Staircase Wit

In Which Our Author Ponders the Nature of Identity

2011-09-04T02:34:00.000-04:00

Aw man, this is actually a pretty cool topic. You know what would make it even better? If I wasn't half goddamn asleep. EXHALE HEAVILY. But I guess here I go. Identity...

Identity...

What is it? Well, it is certainly a topic upon which I have blogged extensively. But what is it's nature? What does it mean to have an identity? I guess it's something about a thing which is preserved over time. An identity is something that a thing reliably has. But that's not always true, is it? Identities change over time, and sometimes in moments. For example, my blog used to have an identity associated with quality. Now? Not so much. Now it's more like "Things: Crazy? Conclusively yes."

In Which Our Author Tells Everyone What He Does Well

2011-09-04T01:37:00.000-04:00

So this post is supposed to be a how-to on something I do well. I do a lot of things well, but none of them are very hard. Probably the thing I do the best is be Joe Flores. That is sometimes hard, I guess. Um, how you be Joe Flores.... you...um...get born on February 12th, 1989 to Richard and Janet. Make sure you are born with pneumonia. If you are not, try again. Step two is you try your best to grow up. That's the tricky part. Honestly I'm still on that part. If you get past it, let me know.

In Which Our Author Relates the Story of the Fifteenth Picture on Facebook

2011-09-04T00:36:00.000-04:00

That would be this:

It's a picture of me and Katie, mentioned in a previous post. This was taken in my house while we were playing a game called Balloon Cup. That's a fun game that Katie owns and I used to always win but now I sometimes lose. Her face looks a lot smaller than mine in this picture, but in real life our faces are pretty much the same size.

In Which Our Author Maps Out a Roadtrip He'd Like to Take

2011-09-03T23:32:00.000-04:00

My motivation is on the wane. So I will tell you that I would like to take a roadtrip to Orlando, Florida, home of Disney World and Universal Studios. Here is a map: http://maps.google.com/maps?f=d&source=s_d&saddr=Lafayette,+IN&daddr=Orlando,+Florida&hl=en&geocode=Fb61aAIdaWPS-imt6ioZGgATiDH1Hk_o2-1BpQ%3BFeB1swEdXEAm-yl3vM3-2HPniDGev6U8BrLDCg&sll=28.538336,-81.379236&sspn=0.183076,0.308647&vpsrc=6&g=Orlando,+Florida&mra=ls&ie=UTF8&z=5

In Which Our Author Speculates About Who Has Stolen The Blog Day Box

2011-09-03T23:07:00.000-04:00

It's Will.

In Which Our Author Makes a Gift or Treat for a Friend

2011-09-03T22:50:00.002-04:00

So my girlfriend (who is totally the opposite of Matt in that she is the best) wrote me a very sweet acrostic poem. You can read it here. In return, I made this flower and gave it to Will.

I did this because I am awful. I had intended to avoid an overload of gross couple grossness, but my plan backfired as now I must be extra gross in order to atone. So... a haiku!

Katie is the best.

Her name is the sound of joy

Filling in my flaws.

In Which Our Author Writes a Story Starting With a Random Line in "A Tale of Two Cities."

2011-09-03T21:58:00.000-04:00

The "sharp female newly-born, and called La Guillotine," was hardly known to him, or to the generality of people, by name. He was comfortable in his ignorance, as he had been comfortable in that hotel room using her as an escape from his wife, as he had been comfortable discrediting her in the news and destroying her life, as he had been comfortable dosing her with an experimental drug his company was developing. As he had been comfortable watching her die. But she would not let him be comfortable any more. She had already systematically disabled the security he had built around his life. His family, his coworkers, and everyone who had naively stood in her way. And now, as the knob on his office-door turned, he knew she was coming for him.

In Which Our Author Hates Matt Gyure

2011-09-03T21:01:00.001-04:00

The Internet, have you ever met Matt Gyure? You should avoid that because he is objectively the worst person and a strong contender for worst living being. In the race for "Most Terrible Life Form," he was neck-and-neck with MRSA until MRSA started mentoring a troubled inner-city youth last month.

See, this hour's topic was supposed to be "Walk 100 paces and find a thing to blog about," and like a dutiful participant in 24-hour blog day, I did exactly that. I took Matt's camera/phone and walked 100 paces, at which point I found this house whose windows were glowing green. I thought that would make a really cool blog so I took a picture, but I was kinda nervous because I was taking a picture of someone's windows, so the shot came out kinda blurry. So I deleted it and took another picture, this time at peace with my suspicious behavior. I checked it on the camera/phone to make sure that it looked good and hightailed it back to the house before the neighborhood watch came after me. But when Matt went to upload the picture to the Internet, he said it wasn't there.

I am convinced he did that because he was jealous because my picture was better than his. He didn't want to face the truth that my blog about the hi-jinks of a family of wizards or Christmas elves would have won blog day. Anyway, wish him luck in his contest for Most Terrible Life Form. The prize is a monogrammed wool sweater soggy with dog spit.

In Which Our Author Is a Dog Named Jake

2011-09-03T19:23:00.000-04:00

Hi Internet I'm Jake and I'm very happy you're here but it's gonna take me a while to get up because my bones hurt but don't worry it's not a big deal I'm still really happy to see you and you should touch me and if you're not gonna touch me then I'm gonna touch you okay here I come I'm up now walking to you and I'm down on the ground again but this time on top of your feet so you can't move wait you're moving come baaaaack. Okay this is nicer now I'm sitting with my head in your lap and my full body weight on your legs so you can't move this time and I'm gonna tell you about this guy named Joey he's good he used to be better but then he stopped being so good because he got old but probably not old like me we used to play games I really like to jump and he would watch me jump and it made him happy so it made me happy and I would take my toys and run around and he would try to take them and sometimes he'd get them and throw them and he wasn't very good at getting them because he used his hands and not his mouth but that's why it was fun. Then when we were inside we'd play hide-and-seek and Mikey would cover my eyes and Joey would go hide or the other way around and then I would go find them and I always found them even though they tried different hiding spots and then I would lick them because I won but also because I love them. Also I would wake him up in the morning when Mom would tell me to and sometimes that made him mad and I got confused but other times he thought it was funny and he'd pet me did I mention I like being pet because you stopped petting me a while ago and that's not totally cool with me so if you could start again that would be great and I won't resort to drastic measures like putting my paw in your lap and then flexing my nails. Okay good we can begin again. So Joey got older and then he left but he still comes back sometimes and he pets me for a while and we catch up but I don't really care he feeds me and takes me outside when I ask him to so that's nice and he pets me and I like that this is a not so subtle hint because you aren't petting me with the same speed and intensity that you were before. Okay that's better. Sometimes he still plays with me and that's really fun but we both get tired and stop. In conclusion he's great but not present and sometimes I forget about things that aren't here. Where do you think you are going I'm not moving.

In Which Our Author Trades Places With Alonso Quijana (from the musical Man of La Mancha, not the book by Cervantes)

2011-09-03T18:53:00.000-04:00

T'would seem I have encountered a device belonging to the Great Enchanter. When first I lay eyes on it, I knew it to be a thing of evil, wrought by dark magics, intended to mislead. I began to give it a sound and thorough thrashing proving the strength of my arm and dedicating my victory to my lady Dulcinea. But before I could strike true, the box, by means of some spell, caused my foot to turn upon some wrinkle in the carpet, and down I came.

In Which Our Author Imagines Again.

2011-09-03T18:03:00.000-04:00

Lots of imagination and what-ifs here, but I guess I can get behind that. This one is "What would the world be like if people had gills/wings?" First of all, in our expedition to the hypothetical, we must establish some rules. Since this is my blog, we're gonna play by house rule. My rules. And by my rules, having wings is not the same as being able to fly. You know who has wings? Penguins, emu, certain species of buffalo, and this lady's cat:

None of those things can fly, because they don't have the proper musculature and/or bone-structure. So we are talking about a race of people with largely ornamental wings. As if humanity were suddenly an anime convention. Oh boy...

But gills, on the other hand, are a different story. Gills are an organ unto themselves. Saying someone has gills implies that that person can breathe underwater. So the sea suddenly becomes habitable. Our bodies aren't necessarily suited for life underwater, but building adaptations to our bodies that God never intended is kind of our thing. So within a decade or so, I imagine we would have mounted the food chain down there and showed it who's boss just like we did up here, and suddenly our horizons open. We just have to deal with useless, waterlogged wings.

In Which Our Author Imagines His Life Without Computers

2011-09-03T17:00:00.001-04:00

I actually lived a good majority of my childhood without extensive access to computers, but now I couldn't imagine life without one. By themselves, they are okay. I can write things and print things and play things, but that all gets boring pretty quickly. Like a person with no friends, a solitary computer is a useless pile of trash, deserving only ridicule and violence. But like a person with a lot of friends, a computer connected to the internet is sexy and cool and uncensurable. Shut up, Spell-check! It's a word. I looked it up. The Internet is to me as her mirror was to the Lady of Shalot. (Literature, bitches!) It is a way of viewing the world without the dangers of participation.

Oh no! It's 4:59! Uh without computers I would probably be better but maybe not the end.

In Which Our Author Imagines Worlds

2011-09-03T15:56:00.001-04:00

The next topic is "Your favorite make-believe game." There was some debate among the participating bloggers about what constitutes a make-believe game. For me, it's any game that doesn't have set rules or turns, any game that has to be played by people with imagination. I guess I could say that improv games are my favorite games of make-believe. A group of people creating worlds so real they draw in crowds of strangers. That's pretty awesome. But I also really liked when I was a kid and me and my brother and my cousins would run around the backyard playing Power Rangers and Beast Wars and other games where we would create worlds that were real only for us, but so real that we could stay in them for hours and hours. Anyway I really like make-believe, but I got food during this hour so this is all I'm going to write.

In Which Our Author Participates in That Thing Again

2011-09-03T14:40:00.005-04:00

Hey, the Internet! It is once again 24-hour blog day, and I am once again going to blog the shit out of shit. So the first topic is "How to make the food you eat most." The food I eat most, excluding things that are made by restaurants, is probably sandwiches. So, um, put a bread and then put some inter-stuff and then put another bread.

Voila! Sandwich! My favorite inter-stuff is sliced chicken, Colby-Jack cheese, and goldfish. Er, sorry. I mean Goldfish®. I have never eaten a goldfish sandwich, though I would not be opposed to doing that.

The humanity adds flavor

End of blog! Exclamation marks are a wonderfully artificial way to add excitement!

In Which Our Author Ignores The Prompt

2011-02-06T06:19:00.000-05:00

So the prompt for this one is "most influential year in school," but I already did that with the childhood memory post. So I'm gonna use this post to write about different childhood memories. I hope you won't mind.

Most of my favorite childhood memories that weren't at school involved my brother Mike. We lived on the edge of the school district, so all the friends I made in school lived at least a fifteen-minute drive away, and all the kids in the neighborhood were much older than we were. So we hung out a lot. We'd play with Legos, and we'd build really complicated spaceships and compose epic space operas. Or we'd run around the backyard with Jake. It was... fun...I...need...to...sleep...

In Which Our Author Discusses His Biggest Fault

2011-02-06T05:33:00.000-05:00

Oh, I definitely can't take this one seriously. So let's pretend that my biggest fault is not my tendency to avoid uncertainty until my professional and personal lives leave me to stagnate and rot. Let's pretend that my biggest fault is my tendency to be way too handsome. Or my tendency to have too much sex. I am just way too good at trying new things, adapting to circumstances, making friends, meeting deadlines, and growing up.

In Which Our Author Talks About Freakin' Superpowers Again

2011-02-06T04:25:00.001-05:00

Man, what is with this guy and superpowers and alter egos and superheroes and all that comic book crap? What a nuhrd! Remember when we were gonna throw garbage at him? Let's do that again but with glass. Yeah!

But seriously, guys. Seriously. If I could have any superpower ever, I would want telekinesis. It's pretty much every superpower, anyway. Wanna fly? Just telekinesis yourself. Wanna have super-strength? Just telekinesis harder. Wanna walk through walls? Wait, you don't have to because you can just telekinesis the wall out of your way. Want to shoot lasers out of your eyes? Okay, well you can't do that.

However, in conclusion, I still think that telekinesis is the best superpower. The end.

In Which Our Author Wants to Be Something Else

2011-02-06T03:35:00.004-05:00

The topic of this next post is "someone/something you've always wanted to be." If I were in a different mood, I might wax self-deprecating here and say something like, "I wish I were someone who wasn't worthless" or "I wish I weren't the worst person I know" but that's really not true, and I am much too slap-happy to pretend that it is. So I'm going to say I wish I were . . . . an Oscar Meyer Weiner? Because then. . . everyone would be . . . in love. . . with me. . .?

In Which Our Author Reveals His Mundane Talent

2011-02-06T02:20:00.003-05:00

I have already written on this, so I'm going to pull a Franklin manœuvre and just copy and paste that balogge post here. It's pretty much my favorite anyhow.

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 Cleveland

2011-02-06T01:01:00.000-05:00

Cleveland.

In Which Our Author Takes Sides

2011-02-06T00:07:00.001-05:00

The next prompt is "Better creature: dogs or cats." Answer: dogs. This is my dog. His name is Jake. He enjoys chasing rabbits (good boy), jumping over things, and being my best friend.

In Which Our Author Talks About His Irrational Fear

2011-02-05T23:59:00.004-05:00

Okay, so this post is an easy one, because it involves one of my favorite stories ever. See, I have an irrational fear of rabbits. I mean, it may not be fair to call it a fear. It's not like I can't be in the same room as a bunny. They just unsettle me. They make me nervous and on edge. I hate them, but I do have a couple of good reasons. First, I distinctly remember my dad telling me about how they might look cute, but they had teeth and claws and would hurt me if I grabbed them. Then I read Watership Down.

That led to a memorable dream where I was walking down a path through the woods, and there was a cute brown bunny sitting by a tree. As I got close, the rabbit grew to giant size, leapt on me, and started nibbling my face off.

That's when I woke up (in a sweat I don't mind telling you). But that's not the story. Not the real story.

The real story starts sometime in early March, at least a couple of weeks before Easter if memory serves. I was home alone at 10 o'clock at night with my dog Jake, and the doorbell rang. I answered it, and staring through the screen door was a dead-eyed, soulless rabbit face. In a high-pitched voice, it said, "I'm the Easter Bunny!"

I was immediately drenched in a cold sweat. Jake started whining. I cautiously asked, "Do I know you?"
It answered, without hesitation and with unchanging emotion, "I'm the Easter Bunny!"
"Right, but do I know you?"
Then, cheerfully monotone, as if unaware of the terror its next words would strike into my heart, it asked, "Are you Joey or Mikey?"
At this point every PSA from my childhood was screaming at me to close the door, but I mustered up the courage to ask again, as sternly as possible, "Who are you?"
The same unhesitating answer: "I'm the Easter Bunny! I have a basket of gifts for you and your family... Open the door."
Shit. Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit. Okay. I can do this. Jake's a big dog. If nothing else, he can distract the creature enough for me to grab a knife or something. So I opened the door, fully expecting to see a basket of severed limbs and viscera. Instead it handed me some stuffed animals, Great Illustrated Classics, a blanket, and some candy. Naturally I left the candy unopened until my brother got home. When he didn't die after a day, I figured it was safe to dig in. The worst part of the story? I figured my parents would know which of their friends was dressing up as an unholy horror, but to this day, I have no idea what grim spirit visited me that night.

I hate rabbits. Hate them.

In Which Our Author CHRISTMAS

2011-02-05T22:54:00.000-05:00

So the prompt just said "Christmas." So I will write a little about Christmas. I love Christmas. My family has always been on the nonpracticing side of religious, and for myself, I find that the complications associated with faith outweigh the gains. That may be a controversial statement, but I am going to leave it unexplained, because it is tangential to the purpose of this blog, namely Christmas. Christmas, man! I friggin' love Christmas! And it's not about getting presents or playing in the snow or Rudolph or any of that bee ess. I hate all that secular crap. It's about the hope and the love and, yes, the faith. The faith that the world can be better. For a few weeks everyone is caught up in the idea that Man can conquer his imperfections, nations united, and move together into a future of peace. That's great. I love that. Christmas. Dude.

In Which Our Author Writes Twelve Rhyming Couplets

2011-02-05T22:00:00.004-05:00

Twelve rhyming couplets? Okay!

Today I sit here and I blog with friends
And you may rightly wonder to what ends.
_______________________________________
Last night I went to see an improv show.
Some friends of mine performed and asked I go.
They played a game called Whiskey Scenes, I think.
And Peepaw Preston had too much to drink.
________________________________________
I cling with desperation to the past
I cannot change the heading of my mast.
For if I do, what terror shall I find?
I sit transfixed by my unyielding mind.
At last, with pain I grab the jib and pull
I thrill with fear, but now my sails are full.
________________________________________
I'm almost out of time here on this post.
From out of it I've tried to wring the most.
Iambic pentameter's been my foe
Five minutes left, and I am still named Joe.
Four couplets left to write in minutes four.
I took a nap; I hope I did not snore.
Three couplets now to write and oh so fast.
In lines above I wrote about a mast.
And still I cling to this outdated style.
There are a lot of feet within a mile.
One more to write and just a minute left.
And still of hope I am not yet bereft!

Done, with seconds to spare.

In Which Our Author Goes To a Place

2011-02-05T20:17:00.000-05:00

To those parts of the Internet that are used to all of my posts being carefully composed, effortlessly thoughtful, and relentlessly insightful (i.e. everyone), I apologize for this 24-hour thing. I am growing increasingly tired, and I no longer have the energy to wring inspiration from these prompts. Still, we soldier on.

I need to describe a place that I have always wanted to go and then discuss its benefits. Well, for a while now, I have wanted to go to sleep. I don't know if I've "always" wanted to go there, since I've been there a couple of times, but I'm gonna say it counts. The benefits of sleep are numerous, and some of them are detailed here: http://www.better-sleep-better-life.com/benefits-of-sleep.html. In addition to the benefits on physical and mental well-being, one must also consider how fun dreams are. I recently had a dream that my friend Tom got engaged to a girl he met in a diner, but she turned out to be a member of a deadly assassination clan, and she and her friend tore up the diner trying to kill me and Tom with axes. But we held our own in the fight until they finally gave up and decided to sit back down and behave themselves. Then we all flew kites.

In Which Our Author Utopias

2011-02-05T19:27:00.001-05:00

Utopias. They are defined in the dictionary as real or imaginary societies, places, states, et cetera, considered to be perfect or ideal. I think I am supposed to describe my utopia. So here are some characteristics of my utopia:

1) When someone says something dumb, they are immediately shipped off to Mandatory Sterilization Camps.

2) Ugly people wear magazine pictures of celebrities in front of their faces secured with rubber bands.

3) People who are taller than me have to stay home at all times.

4) Insecure, superficially judgmental assholes are punished by not being allowed to write blogs for 24 hours. How terrible that would be for them!

5) Something about peace and justice and the bright climax of human potential

In Which Our Author Theme Songs

2011-02-05T18:40:00.001-05:00

This one's supposed to be about theme songs for different moods/moments. I, uh, I don't want to do this. I just talked about my musical tastes, and it should have been clear that my musical tastes are uncommon, and do not lend themselves to this type of blog. This type of blog is one where I say, "When you're doing this, don't you think of this song?" and you say, "Oh my shitting dicktwit! You're right! I always think that! I recognize that song and appreciate your taste in music and have finally realized how painfully difficult life is with your penis outside of me!" As it stands, though, the only theme songs I can think of are either arduously obscure or pointlessly obvious. When you're taking care of business, don't you always think of the song "Taking Care of Business"? When you're wondering if anybody knows what time it is, don't you always think of the song "Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?" When you're in love, don't you always think of every other song ever written?

In conclusion, this topic does not fit into my personal preferences. Therefore IT'S BULLSHIT.

In Which Our Author Reviews His Favorite Movie/Book/TV Show/Music

2011-02-05T17:58:00.000-05:00

Next webllawg topic is a media review, another thing I don't normally do. But I'm gonna go for it. Trying new things is so exciting! I didn't know when I woke up today that I would be blogging a review of something. I am truly maturing as a human being.

I don't really have a favorite movie, since I like a lot of movies a lot. I have a couple of favorite books, but I don't want to talk about them, so I won't. My favorite TV shows are "Glee" and "Avatar: The Last Airbender." My review of "Avatar" is that it is excellent and the best cartoon series ever, and I can really only be friends with people who appreciate that fact. My review of "Glee" is that it is fun but also really terrible.

Favorite music, though, could make for an interesting post. Normally I don't talk about my favorite music, because I'm really self-conscious about my musical tastes. But I'm growing up today, right? So I will talk about some of my favorite Broadway musicals. Actually, since I wasted my time dickin' around on Facebook, I will just list some of my favorite Broadway musicals. My dad is a big fan of musicals and has shared his passion with the rest of the family. My best friend Liz has come from a similar family and has shared some of her favorite musicals with me.

So, in no particular order:

Man of La Mancha - a musical adaptation of Cervantes's Don Quixote. It's about pursuing your dreams and being a good person in spite of the pressures of the world around you.

West Side Story - a musical adaptation of Romeo and Juliet. The Juliet doesn't die. Loves conquers all? Not my favorite message or anything. It's just a really good show.

Assassins - a really cool show about presidential assassins. The theme is about how the failure of the American Dream drives us crazy. It sounds really weird. It is really good.

Oh no, time is almost out. Here we go. Alphabetical order time.

Avenue Q, Chicago, Chorus Line, Company, Fiddler on the Roof, In the Heights, Into the Woods, Little Shop of Horrors, Next to Normal, Passing Strange, Spring Awakening, Sweeney Todd, Urinetown, and The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee.

In Which Our Author Friends

2011-02-05T16:57:00.002-05:00

The prompt for this one is "friends." My friends are the best friends. Objectively. Most of them are here with me now. Some of them are very far away. I would go through and write pæans to all of them individually, because they deserve it, but I only have an hour, and I am afraid that my words might not do everyone justice. So I will throw up a bunch of pictures that should explain things nicely.

In Which Our Author Alter Egos

2011-02-05T15:51:00.002-05:00

Okay, the Internet, you may remember that I have already done two posts extensively exploring the idea of my alter egos. They can be read here and here. So I don't think it's necessary for me to participate in this topic. I think it's stupid, and anyone who thinks I have to write something is also stupid.

Ooh! Wait, I just thought of something.

My real-life honest-to-goodness [hyphens are my favorite punctuation, remember?] alter ego is the person I am on stage during improv shows. Or is it the person I am when I'm not on stage during improv shows? Who's the mask?! Who's the mask?!

When I'm on stage, I have the same sense of humor and the same personality as when I'm not on stage, but everything is bigger, more confident, and more interesting. I am someone people want to get to know. I am someone that gets phone numbers and friend requests from strangers. This is me on stage:

Or, you know, on ground. Performing anyway. That is a sexy, interesting dude. Don't you want to kiss him up? Who wouldn't?

This is me off stage:

What a loser! Let's throw garbage at him! Yeah!

Anyway, alter egos. They can be a bitch.

In Which Our Author Destroys Traffic?

2011-02-05T14:07:00.003-05:00

The topic for this one is "methods of destroying traffic." Okay... Bombs? Bombs. Oh wait, this has to be three paragraphs long?

Okay.

Bombs are a good way to destroy traffic because bombs destroy pretty much everything. Traffic is made of cars and people. Both of these can be destroyed by bombs.

Bicycles can also sometimes be a part of traffic and can also sometimes be destroyed by bombs. Additionally, ice cream trucks, palanquins, unicycles, horses, rickshaws, and homeless people selling oranges can fit into both categories. That is, things that are traffic and things that bombs can destroy.

In Which Our Author Something Something Childhood Something

2011-02-05T13:59:00.001-05:00

The whole topic is "When someone mentions childhood, what one memory pops into your head? Explain in detail." I'm going to ignore the word "one" and write about a series of related memories. Just try to stop me.

Most of the defining moments of my childhood, the ones that didn't take place at home anyway, took place during fourth and fifth grade, when I had class in the Merit Program. They gave a test to everyone in the school district, and those that scored high enough were placed in a special class for two years, at Watson Elementary. We rode a special bus by ourselves to get to and from school, our classroom was on the opposite side of the building from everyone else, and we wore extra special gold stars sewn into our clothing. That was two truths and a lie. Still, most elementary school kids do not need help being ostracized and harassed, but our school board was kind enough to give us a hand. We were the most hated kids in the school. Even the kids who ate boogers were higher on the social ladder than we were. Except the kid in the Merit Class who ate boogers. No one liked him. He was my best friend.

Specific memories include the time we played soccer against the rest of the school, and someone accused my friend (not the booger-eating one) of "saying a bad word." The recess aides, who liked us about as much as anyone else, took this accusation very seriously. Within minutes, the soccer game morphed into a bizarre Kafka-esque courtroom scene, with me as counsel for the defense, trying to argue my friend out of the death sentence. I mean, the standing on the wall sentence.

Speaking of dramatic courtroom scenes, a year later, in fifth grade, we made a mock classroom government. I was chief justice of the Supreme Court. One day, I was accused by someone else in the class of working on homework when I was supposed to be watching a video. I had to write a dramatic apology about my abuse of power. There was also a scathing election scandal when the popular, handsome front runner for President rolled his eyes during the plucky underdog's speech. This led to the election of the mediocre, lackadaisical middle candidate. That was a disaster.

And that's how I define my childhood. Normal, mediocre moments apotheosized to dramatic and life-changing events. I guess that's what this blawgg is about, though. Insignificant stories made interesting. See you in an hour!

In Which Our Author Funniest Moments

2011-02-05T12:59:00.002-05:00

I went shopping for snacks during this one, so I'm going to have to shortchange it. I hope it is not offended. Let's limit and talk only about embarrassing classroom moments. Recently there was the time that a lecturer asked the class if anyone knew what "gynecomastia" meant. Underestimating the volume of my voice, I said "man-boobs." I don't think that is as funny when I write about it. How about the time my professor was talking about different dosage forms and delivery routes and mentioned that "size matters"? When no one laughed, she repeated herself. "I don't mean to be rude of course, but size matters." She did this for about thirty seconds before we gave her a pity laugh. Then a minute later, without any hint of self-awareness, she said, "... every orifice is an opportunity." I think that's funnier.

The funniest classroom moment of all time, however, is also one of the most mortifying moments of my life. I was taking a class on illegal immigration, and the class had a "lab" period every morning where we'd watch relevant movies. The class only had about five people in it, and there were two lab periods. So on this particular day, there were only three people. They left early, and so did the professor, but I figured I might as well finish the movie. It was the George Clooney classic Babel. I was watching it in the darkened classroom, when a seduction scene replete with full-frontal nudity began happening. As I was sitting there alone watching a very young very naked Asian girl trying to seduce an older man, the door opened and members of the next class walked in, stopped, and left. It was very embarrassing...

In Which Our Author Participates in a Thing

2011-02-05T11:51:00.001-05:00

Uh-oh, the Internet, it looks like I am coerced back to my blawgghe for the first time in - a year? Some friends came up with this thing called "24-hour Blog Day." It is more or less exactly what it sounds like. There are topics in a box, and every hour we are drawing one, and we have one hour to write a post about it. The first post is...

"Best of 2010"

The challenge of 24-hour Blog Day, for me, is going to be blogging about topics that have a different style from the rest of my buhloguh. For example, I do not normally do lists or bests ofs. But let's try it and see what happens, okay?

Best Birthday
The best birthday of 2010 was definitely the one I had on February 12 of that year. I turned 21 for the first time (and the last time) and it was easily one of the most memorable nights ever. I have been told this is considered an insult for twenty-first birthdays, but the people who say those things are not important to me. I had a delicious lunch with friends, and then I went to the bar and got drunked up with friends. Friends are great. I wore a helmet, but I don't remember why.

Best Christmas
I think the best Christmas of 2010 was Christmas 2010. I got some great clothes that make people think I'm cooler than I am. I get stopped on the street and asked where I got my coat. It's no big deal or anything...

Best 24-hour Blog Day
This one. It's time to move on, or I'd write about more bests ofs. Oh well, see you in nine minutes, the Internet.

In Which Our Author Shares Something Great

2010-02-15T21:50:00.000-05:00

I Stumbled on this article, and I think it is the best thing. I normally don't like sharing without making some sort of comment, but I think any response I could formulate would ruin how great this article is. That doesn't mean I wouldn't like to hear your response, though. It's long, so I'll just link to it: http://www.thefreelibrary.com/Toy%252BStories%252Bfor%252BHumanists%253F-a060100167

In Which Our Author Proposes a Theory

2010-01-25T20:40:00.000-05:00

We are all shriekingly insane, and we judge others based on how closely their brand of batshit matches our own.

In Which Our Author Returns a Favor

2010-01-19T17:55:00.000-05:00

The Internet, let me tell you about Stephanie Ann Ferrini. Or Stephanie Elizabeth Ferrini. I'm 95% sure it's one of those. She's awesome. You can read more about her here, and you can read her blog here.

In Which Our Author Revisits a Previous Post, For The Sake of Closure

2010-01-18T21:10:00.034-05:00

You'll recall a few posts back that I got mad sometimes, and I wrote an ill-advised letter to the school paper. The man whom I was addressing, and whom I googled, can be seen below enjoying his hobby of being an XL dickburger with fries and a drink. He wrote back to the Exponent and was published again. His letter is below. If you haven't read my earlier post on the subject, you should do that. This all happened a while ago, but I was very frustrated and didn't want to think about it anymore. But here is the conclusion of Joe's Adventures in Idiot Town.

Hawt

Dear Mr. Flores,

You must be confusing my letter with some other letter (or you can't read very well). I never equated "statistical health risks" with "subhumanity."
As far as obesity goes, many if not all doctors look upon it as something to be avoided, a condition to be treated. They know it is unhealthy and that it directly and indirectly is costing this society millions and millions of dollars annually. They issue health warnings about it. But the activity responsible for obesity, eating, is NOT immoral. It is natural, necessary.
Regarding homosexual activity, thinking people have known for centuries that it is physiologically unnatural (even if psychologically natural) and that it is immoral. It is also totally unnecessary. We don't need it for anything. And there are health risks associated with it.
Too, for decades, until it was taken over by pro-homosexual ideologies, the American Psychiatric Association considered homosexuality to be what it clearly is: a disorder. Just like a male mind in a female body is considered to be a problem it is OK to fix (as via sex-reassignment surgery), so a homosexual mind in a heterosexual body - in a body clearly made for male/female sex - is a problem, a disorder.
The major arguments homosexuals use to try to justify homosexual activity are seriously flawed. For example, there are other "consenting adults who aren't hurting anybody" who would like their "rights" (e.g., exhibitionists, incestuous people, etc.). Homosexual activity clearly sets a bad legal precedent. I don't see homosexuals demanding these other sexually aberrant and immoral people get their "rights." It is evidently fine with homosexuals if exhibitionists, for example, are "discriminated against."
Wayne Lela
Woodridge, Ill.

There are many ways I could have answered him back, as he makes some downright baffling statements, starting with the insinuation that I can't read. I'll put that issue to rest right here and now. I can totally read. In kindergarten, I used to go to the principal's office and read to him, and I got pencils. I used to read to my brother in the bookstore when I was five, and a bunch of other little kids would gather, enthralled by the sound of my voice. I can read like a motherfucker and a half.

Going back to his letter, though, I thought it was weird that he thinks sex-reassignment surgery is acceptable and necessary, but he draws the line at gay. Not that I have any problem with sex-reassignment, but I always thought it was kind of on the extreme end of alternative sexualities. It's like being okay with lions but thinking that kittens are abominations. I also can't stand the "slippery slope" argument that so many homophobes are intent on using. If we legalize gay marriage, eventually we'll have to legalize rape and/or terrorism! It's absurd. You can't sacrifice one group of people to protect another.  No one told women that they couldn't vote because "if we give women equal rights, eventually everyone's going to want them. Where will it stop? With a dog in the White House? It's madness, I tell you." Actually, someone probably said that. But the point is, society didn't listen to them.
You can also get a peek into his major strategy with his example of the APA being "taken over by pro-homosexual ideologies." He desperately wants to be the last defender of common decency, a moral crusader in a world overrun by sin, an honest man mocked by ignorant fools. He wants to be a hero. By using sarcasm in my first letter, I let myself be the smug villain to his beleaguered hero. After googling him, I made sure to avoid the same mistake in my second letter, which was published a few days later. This means that I officially had the last word. Suck it, Wayne.

     I would like to clarify my previous letter, which suffered from a poor choice of analogies and a few too many concessions given for the sake of debate. Morality aside, the bottom line is that the originally posited argument, that homosexuality is expensive because it causes an increased risk of STI's, is logically invalid. A man does not catch HIV because he has sex with another man. He catches HIV because he has sex with another man and does not use proper protection. Therefore, it is not homosexuality that is costing society money, but unsafe sex, a problem which plagues many populations besides the homosexual one. The economic argument is therefore baseless, and insultingly, obviously wrong.
   My original point was merely to point out this absurdity, and I got caught up in a debate on the morality of homosexuality, a debate which cannot be won through a series of letters between two individuals. Rather than pull out the same tired arguments about the frequency of homosexuality in the animal kingdom or about the modern acceptance of recreational sex as opposed to the purely procreational, I would instead exhort the reader to do some research of his own and formulate his own opinion on the matter. The best method I can suggest is to get to know a gay person and decide if he or she is an aberration or if the deep, abiding love you see between two same-sex partners is degenerate.
   For my final thought, I will return to my point about the difference between unsafe sex and homosexuality. We can "fix" unsafe sex. We cannot "fix" homosexuality. We can ask people to stop doing what they are doing. We cannot ask them to stop being who they are.

Joe Flores

Junior, College of Pharmacy, Nursing, and Health Sciences

And that, if there's any sense in the universe, is the end of that.

In Which Our Author Continues Exploring His Fascination With Names

2010-01-11T21:41:00.004-05:00

Hopefully this will be the last post on the topic. I don't want to get predictable or anything. It's just that I had my first immunology class today, and it was taught by Professor Hazbun, pronounced "Has-Been." It's sad because as a researcher, eventually, he's going to peak. He's going to do his best work, make a breakthrough in our understanding of yeast mitosis which leads to a revolutionary new cure for cancer, and after that people are going to start calling him Hazbun the has-been, because people love obvious nicknames. If I were he (him?), I think I would have become a Wal-Mart cashier or something. No one calls a career cashier a has-been. There are no wash-outs, no grizzled veterans of the aisles, watching the eager new hirees with a bitter nostalgia, remembering the days when they could tell you the exact price of the gallon tubs of mayonnaise and where to find them, right down to the shelf. Now they're lucky if they can remember the difference between a code 1 and a code 2, and they'll never understand why they have to say "Happy Holidays" and not "Merry Christmas," or why a 16-year-old can't buy a pack of cigarettes. If he's old enough to fight, he's old enough to smoke.

I got carried away. I apologize.

Along the same lines, but mixing in my second favorite topic (racism), I have to wonder why people are so intent on making fun of "ghetto" names. First of all, I hope you don't ever use that word, the internet. Everyone knows you really mean "black." But second of all, I don't understand how anyone can make fun of Shaniqua, and then go home and feed little Braylynn Quinn, who may or may not be a boy. What makes a name "good"? Names are intensely personal things. If a parent wants to give their child a name that has meaning to them, for whatever reason, they shouldn't worry about what other people think.

With some exceptions, e.g. a friend of a friend named Ariel Seeman. That's cruel.

Anyway, I guess my point is that I'm asking you not to make fun of people's names. It's sometimes racist and always annoying.

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

2009-11-30T17:03:00.005-05:00

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

2009-10-26T22:26:00.008-04:00

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

2009-10-13T00:24:00.003-04:00

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

2009-10-08T01:03:00.002-04:00

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)

2009-09-30T01:09:00.007-04:00

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.

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

2009-09-28T19:38:00.040-04:00

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

2009-05-26T00:53:00.003-04:00

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

Fuck.

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

2009-05-25T23:10:00.004-04:00

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

2009-03-29T22:24:00.020-04:00

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

2009-03-28T21:28:00.003-04:00

The creepiest thing to say while drinking milk:

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

In Which Our Author Apologizes For His Absence

2009-03-25T02:05:00.004-04:00

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

2009-02-03T23:49:00.003-05:00

"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

2009-02-01T19:04:00.017-05:00

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

2009-02-01T01:24:00.010-05:00

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.