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:
The Alternately Sweet or Sultry Jenna Fischer
