"San Francisco," Alkaline Trio

Choking on the thought of leaving
Drinking to keep from sobbing
4pm, 4 dollar pints - SFO - the time and price

With all my happiness aborted
The PA painfully starts boarding
I sink deep, 30 thousand feet
Into my window seat / electric chair
And I was drinking you goodbye
My heart floats in the bay
From sour home Chicago
I hear it beating far away
There's no telling what I'll do
If I don't return to you

Hopeful thoughts of soon returning
can't put out my stomach burning
Plastic wings and plastic smiles
Unsalted peanuts stretch my miles

Choking on the thought of leaving
Drinking to keep from heaving
5pm, 5 dollar pints - Hellbound Airlines - time and price
And I was drinking you goodbye
My heart floats in the bay
From sour home Chicago
I hear it beating far away
There's no telling what I'll do
If I don't return to you

I was drinking you goodbye
A heart floats in the bay
From sour home Chicago
I hear it beating far away
There's no telling what I'll do
If I don't return to you

Drunk Blog.

Drunk. Blogging. Fmaily Guy paused on tv. Cats not sure what to think. Ghani pushing booze. Cannot type. Eyeing our good friend Cuervo. Cuervo, Jose. Eating pb&j. Drunk blogging as ghani drunk blogs next to me. Ghani is a studpi, i mean, stupid, name. Too hot, must take off top. (I am gettin' so hot I'm gonna take my clothes off.) Simul-blogging. Drunk dialing Lo in Japan didn't work very well--it's not something you just do. It takes planning. time. a calling card. a phone to call on. and Lo. these things do not jus thappen. Lo is a japanese whore. Lo, do you read my blog?? The special bond is crying. Don't think i'm gonna make it to work tomorrow. damn. sucks. have lost ability to create letters. and to spell "capital:" But ghani, you never tried a college girl threesome? or did you?? what will djinn think of me after reading this? Drunk blog must end now. grammar gone now. family guy beckons. Night.

Slow

Not a whole lot to report around here. Trying to get a little Christmas shopping done. Djinn has gone home for the holidays to see his family, leaving me alone with my two cats and one skanky friend in town. I can't head home to Chattanooga until the 23rd. So, other than a visit to the vet coming up for booster shots for my horrible new little kitten (she's such a beast, very cute, but beastly, especially at the vet), there's really nothing to say. So, there you have it. I guess the only other amusing thing is that my kitten did predict World War 3. She stood on my keyboard, and typed into my open document a long scream ("eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee"), then, set aside by several spaces, "WW3." There it is, folks--my hyperactive 4 month old kitten predicted the end of the world. We've had a good run, I think, so maybe it's about time.

The logo I never posted until now.

Sympathies.

Don't worry, Ghani. I feel for you. Let me tell you a story.

So it's sophomore year. I'm the RA of the smallest freshman hall on campus. It's Saturday night. I've just gotten back from the KKG formal. In short, I've had a normal, healthy college evening, and it's 3 a.m. I'm talking to my roommate, Jim.

Then the loudest fucking noise I've ever heard rips out from the side of my room. Everything rattles. Jim looks around. "Upstairs?" he asks. I notice two ghostly lights just below my dorm room window.

Oh yes. It's a car. A 3000 GT that now has seven grand worth of damage and is rapidly driving away from the scene. I just wanted to make sure the fucker was okay. As he drives off, that altruism dissolves into murderous rage.

I didn't catch him, but he only lost me after I had run on his tail half way across campus (south housing to the library, since you'd have a frame of reference) and had vomited twice.

So I feel your pain.

Recommend me, please!

Why is it so hard to ask for recommendation letters from professors? I think I'm just terrified of rejection, and that these people whose opinions I respect will find me unsuitable for what I want to do. And I'm afraid of sounding stupid. I'm confident that the people who don't know what I'm talking about won't realize how stupid I am, but the people who know what I'm talking about will know that I'm really just stupid. Do you know what I'm talking about?

Ahh, the insecurities of applying to graduate school. The biggest problem is that I'm supposed to prove how suitable I am for the program I want to apply to, and I'm not entirely sure that I am. Thus the dilemma of insecurity. Sometimes I think I'm ready, I'm prepared, I can do it. Then I think that no, I'm really not.

It's a bit disconcerting to realize that something you've wanted to do for your whole life, since you were a child, something that has never seemed for some reason like it was within the realm of possibility, something you never even realized was exactly what you wanted from your life--that something, that desire has somehow suddenly become attainable. It's also terrifying to realize that a random committee of people I don't know might for some reason I'll never be told decide that I can't live my dream.

Trying to make vague thoughts and insecurities concrete here. I'm not sure it's working, but then again, I'm not sure we have more than two readers here at Mountains of Kaf, so I guess it's ok if I make no sense occasionally.

I'm not sure I like being an adult.

Examinations and revelations.

So right before I was going to take my Philosophy of Law exam, I'm talking with some people about our choice of essays. This girl behind me sneers, "So, I guess he read the material this time." I look back at her and oh yes, it isn't just a linguistic sneer, it's plain on her face. I ignore her and start talking about the random-ass law schools that email you once you take the LSAT and, this time with feeling, comes "What the hell are you talking about now?"

What the hell? I mean, sure, Republicans and psychotic anarchists don't mix, but come on, we can both be polite. I don't call her a Reagan-worshipping imperialist bitch-bag, she shouldn't be rude to me because I think all people (even those evil Colored Folk) should be treated equally. Jebus.

At the same time, stay away from Sherman's March. It's a weird little film that's ostensibly about Sherman's March to the Sea but instead becomes an examination of Ross McElwee's loser lovelife. It's fairly bizarre, and more than a little tragi-comic. You know. Without the comic.

SoB of an SoP

Still plugging away at a Statement of Purpose for graduate school applications. The rough draft is almost completed, which means I can include it in the information that I'll give to the professors who (hopefully) will write my recommendations for me. I'll make a note on it that it's very rough, and probably ask for advice and input if the professors feel that they have time to help with it.

Bleh. These things are pretty fucking frustrating. My goal is to be able to ask professors on Monday about recommendations. The app is due January 15, and classes just ended at my alma mater, meaning that they will have exams to give and grade, but aren't actually in the middle of teaching classes anymore. If I don't do it by Monday, it'll be too late, I think. Monday is cutting it a little close, anyways, I think. I also realized one of my professors I am going to ask will be going on a foreign study trip January and February. If he won't write me a letter, I'll understand completely but I'll still cry.

Anyways, on another note--if anyone has any interest in e-mailing Djinn and myself, we now have an e-mail account for our blog. Drop us a line at mountainsofkaf@gmail.com

I <3 Gmail.

One last random note--the cats are being super cute right now, sleeping together on a cat bed that barely has room for one cat. =)

Ok, that's all for now.

Something stupid, and something new

So Minnesotans are pissed about the lack of snow, and the link gives you one of the most idiotic names I've heard today: "Nordic walking." Specifically, it "involves using polls [sic] and basically imitating a cross-country ski stride." Presumably it's "poles," though I don't know, maybe the Nordic tradition is to gauge public sentiment after every footstep. God I love how stupid mass media can be.

Sometime later (when I get back to my place) my new logo is going up on Spirits of Leonard. Be forewarned. This logo is for a design company that doesn't exist (namely me) and I worked on it while really, really stoned out on Vicodin. I can bear no responsibility for, well, anything.

Wrong Genie, III

Transcript of the reply from Douglas:

Dear Genie,

Thanks so much for letting me know you are not my sister. Genie
seemed so one of a kind, now there or two (or more). Wishing you a happy holiday...

Yours

Douglas

All's well that ends well. Now Elizabeth, Deridre, and Erik can get their Christmas presents from Uncle Douglas.

Experimental(?) fiction

So I've decided that, since blogs provide nice ways of posting faceless personal information, that I might as well abuse the medium, destroy the faith of my readers, and indulge my secret desire to compulsively lie all at the same time. And so the Mercykillers is born.

Though part of me has hedged the possibility of keeping the fictional nature of the blog under wraps, I figure I need readers before anything else. The major story arc of the blog hasn't quite been decided yet, and I'm not really sure who Gabriel is, but he knows who he is, so all's well.

As for the anonymity of the thing, is it weird that I want people to think it's real? Or, failing that, to use the potential reality of the blog as part of the aesthetics? Lemme know what you all think, if you wind up visiting.

First comment!

Yes! First comment on the photoblog, and it's from somebody who's really good. So far the only real promotional measures I've taken have been to post about it here, Photoblogs.org, and some other site that I can't really remember where it was I put it. Oh well. The shots I have up on the Spirits are all taken out the window of a car, but I promise I'm going to change that trend soon.

Seizure!

So I was surfing Ghani's site (see, I made a link, so no snarkiness =) ) and wound up finding this in the Weeblog. It's great, and you should take a look at it, and then you should thank me for spreading it to you from Ghani. Spreading it like cream cheese, or some kind of itchy discharge.

Wrong Genie, II

Here's a transcript of the e-mail I sent to the poor confused soul who was sending e-mails to the wrong Genie:

Mr. Douglas,

I just wanted to write to let you know that you've
sent a couple of e-mails to a wrong e-mail address.
I've had this yahoo address since last May, and since
November I've received two e-mails from you that I can
be pretty sure aren't for me, since I don't know who
you are or any of the people mentioned in this latest
e-mail. The first had a link in it, and I just
assumed it was spam or virus related, since it wasn't
from someone I knew.

Just wanted to let you know that these past two
e-mails haven't been received by the correct person.


~Genie


Does that sounds good? Even if not, it's too late now, since I already sent it. I wonder if he'll write me back....

Shameless self-promotion.

So, I've decided to take my dusty, old, formerly-retired blog, Spirits of Leonard, and turn it into a snazzy photoblog! It's really sweet. Since I already archive all my shots (now approaching the 3,000 mark) with Picasa, I downloaded their IM program that feeds into Blogger, and bam. Faster than a speeding bullet I get a new photo straight into the Spirits. God, I love technology.

P.S. Spirits of Leonard is an old blog, one I haven't used for a long time. Like, since 2002, or something. Expect nothing interesting, except the photos.

Wrong Genie

So, I keep getting e-mails from some architect living in London who happens to have the same first name as a relative of mine and has my same last name, which is not the last name of my relative. So, conclusion--I'm unrelated to this man. The two coincidences were enough to make me open the first email, however, and thus the second as well. Anyways, he has sent my email address two messages, one of which is addressed to "Genie, Tim, and Family" and asks what he should buy the "little Littles" for Christmas--aparently this other Genie with my same first and last names has three children, named Deirdre, Elizabeth, and Erik (not bad children's names, though), and apparently Douglas (the sender of the emails) says that "Steve" will be visiting Genie's family before going to Virginia.

QUESTION: Do I reply to this email and tell him he has the wrong Genie?

The first email I received from him had a link, which I did not click, and I assumed it was random spam meant to appear legitimate. But I couldn't resist checking out this person's website, which is part of his email address (it's of the firstname@firstandlastnames.com format for an email address).

I just can't stop....

Ahh, James Randi, I can't seem to stop reading your website....

Pigasus Awards

This is just too funny. I took a couple of minutes to look around the Amazing Randi's website, and I can't help it--the Pigasus Awards amused me. Check it out for a brief little laugh.

How devoted are you to the cause of skepticism?

James Randi has offered $1 million to anyone who can prove the supernatural beyond the reaches of scientific inquiry. Wow. I've long admired the Amazing Randi, and I think that my fascination with him has just gone up a notch. That's $1 million dollars worth of confidence that no one can prove him wrong. Or is that arrogrance? If you're at all something of a skeptical person, pick up a book by Randi sometime. They make good, fun reading. The best thing about his skepticism is that he debunks claims of the supernatural by recreating the same effect himself using sleight of hand and means that are in no way divine or supernatural. If you've never heard of Uri Gellar, well, check out the link and know that Randi was for awhile on a personal crusade against the man. The video of Uri Gellar with Johnny Carson is almost painful to watch if you've ever seen it.

There is your bit of random for the day. Enjoy. =)

Censor now!

Censor them I say! Censor censor censor! Papa Roach should be censored and no one should ever listen to them ever again for they are corrupting our youth! Drawing them to a den of iniquity and utterly monstrous language! Censor I say (again)!

Take, for example, the following chorus from their song, "Getting Away with Murder":

"I'm feeling rational / so confrontational / to tell the truth I am / getting away with murder / It isn't possible / to never tell the truth / but in reality I am / getting away with murder"

So you see? They must be censored now! Before they make us all as stupid as they are.

"Items at this desk are for Staff use only. Please do not remove from this desk."

In an attempt to cut down on random clients using the things at my desk (stapler, pens, pencils, three-hole punch) and stealing them (my very awesome retractable blue highlighter--I want that back!), I posted a couple of signs with the title of this post on them. Then this morning I found that my stapler, while still at my desk, was not where I had left it. People will lean over my desk, lean around, look around the computer, and feel that if they can see it, they must be allowed to take it. While I'm sitting here watching them.

"Can I help you?"

"I just need to use the stapler." Continues to reach for the stapler.

I stare in bafflement as the person leans around the counter in front of my desk, navigates the stacks of books between him and the stapler, and then reaches behind 2 separate signs telling him that he is not allowed to do what he is currently in the process of doing to grab my stapler.

Buy your own goddamn stapler, please, thankyouverymuch!

Now the items in question are hidden directly underneath a slightly more harsh sign that says "Items at this desk are for Staff use only. Please DO NOT USE."

The next step will be to hide the items in the cabinet behind my desk, and possibly put up a sign that says I have no stapler or three-hole punch or pens or highlighters or tape because people came and kept just taking things until they were all gone. While slightly more inconvenient for me than just being able to leave items that normally belong on a desk out on the desk, I will gladly endure the effort of opening the cabinet to get to what I need if it will keep people from assuming that the items at someone's desk don't belong to that person or to their employer, but are public items.

Am I the only person around who doesn't just assume that everything I see belongs to me? My desk has a high counter top in front of it, clearly dividing the side of the desk for the public, and the side of the desk for me.

I wonder if I can chain these things down....

The post that wasn't meant to be...

As Djinn has pointed out to me, I haven't posted to Mountains of Kaf recently. My apologies. In my defense, however, I did attempt to post the other day. It was quite an amusing post, as well, all about the constant bits of surrealism and/or irony that creep into my daily work routine.

Paraphrased, my post went thusly:

Yesterday, I tried to unlock the door to the office in which I work at 8:30 am, and found that while I did indeed unlock the door, it still would not open. I found that the card swipe system, which had been installed recently but not activated, was now active. Despite the fact that I had not told the people in charge whose ID cards should have access and whose should not. Therefore, when I tried my card, it didn't work. I knew before I tried that it wouldn't. That's just how these things work.

I then commented in my attempted post yesterday that I waited half an hour (not bad--I thought it would take longer) for the University's Public Safety department to come over and let me into my office, just in time for three different groups needing help on how to edit video and create DVD's (one group expected to capture, edit, export, and burn to DVD a 45 minute video starting at 9 am and finishing by 11 am--I told them miracles have happened in the past) and one student who needed massive help with both her research paper and her organizational skills. I work in a writing and technology lab, and we help students, faculty, and staff with writing or technology projects.

Did I mention that due to a joke of fate that I was the only person scheduled to work until noon yesterday?

In my phantom post that was never meant to be, I ended the much more humorous comments I made then with the sentence, "At least the fire alarm didn't go off."

Then the network went down and I lost everything I had been working on.

Balls.

Just a quick note--finished writing my third Philosophy of Law paper for the term, and wonderfully the topic was the morality of antisodomy law. Goes without saying that I hope people with a bias against homosexuality are informed at the Pearly Gates that God doesn't take kindly to bigots, but everyone likes to be hospitable, so here's a complementary tube of 2 million sunblock.

But what really is the purpose of this post is to claim for myself title of Most Outrageous Display of Testicular Fortitude in an Academic Paper Title Ever, with Honorable Mention for Most Aggressive Use of Irony:

"You're Allowed Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness, as long as You Don't Piss Me Off, You Fag."

Who would have thought I could vent that much righteous anger in a boring academic paper? I only wish I could hand-deliver it to Jerry Falwell, and watch his head explode in person (with a raincoat on, of course). And here's the part that makes me so angry. Nothing will convince these people otherwise. They're determined to make homosexuals miserable, regardless of the evidence or theory or moral. They just want to.

I can't understand. Life is fucking hard enough, why would you ever want to make it harder? Just leave other people alone. All they want is to be happy.

"What would Jesus do?" they say. "The Bible [or Qur'an, or whatever] tells us gays are going to hell."

Well, I know what Jesus would do if he saw how they behaved.

He'd fucking kill himself.

Moment of strange similarity

My mom emails me today and asks if I've seen a picture of Dick Ebersol's son--who's dead now, I believe, I'm woefully out of touch on the news (either that or Ebersol himself is dead, not sure)--and then goes on to say that she, and her coworker, think Ebersol's kid looks exactly like me. Haircut, glasses, face, everything about the two of us is the same. She ends the email with "I feel so sorry for the family."

I didn't post the link here, because there aren't any pictures of me on the blog, so there's no basis for comparison. I didn't look at the link, either. That would hit a little too close to home, I think. Like opening the paper and reading your own obituary.

I wonder. Would she feel as sorry if we didn't look alike?

Would I?