Salutatorian Neglect

So Mrs. Niemi was raving about the cover art for One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich
the other day, and all I could think about was how much he looked like Revolver Ocelot from Metal Gear Solid: The Twin Snakes.


P.S.: So I guess I'm number two in the class now, so I get to give a speech for real this time. Now only one question remains: How big of an ass do I want to make of myself?

No, I Don't Want No Pigeons

Damn it. Now that I'm blogging again I'm feeling the pressure to post something every 20 minutes, or I feel like I'm neglecting the blog. I've just gotta remember that it's okay to let the blog be idle for a few hours, even, god forbid, a few days. Besides, I can always count on Bundy to swoop in and save the day with some pictures of gaybos or whatever.

BUT, right now I actually do have some bloggable business: I know all of your radio listening schedules are jam packed already, what with the explosive popularity of DJs Capelle and Sensitron, but I have one more program for you to put in to your Radio-vo.

Green Cheese is a radio trivia call in show on KAXE (89.9 here in B-town). It airs every Saturday night at 7 p.m. I enjoy it when I can catch it and you should too. The trivia varies from history to sports to pop culture to science to number and word puzzles.

Here are a couple of my favorite questions. Post your answers in the comments. One rule: use of the interweb in this contest is hereby prohibited. Card-catalogue use, on the other hand, is highly encouraged.

1. Name all three of the Three Amigos.

2. What is the only place on earth where Jews are considered Gentiles?

P.S.: Neato.

you know what really chaps my ass?

So, i've thought of an interesting blip in the english language that annoys me.

as defined by dictionary.com -

sure - 1.free from doubt as to the reliability, character, action, etc., of something

why is it then, that when someone asks me "hey, bundy, you wanna like, go to the circus or something?" and i respond, "sure," that they say "god bundy, you're such a hardass, you can't just answer yes or no?"

WTF! when i tell people "sure" it not only means yes, it means "yes god dammit, without a doubt and 100% certainly"


in lighter news, i ate 12 oz. of chocolate today and i feel like a million dollars

Ghost Dentures Is Back

Took the SAT IIs this morning, and I think they went alright.

The 5:40 am wake-up time was pretty bad, but it was easily the worst part of the whole experience. The drive down was fine, if a little snowy, and Tech high school was easy to find.

I was suprised by how down in the mouth everyone looked when I got in. Everyone else looked either terrified or pissed off, and for some reason this cheered me up. I began to whistle "Baby Elephant Walk."

We had some down time in the cafeteria waiting for everyone to show up. I spent this time constructing the following demographic chart of the test-takers this morning.
Margain of error: +/- one black kid.


When the clock struck 8, we SAT II kids walked over to our own room. I got a good desk and looked around at my fellow testees: an enormous jock wearing a ball cap, an asian girl checking her make-up, a 6-2 tomboy with curly blonde hair, an effete little nerd doing some last minute cramming for the Literature test, and the rest. The proctor went mercifully quickly through the instructions, then sent us on our way. After one test a few people left, and after the second there were only four in the room to take a third test.

I noticed the proctor spent a goodly portion of her time looking through the want ads with a highlighter. I suppose if you're proctoring SAT tests you may be in need of a day job.

Chem was easier than expected, Math II was tough (but the curve is nice), and Literature was really easy, thanks almost entirely to the fact that I have taken roughly 85 such read-the-following-passage-and-answer-the-questions tests in my time.


Message from Planet Oseland: Sluthandle played a concert in a house on Buffalo Hills Lane last night. They are from the UK, and they're back on the surface after touring Hell for five years.

Sluthandle Roll Call:

Bulldog-Drums!
Rick-Guitar!
Ghost Dentures, or Gumballs-Lead Singer!

I have a feeling that Sluthandle is actually just Chris' band with an English accent. I'm sorry I missed it.

It Is By Will Alone I Set My Mind In Motion

Just finished watching the David Lynch version of Dune. I'd forgotten how sweet it was, mostly because of the following factors, as outlined by Sam Walker on one long bus ride to school in about 4th grade:

-"There's this evil dude in like a float suit, and he flies around all over the place. Then at the end he gets like his plug pulled, and he flies out of a building and gets eaten by a worm."

-"So there are these gigantic worms, and when you want to ride one you have to run up to it and pry up one of its scales, so it will start to roll over and lift you up. Then you stick these hooks into the nostrils or whatever on top use them as reins."

-"They have these sound guns, and there are certain words that when you say them they get focused and you can fire them off. And at one point someone tries to say this guy's name and it activates his sound gun and it accidentally fires."

(After all this, I informed Sam, truthfully, that during his entire description of the movie I had been picturing all of the characters as monkeys, like planet of the apes. Odd, to say the least.)

ANYWAYS, my other reasons for liking the Lynch version include:
-Sting being a total badass.-The "Prophecy Theme" by Brian Eno dropping in at the high-points with a rousing electric guitar riff.
-Spotting Virginia Madsen (aka Maya from Sideways) in a very early role as the Emperor's daughter.
-Sting stepping out of the steam in a ridiculous space-speedo.
-Patrick Stewart (as Gurney Halleck) running down the steps of the palace with a machine gun in one hand and a pug in the other.
-Sting getting fucking smashed into the floor by Paul after the final knife fight.

I'm not saying it doesn't have lots of shortcomings: the women are non-people, the acting can be pretty bad, and it really doesn't cover much of the actual book, which is a shame because it's such a sweet story.

Fond memory: eating hamburgers at Rick Walker's house, watching the first half of Dune before my dad came to pick me up. Rick commented on the intricate set-dressing and attributed it to the Italian producer.


P.S.: SAT IIs tommorow. Wish me luck.

My Mental Gymnastics Will Flip You

1. Mr. Blong today: "See, if I was after the money, I'd be better off just quitting this job and working for the porn industry." Now before you draw any conclusions, you should realize that Blongo was talking about google-bombing for porno sites, not doing any sort of performance, or perhaps set-dressing. But you know how everyone took it.

2. Word on the street is that some goody-goody has leaked word to Lepel that A. some people don't think she's most personable badger in the burrow and B. they write about it on the blogs. So brace yourselves for another round of cyber-tears here on the interweb.

The made fun of me! On the INTERNET! Everyone in the world could read it!


3. So in econ today Kubas said something clever, and I was all "Oh my, what mental gymnastics. You're like the intellectual Kerri Strug!" I was far too proud of this riposte.

4. Phrases to use: goody two-shoes, "on everyone's lips," time to shine, in my wheelhouse

5. Read this.

rock the casbah

ok, this is mainly a post for AO, but perhaps some of our mustache faithful will enjoy it.

tonight was the final home game of the season for the girls hockey team. so a group of manly men (and a woman) consisting of thomas day, andrew kubas, maxwell kuehn, and ashley olson decided to attend the game.

let us rewind to early this morning. i was in a fun circle talking with a few people...when i noticed tom day leaning against the lockers about 100 feet away. i told some of the ladies, "look at that man over there. he is calm. cool. collected. leaning against a locker. i would tap that."

little did i know that this quote would soon become the highlight of the evening. old ladies? "yeah, i'd tap that." boys with letterman jackets? "i'd tap that." 2 hockey refs with manly mustaches? you know the phrase.

after the game, i was in desperate need of finding some batteries. the neon wasn't functional tonight, so i had to borrow a ride from AO. we went to a store called target. upon entrance, there was this fun lady named mrs. folkeringa shopping.

background information: as a sophomore, AO was asked to c-ball by a senior named jacob folkeringa. yes. awkwardness.

ashley pretty much sprinted far away from mrs. folky, but we had to make a giant circle to get back to the battery section. and who did we meet? yup.

visual: mrs. folkeringa is pushing her cart down the aisle.
kubas: "why hello!"
visual: AO is blushing.
mrs. f: "hi..."

yup, that was the extent of our awkward conversation.

i bought a lovely 10-pack of AAA batteries. and there was pretty much no one in the store. so i asked the clerk, "can i ring up my batteries?" yeah, she TOTALLY let me ring up my own purchase. and i don't even work there!

man, you could call me dr. kubas. or you could just paint a target on my back and let me work there. or, if you really wanted, you could sleep in carl sneep's bed. (long story.)

mustache out!

Just Stop Talking At The Sound Of The Tone

Anna Z sent me this sweet video of Laurie Anderson doing "O Superman." I think this was a big hit overseas. Those europeans; they just can't get enough of that hot answering machine action.

Just try to look away. I DARE you.

Bury Me With My Money

So on the advice of a certain Mr. Sam Walker I set up something called a del.i.cious (I apologize if i misplaced those periods. Please forgive my ignorance) account. Apparently, I'm can bookmark all of the neat websites I visit and place them on a page, so others can enjoy my particular flavor of cyberspace.

I like the concept, but I worry that my delicious account will become another strain on my already thinly-stretched supply of cyber-creativity. A sizable portion of my blog posts are directly related to neat things I discover via the inter-connectiveness-web. The fact that the kilogram is defined based on an actual physical object? That sweet dino comics physics proof? A lot of other stuff I can't recall at the moment? It's possible that none of these items would have made the blog if I'd merely dumped them into my delicious account and forgot about them.

In fact, I think Sam Walker's paucity of blog posts may be partially explainable by his overuse of a delicious. How else could someone who spends such long hours trolling the web for fresh meat, who rivals wikipedia in the storage of useless factoids, who is always the first to leave a snarky comment when someone misplaces an apostrophe, neglect his own blog to such an extent?

BUT: Upon further review, I imagine that a del.i.cious account will inspire me to write more blog posts about neato stuff on the web, not less. For example, if not for my thoughts about what to link to on delicious during the day, I probably would have neglected to find and download this bitchin Sega Genesis Emulator, a marvelous device which allows one to download ROM files of old Sega games and mess around with 'em on one's computer.

I won't say precisely how much Sega I've played this evening. Let's just say that that Death Adder's reign of terror is over, and Chief Scalpen is safely behind bars.

Hmmmm, perhaps I can do a series of posts about sega games that were important to me... or is that more of a Superblog thing? We shall see.

HOLY SHIT DUDES

MONSTER JAM AT THE METRODOME, FEBRUARY 17TH

Man monster trucks are sweet. This shot is of the truck Airborne Ranger, manned by quadriplegic driver Joe Cypher. I realize that not all the truck/driver combos can be that badass, but c'mon. I'm serioulsy considering organizing some sort of monster truck adventure. Tickets are $16-$20 on ticketmaster, but I'm pretty sure the TV told me they're JUST FIVE BUCKS.

Great line from ticketmaster website: "Children under age 2 admitted free if held on an adult's lap."

one day in the life of andrew kubas.

at lunch today:

kubas: "hey, max, do you know what today is the start of?"
max: "yeah, the REST OF OUR LIVES??"

silly maxwell, i wasn't talking about THAT...

today was the day that david stark rolled over in his grave. that's right folks, january 22, 2007 marked the beginning of macroeconomics.

the old stark-master-flex rules: 4 or 5 chapter tests worth your whole grade/intense workbook practice/random moments of stalking a boy named kubas.

the new barnett-style: one chapter tests with little-to-no studying/never using the workbook/a pleasant ohio accent.

i might stick with it.

my schedule looks pretty much the same. gilby will always be a pimp. i will never understand niemi. qualley will be easy. melby will win my heart. pelkey will continue to be my favorite teacher. and barnett...seems manly. perhaps i can get him to wear a mustache by the end of the year.

lately i have been thinking that i am just crazy. perhaps that is how it's supposed to be. i'm in need of advice: which is more fun: expecting the unexpected, or going on a treasure hunt? none of you know what i'm talking about. but i just need an answer.

jack bauer is a pimp. i think when the 2nd annual MMA's roll around, he will be up for a few nominations. seriously, as much as i hate to admit it, FOX had some great stuff tonight. a suicide in prison break? (i expected it, but now i have NO idea what comes next. i didn't think THAT far ahead.) and then 24. woooo. i had to change pants 4 times. but i don't mind.

mustache out!

Don't Go Chasing Waterfalls

Alright, so here's the hope-o-meter (patent pending):It mesaures my hope level, all the way from from 0 (utter despair) to 100 (nothing but dead rats and warm milk).


Now as I see it we can pretty much disregard the demoralizing effect of this Open Forum letter:

Illegal aliens and abortion
It is not true that millions of illegal aliens are here doing the work Americans refuse to do. They are simply doing the work millions of aborted Americans were not given the chance to do.
Steve DesMarais
Staples

Because it is completely cancelled out by this excellent passage about Christmas trees:

"There is something ghastly about a tree--its look of many-limbed paralysis, its shaggy and conscienceless aplomb--encountered in the open, let alone the living room. At night, you can hear it rustling and slurping water out of the bucket."
-John Updike

So right now we've got the Saints' loss to the Bears and my iPod's distressing new habit of playing the first twenty seconds of a song, then stopping (and now sitting next to my keyboard, making audible clicking noises as iTunes tells me it has been "corrupted"--Fuck) pushing the hope-o-meter down to, oh, let's say, 35.
But a combination of Barack Obama, pug puppies, and my impending 18th birthday combine to pull us out of the red, and even a ways into green, maybe 57 or so.BUT my fuckin iPod finally extricated itself from my computer, only to tell me that it now contains no songs. While this discouraging development is partially mitigated by the fact that I have most of the music I care about still on my computer, I'm sorry to say that it has knocked me back down to a stable 50.

Oh well. I have a feeling that new classes (not for me, but for everyone else) will give me a bump this week. I suppose deutsch and physics will stay the same, but calc may get a refreshing twist.

Also, remixed 5th hour Lang? Macro-econ with a KUBAS in the mix?


Things are looking up.

We Must Remain Vigilant To Protect Our City From The Dangers Of Breakcore

So last night we decided that you know what we'd do, we'd have a late night dance party. It went strong for a couple of hours, then just as the playlist ended and we turned on the lights, who should show up but the Party Patrol.

Now, don't get your hopes up about the party patrol. They are not, as I had hoped when I first saw them mentioned in the Minnesota Daily yesterday, a group of fun-loving party-aimals who roll around campus in a freak bus, spreading parties everywhere they go. In fact, the party patrol is pretty much the exact opposite: a team of officers who troll the streets of SE Minneapolis, looking for parties to break up and hosts to ticket, probably to raise funds for the corrupt mayor's money laundering scheme.

Anyway, the fuckin Party Patrol knocks on the door, tells us all loud music should end by 10, then gives us a big lecture about cooperating with them in the future (despite the fact that we did nothing but cooperate this time around.)

After they left we got to thinking about what a terrible perversion of the title "Party Patrol" those fuckers were. They should be called the Stiff Patrol, or maybe the Asshole Patrol (it rhymes!). Sam suggested the Downer Patrol, which in turn led to the Upper Patrol, and the Rock Patrol, and the Nerd Patrol, until we had at least half the student body roaming the streets in hypothetical vans, distributing their own unsolicited services to the needy partiers of Dinkytown.


5 murders in 15 days, and what's the city's priority? That's right: Sam Walker, high on life, screaming "Pussy Control" at the top of his lungs. God bless America.

they were put up there to keep us apart.

first off:

with the lack of mustache-related material in the mustache palace, i think it needs to be known that i have not shaved since monday, and i am feeling quite manly. (it involves a mustache.) now, i THOUGHT it would be "fashionable" to just not shave over this 3-day-weekend and return to BHS with a porn-star-look that not even josh johnson could pull off, but the events of tomorrow kind of point in a different direction.

hey, pelk, did you ever get my e-mail? i will send you another one. i am most definitely going to give you a visit tomorrow. same goes for the gaffinator/anyone else who might want to see a boy named kubas.

some fun events in the life of andrew kubas:

yesterday was my retirement party from gambling. tom day, nick anderson, shannon mcguire, josh bundy and myself all hit up the slots/blackjack and had a good time. i decided that (for the time being) it would be my farewell tour because, really, gambling is kind of a bad thing.

i bought this pretty sweet lighter. it's all silver-y and shiny. and it has a blue light that shines really bright. i think i may have to light a mustache on fire.

some deep thoughts: i have been to the top of a mountain, but i don't think i have ever been below sea level. with lowered gas prices, the neon can fill a tank on $18. i really like that.

mustache out.

Michelangelo Titmarsh

Some of you nerds seemed to enjoy that dinosaur comics inspired physics proof yesterday, so I thought what I'd do was, I'd post this other proof, inspired by this comic.

It tackles the zombie problem in the best way I know how: with the power of statistics!

I'm not sure if I've ever mentioned this on the blog, but zombies are pretty much my worst fear. If I were to stumble across a boggart, it would totally be a zombie, probably of someone I knew. I saw Shaun of the Dead (tagline: A Romantic Comedy. With Zombies) which is supposed to be a funny movie (and it is) and it gave me the willies for a week afterward. That comic gave me some hope that I too could lose my fear of zombies, but the proof crushed it right quick.

If anybody ever wants to really freak me out, they should just create an elborate prank to fool me into thinking that there's been a zombie outbreak. It would need to be quite a prank: locked and covered windows and doors, deserted streets, a fake tv or radio news broadcast (I suppose radio would be easier), and of course it would culminate with a zombie attack.

Man, that would be terrifying. In fact, forget I mentioned it.



John Blong's inspirational poster line:
Everything You Know And Love Is Just A Cube

You're Going To Hell, Dad

LIMITS--If You Get Hit By A 5000 Pound AC Unit, You're Dead. If You Get Hit By A 10,000 Pound AC Unit, You're Still Dead. You Don't Get Any Deader. That's What A Limit Is.

The Gnarly Science Of The Stefan-Boltzman Law

Three points of interest today:

1. A wonderful afterschool sick-nap. For some reason, a good nap feels even better if you're a little under the weather. No matter how uncomfortable your nap-spot may be, your brain just says "What the deuce? The inner ear says we're horizontal! Huzzah! Huzzay!" and everything shuts down for a while.

What's more, I even had a weird little nap-dream. I don't quite recall everything that happened, but from what I do remember, it was my birthday and Paige Northway and I were going to visit Linda Dockter in her office. But for some reason, Linda's office was at a museum in the cities (sort of a mix between the MIA and the Science Museum), and it was also sort of an apartment. I fell asleep on the floor in my dream, but I don't recall any meta-dreams; that woulda been sweet.

2. I patched up a couple of folders today, using the only suitable tape in the house: the camo duct tape Maya bought for, but forgot to give to, Hannah. This shit is sweet. It's like tarp on a roll. I basically had to use a blowtorch to cut the stuff. I'm sure glad I have it and not Hannah!

3. So I read this webcomic (only one, I promise!) called dinosaur comics, and in yesterday's comic a character wonders about the feasibility and power requirements (in terms of number of suns) of a device which would use light to throw a person up against a wall. The author left a note asking if some of his more scientifically-minded readers could come up with an estimate. So two guys with nothing better to do came up with this ridiculous proof. Apparently, it would only take 4.7x10^-15 of the total surface area of the sun to make such a cannon work. Good to know.

While we're posting yearbook pictures...

Damn it feels good to be a gangsta

Jackpot Junction!

Two highlights today:

1. I was walking through the bitter cold over to German when a young man with shaggy blond hair, thick-rimmed glasses, jeans and a suit coat ran by me. When a pair of female hicks called his name, he skidded to a halt and started jogging in place next to them. Their dialouge was as follows (SC=suit coat guy, HG1=hick girl 1 [his girlfriend, I assume], HG2=hick girl 2):

HG1: Where are you goin?
SC: Over THERE! (gestures beyond Missy Ho, possibly meaning CLC)
HG1: WHAT? You're going to walk there?
SC: Oh yeah!
HG1: Don't, you'll freeze to death!
SC: I'm a goin'! (SC sets off at a sprint)
HG1 (to HG2): Can I be late to class?
HG2: No, not today.
HG1: Shit! But he's gonna freeze!
HG2: More likely he'll fall and break his hip again.
HG1 (shouting after SC): Don't break your hip! We need it for Friday!


Good times.



2. So after school today I was casually discussing the photos on Linda Dockter's door with Kubas and Linda. We were talking about how Mrs. Evans (the yearbook advisor) had skulked down to Linda's office and obtained the picture of me in a sweater (see right) which I had given to Linda for the AP scholar spread. It was Linda's understanding that it was for the top ten or something, not to replace my actual yearbook photo (see below).



Rebbeca (sp?) Wicklund overheard us and commented on how "Mrs. Evans really didn't like that photo." I asked her what she meant, and she revealed that Mrs. Evans was planning to remove my photo of choice and replace it with the besweatered lame-o shot.

Naturally I stormed down to the Brainonian office and asked Mrs. Evans about it. I had, after all, complied with the picture guidelines, and the yearbook had accepted my photo when I'd first submitted it. She gave me a couple of lame excuses about how "Some people spent $800 on these pictures" and how I was "making fun of the whole concept of senior photos." Oh, the audacity!

I argued in the most respectful terms I could (I didn't insult her once!), and finally told her that if I couldn't have the basketball pic in, I didn't want any photo at all. She responded that the senior photo page had already been sent in and was "at the printers in Kansas."

I broccoli stomped home and was barely in the door when the phone rang. It was Mrs. Evans for me. She told me that although she was "not happy about it," my basketball photo would appear in the senior photo section after all. She claimed that it was because some other kid had submitted a similar photo and the yearbook had no replacement for him, but I know the real reason why: fear. I could smell it on her.

But seriously folks--I'm glad this problem solved itself. I was worried I was going to have to protest the decision somehow. A public burning of my yearbook? Refuse to submit any info for the "best of the class" thing? Or pull a Mattson and write an indignant letter to the FSJ?

It's not that I have a problem with throwing a shit fit over something this petty, but having to decide to what extent I should base my letter of protest on Martin Luther King, Jr.'s Letter From Birmingham Jail? I don't need that kind of stress.

P.S.: When I thought about it, I came up with three more highlights
3.When Seniora Maine came in, discovered that P had not one, not two, but THREE different foreign language scrabble games, and cried out "Jackpot junction!"
4. When I burned Sam on his new dot-matrix deer-jumping-a-log sweater:"Hey Sam, nice shirt. Does it come in hetero?"
5. This sweet gay joke: "Hey Sam, how do you know when two Irishmen are gay? (Dirty look from Sam) When Patrick Fitzwilliam and William Fitzpatrick!"

Hey-Oh!

because i don't like art much.

man this week is going to suck.

pelk: what time should i visit you saturday? are you coming with...scratch that i'll just e-mail you.

quote of the week:

"when you tell stories, you use the same voice."

i love it when people learn quickly.

follow-up: does ANYONE know if there is a train nearby? for passengers? a train that goes to fun places to see fun faces?

"i hope tomorrow is like today." and yesterday. man, guster can pretty much sum up anything.

mustache out!

intramural: a win is a win.

You Would Be Well Advised To Axe Somebody

My momma's been in Thailand the past couple of weeks. She came home on Friday bearing a bunch of great pictures and some good stories. Here's my favorite of the latter, enhanced with a couple of the former.

It's the dead of winter in Thailand too, so in the mornings it was about as cold as it gets all year: sixty to seventy degrees Fahrenheit. All the Thai people wore wool hats and big sweaters, and nearly all the dogs had little sweaters on.

Now one morning my mom was out walking in Bangkok and she spied a dog tied up to a post, the only time she saw an unaccompanied dog tied up in the streets. What's more, it was a pug.

What's more, it was wearing a little sweater.

What's more, it's owner was apparently so worried that his or her little pugsly would get chilly that he or she had draped a piece of plastic over him to keep him warm.

When my mom walked by later that morning, the pug was sitting in the same place, almost in the exact same position. Someone, presumably the owner, had decided that is was warm enough and removed the insulating plastic, leaving the pug with only his stylish blue and red sweater for warmth.

Those Thai (Thailanders? Thaiese? Thainamen?): they sure know how to treat their dogs!

Don't You Ever Just Feel Like Making Some Eggs And Coffee And Staying Up All Night?

Check this out; an introspective post about art in 300 words or less. Now that's an accomplishment!


So I've been thinking about art lately. What started it was, I was reading this art book my parents got me for xmas. It's called The Power of Art and it opened up with some really pretentious observation about how "Art is not comfortable" and about how art was the be-all and end-all of all things. I just thought, "you know, that kind of thing really bugs the hell out of me. I'm sick of these blowhards competing to see who can appreciate art the most, who can ascribe the most power and meaning and emotion to a picture, no matter how meaningless it may be. Have I ever really looked at a painting and felt all the emotions these people ascribe to them? Has anyone, really? Or is it all just a myth created by these snobs to perpetuate their own snobbery and make others feel inferior due to their substandard art appreciation abilities?"

But just as I was ready to dismiss art entirely and join some iconoclast facebook groups and start a little bonfire of the vanities in my kitchen sink, I realized what an egotistical motherfucker I was being. So thousands of educated people have been fooled by the clever ruse of these paint-smearing pricks, and only good ol' Max Kuehn has the insight to see the truth? Doesn't seem real likely. Sure, some art invites commentary which it doesn't warrant, but that's the fault of the critic, not the art itself. I think part of learning about art is learning to distiguish between the genuine meaning found within a work and forced, false meaning which others project onto it.

In other words, I think I'm gonna stick with the art history plan for now.That said, if you ever hear me making grandiose statements about the power of art, possibly while wearing a green and white scarf and a sweeping black coat, go ahead and sign me up for some heavy machinery operation class.

The fact that I posted this picture: sign of healthier attitude towards art?
The fact that I worry about my own attitude towards art: or a cry for help? Discuss.

Regret....Cajun Style!

What were we thinking calling ourselves Metallica when "The A-Team" was still available?

Fuckin metallica...


On an interesting side note, there appears to be an 11-part series on youtube entitled "Bring Back the A-Team."

my fingers are bleeding bleeding

in roughly 38 hours i will be free.

i am happy.

METALLICA ROOLZ

First Knowledge Bowl meet today--Just the facts, ma'am.

Pritschet's mood: grumpy-wumpy

Max's mood: a little brought down by fire-breathing P, but boosted by first KB meet magic.

Best question: "What is the term for the line of stars in a Hertzsprung-Russell diagram..." Buzz...5 seconds pass...


"Main Sequence?"
"That's correct."

Most politically slanted/trickiest question: In which article of the Constitution does the phrase "seperation of church and state" appear? Answer: It DOESN'T!

First time as spokes?: I did fine. I didn't totally screw up any that wouldn't have been wrong anyways, and I did pull one out last second. It was "biodiversity," in case you're curious.

Number of Sandman references: 2 (Ceaser Augustus and the line "Better to reign in Hell than to serve in Heaven.")

The Bottom Line: 140. Metallica kicks ass.

a manly question.

does anyone know...

is there a passenger train nearby? does the one in staples still offer rides?

today for lunch BHS served "chicken stir fry." the way i figured: our lack of culture in the halls of BHS led to the administration forcing fortune cookies down our throats. i don't know if they really qualified as "fortune" cookies, because the majority of them were sentence fragments and/or riddles. i don't quite remember how it went (in all honesty, i didn't really hear it...) but it sounded like max's fortune went as follows:

max: "why do elephants have short tails?"
(no one answers)
max: "because they can't remember long stories."

aside from that one, other suggestions such as "dream" or "be sure to swallow your milk before you giggle" really brightened up our lunch room.

i am looking forward to the beginning of the end this weekend. no more debate. praise God. i think Jesus sported a mustache. therefore, Jesus is pretty much the shiz.

this week in ap human geography...i've noticed a bunch of fun little deebs quips. yesterday...when half of the class came in well over 5 minutes late...deebs just muttered to himself at least seven times, "just one-and-a-half more weeks. just one-and-a-half more weeks. just one-and-a-half more weeks."

then today he tried to give us a brief history lesson. it was something to the effect of "you guys know about levittowns, right?" after realizing which individuals he was questioning...deebs proceeded to answer (.0023 seconds later) "of course you don't, who am i kidding."

ohhh i love 6th hour.

to the manly mustaches: is anyone actually interested in having a 50 states/american party? because my mind is full of fun ideas.

mustache out!

Ridding Around Shinning

My iPod-to-car-stereo system has always been a little sketchy, and lately it's gone completely kaput. So I casually asked my dad if it was possible to dub CDs onto cassette tapes with our stereo yesterday, and, dedicated dad and experienced tapemaker that he is, by making me three proffesional-grade tapes with the music of my choice:

Abbey Road/Rocky Horror Picture Show
Creedence Clearwater Revival/Ghostface Killah
2Pac/Queen

As if that embarassment of riches weren't enough, my dad says he'll make me some more tommorow while the system is still hooked up. The question is, what should I put on them?

Well, what use is a blog if not to solve a dilemma like this? Keep in mind that these tapes' primary purpose will be for rollin' in the Lincoln.


Also: First KB meet of the season this thursday. You know what that means: We need a team name. Now the choice of a KB team name is much more important than most people realize. The name is how you remember your team (Sans Coulouttes, Stuck On Burma, Death Eaters--all good times), it's what you get to hear every time you buzz in, and it can often serve to define the team to a certain extent (Death Eaters, I'm pointing in your direction.)

So what should we call the kuehn/mohs/richard/walker/voelker cabal? It can't be too tame (ham,) nor too lame (su do coup detat), but it also can't go over certain boundries of good taste, as set by Pritschett (i.e., Autoerotic Asphyxiation would probably be a no-go).

I'd say Star Boyz, but we have a little too much X to do that name proper. And while Skull Squadron is also a winner, it would feel wrong to have that name without Holbrook on the team.

Allow me to summarize: I'm stumped. I want to have at least a couple of ideas so this thing isn't decided over cookies and slushy apple juice like the last three have been.

private idaho

calling all mustaches:

as a future geographer/current douchebag...i notice some interesting things.

this is a challenge:

the mustache palace has been viewed/read by 46 of the 50 states. i know that we are slowly taking over the globe...but to successfully universalize the "mustache way," it's kind of imperative to begin by taking over our own country.

calling to attendance:

IDAHO.
MISSISSIPPI.
WEST VIRGINIA.
DELAWARE.

you guys are on the clock. i'm hoping that just typing their names will generate some hits. other than that...we should have an "american" party soon. yes. i can see it now.

mustache out!

The Funk Of 40 Million Years

I have a real introspective post about art a-brewin', but for all your sakes I think I'm going to punch it up a little bit before I post it here. Unmitigated whining may be the norm on other blogs; not here on the Manly Mustaches! No, we carefully mitigate all pissing & moaning with a careful blend of sarcasm and amusing polls.


So...Mr. Lade tells me he has a high school classmate who got a doctorate in art history from Princeton. His name is Gary Vikan, he runs a museum in Baltimore, and while my discouraging discussions with knowledgable persons have made me very skeptical as to the influence anybody can have on admissions decisions at Princeton, he might be able to help me out.

So I've got that going for me. Which is nice.

Now then:
Three Reasons To Like Gary Vikan

1. He's friends with Stu Lade.
2. On April 17, 2003, he announced his resignation from the U.S. Presidential Advisory Committee On Cultural Property in protest of the U.S. failure to prevent looting of the Iraqi National Museum.
3. This picture (Gary's on the right):
A double-breasted suit, a framed lithograph of St. Peter's, and a smiling Asian: What's not to like?

P.S.: My uncle gave me an old "special edition" of Thriller for Christmas. I'm happy to get it just for the music, but it also contains a bunch of Quincy Jones interviews (AD, anyone?), and a voiceover recording session with Vincent Price, including the never before heard second verse.

Chilling.

Also: Jeff Beck?

The Newer Era

We, The Norris Experience, won and are currently in first place.

the new era

we lost by 6 points tonight.

it was a good effort. we lost to the defending champs. we didn't have our two G-men: gmeinder and gallu.

our time will come.

John Blong: Trillin'

Overheard during multiple-choice corrections in Lang:
Niemi: Now Catherine, what was your question?
Lepel: Well in this question it says there's no reference to the original sin.
Niemi: And there isn't, so that's the correct answer.
Lepel: Well here in the text it says "...we trace back our savage heritage to some dark tree in some forgotten forest..."
Niemi: I don't see how that contains a reference to original sin.
Lepel: Allow me to explain. In the beginning...

I didn't actually hear Lepel's last response there ( I was trying too hard not to laugh out loud), but I imagine it must have been something like that.

I was quite amused to see Niemi doublethinking her way into supporting what she knew was a bad question (in defernce to the AP gods, or something), and poor Lepel having to balance her desire to genuflect herself before Niemi against her disgust at someone so brazenly denying a subtle Biblical allusion. The solution? Presume ignorance on Niemi's part, and fight to enlighten her.


The past couple of days in Calc, Blong has decided to ignore calculus in favor of life lessons of the fiscal variety. We've recieved lectures on credit scores, online gambling, and car financing, all backed up by Blong's stories of what a fiscal badass he is.

It was kind of like Mad Money, but with fewer sound effects and more multiplication by powers of e. I tried to tell Blong that he should get a public access TV show called I Got Money In The Bank where he would outline his mad financial skillz and show the people how they too could become BAFMFs (Bad Ass Fiscal Mother Fuckers), but he was too busy lighting Cuban cigars with burning strings of pearls to listen to me.

i...i...i stuttered.

last night i finished a post-christmas-itunes-splooge-fest.

purchased cds:

"fosbury" by tahiti 80.
"four stops and home" by the feeling.
"broom" by someone still loves you boris yeltsin.
"the avalanche-outtakes and extras from the illinois album" by sufjan stevens. (i wanted to buy this for quite some time...but i've never had the money)

i would recommend all of these to all of you. the music is just...that good.

linda and i have been working on a new kubas-strategy for life:

1. she is trying to arrange for my transcripts to be viewed at GEHD, even though the letter said i wasn't considered. (she is amazing.)
2. i have applied to augsburg.
3. i am going to apply to a really crappy and tiny and CHEAP school that i had never heard of before. metropolitan state university? here i come!

intramural basketball starts sunday. i am PUMPED. with the break-up of the manly mustaches, i have joined (arguably) the best senior team. things are looking good.

tonight was--literally--the first night of the entire year that i have had NO homework. (at least the first in my memory)

jenden: i'm sorry i couldn't help you out this afternoon. i will MOST DEFINITELY be there for AT LEAST two hours tomorrow. you have my word.

tomorrow night? CASINO! woooot.

hey, max, remember to bring your TUX. i'm also bringing a 1970's marching band uniform...and a staplegun. life is good.

mustache out!

Crusaders For Cthulu

So today in Lang Anna handed me her iPod and told me to listen to a song called "America's Most Unwanted Song." It was, suffice to say, pretty hilarious.

Apparently these two Russian artists named Komar and Melamid decided that the most artsy-fartsy thing they could do would be to conduct a public opinion poll to determine Americans' likes and dislikes, and then use that data to create the most- and least-wanted paintings and songs. Now while I fear that this endevour was primarily an excuse for these Russian assholes to make some snarky commentary on how crappy art would be if it were created based on popular demand and how the best art is unpopular, I gotta say that this is a pretty neat concept.

I prefer the most-wanted painting to the least wanted (see Superblog), but the most-wanted song (a sappy, mid-length, mid-tempo love ballad) doesn't stand a chance against the least wanted, a 25 minute monstrosity with a children's choir screaming up-tempo Christmas songs and an soprano rapping about being a cowboy and reading Geramn philosophy while atonal bagpipes and accordions dirge along in the background.

Anna says she'll get me a copy of the compact disc recording, so hopefully I'll be able to ysi it sometime soon.


Now then, based on my own research, I present to you America's Most Unwanted Photograph:

Hey-Oh!

How About That? Take a Picture!

So I went to Mazatlan, Mexico over Christmas Break, and rather than actually write something, I'll just post a few of my favorite pictures.

Sea lions we saw on one of the tours

Part of the Cathedral

One of the restaurants we ate at

At Senor Frogs the decorated the windows

with business cards, so I got my Manly Mustache

card put up.

Palm tree at sunset

Season Of Mists

So I just beat Zelda: Twilight Princess, and for whatever reason, a wave of nostalgia hit me like a dump truck full of warm fuzzies. I guess I was just thinking back to those halcyon post-Thanksgiving days of romping around Ordona province, herding goats, fishing for greengills, and throwing hawks at monkeys in order to retrieve basinets.

Good times.

I guess looking back on the good moments in a game is understandable after you've spent 53 hours (Yes, 53 hours. And I left a lot of stuff undone. I could spend 5 more hours just looking for golden bugs, and don't even get me started on Poe ghosts!) on it over the course of about six weeks. But for whatever reason, the nostalgia started to leak out and I couldn't look at anything without flashing back to a happy memory of it.

Sleds in the yard? Good times at Big Sieve (sp?).
Otto sleeping on the couch? Playing with puppy Otto.
Christmas books? Story time on my parents' bed on past Christmas Eves.

I even started to get nostalgic about (here's where it gets relevant) blogging. I remembered how nice it was to have a place to write something, anything, anytime, how fun it was to have a place that was both a creative outlet and a way to connect with absent friends.

And while Otto will never be a puppy again, I'm getting a little old for story-time, and sledding hurts my back, I can start blogging again. So I will.


P.S.: My dad got the new Beatles thing (Love) for xmas. It's like a whole bunch of Beatles songs mashed together. I like it, but it's hard for me to concentrate on the music sometimes because I get caught up playing "name that riff," trying to pick out all the individual tunes running through each song.

P.P.S.: I apologize for the last post. Suffice to say, "4 to 2" was a fine KB answer for me a few years back. Speaking of which, KB meet...next week? Damn

things i learned over break.

the best breaks start with bad news.
the neon will be thumpin' for years to come.
boise state football is fun to watch.
nor rain nor sleet nor snow nor ice. nothing can stop the mailman.
the neon has sure had some fun adventures.
4th hour tomorrow will be killer.
i am an idiot.
a fun idiot.
i...i lost at battleship.
tahiti 80 brightens up the room.

things i may never understand:

i have an empty 12 pack box of strawberry fanta just sitting in my room. i'm in no rush to throw it away. i really like that.
i put up a picture frame by my window. it's just a rectangle with 4 sides. there's nothing inside of it. it's perfectly parallel with my eyes in the morning. each morning, i wake up to a new picture outside my window. it's probably perfect.

i will see most all of you tomorrow. until then,

mustache out!

I'm A Poet And I Didn't Know It

Casey at the Bat

by Ernest Lawrence Thayer ©

Published: The Examiner (06-03-1888)

The Outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day:

The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play.

And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,

A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest

Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;

They thought, if only Casey could get but a whack at that -

We'd put up even money, now, with Casey at the bat.

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,

And the former was a lulu and the latter was a cake;

So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,

For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,

And Blake, the much despis-ed, tore the cover off the ball;

And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,

There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from 5,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell;

It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;

It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,

For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;

There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile on Casey's face.

And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,

No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;

Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.

Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,

Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,

And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.

Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped-

"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,

Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.

"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand;

And its likely they'd a-killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;

He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;

He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;

But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two."

"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud;

But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.

They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,

And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;

He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.

And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,

And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;

The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,

And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;

But there is no joy in Mudville - mighty Casey has struck out.

Casey at the Bat (Road Game)

by Garrison Keillor

It was looking rather hopeful for our Dustburg team that day:

We were leading Mudville four to two with an inning left to play.

We got Cooney on a grounder and Muldoon on the same,

Two down, none on, top of the ninth- we thought we'd won the game.

Mudville was despairing, and we grinned and cheered and clapped.

It looked like after all these years our losing streak had snapped.

And we only wished that Casey, the big fat ugly lout,

Could be the patsy who would make the final, shameful out.

Oh how we hated Casey, he was a blot upon the game.

Every dog in Dustburg barked at the mention of his name.

A bully and a braggart, a cretin and a swine-

If Casey came to bat, we'd stick it where the moon don't shine!

Two out and up came Flynn to bat, with Jimmy Blake on deck,

And the former was a loser and the latter was a wreck;

Though the game was in the bag, the Dustburg fans were hurt

To think that Casey would not come and get his just dessert.

But Flynn he got a single, a most unlikely sight,

And Blake swung like a lady but he parked it deep to right,

And when the dust had lifted, and fickle fate had beckoned,

There was Flynn on third base and Jimmy safe at second.

Then from every Dustburg throat, there rose a lusty cry:

"Bring up the slimy greaseball and let him stand and die.

Throw the mighty slider and let him hear it whiz

And let him hit a pop-up like the pansy that he is."

There was pride in Casey's visage as he strode onto the grass,

There was scorn in his demeanor as he calmly scratched his ass.

Ten thousand people booed him when he stepped into the box,

And they made the sound of farting when he bent to fix his socks.

And the fabled slider came spinning toward the mitt,

And Casey watched it sliding and he did not go for it.

And the umpire jerked his arm like he was hauling down the sun,

And his cry rang from the box seats to the bleachers: Stee-rike One!

Ten thousand Dustburg partisans raised such a mighty cheer,

The pigeons in the rafters crapped and ruined all the beer.

"You filthy ignorant rotten bastard slimy son of a bitch,"

We screamed at mighty Casey, and then came the second pitch.

It was our hero's fastball, it came across the plate,

And according to the radar, it was going ninety-eight,

And according to the umpire, it came in straight and true,

And the cry rang from the toilets to the bullpen: Stee-rike Two.

Ten thousand Dustburg fans arose in joyful loud derision

To question Casey's salary, his manhood, and his vision.

Then while the Dustburg pitcher put the resin on the ball,

Ten thousand people hooted to think of Casey's fall.

Oh the fury in his visage as he spat tobacco juice

And heard the little children screaming violent abuse.

He knocked the dirt from off his spikes, reached down and eased his pants

"What's the matter? Did ya lose 'em?" cried a lady in the stands.

And then the Dustburg pitcher stood majestic on the hill,

And leaned in toward the plate, and then the crowd was still,

And he went into his windup, and he kicked, and let it go,

And then the air was shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

He swung so hard his hair fell off and he toppled in disgrace

And the Dustburg catcher held the ball and the crowd tore up the place,

With Casey prostrate in the dirt amid the screams and jeers

We threw wieners down at him and other souvenirs.

We pounded on the dugout roof as they helped him to the bench,

Then we ran out to the parking lot and got a monkey wrench

And found the Mudville bus and took the lug nuts off the tires,

And attached some firecrackers to the alternator wires.

We rubbed the doors and windows with a special kind of cheese

That smells like something died from an intestinal disease.

Old Casey took his sweet time, but we were glad to wait

And we showered him with garbage as the team came out the gate.

So happy were the Dustburg fans that grand and glorious day,

It took a dozen cops to help poor Casey away,

But we grabbed hold of the bumpers and we rocked him to and fro

And he cursed us from inside the bus, and gosh, we loved it so!

Oh sometimes in America the sun is shining bright,

Life is joyful sometimes, and all the world seems right,

But there is no joy in Dustburg, no joy so pure and sweet

As when the mighty Casey fell, demolished, at our feet.