Eye, Eye

Sometimes I question those "factoids" people give out sans any kind of actual documentation. Like the five second rule. What curteous germs we have, allowing you a full five seconds before infecting the food you drop on the ground. By that logic I don't even have to wash my hands, as long as I don't hold my food in it for more than five seconds. Chalk one up for improper grooming, and alert the hand soap companies they're on thin ice.

But there's one that I will no longer question, and it's the cliche that 90% of communication is non-verbal. Today I felt the full force of just how true that is. For you see, today I was interviewing young nubile ladies for the position of my colleague. That is to say, new representatives for my school. Let me pause to tell you that the vast majority of applicants (not even chosen by me mind you) were female (all but two), and hot (pretty much all of them except for maybe one or two older models). The next thing you should know is that they were all dressed to kill. Specifically to kill me, and even more to the point: to kill my ability to pay attention to anything else. They were all good looking (I have my eye on a certain one among them), but it was the last one that really caught my eye like the bears on the Discovery Channel catch salmon.

She did all the things the other girls did, she came in, she sat down, she nervously made polite conversation... but then she did something different. Something new. Something that caught me off guard, but something I was secretly hoping she would do. She, in her low cut top, push up bra, and perfectly tanned body... leaned forward. CLE-VAGE! I'm not even a breast guy, but this was amazing. I tried not to look, but my eyes were too fast... or else my will was too weak. Quickly, with speed that would make the Flash jealous, my green 20/13's darted over the supple mounds of gloriousness. Just as quickly they darted around the room. There was one male present other than myself, and he had been looking in her direction, not mine.

When later she repeated her little routine I looked to him first, then to her quickly (really quickly, so much that I was slightly dizzy afterwards and wondered if eyes could pull a muscle), then I looked back to the only other owner of a Y chromosome in the room (not allowing for the possiblity of Klienfelter Syndrome) and he was looking right at me. Our eyes met, his giving me a look of acusation, and mine shooting him double the reproachfulness he was attempting to give me. What is this guy a Sunday School Teacher? Had he not been looking?! Time literally stopped as we dueled with our eyes and our expressions.

"Pervert" his eyes said. "Dirty old man, you should know better. It's fine for me" my eyes shot back. "I caught you staring at her" his said. "Have you seen Lolita? I think you should" my eyes sarcastically quipped. But then someone asked me if I had a question for her and the spell was broken, time moved normally again, and strangely enough, so did my conversation. When teh other male and I talked later neither of us in any way acknowledged the event.

It's weird that so much can be said without words of any kind. But it's even weirder that people can then discard all that non-verbal communication and pretend it never happened. I don't know, am I alone here? Has anyone else ever been in one of these "We argued for about twelve hours without saying anything, but when we did both of us pretended to be perfectly fine" type things? If so, ;et's hear about it. If not, feel free to make things up. It's fun.

I don't have long...

They're comming for me. I just finished UFO's, JFK, and Elvis by Richard Belzer and I am now officially a conspiracy detecting nut. His were largely based around the JFK assassination (how fun is to write "ass" twice in a word and be able to use it in polite company), and he touched on some UFOlogist stuff as well. Mine are more mundane, but still just as explosive as proving we didn't land on the moon. For instance: When will DVD makers realize that "Chapter Selection" is not a special feature? Seriously, do books advertise about having a table of contents? Is this a big selling point? "Well, I'd really like to buy Titanic but there's no option of going directly from the boobs to seeing DiCaprio drowning, so I'll have to pass." I think it's part of the ongoing conspiracy to advertise the most unoriginal, mundane things of all time.

Like the new Bridgestone Tire commercial, their slogan is "the wheel goes round and round". Wow. Let me just take a minute to marvel at the thought that must have gone into that. What could we have this wheel do they thought. Maybe it could roll? No, that doesn't sound right. I know, let's have it mimic the ones on the bus and go round and round. Is there a copyright? No? Great. Sell it. I also like that they now feature a rapper spitin' on the topic of the wheel and it's rotation. Fantastic. I'm just proud they decided to skimp on the malt liquor with purchase of three tires deal.

The last one is one I've thought about for a while. Why can't things other than oil ever fall into the ocean? (Besides that alleged ginormous condom reef floating in the south Pacific.) I mean really, you never hear about a boatload of The Rock posters falling into the sea. Which is really unfair to the underwater creatures, and a part of a side conspiarcy to deprive aquatic beings of the most electrifying man in Sports entertainment. On that note I leave you to go into the world and point out the conspiarcies put out perpetrated daily by "The Man".

Oh and also check out me as a black guy, that's cool too.

Finally, I'm cool! And thus Lando Scotrissian is born.

- Scott

Mystery Science Theater: 2004

Well, apparently when Rob and I have the same adventures, we blog about the same things. But hey, there's two sides (at least) to every story, and some of my readers eschew Rob like Boys Scouts avoid the front lines. So, in that spirit, here's my account of "our weekend, which comes at the end of the week" That's a direct quote from Josh as he blessed the meal. The meal I'm refering to was the Friday night dinner we had at the Ryder's place. Despite the living room and kitchen looking like Monster House got cancled half-way through a remodel, I think there's a certain open aired charm to it.

After dinner, we ajourned to the backyard to fire Josh's trebuchet. That's right, as ironic as it may seem, Josh has long been constructing a trebuchet. Needless to say we let Tim nowhere near it, but had a good time firing it at cars, sweatshirts, and me. It would be the first time this weekend that I would unnessarily put myself in the way of a projectile to find out if it hurts or not. Anyway, once the trebuchet grew tiresome and we were growing short on time, we doned our protection against the frigid 70 degree night (in my case a killer 80's jacket) and headed to the ball field.

At this point my title makes sense. I started lacing into the softball players. I really ripped them apart. And Josh's team wasn't even playing yet. Seriously, they can't allow base stealing in this sport. If they did I would reasonably expect 3 runners to make it home before the ball even got to the batter on a pitch. They "throw" the ball (if you would go so far as to call it that) and time seems to stop. It's like watching bullets in the Matrix. "Are you telling me I can dodge softballs?" "I'm telling you that when you're ready, you won't have to."I was having a good time just making fun of the ridiculousness of the sport itself, but then I was presented with an entire enemy team to rip apart. It should be noted that this is a Christian Men's league, and that I did have to tone it down a bit. But I still got in some good stuff; I feel I would have made Crow proud.

Eventually we found the ultra competitive guy as predicted by Rob, to our surprise he was on our team. His name was Gary, and he was a douche. You know those baseball Dad's who go crazy in the stands if their kid makes an error, and you know that the kid gets no food unless he wins? Picture that guy playing on a men's softball league... poorly. He actually yelled at Josh to "Throw the BALL" and when (at the appropriate time) Josh did throw the ball to Gary, Gary missed the catch. We then had an über dork to make fun of. We began speculating on what tragic events Gary must have lived through that this game is so important, did he blow a shot at the Major Softball Leagues on a catcher not throwing him the ball? Does he have an endorsement deal he has to up hold? What's his deal? Then after the game he stormed off to his mid-life-crisis on wheels and rambled out of the parking lot.

And that was the game. Rob, Tim, and I now comprise the Gary fan club and are commited to following him around patronizing him at every mistake. "It's ok you missed the ball Gary, it's not like it was thrown directly to you, blame the world Gary..." Seriously, we have shirts! The night ended (as most good nights do) with ice cream and Next. I'll end this post on a wildly inappropriate exchange I had with Tim's dad:

Tom: You know what I like to do with Magic Shell?
Scott: Pour it on Mr. Freeze and watch him harden?
Tom: ...
Scott: That didn't come out right.

Beware the Trebuchet!

QuestLog: You must journey to the Living Room of Shenanigans computer and attempt to manipulate the Machine of XP and the browser of Firefox to post to the blog... kill all those who stand in your way.

Sorry, I've begun to see my life in terms of GuildWars. It really got me in trouble too. I was at school and a secretary gave me a quest to find a computer tech and bring him back to fix her printer. After shouting to the zone for five minutes I found out he was standing entranced by the "Widescreen Beast of High Definition TV" in the lowest level of the school. Upon bringing him back to the secretary my reward was a Thank You and a lousy +250 experience. So I figured I'd kill them both to see if they dropped any good loot. Apparently in doing so, I took a faction hit with the local guards and now the "Springfield Police" are after me. All in all I reccomend against this quest.

At this point I'd like to make a promise to the readers of my blog the promise is as follows: I, Scott Gresham, will never post a paragraph as geeky as the preceeding ever again; I'm sorry, two days of solid Guild Waring has temporarily warped my already maleable mind. But it warrants mentioning because it's distracted me from my usual posting duties. Check it out:

There I am, what a hero, bringing news from the front. Also check out the wicked clever name.



Fine, COWARD! You run, I'll just go fight an entire army. Which is what we did, and won. Despite Tim killing Rob and I (not to mention 2 or 3 platoons of the enemy) by firing a giant trebuchet on our location. This angered the prince as you can see below.

In that same vein, I reccomend against letting Tim near any trebuchet's. Considering Josh is building one, I really hope this message is getting through. That's it for today, my next post will be much more mainstream. For real. I'll talk about TRL, that should make up for this right? Let me know.

- Scott

Invisibility is a relative thing...

Things to do today,

1. Go to school
2. Poo
3. Crib a line from a Butthole Surfers song

Check, check, chiggedy-check. The reasoning behind the first two is simple (I want a degree, and I ate something roughly eight hours ago), however the last one might be a bit cryptic. So, just like Darren with his dance grooves, I'll break it down for you. I lost a dear, dear friend today. No, friend is an insulting understatement in reference to our relationship. More like brother. One who has seen me through thick and thin, good and bad, cliché and other cliché. Who you ask? I am, of course, speaking of the necklace I've worn for the past 5 years.

And when I say I've worn it for the past five years, I mean I've worn it for the past five years. Like a self-imposed house arrest anklet, the thing didn't come off. I even broke Beauchamp anal retentive, overblown, dictatorial rule #13a and wore it onstage in a performance. Well, a few actually. It was there when I got escorted off the tarmac in Germany by security, when I got my ticket(s) and when I broke the color barrier (incidentally the last two were at the same time, I was just going that fast). My point is since early 2000 that necklace has been ensconcing itself firmly around my shapely neck. That is, until today. I don't know what happened, maybe it was the he/she hitting me with rolled up newspaper, maybe it just felt that we had grown apart, but my necklace is gone without a trace. A moment of silence for the fallen...




That should cover it. I'm sure my necklace wouldn't want me to be sad, but look back fondly on it. If you care to browse here and here, you'll notice it around my neck (even in costume as Harry Scotter it's peaking out above the tie). Also feel free to share your sad tales of inanimate losses that seem to be more painful than they really should be.

- Scott

Nothing to post today... How about irrational hate?

I have a confession to make. No not a confession, it's not like I'd hide it from anyone, it's more like something I just want people to know. And it's this: I hate Reese Witherspoon. Hate her. I loathe her very living on the same Earth as I. Were she on fire, I would not pee on her to put her out. I would however, gladly enjoy some Legally Browned S'mores cooked on her flaming corpse. For good measure I would pee on her ashes. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not usually such a hater of people I don't know. If anything I tend to find things I like in them. For instance I always picture Saddam Hussein as that estranged uncle who never comes to Thanksgiving, who's not really such a bad guy if you give him a chance. As long as you never play rock, paper, scissors with the bastard.

Anyway I've mentioned this before, and people always ask me for justifications. "Why Scott, how could you hate her?" I'll tell you how; I sense evil. Long before most people can. And this woman is pure unadulterated evil. In fact she's so evil she is adulterated. The whore. I have it on good authority that she actually eats babies to keep herself young. Remember when she was knocked up? Hmmm? And have you ever seen a picture of her and that baby? In fact she seemed to lose that baby weight pretty fast didn't she... BECAUSE SHE SACRIFICED THE BABY IN A BLACK MASS! The pieces are all right there staring you in the face like a one legged hooker who knows she's going to get passed over, despite the fact that she's in plain sight. There's clearly only one thing to do, Napoleon Skywalker, take us away:

"You're next Anne Coulter!"

Ah, that felt good. Thanks Napoleon Skywalker, I knew you'd be a good character.

- Scott

P.S. Napoleon is depicted as drawn by Nicolas Allgood (real last name). Reese dying an 8-bit death, Copyright Scott Gresham.

Unfadeable so please don't try to fade this...

First of all Timmy's back. How about that. Who had 10 days after he last posted? Nobody? Because they had Rob and Scott to entertain them? Oh. Sweet. Well then, let me apologize for my recent absence. I meant to post yesterday, but FedEx, who is apparently staffed by 90 year old women, couldn't find the strength to knock audibly on my door. So to get my new video card, I had to track down the actual FedEx Office. This took far too long. But on the bright side I did get to find out exactly where the butthole of Springfield is located.

But that's not all that distracted me. Nay, not at all. I was, in fact, penning the Charter of Our Pad, or the COP. The purpose of the COP is to lay down specific rules for our living together. This should pre-emptively circumvent any forseeable problem we could possibly have. You might check my facts on this one, but I think it's the best idea anyone's had, ever. The first issue we ran into was milk; Rob drinks it like a baby seal. So the rule for milk is as follows:

1. Rule 1: Milk consumption.

• Each tenant shall have his own gallon jug of milk and drink only from his particular jug. However, should either tenant of the apartment have two jugs of milk the less full one is fair game and indeed must be power drained. Because there's no race like the race to beat the expiration date on a gallon of milk. It's like playing chicken with food posioning
  

2. Rule 2: Disarming (as in, removing my arm).

• When fighting with swords, it is never a legal move to lock my frickin' claymore with your left schimitar, surprising both of us enough that we forget about your right schimitar and it's respectable attempt to cut my arm off. Because damn, that hurt.

3. Rule 3: Swords in general...

• You know what? Let's just leave the swords alone. I'm still hoping to get my security deposit back.
  

4. Rule 4: Out on the Town.

• We're going to get escorted off private property, and/or arrested. I don't know why, but it seems to be what happens. Just accept it, and take a funny mugshot. That way when we're famous we won't look like this. Also let's hope our police sketches are way more accurate. On second thought, let's hope they're even further off.
  

5. The Final Rule: So far.

• USE A DIFFERENT COLORED TOWEL. I very nearly used your used towel this morning. Do you know why this is? Because somebody decided to use a towel in the exact same shade of hunter green that I'm currently using. So from now on pretend the bathroom is a party, and the towel rack is two girls at that party. Let's not have them embarrassed because they're wearing the same thing? Ok?
  

And that's it for now. Feel free to add rules. If they're good enough and they seem to work out in my favor, I might even add them.

- Scott

Star Wars: Episode III Revenge of the Slytherin

Guess who went to the midnight showing of Revenge of the Sith last night: this guy. I decided to go in costume... as Harry Potter. Why you ask? Well because I wanted to get in a Potter/Star Wars fight and settle once and for all who rules the geek kingdom. Originally I was going to go as Gandalf but a suggestion from Rob and a complete lack of Gandalf accessories changed my mind. It was perfect. It... it... let me just show you:

I call this one "Pensive Potter".


"One of these things is not like the others, one of these things just doesn't belong, can you tell me which thing is not like the others by the time I finish this song"

I swear to George Lucas, I just met these random people in a crowd and we spontaneously broke out into that song as we posed for photo-ops (for quite a crowd). I wanted pictures of them and they me. And everyone else, all of us. The whole night was ridiculous. I was making fun of people for dressing up as "Star Wars Fags" and they were like "are you Harry friggin' Potter?" to which I replied "DIE MUGGLE" and attempted to place the Imperio curse on them. Which failed, as did Expelliarmus on the light sabers.

All in all however, go see Episode III. It was amazing. Even without having seen any of the other Star Wars movies, you could see this one and like it. I can't tell you how surprised I am that they got it right. The new series has been a strike, a bunt, and now a homerun. Go check it out. And dress as a character not included in the Star Wars universe, seriously it exponentially multiplies the enjoyment.

- Scott

P.S. But if you're going in your graduation robe that you have to walk across stage in tomorrow (like one very attractive Harry Scotter did), make sure you don't spill buttered popcorn on it, and you don't sit in gum. Just my advice.

Neolocal Bliss

I never realized it before, but I blog better without an audience. Not you (where you is the person (undoubtedly a hot girl (an issue I will address a bit further down in this post)) reading this). I mean it's hard for me to blog with other people in the room. It's just some weird hang-up I have. Like the way I can't allow anyone to actually witness me shaving. Seeing as that only happens about twice a month, it isn't much of an issue yet. But don't get me wrong here, I'm pretty bohemian about most things. For instance, I gleefully take a crap with the door open. It's very liberating.

And all of this leads into my rant on why I, Scott Gresham, the man you all revere as a demi-Sex-God, am single. For those of you who didn't know: yes, now is the appropriate time to gasp. A hand covering the mouth is also warranted. I believe it was Rob who pointed out "For all the girls who want you, which are most of the ones you've met in your lifetime, you seem to actually date none of them, also; you're better than me in life, and as a person." Now I realize it's surprising. But I really am better than him as a person. Also, it's shocking that I don't actually date any of them, that is, it's shocking to the outsider. But to me it makes perfect sense. They just don't fall into my loosely defined set of guidelines. Let me break it down with nice bulleted points for you.

1. She must be of the same religion but less pious than I. Now I know this might sound preachy or whatever you'd call it, but I'm thinking long term here. Biblically we're all supposed to get crowns upon entering heaven. And the grand-ness of the crown reflects the person's deeds in life. And you have that crown FOREVER. I can't let my wife have a bigger crown than me for all eternity. I just won't have it. So, she has to be slightly less "good" than me.
   
2. She must be an orphan. I know, I know. Why would you want to marry an orphan. But there's some serious strategy here. For one, I wouldn't ever have to meet her parents. We all know that's awkward. Plus most of the people I know eventually have the same conversation with me it starts like this "You know something funny? I used to hate you." My first impression isn't always golden. This would take care of that. Also it would cause her to have more dependance on me. Which is a good thing because it gives me more influence.
   
3. She must be less (everything) than me. This is because I'm not marrying a girl that's taller/smarter (like that's possible)/stronger/faster/heavier/cleverer/funnier (again, unlikely)/better at swimming/has more degrees than me. It's extreme, but pretty much all guys think this on some level. I mean really, if a girl can beat me in Electronic Talking Battleship, I'm pretty much never going to talk to her again. Chalk it up to a fragile male ego, but I am not dealing with that. She can live alone with her extreme Milton/Bradley game skill and her cats for the rest of her life. Good riddance.
   
4. She must not have progeria. Seriously. This is just common sense.
   
5. She must be OK with not having a job. Two income households? Pfft. Forget that crap. Career women need not apply. Unless that career includes cleaning the house and making delicious meals. Also looking really hot. And child care. And looking really hot. Because if that's the career you're fine. Other than that though... I kind of frown on. She may feel free, however, to belong to the DAR, a bridge group, M.A.D.D. or any other adorable non-employed female organizations. But no real job. Especially not one where she could potentially earn more money than me. This relates to rule #3.
   
6. She must be a girl who laughs for no one else; when I'm away she puts her makeup on the shelf. When I'm away she never leaves the hou-hou-hou-house. I want a girl who laughs for no one else. Self explanatory.
   
7. Accents are cool. It would be nice if she had one. Like an English one. That's classy.
   

That's it. 7 Simple Rules for dating my no-longer teenaged self. There's easily dozens of girls in the world who fit this description. Sadly none of them go to my school. So for the moment, yes, I am single. But don't get discouraged ladies, just because you're not an English orphan who consistently loses at Battleship doesn't mean I'll ignore you. But we'll consider that strike one. Sound good? I thought so.

- Scott

The above ideas expressed do not necessarily represent Scott's actual views on male/female relations... They just mostly do. But if you're hot enough he will gladly ignore this list of qualifications and focus on you as a "person". Also if you have a good personality... err... yeah that too.

P.S. Everyone follow the Rob link under my Top Five List to see his views on male relationships.

Day 7412: Today I did some stuff,

It occurs to me that if I had kept a blog for my each day of my entire life (like Wendyloo seems to be able to do) this would be the 7412th entry. Mind you the first oh say 1,000 entries would read like this guys stuff. But eventually I stopped speaking Swedish. It's just a strange phase kids go through. Like those years I would pretend to be dead and let someone find me. Ah morbid enjoyment. And when I say morbid I'm talking about the Swedish. I begin to think they weren't neutral in WWII, it's just that no one could figure out what they were saying and told them to stay the hell out it for being damn freaks.

But enough unnatural hating of Sweden. On to the day's activities. I had a hell of a good time filling out incorrect answers to questions in Cisco today. A shame that they had to grade the thing. It was just that funny. Here's an excerpt:

- category: boobs
- metric: cup size
- updates: ummm, puberty, plastic surgery, pasties(?) and of course the bustier.

True enjoyment. Another gem was when el professor mentioned something about protocols and how "They all know everything", at which point I piped up in my old man voice "They think they do don't they... whippersnapper protocols, in my day we had 15 baud modems that we prayed to God wouldn't arbitrarily disconnect before I finished downloading a picture of picture of Teri Hatcher... In the snow... With shoeboxes for monitors..." It got a nice laugh and a completely bewildered stare, both of which I enjoy immensely.

However all of this supports what I am gradually realizing; I don't want to spend my life worrying about computers, or networks, or pictures of Teri Hatcher. Because who gives two craps if she got the red swimsuit? Anyway, I think I want to write things. Or try to. Tim once said something to the effect that I should consider comedy writing, and that my friend, is exactly what I think I want to do. However I am keeping an open mind to different career's, but I graduate in 8 1/2 months and I have to go to gradschool for a better purpose than "to have a summer break again" so let's hear those brilliant suggestions in a timely manner.

One last thing, the exciting news: Rob is now my roommate. Insert cataclysmic warning here: _____ ________ ______. So far it's been pretty good, except that he re-wired my stereo system to the point that I can't even watch cable anymore. When he gets home from work he's hearing about that one. Anyway that's it for now. Tomorrow: adventures in Scott Land.

- Scott

The post most likely to be sued for coypright infringement.

I don't know about you kids, but I am excited to the point of nerd-ery over the new (and last) Star Wars movie. Don't get me wrong, the last two prequels sucked goat ass, but they've actually tricked me into being interested in this one. Maybe it's their playing "Duel of the Fates" over the trailers, but something about them definately says "Trust me, we can't suck too bad. Yoda fights again!". The point is, I'm optimistic.

Even being optimistic, I know this is probably going to be the last legitimate Star Wars movie I see in my lifetime. Sure there's talk of a new cartoon series on Cartoon Network and Lucas is shopping around his idea for a live action television series as well, but I don't anticipate anything movie-worthy. But then I got to thinking... does it have to be legitimate? Like most NBA player's kids, there are lots of illegitimate movies that are really just as good as anything supposedly "legit". Lots of random bastardizations that strike some campy note with the public and do well. I was thinking about these and how Luke is a whiny little bitch in the first movie and came up with a parody film I'd love to get made. Here it is: Napoleon Skywalker. Combining the two movies works better than you'd think, take a look:

Memorable Napoleon Skywalker Quotes:

Napoleon Skywalker: Can I go to the Tashi Station? But I need power converters real bad!

---

Rex Kwandobi: At Force Kwan Do, we use the buddy system. No more flying solo. You need the Force watching your back at all times. Second off, you're gonna learn to discipline your image. You think I got where I am today because I dressed like Jar Jar over here? Take a look at the mysterious robes I'm wearing, people. You think anybody wants a Jedi Mind Trick to the face while I'm wearing these bad boys? Forget about it.

---

Napoleon Skywalker:That's a sweet Imerial Speeder.
Pedrofett (yeah I know it doesn't work, screw you): Thanks, it's a Sledgehammer.
Napoleon Skywalker: Dang you got shocks... lucky. You ever take it on any sweet forest chases?

---

Darth Vandy (Based off Randy the Tots guy: Napoleon, give me your tots.
Napoleon Skywaker:No, I'll never turn over my tots to the dark side.
Darth Vandy:You want to give me your tots. Search your feelings, you know it to be true.
Napoleon Skywalker:NOOOOOO!

And that's all I have for that ridiculous farce. I hope it works as well in print as it does when I act it out. Out loud in character it's pretty good stuff. So read it in the character's voices if you can. That's all for now, tomorrow I'll recap the events of today including beating Rob and Ro at all the games in my GameCube library. Also I have some exciting news on the horizon. Night kids.

- Scott

Morning has broken

And apparently so have the laws of physics for my hair. This is what Rob was talking about when he said I look "amazing" in the morning. I'll say now for the record that the previous sentence is the single most homoerotic thing that will ever grace my blog. But I'll also say, he's right. I naturally have the hair emo kids pretend they didn't spend hours styling that way. Take a look:

There's the pictures you all demanded. Every morning a variation on that theme. Sometimes I take a picture of it. Sometimes I envision myself with a mustache and goatee, then poorly photoshop it.

And people wonder why I'm never on time to class...

Necessity is the mother of invention, niche marketing is the mother of greeting cards

...And today is Mother's Day. I know this because I, like most red blooded American heterosexual males, spent a portion of Mother's Day Eve at the mall picking out the gift and card combo. Now the gift was easy, I'd like to say she hinted around at what she wanted but it was more or less a point blank demand. Fine, gift's in the bag. The time consumer, without fail, is the card. I challenge anyone that proclaims Shakespeare as a great writer to point to any greeting cards he ever came up with, because based on the literary defacation out there (that means word poo, try to work it into conversation), it strikes me as a thing that must be very hard to do.

Seriously, it's not an art where you can get stoned and listen to Phish for inspiration. You basically have to be the most effusive person in your group of friends, then work out every way imaginable to say "Happy Birthday" to them one hundred times a year. And variety they have. Once again, very little of it is good, but there's a variety in the types of crap they offer. Now there's French, German, and (my favorite) Braille cards. Now, it might sound a bit jaded, or callous, but I have to ask why they went to the effort of putting a lot of visuals on the BRAILLE card. It could pretty much be plain white, or even composed of scraps of recycled other cards, as long as the bumps work out who would ever know? It's like putting a nice sound system in the car of a deaf guy, sure it gets him street cred, but he doesn't know if he's bumpin' 50 Cent or Wang Chung.

The next thing I came upon in the ever increasingly fragmented greeting card section was the aunt-half-step-daughter-grand-neice Mother's Day cards. Seriously, who is that for? You spend a pant load of money on developing these things, hit .05% of the population, and waste time doing it to seem like a comprehensive company, when all you really need to do is take the MadLibs approach. "Here's wishing you a happy __________(holiday or occasion) my dearest ________(kin related pronoun)". Bam, done, you've officially created the most flexible card ever.

And finally, I walked upon a section of cards that clearly weren't for me. It took me a minute to realize but all the characters on the cards were African American cartoons. It seemed strange at first, but I quickly realized that it was desperately needed. Who wants to give a card with some cheeky cracka on it, unless you yourself are a cheeky cracka? Nobody that's who. Except maybe as the occasional joke to the guy who can't dance. The concept was fine, the name of the cards however, I take issue with. They're the Hallmark Mahogany Series. That's right, Mahogany. Why is it that we always describe African American targeted media like darkly colored wood? Seriously. What's the deal? I know for damn sure I don't want to go in Hallmark and pick out some White Oak greeting cards. But it's alright for black people to have to put up with this? "Hey Ebony magazine is doing well, it's clear that black people want a wood they can identify with." "Great idea, while we're at it let's hit the Native American crowd too, I have a card line in mind called Redwood Greetings, now if I could only reference buffalo hunting somehow... hmm, I'll get back to you on that one Chaz." What. The. Hell. Can we please just integrate the cards before we get to the point of having "Brown Sugar" Newspapers, and "Vanilla" Lisa Frank stickers?

One last thing, you may have noticed my "Top Five / Bottom Five" list off to the right. I figured I would jump on the ranking people bandwagon that Rob so bravely pioneered. Except unlike Rob and his "I-trade-love-for-comments" stance, I intend to be completely arbitrary and often contradict myself. I think I'll have fun with it, but if it becomes too much of a hassel I'll just delete it like so much StrongBad email.

- Scott

The Northwest Shuffle

You've waited for it, you've pined for it, and now you're getting it. What is this ill-defined "it" I speak of? Could it be those infamous nudes I took in my highschool days? Keep waiting ladies, or come and see the live show. Touching encouraged... The good news is that the answer to those questions is no. Gentlemen feel free to breathe that sigh of relief that you can continue to live in blissful ignorance of your inferiority. What I am talking about is the end to all this trip related nonsense. And the end, like most endings, involves a picture montage. So without further ado:

Above: Barrett on the randomly placed slide.
Below: Myself shooting a wicked awesome action shot from said slide.





Me and my clossal interro-wang. (Tim that one's for you.)



Blatantly disregarding the (cropped in) warnings and threats.
And having a great time of it. (See below)


Scotthar of the Cave People...
along with
Nathar of the Narcoleptic Cave People...



Myself enjoying a nice coloring session at the fake Vancouver Space Needle.


I'm long, strong and down to get the Civil War on.


Smilin' Scott for Ballzite. The all concrete male supplement.
Should balls become immovable and grow grass beneath them consult a doctor and a lawn care specialist immeadiately.


It is called "The Crane", there is no defense for this.
But you can make fun of how rediculous the person looks. Because really, emotional scarring lasts so much longer.


Included as a tribute to Ro, whose ass I am kicking in the Rob's Blog Comment Contest.


The Awesome Donut Guy: serving up tiny donuts with big punk rock attitude.


The most serious coffee drinkers. Ever. But they're outside the original (as in first) Starbucks Coffee house, so a certain vibe is expected.


Pike's Market, with optional blurryness. Makes a nice desktop.


Finally the "Three Musketeers" (as named by a hobo) at the end of their journey (for now).
What an awesome trip.

That's it for now, tomorrow: normal posts. Enjoy this last special one.

Canadian Adventures

Alright, I skipped a day. Sue me. No, actually praise my ability to keep you in suspense. I like that one a lot better. Anyway let me pick up where I left off at the cyber cafe: Ok, so I leave after making my post. Being the fine young bacholers that we are, we decided that we wanted to find a liquor store. So we walked all over Vancouver only to discover that all the liquor stores closed an hour ago. Damn. So we decided to walk back to our hotel via the water front. We jogged over a street because we thought that there might be one last liqour store over there, but there wasn't. So we set out for the water.

As we mosey down a street we come upon what looks like some trailers and various production equipment. "It looks like somebody's shooting a movie" Nathan said, almost jokingly. Then we got closer and came upon some huge cranes holding aloft giant sprinklers. Quickly we put together that they were shooting a scene in the rain. A scene, yes... but of what? I made time with a female security guard and got some info out of her. They were shooting a movie. And the kicker you ask? This isn't just any movie, it's a movie with Harrison Ford. No friggin' way. And the spot we had been gawking from? Yeah that was in the shot. By that time we were jockey-ing for a better position. The spot we eventually ended up in was just off camera, but still close enough to get fake rained on.

All of a sudden, the fake rain fired up, the cameras started rolling, and who should walk within 10 feet of us but Han Solo himself. There were a few other fans who were lucky enough to stumble upon this rediculously surreal scene. After the scene, which consisted of him saying a few words to a co-star and walking briskly across the street and getting in an SUV that we were standing near, he walked back to the place he started from. As he did, a female fan screamed "WE LOVE YOU HARRISON". But Indy didn't even turn his head. This cat is too cool for school. Harrison dissapeared for awhile and they made the "background" (extras) practice their thing. We tried to blend in with the extras and get in the shot, but security shut us down as we had no umbrellas and were among the people inexplicably not wearing black. Because really everyone in the city likes to wear black with their umbrella when it's raining. That way we help out the one guy wearing brighter colors and not using an umbrella stand out more. And they say there's no sense of community these days.

I quickly decided that if I couldn't be in a movie I could sure as hell make fun of the people that were. And it was this that I sat out to do. I was standing in a group of extras listing to them talk about their other jobs and how this was so good for their career. They were just so pretentious, I wanted to make it clear to them: YOU'RE AN EXTRA. YOU'RE A SMALL BLACK BLUR IN THE BACKGROUND. NO ONE WILL RECOGONIZE YOU. But I found that it would be best to accomplish this in a round about manner. Namely, patronizing them. To the extras as they walked by: "Good energy" and "You sold it to me" or "It told a story to my very soul" and finally, the most offensive "...And the Academy Award for self-important overacting extra goes to..." I had my own little audience of pedestrian onlookers and I was killing. Meanwhile the extra's were getting pretty annoyed, which made it even better. This went on for quite awhile. I also speculated that being the guy who raises and lowers the fake rain machines for the movie is pretty much the pinnacle of being a crane operator. That's the job you get into the business hoping for. We saw Harrison Ford's body double too, who they were basically using as the extra Harrison Ford, the one they would use if they didn't have the nice Harrison Ford hanging around back stage. At which point I shouted "I don't believe it, it's really him, it's Sparrison Ford!" Body double guy was not amused. But I like to think I entertained my audience almost as well as the movie I was making fun of.

I should drop some knowledge about that movie at this point I think. The movie's new name is Firewall. Changed from "The Wrong Element". A change for the better I think. It also stars Paul Bettany. Who was hanging out about 10 feet away near another SUV. We also saw some grips who work on Smallville (as evidenced by their Smallville hats and coats) and a super fine PA who worked on the Fantastic Four movie. After we had bummed around the set for a good two hours and had begun to incur the ire of the production crew at large (or I had...) we decided it was time to head back to our hotel. On the way two exciting things happened.

1. I was running to jump over a railing in a park we cut through, and very nearly ran over a hobo sleeping under a tarp I didn't see. I only stopped because I heard them saying "Hey look out for that guy"
2. After the hobo incident, we had walked not half a block when Barrett spotted what looked like a black and white cat. I was for some reason doing a flying hump at the time down the sidewalk and landed next to said cat. However, this was no cat. It was a skunk. In the middle of Vancouver. And I had just pissed it off. It turned around and assumed the spraying position, and we ran as we had never run before. Nathan, Barrett and I split up without ever discussing it and ran like men on fire. It was the funniest and most terrifying end to a wild night we could imagine.

The next day we toured Vancouver some more, and headed to Cloverdale. Home of Smallville. And from the name you would think that we're talking about a town the size of Woodriver or something. Well, you would be wrong. It's a town the size of Alton at the very least, and it seamlessly connects to two other towns. We drove around for a good 4 hours looking for Smallville set locations but found whiptey crap. Sadly, I tracked them down online in like 5 minutes, but such is life eh? Today we went to church and played some ultimate frisbee and that's pretty much it. Tomorrow is our last day in Seattle, and we intend to make it good. For now though, I'm off to bed. Until next time kids,

- Scott

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