"In vacant or in pensive mood..." I am: Bekah; 24; Law Student / Favorite Things: Carbs (so there!), Johnny Damon, Smiling at babies, Grilled cheese, Comfortable silence / Favorite Supreme Court Justice: Brennan / Favorite Wilson: Owen by an inch / Today's Special: Song: Elliott Smith, "Bled White"; Quote: "You know, there's like a butt-load of gangs at this school. This one gang kept wanting me to join because I'm pretty good with a bowstaff." Please love me: firstname.lastname@example.org
February 2003 March 2003 April 2003 May 2003 June 2003 July 2003 August 2003 September 2003 October 2003 November 2003 December 2003 January 2004 February 2004 March 2004 April 2004 May 2004 June 2004 July 2004 August 2004 September 2004 October 2004 November 2004 December 2004 January 2005 September 2005
Saturday, February 28, 2004
Don't Make Me Disconnect Your Face
I consider myself to be a fairly unassuming, inoffensive person. When I go to a coffeehouse to study, I sit there quietly with my computer and my books. I do not listen to headphones with the volume so high that the entire place hears my music. I do not cough persistently or chew loudly. I do not scream inappropriate sentiments into my cell phone (I heard a woman yesterday screaming, "Oh my God, Don will never sleep with me if you're in the house! You can't come over tonight!"). But despite all of these virtues, I have managed to offend an old man in a tweed jacket so much that he made three distinct complaints to the employees of this coffeehouse. What was my crime? What was the horror of horrors that my duplicitous mind concocted? I, evil wench that I am, had the audacity to extend my computer cord a few feet away from the wall, since all of the wall tables were taken. This dastardly deed was just too much for tweed jacket man to take. He grumbled about me for a good 15 minutes, always making sure that the grumbling was within my hearing, but never directing it to me. The poor employee who had to come over and tell me about the complaint had a look in his eye that said, "This man is crazy. He's here all the time, and he makes my life hell. I don't care about the goddamn cord, but please just appease him in any way you can." I pulled the plug.
I then took the cord and proceeded to strangle tweed jacket man until his pitiful, sputtering cries for help assured me that he would never again use his unrelenting anger at the world to make innocent coffeehouse patrons and employees suffer.
Wednesday, February 25, 2004
Oh, and Happy Belated Birthday...
Mixtape Marathon turned one year old yesterday! I'm getting vechlempt. And yes, birthday cards are appreciated...and expected.
A while ago, in reference to the now famous Quizno's creatures, I asked whether or not Quizno's subs are all that the creatures claim they are. I got a few responses, but my dear friend Joshie (yeah, his name is really Josh) beat them all:
Pepper bar. YES
Produces bad gas. YES
On that note, I thought I would share with you that the woman in the cubicle next to me eats nothing but a giant pile of vegetables for lunch every day (sometimes she cooks asparagus in the microwave - which smells like cat pee) and then proceeds to rip ass all afternoon long. The tooting begins at about 2pm, so I am currently about 90 minutes in.
And as a special treat, here are a few other funny bits and pieces from Joshie's emails. When you get stuff this good, you just have to share with the rest of the class:
I’m happy to hear about “J”. He sounds nice, very unlike Jay-Z or DJ Jazzy Jeff (who I have heard are both assholes).
I am surprised that you favor Owen to Luke. I am ALL LUKE, all the time.
Thanks Joshie; you're the best. Good luck with Stinky over there in your cubicle.
Fat Tuesday Sings, and It's Over. Finally.
Mardi Gras is OVER! No more loud people from rural Ohio* with their dumb umbrella hats, matching tablecloth ponchos, and drunken "Which way to downtown?" inquiries. No more bead-snatching casualties or big sweaty men accusing me of purposefully "pressing my breasts into [their] arms" while fighting through the teeming, putrid parade route. And best of all, no more people using the public streets as trash cans, toilets, and private hotel rooms. Blech.
This whole Mardi Gras experience reminds me of something one of my friends told me in Amsterdam last summer. She said that I had a gift for "knowing when the party's over." When we all went out together, I would turn to her at a certain point in the night and say, "I think it's time to go home." She'd always vehemently disagree, and I'd end up going home alone in a cab, only to find out the next morning that she'd gone home 15 minutes later. I don't know if my intuitions are right all the time with respect to "the party" as a whole, but I do know that once I personally feel that the night is done, nothing and no one can convince me otherwise. I have to go home then and there, even if it means leaving by myself. The problem with Mardi Gras is that I got the feeling that the party was over about 5,476 times over the course of the past week and couldn't do a damn thing about it. Screw my feelings; the party can't be over until the last parade rolls on Fat Tuesday. I think that's what bothers me the most about Mardi Gras: If you live here, party attendance is simply required, and you can't go home until everyone is ready to go. Well, there's Lundi Gras, there's Mardi Gras, and then there's Get The Hell Out of Towni Gras. That's Wednesday, people. Today. So go home, you parasitic tourists! I promise that the party is finally, and most officially, over.
* No offense to people from Ohio. I'm sure some of you are very nice.
Sunday, February 22, 2004
Mardi Gras Guidelines
1. If you decide to go to a parade, you simply have to get into it. You can't stand there like one woman I saw, scowling and holding your arm up lifelessly as if to say, "You might as well just take a huge crap in my hand." That is no way to win the crew over, and, honestly, someone might eventually decide to take that crap. Port-o-Potties can be few and far between.
2. If you want something really cool, like a ceramic medallion or a little squishy football, find someone on the float who looks nice and ask them. You'd be amazed how fruitful specific requests can be.
3. If you want the pretty beads that the security guard happens to be wearing, make a pouty face and open your...eyes very wide. When he gives them to you, offer to buy him a Coke for his trouble. There is absolutely no need for the questionable behavior that the "girls gone wild" engage in.
4. Do not, I repeat, do not wear flip-flops, no matter how much you love them, or how much you enjoy your toes being free to wiggle around in the cool night air. If you still want toes in the morning, cover those suckers up.
5. Give your crappy beads to the children. Clothesline the children who try to steal the good beads from you.
6. Be nice to the old guy who sits down next to you and starts the following conversation:
Old Guy: Hey, how're you doing honey?
Me: Oh, pretty good. You?
Old Guy: Well, I'd be doing better if the doctor hadn't told me I had skin cancer.
Me: Oh, I'm...so sorry. Anyway, I should probably go...somewhere else.
7. Stop being a vegetarian, or starve. The only things to eat are corndogs and Italian sausage.
8. Learn to love Outkast's "The Way You Move," because that is the only song any of the bands will play for the duration of the holiday season. In the same vein, get the hell out of the street when a band is coming: those flag-bearers are more ruthless than the bike-riders in Amsterdam. They will not hesitate to decapitate anything in their path.
9. That smell is in fact fresh horse shit. Deal with it.
10. If there is a shooting a block away from you, and you are caught in the mass of people pushing and fleeing the scene, hide the fact that you are totally freaked out by making light of the event on your blog.
Wednesday, February 18, 2004
Rose Colored Glasses
So, hypothetically, if I were to travel far, far away from where I go to law school to a magical place where they hypothetically hold a mythical festival called “Mardi Gras” for over two weeks and where there are constant hypothetical parades and parties going on during the hypothetical month of February, I could, hypothetically, write about the experiences I have in such a fictional, hypothetical location, correct? Good. Now, everyone get ready for some totally made-up hypothetical fun!
Mardi Gras is upon us, and, although I started out this year as a little bit of a curmudgeon, I think I may be coming around. In general, I don't enjoy any event that involves mindless masses of people milling around like cattle lumbering to the slaughter. To give you a particularly vivid example, I hate Disney World. It is not a happy place for me; it is a place that makes me feel alienated. And when I feel alienated, I start getting all existential on people’s asses, and it’s not pretty. Like Disney World, Mardi Gras parades usually fall into my category of the dehumanizing and the profane. Oooh, beads. Oooh, unfortunate body parts on display. Oooh, some guy’s puke on my shoe. Now that's a party!
That said, I went to a parade with J a few days ago (who, incidentally, looks and acts like a little boy on Christmas morning when he catches good beads), and I actually enjoyed myself. J saw me smiling and being (gasp) somewhat pleasant and involved, and said, “I thought you hated parades!” I held up my Hurricane (a famous drink of the rum + red stuff variety) and said, “Rose colored glasses, my friend.” And it was true. It’s all in the way you look at things. I guess sometimes even a confirmed Mardi Gras scrooge can lighten up and don a few stupid plastic necklaces once in a while...and actually have a good time doing it. Totally unbelievable, I know. But this is a completely fictional story, and it doesn’t have to make sense. As if I would really live somewhere where this type of nonsense goes on…
Unrelated Note: Go here. I am laughing out loud right now. Thanks to Scott. Grimace Palm! is my favorite.
Tuesday, February 17, 2004
Polaroid Pictures: Stirred, not Shaken
Outkast is under fire for their "offensive" performance at the Grammys. I guess I can see how the show could have been taken badly, but I really think Irish people should be more offended than Native Americans. It looked like someone stole Andre 3000's lucky charms and wasn't giving them back.
In related news, the Polaroid company made an important announcement today: Do not, they repeat, do NOT shake actual Polaroid pictures. While old Polaroid pictures could be shaken to aid in the drying process, shaking the more modern Polaroids (oxymoron?) actually blurs the image. Also, Polaroid, rather than taking Outkast to court for some sort of trademark horseshit suit, has decided to team up with Outkast in future ad campaigns. The moral? Don't get mad--get a new and lucrative ad campaign!
Sunday, February 15, 2004
Yes, I Hate Vermont Teddy Bears.
I realize that it's almost as cliche to hate Valentine's Day as it is to like it, but I still can't say that I'm a huge fan. There's the forced, commercial aspect of it that is disturbing--the required gift-giving, the flowers that will only die, the obligatory specter of the "L Word" hovering in the air like persistent B.O. on an Italian subway. I dislike Valentine's Day for all of those reasons. But I think the thing that I hate most is that, even if you don't buy into Valentine's Day in theory, you still feel bad when the day doesn't go well. It's like you have some kind of subconscious need to make the day special, even if you really don't think you should have to. For me, the majority of yesterday was rainy, cold, and basically unremarkable. J and I tried to push through, but we finally contemplated just giving in and going back to the diner where I once got food poisoning and then going to see You Got Served. We figured, if you can't beat the shittiness, join it. Luckily after a few tantrums and a nap, we eventually decided to go out to dinner at one of my favorite places. My dinner wasn't as good as it was the last time, but, as J said, "Hey, it's Valentine's Day. What do you expect?" Anyway, the night ended up going very well, but not because it was Valentine's Day. It went well in spite of it.
I'm Rick James, Biatch!
Yeah, this post has nothing to do with Rick James, I just like saying "I'm Rick James, Biatch!" Dave Chappelle is funny. I also like when he makes fun of white people. White people are funny.
Friday, February 13, 2004
Who Are These People?
Law school is a professional school, attended by grownups (or at the very least beings who, if human, would be considered to be of the adult or soon-to-be-adult variety), and yet it never fails that every semester I have a class with someone who believes that he lives in a universe in which it is somehow OK to come 45 minutes late to a 50 minute class. Allow me to propose that such behavior is not OK, and, moreover, that people who engage in such antics are the most obnoxious and reprehensible people ever to walk the earth!
[My hyperbolic ire may be due in part to the fact that my parents are professors, but seriously people, sometimes it's best just to stay home.]
Thursday, February 12, 2004
Thanks to Josh for the link! (And thanks to Scott and AI for the congrats on the job--it should make for some interesting future posts).
Update: Unsatisfied with (or perhaps just mystified by) my results, I went back and took the ostensibly more accurate 45-Question quizzes (instead of the 18-Question ones I took initially). Interestingly, I'm still Schindler's List, but instead of Mother Teresa, the more accurate reading reveals that I am Gandhi. Eh. As J would say, six of one, half dozen of another. I guess I'll go feed starving orphans now.
Update #2: J and I just decided to do a little experiment: we took these two quizzes for each other. J got the same results for me that I got with the most accurate quizzes (Schindler's List and Gandhi). But while, according to J, he is Apocolypse Now and Einstein, according to me he is Platoon and Bill Clinton. That's almost the same, right? Right? Yikes. I think a "you're pretty" is in order...
Wednesday, February 11, 2004
"Job": A Four Letter Word No More!
Against all odds, I have finally managed to procure employment. Luckily, I have also managed to procure employment that makes me a little bit excited and happy to be getting a legal education: I'm working for a criminal defense attorney with her own practice. I'm starting this Friday, and, if things go well, I will work for her this summer too. It was basically the perfect scenario. I walked in, met her, met the other two attorneys, met her dog (who lives at the firm during the day--sweet!) and got a job then and there. No pesky call-back interview. No stuffy dinner-and-drinks requirement with pantyhose and a painted-on smile. Just a guarantee that I will get paid a little bit of money to do something terribly important and terribly rewarding, and that I will be comfortable while doing it. Not just emotionally comfortable either; I don't even have to wear business casual attire--much less a suit--to work unless I'm going to court. It is as if this woman sat down and said: Criminal defense work? Check. Adorable dog in the office? Check. Jeans whenever? Check. And I retorted with an exuberant, check, check and check!
I was once terrified of getting a job, I'm still terrified of having a job (see my pathetic "I want my mommy" routine), and I've been going through a somewhat severe bout of self-doubt, self-loathing and general malaise over the past few days, but I really think this particular job will be a great first step for me. I know that I have to grow up eventually...and now I'm thinking that maybe I can start.
Tuesday, February 10, 2004
Goddamn. At the risk of exposing more of my sister's brilliance to the world, possibly at my own expense, I just have to share this email too. Damn. Why won't she stop being so freaking cool?
I've been thinking that the Quiznos hair plug hamsters have set a really important precedent. Has the light bulb not gone on? If creepy, psychotic hamsters can increase your readership significantly, think of all of the good name-dropping of which you could take advantage!
Today, I was thinking about that TOXIC girl, BRITNEY. And I realized that I really do like HILLARY DUFF better. I mean, come on! She's so cute and VIRGINal. Unlike that SLUT, CHRISTINA AGUILERA. And I don't like all of this talk about JANET JACKSON'S PASTIE. It's unrefined. Unrefined like NAKED PICTURES OF CELEBRITIES, and unrefined like PARIS HILTON'S SEX TAPE. Okay, now I have to go buy myself that new ATKINS cookbook, and drool over pictures of JOHN EDWARDS while laughing at pictures of HOWARD DEAN. And then I'll worship with Elliot at the alter of GEORGE W. BUSH.
Werd to the werd werd!
Try to do an internet search without hitting me now, you fools! You silly, silly fools!
Um...go here. It's, for lack of a better description...rather good. It is also the origin of the Quizno's creatures, who were known as "spongemonkeys" before their newfound fame. I think they've totally sold out. And yes, I realize that my obsession is getting a little ridiculous.
(Many thanks to J and Costa).
Read or Die
Elliot: Adults who can't read should be shot.
J: Or...taught how to read.
Elliot: Well, maybe. But if that doesn't work, on with the shooting.
We Love the Subs! (Part II)
My readership has increased markedly over the past few days due to Google searches for variations of "Quizno's creatures," "Quizno's singing hamster commercials," and "What in the world are those creepy Quizno's creatures?" I am thrilled to know that people who are interested enough in the Quizno's creatures to seek them out on the internet are being directed to my site. Welcome, fellow lovers of hovering hamsters with googly wall eyes. I am wondering: Have any of you discovered what the creatures actually are? Does anyone know if Quizno's sales have skyrocketed since their introduction? Or perhaps, since many people may not be able to appreciate the subtle genius of the creatures, sales have plummeted? Are Quizno's subs, in fact, tasty, crunchy, and warm because they toast them? Do they actually have a pepper bar? Please fill me in on the results of your research.
Eric: Where do you go to find out how to spell thesaurus?
Me: The dictionary?
Eric: Won't that make the other guy jealous? Using the dictionary to inquire about the thesaurus...that's like calling up an ex-girlfriend to ask for her friend's number...I just don't reckon that the two get along...always pressed up against each other on the shelf...
Me: Push comes to shove...
Eric: Occasionally, you find one or the other on the floor. Accident? Shift in gravity? Slight earth tremor? NO: homicide. Or librocide. Hmmm. Hey...when am I gonna be witty enough to make an appearance in your blog?
Me: I'm thinking...maybe...today.
Friday, February 06, 2004
Women and Words
I've been meaning to post this incredible email for a while, and just haven't gotten the chance. My sister Hannah sent these "definitions" to me a few weeks ago in the wake of my defense of the Law and Gender course. I'm posting them with exerpts from her astute and witty email; I won't make many additional comments, because I think she pretty much says it all:
I was reading a book by Wilfred Funk, 30 Days to a More Powerful Vocabulary. Wilfred is one of the most important American etymologists EVER. Probably the most important. Okay. This book was originally written in the 40's, but was updated in 1970. Though "women's liberation" had apparently happened...the following is STILL true...
The book is addressed ONLY to young businessmen who need to develop a larger vocabulary to get ahead in CEO-land. This much is not surprising; gender neutrality was far from the norm in '70. But that's not it.
Women are, in fact mentioned three times in the book, in conjunction with word descriptions. These are the three passages in which Funk saw women as fit examples (among other examples, for each word, but none of them involving a negative portrait of any facet of masculinity). These are in order of stupefyingness rather than that in which they appeared in the book, most stupefying last:
1) Vicarious. "The lonely, friendless woman living a life of suffocating routine or hopeless boredom can sit glued, hour after hour, to the television set. She then becomes the lovely young girl to whom a virile male makes passionate love; she can experience VICARIOUSLY all the excitement, romance, thrills, exotic adventure that her real life is so empty of. She can be a spy, a murderer, a figure of international intrigue, a visitor from another planet. She has only to twist the dial and change her drab existence into an abundant, fulfilling, and electric (but VICARIOUS) reality."
2) Wanton. "Call a woman WANTON and you are saying that she indulges in every passion, that she is lewd and lascivious--in short that she believes in living it up, with no thoughts of consequences or of the morro's hangover. She never expects to be sorry in the morning, and she never is."
3) Sublimate. "A female whose unconscious desire it is to enslave men, to dominate and destroy all males, becomes the energetic and successful business executive or the president of a college with largely male faculty, and only her psychiatrist knows that she is SUBLIMATING."
Here, Bekah, we have almost EVERY female stereotype of the era, even those that contradict one another! Really fascinating to me is the fact that he acknowledges the sort of despair that women like Ann Sexton and Sylvia Plath wrote about in just about the same era as the second printing of this book, but of course chews it up and spits it out as pitiful, vicarious laziness. But what should women do instead of be lazy? Not work, I guess, since if they did that, they would obviously unconsciously WANT TO "DESTROY ALL MALES." And she might be lazy, but not too lazy to get out on the town and bang every dude within a 100 mile radius, the wanton slut!
Ok. If I go out and party, I'm a wanton, thoughtless whore. If I stay home, I am lazy, pathetic, and incapable of a meaningful existence in reality. If I go to law school, I am bitchy and overly agressive, and have an unconscious desire to destroy all males (since conceding that women could have a conscious desire to do anything would be impossible in this framework). Glad I got all of that straight. I think I'll go talk to my pyschiatrist, since he's the only one who can see through my sublimation and advise against my evil plot of male domination.
Onward to enslave males! Onward to promote a lascivious lifestyle of wanton vicariousness!
Onward to Law and Gender.
Thursday, February 05, 2004
We Love the Subs!
Last night, I was slipping in and out of consciousness in front of the TV when I opened my eyes and saw two hovering hamster-like creatures with huge eyes and gums singing about Quizno's subs. One was wearing a pirate hat and playing a guitar, and the other had gnarled claws and was singing in a crazed falsetto. I have never seen anything so horrifyingly disturbing, yet so hilarious at the same time. I wasn't sure if I was hallucinating. Today I've been on a quest to discover who and what these floating creatures are, and whether or not anyone else finds them as compelling as I do. Finally, Kate, Costa and I found the bizarre creature commercials on the Quizno's website and spent several hours watching them. I laughed so hard that I started getting chest pain. I don't know if I will ever go to Quizno's, but those creatures are so freakishly wondrous that I have to share them with the world. Now run, run like the wind, and view the Quizno's glory yourself.
Struggling With Semantics
Me: Do you mind if I call you my boyfriend strictly for purposes of this email?
J: Uh, I guess not.
[2 seconds later]
Me: Never mind, it looks too weird.
[sighs of relief]
Note: The preferred nomenclature is either "insignificant other" or "non-definitional male or lady friend." The man will not get us down. We will prevail. The boyfriend/girlfriend revolution will not be televised.
Wednesday, February 04, 2004
The Best of the Belateds
The following is an actual email from one of my dearest friends, sent 4 days after my birthday. Note the strategically placed "you're pretty." All, all, is forgiven.
Oh dear god, I should be shot. I didn't even call. BEKAH I LOVE YOU. I am sorry -- Happy, Happy Belated. Holy shit, I feel awful. I LOVE YOU. YOU ARE PRETTY. Oh dear god. I will call you tonight, sweet thang!!
Thinking Like a Lawyer
Costa: Are we really going for a walk today?
Me: Yeah, I think so, if it isn't raining.
Costa: Ok. In that case, I'm getting a Reese's.
J: [uncontrollable laughter]
Note: Costa really deserved that Reese's. On Superbowl Sunday, she won the grid at the final score for a whopping $20. She was pretty excited, feeling good, only to walk outside and see that she had a $20 parking ticket on her car. "I can't win!" she exclaimed. I said, "At least you broke even." She wasn't appeased.
Update: After writing this post, I was reminded of my utter uselessness when it comes to even the most simple mathematical issues: Cost didn't in fact break even; she'd put $5 in the pot at the beginning. Oh well.
You Know You're a 2L When...
G: Yeah, I took my computer to the guy upstairs and he accidentally erased everything on it.
Me: Oh my god! Did you lose all your notes??
G: Nah. Luckily, I haven't been taking any.
Monday, February 02, 2004
Warning! Wardrobe Malfunction. Halftime Will Terminate.
Really, Justin? Was it a "wardrobe malfunction" that caused your arm to reach across Janet Jackson's body and rip off a boob-sized portion of her leathery-metal atrocity of a corset top? And was it just an accident that Janet had a strategically placed metal "nipple covering" over the very breast that was exposed? Obviously not. But regardless of Justin's intent or Janet's intent, or MTV's intent, I think it's totally ludicrous that there's this much uproar over such an "incident." This traumatic exposed breast fiasco is nothing that isn't on MTV or anywhere else all the time. People who think that's not the case are in denial. And, on a slightly more philosophical level, why is it that any amount of skin above the nipple can be shown anywhere anytime (because that's just cleavage), but any skin below or around the nipple is considered indecent? And if everyone is so incredibly outraged by this obscene and immoral occurrence, WHY MUST THE NEWS STATIONS SHOW THE FOOTAGE ONCE EVERY TEN MINUTES? The hypocrisy is almost too obvious to be worth mentioning! Aren't the same "families" and "children" who "deserve better" watching the freaking NEWS? Stupidity overload...must...lie...down.
Sunday, February 01, 2004
I'd Like to Thank the Little People...
Friday night, to my immense pleasure, my friends and family threw me a real live surpise birthday party. I have never had a surprise party before, and I'm still getting over the experience. As a cover, my aunt invited me over for a drink with a few family members before I went out with my friends. So J and I showed up and after saying hi to my mom and aunt and uncle, my mom opened some sliding doors and about 20 of my friends, my grandmothers, and my sister were all standing in the living room screaming at me and taking pictures. The entire thing is kind of a blur now, but I think the first thing I said was something like "Nuh uh!" Astute, no? Then I think I covered my face, tried to leave, hid behind J, and when all of that failed, said, "Ok, everyone go about your business...nothing to see here..." I was bright red and shaking and wanted to crawl under the coffee table. But once I'd made the rounds and hugged everyone (some people 2 or 3 times because I didn't know what to do with myself), and once my dad handed me a glass of wine, I started to calm down and enjoy myself. My mom had cooked so much food and three cakes, and everybody kept telling me how nervous they'd been about keeping the secret. There is really nothing more flattering than having people go to all that trouble just for you. It was so cute to see my grandparents talking to my friends too. One of my grandmas was wearing some snazzy leather pants, so she was really the hit of the party and thankfully deflected some of the attention from me.
The best part of the whole thing was being able to look back and think about all of the strange or suspicious things that happened that went right over my head. For example, I was kind of annoyed that none of my friends seemed all that interested in planning something for my birthday. I kept offering places and times for dinner, etc., and no one was buying it. I kept asking what bar I should get people to go to, and no one seemed to care. It was very odd. I was also kind of surprised that J was so willing to come have a drink with my aunt and uncle and parents. I kept saying, "I can just meet you at dinner, it's really no big deal." Basically, according to my friends, I was very difficult. But it's just because no one seemed to want to do anything! So I apologize, and want to profusely, though pseudo-anonymously, thank everyone who was involved. Good times...great oldies. And speaking of oldies...24 doesn't really feel any different than 23. So I guess I'm safe until the big 2-5.
Quotes of the Week
During a preview for The Passion, J exclaims, "Oh, Jesus Christ!...Man, that never gets old."
Crossing the street downtown in heavy traffic, my sister assures us, "Just don't look and you can't die..."
In the middle of a gripping and intelligent socio-political debate at a local bar, C says to J, "Yeah, so...I'm halfway between a shit and a piss...I think I'm gonna go give it a shot. See ya."
After a brief discussion of reality shows, I interject that "The next one will be Average Ho, with a really hot guy and a bunch of nasty girls." [I realize how incongruous that comment is with my advocacy of my Law and Gender class, but I'm still allowed to make jokes...]