Quick post before I go to the store for beer and pizza. I laughed for 10 minutes over this, made proofreading marks and sent it back in. On the front page of The Star (our local paper... largely crap) in 28 point font, accompanied by a picture of returning bald eagles was the following:
Congratulations to those who made it through last week's two "unnaturally gigantic" posts. I was horribly horribly sick (or on the verge of being so) at the time of writing them, so you'll have to forgive me. To those who completed the word feast: you are now better people. Make sure to show it off.
The subject of today's post is one of much musing between myself and... oh whoever's near by when I'm annoyed by the temperature of something. You see, we have lots and lots of machines to make things hotter. Like fire for instance. We've been a little too proud of that one for a little too long if you ask me. We invented it ages ago and no one's really improved on it much. Sure we package it different ways, but is the functionality much different? But I digress.
But it's not just fire; between ovens, microwaves, fire, toasters, George Forman Grills, faulty lamps, and my muscular buttocks we have several ways of making things (and people) hot quickly. What we haven't figured out is how to make something COLD quickly. What we need is a reverse oven. Because sometimes I cook a pizza, and I want to eat it RIGHT THEN. Not in 5 minutes. Not after blowing on it. I want a mouthful of 'za and I want it now. So I take that biteful. And then I scream. Because, as my family likes to remind me, it was cooked with heat.
For these and other* reasons I've decided to spend my fortune developing The Reverse Oven. Below you can see an artist's conception of a rough mock-up of what this machine might look like. It's a prototype and keep in mind that there's a lot of work to be done still, but I think I can submit this as proof the concept is viable.
I really enjoyed Tim's bird cage post. He was on TV, it was funny, and it made for pretty decent blogging. So, I decided that I had to attempt to get on TV myself. I mean, if Tim is going to take the blog game to the air I'm not going to be left out. Did you see how fast I jumped on the GPS bandwagon? Just like that. However, I really didn't have a plan to do so. I kicked around the idea of a "SOY BOMB" type guerilla apperance. But Bob Dylan staunchly refuses to play anywhere nearby, and no one would ever hire me for my background dancing ability. Not because I'm a bad dancer. No. But do you hire Michelangelo to touch up some chipped paint in your apartment before you move out? Such is Scott.
I was left in something of a conundrum. And I really didn't have any time to think about it anyway because I was working on all the projects I had put off until the last minute. So you can imagine my surprise when, sitting in the library one day killing time until I could go back to my house to work on my senior project, a crazy woman burst through the doors with a camera crew and demanded the people at my table to stay where they were. Apparently they were filming a commercial for the college that day, as it turned out the reason we were in the library at all was because my English Professora decided that she would sneak us down there to avoid being filmed. Well played.
It was pretty fun actually. People forced wavers into our faces insisting that we sign them, they spent a half hour trying to fix the lighting ("Oh wow, can you believe this, sunlight, tungsten, AND fluorescent! I'll tell my GRANDKIDS about this day!!!1111!!!ONE!!"), and I was selected to be the main attraction. Which is just good television really. I got to do a sound check, although they shut me down just as I was getting into the Swingers quotes, so all they heard about was my breakfast and my position on people who don't put milk on cereal. Once that was out of the way (and I had endeared myself to the crew) we worked out exactly what would happen.
I would be standing at the end of a long table filled with students idly leafing through books. The camera would dolly in from the left and come to rest looking over my shoulder, I would then do my best wearing-a-robe-by-the-fireside "Oh, hello there. I didn't hear you come in..." turn to the camera and say "I'm student at Robert Morris College." Being ridiculous to start, I had a great time making it even more ridiculous. For instance when the camera was comming up behind me I was pointing to words in a book a friend was holding and saying "Yes, yes... I know some of these words." Also, I was supposed to smile. So what I would do is say my line, pause, then out of nowhere hit them with a HUGE smile. Like creepy huge. The camera guy was outright laughing.
When I get to see it I'll post it to the Wonder Blog. Until then, I'll leave you to imagine its greatness. And of course, discuss it.
- Scott
As per request, I've decided to write a review of the indie rock show I showed up to looking totally hot, on Saturday. It was the band of my dear childhood friend Kiley Lewis, called Gentleman Auction House. Seeing the band on stage I better understand what they mean with the name. The band subscribes to the Broken Social Scene philosophy of having 27 people on stage, each of whom will play on any random song they fancy. Like an Auction House... of Gentlemen, with all the comming and going. I guess a brothel has that same quality, men showing up, doing what they like and taking off... But it's likely harder to get gigs if your band goes under the name of "Kiley and the Whore House Crooners." Although I do like the cadence that name carries.
Anyway, the lead singer, who I will call Bobby because if I knew him I would at some point say "dude, you should be called Bobby," was described by Lewis as having a voice that can only be captured by the word "characteristic-y." Fair enough, he also drew comparisons to Connor Oberst and I distinctly remember some smug drunk music snob came up to me and said "Oh look it's Weezer Jr." Then I kicked his bloody teeth in. I guess it could have been a compliment. But GAH* doesn't tolerate backhanded River Cuomo referencing compliments like that. And neither do I.
Overall the show was pretty good. I got to enjoy several Bailey's Irish Creams on the rocks, the band sounded good (actually very good, I was impressed because I wasn't in love with them based on the three songs they had up on Myspace**), and I got to partake of some merch. I think it was the merch that really sold it for me. For those of you who don't like to abrev everything, merch is the "I'm too hip for multisyllabic words" version of merchandise. Anyway, I bought two shirts. I intend to wear them ironically. The best way.
- Scott
*Higgins: "What kind of word is that? gaaaah?"
**Advertising Indie Rock Bands, the only acceptable usage of Myspace. Like... ever.
Current AIM Away Message: Ridiculously sick. It's like... ridiculous.
And I was. At least yesterday. Everything hurt. I can't remember the last time I was so sick my eyeballs hurt, but that was pretty much the case. When moving your eyes causes you pain, it's time to take a break. So I did. In the last twenty four hours I'd say I've slept about twelve. That's a pretty decent average I'd say. I would have slept most of the day today but, as Young MC would say: "Next day's function, high class luncheon, food is served and you're stone cold munchin'."
So I got up and went. I'm still sick, but I've officially got to the phase where I'm just kind of dazed. Which leads to interesting side effects. For instance when a person is talking to me right now, I'm just looking at them and listening. Normally I'm thinking. Alot. About a myriad of things, like how long I should maintain eye contact before nonchalantly glancing away. Or whether or not I should look at their eyes or mouth. Or, if they have some distracting facial feature, how hard I should avoid looking at it. Or which of my wide array of expressive facial expressions I should be wearing.
But not today baby! Today it's all sittin' and starin'. It's kind of like a vacation from the normal rules of conversation. Truth be told I'm kind of enjoying it. I think I'm going to go to the college to clean out my stuff and see if that awkward time period in between seeing the only other person in a long is any better. Will I say "hey" or just ignore them completely? Who can say!
I'll keep you posted.
- Scott
I'm all fir'd up with post-y goodnessah. Today was my last day of college. I, Scott Gresham, am officially no longer an undergrad. I am a straight up, smarter than thou, distainful of those silly kids still in their undergrad degrees graduate at this point. Ain't no stoppin' that. It was a mad dash version of college. One I actually hated some times, but now that it's over I look back on my antics with a sense of great accomplishment. Not that I think I could handle some more classes there, don't get me wrong it's time to go. I remember almost a year ago Zac asked me something about a class and I replied "Don't look at me I cashed out two semesters ago!"
But now that school is out, the real escapades can truly begin. In fact, I've had seven since my last final at 12:00. Us graduates don't mess around. The first happened out of the blue. I was at a chinese buffet, debating with the waitress the correct pronounciation of Sapporo, and compairing and contrasting pointing styles. (She points with her finger touching what she means, I point just below the written word, allowing it to be read. Ah culture...) I finally get the beer ordered. It was featured on Diggnation Episoded #11, so I was excited for it. I drank it rather quickly.
Anyway I'm doing my "reasons I don't run bit," which I should really blog about sometime, and I go to sit back down (it involves a demonstration). I'm leaning forward and reaching back under myself to pull in my chair when all of a sudden *CRRRACK*. I've been punched in the nose. What I didn't realize was that my (empty) beer bottle was right under me, and when I swung my head down, looking left, I was bringing my nose down onto it. Hard. The table erupted in a cacophony of nerd excitement. They love their violence. Unfortunately it was my second beer, so everyone was acting like I was drunk. To counter this the first words out of my mouth were "Shit! That really hurt... I mean damn are you serious?" Admittedly not the best defense but the next words were "I'm not drunk I'm just clusmy." It happens. I think I chipped the bone underneath the skin, but don't worry I still look ruggedly attractive. Despite this, I think my new blogger photo reflects my newfound distinguished status. Larger version below:
So, I'm officially one week away from college graduation. With my Bachelors of Computer Science (which will look great on the wall of my study, surrounded by leather bound books and the rich smell of mahogony) I'm about to enter the much buzzed "real world." So, I said to myself: "Self, we need a job." Actually my dad said that to me. And his exact wording was something like "I'm cutting you off." I laughed, then I remembered the time he said "Checkout is at 18."
Much like Lorelai Gilmore I'm cast out into the harsh world with nothing but good looks, the remainder of my savings, a college degree, and no financial obligations. Ok, so nothing like Lorelai Gilmore. But if we ever met I'd play up our similarities, then I'd hit it. I mean, she had sex with Jason. If "Digger" can seduce this woman, she's not exactly the chastity belt type. In fact it's pretty much the opposite. She's the... slut belt type. Yes, that's clever.
Anyway, I'm thrown out on my nicely toned ass. So I thought I'd do the sellout thing and get some kind of a job to support myself. Unless there's a middle class, young, healthy, white male chairty I'm unaware of, it seems to be my only option. Updating my resume I was shocked to discover how much of my experience and qualifications were missing. It's been awhile since I dusted the thing off, but I clearly wasn't interested in getting a job the last time I updated it. Some of my best skills are missing!
Here's a few categories I've added in:
Tom Selleck, Oprah, John D. Rockefeller Jr, Heather Graham, Johnny Lang, Thomas Paine, William McKinley, and myself. What do we have in common? Well besides varying degress of awesome-ness, with myself at one extreme (the good one), and Jonny "I look like a girl, but play white-blues on my acoustic guitar" Lang at the other, not much. To be fair, we're all pretty influential people... again except for Jonny Lang. But the real cosmic bond we all share is that we're born on the same day in the Age of Aquarius, which dawned in the 70's. It's sometime around brunch at this point.
Anyway, the day: January 29th, such a nice looking date. That's my birthday. And this one was the 21st. Much happened that I could expound on for hours. But I think I'll keep this quick and dirty. The way I likes it. Without further B.S. here is the annotated account of my night:
6:30: Go out to Dos Reales. Heavy Mexican food is always the best when there's a chance you might see it again later. I had a burrito the size of my thigh. Mistake #1. However Stephen made a bigger mistake. The Mexican waiter who was serving us didn't really speak English. He offered Steve his choice of beer sizes that sounded like "Tweeelve ounzez, twendy four ounzez, or sisteen ounzez." So, being reasonable, Steve went with the last option. Sixteen ounces sounded pretty good he thought, right in the middle. Cut to the waiter comming back with a brimming 60 ounce pitcher of Dos Equis and Stephen mustering up the courage to tackle it. It was pretty hilarious and he left fairly buzzed. (I too helped with this... but mostly I let Steve take care of himself.)
Also at the restaurant was Britney, the second girl eliminated from the current season of Beauty and the Geek. I ended up sitting at the table right next to her. A pretty entertaining, yet dumb girl dealing with the 14th of her 15 minutes of fame.
7:25: Some idiot, possibly me, suggested a power hour to start the night.
7:45: Seriously debate the merit of continuing the power hour.
7:46: Throw caution to the wind, the power hour continues. Remark on how good I look.
8:01: See old friend I know from Stevo's frat. Insult him by calling him the wrong name, then Mexican. Recall that he's actually Italian. Mention that he should have a more Italian name than Tony. Finally, drunkenly call him Andy Capp because of the hat he was wearing and demand that he bring me hot fries. Observe Tony's reaction of simply turning around and leaving the room. Remember to send him fan club application.
8:30: Remember that I'm still doing a power hour here and I'm about 10 shots behind.
8:31: Caught back up.
8:53: Join an equally buzzed Stephen in third round of "America, FUCK YEAH!"
9:15: Remember that there's a posh soirée in the basement of a certain residence I was supposed to attend.
9:20: Show up. Have beer. Question sexuality of man drinking Zima.
9:25: Announce to the room that I cannot feel my face. Duck under the arc of the slap aimed at my face by random drunk guy as he slurs: "I caaan feelst it."
9:30 to 11:45: Reply hazy. Ask again later.
11:45: Leave for bars. Note ridiculous lines from all the people out celebrating my birthday.
12:01: Give finger to clouds for raining on me during my long walk to the bar.
12:04: "Holy crap, I'm 21!"
12:05: Begin long drawn out argument with Legends' doorman about whether or not I'm actually 21. His claim is that it's the fiscal day that matters, not whether or not it's 12:00.
12:07: Give finger to Legend's.
12:07 and 30 seconds: Give dollar to the girl I slammed with the door as I was exiting and giving finger to Legend's. On seeing how happy one dollar made her, ponder what I could have gotten for five.
12:23: Arrive at Kam's. Demand and receive the "I'm 21, so now I can buy all my underaged friends a beer" wristband. Explain I was kidding about the underaged thing.
12:24: Buy underaged friend a beer.
Scott, you are the greatest. We love you far more than your brother. It's true. We wrote this. - Mom and DadWhat a great family I have.
I'm already an international sensation, that's not news. More interesting however, is the fact that NASA is now in the business of launching probes with my name on them into the outer reaches of our galaxy. That's right kids, the rocket launch that's supposed (EDIT: It did in fact, happen but this post was written before the launch and I didn't send it up because I liked the responses to my Synthesia post so much) to happen today, will bear a disc with my full name on it. Of course this means that aliens, equipped with CD-ROMS, will be able to get my name and track me down through Google. But this does not concern me too much. There's a few thing I want to ask them like, "Guys, what's with the anal probes? Can't you just scan us or something? I mean, you can travel light years, semi-successfully veil yourselves in secrecy, but you can't build an MRI? What the hell E.T.?"
The best/most futuristic part however is that it's not powered by normal rocket fuel. Or gas. Regular or unleaded. It needs something with a little more kick... plutonium. That's right, I'm telling you that this sucker's nuclear*. It'll pass the moon 9 hours after launch. That's pretty blindingly fast. Japan also recently launched a probe to Pluto. From what I've learned from the NASA channel we've already passed it too. Apparently it's flying at about half the speed of anything else and has been inexplicably flying with its turn signal on for the last 45,000 miles, almost as inexplicable as having a turn signal . Oh those crazy stereotypes.
Not that we're doing much better. The Ugly American tourist cliche now extends to the stars in the form of the ridiculous names that got put on the disc along with mine. Unfortunately no amount of money, asking nicely, or promising to be NASA's friend would get them to just paint my name on the side of the probe along with "Don't f*ck with Earth!" So, they took other names as well. A few thousand actually. Among the gems are Hugh Jass, Mike Grotch, and Heywood Jablome. Classy Earth, really classy.
**(Floating asterisks)
- Scott
* I'm hoping Nathan Harry caught the blatant Back to the Future reference here.
** Thanks for reminding me Josh.
I just wanted to give you all a progress report on 2006. I can sum it up pretty succinctly; it kicks ass. The year's been off to a good start from day one. There's alot to be happy about, graduation, turning 21, touring Europe with my friends. But I think the thing I'm currently the most happy about is pretty freaking awesome. I just realized it today when I was writing a note. There's no 5 in the year.
That's right. No stupid hard to write number for this entire year. My percentage of checks I can write correctly, first try just went up enormously. More than once it looked like I was trying to fake a date because my fives are just horrible. If I slow down I can pull off a nice looking five, but it's a debilitating disorder. I should probably get a special parking spot for it. My God, I'm so brave...
But this year? 2 0 0 6. Easiest one since 2003. I've got some pretty awesome three's. By far the most personality of any of my numbers. I've got one pretty gangster looking three. Like 1930's gangster. He's constricted in the top curve, then all loosey goosey in the bottom. The most art deco of all my numbers. He just pops up out of nowhere sometimes. Very cocky that one. Then I have my ernest three. Just a hard working number doing his part to form a math problem, or a date, or some other number usage not specifically mentioned here... but I digress.
In short 2006 is shaping up to be a good year; one I can write.
- Scott
P.S. Does anyone else think of letters/numbers as male or female? For instance three is male. Kind of a rapscallion tyke. Am I the only one with Synthesia?
P.P.S. Photos of number writing available on request.
I've always thought that. This blog is far more relevant to today's college student than statistics. I think just for reading it you should get some kind of college credit. In fact you could probably test out of Slang just for this blog. Your school doesn't have Slang 101? Pfft. What kind of fly-by-night B.J.U. do you go to? I damn near majored in slang. Would have been tight too, that ish is straight hyphy.
Anyway, this blog. And how it should be required reading. Well my friends, that day has already come. A few weeks back Robert Morris College's own Professor Hager decided to include my blog in her lesson plan. That's right. There are people who literally have to read this. To those people I say: hi. I also say: Be glad I'm not Joyce, or Kafka, or anyone else who was pissed off at their father and as a result force you to suss out paragraph after paragraph of symbolism, to finally come to the conclusion that, "Oh hey, they were pissed at their father." Although come to think of it, most great writers were. That and alcoholic. Unless the old man spends all of my inheritance I think I can only manage half of that equation.
So the reading, apparently the kids (for they were mere freshmen) had to read the greatness that is the Wonder Blog and then evaulate its worth as a source for a paper. Of course there were also a few other sites mixed in as well... but really those were a waste of time compared to the shining jewel they found here. La professora hasn't let me see what they wrote about it just yet, but I plan to post the responses they had in the comments after I find out (probably tomorrow). I think we can expect nothing short of utter adoration. Although, now that I think about it a large number of people now have a ridiculous amount of information about me. Price of fame, baby.
But if I'm going to be taught alongside Plato, Aristotle, and most likey Hip-hop-crates I think I should condense an idea down to an easily quoted mantra for living. In this spirit I bequeath to future generations the following aphorism... in pirate's map form.
Man, that was a rough week. Thanks for the condolences. What do you mean how were you supposed to know? I didn't post for almost five week days! Where were the search parties? I could be lying dead surrounded by women. Hot women. In mourning. That killed me through "exhaustion." Fortunately for all of you (and the women) I'm still alive and, like Principal Skinner, was merely trapped under an avalanche of school work. It took me two weeks to get out of the holiday funk and back into doing awe inspiringly great work in classes.
For instance, I'd been putting off a 7 page research paper since the first day of the class. It was due today; yesterday I had nothing. Today I spent the morning cutting the paper back to seven pages rather than the roughly 15 it was going to be if I didn't. And that's just one day of work! I think I was just hungry to write. Really write something good. I can't remember the last time I had the chance to. (Phantom Waldorf: Neither can we!) Shut-up voice in my head!
Anyway, two things happened this week that warrant discussion. The first I'll let speak for itself. (So technically it warrants monologue.)
Hi kids. I've been as swamped as New Orleans (what, is this also too soon?) lately so I haven't had time to post. Hurricane "Blowing off a week of school before break" came and bit me in the ass. So now that the majority of my back homework is made up (as far as I know) and now that I've had a bit o' rest since the violent transition back to the world of scheduals and due dates, I'm ready to drop a few trains on you. I can only hope you're ready to receive them.
Recently something has been seriously inciting my ranting wrath. This something: utter mis-use of computer jargon, and mispronunciation of common tech company names. The biggest offender: a local advertisement for Vonage, the broadband phone company. It's pronounced Von-age. In fact the vice president of the company once addressed this matter stating, " The name Vonage... is meant to imply "the age of VON" (Voice over Net)." Yes I know, she too is ridiculous. However, dumbass local guy always leads into the commercial break with "Sponsorship of this program provided by "Vo-Nage." And he does so in the most annoying-self-assured-but-wrong manner imaginable.
To the announcer I say this: if I ever catch you around town, confidently striding about and telling people about your Vo-Nage endorsements I think I'll kick you in the nuts. Just so you know.
Feel free to add to this list similar offenders.
- Scott
I was recently having lunch with two lovely ladies and Nathan Rice, and one of the LL's broached an interesting topic. Near her school is a state park for the Trail of Tears. I was unaware that there were any commerative Trail of Tears tourist attractions. This led me to wonder just what kind of exhibits they might have at this park? Maybe a guided audio tour from the perspective of one of the Indians? "How. My name is Farting Cat. I died near this tree from starvation. Just beyond that turn is a great scenic overlook where a good twenty of my tribe died. Be sure to get a picture. Thank you for comming to the Trail of Tears State Park where my people's suffering is finally expressed. Please stop at the gift shop and make sure to pick out your very own 'I went to the Trail of Tears State Park and all I got was this crappy t-shirt. But at least I didn't die of starvation and cruelty like the thousands of Indians who came here before me.' t-shirt."
It's gotta be like having a gift shop at Auschwitz. What do they sell there? Dustbusters? (Oh my Lord am I sorry, but as I was typing and trying to think of a funny/horrible object that sprang, unbidden, into my head.) It's almost as horrible as the new Greyhound bus tours of the New Orelands debacle. That's right. Now you too can observe half drowned residents from the comfort of a chartered bus. Thought it was only for the president*? Not anymore. Don't care to actually go? No problem. Feel free to play a guitar at the depot while your friends and family check out the destruction.
So, after the relative success of these endeavours, I've decided to capitalize on tragedies of my own. I was thinking of selling glow in the dark clothing and fake Geiger counters at Nagasaki. And maybe some fun things for the kids, like Fat Man shaped firecrackers. Why not? It seems to be the new hawtness.
- Scott
* Though periodic month-long vacations to your "ranch", the ability to blow off work and do whatever the hell you'd like while a team of experts claim that people who point this out are unamerican, that's still just for the president.
Hi kids. You didn't think I'd let 2005 slip away without one more post on the Wonder Blog did you? If so you've sorely misjudged the importance I place on symbolic dates. I'm proud of you all, not one "where the hell is Scott" comment. I conjure that's mostly because I'm seeing a nice chunk of you in person and you know damn well where I am. And also, people are out living their lives. But I think the real reason is because you respect my privacy. As an S-list celebrity I really appreciate fans that can respect me that way. In fact, there were only a few paparazzi. I think I'll show you a few of their shots.
One of the music blogs I frequent recently posted their choices for the Top 22 Songs of 2005. Why 22? I don't know. But it's a nice round number (though I would have used either 8 or 1995) and all 22 songs are worth hearing. I don't necessarily agree that these are the best songs of 2005, but a lot of them are on my list anyway. Without further bullshit, I give you the link. All the songs are download-able for free so you can hear them for yourself. And as a bonus I'll tell you which songs are actually the best, or at least, my favorites.
Said The Grammophone's Top 22 Songs of 2005.
Scott's Personal Favorites:
Andrew Bird - Fake Palindromes: This is one of my favorite songs of all time. It's not my normal fare by any means, but the lyrics really drive it home. I find myself singing this song all the time, and occasionally inserting lyrics from it into everyday speech. Most of the time I can work it in so casually nobody stops and says "Wait, what the hell are you talking about?" Now that's smooth baby. Give it a listen. Bonus side trivia: Andrew Bird plays almost every instrument in the song except drums. Double bonus: I can't hear the lyrics "Dewy eyed Disney bride" without thinking of Allyn.
Kelly Clarkson - Since U Been Gone: I know. I know. Kelly Clarkson... what the hell. But the damn song is addiciting. Sean's description is perfect, so I'd strongly urge you to just read that. In addition I'll admidt that when I'm alone at my apartment or when I'm driving I'll just put this on and freaking rock out. To compensate for the gay-ness of this one song I also hunt deer... with my bare hands.
Sufjan Stevens - Casmir Polaski Day: This song makes me think of Rachel Sandvig. I don't know why. Anyone remember her? While I'm not a Sufjan fanatic, I do kind of enjoy him from time to time. So if I'm not wild about the song and I don't have anything more insightful to say about it than Rachel Sandvig referenes why list it? To piss off Jake.
Imogen Heap - Hide and Seek: Didn't Lauren Bitchwater want to name her child Imogen once? That taint aside, the song is entrancing. It's like staring into a fire. Anticipate four minutes, twenty eight seconds of not doing anything. Once again, not my usual fare, but a worthy song for the list.
The Strokes - You Only Live Once: Glad to see The Strokes can actually evolve musically as a band. I liked their first two albums, but there wasn't a lot of difference between them. So I got a little scared. Especially considering that another band I once liked has done nothing different since their debut. I'm looking in your direction Coldplay. Way to grow as an artist, asshole(s)! Speed of Sound? More like "Cut from the first album."
I could go on, but I don't think I need to. Suffice it to say Wolf Parade, Broken Social Scene, and LCD Soundsystem are all represented with songs that are definitely worth a curious listen. I also like Agent Simple, if for no other reason than that their name reminds me of Improv Everywhere, and I love Improv Everywhere.
So that's all for today. I probably won't be able to post again until Monday when I'm settled into my new floating city of a ship. Feel free to post responses and rebutals, I look forward to it. But now, off to skate in Forest Park. The next time most of you see me I'll be much tanner, hopefully not too tan though. I don't want to get searched at the airports*.
- Scott
* You could be offended here, but come on. You know that's how it works.
Today's post is to be the first of many entries into the WADWUS. That's an acronym. It stands for "Wicked Awesome Directory of Words Used by Scott". It was originally going to be the more flowing "Wicked Awesome Directory of Words Scott Uses" but that doesn't spell anything. Nothing useful like WADWUS anyway. So let's get down to the bread and butter of the WADWUS directory: words I use.
I am so checked out right now. As a rule, I think that only people who are clossal tools use the word senioritis, so I won't. But I relate to the concept, so I henceforth rename it: this-week-next-time-I'll-be-on-a-nice-warm-island-blissfully-sipping-an-alcoholic-beverage-itis. As a result, nothing will be getting done this week. Or so I thought just a few scant hours ago. Then I stumbled upon a revolutionary epiphany that may well rock the very foundation of our very society. Here it very is: if you want to feel motivated to do something, find someone who can't do it. Then proceed to remind yourself how lucky you are by flaunting your ability to do simple tasks. (It's better if you do it out of their sight. Not for your motivation, just your what's the thing... oh, soul.) It's horrible I know. But it came to me as I was trying to get about eight things done and ignoring all of them to chill in the recliner and watch some TV. Flipping through channels I landed on The 750 Pound Man (at first I thought it was a beanbag). Out of sheer, morbid curiosity I decided to watch.
When they got into his relatively normal back story of simply being a lazy, lazy bastard it terrified me. I'm a lazy bastard! I can't let all this go and live like that! And instantly got up and cleaned my house, did 50 situps (which burned... burned so good), and pounded out three homework assignments. And now a blog post. I'm seriously impressed at the resolve right now. I think I've been scared straight. Don't get me wrong I feel bad for the guy, but somehow someone go through physical therapy to be able to more easily scratch themselves in bed makes me feel like an Olympian for flipping over the end of my couch into a 9.5 point TV watching sprawl. Not to mention how comparitively ripped I look next to this guy. You could bounce a quarter off my knee. Can he say that? I think not. Now, if you'll excuse me I think I'm going to go lift some baskets of laundry all the way over my head!
- Scott
P.S. What are the odds that during this season of loving and togetherness both Tim and I would have darker than average posts?
P.P.S. The ship I'm going to be sailing on over this holiday season, the ms Westerdam, has an internet cafe. So expect regular reports of how much better my day is going than yours.
The Alternately Sweet or Sultry Jenna Fischer
