Uncle Clint's Adventures

My uncle Clint works in Afghanistan, a fact which both impresses and frightens me. I don't know why I haven't posted photographs of his experiences before, because he sends me some really terrific stuff.

Some of it is sad:


Some of it makes you think about how good you have it:



Some of it is pictures of these guys:


Whatever it is, it's always interesting. Sometimes, Clint takes field trips. Like the time he went to the arcade and saw this lady:


Another time, he went to the US Embassy in Baghdad and saw these cards made by children:


I'm 99% sure they were to show support for the American troops. But here is why I'm 1% unsure:


The best part, is that sometimes Clint and his coworkers go to local grade schools and give away clothes and shoes. I think it's so important for them give to kids who are less fortunate than American children. It makes me happy to think of the smiles on their faces:



But the extra best special treat is when someone like this guy shows up:


So, I've decided that as long as Clint keeps sending me these fine photos, I will keep posting them for you to see.

Mickey Handsome

There are few things I would call myself a connoisseur of: Certainly not wine, food, cigars, or even chocolate. But I WILL call myself a connoisseur of Bad Movies. They are my passion. I believe that God created Mystery Science Theater 3000 with me in mind. That said, if you were to peruse my video collection, you would find an impressive array of horrible films on VHS. Most still have to $1.99 sticker on them.

A particularly fine $1.99 purchase was the film Johnny Handsome, starring a young Mickey Rourke. The movie isn't one of the worst I've seen, but check out the premise:

Mickey plays a criminal who was born severely deformed. During his time in a prison, a "sympathetic surgeon" gives him a new face, using the wonders of plastic surgery! Once out on parole, he uses his new looks to seek revenge.

It's a pretty simple plot, really. You might even sum it up as simply as this: He hit his low point, got plastic surgery, and then made a comeback.


Just sayin'.

Schizomusiphrenia

This morning on my drive in to work, my attempts to educate myself on the nation's economic situation were once again thwarted by a seemingly endless commercial for bath fixtures so, I switched off the news station and turned on my iPod. I put the thing on shuffle when I drive so that I don't crash into anyone while I'm looking for a song. But, I still have to skip through handfuls of songs at a time, because I am realizing two things about the music I own:

1) I am getting bored with most of it
2) I only like specific parts in a lot of songs

Problem #1 is pretty common, and easily solved: Cough up a few bucks for some new music and revisit the old stuff in a few months. But problem #2 indicates that I may be ill. I have dozens of songs that I will never fully play from start to finish. I'll listen to a desired section, and then skip forward. Not only does this drive passengers in my car crazy, but it makes me feel guilty for being so disrespectful of the musicians. I'm clearly not well. I think I have...

Schizomusiphrenia.

I can't help it! Maybe I just want to listen to the melody, and not a long saxaphone solo (sorry Chris Potter). Or maybe it's that some songs go on for far too long. In fact, I've set my iPod to start Tony Williams' Allah Be Praised at 3:51 so that I can skip right to the cool organ part that I like. Often, part of a song might make me uncomfortable- for instance any time there is sing-talking, or that weird circus part of Spinning Wheel by Blood, Sweat & Tears. If you ever ride in my car, I'm warning you- do not get attached to anything coming out of the stereo because it could be over at any second.

Then there's the reverse: I will listen to an entire four minute song just to hear literally five (5) eighth notes that happen at two minutes thirty seconds. And I will listen to those eighth notes 4oo times in a row before I allow the song to play to the end. Or I'll listen to the last forty seconds of Fauré's Libera Me 16 times in a row. To me, this is the more fun of the two symptoms of Schizomusiphrenia, but anyone riding with me wants to hurl themselves on the freeway after hearing the same piano solo 840 time.

Pray for my passengers. I can't help myself, and they are the unfortunate victims of my condition.

A New FunBox Vlog!

Please enjoy the latest Vlog (it's number 6!) from the boys over at FunBox Comedy. This installment features special guest Asterios Kokkinos of presidentbaby.com

Hey guess what? I don't care!

Dear Ladies,

I'd like to celebrate Valentine's Day one day early with a small piece of advice:

Nobody wants to hear about how amazing your boyfriend is.

Least of all his guy friends. Do you think Spud and Tyler are anxious to hear about the chrysanthemums Kenny got you for the two-year anniversary of the first time he got you chrysanthemums? If you're nodding your head yes, please ask a close friend to slap you in the mouth- you are incorrect. Rule of thumb: If a story about your boyfriend makes you feel all gushy, shut up.

But Kenny's not one of those tough guys, you're probably thinking. He's a sensitive man, and his friends don't care.

Um, have you seen Rocky? He makes his living letting burly, undereducated Philidelphians punch him in the eye. But he still goes by that pet shop every day, and tells ridiculously silly jokes just to try and get Adrian to like him. However- and this is key- he doesn't buy flowers for the guys who punch him the eye. Mr. Balboa knows to keep the macho and sensitive parts of his life separate.

My point is twofold. One: It's not about upholding a reputation. It's that you are special to Kenny. If he wrote poems to Spud and Tyler, it may not mean as much to you when he busts out the iambic pentameter on Valentine's Day. Two, and perhaps more importantly: Unless your life is a movie and available on Netflix, your cute stories about Kenny entertain no one. So, no matter what he does for you tomorrow, please, keep it to yourself.

Happiest of St. Valentine's Days,

Me

Feldman Had Another Dream

During a conversation online this morning, my good friend Feldman told me about one of this dreams last night:

"I did have an interesting dream. It involved your family. I was back at [Occidental College], living in Haines [residence hall] and you and your parents were visiting me. For some reason Haines was on upper campus near one of the fields and I was trying to guide you to the dorm and telling you where to park. And for an Oxy grad, you really sucked at following my directions.

But I eventually got you into the parking space that I had my eyes set on so you and your parents got out and we said hi, but you looked weird.

Because you were Ellen Degeneres."

Overdue Apologies (Part IV)

Dear Mr. Undlin,

I am sorry for how much hell I put you through during the 1997/1998 school year. I must have been working through some new Eighth Grade hormones or something because, I remember you being a sweet guy. Yet, somewhere between your enthusiasm for dodge ball and Thursday mile-runs, we got off on the wrong foot.

I'd get to the gym on time, and I'd put my uniform on like everyone else. But as soon as you jogged out with your clipboard and wraparound sunglasses, I turned crappy. I distinctly remember once telling you that I was allergic to the rubber used in basketballs. I stood with my hands on my adolescent hips, looking you right in the eye, waiting for you to respond. (If you guessed there was another reason I didn't want to play basketball, you are right. During fifth grade, I was on a girl's basketball team. The only basket I scored the entire season was FOR THE OTHER TEAM. I didn't need any of that again.)

In case it isn't evident from my defiant crossing out of the letters E, A, B, T, and H in my name in the photo above, I was kind of a weasel in eighth grade. You were a new teacher, and I could sense your insecurity. I think I really was genuinely interested in whether or not you had a crush on my English teacher, Ms. Geis, but because it made you blush when I brought it up during calisthenics, I did so about six times a week. It makes me cringe to think of it now.

It also makes me cringe to think of all times I tried to get out of running using made-up ailments. The more mild fibs included menstrual cramps that lasted for weeks at a time, migraines, and the foolproof "I don't want to get into it." However, when I really wanted to get avoid something, I'd pull out all the stops. I'm sure you remember Lauren Preston and I falling to the ground at your feet during a Thursday run, shaking violently, tongues wagging, eyes rolling back in our heads. "We must be having seizures!" I cried between gurgling sounds. "Running makes them worse!" Our research wasn't very thorough.

So, Mr Undlin, for these things, and the snotty comments about your basketball shorts, I apologize. I hope you and Ms. Geis are happily married.

Here's what happened...

David Malloy and I went outside to get some fresh air and enjoy the rain. I guess we are both feeling insecure, because this was the bulk of our conversation:

Me: Do I look okay? It's a new shirt.
David: (Pulls out his camera phone). Yes, I said that already. Didn't I? (Snaps a photo, shows me)
Me: Do I look terrible?
David: Do I look like a wolfman?
Me: In a good way, though. (Looking at the photo again.) Oh! My shoulder pads- are they too much? I think-
David: Am I balding!?

Does anyone know a good life coach?

I was going to write something interesting...

...but I got distracted with a logic puzzle. It's called the Einstein Quiz.



To play, go here. Of course, if you have like, a life, or anything, feel free to continue on with that. But, alas, I'm a dork and I like stuff like this.

I've solved it, but I can't seem to get the submission button to work- I think it has something to with the fact that the main page hasn't been updated since 2001. Anyway, if you do play, leave your answer in the comments section. (Note: I am expecting 3 comments at the most.)

If you feel like cheating, click here for a picture of the answer.