No Gnus Is Good Gnus...

CBEST: I will find out the results on Monday, February 28 after 5pm! So stay tuned to this channel for that exciting gnus. But I must say that I have a friend (I won’t mention the name) who failed the CBEST ten times. Yeah, no lies here...that's TEN tries that ended in failure. That's 10 X $40 = $400!! Talk about a good excuse for suicide.

Vagina: Yes, you guessed it: The Vagina girls were back on campus. (If you have no idea what I'm talking about, read this.) I was doing my usual trek from Geography class to the library when I heard that unmistakable voice announcing loudly, "Come, kiss the vagina!" I stopped and watched a girl toss and miss by a good two feet. Then the girl on the microphone told her she'd give her another try if she could name four synonyms for vagina. At this point some dude in a fraternity booth yelled out, "*****" And the girl on the microphone said, "Great job!!" Then someone else yelled, "******" At about that time I had made it to the library door, so I didn't get to hear the other synonyms...but I could imagine. (If you haven't seen the original picture then go here.)

Jury Duty: Well, I found out I could postpone my civic duty. It's not that I don't want to fulfill my responsibility as a free citizen in this great country of ours, but it would be just slightly impossible with the 22 units I'm carrying. So I logged on to the provided internet site, typed my badge number, and hit the postpone button. "We're sorry, we are unable to process your request at this time." DAMMIT. So I called the automated phone line. This time I got to hear the same apology but in some robot-woman's voice. JUST GREAT! Luckily I was transferred to a real person who helped me out in 3 seconds flat. So the courthouse will be calling sometime in July.

Loser: That's me. I was so proud to finish a PowerPoint presentation for my Russian history class that I placed it online for all my classmates (and professor) to view a few days before the actual due date. Unfortunately I saved it as a .htm instead of a .ppt, which totally screwed those who didn't have the latest version of Explorer, which turned out to be half the class! So while my professor congratulated me for "setting the standard with such a fantastic presentation of Students, Professors, and the State in Tsarist Russia", the poor bastards in my class were probably sticking pins into a voodoo doll with my likeness. Hence: the overachiever loses again. But it really is a coooool presentation.

Random Advice: Before turning on a ceiling fan for the first time after months of idleness, wipe with damp cloth. Unless you like choking on a winter's worth of dust for an hour. I found it pretty disagreeable.

More than words...

Lyrics: Click Here ... or stay and read my blog :)

I was driving down the road on my way to school when I heard the song "More Than Words" by the group Extreme playing on the radio. Do you know that one? It's a slow song, and the two guys who sing it harmonize perfectly. Anyway, the song reminded me of a certain experience in Paris.

Yeah, I know. For some reason I have these extreme (no pun intended) moments of nostalgia for France. Just forgive and accept! But here's a quick rundown of the memory, plus a bit of contemplation. Don't forget what Socrates said: "The unexamined life is not worth living." That means, stop and reflect for a while. Turn off the TV and ponder your life.

I was with my two friends, Allesio and Catherine. Allesio is from Italy (about two hours from Rome), and Catherine is from Switzerland (can't remember what city, probably Bern). We were at Georges Pompidou center. It's this large cobblestone plaza with lots of people and lots of street performers and lots of cafés (duh) and lots of shops and lots of artists sketching charcoal caricatures for whatever price you haggle out of them. But the main feature of the plaza is the Paris Modern Art Museum--a mammoth building of mostly glass outlined in colorful tubes. And that's where we were headed.

We weaved through the throngs of tourists and locals who get a kick out of sitting around on the dusty cobblestones reading paperbacks and people watching. We each had a crêpe filled with Nutella (sort of like chocolate--they sell it at Trader Joes) and banana slices. YUMMY!! And we were passing by someone with a boombox. I bet you can guess what song was playing. NO! Not the Marseillaise! It was, of course, More Than Words by Extreme.

I immediately started singing along with the radio, and, to my surprise, so did Allesio. I don't know why, but it just seems so bizarre to me when someone who can barely utter in English can belt out a song in English. But he did. So there we were--this cosmopolitan trio--walking with our messy French crêpes, singing a song that was probably recorded in a skanky little studio in North Hollywood. But on this day it spurred the three of us into a unique bond of friendship.

It's in those moments that friendships really take hold. When you recognize a genuine familiarity, or you realize, quite unexpectedly, that you share something in common with someone else. It's awesome when you can say, Hey, I'm not alone! Other people like the same things I do. Other people think the same way as me--even if it means they're completely nutty. I know it was just a song, but it was also just a beginning.

Scroll down for a cool but blurry (sorry) picture of me, Allesio, and Catherine.

The Trio 

Weekend update...

Go see the movie SIDEWAYS. It's hilarious.

This weekend I took the CBEST test. In case you didn't know, it's the test all teachers must take before they can teach. Makes sense. Well, it's four hours long and consists of three parts: Reading, Writing, and Math. It wasn't really that tough--plus I'd studied a bit the night before. I guess the hardest part was that it was just so dang long. And I'm not particularly fond of timed tests. They stress me out. But, nevertheless, it's done. Finito. That's one more checkmark next to the long list of things to accomplish before turning in my application for the credential program.

Go see the movie SIDEWAYS.

By the way, I received a jury duty notice in the mail. Sigh. Of all the lamo times to be called for civic duty. Hopefully they'll let me postpone it until after I graduate, which is this May!!

See...movie...SIDEWAYS.

War of the noses...

I just ate a bowl of tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich.

What does that mean?--you say.

It means that I'm sick! No not sick in the head, that goes without saying. But sick, like from evil microscopic bacteria invading the frontiers of my nasal cavity and setting up camp. Little bastards! Out of more than 6 billion noses on this planet, those slimy green monsters decided to invade and conquer my poor schnozzola.

How did this happen?--you say.

Well, it all started in my Greek history class. The girl sitting behind me went into a coughing frenzy (and that's putting it nicely). At first hack, my eyes got big and I held my breath. Oh please, oh please, oh please let it be just the one. Nope. It turned out to be the first of many hair-parting gusts of dewy wind.

I sat there--each terrifying burst of wind more dangerous than the last. I nonchalantly eased my shoulders up so that my shirt collar covered the exposed and vulnerable nape of my neck. But the gags and snorts and hacks kept coming like a furious hurricane of phlegm aiming to wreak havoc on the back of my head. I wanted to yell out, "Cover your mouth you medieval mucous head!" But instead I took every bacteria-filled cough like a brave soldier in the war of the noses. And now I'm paying for it.

Now I'm a snot factory, and the little guys are preparing their spore guns, perched at the edge of my nostrils, searching for their next victim. Will it be you? Ha Ha Ha! Nah, don't worry--unlike some people, I cover my mouth and nose when I cough or sneeze. So those little bastards are gonna die in my hand, and then I'm gonna wipe their tiny corpses all over my jeans. They've messed with the wrong nose this time!

My second encounter with a time traveler...

It begins...

I had just finished spending my Christmas giftcards at Borders. I had a huge bag of books, but I wasn’t completely satisfied, so naturally I decided to hoof it across the street to Barnes & Nobles and spend my other giftcards on more books (ME = NERD). By the way, you heard correctly: I walked instead of drove across the street. Why? Because I’m over thirty and dammit I need the exercise.

So when I arrive, this nice old man holds the door for me and my fifty pound bag of paperbacks. Then he spoke in this thick accent:

“I was the one who let you cross the street.” His grin told me this made him very proud.

“Oh,” I said, thinking, What the hell is this geezer talking about! Then I sort of recalled crossing the road, and maybe a car stopped for me, but you know, who remembers that sort of crap? “Well, thanks.”

I started walking toward the you-know-what section (science-fiction, dummies!). But the old man was still talking, so I took baby steps and offered him a courteous ear.

“I do that too,” he said. “Walk across the street.” His eyes were intense, as he shuffled behind me.

“Oh,” I replied, flipping him an imaginary Brownie Button. “Cool.” Then I gave him a curt smile that sort of acted like the period to a sentence, and took off at Mach 8 for the Sci-Fi books.

After about ten minutes of sitting Indian style with a handful of Anne McCaffrey books on my lap, I heard that thick accent again:

“Oh, so you’re one of the smart ones,” he said, hovering over my shoulder like a tax auditor.

I looked up from my book. Is this guy for real? “No, not really,” I said.

“You like science fiction?” he asked, leaning against the bookshelf.

“Yes, but...”

“D’you like to write, too?”

This really took me off guard. In my head, I was saying, YES, but how could you know that? What are you psychic? Or are you one of those creepy old perverts who stalks young men? So I decided to lie. “No, not really.”

His head cocked to the side, surprised. “You say you don’t like to write?”
“I’m not very good at it,” I said.

“So you’ve never published anything?”

“No.” This was true at least.

“Can you speak another language?”

“No.” Ok, man, what the hell’s going on with this old dude?

“What about Hebrew?”

“Huh?”

“You speak Hebrew?”

“No.” At this point, I was becoming blatantly rude. I stuck my nose in the book and just barked my negative answers over my shoulder.

“Ok, I can see you want to read. I was just stealing time.”

I glanced up. “What was that?”

“I’m just stealing time, but I’ll let you get back to your book.”

I watched him shuffle back down the aisle.

Stealing time? What is that? Did he mean killing time? Then it dawned on me: He’s a time traveler! That’s how he knew that I liked to write. That’s why he was so damn persistent when I lied about writing and about knowing another language. He came back in time to visit me, the famous author, when I was young and my career was just budding.

So there it is, my second encounter with a time traveler. And for all you touristy time travelers who are reading my blog, come and visit me. I promise not to be so rude.

My first encounter with time travelers...

A couple of years ago I was managing a Swatch watch store in Glendale, California. On the particular evening of the encounter with the two time travelers, I was accompanied by my friend and employee, John McCampbell.

Backstory:

Not only is John McCampbell a terrific watch salesman but, like many young people living in the Los Angeles area, he aspires to something more: He wants to be a rock-n-roll star. To make a long story short, John and three of his buddies moved to California from New York in the hopes of getting their band signed to a record label. Two years later, they achieved just that. Now the lucky little bastard is on tour and he has a CD that you can buy at any cool record store (for more info click the link at the top).

The Story:

This night began like any other night. John and I had spent the first few hours of our shift skillfully shooting rubber bands at the ceiling at just the right trajectory to send them ricocheting into a Dixie cup in the center of the floor, when these two girls came in and began to shop. We wrinkled our noses and stashed our rubber bands like any self-respecting salesman would.

"Would you like to try that on?" I said, motioning to a Skin watch with pink fluorescent bands.

"No thank you. Just looking."

I frowned, and jerked my head at John to go for the kill.

"These are our Skin watches," John said dutifully. "They're the thinnest watches in the world. The tiny mechanisms have--"

"I'm actually looking for a watch for my boyfriend," she interrupted. "What do you recommend?"

John led her over to the "man" watches (even though Swatch claims to be unisex, I don't think a man would wear a watch with pink bands, and apparently neither did John). He showed her the favorite stud watch of the month.

"I don't know," she said, squinting her eyes at the large dial. "What do you think, Grant?"

I looked up, startled that she'd called me by name. "It's a great watch," I said. I looked down to where my nametag normally was clipped to my black polo shirt, but it wasn't there. "How did you know my name?" I asked.

The girl looked up, obviously caught off guard. "I...uh..." She glanced at her friend for help. "Um...your friend said it."

John gave me a No-I-didn't-she's-a-big-fat-liar look.

Then the girls sort of made excuses to leave rather abruptly, and we never saw them again. Afterward, I explained my theory to John:

"They're time travelers, John. I'm telling you. That's how they knew my name."

"Yeah, totally."

"You see, they're like tourists from the future. They came back to see the famous musician"--I bobbed my head up and down as he humored me with an air guitar pose--"and of course they wanted to see me, the famous author!"

"Yeah, you're really on to something."

"Of course! I mean, when you think about it, it makes perfect sense: They go back in time to the right place at the right time and they get to see two famous people for the price of one. This confirms it: we're gonna make it someday!"

"Yeah."

Conclusion:

That was my first experience with time travelers. Stay tuned for encounter number two, which happened just a couple of weeks ago. Oh boy!

V-DAY...

I'm making my way from California Geography class to Ancient Greece. I'm walking between the Student Union and the building with a Pizza Hut. The sun is warm against my face and the breeze is frosty cold. Suddenly I hear a woman's voice announce very loudly, "Come and kiss the vagina."

I stop in my tracks. It's those voices again, I say to myself. Ignore them, they'll go away as long as you pretend that you never heard them in the first place. Oh, but it's too late--I already stopped, and now I'm nonchalantly glancing around in search of the voice's owner.

"Yes, you. Come and kiss the vagina." The voice was a bit forceful this time.

I blink. There's a girl standing with a microphone. She's smiling at me. Behind her, propped up on a table, is the largest vagina I've ever seen. Ok, not that I've seen a whole lot, but I feel seasoned enough to know that they don't come in microwave size.

"So, do you want to try?" she asks, smiling like a Stepford wife.

"Errrr..." My face feels rather warm. "Ummm..."

"Oh, come on, it's not that difficult. All you have to do is throw a Hershey's kiss through the vagina and you win a prize."

"Errrr..."

She hands me a few Hershey kisses. "Step over here. You get three tries."

I resist the urge to ask her if it matters that I throw underhand or overhand. And then, as I perceive a gathering crowd, I suddenly want to toss them all at once and get the hell outta here. One, two, three--in quick succession--I lob the Hershey kisses at the vagina...and completely miss.

"Oh, that's too bad," she tells me, with a look that makes me feel like a puppy that drizzled on the carpet. "But here, take one of our flyers.

It turns out that today is V-DAY. And they are selling tickets to an event to raise money to stop violence against women and girls. Hmmm. Interesting way to go about it. Well, I guess I can breathe a sigh of relief that there won't be an angry inflatable woman after me for tossing chocolates at her vagina.

And if you don't believe my story, keep scrolling to find a picture I took with my nifty camera phone! Or click here!

Now I've seen everything...

VDAY

Vacation memories...

After school my friend Petra and I met for coffee at Starbucks. The moment I walked in I was slapped with a memory of my last day in Paris. The dark aroma of fresh coffee beans, the happy African music booming from the corner speakers. Then there are those scary couch people who furtively peer over their paperbacks to steal a looksie at the newbies. But that's subject matter for a completely different post.

Anyway, there's only one Starbucks in Paris. Reason: the French are notorious for their chic cafés that serve deliciously strong coffee--the kind of java that can put hair on your...well, you get the picture. Also, the French aren't too keen on foreign competition, especially when it challenges a cherished aspect of their culture. It makes sense. Can you imagine Monday Night Football being replaced by the European World Cup of Soccer? Oh, the horror!

So my friends and I (in Paris) trudged up and down Les Boulevards searching for this one Starbucks that we had all seen at some point or another (most likely whizzing past the window as we sped by in a Renault with croissant crumbs on our lap).

Unsuccessful, but nowhere near giving up, we finally decided to ask a passerby. The French gentleman very politefully gave us the wrong directions, after which he mumbled amicably, "Typical Americans." Which I thought was funny because there were three of us, and I was the only American--the other two were Swedes (Esbjorn and -type Swedish girl's name in here-).

Alas, we found it. I was impressed: it looked just like all the other Starbucks, except of course (in typical Parisian fashion) it had two levels--bathrooms downstairs. We found ourselves a nice couch by the window (sans paperbacks, thankyou very much) and proceeded to pretend we were philosophical gurus, jobless, discussing the plights of humankind. Ahhh vacations.

Yeah, so that was the memory I had today at Starbucks. Sometimes I feel like two different people. There's the me on vacation, doing things that only really rich people can do every day; and then there's the me that lives in the real world, doing things that only a poor college student can afford. Funny that the one constant in this equation happens to be a freakin' Starbucks!