Monday, November 13, 2006

 

Devil's Food: Cake

So it's my Dad's Birthday today, (Happy Birthday Dad) and that means one thing: cake. Birthdays always mean cake. I'm pretty sure it's a law. So that got me thinking about something that's bothered me for a long time, something that's bothered me about cake.

She wanted to have her cake, and eat it too.

What does this mean? Well I know it means that the phantom "she" was stradling the fence, wanting to not make up her mind about a decision and have it both ways. But what does this mean when actually applied to cake?

How could she eat the cake if she did not already have possession of it? If this is the case, it is not only possible for her to have her cake and eat it too, but necessary. Even if this cake originally belonged to someone else (perhaps my father), which is not the case seeing as the pronoun: "her" is applied to the object: cake implying intrinsic ownership of the cake, she would have to appropriate the cake prior to consumption. Or in the act of eating the cake, be claiming ownership.

Besides, if she does not intend to eat this cake that, for sake of argument she has recently pilfered from my father (and on his birthday no less), what are her plans for this cake? To fence it on the black market? Or perhaps to hide a hack-saw in it to help her arsonist boyfriend Vinny the Flame out of Sing Sing? While these options don't reflect well on "her" as a person, nor "her" taste in company, to use the cake for such things would nessecitate "her" relinquishing possession of the cake. Then she would neither have her cake nor eat.

The only reason to have the cake without eating it is to allow it to exist in a state of perfect quiescence. But is not the purpose of a cake to be eaten? If we take away an objects purpose, does it lose it's identity? If a stapler never staples, can it still be called a stapler? If a bed is used only for sitting, and never for lying down, does it become a couch? Can one ever simply HAVE a cake?

And is it an entire cake, for that matter, or simply a slice of cake. If it is only a slice then she can just cut the slice in half, and in so doing afford herself the opportunity to have her cake and eat it too. This, assuming that cake remains cake if its function is never to be fulfilled. Or if it is an entire cake, can she slice it up? Or in so slicing would she irrevicably transform the cake into a group of slices of cake? If that is the case then to eat a cake one must consume it in its entirity. The image of a snake unhinging its jaw so as to swollow an ostridge egg much larger than the size of its own head comes to mind unbidden. But even the very act of chewing, or in loo of that then the very act of digestion would negate the identity of "cake".

So it all becomes clear. She cannot have her cake and/or eat it too. The concept of "cake" is far too Platonic to exist in reality. Ergo either cake does not exist, or it is reality that is fictional. But I'll go one step farther (or is it further, never quite understood the difference). If there is a law that says you need to have cake on your birthday, and cake and reality cannot co-exist, then reality must be against the law.

Does that surprise anyone?

So Dad, to you on your Birthday I gift to you some advice: treat yourself to a bowl of Carrot Cake Soup. And have a Happy Birthday.

-Tim

 

Devil's Food: Cake

So it's my Dad's Birthday today, (Happy Birthday Dad) and that means one thing: cake. Birthdays always mean cake. I'm pretty sure it's a law. So that got me thinking about something that's bothered me for a long time, something that's bothered me about cake.

She wanted to have her cake, and eat it too.

What does this mean? Well I know it means that the phantom "she" was stradling the fence, wanting to not make up her mind about a decision and have it both ways. But what does this mean when actually applied to cake?

How could she eat the cake if she did not already have possession of it? If this is the case, it is not only possible for her to have her cake and eat it too, but necessary. Even if this cake originally belonged to someone else (perhaps my father), which is not the case seeing as the pronoun: "her" is applied to the object: cake implying intrinsic ownership of the cake, she would have to appropriate the cake prior to consumption. Or in the act of eating the cake, be claiming ownership.

Besides, if she does not intend to eat this cake that, for sake of argument she has recently pilfered from my father (and on his birthday no less), what are her plans for this cake? To fence it on the black market? Or perhaps to hide a hack-saw in it to help her arsonist boyfriend Vinny the Flame out of Sing Sing? While these options don't reflect well on "her" as a person, nor "her" taste in company, to use the cake for such things would nessecitate "her" relinquishing possession of the cake. Then she would neither have her cake nor eat.

The only reason to have the cake without eating it is to allow it to exist in a state of perfect quiescence. But is not the purpose of a cake to be eaten? If we take away an objects purpose, does it lose it's identity? If a stapler never staples, can it still be called a stapler? If a bed is used only for sitting, and never for lying down, does it become a couch? Can one ever simply HAVE a cake?

And is it an entire cake, for that matter, or simply a slice of cake. If it is only a slice then she can just cut the slice in half, and in so doing afford herself the opportunity to have her cake and eat it too. This, assuming that cake remains cake if its function is never to be fulfilled. Or if it is an entire cake, can she slice it up? Or in so slicing would she irrevicably transform the cake into a group of slices of cake? If that is the case then to eat a cake one must consume it in its entirity. The image of a snake unhinging its jaw so as to swollow an ostridge egg much larger than the size of its own head comes to mind unbidden. But even the very act of chewing, or in loo of that then the very act of digestion would negate the identity of "cake".

So it all becomes clear. She cannot have her cake and/or eat it too. The concept of "cake" is far too Platonic to exist in reality. Ergo either cake does not exist, or it is reality that is fictional. But I'll go one step farther (or is it further, never quite understood the difference). If there is a law that says you need to have cake on your birthday, and cake and reality cannot co-exist, then reality must be against the law.

Does that surprise anyone?

So Dad, to you on your Birthday I gift to you some advice: treat yourself to a bowl of Carrot Cake Soup. And have a Happy Birthday.

-Tim

Thursday, November 09, 2006

 

Sittin´on the Dock of the Bay

So I have the long lost parts of my London Application done and sitting in front of me. All I need to do now is fax them. The end of my long journey is so close, and yet I find my self in a state lacking action. A state of "laction", if you will. Perhaps this is just the calm before the storm. I can´t help but reflect uppon the significance of what I am about to do. For more than six years now my only real goal in life has been to study abroad in London. I made up my mind that I wanted to study there during my first visit to the city.

Let me set the stage: the year is 2000 AD, dawn of a new milleneum. A young Ray Ramano makes the nation laugh. The up beat toons of non-offensive bubble-gum pop music is heard from every jukebox in every soda shoppe. I am a bright dowey-eyed freshman in high school. It´s my first trip to western europe and I´m thrilled to absorb the culture.

My every action since then been a function of my desire to study in London. I went to IC BECAUSE they had a London program. I became a History major BECAUSE it allowed me the time to take time off to travel. I have been single minded in my treatment of academic and social life. This was the end I was willing to take any means to reach.

And yet, here I am so close, and my hand is stayed. Why?

Could it be the reflection of wondering if it has all been worth it? Is the life I have built for myself sufficient to keep me happy after I return from London? Could I be scared that London is the last pursuit of my youth and now I am forced to grow up? Is my laction a prodect of fear, fear of the void that will exist in my life once my single purpose is complete. Could I be having second thoughts as to if the momentary impulse I had years ago, that my years have been spent clinging to, is that still what I want today? Am I considering turning back now that I have perspective?

No. Of course I´m not nearly that Emo.

I was just waiting for the fax machine.

Here goes nothing.

Peace.

-Inodranul Mit

Wednesday, November 08, 2006

 

Today I Want to Use the Word "Pimp" in my Title

So the big news today is obviously the election results. I wish I could claim to be part of the civic movement that has put the once near vanquished Democratic Party back at the grown-ups table. But to be honest, I didn't vote. Never got my abcentee ballot. So even our so called "great American Democracy" has flaws. But seeing as how one liberals vote Massachusetts would have been lost in the din anyway, and seeing as how things seem to have turned out ok, I guess I don't mind. News is coming over the wire that there's a woman Speaker of the House for the first time in US history. I'm glad we're finally joining the progressive age. My advice to Ms Nancy Pelosi: don't let on that you're stressed around President "Grabby Hands" Bush, he might just try and give you a Merkel Massage too. If I might ask you readers the favor of sending me the results as the favor of sending me the results as they come in from the first colony. I'm really interested in the Virginia vote.

Other than that, there hasn't been much news around here. Not for me anyway. I've been shut up in my room trying to kick whatever it is I picked up in the Alhambra. I think I've finally done it. So that's good. But it really took me away from the pulse of the real world. Mostly I just read. Finished Moby Dick, re-read some comic books, started reading Watchmen. I picked up Blind Watchmaker again, which I highly recomend to anyone that likes science nonfiction. I think Richard Dawkins is one of the best non-fiction writers out there. And Science isn't even my genre.

I listened to Kevin's advice for once and downloaded the pilot episode of the new series "Heroes". He said he's been getting really into it. Now this is a kid who likes the "24", "OC", and "Lost", two shows I've never gotten into. But I did my research and found some obvious and not obvious things that drew me to the show. I finally gave in and watched it. You'll excuse my slang, but, "Heroes" is off the heezy! Honestly, I don't know if an hour of television has ever kept me quite as entertained or captivated. I was LITERALLY on the edge of my seat for every one of the 52 minutes of the episode (It's coming! 52! 52!). Every time the show went to an act break I found myself internally pleading that this not be the end of the episode. And, now I've watched a lot of TV in my day, a LOT, and I've gotten to understand how things work. I can usually see plot twists coming a mile away, even if I dont know what theyre going to be, I have developed a sense for when something important is going to happen simply through over exposure to the medium. But "Heroes" didn't do that to me. One of the twists at the end of the episode had me yelling at my screen like a lune who doesn't know it's all fake. Not that the show is not in need of some improvement. They're dialogue is a bit forced. But writing believable AND interesting dialogue is hard. I advise any of you who has the time and the desire to give "Heroes" at least a first try.

Manbearpig is coming you guys. I'm super cereal.

You know what grinds my gears (other than not being able to find the droids I'm looking for)? Dan. Many of you may remember Dan from one of my earliest posts. If you haven't read it yet, I recommend it (I haven't read it but I hear it's not bad). Well, Dan is in my Art History class. He is perpetually late, but I wounldn't be surprised if he can't read analogue clocks. He hasn't taken the midterm yet, even though it was three weeks ago. And we can't get our grades back until he takes it. But this isn't what grinds my gears about Dan. I'll tell you what does. Our prof, who really is such a sweet woman, and I'm not just saying that for dramatic affect, passed out a sign up sheet for a trip to the Dali museum later this month. We were either supposed to write that we could go, or why we couldn't. Not hard instructions really. And I suppose Dan did follow them. What he wrote was that he couldn't go because his family was going to be in town (valid excuse) celebrating Thanksgiving (TMI, but ok) and how awesome America is. This is the part that grinds my perverbial gears, meaning it upsets me or makes me angry (nearly to the point of dressing up like a giant bat and beating up stupid people). I hate that "frigging" American hubris and sense of entitlment. It is unwarrented, or hasn't Dan seen a non fair and balanced news cast in the past 5 years? And it's not just his unwarrented pride in his home country that bothers me, it's the fact that he wrote it there to be given to a Spaniard. Dan was saying there on that piece of paper "I'm better than you", and that's just rude. So Dan, I hope you get kidnapped by space pirates and sold into slavery on Hoth.

Joe is in Paris for the weekend. But I still have a roommate. Joe left his stink to keep me company.

-Timmy

Monday, November 06, 2006

 

Sick as a Fish

I have only twice in my life ever seen someone get the first question wrong on "Who Wants to be a Millionaire". I do not regularly watch the show, but I am led to believe it is not a common occurrence. Most recently I saw an internet clip of some poor college student (who I fear will remain poor) definitavely declaring that household surge protectors protected against surges of water. Maybe he can work for FEMA. The other poor sap I ever saw fail so readily was back in the days of Regis. This person had never heard the saying "sick as a dog" before and therefore guessed it went "sick as a fish". Well thats how I felt yesterday, "sick as a fish".

I guess in an effort to make my trip to Granada more interesting, the New Gods decided to get me sick. And I'm not talking about a sore throat, stuffy nose kind of sick. I'm talking about the kind where you can neither stay awake or asleep, can't keep anything inside your body (and I think you'll thank me to omit the details here), perpetually drenched with sweat, having fever dreams that you are being tortured by a sentient star because you uncovered the conspiracy plans it had to control the world through IES even though you both know full well there is nothing you could ever do to stop the plans of such a powerful entity from coming to fruition. You know, the fun kind of sick.

I don't know if it was food poisoning or some sort of bug or if this is what Lupis is, but it sucks. And yesterday was our last day at the hotel, so we had to check out at noon. So while the rest of the group took (what I heard was actually a pretty low key and boring) tour of the old city, I was hanging out on a couch in the lobby for eight hours. But I had the evil star to keep me company, so I didn't get lonely. Although it's funny what goes through your mind at times like that. I didn't get my priorities in order or find religion or anything. I just kept thinking about what I guess is the only part of "Little Women" I remember. The part where Beth is sick with Scarlet Fever and (spoiler warning) she dies. Not the most comforting thought now that I come to reflect.

By the evening, perhaps because my immune system was starting to fight back, or because my body had nothing left in it to reject (though boy howdey did it try) I was feeling, if not better, then less bad. The nausia had lessened, but I just felt so weak. Not only could a stiff breeze have blown me over, but someone saying the words "stiff breeze" in my general vicinity would have caused me to topple. I have never felt anything quite like the lack of strength I felt then. I honestly believe that is what Kryptonite exposure must feel like. Simply waiting on line for check in at the airport was a harrowing experiance (but isn't it always).

To avoid subjecting you all to any more of my self pitty I'll make a long story short and just point out that I got home in one piece. But I'm taking today off. I'm still a far cry from healthy. Luckily I have Batman, Superman, Watchmen, and Smallville (if it ever finishes "shmillegally shmownloading"... crack that code coppers) to keep me company today. I've even started to introduce solid foods to my system again just to see what happens.

Other than that last day, Granada was really cool. I'm so unbelievably glad I was not sick for the day we went to the Alhambra. And I got to see a flamenco show done by real gypsies in a cave. I think Granada is the Ithaca of Spain though. All the GW people here in Barcelona who are used to living in a big city like DC and going clubbing and whatnot were saying that Granada was too small to have kept them entertained for a semester. And while I dont mind it here in Barcelona, there is something to be said for having a more intimate city. Granada, like Ithaca, is also filled with filthy hippies.

-Tim

Thursday, November 02, 2006

 

Epilogue to Bizzarro

A) Everything I said in my previous post is protected by freedom of speach

B) My Doppleganger was obviously created by Superboy Prime punching a continuity wall

C) If anyone can help me get an internship with DC Comics this summer, I need your help.

D) Do you people like the more regular, surrealist, somewhat incoherent posts? Or would you rather wait for me to post storied with at least some plotline and purpose?

-The Chronicler

 

Bizzarro

Those of you who studied my Halloween pictures with a detectives eye worthy of Ralph Dibny may have noticed that I was sporting a goatee. I may even have mentioned it. I don't know, I don't read my own posts. I grew this because, in the DCU, Oliver Queen has a goatee too, or at least he does post-Crisis. Thats the point of a costume, making yourself look like somebody else. I did not grow it because, as some of you conjectured, I was too lazy to shave.

But a strange thing has happened to me since Halloween, people have been telling me they like the look. Now I would hardly consider myself a person who is easily swayed by the oppinions of others, especially when it comes to fashion. Take my hair as proof. Yet, since people seemed to like the goatee on Halloween, I did not take it off with the rest of the costume.

You've heard me tell you that other people like it. I am sure you all will make up your own minds on the subject. Now please let me tell you how I feel about it in one word: 'Bizzarro'.

Whenever I pass a mirror, my stomache lurches and my heart skips a beat. My brain does not, at first glance recognize my own reflection. Instead, and this will tell you how much TV has rotted my brain, my first reaction is that I have discovered my doppleganger. A twin that is my exact double except, in classic cliche TV fashion, for the sporty dark goatee and a black heart to match. Submitted for the approval of the court I present exhibit A: Spock from that episode of Star Trek where they all meet their World Three counterparts (I know I just mixed my metaphors, but I doubt anyone even understands what I'm talking about anymore). Exhibit B: for all of you non-Trekies that have evolved proto-lungs that allow you to survive in habitats beyond your parents' basements, would be that episode of South Park with the "good" Cartman. I'm sure there are countless other evil twins I could reference here. I'm only surprised that my reflection doesn't have a scar down his face or an eye patch, or both.

Please, if I start doing malevolent things for no reason, start looking in every dark bunker type place you can find. Maybe that's where HE is keeping the clean shaven good version of me. No matter what the case may be, I think we all know how it's going to end. On the roof of a sky scraper, with some girl pointing a gun at both of us, unsure who the real one is. I'll be the one who says: "shoot us both, it's the only way to be sure". That's her cue to shoot the other guy, because only the good one could be that selfless. I don't actually know what movie that's from. I assume Lawn Mower Man, but that's only because I have no idea what that movie is about. It could also be from Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtles, because once you take their masks off, who can tell them apart?

Oh man. Now I'm going to get letters calling me a racist because I said that all green mutants look alike. That's not why I'm a racist guys. It's because white people can't dance. And thats not a stereotype, I've been to clubs, I've seen honkies try it. It is a scientific fact that white people can't dance. So in conclusion, Captain America wins in a fight between him and Batman, but Thor loses to Superman

-Jim Lunardoni

Wednesday, November 01, 2006

 

Me and Steve McQueen BFF

And eventually it did arrive to be the day that the entire trip to Morocco had become enamored with. The day we greenhorns come to Africa would get to ride camels. For it seemed, at least to me, that the significance of this activity\went beyond simply those desireous to participate. The entire shape of the trip prior to that day seemed to be only a prelude, a countdown to camels. If feel I should correct myself here for all the references I will make in the ensuing post to "camels". In reality, as I learned in my Moroccan Odyssey, these strange desert creatures, alien to anything I'd ever experianced before, not camels but dromedaries. Dromedaries are the one humped natives to continental Africa, while camels are their many humped cousins from Eurasia. Joe Cool, the criminally lovable mascot for Camel Cigarettes is a dromedary.

Something you do not realize about camels (dromedaries... whatever) from basecamp, which also proved to be true about dunes, is that they are very tall. One does not get the full impact of their height until they sit upon their behumped back as the desert creature rises from a lying down possition to its full height. This is not a smooth process akin to riding in a glass elevator because the trip to the summet is punctuated by sudden, and frighteningly violent jerks as the camel adjusts to unbending each one of the seemingly infinite number of joints in each one of its legs. Obviously the number of joints in a camel's leg is a far cry from infinite, it must be something closer to a dozen per leg. Dems be some wobbley legged citters, G.

An unhealthily large percentage of the trip preceeding my camel excurison was spent trying to think of a name for my camel. Front runners included: Sonic the Hedgehog the Camel, Peter O'Tool, and General Zod. (Un-interesting sidenote that I admit does not fit into this post at all, but I fear if I neglect to say it now, this information will be lost to the world outside my head forever: I recently, while listening to one of the highly amusing and informational DC Comics podcasts, discovered the existance of a character I never knew existed. Somewhere in the convaluted annals of the DCU history and Pre-Crisis pre-history there was a character known as Caveman Superman. This information is amusing enough as it is, however, and I think some of my readers might already fear that they know where I'm going with this one, I realized Caveman Superman is a far more logical choice for the role of the referee in my infamous Superman II joke. As those though have heard the joke, save one of Kristin's high school friends, suffer great pain whenever I tell the joke, I will not tell it. For once one has heard my joke you can never un-hear it, and will spend the rest of an undying eternity wishing you could. Or you will, like me, find it funny.) But when I finally met and mounted my mighty steed, well... camel (actually: dromedary) I found a name that just sort of fit.

He (and it was a "he", I checked, accidentally) had a blond patch of hair on top of his head. From out of nowhere the perfect name struck me. Steve McQueen. Little did I know how perfect the name was, for not only was my camel a blond, he was also a bad ass mother, who didnt take any guff from anybody. I also suspect he hated Nazis, because who doesn't?

Steve McQueen's bad assedness was exemplified by the fact that, though the camels were tied in lines of five, and Steve was at the back of our particular line, right behind Kevin and his camel, Tiger Woo (Kevin is a golfer, not a member of the PA Secret Society of Blood Brothers, I made the decision to drop the "ds"), Steve McQueen refused to stay in line. There was no way he was going to listen to the MAN. Steve also had a special kind of harness on him that seemed specifically crafted to make it harder for camels to get out of. I am not surprised that Steve McQueen has a history of trying to escape captivity. I was half hoping he would break away while we were together so that Steve McQueen and I could cross the Algerian boarder and make a new life for ourselves there. But I guess Steve McQueen travels solo. He couldn't risk a green n00b like me complicating his prison break.

Most of the two hour long camel ride into the heart of the savage Sahara was spent by me and Kevin joking about Steve and his free spririt could not be caged. In fact we talked about Steve McQueen so much, and he was such an obscure reference that most of the people with us thought, not only that we were talking about a real person, but that it was someone on the trip with us that they had just failled to notice yet. It is still a mystery to me how you could spend half a week travelling around Morocco with the same twenty people and not notice that one of them was the star of "The Great Escape".

As I have previously mentioned, at length, it was hot in Morocco under the firey African sun. I will not waste more precious space in the interweb tubes talking about it now. I only mention it so that you will understand why it was impressed upon we newcomers to the bedouin life of desert travel the importance of covering our heads. Most of our number responded by buying headscarves and having the people at the hotel tie it in an authentic fashion. Being the stingy person that I am, I opted for a more economical approach. I tied one of the long sleeve button down shirts I brought with me to keep me warm in the frigid African temperatures around my head in a fashion I thought was reminiscent of Lorence of Arabia. I thought that because I could not see my own head. Really I just looked like a loon with a shirt tied round his head. As if Jervis Tetch was holding Gothem ransom, either the mayor pay him fifty million dollars or he would use his cerebral control chips to force everyone in the city to look silly with a shirt on their head, perhaps this was an Adam West plot. (Is it just me or have I been making a lot of Mad Hatter references?) But silly or not, it worked. Not only did it keep my head covered, but it protected my nech from the sun and I could put the shirttails over my face as protection against the sandy desert winds. And when the sun set and I was still riding Steve, I wrapped the shirt around the metal handle attached to the saddle, this prevented blisters. I'm willing to look silly for something that usefull.

And once the sun was down, boy was it dark. And those stars! But that's a story for another day.

-Kneel Before Zod

PS
Having a problem loading the pictures. They'll be up later.

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?