In Which Our Author Gets Mad Sometimes (and Spells "Publically" With an "a" Because Screw Spellcheck)

Have you ever gotten mad, the Internet, and done something you know you shouldn't have done?  It's okay if you have.  I think a lot of people do it.  I did it just recently, and that's what I'm writing about.

See, I know that sometimes people will say things I disagree with, and that sometimes they will say those things publically, and that sometimes they will say them so badly that I can't decide whether to punch something or vomit on something or vomit so hard that my vomit punches something.  I also know that when these things happen, the best response is always to ignore it.  The person is obviously retarded, and when you're mean to retarded people, society does that thing where they rub one index finger perpendicularly over the top of the other one which is pointing at you.  I don't know what it's called but it indicates you should feel shame.

I know these things, and yet, when I opened my Purdue student newspaper the other day, I embarked upon a regrettable journey.  For those of you who do not attend Purdue or who do and are wise enough to avoid the opinions section of the Exponent, I'll explain that it is. . . not inspiring.  It is most commonly used in debates between liberal arts and engineering students, as both groups try to conceal the disquieting anxiety they feel about their future and convince themselves that they made the right choice by disparaging the alternatives.  Rarely, a reader will find an argument about an issue of substance, but he can be assured that the letters themselves will reduce a complex, multifaceted topic to a bitter contest of passive aggressive ad hominem attacks.  That is the world into which my anger led me.

Recently, the opinions page has been roiling and seething with reactions to the blog of Purdue professor of library science Dr. Bert Chapman.  Dr. Chapman, who has ruined the positive ideal that I once held of librarians, has written "An Economic Case Against Homosexuality."

The Positive Ideal I Once Held Of Librarians

You can read the case here: http://bertchapman.blogtownhall.com/2009/10/27/an_economic_case_against_homosexuality.thtml
While I was disappointed, I reserved my opinion and watched as the debate played out over the weeks.  But the other day I opened my paper and found the following letter written in support of Dr. Chapman.  The anal retentive punctuation is, for once, not mine.

       The Gay and Lesbian Medical Association, on its Web site (http://glma.org/), offers two surprising documents:  One, "Top 10 Things Gay Men Should Discuss with their Healthcare Provider" and the other, "Top 10 Things Lesbians Should Discuss with their Healthcare Provider."
       Three quotes from the former: 1) [M]en who have sex with men are at an increased risk of HIV infection. ... [T]he last few years have seen the return of many unsafe sex practices."
       2) "Sexually transmitted diseases (STDs) occur in sexually active gay men at a  high rate.  This includes ... syphilis, gonorrhea, chlamydia, pubic lice, ... Hepatitis A, B or C virus, Human Papilloma Virus, etc."
       3) "Gay men may be at risk for death by prostate, testicular or colon cancer.  ... (And there are) increased rates of anal cancers in gay men."
       Two quotes from the latter: 1) "Lesbians have the richest concentration of risk factors for breast cancer than any subset of women in the world."
       2) "Lesbians have higher risks for many of the gynecologic cancers."
       Perhaps those intolerant, judgmental, censorious and bigoted students who want a librarian fired for having a "case against homosexuality" blog should try to censor the GLMA.
       When are the ADULTS in this country who believe in the First Amendment going to put the discriminatory, pro-homosexual fascists in their place?

Now, if you haven't vomited a hole in your wall, I hope you can understand why I did.  Immediately after I drove my neighbor to the hospital and explained to the doctor that, yes, barf-induced concussions are a real thing, I decided to fire off a passive-aggressive ad hominem letter in response.  If I had taken a little bit of time to cool down and think about my response, I would have calmly explained that being homosexual is not the same as practicing unsafe sex, and that we can reasonably ask people to stop doing something, but that we cannot ask them to stop being something.  If I had taken even more time to cool down and think about my response, I would not have written one, for fear of that finger thing.  But I took no such time and ended up with a letter that uses the words "economic case against black people."  My last hope was that the editorial staff would choose not to fan the flames of hostile discourse and would not run my letter.  Reading that sentence over, I realize what a ridiculous hope that was.  Here is the letter that was printed in today's Exponent:

Dear Mr. Lela
       In order to preserve my fragile faith in humanity, I must assume that your recent submission regarding the health risks of homosexuality was actually a veiled satire, and that the opinions presented were not yours but those of a cartoonishly ignorant character you were portraying.  I refuse to believe that any real person with an adult mental capacity equates statistical health risks with subhumanity.  According to the CDC, African-Americans are also at a significantly higher statistical risk for developing AIDS than the average population, but I double-dog-dare you (I mean, your satirical character) to publically support “an economic case against black people.”  
       Your character might argue that sexuality is a choice, as opposed to race.  I would strenuously disagree, but for argument's sake, I will offer another example.  Excessive eating is also a choice and also puts those who partake at higher risk for certain expensive diseases, such as diabetes and hypertension.  I have yet to hear it suggested, however, that we strip the overweight of their dignity and basic human rights, forbidding them to marry or have children on the pseudo-rational grounds that they would teach them similar destructive habits.  If your character or Dr. Chapman were truly committed to the economic well-being of the nation and not to their own superstitious ignorance, they would demand that all populations suffering from higher-than-average risk of disease, including minorities and the elderly, be subjected to public ridicule, governmental persecution, and religious condemnation.  For the economy.  Anyways, I think you’re a talented humor writer, but watch that you don’t overexaggerate the stupidity of your subjects.


In conclusion, I get mad sometimes.

In Which Our Author Compiles a List or Two

Things I Have Been Called


Name: Mowgli
Age: 0-3
My mom called me this when I was very young, because even she thought I was Indian.

Jojo
0-present
This is what my dad has always called me when trying to be affectionate.

Doey
2-4
This was my brother's valiant attempt to pronounce my name.  My parents usually mimicked him, laughing, because no one can resist mocking children.

Little Joey (Lil' Joey)
5-11
My elementary school nickname.  Not particularly creative (my name was Joey, and I'm kinda little), but effective.  I remember this one caused some drama because one of my friends insisted on patting my head when he said it, which infuriated me.  A word of advice to the tall:  keep your hands at all times out of biting range.  I didn't actually bite anyone, but I could have.  I'm dangerous and unpredictable.

Keebler
14-15
This is the first in what I consider the "Golden Era of Nicknames," or freshman year of high school.  As I've previously stated, I ran cross-country my freshman year.  The girls' team called me Keebler, like the elves.  Critical readers have surely begun to detect a pattern. . .

Tiny Tim
14-15
There we go.  That's it.  This one was the upperclassmen in choir.  They also called me

4.0
14-15
This one was inaccurate.  My actual GPA was closer to 4.7.

Giuseppe

11-15

My long time soccer coach came up with this one, the Italian equivalent of Joseph.  I think he was German.

Joe Flo

14-15
My theatre director made this one up first.  She said I could call her ALowe, and she would call me Joe Flo.  She also said that she'd write a play about me.  I'm still waiting.

Joe Joe

sporadic
I differentiate this one from my dad's because it is different.  I can't explain how, but it is.  Plenty of people have called me this over the years, and most of them have been girls who hug too tightly.  One of them, though, was a girl who hugged just right.

J.Flo
17-20
I must shamefully admit that I made this one up myself and used it ironically a few times.  I never expected it to catch on in high school or to reemerge in college.  My friend Ryan says it is forbidden to make up your own nickname.  I'm forever sorry.

Stalin, Stalina, Stalinifer
18-present
My senior year of high school I was president of my school's chapter of the International Thespian Society.  Because my first name was Joseph, the rest of my cabinet took to calling me Stalin.  They later took to using a more feminine form of the name.  I don't know why they did this, and that's probably for the best.  They still use it sometimes.

Jogan
19-present
When I auditioned for and was accepted into the Crazy Monkeys my freshman year, I was joined by a hilarious fellow named Logan.  Rather than "newbies" or "scrubs," the older Monkeys simply called us Jogan. Strictly speaking, Joe is the name of this body, and Logan of that one.  Jogan refers to the mind connecting them.  Two are one.

Joe the Pro
20-present
Red, a resident at the Indiana Veteran's Home where I volunteer, calls me this.  He's the friendliest guy you could ever hope to meet.  I don't have the heart to tell him that I am not actually a professional yet.


Things I Have Never Been Called
Jobu

Broseph

Joban
Shoeless Joe from Hannibal, MO
Late for dinner
Dear
Baby
Lover

In Which Our Author Tells a Mildly Mawkish Tale

I came home Friday night to visit my parents for fall break.  Saturday morning we went to one of my dad's soccer games, and I realized something in a moment that I never want to forget.  That's why I'm typing it down.

First, you need to know that my dad is a very interesting character.  His biography would probably make a very special night of television on the Arts & Entertainment channel, or at least a good Lifetime movie.  For various reasons, though, I don't feel like relating it here in any depth.  Suffice to say he found the most dramatic way to travel the 17.8 miles that Google Maps says it takes to get from the slums of East Chicago to the suburbs of Schererville.

The first time you meet my dad, you'll notice that he loves people, especially young people.  He has no end of things about which to talk to you, and I mean that literally.  If he starts talking, you're not going anywhere for a while.  When I'd have friends over, my mom would distract Dad with a steak while my friends and I ran to the video game room and shut the door.  There was no other way.

The second time you meet him, he will almost undoubtedly have a personalized lecture, tailor-made just for you.  He will tell you exactly what he thinks you need to hear, and more often than not, he'll be right.  I, however, do not have the time or patience to re-listen to hand-me-down lectures altered in places to fit you.  StarFox 64 will not play itself.

So for most of my life, that's how I thought of my dad.  A long-winded nuisance. Now I realize that he's actually a very passionate, very wise, very insightful nuisance.  But back to the story I wanted to tell.

My brother and I played on the community soccer leagues for thirteen years, and for the last five or so, my dad has been head coach of one or both of our teams.  Last year, Mike turned 18 and was ineligible to play another season, but my dad had so much fun coaching that he signed up to take one more team.  Now my dad knows little to nothing about coaching.  His idea of practice is to play a couple scrimmage games, give a couple lectures, and call it a night.  His idea of game-day coaching is to yell at the team to get the ball.  If his voice is up to it, he'll shout out a few lectures.  Our team is also the only team in the U18 league that still gets treats (and lectures) after the game.

But I went Saturday to the last game of the season and watched my dad handing out trophies, telling jokes and stories about each player as he did so.  Marco, who has been on my dad's team for three seasons, asked if he'd be back next season.  As the other players talked and joked about the game, my dad replied that no, his kids were grown, and he had other things to get done.  When he said "no," there was a brief but noticeable hesitation in all the kids.  Every last one of them stopped completely, just for a moment, and that moment is the way I always want to remember my dad.  However else he may grate on my nerves and play on my guilt, I never want to forget him standing there surrounded by mouthy teens struck silent by the idea of playing for someone other than Coach Rich.  He's not the winningest coach, or the most knowledgeable, but he's the one who cares the most for his players, as a team and as individuals.  If I can grow up to be more like that, I will count my life a success.

In conclusion, Mrs. My Third Grade Teacher, that is why my hero is my dad.  Also, ma'am, I think you need to read my last post because boy does it apply to you.

In Which Our Author Kills Time and Has Fun With Names

As you well know, dear the Internet, I am no good at consistent updates.  If you want a blog that is consistently updated and consistently interesting, you are currently in the wrong place.  Might I suggest you take a short hike over to The Middle School Adventures of College Mike?  Or T Marks the Spot?

Still, I will persevere against my creative malaise so that all five of you can have something to waste your time with on a more regular basis.  That was not fishing for compliments, though it sounded suspiciously like it.  There are exactly five of you following this blog, and I don't feel comfortable saying "something to look forward to" or "something to wet yourself in anticipation of."  I got enough nice, thoughtful compliments on my last two blogs that I can hang up my fishing rod.  The problem is I took a lot of time on those last two, and I can't continue to do that and have any hopes for regularity. [insert poop joke].  So I'm going to try to write things that are in my head without taking an hour to phrase them just so and then another hour to edit them just so.  I'll still try and make time for super special updates when I feel particularly passionate about something, but I'm really gonna try for pretty okay updates in the meantime.

So in that spirit, I'm gonna start talkin' about stuff.  I'll start with a musing I had in biochem.

See, Hans Lineweaver was a chemist who helped come up with the Lineweaver-Burk plot, a double reciprocal plot of the Michealis-Menton equation that shows enzyme activity in a straight line, making it easy to find the critical parameters by hand.

Er, I mean, he did some dumb science stuff or whatever.

Anyway, my point is that this guy named Lineweaver is famous for formulating a really useful graphical equation.  Mathematically speaking, he wove a fucking line.  So that got me thinking about how often that happens, where people come to embody their names.  Like how many Millers do you know who are actually millers?  How many Petersons actually have dads or moms named Peter?  In middle school, I always thought it was neat that the band director was Mr. Harmon (just needed a y) and the choir director's first name was Carol.  I think Armstrong would be one of the best names to live up to, but then I guess there are some names that you really wouldn't want to live up to, like Hertz or Heimann.  Or Heimann-Hertz. . .

In Which Our Author Reveals His Superpower to the World (and is Vaguely Racist)

I have a secret to confess, the Internet.  You see, I'm not like you.  I have special. . . abilities.  Abilities that I struggle everyday to control.  I constantly face the temptation to use my powers for selfish gains, but I remember what every public speaker since 2002 once told me.  They said, "Remember what Spider-Man says: With great power comes great responsibility."  I then told them that Uncle Ben is actually the one who says that, and they gave me a blank look, but their words stuck with me forever.  Especially when they were all gunned down later that night.

To keep myself from temptation and to protect the ones I love, I've kept my powers a secret, but I'm ready now to face the world and all its cruelty.  I, Joe Flores, have a superpower.  I can change my ethnicity at will.  With subtle shifts in syntax, posture, clothing, and hair gel, I can become any of the vast amounts of races between black and white.  Except East Asian.  It's like my kryptonite.

Born to normal parents, I was raised Hispanic.  But just as the yellow sun of Earth changed Superman's alien DNA, Indiana's cultural homogeneity acted on my brown body in unexpected ways.

My powers first manifested during puberty, but I finally began to realize them in ninth grade.  While practicing with the cross-country team one day, I fell behind the rest, and the football players practicing nearby yelled out to me, "Run, little Abu!"  

"Odd," I thought.  "I'm not Arabian," but I put it out of my mind.  Later that year, in gym class, I thought I had made a friend in Siddarth, an Indian kid who talked to me every day and competed with me good-naturedly.  But when I mentioned that I loved my mom's Puerto Rican cooking, he gave me a look of shock and betrayal.  He called me a freak, and the rest of the class joined him, laughing as the camera panned quickly around my head.  Panicking, I pushed through the crowd and ran home to get away from their silently-mouthed jeers.  As I ran, I heard Sid shout after me, "But you're too smart to be Mexican!"

When I got home, I ran to my room, happy that both parents were at work.  I should have seen this coming, I thought.  Flashbacks came at me one after another.  Elementary school teachers unsure how to pronounce my very phonetically-spelled name.  Airport security taking me out of line while letting the rest of my family go by.  Strangers saying things in weird languages and giving me candy for no reason.  But there was no time to collect my thoughts, as I was suddenly overcome with exhaustion.  I barely managed to get my clothes off and make it into bed before collapsing unceremoniously as the screen faded to black.  

When I came to, I felt a new power coursing just under my skin.  I looked in the mirror and was startled to find that I did not recognize the person staring back at me.  Without my glasses, standing there in my white undershirt, I looked almost Mexican.  I put on the gold crucifix my mom had given me for my birthday, grabbed a denim jacket from my dad's closet and, concentrating, willed myself to grow a thin mustache.  I felt a little dizzy, but I'd done it!  Excited, I went through a deliberately-paced montage of discovery.  I realized that, in addition to being able to take on the appearance of numerous races, I could also gain their powers for short periods of time.  I had the medical expertise of the Indian, the shy invisibility of the Mexican, the histrionics of the Puerto Rican, the unconscious intimidation of the Arab, the guilt-inducing sadness of the Native American, and the Mediterranean's talent for mob leadership (a skill I only used once).

Frightened by my abilities,I suppressed them, only using them in emergencies.  But they've only gotten stronger as I've gotten older and more adept at growing facial hair.  This year I have made five Indian friends merely by walking through campus, but they've all abandoned me on learning that I was not from India but Indiana.  A week ago my roommate introduced me to a friend of his, saying, "This is my roommate Joe."  His friend held out his hand to shake mine and politely asked, "I'm sorry, how do you pronounce it?"

I have come to realize that my powers have grown too strong to keep selfishly to myself.  I have decided to take up the mantle of the crime-fighter, donning my sari, sombrero, keffiyah, eagle feathers, and beard to battle the forces of evil as Brownout, the Master of Casual Racism.

In Which Our Author Takes a Very Long Time to Introduce His Latest Puns

Hello, the Internet! Now that I've decided to return to my blogge, I have so very many things to talk about. It's like that first time you eat dinner with your friend after going to or coming back from college. Both of you have changed enough that each is fascinating to the other. Then time passes, and you fall into a routine again, which is sometimes great.

The first thing I'm going to talk about is my disappointment regarding the stereotypes surrounding my newly-chosen profession. I say newly-chosen because the start of pharmacy school has invigorated my commitment to the practice. Where my professors used to treat me like I was one of 500 people who were probably going to fail, they treat me now like one of 159 future colleagues. I feel like I actually belong, and it's exciting and wonderful. Except for the aforementioned stereotypes.

You see, my friend Kelsey is studying anthropology. She is studying anthropology largely because she wants to be Indiana Jones. Technically speaking, I think Prof. Jones was an archaeologist, but he was also a boy and fictional, and I'm not going to hold any of those against Kelsey. But this got me thinking about phictional pharmaceutical (I'm not going to stop doing that) role models, and I realized that there aren't any. On the contrary, most memorable pharmacists in popular culture have been criminally negligent and generally creepy. Both are grounds for suspension.

The first one I thought of was the Apothecary in Romeo & Juliet, the one who sold Romeo that fateful dram (31.1g) of poison. Now, the play makes it clear that he sells the drugs reluctantly and only because he is dangerously poor, but I still don't think anyone can argue that he is a model of good practice. He doesn't even do a good job of counseling!

"Put this in any liquid thing you will, 
And drink it off; and, if you had the strength
Of twenty men, it would dispatch you straight."


Those are pretty vague directions. How many mL of liquid thing should he use? Are some liquid things better than others? Should he take it with meals? It's all pretty unclear. Plus, in any production I've seen, he is played as a pretty sketchy-looking dude. 

(Not Professional Dress)

The second phamous pharmacist (told you) that comes to mind is Mr. Gower from It's a Wonderful Life. He, like the apothecary, is a generally good guy who gets caught in a moment of weakness. A moment of weakness in which he compounds cold medicine from a bottle labeled POISON and then beats up a crippled kid. Now in any pharmacy I've ever worked in, we keep POISON pretty far from TYLENOL, but that may not be universal.

"Gee, Mr. Gower, you're pretty darn retarded."

But what's with this trend of pharmacists being miserable and pathetic? At 100 grand a year starting salary, I'm going to get over my son's death, not by drunkenly committing manslaughter, but by buying a boat. A really big boat.  I think these stories illustrate one reason for the pharmacist's high salary.  "Worse poison to men's souls" my ass. Poverty made the apothecary sell those mortal drugs. If he had half what I'm gonna have, he'd have told Romeo to rectally administer his forty ducats and btfu about his girlfriend. But I digress.


I am disturbed by the ease with which writers make a connection between "death by poisoning" and "pharmacists." Exterminators have poison too, and those guys are hella sketchy. Biochemists have tons of poison on hand, but no one writes meetings in a dark alley with a biochemist. Doctors and nurses are ten times more likely to kill you than pharmacists, but it seems that when a writer needs to poison some dude, he turns on his friends behind the counter. And I'm going to change that.


See I figure with my training in theater and pharmacy, I am uniquely suited to change the perception of pharmacists in artistic media. To that end, I plan on writing and producing a new television drama about a pharmacist who is also a sexy government agent protecting the nation from biological warfare with her unique knowledge of drug interactions and delivery routes.  The working title is "Over the Counterterrorism." I'm also planning a spin-off tentatively titled "Mortar-Fire and Pestle."

You can't see it, but her name-tag actually says, "Pharmacist: Dr. Anita Hardon."
I wish I was making that up.

Update:
A friend of mine in pharmacy school read my blog and sent me a message letting me know that she was actually working on a screenplay/novel very much like mine, only real.  I thought this was great, and I told my English major friend Melissa who went and said something super Englishy like, "It's interesting that people use fiction to take control of the way they are perceived," or something.  Anyway, I thought that was indeed pretty interesting, and I thought maybe you might too.

In Which Our Author Has His Heart Broken By Google

http://www.geektragedy.com/strips/2005/20050301.htm

Fuck.

In Which Our Author Reveals An Awesome New Way To Describe Himself

First, I'd like to apologize for last update's pity party. That's the worst kind of party, followed closely by a poorly planned orgy. Anyway, nothing really came of my misbehavior but some frustration and my worst blog update yet. Oh, and a mildly funny anecdote. I mentioned in my last blog that we were playing beer pong, but that the cups were filled with water (water pong, I guess). This is because none of us wanted to get sick. Not from drinking, we were perfectly okay with that. We didn't want to catch germs. We'd just finished microbiology a couple of days prior, and that class is so informative, it could make Tommy Pickles gingerly disinfect his studriver. See what I did there? I said something you remember to make you laugh. Anyway, when the RA's came in, someone with an open beer in his hand ironically protested that the cups were full of water, and the RA's ignored him. The funny part is that when they sent the report home to my parents, it listed all the alcohol they found in the room, plus "22 cups of unkown liquid." So did they think we were playing vodka-pong? Everclear-pong? I don't think they would have found our party if that was the case, because we would have been dead.

But back to the purpose of this post, which is to reveal my new awesome way to describe myself. A couple of weeks ago, I was talking to a friend of mine who studies pharmaceutics much less professionally than I do. By that I mean that she was heavily stoned during this conversation. I mentioned how excited I was because a comedian I had met in a workshop this year was in an internet video with George Takei, who played Hikaru Sulu on the original Star Trek series. By my reckoning, then, I was no more than four degrees removed from anyone in Star Trek ever. I was gushing excitement at my imagined fame, and my friend remarked that I was an "epic nerd. . . like in the classical sense of the word epic." Beating her THC-addled brain to the punchline, I asked, "So, I'm a geek tragedy?" We both thought that was pretty funny for a while, but the more I thought about, the more I loved it. It works on multiple levels, depending on how serious I want to be. Plus, I've never heard anyone say it before. If I hadn't already created this blog, I would have called it Geek Tragedy. I'm going to start using it all the time now, so you'd better get used to it.

In Which Our Author Belatedly Relates His Adventures In New York City

So over the recent spring break, I took a trip to visit my friend Liz in New York, New York, USA. Along for the ride (and by "along for the ride" I mean "paying for my plane ticket") was my other friend Melissa.  Melissa and I arrived in the Big Apple on Saturday afternoon, and we and Liz left for the tri-town on Thursday afternoon.  It was six days of fun and adventure that I will never forget (realistically barring brain trauma or Alzheimer's disease).  I've finally decided, entirely on my own and completely without coercion bordering on death threats from Liz, that now would be a good time to blog the vacation.

Day the first:

Melissa and I got to the airport with plenty of time to spare before our 8am flight from O'Hare to LaGuardia.  We were also, somewhat disappointingly, able to avoid security mixups.  I was looking forward to exciting stories about corrupt federal agents, dangerous and sexy terrorisms, and my ruggedly manly but also sensitive and witty heroics.  Okay, that's 90% lie.  I did think a misunderstanding with security would have led to a mildly funny story, but the other stuff would have just scared me poop-less.  Luckily, the plane ride was uneventful.  I slept more or less the whole way there.  The taxi ride to Liz's was similarly uneventful.  There was a cool interactive screen in the seat with weather and maps and news and Regis Philbin, but it mostly just made me sick (from the motion, not from Mr. Philbin).  It was during the taxi ride, though, that I came up with my catchphrase for the week, "That's so N.Y."  It's meant to describe everything from the Statue of Liberty to hobos peeing on the subway to loud exclamations of "I'm walkin' heah!"  I vowed to use it as often and as inappropriately as I could.

We got to Liz's dorm sometime after noon.  We were starving as neither of us had eaten breakfast, and driving through Chinatown (So N.Y.!) at lunchtime with the windows down did not improve matters, gastrointestinally speaking.  Luckily Liz was ready for us, and after a quick tour of her dorm, which is spacious and comfortable, she took us to one of her favorite restaurants, a Ukranian diner called Veselka's.  According to her, it was featured in a scene from "Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist."  According to me, it was featured in "My Stomach" and was critically acclaimed.  I had assorted pierogi, and they were all transcendent.  Specifically, in order of increasing tastiness, they were: cheese-and-spinach, meat, cheese, and potato.  Here's a picture of me snarfing pierogi

After lunch/dinner, we walked around the city for a bit and found some surreally terrifying window displays.

It's a horror store.  They sell unrelenting horror.

Where is my God now?

Those of you who know me well will recognize why the last picture is particularly horrible.  I'll have to write a future blog about my crippling fear of rabbits.   For now, it's enough to know that I hate them, and I wanted to find the person that crafted that monstrosity and the person that decided to put it up a month before Easter and mug them both.

We eventually made our way to Magnolia's Bakery, featured in the famous SNL video Lazy Sunday.   This made it, in my opinion, "so N.Y.," and I loudly exclaimed this to everyone in listening distance.  We waited in line and took phunny photos for about ten minutes before we were allowed into the mythical recesses of cupcaking magic.

To be honest, I don't really care for cupcakes, and Magnolia's were no exception.  So I guess if you like mass-produced cupcakes, standing in line, and novelty internet videos, then Magnolia's is the place for you.  Otherwise, it's highly skippable.  

After the cupcake catastrophe (exaggerated for the sake of alliteration), we took a nap in Liz's room.  Taking naps became a theme of the vacation as we realized that our old bones simply couldn't handle excitement like they used to.  After our nap, Melissa got a call from her friend Kelsey, a New York native who studies theatre in Indiana.  Poor life choices aside, Kelsey was very friendly and invited us to attend one of her parents' swinging parties.  I should clarify.  When I say"swinging" I mean that the party was hip and happening, not that it had anything to do with exchanging sexual partners.  We would not have gone to that type of party.  In any case, before we left, we met up with Liz's friend Jenna, who was also charming and friendly.  She came to the party with us, and the five of us had loads of fun.  This is, from left to right, Kelsey, me, Liz, and Jenna.

After leaving the party, we hung out in Union Square for a bit and played with this spinning statue:

After a man on the street told us to "put our backs into it," we quickly left Union Square.  We exchanged Kelsey for Alex, another of Liz's friends, one who happens to own most of NYU (and at least one part of Purdue.  His name is Loeb), and we made our way to Liz's dorm.  Alex didn't stay long (he was kind of a dwonk), and we went to sleep soon after we got back, though not before Liz and I made a questionably advised video greeting to post on our friend Megan's facebook wall.  This would become another theme of the vacation, and the videos became longer, more elaborate, and more ill-advised as the week went on.

Anyways, that was Day One.  There are still four more to go, plus my Final Thought, so this will keep me in blogging material for at least a little while.  Maybe I'll try and squeeze more than one day into the next post, so I'm not blogging a month after the fact.  That's not Staircase Wit, that's Years Later When Everyone But You Has Forgotten About The Thing Wit.  

Until next time, Internet, I'm your author, Joe.  Next time I guess I'll have to be someone else.

In Which Our Author Recounts A Revelation Made In New York

The creepiest thing to say while drinking milk:

"Mmm. . . Just like mom used to make."

In Which Our Author Apologizes For His Absence

Okay, so I've been gone for a while.  Sorry about that.  I guess I should confess.   The truth is that I started this blog based solely on the fact that I came up with a cool title for it.  I really had no idea into what I was getting.¹ I made a cool blogge page, if I may say so, and then I was pretty happy with my first posts, but I was afraid that my other ideas would either not match in theme or style or would compare unfavorably to my first one or would in general lead to alienation of all five of you, and then I got really busy with stuff, and then . . . I hope you're not mad at me.  Are you mad at me?  I feel like you're mad at me. 

Anyway, quite a bit has happened recently, and I feel I should at least briefly, if not quite adequately, address it.²

The freshest thing in my mind is that I was accepted today into the Purdue University School of Pharmacy.  This is further proof of the power of dilligence, enthusiasm, and ritualistic animal sacrifice.³  In seriousness, though, this is what I've been working for for two years, and I'm pretty excited.

The other blogably important thing that happened in my absence was my spring break trip to New York to visit my friend Liz.  I feel this trip deserves its own post (and Liz has demanded it be so), so I will see to that sometime this week.  For now, suffice to say that it was a rousing success. 

Anyway, I'm back, and I hope to get to semi-regular updates soon.  This is more difficult than I thought it would be.

 

1.  Sometimes I like to use annoyingly pedantic syntax in conversational writing.  I think at this point, it's just an inside joke with myself.

2.  I really like adverbs.  Except for "really."  Using it just then caused my physical pain.  I think it stems from oversaturation in elementary school, where debates were won by whoever used the most really's in between "you're" and "gay." The kids who could add "times infinity" were intellectual giants.

3.  This is the first time I’ve ever used the strikethrough.  Pretty neat.

In Which Our Author Recounts a Revelation Made In Anatomy Class

"Your information" and "Urine formation" sound exactly alike.  Needless to say, today's was a confusing lecture.

In Which Our Author Reflects On The Point Of His Life and Waxes Verbose

So I was recently asked (indirectly) what the point of my life was.  Why do I bother to get out of bed in the morning?  I put a bit of thought into it, and my conclusions follow.

Some people have real, concrete purposes to their lives.  They know without a doubt why they go to work in the morning and why they come home in the evening.  They can define their reasons and, if they're really lucky, they can hold them.  They're things like "watching my children grow up," "healing my patients," or "collecting every Transformer ever."  Other people, though, never think about why they're alive.  Their heart beats by itself, they breathe automatically, and that's good enough for them.  If pressed, they might tell you that waking up sure beats the alternative, but they couldn't tell you why.

Until recently, I sort of thought I was among the latter.  There are things that I enjoy and people I love, but nothing that really gives my life purpose.  There's no alternate universe where Schererville is renamed Potterville because I wasn't in my high school improv troupe, or where my brother's dead because I wasn't around to be good at reading.  So why do I get up in the morning?  What is it that I'm living for?

Well, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that the answer was in the moments. Moments like this afternoon, when I sat talking in the dining court for two hours, making friends out of acquaintances, or later when we had a snowball fight in the middle of the street because we're adults and we can.  Moments when I'm on stage, and I'm in sync with my closest friends, and a hundred strangers are invested in our every move.  Moments when my grandma calls and asks why her doctor gave her these pills, and I can tell her why and give her back a little precious control.  Moments when I'm studying for anatomy and chemistry and physics, and I'm struck by the staggering complexity of the world, and I remember that I and all of my experiences are a part of that world and are inseparable from its inherent miracle.  

Those are the reasons that I'm alive, and the unpleasant stuff in between, the pop quizzes and the practices and the drama and the stress, that's just part of living in an entropic universe.  I accept that I have to do work to get results.  And maybe one day I'll be blessed with a tangible, enduring purpose, but until then I live for the fleeting instants of insight and connectedness that remind me why I am.

Yeah, it's kinda like that.

In Which Our Author Justifies His Blogge

I spent a lot of time trying to decide whether the title should be in French or English. In the end, I decided on English, since French sounds kind of pretentious, and I walk a fine enough line between interesting and pretentious in my daily life. It's a French term, though, "esprit d'escalier," and it refers to the perfect response you only think of after you're standing on the steps outside. It's a fitting title, because I have as much social grace as a flight of stairs.

Why a blog? I don't know. I wanted an excuse to talk about myself, I guess, and blogs are still (barely) acceptably out of the mainstream. Also, I read Mike's, Tim's, Tom's, and Shauvon's excellent blogs and thought I'd have a go. So I don't know how long this will last or what it's going to consist of, but it starts now.