Brunei Ain't Any Country I Ever Heard of…They Speak English in Brunei

As a runner for a good time of my life - good time meaning I enjoyed it, not that I spent long actually doing it - I maintain a healthy (insert "un" where you may) interest in the goings on of the sport on levels from high school to professional. With the World Championships taking place in Osaka as I type, it's an exciting time for track nerds like me. Because most races, even up to at least the 5k for me, seem so short, a lot of times the result and the race don't live up to the hype I've somehow created for them. That being said, much earlier today, which was only maybe three or four hours ago in Japan, technically, in a way of speaking, if you want to make things needlessly confusing, which I sometimes do, the final of the men's 1500m run was contested. As the metric mile, it's in many ways the bread and butter of track and field, although with the possibly waning popularity of bread and butter, the lamb and tunafish of track and field might be a more apt descriptor. This is not to say that it is the most popularly viewed event, that spot reserved for one of the sprints of either 100m, 200m, or 400m, but if races were hot dogs (and I hate hot dogs because of the nasty burps and the unknown contents), the 1500m would be Hebrew National brand: not necessarily the best-selling, but certainly the best quality. The only problem with that analogy is that, because I don't eat hot dogs, I really have no idea what I'm talking about, but sometimes you just gotta trust in the Heebs.

The 1500m was won this year by Bernard Lagat (pictured below), a naturalized American citizen hailing originally from Kenya. I was very glad to see Lagat grab the gold as he's always been slightly in the shadow of the now-retired Hicham El-Guerrouj and has always struck me as a swell dude despite one positive sample test for EPO which, if you ever hear anything about cycling and the Tour de France, is one of the more popular PEDs (performance-enhancing drugs, not those dudes who have to register when they move into your neighborhood) on the market these days as it stimulates red blood cell production, and thus increases the body's ability to intake oxygen and stave off lactic acid, the bastard friend of oxygen debt that us regular folks might know as that intense burning when we exert ourselves athletically. Anyway, in the first non-Olympic track meet I ever watched, the 1999 NCAA outdoor championships, Lagat took down defending NCAA champ Seneca Lassiter, so things sort of came full circle with his defeating defending World Champion Rashid "I Heart Drugs" Ramzi. I must quickly point out that this is simply my own unsubstantiated opinion. Lagat actually has a positive test on his record and still I trust him being clean over Ramshit. I was really hoping for a duel between Lagat and Webb, but it was not to be. Maybe at the Olympics.

Since I was hating on ABC news in my last entry for using shoddy sources (which are likely correct in this instance, but still shoddy, but maybe I should credit ABC for being resourceful? Only if they stop stretching out my favorite shows and making them suck balls), I should probably point out the simple and blatant factual errors I noted when I went to read this article about Lagat's victory. When I originally read it, the time was incorrectly attributed as 3:44.77 seconds or, a little less than 20 seconds faster than I used to be able to run, but later amended to 3:34.77 or, a little less than 30 seconds faster than I used to be able to run. Honestly, that didn't bother me at all, it was this phrase: "Biologically, it was a Kenyan sweep. Kenyan-born Rashid Ramzi was second, running for Brunei." Nevermind that Ramshit does not look remotely Kenyan, there is also the simple fact that he was born in Morocco before taking up citizenship in Bahrain which is definitely not Brunei. I'm not pretending to be some know-it-all here. In fact, I am pretty sure I had never heard of Brunei until it was mentioned erroneously in this article. I also make more than my fair share of mistakes, but I'm also not paid to write and don't have fact checkers.

Anyway, I've rambled on for long enough with my diarrhea of the mouth as usual, which is probably superior to the diarrhea I got from eating Indian food for lunch. I guess it really just depends on your definition of superior.


Lagat Rated

The Other White Meat

The thing about red meat is, while it is often delicious, unless you are eating it often, it might go down smooth, but it's probably not going to come out that way. This tends to be pretty common knowledge what with the body not producing the enzymes for proper breakdown, but it never stops me from undergoing some sort of stomach-related trauma when I return to the world of red meat. Hell, why would it be referred to as "beefing" otherwise when you rip a stank-nasty fart. That is an important distinktion as well (note: mis-spelling is intentional for the sake of punnage): the fart and the beef (and let's not start discussing the queef). To me, farting is a general term for the expulsion of gas, while "beefing" is a slang term created for the specific purpose of describing those most odoriforous emissions, ones that might be associated with a person who has ingested beef, preferably cooked to a rare or medium rare specification, after a long hiatus from cow consumption, and generally preclude the onset of diarrhea.

But despite my own fascination with all things gastric, I think it is called for to hinder such discussion for the time being. Let's switch meats for a moment, from red, to white, to other white. That's right, I'm talking pork. Pigs. I'd never eat a pig 'cause a pig is a cop, except it's really because I was brought up a Jew, sort of, and I've actually eaten pork and bacon, but only like twice each. The point though, is cops. What got me thinking about it was a recent run-in my friend the Quabbin Qountry Querier had with the five-o. He was arrested for swimming in a river. How dare he embrace nature over the chlorinated and bastardized option of a swimming pool (I love pools at times, but it doesn't have shit on jumping in a river, especially when you get to fight the current because you are a mediocre swimmer at best). I cite an instance last summer when Senor 3Q, myself, and a few other good chums and ladies were caught skinny dipping in an apartment pool at two in the morning: they simply told us to grab our clothes and get going. Or maybe it's just that Vermont is that much more lenient than New Hampshire. Incidentally, before I go further I should point out that BTB is an excellent reputable news source for up to the minute updates on the Democratic political campaign rife with witty commentary and insightful analogies. Reputable compared to what you might ask? Well, reputable compared to ABC News, which cited the National Enquirer and Star Magazine as its sources in Owen Wilson's alleged hospitalization. In ABC's defense, Star Magazine is generally a great source of celebrity fashion faux-pas.

Back to cops then, I've got many a tale I could spin. Instead I'd just like to point out a few of the simpler flaws in their system of justice. Take for instance this episode of recent history, followed up here. But naked cops are lighter fare for my hometown police force which was once the focus of a 60 minutes special, citing the corruption that would help inspire, loosely, the production of Edison Force. This is not to say all cops are bad. The position simply leaves something to be desired, for instance, when time is spent writing me a sixty dollar ticket for a two-dollar fare I failed to pay at a turnstile while there are dudes on the subway robbing my girlfriend when she falls asleep on the ride.

I was going to spend time on the widely-discussed leniency given to celebrities and athletes (who are celebrities anyway) but, well, it's widely discussed. And it's not as if they all get away with everything I suppose as my boy Travis Henry, former Buffalo Bills and current Denver Broncos running back, is going to have to pay a little bit of child support. Thankfully that's from a reputable news source.

Perspective

This is just a reminder that Yao Ming is a pretty tall dude.

E-fail

Prior to starting this entry I took a gander at my last and I have to pronounce it as more than a hair lackluster. Thankfully I was able to make many inane links. What I really should have been getting at is summing up how, lately, electronics hate me. Hate is a strong word I realize, but in this instance the right one. Seriously…

Things began with my wonderful Canon SD800. There I was, standing on a wave wall in Waikiki when, of all things, a wave decides to crash along the wall and give my brother and I a pretty reasonable moisturizing session. I was holding my camera, in its case, and really didn't think anything of it until I decided at some point that day I might take a photo of something. My camera begged to differ. It was shot, powershot. Actually, technically that's not true as my camera would still turn on, the display just decided to be totally wigged out. At first I didn't think this was a big deal, and then I realized that every single possible option you're ever going to select on the camera must be done through the display. Oh yeah…After letting it dry out in the Bay Area climate of Palo Alto, I got a teaser. I turned on the camera successfully and it appeared to have suffered only a few watermarks on the screen. How wrong I was when the screen quickly decided to act like the ad for some horror movie where some girl screams and the screen is reduced to scribble and goes off on an angle minus the girl screaming (replaced by me uttering a drawn-out "fuuuuck") and the off angle thing. Simply put my camera is mostly dead. But there's a big difference between mostly dead and all dead.

I've already mentioned my shitty cell-phone that pretends to hold a charge, but that isn't anything too recent. The only recent change is when it would have blank text messages appear in my inbox that, when I attempt to open, then freeze my phone. Ten-to-one Verizon charges me for these text messages.

Then there is my accursed laptop. The boys over at the Genius Bar at the Apple Store were able to tell me that my hard-drive had failed. Shit, if it's going to just fail like that, they should call it a soft-drive. Still, it wasn't all bad news as there is a chance that a company can salvage the data from the drive. This is pretty sweet, minus the $428-1950 price range it will cost me, depending on the complexity of the work. It's a shame I can buy a new laptop for that, since it won't have any of my crappy old crap. Oh well.

Going back to Maria Sharapova, or introducing her for the first time if you didn't click the above link, have you seen the US Open posters? The ones I'm talking about feature the likes of Rafael Nadal, Roger Federer, a Williams sister or two, maybe Justine Henin, Andy Roddick, and that might be it, all in formal attire. They look absolutely ridiculous. It's got this look as if all of the photos were taken separately and then poorly photoshopped together. Unfortunately my quest to find a picture of said poster has failed temporarily. Fuck.

Verizon: We Never Stop Working [for] You

In general, I don't have too many complaints with Verizon's wireless service. As it is I held out on getting a cell phone for pretty much as long as seemed possible and, if you've tried calling me or haven't received a call from me you'll note that, actually having the phone is not the upgrade you might have expected. My demands when it comes to wireless service are actually quite simple: the ability to contact other people through a landline or cellular device and vice versa; the hope to not totally pay through the ass for this service; and free daily home delivery of the New York Times. I was able to do without the last bit since I rarely actually follow the news and don't actually have a home, so I opted instead to have a battery that will maintain a roaming charge for longer than fifty-eight seconds, which equates to about one text message or a fourteen second phone conversation in much the same way that a twelve ounce beer, a four ounce glass of wine, and a shot of eighty proof liquor are meant to impair your judgement equally. For almost an entire year, my demands were met, so it's a good thing most contracts happen to be two. At that point, not only did my battery rarely hold a charge but it would tell me all sorts of filthy lies like it was fully charged and then, when my back was turned, be down to one bar. When it saw the surprised look on my face, it would often jump back up to three bars to comfort me, only to disappoint me with one bar again later.

It was like any classic abusive relationship: that first year is great and then I decide I don't want to use this analogy. So once my battery went to shit, I was in Hawaii and there really aren't all that many Verizon stores on the island and, by the time I'm back I realize that if I wait another couple of months I can get a new phone for free and all I have to do is renew my contract. So August rolls around and I'm thinking, shit, I just have to hold out until October when bam, I get a call from Verizon telling me I can upgrade now. They record them reading me the terms of the agreement over the phone which include the rights to all of my pubic hair, and to raise charges whenever they want without my consent. It sounded like a great deal so I told them sure, just let me leave a landing strip like that time I lost a bet and we were Taco Bell. The only thing I thought was strange was that they called my parents' house line, which is also Verizon but, why not call my actual cell phone? That isn't really that strange I suppose, but I have to tell you that I found it a little creepy that this deal was available to me only over the phone in much the way that I might have to call in the next twenty minutes to get the kevlar vest with my new set of knives. I'm pretty procrastinatory when it comes to most things like, for instance, this post, which I meant to write on Saturday, but this time I said to hell with it, it's a blessing to get a new phone, procrastination and nervous buyer's anticipation be damned. Imagine my surprise then, when I get a call from a different representative the next day offering me exactly the same thing. I told her that I'd actually been called the day prior and agreed to a renewal of contract except this lady tells me that I get an additional hundred minutes a month in addition to getting a free* new phone. The guy the day before said I could choose between the two. This was like buying a cake with a mail in rebate to make it free and then having them toss in a dozen donuts for the hell of it. So I said "cool" and this lady read me the same list of miranda rights and I said "have a nice day" and she said " you too" and then I hung up.

On a completely unrelated note, I was sitting in a bagel shop (whose name is actually Bagel, and has pretty good bagels) in New York City on Sunday when I saw Anthony Famiglietti. I realize this doesn't mean a damn thing to most people, but as a long-time track nerd, I can say that he is a pretty accomplished distance runner, especially by our crappy (but improving) standards. The thing is, it's entirely possible that he didn't walk by me, but it looked a hell of a lot like him, especially since he was wearing a cut-off shirt and at US Champs he was sporting this fresh tat. Also, while trying to verify the tattoo I found that he and I were once kindred hair spirits which, coupled with the fact that he lives on the upper east side (I swear I am not a stalker I just read a couple of interviews) makes it all the more likely that it was him walking past Bagel. Time to cook some dinner.

The Ugly One!

Lately my farts have been smelling like rancid peanut butter, among other things. Historically I have been associated with being quite the gaseous and, at times, noxious individual (my burps smell like death, this is true) and while I like to think this is rather falsely attributed at times, of late that is not the case. The point is, I haven't even really been eating all that much peanut butter. In fact, only today did I consume any peanut butter and, since then, nothing noxious to report. I think it's probably a job for my man Robert Stack on Unsolved Mysteries. Robert Stack is one of those people that I feel can only possibly exist somewhere in the television world; he just seems too ridiculous to ever actually be a real human being.

Speaking of human beings, according to much of the Wesleyan community, I am actually this lady. Please note, if you will, the e-mail listed. That is Julie's (and even if I don't know her personally, I feel connected to her since I get a lot of her e-mail) actual e-mail. Unfortunately, very few people at Wesleyan that have found the need to contact Professor Solomon have taken the time to note the presence of a middle initial in her e-mail address. The first time I got an e-mail intended for poor Julie I believe it was from the TAs for one of her classes. I ignored it until I soon received two more. At this point I sent an e-mail, in the very lowest quality of French (I contend I was once a bit of a scholar, but now is no longer once), informing the TAs that they had not contacted their professor, and provided them with her proper e-mail, which I obtained with a quick search on the campus website. I considered this somewhat of going the extra mile, like when I found that a guy had left his atm card in the machine at a local Wachovia two days ago and, not only did I not ring up charges on it, I actually went out onto the street to find him. Lest anyone miss my sarcasm and think me a real bastard (at least for this reason), I did and do not consider either effort to be any great feat.

Anyway, I probably didn't really expect a thank you from the TAs, especially since I might have referred to them as bete in my e-mail, but I also might have been a little nonplussed not to receive one. Actually, I didn't care at all, I just found it astounding and very consistent with most human behavior to not point out their error to any of the students in the class. Actually, to use that word again, maybe they did. I do not know. What I do know is that soon I started receiving e-mails from students explaining why they were missing class, asking me to move exam dates, asking me when exam dates were, and even attaching assignments as word documents. In at least two more instances I took the initiative to forward the messages to the real Julie Solomon and, to her credit, Julie sent me a very sweet e-mail apologizing for my being inconvenienced and thanking me for passing along the messages. Poor Julie. I wonder what all the students I didn't inform of their error thought of her. Perhaps, eventually, they would come to Julie and ask her if she had received their messages or why she hadn't responded to them. And maybe they just thought Julie was a bit of a wench. And maybe they were right. After all, I don't actually know Julie. Again, these kids were probably too embarrassed to mention to their classmates their little cock-up. Or maybe they just figured no one else would make their mistake of not actually looking up someone's e-mail or ignoring the e-mail address Julie had given them.

The fact is, this started a long time ago, probably early in the fall of 2006. Surely I told a few people about this already, and I may even have mentioned it in my old blog, but having received yet another e-mail of late, in error, I couldn't pass up the chance to talk about it again. So that is the real kicker: students were not the only ones making these errors. Colleagues, and even the departmental I don't know what they are definitely called but probably secretaries, who send out information to professors were sending all of these messages to me instead. Once more, and only once, I forwarded the message to Julie and informed the sender of their error. This was before the dawn of 2007 even, and I don't even know how many more e-mails I have received and ignored. Good samaritan only goes so far, and who knows if I am one of those anyway. If someone can't be troubled to actually look up someone's fucking e-mail, why should I be troubled to pass these messages along? One of these e-mails was even from a colleague to meet for lunch in the summer or something like that and I mean really I make mistakes all the time, but this one seems pretty idiotic to me. I wonder if it is some sort of federal violation that I read these e-mails. They are addressed to me after all, so I doubt it. I wonder if it will be when I start posting their e-mails on my blog when I get to lazy to actually write anything original.

But if anger was conveyed in this post, I erred in my writing. I didn't get mad, I got glad. These e-mails are way better than spam stock tips and offers for Russian brides, or those ones from lawyers in Africa who only need my identity info to send me part of my inheritance from a distant relative. I wonder if all of Julie's colleagues think she is a bitch as a result. Poor Julie…

Don't touch me, you silly frawl.

At least, that's what Iolia Cherryhomes says. For all the splendid virtues of google mail, termed affectionately gmail, it seems that no spam filter will ever be perfect. Not only do e-mails from folks like Ms. (since she could very well be a Miss, or a Mrs.) Cherryhomes slide through, but e-mails from people I actually know sometimes end up in my spam folder. It's a shame I'm not computer savvy enough to know by what criteria that gmail filter works, but I'm sure it's fascinating. When I used to send e-mails to my sister at her work e-mail, they were routinely bounced, more than likely due to my penchant for gratuitous use of profanity, especially the f-word.

A story I've been meaning to put down for a couple of weeks now comes to mind for no particular reason. I think it's because I just started reading Bright Lights, Big City and there was a reference to prostitutes and they are in some way related to the story at hand and it doesn't hurt that I segue whenever possible although, technically the segue is supposed to be a smooth transition of sorts and I can't say that is the case when I slide from topic to topic. Incidentally I had no idea they had made a movie of this novel, and with Michael J. Fox no less. Michael J. Fox rules.

Anyway, the story, which has now had too much introduction and build-up is what probably amounts to a pretty standard night in New York City: buying over-priced drinks, despising at least two-thirds of the other patrons in your watering hole of choice (this isn't mandatory, but I am a bastard and up close I don't hate that many people, just from afar and, to be fair, it isn't just New York, I dislike lots of people wherever I go and, chances are, lots of people dislike me wherever I go), and getting some late night eats, preferably pizza. That is one thing New York, New Jersey, and even shitty (I'd originally said worthless, but that's too harsh) Connecticut can lord over the rest of the United States (okay, I've never had pizza in Chicago so, maybe): the worst slice of pizza you can find is probably going to be as good as the best slice of pizza you'll find anywhere else. This is an exaggeration, which I am pointing out because everything else in this blog is one-hundred percent factual, but pizza tends to be shitty or needlessly hard to find in other areas.

So we end up in a high class pizza joint, so deemed as a result of the need to be buzzed in to use the restroom. When I was buzzed in accordingly, I noted an angry-looking balding man, and quickly apologized and closed the door. Moments later it seemed, in what can be described as a drunken blur, this Indian bum was accosting all of the friendly gentlemen behind the pizza display counter. "I'll fucking kill you," he was shouting as I went up to grab my slices so, fool that I am, I intervened to the tune of something like, "Hey, don't be yelling at my man there." His response was a somewhat expected, "Fuck you, I'll fucking kill you too." Every now and then I decide it's a good idea to try to settle an altercation I'm not involved in. It never is. One day the empty threats redirected might not be so empty and I could be in deep shit. Maybe he was just pissed that someone walked in on him taking a shit.

So the relation of angry shitting Indian bums to a mention of prostitutes in a novel I happen to be reading is that there happened to be two suited gentlemen with skanky women in skanky black dresses eating alongide us at said pizza place. I actually came up with a list of facts to prove my point, but it hardly matters. I just think it's funny that they brought them to a pizza place but then, if you're hungry and you've got hookers already, it seems the decent thing to bring them along rather than leave them waiting outside. The only real question remains: do you pay for their pizza too?

98°: Not Just Another Shitty Boy Band

With the boy band having gone the way of the bell-bottom, the question is, will Backstreet be back (again), and will it be alright? After all, the bell made a resurgence, started by my sister when she started making her own pants in the eighth grade. I had no idea she was such a trendsetter, but I should have known the same would happen when she started sporting J. Crew. With the magazine coming to the house and myself in need of cheap, somewhat cool t-shirts, I bought the now-classic J. Crew mirror tees, where it said J. Crew on the front and werC .J on the back so that it only appears the right way in a mirror, hence the term mirror tee. Anyway, I distinctly recall people making cracks at these shirts saying, "What the hell's J. Crew," and "Why is it reversed on the back, that's corny." Yes, this was back when people still called things corny. Not that it doesn't persist to this day, it's simply not as prevalent as it once was. I mean, if they wanted to make cracks, it should have been about the fact that I had the same shirt in white, grey (or is it gray), and red. Incidentally, when my house was robbed on Christmas one year, one of the selected items deemed worthy for pilfering was said shirt in white - only in white. Given my propensity for pit stains, I would consider this a poor choice, but then, if I were robbing someone, I would opt for jewelry and expensive electronics over some cheap t-shirts and a couple of Tommy Hilfiger sweaters. I should thank them, I guess, since it let me restock my wardrobe with J. Crew sweaters instead. Robbery is such a strange violation. And on Christmas. Poetic bastards.

Back on Backstreet, I almost forgot they had released an album just two years ago, but my memory's not that incomplete. Still, it's not the boy band anymore, but the American Idol pop star that dominates things. I don't even listen to the radio, but if it should come on, I swear it is always the same damn Elliot Yamin song. Who am I kidding, though, I actually kind of like it. I don't remember where I was the first time I witnessed the video, except that it was somewhere that involved a cable television (read: not my house), and, for all that I thought I wanted to change the channel, I watched every moment. Seriously, though, Backstreet owned shit when I was in middle school. Every pen pal I had for French class (and there were several since I was a bastard and never wrote back and, quite logically, would be given a new one), coincidentally none of which were actually from France or a French-speaking country, would write to me "Etc. etc. I like Backstreet Boy, etc., etc." Backstreet continued their dominant reign into my high school years, before 'Nsync took over and even chumps like O-Town, who had hits like Liquid Dreams - about having wet dreams of famous women - and All or Nothing - a song so classy it was played at my senior prom and, yes, I can't deny dancing to it as it is immortalized on the delightful prom video compiled and handed out. I guess I can't leave out 98° since I alluded to them in my title, but that was really only so that I could mention how hot and awful today's weather was only, even though it was ridiculously warm, I found it somehow bearable. Anyway, the only significant thing about 98° as far as I'm concerned was that Nick Lachey allegedly once dated this substitute I had in the ninth grade: Ms. Playa (pronounced ply-uh), and by allegedly I mean according to her. I swear it was spelled just like that although I'll grant you it might sound more suspicious than when a girl name Shithead ( and I am not making this up) told me her name was pronounced "Shi-theed"…if you say so shithead. One thing about Ms. Playa: she was a total babe.

As usual I've jabbered on and forgotten what the hell I even started this post for, but I need to make some amendment to my last. Today I witnessed a McDonald's billboard that said "I crave a #1" and featured a picture of two attractive, twenty-something blonde females being showered in, allegedly, lemonade, one with eyes closed, mouth open, hands raised in that defensive "no-don't-splash-me" pose, the other the same except for her hands at her sides in that sort of forcibly relaxed manner to put it oxymoronically. Obviously the part about the lemonade isn't true…I don't remember if McDonald's even carries lemonade and, if so, probably only pink lemonade, but everything else, totally true…at least the part about what the billboard said. Anyway, that's enough for tonight, I think I've gotta go #4. BAD.

I Need To Go #4…Bad…

Lately I feel as if I've been seeing a whole shitload of those McDonald's billboards with the catchphrase "I Need a #4. Bad." I don't know what actually constitutes a number four, be it burger, be it chicken, but I can tell you that all I can think of when I see it is, "They were very adamant about not choosing number one or number two for this ad." I can't believe I never thought of it before when I've gone into a McDonald's, or any other fast food type establishment sporting a numbered menu for that matter. "Can I have a number one?" Sure, coming right up, all over your face. Don't even think about asking for a number two. Actually, then they might just serve you Indian food. That's no knock on Indian food, though, I love Indian food, it's just that it looks a lot like what it's going to look like when you're done eating it, before you've even eaten it. In other words, poop or, more to the point, liquid poop, affectionately termed diarrhea. I'll resist the urge to mention the term "gripe" yet again, although I suppose by mentioning that I'm resisting the urge I really haven't resisted it at all. But back to Mickey D's, right. When I see those billboards, I can't help but wish someone would tag them to read "I Need To Go #4…Bad," preferably "gotta go" for it's alliterative flair. What would number four be then…I'm thinking when a number two goes from solid, to liquid, to clear jelly. If you don't know what I'm getting at, you obviously have much healthier bowels than myself.

Little things

No, I'm not talking about the first Good Charlotte single, although I certainly had that album and have even seen them in concert, I'm talking about those day-to-day occurrences that keep us playing the game. Before I get into that though, I just have to point out that, well, is it really any wonder Nicole Richie is pregnant? I mean, after dating Hilary Duff for such a long ass time, during which she alleged to be totally Jessica Simpson style, frontman Joel Madden must have had a serious backlog of unborn children he was waiting to unleash.

So this morning I found myself walking back from the train station. It's not all that much of a hike, but it happened to be hot as balls and, concurrently, I happen to be the sweatiest human alive, so I did what any self-respecting citizen would do in a situation in which they wished to limit the number of launderings a shirt will undergo: I took my shirt off. As per usual I wasn't wearing my contacts as I am prone to demented eye infections that cause irritation and, in a couple of instances, near blindness. So it was, then, that I couldn't see who was driving the car that pulled up to me as I was removing my shirt. I assumed for whatever reason that it was someone I knew and they were stopping to label me a "fag" or provide sound advice to the effect of "put a shirt on you homo." As it so happened, it was just some strange lady who I am proud to say was totally busted who looked at me and said, "You're gonna 'cause an accident distracting someone with your totally sweet bod." Actually, I have no idea what she actually said, I just remember that she had a big grin on her face. For all I know she asked me for directions and I fled in fear. Either way it totally made my day.

The thing is, I'm sure strangers randomly engage other strangers in conversation all the time and yet, in my estimation, it happens to me way more than other people. Of course, I'm not anyone else so this is an entirely baseless theory but, if anything, that only makes me stand by it all the more. To preface a reference to another recent (in the last week) incident, I find people asking me for directions fairly frequently. I actually don't mind when people to do this; in fact, provided I can actually direct the person where they are headed, I'll tend to feel good about myself for whatever reason. A couple of weeks back I was riding my bike when this car started following strangely behind me. I figured it was the usual motorist, less than eager to go around my retarded self, until there was plenty of room, except that she was tracking me for much longer. Again I wasn't wearing my contacts so I turned around to motion her to go around/flip her off in some manner (but I'm getting ahead of myself, I didn't even know it was a woman yet) when she shocked me by stopping, rolling down her window and asking me directions. Shocked is hardly the word, but I'm trying to beef up a boring tale. Still, I went from being pissed that she was so retarded she wouldn't get around me, to satisfied she would now be able to get where she was headed. But then, a week or so ago, as I was initially referencing, some dude pulled alongside me shortly after I jaywalked in front of his car, to ask me the location of some street with which I am not familiar. Rather than simply driving on, he frowned at me and seemed legitimately pissed at me for not knowing. I hope he had an important date he missed. Fucker.

Still, there is no point in retelling every boring instance in which a stranger has talked to me, so I'll stick to just a few more terrible anecdotes, most of which play nicely into my vanity and ego. Actually, I'm feeling kind of sleepy, so I will just tell of one wonderful evening in a local Pathmark, which doesn't have shit on Price Chopper as far as grocery stores go, though neither can really hold a candle to Wegmans, but let's not even go there right now. So there I was with one of my mates, most likely on our way to pick up a couple of half gallon (technically 1.75 quart) containers of the seemingly now defunct Edy's mint ice cream featuring mini M&M's, when some old fellow who smelled quite bad really, stopped me so that he might ask my advice on a product purchase. Maybe it's pertinent to mention that it is somewhere in the neighborhood of two in the morning at this point, so your local grocer clientele is already, statistically speaking, several standard deviations from the norm. "Excuse me, young man," he said, "you look like you go to college. Do you think you could answer this question for me?" What he inquired of me was, between wide-ruled and college-ruled notebook paper, which had the narrower ruling. "Wide-ruled is wider," I told him. "That's why it's called wide-ruled." I figured between my assumed college knowledge and the fact that if one were to hold a stack of each paper side-by-side the difference is clearly visible, that this had closed the matter. "Really, are you sure? I thought it was college-ruled that was wider." The horrible truth is that the matter was not quite settled at this point but, realizing full well this has translated into a terrible story, I'm cutting myself off. Sure I could go back and just delete the damn thing, but frankly I'm too lazy even to do that. Maybe tomorrow.