Rags to Riches

Well today has been pretty nice, not too much to report, except my locale. I am now in Canada. It's great, they've got trees and mooses and sledd dogs; lots of lumber, and lumberjacks, and logs! We all think that it's kind of a drag that we have to come here to get milk in a bag. Ok, enough Five Iron Frenzy. It's hard enough to concentrate with the insanely good Asian kids in this place playing StarCraft 10000x faster than I can build my first Protoss Archon. So far the day has been a complete success. Let me fill you in:

I woke up promptly at 11:00. Stretched, and decided I needed 15 more mintues. Ahh, that's the life. When I did wake up I remembered the details of the night before. Talking to Nathan's Aunt, we discussed what hotel to stay at. As a joke amid the reasonable choices like the Holiday Inn by the Airport, and a few other "pump and runs" (my term), I said "What about the Westin?" If you don't know, The Westin Bayside Resort and Spa is like a 4 star hotel overlooking the bay. But Nathan's aunt took me totally seriously. She loved the idea. And at her behest we graciously accepted. And after laughing at how rediculously nice the place we were staying was (seriously, Valet Parking out front; that's freakin' classy) we finally crashed with exhaustion from the day of outrunning rangers up a mountain.

So today, we waited around on Nathan's aunt (Donna) to shell out the dough so we could take off for the border. And I have to say our banter was fantastic. It's amazing the amount of material I came up with talking to them. Just the kinds of things you run across in conversation when you're on a roll. Good times. Anyway Donna showed up, and after a most deserved showering of thanks, we shipped out. The trip up was going smoothly, we were cooking along at 70mph heading to the frozen north when we spotted trouble on the horizon. Looked like traffic was slowing down. In fact... it looked like traffic was slowing down alot. All of a sudden it looked like, and indeed was also the case that, we had to stop fairly quickly. Unfortunately, the car ahead of us also came upon this realization fairly quickly. So when he put his stop on, really had to stop. Conservative estimates put the distance between our bumper and his at about 1cm. Whew.That was a close one. Just as I was possibly about to wonder about the car behind us, he SLAMMED into Nathan's back bumper. And just like the suspended chrome balls which comprise a staple of both the executive office and Spencer's Gift, the Aveo that hit us knocked us into the next car.

We had just become part of a three car pile-up. It was pretty much the rainbow coalition of fender benders. Ahead of us, an Asian family in a Montego. Behind us, an Indian family in the Aveo, and in the middle like the cream fillin' were three college kids in a Malibu. It was a sad day for the Chevy family. So Nathan, Wang and...Samir? Got out to check on the damage. Fortunately there was none. But I wanted pictures for my blog. I can't describe to you the terror on Samir's face as a crazy camera wielding man hopped out of the car and took pictures of him, the cars, and the ensuing highway backup. Fortunately I won't have to. I have a picture of it. We all decided a few things.

1. None of us speak the same language.
   
2. The damage isn't bad for anyone.
3. We should all make awkward hand gestures, get back in our Chevy's and drive away.
   

And that's what happened. The rest of the drive was uneventful, but I will make a note that Samir followed us almost all the way to Canada, presumably riding his brakes the whole way. Once here, we found out that our hotel is far classier than we are. I wore something nice for the occasion and on entering instantly felt underdresed. Although I'm pretty sure I would feel that way in a tuxedo as well, so I stopped worrying about it. Still, we have two queen sized beds, huge fluffy robes, a shower that puts all others I've been in to shame, and a view of the harbor from our balcony. I'm going to have a good time in this place when I get back to it.

Currently we're rounding off a night of eating out at a Greek Place called the White Tower. Despite what you might think, it is not approiate to raise your fist and scream "WHITE TOWER OF POWER" just out front of the bistro itself. It is however, hilarious. Plus the food is good, and they served me alcohol (the very same alcohol I blame the typo's in this post on). After that we smoked some (terrible and overpriced despite my haggling) Cuban Cigars, and ate some delicious Gelato. And then I posted. I'm running out of time here and Nate and Mr. Barry are getting restless, so I think I'd better go. Tomorrow: scouring the city for D-list celebrities and visiting the hometown of Clark Kent. That's it for now kids.

- Scott

From being oppressed by the man, to being the man

Well today was a pretty great adventure of a day. But I think I should pick it up from the tail end of yesterday. So, we had visited the Seattle downtown area. I saw some interesting things, checked out the Space Needle. The moutain wasn't "out" meaning we couldn't clearly see Ranier (and being Seattle, also that it was still in the closet), but the rest of the views were really impressive. I gathered a large crowd as I used a large exclamation point as a phallus and testes. As I posed for my pictures the tour group was pretty well in stitches. Very lude and very fun. I was already making my mark on Seattle, in accordance with the prophecy.

After the needle goodness, we checked out the E.M.P. which sadly has nothing to do with an electronics crippling pulse, and much more to do with a weird ass building and painfully high admission prices. It's a museum built by Paul Allen, who for those not into the world of PC's is Bill Gates' right hand man. He's basically the Darth Vader to Gates' Palpatine. So what I'm saying is that the bastard didn't need to charge poor college students 25.00 to get in. This would be the first time we were oppressed by the man. And just from that, I felt more soulful, more alive, more prone to write blues music. Loudly I shouted "Fuck the corporate world, biiatch!" I then applied for a job, got coffee at Starbucks, and updated my resume. But seriously, I was pretty tired at this point from touring Seattle all day. So tired in fact, that when Nathan drove us down Broadway I could only do 5 minutes of material on the store called "Gay City" with the sign on the door that said "Entre Hermanos" (for the Spanish Impaired it says: Enter Brothers). Still, it was pretty funny stuff.

So on the way back to Nathan's happenin' pad, I fell asleep in the car a few times. Which is quite a thing considering that (traffic permitting) he lives about 15 mintues from anywhere. Quite the geographic oddity. Anyway back at Nathan's place I fell asleep in what was described as the most awkward position in the history of time. Including those in S&M magazines. Who described it like that you ask? Me. Just now. To describe it. Deal with that. Anyway, I woke in a daze late at night, wandered into the room I was sharing with Barrett, muttered about how I refuse to share a bed with a man and promptly slept even more awkwardly on the floor. With my lack of sleep and timezone hops, I had no idea when it was that I woke up, but I felt refreshed. And so it was on to today.

Nathan was already gone (to work, the corporate sellout), so me and Barrett talked to his aunt (who I was meeting for the first time on account of having been passed out on her couch, well mostly on the couch) she gave us the skinny about... ALL OF SEATTLE. Very talkative gal this aunt of Nate's. Very nice though. After hearing about various places to go to we set out to find that which caught my ear the most: a legendary "hot Starbucks girl". Also, we wanted to see the mall. Here's a fun fact, all those rumors about Seattle having a ludacris amount of Starbucks's? PAINFULLY TRUE. We were briefly at an outlet mall that I swear to you had TWO Starbucks in it. One on the west end and one right in the center. I'm getting a picture of this for the world to see. It's worse than the ones in Texas across the street from one another. These are literally 1500 feet apart. I could see myself working there and asking for a transfer because the other one is closer to my house... FIVE PARKING SPACES CLOSER TO MY HOUSE. It's insane.

Anyway once Nathan got done being responsible, it was time to go have adventures. Our first outing for the day was to visit Snoqualmie Falls. Beautiful place, let me tell you. My issue with it was this: you couldn't get anywhere near the falls or the water. We could look from far above the river as the water crashed down, but that wasn't good enough for me. Then Nathan told us about the trails that go to the lower observation point. I liked the sound of it and we set off down the mountain (mostly through trails that bypass the main trail) to the bottom observation deck. We stood there and looked, but that still wasn't good enough for us. So, I decided I wanted a closer look. It was a pretty easy thing to hop the guard rail and climb down the rocks so... that's what I did. Right past the sign warning me not to. Nathan got a pretty hilarious picture of that sign, then the next one of me climbing down to the river.

Once down there my brazen recklessness swayed the others and they too climbed down to the base. From that vantage point we got some amazing pictures. We climbed around on the rocks, got hit by the waterfall mist, then noticed how rediculously exposed we were in the valley 1,300 feet below the lodge/upper lookout. Feeling like Gandalf as Saruman's birds approached in the Fellowship of the Ring, we ducked behind some rocks. As long as we had been out there, drinking moutain river water, skipping rocks and generally acting like idiots, someone had to have seen us. It was at this point Barrett mentioned something about the severe warning they gave about tresspassing on government property.

The fact that we weren't terribly far from a hydroelectric power station didn't help our case any. So we stealthily headed back up the trail. While we were on the main trail we heard something that didn't quite belong... something strangely like an ATV... but ATV's aren't allowed who would have... RANGERS! Realizing this we ran like Frodo from the road. I was telling Nate and Barry about the Nazgul on the road and to hide. And with that, we ran from the road up into the hills on a secluded path. Whether or not we were actually running from a ranger or heard something from a road didn't really matter at that point. We were getting the hell out of there. And that we did. Back to town.

Later that night we went out to a Mongolian Grill. On the way a crazy black guy jumped out from near some trashcans waving his arms. Nathan, naturally walked around him. There was hardly any reaction. But the black guy got offended. "You just jumped like that because I'm black didn't you". Apparently I'm a bad influence on Nathan because he looked the guy square in the eye and gave him a sarcastic "Yeah" that I was pretty proud of. Then he quickly said "no." This furthered the crazy black guy's rage. CBG launched into a diatribe about how we're racist and asked Nathan what mix he was, and if we were college frat guys. I smartly replied "No we don't even go to college man" to which his friend replied "right on". At that point he said "good because I'm gonna stick [as in cut, stab, murder] the next damn frat asshole I see". There's more to that exchange but I can only do it in person, and by now, my fingers are about to fall off. I'm out for tonight, tomorrow: Canada.


- Scott

Planes, Trains, and Ex-Con's

Whoa. Dude, I'm in like...Seattle and stuff. And very quickly absorbing the local flava. It's a really cool place, with Asian people, hippies, and Asian people who are Hippies. The ride out however, was not cool. As you might have known (from the hyper explicit post below), we started this adventure by train, a train which was naturally late. When it did eventually get to Springfield I had been at the train station for an hour and a half. Sadly, this would set the precedence for the trip. Once aboard said train, I had to fight my way to the car that Mr. Barry was sitting in. I think somehow he ended up in business class. Because he was in a way nice car than I had been in. Unfortunately we ended up with a confirmed psycopath and drug addict in the seats behind us.

All of that didn't come out of course, until the accident. Apparently the train ahead of us was hauling toxic waste. And I kid you not, there was a hazardous material spill on the tracks. We were stuck. It was now up the the brilliant people who make their living pressing the "go forward" button in the front of the train to figure out what we would do about this. One hour later they decided we would take a different set of tracks. So we backed up and got on freight tracks, then we had to wait for someone qualified to "pilot the train on these different tracks" to which I replied "Just close your friggin eyes and pretend you're on your own tracks". Carl Windslow (my pet name for the conductor in our area) was not amused. It took just a little while (in the geologic sense) for them to figure out that the tracks we were on did not lead to union station. And just a bit longer than that to figure out that the guy who switches the tracks had gone home for the night and that we were stuck.

By this time pandamonium had broken out, we were now 3 hours behind schedual. People were pissed. Irrational things started happening. The Coked out girl (who was pretty clearly on drugs when she got on, and indeed was sighted eating some foreign substance) took some more drugs. The ex-con type psyco behind us started using even more profanity (which meant that the only not profane words in his vocabulary were now "the" "son" and "mother") he also told us about how he screwed a Vancouver girl in Vegas, were we could get hash in British Colombia, and how cool those "fucking granola guys" who live in Seattle are. He also regaled us with the story of how he got fired from his last job for getting in a fight with a 500 pound black guy who just so happened to get on the train with us. And how if he said one thing to him, the ex-con would "rip off his head, skull f- him and shit down his throat". Lovely heartwarming togetherness in the face of adversity. This is the guy they screened for at NASA when they were going to be putting people on tiny capsules for days at a time.

Eventually the Amtrak people deicded that the best way to head off a riot was to offer free consessions in the snack car. Sadly, this too backfired as the entire train bumrushed the front car. It was really primal, I expected someone to kill a weaker passenger to establish dominance over the snack car territory. As soon as all was calm we noticed we were moving again... PAST Chicago. We went miles out of our way to the next switch over, then backed the train all the way to Union Station. Finally there, Barrett and I ran screaming from the train. We wanted to be damn sure not to stick around psyco guy or drug chick. It was still a few hours till our flight, so we got in touch with Josh and he came and picked us up from the station. We then spent 3 hours at Elmhurst (there's a really funny story about what happened there, but I'll tell it later in the comment section because I'm about to go kayaking) before we had to leave for the airport. Once we got on our flights, things went much smoother than the train, but considering the fact that for things to go worse the wings of the plane would have had to fall off, this was no great feat.

Anyway, we're now out in Seattle. We've been to the Space Needle, I've take lude pictures. One of Nathan's friends saw Kristin Kreuk in a trendy cafe a while back. Apparently she gave him the "shhh" finger to the lips and he gave her the "I won't tell but later on you have to make out with me" head nod. We went to a hospital where they have a slide and slid down it like 20 times. Laughing all the way. Then I loudly pointed out how only a healthy person could climb the rediculously steep steps and survive the rough voyage down the slide itself, so it's more of a motivation to get well than something to entertain the sick people. Which basically is cruel, like having an ice cream stand at a fat camp, or a "not eating" stand at an annorexic camp. And with that, I'm out of time for blogging today. It's now time to go have more adventures in Seattle. Dude... I'm like totally out...

- Scott

Apparently I'm the most cryptic person, ever.

Ok, so I've been alluding to some mysterious Seattle trip for a while now. I thought I said something about what it was/why I'm going, but apparently not. Then I found a note in my BlogPoints that reminded me how this happened: "Don't drive Seattle Trip into ground". Reading that gramatic turd, I remembered that I was all excited about the trip a month ago (well, I still am, and even more so now, but that's I'll get into that a couple of sentences from now), and having a month until I was going to go, I didn't want to make every single post about it. So I didn't. But recently I have had like 10 people talk to me and ask me just what the hell this trip is going to be, so I'm giving you the low down. Listen up, I'm only going to type this once.

Prologue:

The time: one year ago. The place... uhh... probably this exact apartment, I don't really remember. The thing: me promising Nathan Harry I would come visit him at school "next" year. Which would be well and good except that he chose that moment to spring on me "Well you can but I'll be in Seattle." Damn, nice trap Nathan. I'm tempted to think you're a woman, what with the leading a man into unintentional commitment. Kidding of course, I was even more gung ho to go after hearing that. So, days and weeks passed by. I was biding my time and athe hour that everything would align and I would have some sign that Nathan was ready to have visitors come to see him. Did it ever come? Maybe, but I decided that it was high time to head out there about a month ago and ordered tickets.

Once the tickets were ordered, I asked my parents if I could go to Seattle. It's nice to let them feel like they're in on the decision making process, especially considering the fact that they're paying for it. It's diplomatic touches like that one that keep me out of trouble. Fortunately they consented and disaster was averted. Then thinking about it, I saw no reason I should embark on this EPIC journey by myself. So I called my trusty left-handed right-hand man; Mr. Barry. (Known as Barrett Schmidt to the rest of the world, it's just me and one black guy at Hoods that call him that. But I still friggin' love it). Even though it was some days later I managed to book him on all the same flights as me, thanks to some mad skillz. And Orbitz being really easy to cobble together flights. I think it would be easier to explain the rest of the trip day by day. Here goes:

Tuesday:

This day shall henceforth be called TrainTuesday. Because that's what it is. The cheapest flights, best hotdogs, and worst baseball team all come out of Chicago. So I decided we would fly out from there and save some money. The issue was getting there. Fortunately if you book in advance (like 2-3 weeks in advance) Amtrak is rediculously cheap (from here to Chicago round trip is 32 dollars.) So that's what I did. The only problem with this plan is that the train dumps us out in Union Station at 8:45 PM, and our flight leaves from O'Hare... at 6AM the next day. I don't have much of a plan for this, but all accounts of what we do with this time will involve shenanigans. I promise you that.

Wednesday:

We fly to Detroit. That's right, Detroit. Why go to Detroit on the way to Seattle? Well, part of me wanted to be in every continental US time zone in one day, but mostly because North West is rediculous. Really. Really. Rediculous. But it's cheaper, and I get to hang out in the Detroit airport. Win win. After a breif layover we hop a flight to Seattle. I have window seats all the way in both directions. I just can't tell you how much I enjoy booking my own flights. I'll also be enjoying my Kosher meals on the flight there and my Vegan Entree's on the way back. It's just too sweet to f*ck with the airlines. Anyway, that day we land. That's all I know about it.

Thursday:

Watch Joey? I don't have anything planned for this day, which means something fun will likely crop up. Or I'll have to go about russ'lin' it up.

Friday:

Regret that I'll have to miss the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy Premier, because I'm going to Canada. Then remember I'm leaving the country and get giddy with the possibilities for an international incident. Plus it's Canada. How rife with fertile comic soil can a country get? Not much more. I guess I could be in North Korea, but that would have little more than half the charm and none of the flannel. Not to mention the legal drinking age is 18. And here's the kicker: Nathan's Aunt got us a hotel in Vancouver, so we're staying there two days. Hopefully I'll be able to track down some celebrities from shows like Smallville, Battlestar Galactica, and/or Stargate SG-1/Atlantis. They shoot other stuff there too, but that's all that currently comes to mind.

Saturday:

Mostly Canada.

Sunday:

Get back to the States. Mourn the lack of milk sold in bags. Make other comparisons from Five Iron Frenzy songs. Go to church. And most likely see The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.

Monday:

No real clue. I'm sure we'll hang out with Nathan. Rehash shenanigans of old. See things and people. Regret that we have to part later on that night. Make future plans, discuss how we never make "past plans", point out that sometimes Scott's plans go so horribly wrong they actually work. Then get a ride to the airport and have our fond farewells.

Tuesday:

Figure out how we're getting from O'Hare to the train station again. Then doing it. And that's the trip. One more thing though.

Today:

Wonder about the wisdom of giving stalkers, the government and theives my exact itinerary. Seriously, I'm like a C list celebrity. This can't be safe at all. Damn interweb! Oh well, enjoy bloggites, theives, and G-men. I'm out.


- Scott

The Final Countdown

Well I just got back from one hilarious night of Kung Fu Hustle and Smallville. Thank you Wherenberg and Tivo respectively. If you haven't seen Kung Fu Hustle, do. You won't regret it, and there's a good likelyhood that you'll pee your pants laughing. The same is true of the last episode of Smallville. There's some pretty gaping plot holes there. I had a good time pointing them out, so good in fact that I found myself wishing I was trapped on a satellite with two robot pals and a theater to myself. Oh, how I long to supplant Mike Nelson.

Anyway, on to less usurp-ful news. In just four of your Earth days, I will begin a legendary voyage. One no doubt filled with peril, a lack of attention to more important details, and general Tom Foolery. That's pretty well locked in place. Here's the variable: music. I always listen to the Europe classic, The Final Countdown, as the plane is taking off. The stewardesses really frown on me using my headphones during preflight, but I've never been much for the rules. Besides it gives the takeoff that sense of purpose it typically lacks. Suddenly it's not just some trip I'm on, because "we're leaving together". And it's not like we're really on the same journey so I make it known "but still it's farewell". "And maybe we'll come back to Earth, who can tell?" I think to myself. Because even though it's not likely, there's a chance we'll make escape velocity and just leave the whole wretched planet behind us and somehow travel through space in a jet. Stranger things have happened. The current success of Carrot Top for instance. At somepoint I notice I'm flying Southwest, and sighing I soliloquise "I guess there is no one to blame". Then all of a sudden "We're leaving ground (Leaving Ground...)". And I steel myself because "It's the FINAL COUNTDOWN (The FINAL COUNTDOWN!)"

And that's how I start every flight. Incidently it explains why I swallow whole peanuts exclaiming that they're my "protien pills", brag that my ship can make the Kessel Run in less than 12 parsecs, and feel so completely comfortable relieving myself in my pants during extended flight. Morbidly, I also like to listen to "Major Tom" shortly before landing. Which brings me to my question o' the post. What songs should I fill in my trip with. Take off is firmly settled into it's synth driven 80's anthem, but the rest of the flight/adventure is completely audiologically blank. Color my world people, and do it with sound.

That's it for this post, I might squeeze in another before the actual final countdown, but I promise to post from Seattle. I'm sure I'll have good stories to regale you with. Now let's hear those suggestions.


- Scott

Get that restraining order ready.

Wouldn't lawyer-ing be a lot more interesting if restraining orders were delivered via a holster mounted "Pistol of Justice"? I think so. And it would probably make getting one less embarrassing you could tell your friends "The restraining order is some B.S., but that ther' DA has the quickest draw west of the Missip' " Which will make me feel better when I get one. Because I feel like a damn stalker. Here's why; I have this ridiculously good memory and I remember people's faces for years. I saw a guy the other day I didn't recognize at first and then two days later realized it was the guy whose car broke down and left him stranded at BestBuy.

Creepy I know, but it happens all the time. Like today, I was watching the...*ahem* Gilmore Girls, because...er it was... on? Yeah, it was that and nothing else. I only got one channel today at 4:00 and it had the Gilmore Girls on. Totally not my fault. Anyway there was an extra in the background who asked Lorelai a question and I recognized her immediately. It was Tim's newest crush: the McGriddles girl. So armed with this info I managed to track her down. Her name is Riki Lindhome. Apparently she was in Million Dollar Baby too, I'm generally not into beefcake women's boxers (seriously, the least feminine group outside the WNBA) but I might have to see this thing.

The other reason is that I have officially proclaimed my love for a celebrity to a celebrity. At least by proxy. Remember my attraction for Pam from The Office? And how I couldn't remember who I knew that said they were related to her? Well I found out my friend Karen was the one who originally gave up that little nugget of trivia. And thanks to an assist from Rob, a message got passed along to Pam. Here is the message exactly as it was delivered to her: "Scott Gresham totally thinks you're hot." To which she laughed. I could feel rebuffed, but I like the idea that Pam (Jenna Fischer) laughed at something I said. The way I see it, she knows how I feel; the ball's in her court now.

That's all for today kids. See, I told you it'd be much shorter.

- Scott

Duality and Omni-ality

Well, I just got back from a humdinger of a weekend. I'll start at the beginning because the best parts happen later on and I have no desire to be anti-climatic today. Also, this is the second time I've typed this story out. I typed it all in last night, and after a breif AIM chat Firefox crashed and I lost the whole long thing (and it's pretty long, get ready for some heavy page-down-ing). I can't explain the feeling of depression after that, but it was seriously like someone ran over my dog. Here's to obsessive compulsively saving my posts from now on.

Anyway, my weekend: it, like most weekends, started on Friday. I took off to see my friend Karen in a play. Or musical, whatever. It was Jekyll and Hyde and was very well done by Quincy University. Let me tell you, that Hyde seemed to be having an awesome time. I almost wanted to hang with him. But then the frivolous murders got to me and I decided that, despite my love of vibrant characters, I draw the line at those who claim to be "filled with evil" and have the devil at their very side. Yeah. Look out for that. On the way back I got the privilege of driving Jake's car. A 1988 Dodge Omni. That thing has literally tens of horsepower at my disposal. Despite it being the only car I've ever been in that has an echo, it rode surprisingly well. Jake and I parted ways at Jacksonville and Linds and I headed back to Springfield.

Lindsey had to stay at my place because she had a Methodist Church conference thing the next morning. And because her Christian confrence was at such an unholy hour, I was up in time for to get some McGriddles. I usually don't eat at McDonalds, but those things are just too bad and delicious for me to resist. Filled with the toxic, harmful, potentially deadly McGoodness, I helped Lindz find her conference center, and took off for Jerseyville. The plan for the day was to go sailing. It was going to be a family thing but mom and Ross don't like when the boat leans. Pfft. Pansies. So we went on by ourselves. We made some great time getting down to Caryle, so when we past the little airport that catches everyone's eye we decided to stop.

Now why does this little airport catch the attention of so many otherwise dilligent drivers? Well the highway being within feet of the end of the runway does have something to do with it, but more importantly it's the headquarters of the St.Louis Soaring Association. And yes, they are stretching the alliteration a little bit too far. But they make up for it by being pretty awesome. They fly SailPlanes. Yes, those sweet gliders. We went to con our way into a ride in one of them. We got directed to the "club house and control tower" which turned out to be a tin shack of a building next to the long grassy runway. A skinny bearded guy named Peter gave us the low down on their organization. We weren't really all that interested, $42 dollars a month for access to 8 planes, an airport and a hangar was pretty impressive, but we were after a ride not a brochure.

Ok, I'm breaking this post up and finishing it in the next installment. I originally posted it as one uber post, but that was daunting even for me. So I figured I'd solve my little dilemma with a good friend from elementary school; division. Scroll down for the exciting conclusion.

- Scott

Confusing wildlife at all altitudes

And now the exciting conclusion...

Sadly it didn't look like it was going to happen, so we decided to watch a few more take off and land before we headed to the lake when the most perfect thing happened. A plastic surgeon named Rich asked "So are you members?" I told him we were working on it and then he asked if we wanted to go up. Sweet! Since he was taking off in about 5 minutes I would have to help him prep the plane. As it turned out, preping the plane involved hooking it to a golf cart and bthe wings as it got pulled down the runway. Then I strapped myself in and waited for the tow plane to land and connect up with us. We would be flying in a G-103, I rejected this name and rechristened it the X-103, which sounded much more badass. In fact, here's a picture.

See? It really does deserve the extreme title. Once the tow plane was ready the tow line was hooked to the front of the plane. Now I will say at this point that calling it a "tow line" is a pretty grandiose term for what pretty much amounted to one of those yellow, nylon ropes you buy at Wal-Mart for $7.00. The kind you hang a tire swing in a tree with and wonder how many weeks before the line snaps. That rope. It was a little disconcerting to be pulled along the runway and up into the air with it. But, as it turned out, I would be continually redefining my concept of disconcerting on this trip.

On the (extremely bumpy) way up I began to question the judgement that led me to get into a plane with no engine and only hot air and wishes to keep it airborne. Especially at 3000 feet when the tow line was released and we dropped a good 30 feet in the space of a second. We leveled out, I made some idle chatter with him and he was told me about the plane. He mentioned a "little clock thing" on the instrument panel when I hit him with "You mean the Altimeter or the Variometer?" He paused a second and said something like "Oh so you know about planes, good". I silently thanked Microsoft Flight Simulator 1992 for my unconsious knowledge of planes. I got in another good exchange when I asked him about my "brown patches of ground give you bettter thermals" theory. It was at that point that the impossible happened: he asked if I wanted to fly the plane. Going out of my way to seem knowledgeable was one thing, but risking my life... then I decided how often do I get to die by glider? Not often enough. And it was settled.

I took the stick and managed to be a pretty good pilot, I even found a thermal that took me up a few hundred feet. These video games really know their crap. Eventually I also had to thank the county fair Rock-o Planes for their strengthening effect on my stomache, otherwise I might have vomited when I got a little too tight in the turns. But overall it was really good. I have to say the most memorable thing might have been looking out to my left and seeing a hawk look over at me like "What the hell?!" Amazing what those hawks can express with their eyes. All in all a really great experience that I have now rambled on about for eight paragraphs. Sailing was good too. I plan on going again and even getting my license, I think that'll make for some good stories of me swooping past the tin shack "control tower" and some old man shaking his fist and screaming "Maaaveriiiic!" That's it for now kids. I promise a shorter post tomorrow.

- Scott

P.S. Old fighter pilots do not find it funny to scream "Bogey on our six!" when in the air. Just so you know.

F'n Chuck Norris

I really wanted to use the actual quote, but I think dropping the F-bomb in a post title is just a bit extreme. Now if I were talking to whoever is currently reading this, I most likely would have said it. But that's an entirely different thing. I find I can get away with saying a lot more than I can in writing. At least when I say something it's not as easy to refrence. Besides, I can say it in a way that doesn't rely on the the curse word to get a laugh. Anyway, that concludes the paragraph explaining why I didn't just write fuck. Now on to the reason for the quote.

I stopped off at my local Globo Gym to make sure everything was still on for my dodgeball leagues (Gold's Gym actually, but probably the inspiration for Globo Gym). And guess what? Those snotty, image peddling bastards dropped all the individuals that signed up. So now if I want to beat the life out of ponchy middle aged men enjoying a mid-life crisis I have to round up a collective of 12 guys (girls are welcome too... if the guys on the team are OK with not winning I'm down with that too). Not only that, but instead of just paying the individual cost of 70 bucks to join I have to raise $400.00 to play. I might con my school into paying for all of this somehow, but in the meanwhile if there's any able-bodied people out there in the Springfield-ish area who want to play dodgeball, drop me a comment.

In an unrelated but equally annoying story, my apartment complex now acts as my mother. Well, not my mother, but some kind of room-invading, facist, evil parent. Pretty much like Mussolini the step-dad. They left me the notice that they would be entering my apartment to change a filter and check for bugs like usual. It's a little invasive and happens every three months or so, but I never really cared much about it. "Let them enjoy looking at my awesome stuff, only to remember that they aren't cool enough to own it" I thought. Only this time I got a 'report card' after they left. Apparently they went through everything in my place and rated it. Everything from the front door to the bedrooms to the bathroom, living room and kitchen. I got "OK" in every category. And if I hadn't? I'd make sure to voice my apathy in a way that was constructive. Possibly by egging their office.

But what I'm going to do for sure is rig up some kind of surprise for the next time they come here. I was thinking something along the lines of hiding when they come in and jumping out of a random place screaming about the voices. Or maybe when they test my smoke detector it electrocutes them. Or some other, as yet, unthought of action. Because really, you come in my underground lair, you takes your chances.

That's all for today kids, tune in next time for Scotty Quest and Mr. Barry's Mass Transit Adventure.

- Scott

P.S. Embarrassing thing I've been meaning to clear up. When I called Amy a 'Grade A' woman, I was under the impression that I was talking to my friend Amy from Georgia who also reads my blog. Then when I was checking for something else I said in a comment I noticed that you said you were a 'Tim fan at heart', at which point I also noticed myself saying "shit." So to Tim-Amy, my bad. Any and all sexual harassment was made under the assumption that you were a different girl. Don't worry though, I'll still give you the benefit of the doubt that you are a 'grade A' woman.

It's been a long time since I blog and roll...

Sorry, listening to some Zepplin right now. That one just slipped by. Today was a pretty productive day, I got the play I was writing finished, got a robot to navigate a maze (then attempted to program a victory dance, but instead decided to hump the robot in celebration), and banged out the latest edition of the campus craze the MorrisCode. My newsletter. Or the campus newsletter, but I'm a direct influence over it. Oh yes, I twist the print to my will. Makes me feel like God, or at the least Martin Luther.

Part of the issue was a kind of spotlight interview with a member of the student body (as an antiphrasis, that's also how I choose the person; by their student body.) But, as if by some embryonic choice, those with the better bodies tend to not have the better minds among us. I don't know if books have some de-attraction-ing effect on readers, or if ignorance being bliss, happy people just look better, but it's a pattern I run into a lot. Like today, I interviewed a girl that we will call "Sara" to protect her identity, and also because that's her name. I like her alot, she's a nice girl, but she makes Jessica Simpson look like Ann Coulter...well as far as information goes. The article was titled "If I was President..." and is a direct rip off from the now defunct George magazine.

I gave her the questions and left her to work out her answers, 20 minutes later she came back and had just a few questions here they are verbatim:

I was wondering, what's a pardon? Also, what's the Oval Office, the Lincoln Bedroom, and the State of the Union Address? Is it like the address of my house on a street?

I tried not to laugh and answered them as best I could. But somewhere out there a history teacher is rolling in his grave. Or, if he's still alive, rolling in his slightly rusty Toyota. The interview gave some really hilarious answers, so I think I'll post the best ones in the comment section. Enjoy.

Heart broken.

As you may or may not know, I'm not really one to get all 'crushy' over a person. In fact most of the girls I'm interested in don't even exist (ie. Chloe Sullivan, Rory Gilmore, to a lesser extent Pam from The Office). I like to think I'm as unemotional as possible, except the Internationally Certified 'Man' emotions of Happy, Angry and Neutral. But over this one, I'm heartbroken. You see, one of my creepier attractions was (and I stress was) to Hilary Duff. I looked at her the way Mongols look at China, nice to look at but out of reach. She had that girl next door thing going on for her. But now...now she's gone Hollywood. I can barely bear to describe it. I think it's best if you have a look for yourself.

Hmm, I didn't know they were making a new Mr. Ed


Here's a quick comparison of the old teeth, vs the new.

Disgusting. It doesn't even look like her. Or a person. I'm in serious danger of not having any borderline creepy celebrity attractions at all!Look at those things, she went out and got vaneer's. Damn you The Swan! You go to hell, you go to hell and you die. And look how skinny she's gotten. I'm officially no longer attracted to Hilary Duff at all. Ah, it feels good to say it. She now looks like some kind of James Bond villain, Choppers they would call her. She'd bite through chains and things and act threatening, but at the end Bond would trick her into biting down on a blasting cap and blowing her teeth off. Then he'd make a joke about that being quite a 'blow' job.

In light of all this, I'm making a Public Service Announcement. TO ALL FEMALE CELEBRITIES: Your boobs are fine, your teeth are O.K., your lips are not too small, your nose is great (well, except for you Lil Kim, what the hell is that?), and if you're old it's less weird to look at a saggy face than a face that reminds me of Native American drums. So STOP GETTING ALL THIS DAMN DISFIGURING PLASTIC SURGERY.

That is all.


- Scott

And thou shalt flaunt thine ice.

Brace yourself, I have news. The Pope is dead. I don't know if you've heard about it. It's been the Rosa Parks of news stories (buried in the back), but if you sifted through all the pieces out there you might have eventually found out about this relatively obscure story. (For the Amish: I'm being sarcastic, it's friggin everywhere). Really, turn on CNN right now. I guarentee they'll cut to some wide eyed field reporter who will give us the update "The crowd here is incredible. And...wait I'm getting something here. Yes, yes it is confirmed. The Pope is still dead. We'll continue to have updates every half hour until some senator has an affair and we have a new story to drive into the ground."

But all the buzz over the passing of the Pope has generated some good. The market for Pope-collectibles is going through the roof. Pope-on-a-rope, the bath soap is a top seller, because really, cleanliness is next to Godliness. Another good seller is Pope-pourri, the Papal scented home fragerance. While these products are legit, there are a few outlandish pieces like Pope Free Orange Juice. Come on, you're not fooling anyone shamless marketer.

Guaranteed to cleanse even the grubbiest of souls!

Even as people sell products like Pope-dope, for the devout Catholic Stoner, there is debate over who will be the next head of the Catholic Church. And where there's competition there's betting. Kind of the way where's there's smoke there's fire, or where there's Britney Spears there's trailer trash. That last one is pretty much locked in by her being there. A betting war is being waged over which of the four front runners will be named the new Pope, and honestly, I don't like any of them. What the Catholic Church really needs is a bit of a make over. This is what Tim and I came up with in a chat we had: the new Pope should be young, black, and urban.

Think about it, how awesome would it be to see the Pope-mobile pimped out with some 20's? Wicked awesome. And think for a second about how the pope dresses. It's already half blinged out. We just need the right guy to finish the job. I can see the episode of "Pimp My Ride" now. X shows up at the Vatican and the Pope flips out. "X to the Z? No way!" "That's right Pope, we're here to Pimp Yo' Ride" "Great, now give me 3 Hail Mary's for saying 'pimp' at the Vatican".

Then they'd get it to the shop and the guys would act like the sight of it offended them, but would proceed to get to the work of pimping it out. And they'd cut to the interior guy who would pretend to think about what he was going to do for like 3 seconds before he tells the shop manager the same thing he's done on EVERY CAR THAT'S EVER BEEN ON THE F&CKING SHOW: "Hmm, on this car I think we'll go with some Vinyl and Tweed. That'd look real nice." And despite that the car would have 15 flat screens, hydraulics, and a laser show inside the bubble. Yeah, I think I like this new Pope thing.

Question for the day: How would you like to see the Pope-hood pimped out?
Word of the day: (Why the hell not?) Pope.
Flavor of the week: Orange Sorbet.

- Scott

P.S. I seriously want to hear your Papal suggestions.

What the hell kind of scam is this?

I swear, ice cream trucks drivers have NO idea how to do their jobs anymore. Just this weekend one of them blazed by my house with his crappy MIDI music blaring. And it wasn't even 'Turkey in a Straw' what sacrelig! Just how in the blue hell is a fat 8 year old (the Ice Cream Truck prime demographic) supposed to catch that. I wanted some and had to chase him down the street on my moped (which was pretty hilarious actually). But without the blazing speed provided by Betsy's 72cc's of power, there's no way I could have possibly caught him. My guess is that this some evil plot to get the kids to exercise. Come to think of it, I do recall some black helicopters in the area that day. Clearly the alien overlords want us to be lean.

I ran into the same situation the other day in Springfield. Living in the center of many, many apartment complexes that echo shrill noises like the music the Truck plays really didn't help me at all. I must have ran though 5 parking lots before I tracked the guy down. Annoyance aside, I don't think I've ever felt more like a feral beast chasing down his prey. I got the sense I carried the feeling too far when the driver looked on agast as I ripped the juglar out of my Strawberry Sundae Crunch, but hey I go with the flow.

One last thing before I go, has anyone else seen the show "Growing Up Gotti"? And if so, can you please explain to me who in the hell these people are and why I should give two shits about them? Because really, how rare is it to give one shit about something, let alone the two GUG requires. Are they seriously the offspring of John Gotti, the crime boss? And if so, why has there not been a hit on his embarrassingly gay son? Because really, that's your first episode right there.

- Scott