physical charm and hypnotic personality, that I might be worth as much as 500 bucks, but I never imagined how low that estimate was. And that's only my book value. There are dozens of assets, not covered in the "Humans for Sale" survey, that I could bring to bear in a face to face negotiations. I bet I could up my worth by as much as 10 to 15 percent in the right market.
So it comes down to this. In light of my new found self worth, it's time for me to make some changes. If any of my vast and ever expanding readership happens to be an female uber-model, with an IQ over 150, a great sense of humor and a yen for shy pudgy men with various and sundry opinions as numerous as there used to be cures for cancer in the vanishing rain forest, and who happens to have a flat 2 mil tucked away somewhere earmarked for your dowery, call me. Maybe we can work something out. Remember, you must act now as supplies are limited.
I guess I should say that, in addition to the 2-3 million dollars cash, you may well have to arm wrestle Lori for me, so you should be a little buff. Not buff in a greased up scarey sort of way, think tan tennis star buff . . .
Once Lori finds out how much I'm worth on the open market she'll have to let me go and follow my star . . right?
I took the survey which evaulates your worth on a host of important factors including handedness, hairiness(2 kinds), IQ, and uhm . . well . . .Penis Size. I answered all the questions honestly and to the best of my ability. I thought I was pretty tough on myself, but guess what? I'm worth well over 2 Mil! Who knew?
I saw a TV show recently that said the raw materials of a human body ( vitamins, minerals and whatever) were only worth about 10 bucks. Talk about value added! I'm re-evaluating my place in the universe. I'm going to rush right home and tell Lori what a lucky, lucky woman she is . . . and how much she owes me. Really, I'm so flattered. I mean I figured, because of my considerable physical charm and hypnotic personality, that I might be worth as much as 500 bucks, but I never imagined how low that estimate was. And that's only my book value. There are dozens of assets, not covered in the "Humans for Sale" survey, that I could bring to bear in a face to face negotiations. I bet I could up my worth by as much as 10 to 15 percent in the right market.
So it comes down to this. In light of my new found self worth, it's time for me to make some changes. If any of my vast and ever expanding readership happens to be an female uber-model, with an IQ over 150, a great sense of humor and a yen for shy pudgy men with various and sundry opinions as numerous as there used to be cures for cancer in the vanishing rain forest, and who happens to have a flat 2 mil tucked away somewhere earmarked for your dowery, call me. Maybe we can work something out. Remember, you must act now as supplies are limited.
I guess I should say that, in addition to the 2-3 million dollars cash, you may well have to arm wrestle Lori for me, so you should be a little buff. Not buff in a greased up scarey sort of way, think tan tennis star buff . . .
Once Lori finds out how much I'm worth on the open market she'll have to let me go and follow my star . . right?
I JUST HAD THE "AFTER LUNCH" PARKING NIGHTMARE. This is the first week of school so parking is horrid. It's cruel, rather like the arithamatic that mother nature does to baby ducks, but in a few weeks there won''t be parking problems. Part of it may be that more people attend the first week then any other week, but the baby duck part is that a significent percentage will drop out in various degrees for their own reasons and thus will not need to park anymore. QED my parking situation will be easier.
BABY DUCKS . . . are born on my lake every spring and sometimes in the late summer and early fall ( late bloomers of the aquatic avian universe I guess) anyway if ten are born, one survives . . .
This is what happens to the other 9.
My cats eat one each, except for Beefy who is too big and fat to chase even the meekest of baby ducks This leaves 6.
The turtles eat another 3.
1 was sickly from birth and simple loses out in the quest for the choicest tid-bit one too many times.
The dog next door kills, but fails to eat, one.( I really hate that bastard . . A big fat dobermin pincher thing. The nieghbors, especially the teen age boy think she's a killer and infrequently struts her up and down the street)
the remaining doomed duckling dies of idiopathic causes.
and that's that.
Hmm . . I hate to leave on such a sad note. Oh well, it's still raining, and I'm over it personally despite the need for rain, and the cuffs of my pants are wet, and the power went out here, and I lost the stupid thing I was working on, and now I have to start over, so I guess a sad little story about baby ducks, cruel math, stupid dogs and poor parking is all you're gonna get from me this afternoon.
BABY DUCKS . . . are born on my lake every spring and sometimes in the late summer and early fall ( late bloomers of the aquatic avian universe I guess) anyway if ten are born, one survives . . .
This is what happens to the other 9.
My cats eat one each, except for Beefy who is too big and fat to chase even the meekest of baby ducks This leaves 6.
The turtles eat another 3.
1 was sickly from birth and simple loses out in the quest for the choicest tid-bit one too many times.
The dog next door kills, but fails to eat, one.( I really hate that bastard . . A big fat dobermin pincher thing. The nieghbors, especially the teen age boy think she's a killer and infrequently struts her up and down the street)
the remaining doomed duckling dies of idiopathic causes.
and that's that.
Hmm . . I hate to leave on such a sad note. Oh well, it's still raining, and I'm over it personally despite the need for rain, and the cuffs of my pants are wet, and the power went out here, and I lost the stupid thing I was working on, and now I have to start over, so I guess a sad little story about baby ducks, cruel math, stupid dogs and poor parking is all you're gonna get from me this afternoon.
HEY. IT RAINED LAST NIGHT and continues on this morning. That, in this drought stricken region of the US of A ,is a good thing. I still have a few plants and such that I care about outside, despite the long summer of oppressive heat and humidity.
It has been a bad year in general for crops BTW.
I expanded the garden proper this passed Winter and started some sunflowers, melons, and pumpkins in the new patch. Most of these early plantings were taken out by what I suspect is a nutria. A nutria, as you may know, is a native south american fur bearing rodent (perhaps a marsupial) that was imported to Louisana for purposes of using the animals for fur. Obviously, things went awry, as they often will. Some clever or determined or lucky nutria escaped. They prospered in the swamps of Louisana ( what is the states nickname? ) and began to spread north and east. Eventually one reached my back yard.
I read a disgusting article in the food section of the Atlanitc monthly about gourmet recipes for nutria. The key to preparing a this unlovely creature , apparently, is to remove the 'membrane' and cook them a long time. The author, though he gamely (sorry) tried several savory dishes featuring the furry pest, seemed to be properly appalled over eating them. Look up the article, or maybe I will if I get bored later, try one out , and let me know if it tastes like chicken. (LATER: I searched but could not find the Atlantic Monthly article, here however is a link to a number of nutria recipes and here is a link that describs the beasts in some detail in some detail -- Photo included. no mention of the membrane though. I can hadly wait to see how much you like these recipes)
So I put up a fence around the new patch and replanted some of the sunflowers. Most of them are over and done now. and the ones I planted later didn't do well, perhaps due to neglect or the drought. I did manage to get three or four smallish 'lumina' pumpkins out of the patch -- hardly big enough to carve really
For the main patch I start 20-some heirloom tomatoes from seed this spring but they got the blight. It's something plagueing the SE. Consists of weirdsy fly things with red markings. It kills tomato plants in a slow and gruesome way. It strikes mature plants. The fruit doesn't ripen evenly. the plants shrivel down from a big healthy specimens to something like the lepurs of the tomato world. It was very depressing for me.
After a few weeks of mourning I replaced my plants with some cherry tomatoes we started from seed and a handful of heirloom plants my aunt gave me ( Lori and I visited her in Pa). The drought has made it slow and hard going for these late starters. The heat has kept me inside so I don't tend them. Though Norfolk ( my home town) doesn't have mandatory water restrictions yet I didn't water them either. it just seemed wrong in light of the drought to pour water into the ground. They are struggling along though
Maybe the rain will help. As I said there are a few things out there I still care about. The tomatoes are one. I have a moon and stars watermelon vine with a nice melon swelling on it and two hybrid pumpkin vines that are reputed to produce really big pumpkins. There are tow nice one just starting to turn orange When I planted them I was hoping for the hundred pounders the package promised now I only want a respectable carving pumpkin.
Oh well my motto for gardening is 'wait till next year.' As soon as it begin to cool down again I will break out my new Rototiller ( a Troy-Bilt Bronco don't you know, it's a beautiful red color with impressive tines and a boss throaty engine sound. Unlike my old hand-me-down tiller it starts up the first time every time with one gentle tug!) Every time I wheel it out of my shed I feel so cool. I guess I'm pretty pathetic that way . . . .
In the event that I keep this blog thing up, I'll be sure to keep my gentle readers informed of my progress in the gardens
It has been a bad year in general for crops BTW.
I expanded the garden proper this passed Winter and started some sunflowers, melons, and pumpkins in the new patch. Most of these early plantings were taken out by what I suspect is a nutria. A nutria, as you may know, is a native south american fur bearing rodent (perhaps a marsupial) that was imported to Louisana for purposes of using the animals for fur. Obviously, things went awry, as they often will. Some clever or determined or lucky nutria escaped. They prospered in the swamps of Louisana ( what is the states nickname? ) and began to spread north and east. Eventually one reached my back yard.
I read a disgusting article in the food section of the Atlanitc monthly about gourmet recipes for nutria. The key to preparing a this unlovely creature , apparently, is to remove the 'membrane' and cook them a long time. The author, though he gamely (sorry) tried several savory dishes featuring the furry pest, seemed to be properly appalled over eating them. Look up the article, or maybe I will if I get bored later, try one out , and let me know if it tastes like chicken. (LATER: I searched but could not find the Atlantic Monthly article, here however is a link to a number of nutria recipes and here is a link that describs the beasts in some detail in some detail -- Photo included. no mention of the membrane though. I can hadly wait to see how much you like these recipes)
So I put up a fence around the new patch and replanted some of the sunflowers. Most of them are over and done now. and the ones I planted later didn't do well, perhaps due to neglect or the drought. I did manage to get three or four smallish 'lumina' pumpkins out of the patch -- hardly big enough to carve really
For the main patch I start 20-some heirloom tomatoes from seed this spring but they got the blight. It's something plagueing the SE. Consists of weirdsy fly things with red markings. It kills tomato plants in a slow and gruesome way. It strikes mature plants. The fruit doesn't ripen evenly. the plants shrivel down from a big healthy specimens to something like the lepurs of the tomato world. It was very depressing for me.
After a few weeks of mourning I replaced my plants with some cherry tomatoes we started from seed and a handful of heirloom plants my aunt gave me ( Lori and I visited her in Pa). The drought has made it slow and hard going for these late starters. The heat has kept me inside so I don't tend them. Though Norfolk ( my home town) doesn't have mandatory water restrictions yet I didn't water them either. it just seemed wrong in light of the drought to pour water into the ground. They are struggling along though
Maybe the rain will help. As I said there are a few things out there I still care about. The tomatoes are one. I have a moon and stars watermelon vine with a nice melon swelling on it and two hybrid pumpkin vines that are reputed to produce really big pumpkins. There are tow nice one just starting to turn orange When I planted them I was hoping for the hundred pounders the package promised now I only want a respectable carving pumpkin.
Oh well my motto for gardening is 'wait till next year.' As soon as it begin to cool down again I will break out my new Rototiller ( a Troy-Bilt Bronco don't you know, it's a beautiful red color with impressive tines and a boss throaty engine sound. Unlike my old hand-me-down tiller it starts up the first time every time with one gentle tug!) Every time I wheel it out of my shed I feel so cool. I guess I'm pretty pathetic that way . . . .
In the event that I keep this blog thing up, I'll be sure to keep my gentle readers informed of my progress in the gardens
Tuesday, August 27, 2002
OH yeah I saw Rosold Park or something last night. A movie of relatively recent vintage -- still in the new release section of Block Buster ( Perhaps not as reliable a dating scheme as, say, carbon dating but it will do) Lots of cool snotty English folk running around a country house being mean to each other. It was very funny. I enjoyed it thoroughly. Not only did the Butler not do it, but he couldn't have done it. It should get a point or two just for that. The sound on our TV blows though ( or the acoustics in our living room sucks) so it was a bit difficult to follow some of the dialog, especially in the frenetically expository early parts of the movie. All the strange accents made it much worse. Too bad it wasn't in English or have subtitles. . .
I wish I had a big country house chock full of servants. The attitude of the 'upper crust' reminded me of some people I know actually-- that "unexamined life," the belief in your own personally located power and independance despite the painfully obvious fact that most everyone around you suspects you're incapable of wiping your own . . nose, without assistance.
Now that I've got this far forgetting the name of the movie is bothering me. I suppose I should look it up on the net and include a link to it's site but screw it. Roswald Park is after all a perfectly acceptable name for a movie. It really made me wish I were snotty or cool or rich, heck I'd even like to be English at this point except the food has a poor reputation. What in the heck is/are 'bangers and mash' anyway?
I wish I had a big country house chock full of servants. The attitude of the 'upper crust' reminded me of some people I know actually-- that "unexamined life," the belief in your own personally located power and independance despite the painfully obvious fact that most everyone around you suspects you're incapable of wiping your own . . nose, without assistance.
Now that I've got this far forgetting the name of the movie is bothering me. I suppose I should look it up on the net and include a link to it's site but screw it. Roswald Park is after all a perfectly acceptable name for a movie. It really made me wish I were snotty or cool or rich, heck I'd even like to be English at this point except the food has a poor reputation. What in the heck is/are 'bangers and mash' anyway?
Wow, so I'm on the cutting edge, and only a year or so late. I'm not sure why I'm doing this. I've read a few litteratzi blogs and thought they were cool. So I figured I'd try it out. I'll leave it at that and wait for inspiration ( or boredom which amounts to the same thing if you apply yourself) to strike.
Kirk out.
Kirk out.
