Happy Time Hobo Ninja Brigade!

There is no way to explain this one. It's one of those things you had to see for your own eyes. We were called to a floor meeting, and it was decided that we needed an identity, as a floor. A mascot, so-to-speak.

And simply saying "third, south" wasn't good enough.


It went from Interscholastic Pimpin' to Hobo Brigade to Smiley Ninjas to the Happy Time Hobo Ninja Brigade.

In between, we had the ideas that never got off the ground. Like Baked Beans, the Dirty South (a play on the fact that were the south half of the third floor), Fluffy Clouds, and Scurvy Pirates.

I think this all has to do with the fact that we're the drunk fl-- Oh, wait, I don't think I should have said that out loud.

Oh well. It's true. There were two parties last night. One was in a dormitory and got busted, and one was up in the apartments and went unnoticed. I was one of three people on this floor who was sober.

It was sad.

One girl was doing cartwheels down the hall. When she regained her composure, she tried to befriend us. We were all her friends.

Then there was the guy who was trying to hold his pants up, and delcared, "Hey, I think I lost the button on my pants. Do you think you could help me find it?"

The guy with the suitcase full of beer was cool, though. He went down the hallway, peeking in open doors, telling people, "I have beeeeeeeeer." He then walked out the dorm hall. We followed him, because he was wobbly and carrying a suitcase, and we wanted to see him get busted.

He didn't. Walked right past the desk, no one said a word. Came back, even more tipsy, with the suitcase, flashed his ID card, and continued on his merry way.



I couldn't get on the Honors' floor. But it's okay. This is infinitely more entertaining.

Now, if only I could get hot water in the shower. I bet the Honors' floor has hot water in their showers.

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My Photobloggy sense is tingling!

It's Django! And Boo! And iChat!

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I know more about Aleut canoe-building than I ever wanted to know.

Our summer reading book was The Starship and The Canoe. It really wasn't that great; but... well, the discussion was this morning. That was fun. That was just us, answering the proffesor's questions about... stuff.

Yeah.

I overslept this morning. That was cool. And when I say "overslept", I mean, "I woke up with my roommate's alarm clock, went back to sleep, and then beat the shit out of my alarm clock when it went off."

And my pet grass still isn't doing anything.

But I went into town today. The bus tour went through both towns, and just kinda wandered aimlessly for an hour-and-a-half. So I still have no idea what's in either town.

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It's that much cooler than a pet rock.

"Yeah, and we just met this cool guy, he was using our bathroom."

...anyway, um, yeah.

I have a new pet.

I present to you: my pet Grass.

Yup, Grass.

I'll post a picture later, or tomorrow, or something, because (a) I'm tired, and (b) it's not doing anything yet, and I really doubt you all want to see a picture of a triangular plastic thing full of dirt.

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Quote of the Day

"You guys are so stupid. Stop leaving your cell phones in your rooms. It's mobile. It moves with you."

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Well, uh, hi.

Yup. I'm sitting in my dorm, and, well, I'm all settled, and hooked up, and all.

So... yeah.

Wanna see?








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...and there's a thunderstorm warning in effect for--

A'right. Bad puns regarding the weather. You can gueass what this post has to do with.

No, really. Guess.


At any rate; I told you about the boxes. Yes. You know about the many boxes? Well, my systm broke down when it came to boxes eight and nine (no number sign) and the so-called "miscellany box". Yup.



Right now, I'm listening to "the Sweetheart Tree" from The Great Race. Only, it's, like, the "exit theme" version. It's nice.

It's kinda sad, though.

See, I don't have a problem living out a suitcases or boxes. And I don't have a problem with the fact that all of my stuff is in boxes, waiting to be moved. But, I'm staring at the computer screen, and... well, mom told me to cleam all of my stuff off of the computer and onto the firewire drive. So, I'm staring at one of the default desktops, and "TheSweetheartTree.mov" is the only music that I actually have right now. It's freaky. It's like I'm on someone else's computer.


Oh, and, uh, because I know this is going to come up: I don't hate you. I'm not ignoring you. I was just... on a mental vacation. See? I'm not completely antisocial. I'm just an idiot.


Oh, and one other thing.

This is a shout-out to my bro', DragonCelt, who is most definately not in the brig -- despite his efforts to the contrary.

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Quote of the Day

"I used to ride my pony down this corridor, but then I grew up, and got drunk, and fell off."

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I broke Mom's toe.

Well, actually, no. To be honest, the milkcrate broke mom's toe. But it's my milkcrate, so really, it's legally my fault.

Anyway, I've been pretty good. I don't complain about mom too much. Okay. So, I'll complain now.


Let me preface this by pointing out that I'm moving to Maryland. So, I started packing like, three weeks ago. I started with box #1. Box #1 was massive. It had my new bedlinens -- "twin extra long" -- and a whole bunch of clothes. Okay. Fine.

I couldn't lift it.

So I unpacked it, and it became boxes #4 and #7. And if you see how the boxes were packed, it would make perfect sense. #2 is books, manga, and two pair of shoes, #3 desk stuff, fragile stuff, wall stuff, a lamp, and a pillow. #4 is the bedlinens. #5 is clothes -- along with #7 -- and #6 is stationary, and towels.

Okay. Now, I have an itemized list in dark tourquise Sharpie™ on the outside of each box, detailing what's inside each box. My system may not make sense to you but, that doesn't really matter. It makes sense to me.

So mom decides that we have to pack today.

I point to the pile of boxes in the dining room. The boxes that are already sealed with packing tape. All but two of them. So she goes into the ones that aren't sealed, and starts giving me a hard time about what I'm bringing.

"Do you really need to--"
"Yes, I need a lamp. That's important."
"But what else is in here? It's a big box."
"A pillow."

(This is the point where she takes the lamp out -- in pieces, because I couldn't get it in in one piece -- and pulls the pillow out. She stares at the sheer amount of newspaper crammed in the bottom of the box, to keep all my good mugs -- my decorative, I-don't-drink-out-of-these mugs -- from rattling around. Plus all my other important stuff was in there. My Dante awards were in there. The pillow served the same purpose as the newspaper.

Okay. Fine. Whatever.

I had to fight with her over whether or not I needed to bring two boxes of clothes.

I'm going to let you all in on a little secret: even though I worked in a Theatrical costume shop here in Nowheresville, I can't fold clothes. So, those boxes were more fluff than substance, so to speak.


Oh, and, since I know you're all wondering about the bit with mom's toe... well, I don't actually own a laudry basket. I mean, we have some, somewhere, but, uh, I didn't get one. I got a black milk crate that says "Tuscon Dairy" and "misuse liable to prosecution". Okay, so, I was using it to cart my stuff to the pile of boxes, to pack.

...and I kinda left it there.

...and mom kicked it. Or tripped on it. Or stubbed her toe.

I'm not sure what she did, but I heard her scream at me from the other side of the house for leaving it where I did.

But, y'know, hey. I've broken a toe or two on those old fashioned irons (the kind that had to be heated on a stove), because mom insists they make excellent doorstops. Funny thing is, when they're a hundred years old and they're unpainted, they blend in very well with an Oak floor.

Yeah.

But every time I do that, I get a lecture about looking where I'm going.

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Aw, man, I'm sorry. Mea culpa. Seriously.

I know I've been, like, completely ignoring you guys.

And I apologize for that.

But I've been on something of a mental vacation recently.

Plus, I'm on new drugs! Yeay! Isn't that awesome! ...(no, no, it's not.)

Anyway, I just, y'know, hey. Yeah. Umm... I've been, um... packing. Yeah, I've got six cardboard boxes, labelled #2-#7 (don't ask why there's no number 1) and, uh... yeah.



Okay. Y'know what? Yes. Yes, I am aware of the fact that I sound completely stupid. If you could actually hear me, I would be mumbling, and, like, saying "um" and "y'know" all the time.

A'righythen.


So, in the place of a real post, I'm posting these kinda freaky iChat conversations.




...and then this one:






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Quote of the Day

"Weapons change; man who uses them changes not at all." -- General George S. Patton, Jr.

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There is no way to adequately title this post.

Okay. The way the school district is structured here in Nowheresville is downright freaky, and I'll admit it. There are four gradeschools -- the "Nowheresville Union-Free School District" -- and then, an entirely unrelated Junior-high/Highschool.

When you graduate from one of the elementary schools, (or at least, if you graduated six years ago) you get a "yearbook" -- a paperback book, with the sixth grade school pictures of everyone from the four schools. (And it was cool, because there was a great deal of confusion originally between two of the schools, they redrew the lines when we were in the first grade, or something, so the people from those two schools are pretty close.)

Anyway, our school (I don't know if the other schools did this) gave us each, in addition to the "yearbook", a little Autograph book, so that we could get our friends and our favorite teachers to sign it.


I'll be honest. I had forgotten about it.


After the back-to-school dream that I told you all about, I started thinking about that green backpack again. So, I went up into the attic looking for it. Inside, I found this little green book, with "Autographs" etched into it in big gold letters.


So, I brought it back downstairs, brushed the dust off of it, and opened it.

I honestly don't remember half of these people. There are teachers in here that, I honestly couldn't tell you who they were. And then, there are the teachers that, even though there's no possible way I'll ever forget them, they had the common decency to remind me. Like my gym teacher. She specifically wrote "PE" after her name.

And, of course, there are the people I haven't actually spoken to in six years.

Dear Ki,

My Predictions for YOU in the Future:

1. Frantic Pathology
2. Geckos... Geckos... Geckos...
3. More Hardware shows

Be my close friend 4 long, ♥ Jane (not that way).

*(Well, yeah, when I was in the sixth grade, I wanted to be a forensic pathologist -- which no one else could spell -- and I had a soft spot in my heart for home improvement shows and geckos.)*

Dear Ki,

I've never knew how funny you could be till this year. Hopefully you will to stay one and go to Memorial. Here is a song for you:

Geickos, Geickos
I love geickos
I love geickos

Well, we'll always stay friends.

Love, Jill.

...Okay, you get the idea. So, then I thought, "hey, where's Kathryn's?" You have to realize something. What Kathryn did to my High School Yearbook is downright freaky. I gave her three Sharpies™ -- a red one, a blue one, and a purple one, and told her to sign it whereever. I even saved a whole page for her. She took up the whole page. In all three colors.

In the little green Autograph book, it's just her name, in neat print. It's not even the calligrapy-type handwriting we're all used to.

I mean, I know it's real, I remember it.

It's just so... surreal.

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Sewiously.

It's 91° outside. the weather channel said that it feels like 100°.

Seriously. That's not right.

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Soldier toy disarmed at airport

Soldier toy disarmed at airport

A doll caused a security alert at an American airport because its two-inch plastic gun was considered a dangerous weapon.

Judy Powell, 55, from Walton on the Hill, Surrey, bought the GI Joe toy in Las Vegas and packed it in her hand luggage.

But security staff at Los Angeles International Airport refused to let Mrs Powell on board the plane with the replica rifle.

Mrs Powell had to put the gift - minus the rifle - in her suitcase so it could go in the aircraft's hold.

Mrs Powell said: "I was simply stunned when I realised they were serious.

"Security examined the toy as if it was going to shoot them and looked at the rifle.

"I was really angry to start with because of the absurdity of the situation.

"But then I saw the funny side of it and thought this was simple lunacy."

A spokesman for Los Angeles International Airport said: "We have instructions to confiscate anything that looks like a weapon or a replica.

"If GI Joe was carrying a replica then it had to be taken from him."

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Photoblog... kinda... thing.

Have you heard of google maps? It's been around awhile. I'm sure by now, you have. It scares me. The things you can see with it.

I'm putting this up 'cause I think it's a cool picture.

I'll have more (scarier) pictures up on a yahoo page that I'll link to... at some point.

Y'know, you can zoom in on some scary things... in the U.S, Canada, and Great Britain.

(photo ©Google)

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Quote of the Day

"You can't backwards-engineer beer! You need barley and hopps, and... why am I explaining this to you, of all people?!"

"That should be a Jeopardy question. 'When thrown against a small adolescent child's head, what sound does a small red dodge ball make?' ...What is 'splong'?"

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Quote of the Day

"Please, tell me, who convinced you it was a good idea to wear this outfit to a cocktail party?"

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Django hates me.

Well, no, no, that's not entirely true, but...

Well, okay, it's a convoluted story.

Whereas most cats have silky fur, Django has soft, cottony fur. It tangles very, very easily. He had knots right near his hips.

He also hates getting brushed.

Okay, fine. So, mom decides she's going to brush him, which means... I have to hold him.

So, he squirms. And makes angry cat noises. And squirms some more. And makes motions like he would scatch me. (Don't ask.)

So, I have him sitting upright, in my lap, while mom brushes the fur at his hips. And he squirms up, right into my nose. I make an "ow" noise, and Django squirms back down. Then, he squirms up again, and flings himself up and back, into my nose. Agian.

He kept doing that.

He was going out of his way to break my noise.

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Wow... I didn't even notice that.

Okay. Now's your chance to learn stuff about Blogger.

The list of posts that I have, that I can see, can only view 300 posts. Any more than that, and I have to do... something special that I really haven't bothered to look up yet.

Anyway, when I logged earlier, to put up Sixty Percent, I noticed the new post count -- 303.

I hit the "limit", without even realizing it.

W00t!

*(I know you rally don't care, but, I feel special.)*

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Quote of the Day

"Human beings can always be relied on to assert, with vigor, their God-given right to be stupid."

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I fought the floss and... well, I'm pretty sure the floss won.

See, I think the dentist is cool.

Of course, the dentist I go to is a pediatric dentist. He goes out of his way to make kids feel comfortable with dentistry.

He also has an arcade cabinet of Asteroids in the waiting room. PacMan and the other thing pale in comparison to Asteroids.


At any rate, I had a dentist's appointment. So, okay. Fine. They pick at my teeth a bit. They scrape a bit.

No big deal.

They do that purple stuff, that shows them where the plaque is.

Fine. One spot, front tooth, near the gum.

No big deal.

"Do you floss?"
"Well... no. I can't get in there with--"
"No, see, you have to floss."

So, now I have the hygenist explaining the merits of flossing. She tells me the horrors of not flossing.

She then jams a piece of floss between two of my teeth.
"Ahh."
"See? It's because you don't floss."
"Ah-ahh. Ih eeahhh I ouff if ooo ouwwew." (That translates to: "Uh-uhh. It's because my mouth is too crowded.")
"If you flossed, you'd be more used to this."
"Ah-ahh. I eeff ah oo oaff oooeeveh. Ahh!!" ("Uh-uhh. My teeth are too close together. Ow!")

It went on in that direction, until she finally decided I had had enough, asked me if I really was going to floss -- to which I responded "Well, yeah, I'll try," -- and gave me a roll of floss and a little plastic holder. Then she did the flavored floride thing with the oversized-q-tip, told me not to eat for a half-hour, and sent me on my way.

But now I'm hungry.

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