Pure Nerd!

Thanks Oliver for discovering this awesome test!

Try it: The Nerd? Geek? or Dork? Test

Here are my results: Pure Nerd

78% Nerd, 30% Geek, 47% Dork

For The Record:

A Nerd is someone who is passionate about learning/being smart/academia.

A Geek is someone who is passionate about some particular area or subject, often an obscure or difficult one.

A Dork is someone who has difficulty with common social expectations/interactions.

I scored better than half in Nerd, earning the title of: Pure Nerd.

The times, they are a-changing. It used to be that being exceptionally smart led to being unpopular, which would ultimately lead to picking up all of the traits and tendencies associated with the "dork." No-longer. Being smart isn't as socially crippling as it once was, and even more so as you get older: eventually being a Pure Nerd will likely be replaced with the following label: Purely Successful.

The Nerd? Geek? or Dork? Test written by donathos on OkCupid Free Online Dating

Another Shark Attack!

Here's the story.

The angry side of me calls for an immediate and complete destruction of all great whites, bull sharks, tiger sharks, hammerheads--all the killer sharks that have become notorious for attacking humans. But then I calm down and say to myself: Hey--it's their turf. No one's forcing me to swim in the ocean. So really there are only a few instances in which I'd ever have to confront a shark in a life and death situation:

1) The plane I'm in happens to crash in the ocean and I happen to survive, only to be torn to bits by an awaiting shark (and don't think I haven't considered the possibility as I've flown over the ocean).

2) The cruise ship I'm on pulls a Titanic and I'm left to cling to a full lifeboat, only to be ravaged by a hungry shark lurking beneath the boat (even as I write this I feel the urge to pull my legs up onto the chair).

3) The Big One strikes California and suddenly Fresno has beach front property, only I'm in San Francisco at the time and the pole that I’ve clung to breaks and I'm swept away into the open mouth of Jaws.

4) The moon is destroyed by a comet resulting in the destruction of its influence on the tides. As the ocean waters wash up to the Sierra Nevada Mountains a shark swims in through my open window and pins me against my computer.

Other than those few rare--but admittedly possible--instances, I really have nothing to fear from sharks. Like Jack pointed out in his blog, I’d never so much as stick one little toe in the ocean water…

My First Day...

So the first day of the credential program was long and tedious. My first class was three hours, after which I barely had enough time to dash over to Taco Bell for a quick Burrito Supreme before I had to be at my next class. I did have a three hour break from 3pm to 6pm, but then I didn’t get out until 9pm. Whew!

All day I thought about how nice and relaxing the summer had been, and how I couldn’t wait for next summer so I could get back to my 8 hour per day writing schedule. I’m a writer trapped in a teacher’s life. Help!!

Anyway, I got a kick out of the orientation. The head of the program gave us his wonderful, inspirational, tear jerking speech on what teachers meant for the future of the world and how powerful we are because we “are the shapers of the minds of tomorrow.” That just scares the hell out of me. Fear for our future, people.

“And another thing,” he said, eyeing us intensely, “don’t ever…have sex with your students. I don’t care if they’re eighteen…I don’t care if they have hot bodies…just don’t do it. Don’t even touch them. Don’t call them…don’t page them…don’t text them. Don’t even pat them on the back when they’ve done a good job. But remember…the most important thing is: Don’t have sex with them!”

After everyone had loosened their collars and mopped their foreheads, we moved on to the next topic: Dress codes. Which I found rather humorous. Supposedly there was this Harley Davidson-tattoo-covered-biker-dude-teacher who got in trouble when the administration found out that he was showing off his full-sleeved tattoos to a bunch of seventh graders after school. On his bald head was the Harley Davidson logo. You go, man…or something.

Rooney Ville Reminiscence...

This particular blog is dedicated to my friend, Jack, who, to my great delight, recently upgraded his nerd status by setting up residence in the Blogosphere. I have every reason to believe that Rooney Ville will soar to an excellence of which I can only dream.

So, click on over to Rooney Ville, pull up a chair, light a cigar, blow smoke in a cow's face, and...well...just chill....

Speaking of cows, Jack is deathly afraid of them. Why, you ask: Who the hell knows. He claims that it's their bottomless brown eyes--those vacant sockets that harbor an evil so formidable as to chill Jack's blood whenever he finds himself trapped in their solemn gaze.

I, on the other hand, have a more rational fear: Sharks! You see, sharks can actually eat you. Whereas cows can only be eaten by you. I mean, who's ever heard of a cow attack? Oh Billy, stay away from the fence honey...the cow might maul you to death!

Anyway, I'm also not too keen on skunks. This may sound rather bizarre, but I have a reasonable explanation. You see, there was this time--I think I was around 16 years old--I was spending the night at Jack's house and we decided to sneak over and kick it in the Jacuzzi in the apartment complex on the other side of his backyard fence.

When we returned to Jack's house he realized he'd left his fancy shmancy calculator watch by the Jacuzzi so, being the exceptionally cool friend that I was (and still am), I volunteered to fetch it for him. Only when I ran through his backyard I was confronted by a humongous skunk (fangs, red eyes, six inch talons) and I froze. Well, as you might expect, the skunk didn't. Rather, it proceeded to turn me into a human stink bomb.

By the way, the watch was gone; we think the security guard stole it. So basically I was victimized by Pépé le Pu for nothing.

The moral of the story: At times, being the "exceptionally cool friend" can really stink.

The Vioxx Lotto...

Ok, that's just ridiculous. What was this Texas jury thinking to award 253 million dollars to this woman? No wonder there are so many greedy, sue happy people in this country. Remember the Wendy's chili finger woman? It's blunders like this that are fueling those sickos.

Don't think I'm coldhearted; I can appreciate that this woman lost her husband as a result of negligence on the part of Merck Co. for not testing their medicine properly. And I can completely understand why she would want to sue for mental anguish and her husband's lost pay. But 253 million dollars! The man was a fricken produce manager at Wal-Mart. I mean, come on!

So after the verdict, the woman said, "In the four years that I knew and loved Bob, I went to a lot of his marathons, his triathlons. This has been my run for Bob."

More like your fricken winning lottery ticket.

And then her lawyer responded to those who have the same issues as I do: "You have got a company worth billions and billions and billions of dollars. If you write down $10m, Merck laughs. It's a rounding error. It's got to be over $100m or they won't even pay attention."

Ok, so what are we doing, penalizing companies because they are successful? Is that how it works? What kind of crap is that?

Nevertheless, the floodgates are open, and anyone who took Vioxx and happened to suffer a few heart palpitations is going to make a mad dash to the courthouse. After all, it's becoming the American way.

If I were in that jury, I would've given the woman a check for a hundred bucks and a year's subscription to Perfect Match dot com.

253 million, sheesh...

Teaching Jitters...

On Monday I start student teaching in middle school. I am so damn nervous. Mostly it's because I still think I don't know what the hell I'm talking about. I can see it already:

"Excuse me, Mr. Morris, who's the 36th president of the United States?"

"Uh...Albert Einstein, or something.... I dunno Asswipe, like go look it up or something..."

"But you're supposed to know...you're a teacher, aren't you?"

"Errr..."

Anyway, I need to come up with a list of great comebacks:

1) That's a great question, Billy, perhaps you should consult your history book for the answer.

2) Oh, come now, Billy...give it some time, it'll come to you....

3) Now, Billy, I can't give you all the answers. Might I suggest you add www.iknowmypresidentsbyheart.com to your Favorites list.

4) Excellent question, Billy. Perhaps you and Sarah can put your heads together; you're bound to come up with the answer sooner or later.

5) Billy...Billy...Billy--don't tell me you've forgotten our little presidents jingle. Just think of the 34th and the 35th. It should just POP right into your head.

6) Billy, I suggest you write down your question, fold it up into a nice little square, and shove it up your keister. Don't ask me such menial questions--that's what the Internet's for. Geez, get a clue kiddo!

Okay, I guess that's a good start....

Quotes-R-Us...

Don't get me wrong, I totally respect Pakistan's President Musharraf for his tough stance on Islamic extremism, but I thought this recent quote was a bit hilarial:

"I appeal to the nation to reject the retrogressive elements politically and socially as they are opposed to progress."

A Swatch Moment...

I'm standing at the watch counter at the Swatch store in Glendale, California. Maliheh, one of my employees, stands beside me running her manicured fingernails through her long brown hair. She's originally from Iran but you'd never know it by her unaccented English and her very trendy, very L.A. fashion sense.

Today, she's wearing a black skirt with a low-cut blouse, revealing olive-skinned cleavage and a gold necklace fashioned with the word: HUSTLER.

The necklace was a present from Larry Flynt, who, according to Maliheh, hands them out like candies at his numerous parties. The boobs, well, I never asked where she got those.

A thin man with stringy blond hair strolls in from the mall and begins scrutinizing the Chrono watches. He eyes Maliheh out of the corner of his eye--as most men do--and then snaps his attention back to the silver watch in his hand.

At that moment, Maliheh somehow bangs her finger against the counter and hisses a profanity. She sticks her finger in her mouth and pouts.

The skinny man ambles over and says, "Wow, that looked like it really hurt."

Maliheh frowns, nodding.

"So where did you bang it?"

She points to the corner and then puts her finger back in her mouth.

"Listen," the guys says, acknowledging me with a curt nod, "my name's Brian. What're your names?"

Maliheh and I exchange bemused glances and then we tell Brian our names.

He then proceeds to explain that he's a Scientologist and can make Maliheh's hurt finger not hurt anymore.

Both of us lean forward with interest.

"All you have to do," he begins, "is lay the tip of your finger on the exact spot where you banged it. Then keep tapping it, and the pain will vanish."

I suppress a grin as Maliheh follows his directions.

After a few light taps, during which Brian's eyes wander in the vicinity of the gold Hustler necklace, Maliheh's eyes light up and she tells us in an astonished tone how the pain is completely gone.

Brian beams a what-did-I-tell-you look and then hands us each a business card.

We watch him leave and I turn to Maliheh to express my amazement at what had just transpired.

"Are you kidding?" she says. "I was lying my ass off. It hurts like a motherfucker."

Bag of Bones...

I'm in New Orleans sitting at the back of a tour bus parked outside an old cemetery--one of those creepy haunts where the dead are buried above ground in bone-white, closet-sized mausoleums. Anne Rice refers to them all the time in her Vampire Chronicles.

Anyway, the tour guide stands up and explains how these types of cemeteries are necessary in New Orleans since the city is below sea level and has a tendency to flood.

"You wouldn't wanna see your dead relatives floating down your street, now would ya?" he says in a creepy voice.

On one side of the cemetery stands a wide cement wall which is divided into sections, like a large tic-tac-toe board, composed of square graves stacked one on top of the other. These can be leased for around five grand for ten years, after which your dusty bones are gathered up, stuffed in a bag, and shoved to the back of the grave to make room for the next customer.

"People are just dying to get in there," the guide says with a grin.

Then he proceeds to tell us how about nine years earlier he was giving the same spiel to another group of tourists when he noticed a guy in a baseball cap at the back of the bus who looked a bit like Stephen King. A few years later the novel Bag of Bones was published.

"And d'you think my name was mentioned on the dedication page?" the guide asks ruefully.

Everyone laughs.

I frown. Damn, I missed Stephen King by nine years...

FINITO!!

My jaw is on the floor. Seriously, I can't believe I actually started and finished a novel this summer. And the great part is: I love it! I'm so happy with the result. However, I now must go back through, from start to finish, and fix the inconsistencies, typos, punctuation goofs, etc. that I know exist. But it's all very normal stuff and I should have it smoothed out in about a month. Yippee!!

So here are the final tallies:

• Chapters 1-6: 10,176 Words; 53 Pages
• Chapters 7-12: 11,836 Words; 62 Pages
• Chapters 13-18: 10,375 Words; 58 Pages
• Chapters 19-24: 10,616 Words; 59 Pages
• Chapters 25-30: 9,898 Words; 55 Pages
• Chapters 31-34 + Epilogue: 7,318 Words; 40 Pages

GRAND TOTAL: 34 Chapters; 60,219 Words; 327 Pages (Courier New, font size 12)

BTW, I'm completely baffled that I missed my initial projection by a measly 200 words. I really think the muse set the goal and then proceeded to hit the mark. I'm sure those 219 words are useless and I'll now begin my hunt to root them out. I can almost guarantee that they're adverbs. :)

I think it's time for a glass of wine. *CLINK*

God Save the Queen...

I just heard that the British are going to use racial profiling when they stop and search people in public places. Leave it to the sensible Brits to do EXACTLY what is necessary to prevent these insane madmen from blowing up their citizens. Even the black police commissioner in London agreed that it made more sense to frisk an Arabic youth than an old white woman.

But can you imagine the police trying to pull something like that here in America? Oh no! You'd have the bleeding heart liberal pansies up in arms screaming that their precious rights were being trampled on. And you can guarantee that the slippery ACLU lawyers would slither into the fray to sink their venomous fangs into any police officer who dared to subject a poor helpless Middle Easterner to a pat down.

But these whiny finger-pointers are the same ones who'd yell and scream that the government wasn't protecting them should anything happen in their neck of the woods. Why didn't they stop the terrorist from blowing up my shopping mall!--they'd scream. They should've known it was coming! What happened to all the intelligence!

But rewind the tape and these same worthless people would be marching in the streets had a police officer asked to check the backpack of the poor abused fellow in the turban.

So thank God for the Brits and their no nonsense methods for rooting out the bad guys. In less than a week they caught all four of the July 21st bombers. My only worry is that it's going to take something equally as horrible to occur in America before these narrow brained Americans wise up and let our police officers do their jobs.