Next time you're carrying a gun while smoking crack and driving, remember to address the police officer as "sir." Then call P'ta Mon, the Thug's Attorney.
My favorite line: "If you have a felony record or are on probation or parole, lose the gold teeth & get rid of the chrome rims. This is America: you are free to be profiled if you fit the profile."
True dat, P'ta Mon.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
We Can be Happy Underground. . .
To get to my new job, I had to descend a staircase into a sauna-like cavern with books stacked everywhere. Sauna. After biking across town to get to work, the last thing I wanted to do was hang out in a 100-plus degree basement.
And if hanging out was the last thing I wanted to do, then what I actually did requires a new word to indicate its relative position. Shortly after manning my post at the register, I volunteered to assemble whatever was in the stack of white boxes on the floor next to the counter. Me and Rock DJ open the boxes and stare for a few minutes at the parts and pieces of a 6-and-a-half foot tall metal bookshelf.
I have this thing when I have to focus: sometimes I forget to breathe. So, I was standing and squatting and tightening bolts and balancing shelves--which all comes together really nicely and with little fuss--all the while taking only 4 or 5 breathes per minute. The combo of jungle swelter and oxygen deprivation loosened the gates on my sweat glands and soon my all-orange t-shirt was no longer a solid color. We were assembling the shelves right in the middle of the main thoroughfare (not my idea) and soon the word was out: go around the smelly guy in the middle aisle. A coworker walks by and mentions that I am "doing God's work."
My boss didn't approve of the shelf-building scheme and when I asked where to put the completed shelf, he tells me, "Yeah, that was my wife's thing. I didn't even want those shelves. I just got suckered into paying for em. So, I don't know. Just find a place to hide it I guess."
This was the first of many non-answers I got from my new boss. Others included: "I don't know. Just figure out something" and "Yeah, that's something they took on themselves. I'm not even sure what they're doing."
Boss's wife is very nice, but also very stern-looking. When she saw Book Mover 1 and I assembling the last shelf in the furnace room with 3 inches of workspace on either side of the metal bars, she asked, "[My husband] didn't make you come in here, did he? Or say anything rude about being out there?" I know she had our backs, but her stern look made me feel so accused.
Other co-workers include:
1. Book Buy Back-er: this dude has tattoos of french poems on his forearms and eats baked goods compulsively. I saw him polish off three muffins in a sitting (and by sitting I mean about 30 seconds) and wash them down with pumpkin bread. Ten minutes later, he was eating double chocolate chip cookies.
2. Counter help 1: cheap beer connoisseur. He had very good advice on where to find Blatz.
3. Counter help 2: Regarding a "hip" co-worker, he said, "Hmmm, she might fit very well into the fold." When I asked him what the fold was, he responded that he and his wife called their group of bizarre and interesting friends "the fold." The fold has movie night. When I told him that the fold sounded like a cult, he agreed: "We are kinda like a cult."
As expected, there are many characters at this job. So far, I like it, but that good feeling doesn't get to last too long--I start my non-profit job on the 4th of September.
And if hanging out was the last thing I wanted to do, then what I actually did requires a new word to indicate its relative position. Shortly after manning my post at the register, I volunteered to assemble whatever was in the stack of white boxes on the floor next to the counter. Me and Rock DJ open the boxes and stare for a few minutes at the parts and pieces of a 6-and-a-half foot tall metal bookshelf.
I have this thing when I have to focus: sometimes I forget to breathe. So, I was standing and squatting and tightening bolts and balancing shelves--which all comes together really nicely and with little fuss--all the while taking only 4 or 5 breathes per minute. The combo of jungle swelter and oxygen deprivation loosened the gates on my sweat glands and soon my all-orange t-shirt was no longer a solid color. We were assembling the shelves right in the middle of the main thoroughfare (not my idea) and soon the word was out: go around the smelly guy in the middle aisle. A coworker walks by and mentions that I am "doing God's work."
My boss didn't approve of the shelf-building scheme and when I asked where to put the completed shelf, he tells me, "Yeah, that was my wife's thing. I didn't even want those shelves. I just got suckered into paying for em. So, I don't know. Just find a place to hide it I guess."
This was the first of many non-answers I got from my new boss. Others included: "I don't know. Just figure out something" and "Yeah, that's something they took on themselves. I'm not even sure what they're doing."
Boss's wife is very nice, but also very stern-looking. When she saw Book Mover 1 and I assembling the last shelf in the furnace room with 3 inches of workspace on either side of the metal bars, she asked, "[My husband] didn't make you come in here, did he? Or say anything rude about being out there?" I know she had our backs, but her stern look made me feel so accused.
Other co-workers include:
1. Book Buy Back-er: this dude has tattoos of french poems on his forearms and eats baked goods compulsively. I saw him polish off three muffins in a sitting (and by sitting I mean about 30 seconds) and wash them down with pumpkin bread. Ten minutes later, he was eating double chocolate chip cookies.
2. Counter help 1: cheap beer connoisseur. He had very good advice on where to find Blatz.
3. Counter help 2: Regarding a "hip" co-worker, he said, "Hmmm, she might fit very well into the fold." When I asked him what the fold was, he responded that he and his wife called their group of bizarre and interesting friends "the fold." The fold has movie night. When I told him that the fold sounded like a cult, he agreed: "We are kinda like a cult."
As expected, there are many characters at this job. So far, I like it, but that good feeling doesn't get to last too long--I start my non-profit job on the 4th of September.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Let's Start the New Week. . .
It's time for a new week. May we all do better in our tasks than Miss Teen South Carolina did in attempting to answer the question: why can't 20% of Americans point out the US on a map?
(Just in case the video doesn't work, I've taken the liberty of transcribing MTSC's response below. For a second, while I was typing, I felt I had my fingers on the pulse, like I was right in the mix of something important. . .like ah as therefore. And.)
I personally believe that US Americans are unable to do so because uh some people out there in our nation don't have maps, and I believe that our, ah, education such as in South Africa and the Iraq, everywhere like such as. And.
I believe that they should, our education over here, in the US, should help the US, er--should help South Africa. They should help Iraq and the Asian countries. So we will be able to build up our future. Therefore.
(Just in case the video doesn't work, I've taken the liberty of transcribing MTSC's response below. For a second, while I was typing, I felt I had my fingers on the pulse, like I was right in the mix of something important. . .like ah as therefore. And.)
I personally believe that US Americans are unable to do so because uh some people out there in our nation don't have maps, and I believe that our, ah, education such as in South Africa and the Iraq, everywhere like such as. And.
I believe that they should, our education over here, in the US, should help the US, er--should help South Africa. They should help Iraq and the Asian countries. So we will be able to build up our future. Therefore.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Beer and Rogue Advertising
Woke up thinking about how people quite their day jobs and brew beer for a living. In that vein, I checked out the Dogfish Head website and found some inspired advertising. Among other things, this video provides a response to the long-unanswered question, "What else can you do with a fourteen-foot tall primary fermenter?"
I love the "anti-ad" philosophy. Let the beer speak for itself and keep the team of Clydesdales in the stables. I ordered Dogfish Head on tap for the first time the other day (Festina Peche) and it was thought-provoking. Seriously made me wonder what I was tasting and how they made it. It was like a fusion of champagne and cider and beer and I would definitely order it again.
I love the "anti-ad" philosophy. Let the beer speak for itself and keep the team of Clydesdales in the stables. I ordered Dogfish Head on tap for the first time the other day (Festina Peche) and it was thought-provoking. Seriously made me wonder what I was tasting and how they made it. It was like a fusion of champagne and cider and beer and I would definitely order it again.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Agridulce
I spent a bit of last night and today bemoaning my current state of affairs.
And yes, it was brought on by browsing through a certain social networking site that allows you to see the occupations of your old high school classmates. While looking at the where-are-they-now?s, I realized that I didn't follow a very straight path out of undergrad, unlike many of my former classmates.
Some people just knew that they wanted to be an engineer or a computer programmer or a professor. That wasn't me. While I love the experiences I've had and the skills I've developed, it's weird to reflect on where I'm at and then see that people two years younger than me are now working on Wall Street and making six figs.
On the brighter side, I'm not alone in my curvy path through life. Check out this guy. He's a partner in a successful practice group at a major law firm. Pay close attention to what he did for 18 years before law school. I can totally see doing that. . .
For anyone who's felt that way (or if you just want to read something), check out "For My Brothers and Sisters in the Failure Business,” an essay by Seymour Krim. This guy might have had more jobs than me. I read this book at probably the wrong time. A semester abroad completely opened up my possible life paths, and before I settled on something, this essay came along and told me to go down every one. A couple good quotes:
1. "[I was] an open fuse-box of blind yearning”
2. On American Democracy: ". . .a huge supermarket of mass man where we could take a piece here and a piece there to make our personalities for ourselves instead of what was given at the beginning.”
Off to the supermarket. . .
And yes, it was brought on by browsing through a certain social networking site that allows you to see the occupations of your old high school classmates. While looking at the where-are-they-now?s, I realized that I didn't follow a very straight path out of undergrad, unlike many of my former classmates.
Some people just knew that they wanted to be an engineer or a computer programmer or a professor. That wasn't me. While I love the experiences I've had and the skills I've developed, it's weird to reflect on where I'm at and then see that people two years younger than me are now working on Wall Street and making six figs.
On the brighter side, I'm not alone in my curvy path through life. Check out this guy. He's a partner in a successful practice group at a major law firm. Pay close attention to what he did for 18 years before law school. I can totally see doing that. . .
For anyone who's felt that way (or if you just want to read something), check out "For My Brothers and Sisters in the Failure Business,” an essay by Seymour Krim. This guy might have had more jobs than me. I read this book at probably the wrong time. A semester abroad completely opened up my possible life paths, and before I settled on something, this essay came along and told me to go down every one. A couple good quotes:
1. "[I was] an open fuse-box of blind yearning”
2. On American Democracy: ". . .a huge supermarket of mass man where we could take a piece here and a piece there to make our personalities for ourselves instead of what was given at the beginning.”
Off to the supermarket. . .
Thursday, August 23, 2007
First Thoughts
Wow. Check this out at CNN.
You think stuff like this might not really happen, but I guess statistically speaking many horrible things could happen. I'm actually kind of curious what the doll house furniture was.
In the Madison area, cameras have gotten people into a bit of trouble as well.
In my former state, the sage in bloom smells like . . .
Not perfume, but the rotting corpses of death row inmates, and will continue to do so, despite the EU's heavy-handed requests. We've "thrown off the yolk of a European monarch" and are doing just fine. You tell em, Ricky!
Also, a follow up from yesterday's unwanted baby-fest, I heard another reason for getting stuck with unwanted children: I don't want to take birth control pills because I don't want to get fat.
Babies: proven to make you lose weight. Get yours today!
You think stuff like this might not really happen, but I guess statistically speaking many horrible things could happen. I'm actually kind of curious what the doll house furniture was.
In the Madison area, cameras have gotten people into a bit of trouble as well.
In my former state, the sage in bloom smells like . . .
Not perfume, but the rotting corpses of death row inmates, and will continue to do so, despite the EU's heavy-handed requests. We've "thrown off the yolk of a European monarch" and are doing just fine. You tell em, Ricky!
Also, a follow up from yesterday's unwanted baby-fest, I heard another reason for getting stuck with unwanted children: I don't want to take birth control pills because I don't want to get fat.
Babies: proven to make you lose weight. Get yours today!
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
It Cuts Both Ways
In today's Savage Love, Dan points out that reproductive freedom goes for both women and men:
"[A man], just like a woman, has a right to decide when, whether, and with whom he would like to reproduce."
The letter in the article makes me wonder to what extent can a dude believe the "I want to have a baby" conversation ended with his "I don't want to?" This is really bad, but it reminds me of that scene in The World According to Garp where Jenny Garp totally bangs the incapacitated Garp (the father) in order to produce Garp (the son). Parallels. Crazy.
But this makes me wonder what people who don't want kids do when they go against their expressed wishes and have a baby. Are they impinging on their own reproductive freedom, or are they just exercising their God-given stupidity?
Of course, all could be avoided with effective birth control methods. (Click on the link to find which one gives you the best shot of remaining child-free--if that's your desire. If you want a baby. . .you know what to do.) If you don't want kids, fellas and ladies, do what you need to do to ensure that you don't have kids.
This article is timely because I've had three conversations today about how people have kids when they either don't plan for them or don't want them. The situations fall into several categories.
1. We wanted to wait until we had a house, but now that he's here, we're gonna love him:
Oops, I had a baby! If you're not financially stable when this happens, it's feasible to have to continue renting and scrimping for the next 18 years. That means off-brand mac and cheese 4-Life! Not that I have any of problem with off-brand m-and-c--it's delicious--but. . .what will the kid think?
2. We're married. We didn't need to use protection anymore / I'm really shocked that I got pregnant the first time: Look before you leap, friends. If you don't use protection, you've got an 85% chance of getting pregnant (according to FDA statistics). Even if you're married and you prefer to "go naked," don't be shocked when there's a bun in the oven--you grabbed the flour, water, yeast, eggs, mixed it up, threw it in a pan and placed it there yourself.
3. Too lazy for protection: If you're too lazy to swallow a pill, find a condom, get an injection, apply a cream, or simply look at a calendar and interruptus the coitus, what makes you think you'll have enough get-up-and-go to take care of a baby? I hear it's hard work. . .
"[A man], just like a woman, has a right to decide when, whether, and with whom he would like to reproduce."
The letter in the article makes me wonder to what extent can a dude believe the "I want to have a baby" conversation ended with his "I don't want to?" This is really bad, but it reminds me of that scene in The World According to Garp where Jenny Garp totally bangs the incapacitated Garp (the father) in order to produce Garp (the son). Parallels. Crazy.
But this makes me wonder what people who don't want kids do when they go against their expressed wishes and have a baby. Are they impinging on their own reproductive freedom, or are they just exercising their God-given stupidity?
Of course, all could be avoided with effective birth control methods. (Click on the link to find which one gives you the best shot of remaining child-free--if that's your desire. If you want a baby. . .you know what to do.) If you don't want kids, fellas and ladies, do what you need to do to ensure that you don't have kids.
This article is timely because I've had three conversations today about how people have kids when they either don't plan for them or don't want them. The situations fall into several categories.
1. We wanted to wait until we had a house, but now that he's here, we're gonna love him:
Oops, I had a baby! If you're not financially stable when this happens, it's feasible to have to continue renting and scrimping for the next 18 years. That means off-brand mac and cheese 4-Life! Not that I have any of problem with off-brand m-and-c--it's delicious--but. . .what will the kid think?
2. We're married. We didn't need to use protection anymore / I'm really shocked that I got pregnant the first time: Look before you leap, friends. If you don't use protection, you've got an 85% chance of getting pregnant (according to FDA statistics). Even if you're married and you prefer to "go naked," don't be shocked when there's a bun in the oven--you grabbed the flour, water, yeast, eggs, mixed it up, threw it in a pan and placed it there yourself.
3. Too lazy for protection: If you're too lazy to swallow a pill, find a condom, get an injection, apply a cream, or simply look at a calendar and interruptus the coitus, what makes you think you'll have enough get-up-and-go to take care of a baby? I hear it's hard work. . .
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Monday, August 20, 2007
Double Up
I am now officially double-employed.
I've accepted jobs with both a large, national, discount retailer (LNDR) and with a non-profit that hooks people up with federal utilities assistance. The non-profit will be my 8:30 to 5:00 and the other job will be my very-part-time beer and food money generator.
You might ask, "Why two jobs?" Well, I'm trying to cobble together a short-term plan that covers my basic necessities while giving me the option of having a larger income stream in the upcoming months.
The non-profit doesn't need my services until 9/4, when federal funds may or may not be open for business. LNDR will take anyone of the street, throw a polo at them and put them on the sales floor forty hours a week (or behind the coffee counter, which is where I'll be, for forty hours a week). Convenient for me, as I plan to take advantage of two weeks full-time paid training then significantly scale back the hours when the non-profit starts.
So, I'm back. Woe unto thee.
p.s. I haven't been able to get pics of the Green Speedster up yet because it's been too rainy to take the camera out and get a good shot. As soon as I see the sun, I'll get on it. Hopefully the brown milk crate will be attached by then. Stay tuned.
p.p.s. For the salad enthusiasts out there, DO NOT BUY Emeril's Herb Vinaigrette! It is terrible. Imagine the taste of dirt and. . .dirt. It's really gross and kinda makes me want to gag. And unfortunately, I have a thing against throwing away food, so I'm finishing the thing. Consequently, I have to brush my teeth immediately after eating and rinse four times with mouthwash to get that tangy, pungent earth taste off the pearly whites. don't buy it. you are warned.
I've accepted jobs with both a large, national, discount retailer (LNDR) and with a non-profit that hooks people up with federal utilities assistance. The non-profit will be my 8:30 to 5:00 and the other job will be my very-part-time beer and food money generator.
You might ask, "Why two jobs?" Well, I'm trying to cobble together a short-term plan that covers my basic necessities while giving me the option of having a larger income stream in the upcoming months.
The non-profit doesn't need my services until 9/4, when federal funds may or may not be open for business. LNDR will take anyone of the street, throw a polo at them and put them on the sales floor forty hours a week (or behind the coffee counter, which is where I'll be, for forty hours a week). Convenient for me, as I plan to take advantage of two weeks full-time paid training then significantly scale back the hours when the non-profit starts.
So, I'm back. Woe unto thee.
p.s. I haven't been able to get pics of the Green Speedster up yet because it's been too rainy to take the camera out and get a good shot. As soon as I see the sun, I'll get on it. Hopefully the brown milk crate will be attached by then. Stay tuned.
p.p.s. For the salad enthusiasts out there, DO NOT BUY Emeril's Herb Vinaigrette! It is terrible. Imagine the taste of dirt and. . .dirt. It's really gross and kinda makes me want to gag. And unfortunately, I have a thing against throwing away food, so I'm finishing the thing. Consequently, I have to brush my teeth immediately after eating and rinse four times with mouthwash to get that tangy, pungent earth taste off the pearly whites. don't buy it. you are warned.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Just in Case You Were Wondering. . .
A morning spent trying to get around to doing something in DBQ yielded some nuggets.
For example:
If you type "Joe Biden on the Daily Show" into the search bar at youtube, you receive some pleasantly shocking results. Just click on the link above. . .
And if you ever thought to yourself, "What does 'Air Supremacy' look like?" look not to the USAF, but to this man.
For example:
If you type "Joe Biden on the Daily Show" into the search bar at youtube, you receive some pleasantly shocking results. Just click on the link above. . .
And if you ever thought to yourself, "What does 'Air Supremacy' look like?" look not to the USAF, but to this man.
Friday, August 17, 2007
He is in charge. Don't have any doubts about this.
Someone has done a painstaking analysis of the modern Supreme Court and, well, finally, I know who to send all my letters of complaint to. . . After all, "it is his world, and you just live in it."
And panelist Jeffrey Lamken lets us know that even the closest of friendships have their limits:
In the "Bong Hits 4 Jesus" case [Morse v. Frederick], the student was going to lose if it said "Bong Hits 4 Ford." Conservative doesn't mean pro-business, necessarily.
Let's hear it for fair-weather friends! And speaking of such, my old buddy unemployment and I are nearly on the outs. Wish us luck, as a 9-5 looms.
Green Speedster pics will be posted later today. Have a good weekend everybody! Bong Hits 4 Friday!
And panelist Jeffrey Lamken lets us know that even the closest of friendships have their limits:
In the "Bong Hits 4 Jesus" case [Morse v. Frederick], the student was going to lose if it said "Bong Hits 4 Ford." Conservative doesn't mean pro-business, necessarily.
Let's hear it for fair-weather friends! And speaking of such, my old buddy unemployment and I are nearly on the outs. Wish us luck, as a 9-5 looms.
Green Speedster pics will be posted later today. Have a good weekend everybody! Bong Hits 4 Friday!
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Just when you thought you were done with me forever. . .
Oh, That Guy! Your first line of class is always a killer!
Another class, more dumb comments and repeated references to getting your $1200 worth. It seems that routine is setting in.
Got baskets on the bike today and managed my third self-stab while installing them. I've stabbed myself more days than not this week. Today's puncture involved a screwdriver. It healed fast.
I discovered one of the more obvious beauties of Madison today: the memorial union. I won't go into any descriptions (mostly because I feel embarassed not to have seen it before now). Just go there; you won't be disappointed. I spent many hours there today while studying for the LSAT.
And while I spent nine hours diagramming arguments, I dreamed of drinking a beer and checking out Airwave Epigrams, an original radio program. Czech it out.
Pics of the green Speedster with its new baskets are coming. . .
Another class, more dumb comments and repeated references to getting your $1200 worth. It seems that routine is setting in.
Got baskets on the bike today and managed my third self-stab while installing them. I've stabbed myself more days than not this week. Today's puncture involved a screwdriver. It healed fast.
I discovered one of the more obvious beauties of Madison today: the memorial union. I won't go into any descriptions (mostly because I feel embarassed not to have seen it before now). Just go there; you won't be disappointed. I spent many hours there today while studying for the LSAT.
And while I spent nine hours diagramming arguments, I dreamed of drinking a beer and checking out Airwave Epigrams, an original radio program. Czech it out.
Pics of the green Speedster with its new baskets are coming. . .
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
And now, LA's Dopest Attorney.
If you watch the video, holla for the Rosanna Arquette shades.
Also, given the quadruple risk factor for heart attack from inhaling marijuana smoke, should those DEA guys be huffing it by the bucketful?
If you watch the video, holla for the Rosanna Arquette shades.
Also, given the quadruple risk factor for heart attack from inhaling marijuana smoke, should those DEA guys be huffing it by the bucketful?
Morning Blend
As a really long night blends into a really early morning, I share these items from LSAT class last night:
. . .Teacher Man (TM) is getting better. This is the big news of the night. He kept referring to "getting your $1200-worth" off-handedly throughout the night, so I think he intentionally stepped it up.
. . .TM is good at math, bad at explaining percentages: while explaining a problem, TM could have made a percent look like X/100 = X%, but instead, chose to do some very complicated random # / random # = X % that had nothing to do with the actual ciphers contained in the stimulus. The math worked out, amazingly--I check it on my phone's calculator. Not so amazingly, no one could work out the problem the percentages pertained to. Here's to you, TM, my future accountant!
. . .Reminder: when taking the LSAT, you are in the "hermetically sealed environment of LSAT-Land."
. . .I accidentally stabbed my finger while playing with a mechanical pencil (come on, you've done it before--recently, too. Not second grade. Last week. At the latest. ) This makes for two accidental self-stabs in the last two days. The first occurred when I used a 10-inch chef's knife to remove the nylon zip-tie off something. The blade cut jerkily through the tie and went smoothly into the flesh between my thumb and pointer finger. It was a legit stab; hole in my hand and blood and everything.
. . .TM explains that while reading the next problem, That Guy needs to pronounce Uranus like yer-an-us, with the accent on the first syllable, not "your anus." That Guy totally ignores him completely, and even manages to giggle while reading the line "there's some other force tugging on Uranus." Then, while TM is diagramming the sentences, That Guy asks, "Hey, can you do something different with the arrow for causality?" TM replies, "Uh, yeah, sure. I'll draw little feathers on it. Just for you." And he does.
. . .That Guy asks, "Did you want me to read the answer choices or get to the implications of combining blah blah with bling bling? 'Cause I can jump all over the implications, if you want me to."
. . .The Reddest Tomato: That Guy is trying to set up another logic game for the class and is struggling with something. Meanwhile, I've been busy stabbing myself, counting electrical outlets and fantasizing about eating the Gardettos tucked away in my bookbag. Suddenly, I emerge from the fog of boredom and shout out, "No! K or P goes on the 4th Floor! You're looking for something that can't be there!" It happened just like that. I was a by-stander to this outburst, I swear. I had no idea that some part of my brain was paying any attention while another part triggered the "outside voice" button. When That Guy tried to respond, I said, "No, either way it's P or K. Nothing else that's left goes there. That's the answer."
This is really unprecedented.
I've been a jerk to people in the past--and will be in the future--but up until now it's always been intentional.
TM continues explaining the problem, and That Guy--now redder than the reddest tomato--responds to a suggestion with, "I know. That's what I was saying, except someone just told me twice that I was wrong."
And that someone. . .needs to go to Denny's and fuel up. Deuces.
. . .Teacher Man (TM) is getting better. This is the big news of the night. He kept referring to "getting your $1200-worth" off-handedly throughout the night, so I think he intentionally stepped it up.
. . .TM is good at math, bad at explaining percentages: while explaining a problem, TM could have made a percent look like X/100 = X%, but instead, chose to do some very complicated random # / random # = X % that had nothing to do with the actual ciphers contained in the stimulus. The math worked out, amazingly--I check it on my phone's calculator. Not so amazingly, no one could work out the problem the percentages pertained to. Here's to you, TM, my future accountant!
. . .Reminder: when taking the LSAT, you are in the "hermetically sealed environment of LSAT-Land."
. . .I accidentally stabbed my finger while playing with a mechanical pencil (come on, you've done it before--recently, too. Not second grade. Last week. At the latest. ) This makes for two accidental self-stabs in the last two days. The first occurred when I used a 10-inch chef's knife to remove the nylon zip-tie off something. The blade cut jerkily through the tie and went smoothly into the flesh between my thumb and pointer finger. It was a legit stab; hole in my hand and blood and everything.
. . .TM explains that while reading the next problem, That Guy needs to pronounce Uranus like yer-an-us, with the accent on the first syllable, not "your anus." That Guy totally ignores him completely, and even manages to giggle while reading the line "there's some other force tugging on Uranus." Then, while TM is diagramming the sentences, That Guy asks, "Hey, can you do something different with the arrow for causality?" TM replies, "Uh, yeah, sure. I'll draw little feathers on it. Just for you." And he does.
. . .That Guy asks, "Did you want me to read the answer choices or get to the implications of combining blah blah with bling bling? 'Cause I can jump all over the implications, if you want me to."
. . .The Reddest Tomato: That Guy is trying to set up another logic game for the class and is struggling with something. Meanwhile, I've been busy stabbing myself, counting electrical outlets and fantasizing about eating the Gardettos tucked away in my bookbag. Suddenly, I emerge from the fog of boredom and shout out, "No! K or P goes on the 4th Floor! You're looking for something that can't be there!" It happened just like that. I was a by-stander to this outburst, I swear. I had no idea that some part of my brain was paying any attention while another part triggered the "outside voice" button. When That Guy tried to respond, I said, "No, either way it's P or K. Nothing else that's left goes there. That's the answer."
This is really unprecedented.
I've been a jerk to people in the past--and will be in the future--but up until now it's always been intentional.
TM continues explaining the problem, and That Guy--now redder than the reddest tomato--responds to a suggestion with, "I know. That's what I was saying, except someone just told me twice that I was wrong."
And that someone. . .needs to go to Denny's and fuel up. Deuces.
Monday, August 13, 2007
Announcement
Reports of my unemployment have been greatly exaggerated. I now have a job offer--one I may decline.
I walked into a large discount retailer hoping to buy some nylon zip-ties and a rubbermaid storage container. Remembering that I'm unemployed and can't afford to buy anything, I redirect myself to the employment kiosk. Two and a half hours later, I left with a job offer and these high points from 2 totally unexpected interviews:
1. Computer crashes mid-application: So I was at this red kiosk and the computer on which I was filling out an endless application is working fine. At question 41 of 60, however, the machine insta-self-reboots.
2. Managers wearing identical mis-matched shoes and socks: I was interview by two managers; both had brown loafers with one black and one blue sock.
3. Manager confirms that I understand what constitutes an illicit substance, suppresses chuckle as I sign form.
4. My responses were written down verbatim: this made me feel really bad for the guy, since I was re-telling anecdotes from SuperHappyFunLand, my former place of employment. He had to copy the phrase "how he did that?"--and then concede that my future co-workers could be expected to make similar grammatical errors.
5. Interviewer 2: asks me point-blank why I would leave teaching to come work at his store. Thanks for instilling confidence, future boss!
I still don't have those zip-ties, so my green Speedster remains milk-crate-less and the milk crate sits on my bedroom floor, holding the remnants of my business-pro wardrobe. If I take the job, they'll give me a red polo anyway. . .
I walked into a large discount retailer hoping to buy some nylon zip-ties and a rubbermaid storage container. Remembering that I'm unemployed and can't afford to buy anything, I redirect myself to the employment kiosk. Two and a half hours later, I left with a job offer and these high points from 2 totally unexpected interviews:
1. Computer crashes mid-application: So I was at this red kiosk and the computer on which I was filling out an endless application is working fine. At question 41 of 60, however, the machine insta-self-reboots.
2. Managers wearing identical mis-matched shoes and socks: I was interview by two managers; both had brown loafers with one black and one blue sock.
3. Manager confirms that I understand what constitutes an illicit substance, suppresses chuckle as I sign form.
4. My responses were written down verbatim: this made me feel really bad for the guy, since I was re-telling anecdotes from SuperHappyFunLand, my former place of employment. He had to copy the phrase "how he did that?"--and then concede that my future co-workers could be expected to make similar grammatical errors.
5. Interviewer 2: asks me point-blank why I would leave teaching to come work at his store. Thanks for instilling confidence, future boss!
I still don't have those zip-ties, so my green Speedster remains milk-crate-less and the milk crate sits on my bedroom floor, holding the remnants of my business-pro wardrobe. If I take the job, they'll give me a red polo anyway. . .
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Lost in the Land of Blue
I had a really good plan when I set out on the green Speedster today: follow the eastern curve of Lake Monona. From my bike map, I could tell that the designated paths more or less followed the lake, and so I set off.
The plan was to bike for forty minutes total, which would allow me to meet my self-imposed minimum of one hour's vigorous exercise per day (the other twenty of which were completed with a brisk walk earlier). I began by following the designated bike path, and despite no good views of the lake, I was enjoying myself. But then I saw a sign that read "Lake Loop," and, thinking it would give a really good view of the lake, I took it.
The "lake loop" took me to another town, I think, judging by the blue street signs instead of green, and did not offer a single glimpse of any water. After thirty minutes of wandering in the town of blue signs, I turned around and made my way back to the original trail.
Near my apartment, I noticed a sign for the Atwood Community Garden. Behind it were rows and rows (or clumps and clumps, more accurately) of tomatoes, zucchini, sunflowers and other vegetables. Many were rotting on the vine, yet others were immaculately kept. It got me thinking.
The plan was to bike for forty minutes total, which would allow me to meet my self-imposed minimum of one hour's vigorous exercise per day (the other twenty of which were completed with a brisk walk earlier). I began by following the designated bike path, and despite no good views of the lake, I was enjoying myself. But then I saw a sign that read "Lake Loop," and, thinking it would give a really good view of the lake, I took it.
The "lake loop" took me to another town, I think, judging by the blue street signs instead of green, and did not offer a single glimpse of any water. After thirty minutes of wandering in the town of blue signs, I turned around and made my way back to the original trail.
Near my apartment, I noticed a sign for the Atwood Community Garden. Behind it were rows and rows (or clumps and clumps, more accurately) of tomatoes, zucchini, sunflowers and other vegetables. Many were rotting on the vine, yet others were immaculately kept. It got me thinking.
Thursday, August 9, 2007
Another of my current obsessions is studying for the LSAT. I've already taken the test once and I got a good, but not great, score. Having exhausted my own will power for studying, I decided to submit myself to the will of a paid instructor in the hope that I will score 6 to 10 points higher than on my first try using his or her stern looks and intimidating logical prowess. Whether this will come to be is seriously murky.
I chose my course because this company's materials impressed me most during my self-study and because the $1200.00, 2-month long course is perceived to be one of the best. I want to repeat that: $1200.00. I am paying a dozen hundreds in order to get better (well, okay, to get perfect) at something I'm already pretty good at. My thinking was, "Hey, these guys are the best. Their instructors have all earned scores in the 99th% of all test-takers. They know this test inside and out and can show me (and my classmates, ugh) how to work the kinks out of the really tricky stuff. 180 here I come". . .or something.
My LSAT class meets in the frozen bowels of a shabby old hotel's shabby old conference rooms. There are moments in class--usually when I am near dead from boredom--that I am convinced I will die of frostbite before the lunacy of class takes me over and takes me out.
Our instructor, Teacher Man, is a very nice, very smart man in his middle thirties, and I'm very torn on him. If we were just hanging out, drinking some Nice Stout and talking about the Cubs, he'd do just fine; I know I could count on him to hold his own. In class, however, I cringe more than I stare into space, and I stare into space a lot.
The problem is that I am a stern judge of teacher character because I just completed two years of TFA in Houston and I can tell when someone's winging it (been there, done that). Maybe he has not been teaching long, or he has not been studying the LSAT recently, or he just does not care to be on top of it. But whatever the cause of his problems, I can't help but give him a C- so far.
In no particular order:
1. He consistently mis-identifies the conclusions and premises of arguments. In one problem, he spent twenty pause-filled minutes diagramming the filler sentences of a stimulus, completely ignoring the business end of the argument. After several kids in class expressed complete confusion at his diagrams, he launched into a dirge on what was soon to be his new favorite topic: "the mystical realm of LSAT land," where Logical Reasoning problems are "pretty tricky." When he was done, the whiteboard looked like a gigantic pre-historic fly was smashed by a gigantic pre-historic fly-swatter on it.
2. He always calls on the same girl (I'm assuming that the test-prep company has instructed their staff that blatant sexism is really embarrassing, if not terribly, terribly wrong. So . . .call on the same girl? Over and over?). Same girl pronounced wilderness as wild-er-ness (where wild sounds like child). He made this poor girl repeat that sentence three times while he tried to figure out how to do the problem.
3. New information. Whenever he can't explain why a particular answer choice is wrong, he says that the answer adds new information not contained in the stimulus, even when the information in the answer choice is not new and is clearly in the stimulus. I counted and he said new information 27 times by way of explaining how logical reasoning is "kinda tough."
4. He insinuated that we might claim a learning disability and request extra time if we are unable to read the the Reading Comp passages in under 4 minutes.
5. He does not assert his alpha-male status. Now normally this would be a good trait in a teacher, but not if "that guy" is in your class. . .
6. That Guy. He's in the line at the store, coupon book in hand, telling the cashier, "Keep looking, I know the one for brats is in there;" he's at the bar, telling a bravado- (and fellatio-) filled story about how he conquered a drunk high school junior during Wisconsin's Christmas break; and every once in a while, he's in your class.
That guy in class takes on many forms: the beret-wearing, lion's mane jacketed self-professed "beat scholar;" the dog collar on wrist, can't stop staring at out-stretched palm of hand while droning on about dialectics / not gay but into queer studies literary critic; and sometimes, he's a version of That Guy known as the interrupter.
During the first class, That Guy walks into the conference room drenched in sweat and throws his workbook down on the table. Teacher Man is explaining the homework, as only five minutes of our four-hour class remained.
"How's it going?"
"Uh, there's five minutes of class left."
"So what are we studying?"
"You'll, uh. . .well, let me catch you up in a minute."
Teacher Man resumes explaining homework, citing the range of pages and the number of the homework hotline when--
"This doesn 't make sense."
"Uh, yeah. You'll have to read the chapters we covered tonight before it will start to make sense."
"No, I mean, what's a contrapositive identification drill?"
"Uh. . .just wait."
Tonight, That Guy walks in to class with about 30 minutes left of the four-hour class. Teacher Man is explaining how things work in the mystical realm of the LSAT, moving from LR to RC and extolling the virtues of "lawyer tone" and skipping the problems with specific references to the text because they can be very time-consuming. This time, That Guy sets the book down on the table, and just when I think he's reformed, that I've got him all wrong, he cuts off TM--
"Page?"
TM shows him the page. After another read-aloud of the answer choices, a classmate answers incorrectly. TM tries to explain why classmate wasn't so off in thinking "D" was a keeper, but That Guy doesn't go for softness.
"Oh, it's alright. You won't be there to punish him on test day anyway. Let's move on."
"Uh, okay. The next problem, number 5. . ."
"Oooh, oooh, pick me. Pick me!"
As he goes down the list of answer choices, That Guy gives each one a personal his sidebar comments: a) I don't need to read the rest of it. I already know it sucks; b) yells the word "incalculable;" c) (directed at TM) Haven't you seen Planet of the Apes? Pay attention! d) I guess so, fine, whatever, you win; e) no response.
Sometimes a man has to put up with tools. Very rarely does a man have to pay $1200.00 to get the whole box.
I chose my course because this company's materials impressed me most during my self-study and because the $1200.00, 2-month long course is perceived to be one of the best. I want to repeat that: $1200.00. I am paying a dozen hundreds in order to get better (well, okay, to get perfect) at something I'm already pretty good at. My thinking was, "Hey, these guys are the best. Their instructors have all earned scores in the 99th% of all test-takers. They know this test inside and out and can show me (and my classmates, ugh) how to work the kinks out of the really tricky stuff. 180 here I come". . .or something.
My LSAT class meets in the frozen bowels of a shabby old hotel's shabby old conference rooms. There are moments in class--usually when I am near dead from boredom--that I am convinced I will die of frostbite before the lunacy of class takes me over and takes me out.
Our instructor, Teacher Man, is a very nice, very smart man in his middle thirties, and I'm very torn on him. If we were just hanging out, drinking some Nice Stout and talking about the Cubs, he'd do just fine; I know I could count on him to hold his own. In class, however, I cringe more than I stare into space, and I stare into space a lot.
The problem is that I am a stern judge of teacher character because I just completed two years of TFA in Houston and I can tell when someone's winging it (been there, done that). Maybe he has not been teaching long, or he has not been studying the LSAT recently, or he just does not care to be on top of it. But whatever the cause of his problems, I can't help but give him a C- so far.
In no particular order:
1. He consistently mis-identifies the conclusions and premises of arguments. In one problem, he spent twenty pause-filled minutes diagramming the filler sentences of a stimulus, completely ignoring the business end of the argument. After several kids in class expressed complete confusion at his diagrams, he launched into a dirge on what was soon to be his new favorite topic: "the mystical realm of LSAT land," where Logical Reasoning problems are "pretty tricky." When he was done, the whiteboard looked like a gigantic pre-historic fly was smashed by a gigantic pre-historic fly-swatter on it.
2. He always calls on the same girl (I'm assuming that the test-prep company has instructed their staff that blatant sexism is really embarrassing, if not terribly, terribly wrong. So . . .call on the same girl? Over and over?). Same girl pronounced wilderness as wild-er-ness (where wild sounds like child). He made this poor girl repeat that sentence three times while he tried to figure out how to do the problem.
3. New information. Whenever he can't explain why a particular answer choice is wrong, he says that the answer adds new information not contained in the stimulus, even when the information in the answer choice is not new and is clearly in the stimulus. I counted and he said new information 27 times by way of explaining how logical reasoning is "kinda tough."
4. He insinuated that we might claim a learning disability and request extra time if we are unable to read the the Reading Comp passages in under 4 minutes.
5. He does not assert his alpha-male status. Now normally this would be a good trait in a teacher, but not if "that guy" is in your class. . .
6. That Guy. He's in the line at the store, coupon book in hand, telling the cashier, "Keep looking, I know the one for brats is in there;" he's at the bar, telling a bravado- (and fellatio-) filled story about how he conquered a drunk high school junior during Wisconsin's Christmas break; and every once in a while, he's in your class.
That guy in class takes on many forms: the beret-wearing, lion's mane jacketed self-professed "beat scholar;" the dog collar on wrist, can't stop staring at out-stretched palm of hand while droning on about dialectics / not gay but into queer studies literary critic; and sometimes, he's a version of That Guy known as the interrupter.
During the first class, That Guy walks into the conference room drenched in sweat and throws his workbook down on the table. Teacher Man is explaining the homework, as only five minutes of our four-hour class remained.
"How's it going?"
"Uh, there's five minutes of class left."
"So what are we studying?"
"You'll, uh. . .well, let me catch you up in a minute."
Teacher Man resumes explaining homework, citing the range of pages and the number of the homework hotline when--
"This doesn 't make sense."
"Uh, yeah. You'll have to read the chapters we covered tonight before it will start to make sense."
"No, I mean, what's a contrapositive identification drill?"
"Uh. . .just wait."
Tonight, That Guy walks in to class with about 30 minutes left of the four-hour class. Teacher Man is explaining how things work in the mystical realm of the LSAT, moving from LR to RC and extolling the virtues of "lawyer tone" and skipping the problems with specific references to the text because they can be very time-consuming. This time, That Guy sets the book down on the table, and just when I think he's reformed, that I've got him all wrong, he cuts off TM--
"Page?"
TM shows him the page. After another read-aloud of the answer choices, a classmate answers incorrectly. TM tries to explain why classmate wasn't so off in thinking "D" was a keeper, but That Guy doesn't go for softness.
"Oh, it's alright. You won't be there to punish him on test day anyway. Let's move on."
"Uh, okay. The next problem, number 5. . ."
"Oooh, oooh, pick me. Pick me!"
As he goes down the list of answer choices, That Guy gives each one a personal his sidebar comments: a) I don't need to read the rest of it. I already know it sucks; b) yells the word "incalculable;" c) (directed at TM) Haven't you seen Planet of the Apes? Pay attention! d) I guess so, fine, whatever, you win; e) no response.
Sometimes a man has to put up with tools. Very rarely does a man have to pay $1200.00 to get the whole box.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
First Cruise, First Repair
I took the red rocket around the lake today and while the weather was perfect, the structural integrity of my rear wheel, unfortunately, was not.
With an eye to my watch, I cruised along the Capital City Trail, passing Monona Terrace and the tennis courts that do not appear to be car-accessible (yay for bikes and walking!) after only about 12 minutes of riding. Today's objective was to get a feel for the neighborhood and how long it takes to get to the nearby attractions. Just past M.T., there is a small footbridge and on it, two ladies traipsed along side by side and dragged their yip yip dog over it as I approached.
Now I should mention that I really believe that everyone that lacks common sense on public trails and paths needs a re-education in the etiquette of not dying while walking. We need a drastic deterrant, like, say, a $50 minimum fine for public idiocy, with an upward scale based on the severity of the stupidity. Common sense should pretty accurately predict the outcome of a collision between a two-hundred-plus pound man and a four pound dog. We're not talking a "pink mist" kind of horror, but pretty close. The rule, of course, for avoiding death is for walkers and slower cyclists and pooches to stay to the right; bikes and runners pass on the left. Predictability above all else (when riding).
As I came within 50 feet of the bridge, I holler, "On your left! Passing on your left!" which should have given the two ladies and the yipper adequate time (considering the snail's pace at which I was enjoying the morning cruise) to stagger and put the dog back in the purse. But instead, they look over their shoulders, smirk at me and continue marching in formation. The dog smiles at me, its tiny tongue hanging out of its tiny mouth.
By now I was within 20 feet. "On your left! Passing on your left please!"
This time, rather than smile dumbly at me, the lady on the right scoops up yipper and pushes the lady on the left into the left hand guardrail, right as I go for the pass. I slam on the brakes and do a squiggly swerve maneuver to avoid crushing all of them. Thankfully, no one was hurt and they even apologize. But all could have been avoided. Stay on the right, people.
Further down the trail, I veered off to the left and followed a residential street around the lake. After living and riding in H-town for two years, any %grade above flat is torture for me. I suppose that I've gotten a good deal, all in all: trading in flat roads and six months of 100% humidity for 75 degrees, cooling (not roasting) breezes, and very slight uphills. (And hockey, of course, but that's a different obsession for a different post). I steered the rocket around a bend, clicked into an easier gear and made it up my molehill with minimal sweating and swearing.
If you ever want a chilled out ride through a neighborhood that will make you heartsick for home ownership, Waunona Way fits the bill. The houses range from quaint Americana, front porches and wood frames to whoa to what-the-hell-kind-of-angle-is-that? Even if owning a house isn't your dream (and for me it's a long, long ways off kind of dream), there's plenty of sneak peaks of the lake between the houses that are good for indulging your lakefront home fantasy, at any rate, and for some, might make us a bit more eager to find gainful employment.
I stopped at my turn around point, slugged some water, and walked over to a For Sale sign. The place was a short wood-framed place that the flier claimed contained 7 bathrooms. Asking price: 998,000. Maybe I'll put off getting a job for a while and keep dreaming. . .
. . .and two minutes later, I broke a spoke and knocked my rear wheel out of true.
On the way back, I guided the red rocket gingerly over large cracks and potholes, past the Spanish-only Sunday soccer game, past the Band Camp concert where the lead singer was extolling the crowd in a deep metal voice "THANKS FOR COMING OUT! DON'T EVER FUCKIN GIVE UP ON YOUR DREAMS! EVER!!!" past the tennis courts and the lake, and the fishermen with their kids and the old man wearing a Cubs hat who said hi to everyone, past the pit bull enthusiasts, and all the other people out enjoying a near-perfect Sunday. A short while later, my rear wheel screeching against my brakes, I was back in mredison's neighborhood.
With an eye to my watch, I cruised along the Capital City Trail, passing Monona Terrace and the tennis courts that do not appear to be car-accessible (yay for bikes and walking!) after only about 12 minutes of riding. Today's objective was to get a feel for the neighborhood and how long it takes to get to the nearby attractions. Just past M.T., there is a small footbridge and on it, two ladies traipsed along side by side and dragged their yip yip dog over it as I approached.
Now I should mention that I really believe that everyone that lacks common sense on public trails and paths needs a re-education in the etiquette of not dying while walking. We need a drastic deterrant, like, say, a $50 minimum fine for public idiocy, with an upward scale based on the severity of the stupidity. Common sense should pretty accurately predict the outcome of a collision between a two-hundred-plus pound man and a four pound dog. We're not talking a "pink mist" kind of horror, but pretty close. The rule, of course, for avoiding death is for walkers and slower cyclists and pooches to stay to the right; bikes and runners pass on the left. Predictability above all else (when riding).
As I came within 50 feet of the bridge, I holler, "On your left! Passing on your left!" which should have given the two ladies and the yipper adequate time (considering the snail's pace at which I was enjoying the morning cruise) to stagger and put the dog back in the purse. But instead, they look over their shoulders, smirk at me and continue marching in formation. The dog smiles at me, its tiny tongue hanging out of its tiny mouth.
By now I was within 20 feet. "On your left! Passing on your left please!"
This time, rather than smile dumbly at me, the lady on the right scoops up yipper and pushes the lady on the left into the left hand guardrail, right as I go for the pass. I slam on the brakes and do a squiggly swerve maneuver to avoid crushing all of them. Thankfully, no one was hurt and they even apologize. But all could have been avoided. Stay on the right, people.
Further down the trail, I veered off to the left and followed a residential street around the lake. After living and riding in H-town for two years, any %grade above flat is torture for me. I suppose that I've gotten a good deal, all in all: trading in flat roads and six months of 100% humidity for 75 degrees, cooling (not roasting) breezes, and very slight uphills. (And hockey, of course, but that's a different obsession for a different post). I steered the rocket around a bend, clicked into an easier gear and made it up my molehill with minimal sweating and swearing.
If you ever want a chilled out ride through a neighborhood that will make you heartsick for home ownership, Waunona Way fits the bill. The houses range from quaint Americana, front porches and wood frames to whoa to what-the-hell-kind-of-angle-is-that? Even if owning a house isn't your dream (and for me it's a long, long ways off kind of dream), there's plenty of sneak peaks of the lake between the houses that are good for indulging your lakefront home fantasy, at any rate, and for some, might make us a bit more eager to find gainful employment.
I stopped at my turn around point, slugged some water, and walked over to a For Sale sign. The place was a short wood-framed place that the flier claimed contained 7 bathrooms. Asking price: 998,000. Maybe I'll put off getting a job for a while and keep dreaming. . .
. . .and two minutes later, I broke a spoke and knocked my rear wheel out of true.
On the way back, I guided the red rocket gingerly over large cracks and potholes, past the Spanish-only Sunday soccer game, past the Band Camp concert where the lead singer was extolling the crowd in a deep metal voice "THANKS FOR COMING OUT! DON'T EVER FUCKIN GIVE UP ON YOUR DREAMS! EVER!!!" past the tennis courts and the lake, and the fishermen with their kids and the old man wearing a Cubs hat who said hi to everyone, past the pit bull enthusiasts, and all the other people out enjoying a near-perfect Sunday. A short while later, my rear wheel screeching against my brakes, I was back in mredison's neighborhood.
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