tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-64911223309000119802024-03-14T07:09:18.251-07:00The Phenomenal Rantings of an Eccentric GeniusTaylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01660730456772670156noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6491122330900011980.post-39324895403019084192009-07-27T18:29:00.000-07:002009-12-05T22:53:33.324-08:00Trekkie Moment<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFdd3RhY9fiqtkK_mSf_YABc4uV4xzdFS3aUHyCjw6M4oC6DMk9LK3pyNrNar8YXdEjrzZihrAIj0LWfrPn78xh-mJrRgCpehMe42cmVndJ9OzNhlJgCNzK5bOaVFLPhuZWBAzXUGaoiU/s1600-h/picard.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 243px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFdd3RhY9fiqtkK_mSf_YABc4uV4xzdFS3aUHyCjw6M4oC6DMk9LK3pyNrNar8YXdEjrzZihrAIj0LWfrPn78xh-mJrRgCpehMe42cmVndJ9OzNhlJgCNzK5bOaVFLPhuZWBAzXUGaoiU/s320/picard.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363317350309453282" /></a><br />You want to know what I find bizarre? I've watched nearly every episode of Star Trek TNG, and this scene has played out at least 5 times, with negligible changes.<div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>(Doctor Crusher, Captain Picard, and a random guy in a coma are in Sickbay. Worf has just kicked the crap out of a Romulan/Borg/Race of the Week.)</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Doctor Crusher: Captain, he has massive internal injuries. A five year old with a tricorder can cure cancer these days, so if I can't fix him, you know this guy must've been fucked up something fierce.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Captain Picard: Is he conscious, doctor?</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Doctor Crusher: Yes. He just comes from a species that enjoys lying on tables in alien spacecraft. No, of course he's not conscious!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Captain Picard: </i><i>Can you wake him?</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Doctor Crusher: Can I wake him? Are you retarded? Do you have Klingon Dipshit Syndrome? Did your mother fuck a </i><a href="http://memory-alpha.org/en/wiki/Pakled"><i>Pakled</i></a><i> to spite your dad? You just spent half of our CGI budget on shooting fucking magic laser beams at this guy just so you could knock him unconscious, and now you want me to wake him up?</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Captain, if this man comes out of coma before his body has a chance to recover, he will die. If I touch him anytime between today and 6 months from now, his body with catch on fire and he will DIE. If I come near him with-</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Captain Picard: (Angrily) Do it!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>(Doctor Crusher injects the patient with a miracle hypospray that instantly brings you out of coma and makes you healthy enough to walk around and argue with the captain. The patient does so.)</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;">Captain Picard is a conscientious man, with a strong moral compass and just oodles of compassion and empathy. Except if he's responsible for putting you in Sickbay. Then he doesn't give a shit.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Now don't get me wrong, I LOVE Star Trek TNG, and I'm not too averse to the occasional TOS episode, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4SK0cUNMnMM">as long as Kirk doesn't have to engage in physical combat.</a> Still, the tropes and cliches that are a part of every Star Trek episode are a bit distracting. I mean, it IS a military ship, those kind of guys like standard procedure, but I think anyone who's watched more than three episodes knows that the transporters are going to be malfunctioning as soon as shit goes down, and will pop up again ready to work about 4 minutes before episode's end.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Here's a list of things, in no particular order, that piss me off about Star Trek. Keep in mind that pissed off is a relative term; I still like Star Trek more than I like most people.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><ol><li>Why do Romulan ships insist on decloaking <i>in front</i> of the Enterprise? While cloaked and while decloaking, ships are have no shields. Decloaking in front of a ship is like standing up in the middle of a market in Fallujah, struggling to put on your bulletproof vest while eating a bucket of popcorn and doing the Soulja Boy dance. Related suggestion: when a Romulan ship decloaks in front of you, SHOOT IT PICARD FUCKING SHOOT THE INVISIBLE FUCKING SHIP BEFORE THEY KIDNAP YOU AND TELL YOU AN ERRONEOUS NUMBER OF LIGHTS.</li><li>Troi can detect if someone is lying. Why doesn't she make a hundred million dollars a year working as a professional lie detector? She could set her own hours, work an hour a day, AT MOST, and actually get famous instead of being voted the person least likely to be useful on an away team.</li><li>Speaking of dollars: I realize that Earth has no need for money, since everyone swtiched to hugs and flower necklaces during the 23rd century. But, do you know who does use money? FUCKING EVERYONE ELSE. Seriously, who the hell spends five years on a spaceship getting into ridiculously dangerous situations for free? There have been several times on TNG when the crew has faced complete oblivion; not death, not destruction, but falling off the fucking universe and you're telling me they do it for what? Personal advancement? Let me get this straight: A cadet enrolls in Starfleet Academy, which is like Harvard except with spaceships, works his ass off so he can get put on a shitty spaceship, so he can more likely than not crash on an alien planet or die of a disease so that the Enterprise can have its weekly adventure time, and if he's lucky enough not to die he just gets promoted, gets more responsibilities and more dangerous assignments and he gets shot at and kidnapped and knocked out cold every fucking mission, just so he can go to Counselor Troi for therapy, and be told that he needs to get in touch with his feelings more. The cadet does all this and gets nothing in return but room, board and holodeck. It sounds like our military, actually.</li><li>Why don't we hear any contemporary music on Star Trek? Its not just Earth, either; we never hear any kind of music that isn't either several hundred years old (i.e. from our time). Am I expected to believe that everyone in the 24th century listens to classical and jazz? Where is the trippy space-techno that I was promised?!</li><li>This is a society where you can have as much of any kind of food you want, any time you want it. Not just human food, either, it turns out aliens know how to make a mean pasta salad, too. Even the Borg pack sandwiches when they go assimilate a planet. So, can anyone tell me why there isn't a single obese person on the entire ship? I can think of one instance where a fat guy got on the ship, and he literally had 30 seconds of screen time. Everyone else seems to have no problem with temptation. Either that, or Doctor Crusher had some time between nursing Picard's victims to cure obesity. If you get a gut, Crusher just melts off your flab with a phaser. It take about 5 minutes and doubles as laser hair removal surgery. Better hope you don't get a fat head. Speaking of temptation, how does anyone have a social life when the holodeck can allow you to do the disease-free nasty with anyone you could possibly imagine? No pregnancy, no condoms, and no drama; finally, the masses cry, a girl who forgets the night before without being roofied!</li></ol><div>That being said, if you asked me if I wanted to enroll in Starfleet, I would join up, make as much cool shit as I can on a replicator, and then quit immediately. Shortest. Commission. Ever.</div><div><br /></div></div>Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01660730456772670156noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6491122330900011980.post-39424310386839272582009-06-21T14:11:00.000-07:002009-06-21T14:31:30.229-07:00BIRTHDAYWell, you guys seem to have taken my advice from last year. Nobody asked me what I wanted for my birthday, and I got exactly what I wanted: A nice relaxing day with my girlfriend Nancy, and about two liters of booze, legally obtained less than 10 minutes after the liquor store opened.<div><br /></div><div>I'll be having a party next week, with lots of beer, music and people. It'll be good knowing that if the cops show up, I don't have to jump out a window and run into the forest, like a high schooler.</div><div><br /></div><div>Any ideas for music? Post a comment now, because I know that at least one of the hundreds of thousands of people who read this blog has good music taste.</div><div><br /></div><div>Saturday, I woke up at 5:30 AM, and went on an epic journey over the UMass campus, looking for Nancy's parents. Apparently, Mapquest blows, even when its supposed to take you to the second tallest building in the entire city of Amherst.</div><div><br /></div><div>Also, I found out yesterday that my uncle Eddie got me an iPod touch. I am such a technology whore, but its good to have relatives who know me so well. Eddie is a ridiculously generous guy, by the way. He got me my G1, which is basically everything I could ever need ever, but in my pocket. He takes me out to dinner when I'm there and doesn't ask a thing in return. He's not bad-looking either; any single ladies want a nice Lebanese boy? I'll give you a number. </div><div><br /></div><div>Nancy got me a twelve-pack of Ferrero Rondnoir chocolates (fantastic) and half a kilogram of Twizzler's licorice (also fantastic). She also got me a set of really good cat ears to wear on my head. You might be wondering, "Why does Taylor need a set of cat ears?" To which I respond, "Cause I look good in damn near everything, cat ears included."</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01660730456772670156noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6491122330900011980.post-3593700326852631082009-06-19T13:35:00.000-07:002009-06-19T13:50:19.144-07:00400 2 20 126 150VICTORY<div><br /></div><div>I hereby declare victory over the P-2000 Micropipette Puller! Remember these numbers, my friends!<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></div><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"></span><b>400 2 20 126 150</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;">Those are the Heat, Filament, Velocity, Delay and Pull values for the project I've been working on for two and a half weeks! I got to use a really great optical microscope for to look at the finished product, and let me tell you something; the old tips we used to use just look like crap compared to what we have now. Also, the old ones are really brittle, but the ones I made break far less often. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Next week, I'm gonna be able to put my tips under an SEM, or Scanning Electron Microscope. That'll give me a nano-scale image of the tip so we can see just how sharp it really is. I'll post images when I get them.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Now, I never really explained why we needed these super thin optical fibers. Well, they're going to go into what is called an NSOM, or Near-Field Scanning Optical Microscope. Its a type of microscope that uses laser light to excite the electrons on the surface of a sample, and uses that data for topographical information. The sharper our tips are, the better they act as a guide for the light waves to where we need to scan.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I don't know what they're gonna have me do next week. The NSOM isn't quite in working order yet,the SEM is broken and we're waiting for a technician to fix it, and my professor is in Switzerland for a conference. Maybe they'll let me play with the laser? I can make infrared marshmellows! Well, whatever I get to do will be exciting, and I'll kick ass at it, so no worries!</div>Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01660730456772670156noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6491122330900011980.post-69997005529968968012009-06-10T20:57:00.001-07:002009-06-16T11:48:01.324-07:00Pullin' Fibers<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrCbH1Ipc6iQfNn05XzpBkRjzYOdFFDuJfbJBi87KyXY_haWDfNj7uEdDXsY3_A4lQPPgp0X1F1HV9csyYzL3px4C6bD9Q0r9-9oGxd2HGIjic0qNjZTAoNr59VKvkozIYxjWCwMyfhR8/s1600-h/micro_p_2000.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 192px; height: 166px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrCbH1Ipc6iQfNn05XzpBkRjzYOdFFDuJfbJBi87KyXY_haWDfNj7uEdDXsY3_A4lQPPgp0X1F1HV9csyYzL3px4C6bD9Q0r9-9oGxd2HGIjic0qNjZTAoNr59VKvkozIYxjWCwMyfhR8/s320/micro_p_2000.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345914284545551938" /></a>This is the Sutter P-2000 Micropipette and optic fiber puller. It uses a CO2 laser to heat up glass and then pull it into very thin strands. I have been working for nearly two weeks to get this machine to make the correct shape on my optic fibers, and I'm so close I can smell the burnt quartz. I calibrated the thing, felt joy when it pulled its first optic fiber, felt despair when it failed. I've gone through a good 8 meters of single-mode optic fiber. That's the cheap kind, but still, its annoying. Until otherwise instructed, my job is to find the one magical configuration of parameters that makes this machine pull an optic fiber into a long, gracefully tapered tip.<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>The machine gives me control over 5 different parameters:</div><div><ul><li>HEAT: Goes from 0-999, and controls how hot the laser gets. The tips tend to get thinner as the heat goes up, but too hot and they start to curl up.</li><li>FILAMENT: Goes from 0-15, and controls how wide a section of the fiber gets heated up before pulling. According to the manual, you never need to use more than 0 on optic fiber, but I've been experimenting with really high filament values to some good effect.</li><li>VELOCITY: Goes from 0-255, and in a roundabout way controls how hot the fiber is before the machine gives it the final hard pull.</li><li>DELAY: Goes from 0-255, and controls how long before or after the laser shuts off the machine should start pulling.</li><li>PULL: Goes from 0-255, and controls how hard the machine pulls.</li></ul><div>I've gotten so close so many times, I don't know if I can go on for much longer without going insane. I'll pull a tip, it'll look perfect and then I'll take it down to the microscope and my grad student mentor tells me "Close, but not quite" really nicely and then she'll show me a good tip under the microscope and I'm completely off. Here's my basic problem:</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOFVzMeNTy2Zx32yHiPuPrT_XbPR0hvJziq3uQ6gH6DsyIrPNTxiVPX9ZBRqQ3WBPFZOXHNnxDYT5w_7GE73KTXtxhaD6NsYv_KPffOyVmd4YFjIdko81rWpqWKQ-2U1SoUH6Ia4BPhmw/s320/fibers.bmp" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5345918934404702370" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 238px; height: 230px; " /></span></div><div>Guess which one I've been getting?</div><div><br /></div><div>And what's worse, apparently nobody on the internet has the same problem as me, cause there are no forums or help sites about this machine.</div><div><br /></div><div>Next article won't be me complaining, don't worry.</div><div><br /></div><div>Edit: I just found out that Sutter publishes a "cookbook" of programs for pulling micropipettes. 2 problems: I need programs for optical fibers, not micropipettes, and I they haven't published one for my machine, only for the P-97 puller. The P-97 uses an electric filament, not a laser, so it can't melt quartz as well as the laser on the p-2000. Dammit.</div></div>Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01660730456772670156noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6491122330900011980.post-64135188433056592952009-06-02T16:17:00.001-07:002009-06-02T16:27:27.976-07:00Project NatalSo, Microsoft finally decided to try and muscle in on the Wii's Motion Control Monopoly. But check out the impressive(if wildly speculative and ambitious) preview video for Project Natal; the name is a hint about how far along they are designing the thing. <div><br /><br /><object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" width="437" height="266" id="viddler_44771808"><param name="movie" value="http://www.viddler.com/simple/44771808/"><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><embed src="http://www.viddler.com/simple/44771808/" width="437" height="266" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" name="viddler_44771808"></embed></object><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Did you notice the songs at the beginning and end? That's right loyal readers, that was "Clunk-Rewind-Clunk-Replay-</div><div>Clunk" by Los Campesinos! Its the 36 second pop masterpiece that you wish was 4 minutes longer and had intelligible lyrics! Score one for Nintendo for supporting good artists!<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>PS: This is Aleks Campesinos, the female vocalist for Los Campesinos. </div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitBULAQrOCPN-a3PRlpFE3XFvYbtp9w8hih6OZ_kPF0yJb_wFwANlxcCVLxXkV6OTtlqpsQBOwBK6iykK1kZ2Fv07a3YVyjFnXSWA5-jDpO3_lFuA0IXgi5WczrkNdA9N0ibw7w8Rc_5s/s200/2500755858_3e18cb1dfa.jpg" style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 154px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5342875117988262642" /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>She quit the band to attend school. The band still loves her, and the fans will all miss her sweet, airy vocals, and the great contrast it made with Gareth's hectic style. I saw her up close at a Los Campesinos show in Boston. Turns out she's actually three lawn gnomes standing on top of each other. Also, she was very nice.</div><div><br /></div><div>Good Luck Aleks. Hope you don't miss being a rock star when you're working on a term paper.</div>Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01660730456772670156noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6491122330900011980.post-21970867443539532122009-05-24T16:36:00.000-07:002009-05-24T16:37:55.294-07:00American Idle<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH8O6E1FH6P7xKt9nYytNJ_rAKEVvNvbWi0JgCMLdE5STGzxWM-7ANvS1wV904qGGx7lUkvwDsw0S2F-Z0P3gUdb0Jd5oMS2qbDIiSYGOC6z9mqHKWjfqpaAXmnDb3JRkOlWF7hZ8-ER8/s1600-h/images.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 91px; height: 130px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH8O6E1FH6P7xKt9nYytNJ_rAKEVvNvbWi0JgCMLdE5STGzxWM-7ANvS1wV904qGGx7lUkvwDsw0S2F-Z0P3gUdb0Jd5oMS2qbDIiSYGOC6z9mqHKWjfqpaAXmnDb3JRkOlWF7hZ8-ER8/s200/images.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339538848935916290" /></a><br />Ugh, I share a birthday with an American Idol winner. Now my hipster friends won't love me anymore.Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01660730456772670156noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6491122330900011980.post-60338887382658205762009-05-19T18:32:00.001-07:002009-06-11T07:20:51.387-07:00RIP Armando Gerstel: The BurialWe buried him today. Ever since Grampi died, the weather has alternated between overcast and torrential. My mom went to go identify his body at the funeral home. She came out crying, which didn't surprise me. My uncle Henry went next to say goodbye. That's the first time I've ever seen him really cry. People break down over the most random things when they've been emotionally drained like we all have. Henry hated the fact that Grampi's body was just lying there on a cold table, when he surely deserved far more comfort than that. My mom collapsed on the podium as soon as she started her eulogy.<div><br /></div><div>I am a practical person. I knew in the back of my head that my grandfather was ill, that his days on Earth were soon to come to an end. I had always hoped, however, that he would be able to hold out at least until I got married. What really killed me inside about his death was that I would never be able to introduce him to my girlfriend, Nancy. He and Nancy had spoken on the phone, and I had told Grampi all of the wonderful things about Nancy, and vice versa. Nancy thought that Grampi was handsome, and loved hearing stories about him. Her grandfather died a long time ago, and was a right bastard, to put it mildly. She told me that she liked imagining Grampi as her grandfather too. </div><div><br /></div><div>Nancy and I have been dating for nearly two years, and have decided to get engaged in about a year. She is not Jewish, and I don't plan on converting her. She would do so if I pressed the issue, but the Jews haven't forcibly converted people for 5700+ years, and I'm not about to be the first. I anticipate friction in the family because of this. Grampi and Annie were the first to learn anything of these plans. Annie giggled when she saw me wearing a titanium promise band on my ring finger. Grampi told me he would never forgive me if I went anywhere else but his shop (as if) for the engagement ring. Grampi was Jewish and Annie is a Christian, so he had a special understanding of the ways that an inter-religious couple had to compromise in order to work. Annie even suggested a rabbi she knew who would perform a marriage between a Jew and a Gentile.</div><div><br /></div><div>I feel a little guilty wanting to prolong my grandfather's suffering for that long. Its just that I can't think of another person that I'd rather have at my wedding than the man whose warmth, generosity and personality I looked to for my entire life. Nancy and I decided yesterday to name our first son Armando Esformes, in honor of my hero.</div><div><br /></div><div>PS.</div><div>When the final scoop of dirt was shoveled onto Grampi's grave, the rain stopped and the clouds parted, and the sun shown brightly for the first time in 4 days. God can be so maudlin sometimes, I swear. I would never have believed a story like that had I not witnessed it myself.</div>Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01660730456772670156noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6491122330900011980.post-67128658371175741762009-05-15T19:45:00.000-07:002009-05-19T20:02:03.454-07:00RIP Armando Gerstel<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhnXas5a2H4XfLpbRF-O3xH97E6gceKIfFy1bcRNeBJe_89KHFRPlfVbtbt7FKF6uDvgDck4CxvlmSy-OkfjB6abL19NpNv4jakAQvRtxp8R676fXAJ1S8MQEeGtKQOOPqNSiwV7o02YM/s1600-h/grampi.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhnXas5a2H4XfLpbRF-O3xH97E6gceKIfFy1bcRNeBJe_89KHFRPlfVbtbt7FKF6uDvgDck4CxvlmSy-OkfjB6abL19NpNv4jakAQvRtxp8R676fXAJ1S8MQEeGtKQOOPqNSiwV7o02YM/s200/grampi.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336247565286092178" /></a>My grandfather died today. I just got done watching my sister be the best Cat in the Hat that a Suessical has ever seen, and I got the call right after. I wanted to tell my mom about it when we got home, but she got the call in the car and freaked out. She got out of the car, got on the sidewalk and laid there for 20 minutes. 5 cars stopped and asked if she was alright. I got her home and in bed, she took 3mg of Xanax and I think it's starting to hit her.<div><br /></div><div>I cried for about 30 seconds when I heard, and now I feel numbness over my whole body. If I had to describe it, it would be like just coming down off a really bad drug trip; the numbness, the dizzyness, the vague anger at the whole world, its not a pleasant feeling.</div><div><br /></div><div>My mom just asked me if she thinks Grampi left us anything. I can tell she's trying to be funny and cheer me up, but I don't feel anything right now. Twinges of sadness now and again but nothing else. The man was a millionaire, so he's probably left us something, but I can't for the life of me think of something I would want to buy with money. It sounds ridiculous to me. </div><div><br /></div><div>Armando Gerstel was a man of the highest character and integrity, a shrewd salesman and a loving and caring grandfather. He was very generous, and he was probably the only jewelry salesman in the world who wouldn't fuck you out of your money when you bought something from him. He was devastatingly intelligent and could play poker like a shark. Seriously, the guy could've made a good living playing poker. </div><div><br /></div><div>I seriously can't believe he's dead.</div>Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01660730456772670156noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6491122330900011980.post-91980746566037845472009-05-01T11:38:00.000-07:002009-05-01T11:41:45.302-07:00I Want My Cupcake<a href="http://www.phonesreview.co.uk/2009/05/01/android-cupcake-update-rolling-out-in-us-and-uk/">That is All.</a>Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01660730456772670156noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6491122330900011980.post-18989331484298507032009-04-30T21:42:00.000-07:002009-04-30T22:54:33.836-07:00My Maudlin Career<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKRdoWcCf8Vh54YLP_JXSBRkgHzGJJGItl_dt0BzXsZ-uMo8szYFapvAJzrbrdKAQxDWSbYLAwiilq8yp_DTvvN7zErfebX22PhWhxRFP5fon6HVPyMafs1u-dVraBdIhCM7aQNcR_NIo/s1600-h/camera_obscura_my_maudlin_career.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKRdoWcCf8Vh54YLP_JXSBRkgHzGJJGItl_dt0BzXsZ-uMo8szYFapvAJzrbrdKAQxDWSbYLAwiilq8yp_DTvvN7zErfebX22PhWhxRFP5fon6HVPyMafs1u-dVraBdIhCM7aQNcR_NIo/s320/camera_obscura_my_maudlin_career.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330711626637097570" /></a>ATTENTION READERS: BUY THIS ALBUM<div><br /></div><div>I've been a fan of Camera Obscura for a long time. I've heard about them through my favorite band Belle & Sebastian; the </div><div>lead singer for B&S </div><div>produced the Camera </div><div>Obscura album <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Let's Get Out of This Country.</span> </div><div><br /></div><div>Anyone who thinks that "twee" is a derogatory term has never listened to Camera Obscura. The violins they seem so found of make a sweet sonic background for the lead guitar, who whimsically noodles around with the melodies that singer Tracy-Anne Campbell weaves. You will hear no diva-esque belting out of weepy ballads here. Tracy-Anne doesn't scream when she's sad, she sits by the window quietly and sings to herself in a light, airy voice. Luckily, she lets us listen in every now and again.</div><div><br /></div><div>Since most of you have probably never heard of Camera Obscura, I'm gonna suggest some songs that will get you immediately hooked, and demand that you buy them sight unseen and listen to them obsessively until you want to hug somebody in the rain. In fact, if you're still reading this, just go right now and <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Camera-Obscura/e/B00197K4KY">buy all four of their fantastic albums.</a> Go on, this blog'll be here when you get back.</div><div><br /></div><div><div>From <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; ">My Maudlin Career</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div>1. Honey in the Sun</div><div>Really the only song where saxophonist Nigel Baillie gets to shine, probably because he had to leave the band soon after the album's release due to a new baby. Lively, fun, with lyrics that display emotional depth unheard of in anything on the radio in the last ten years. The saxophone manages to lift the listener's spirit up and down like a ragdoll, just like the singer's.</div><div><br /></div><div>2. French Navy</div><div>Oh, Tracy. How many times do we have to say it, "Stop having flings with deep, enigmatic strangers." And a sailor? C'mon, you know he's gonna have to leave you, no matter how much he loves you. Again, lyrics like the best novel you've ever read, and violin work that makes you wanna dance. I would've bought this album on the strength of this one song alone.</div><div><br /></div><div>3. My Maudlin Career</div><div>It's strange to hear Camera Obscura using electric guitars to make the ambience usually made with violins, but as usual, they pull it off very well. Delicate, tinkling pianos and unusually blunt lyrics remind the listener that this band still has a lot of innovation left in them after four albums. When Tracy-Anne says, "This maudlin career has come to an end," we can only hope that she's talking about her sadness, and not about the band.</div></div><div><br /></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL28dGp1aqsNbLHQvlzm-jFDrUV40qS0hK51ZGj69DI6QHmCcLiU2qPTRvUAkKNCKVl7leGNC96-REOpcW2rqz_zoEh35dbd2K-9oIRPsvONpG1s4ooNv_UimAvHGgYZS2hGhZf6HUolg/s200/biggest.jpg" style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 160px; height: 160px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330728459037109250" /><div>From Biggest Bluest Hi-Fi</div><div><br /></div><div>1. Happy New Year</div><div>One of the happy ones, obviously. No violins, but Tracy-Anne makes up for it with a livelier-than-normal tune and an excellent duet with pianist Carey Lander.</div><div><br /></div><div>2.Eighties Fan</div><div>I would call this an anthem for disaffected teenage girls, but it's missing something. Even when it shows sympathy</div><div> for the girl in song, it also gently reminds her that she is just a teenager, and she's not gonna make everyone love her, no matter what she does.</div><div><br /></div><div>3. Houseboat</div><div>Another great duet with Tracy-Anne and Carey, and the perfect love song for couples.</div><div><br /></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRwm3qSlcr1tj_IFNi1vvXV1sNzXW6gJxCVgQdGgpRBuTDX4AnGuQCd85ZH5TVliN_dfBf3HWSLUOtwB72Zuv8Ck6ldSaGaa4F44BmhEL_16I-fyuNMwb0bx_2yjcpP06JBfPvRkQDSiw/s200/camera.jpg" style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330727922482573426" /><div>From <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Let's Get Out of This Country</span></div><div>1. Lloyd, I'm Ready To Be Heartbroken</div><div>One of the more rock-oriented Camera Obscura songs, with a fantastic video that makes 50's TV romance look as creepy as it should've looked in the 50's.</div><div><br /></div><div>2. Tears For Affairs</div><div>Remember when I said that Tracy-Anne </div><div>cries by the window when she's sad? Well, after that, she gently mocks herself for getting too caught up in a fling. Until the next guy comes along, of course.</div><div><br /></div><div>3. If Looks Could Kill</div><div>Another lively twee-rock masterpiece. Tracy threatens to kill her favorite guy if he doesn't cheer up.</div><div><br /></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGQdfKQnNdePWBgW38a7V7-qWNB52QmSnAqQEvvJX747lj0ohT9k_LGBpvzCfNBWZcLdZtS4t2VQ6MM83o4ouUZK83t_QWupjB_-J4tuIUgLIWQEenbWpgJEOT6-RCpk_YokBMVPzNeFA/s200/under.jpg" style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 160px; height: 160px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330728125594407330" /><div>From <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Underachievers Please Try Harder</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div>1. Suspended From Class</div><div>Lovely horns frame this relaxing duet about breaking people's hearts and feeling naughty for doing it.</div><div><br /></div><div>2. Before You Cry</div><div>One of the few songs where Carey Lander is the lead singer, this song about a tempestuous relationship has a pleasant country tone to it, including a devastatingly emotional harmonica solo that communicates hopeful heartbreak better than anything else could.</div><div><br /></div><div>3. Let Me Go Home</div><div>Camera Obscura's foray into the realm of dance music is an addictive little ditty that manages to maintain its twee tone even when the singer talks about his records getting crushed because everyone rushed over to the liquor.</div><div><br /></div><div>I picked three songs from each of their albums, as you can see. Still, even though they can be a bit mellow at times, Camera Obscura's worst song is still miles ahead of anything that you'll hear in mainstream pop today. Too often, when an artist is described as emotional, it means that they scream and cry into their microphones and rail at the unfair world that they're forced to inhabit. I'm not bashing those bands; I'm a huge My Chemical Romance fan. Camera Obscura achieves an astonishing level of emotion in their music with nothing but thoughtful lyrics, catchy tunes and fantastic lyrical talent. Who would've thought that would be enough?<br /></div>Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01660730456772670156noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6491122330900011980.post-45716098026934380352009-03-26T22:32:00.001-07:002009-03-27T00:21:16.900-07:00Spring Break 2009This was the first Spring Break I've had in a long time where I didn't spend the entire time in my room, snapping at everyone because I was bored out of my mind. I brought my two roommates with me to Miami, where much fun was had by all. Here's the day-by-day breakdown:<div><br /></div><div>Day 1: We got in at midnight, stayed up till 3 eating pizza and watching King of the Hill. There's a show that's just funny enough to stay on the air, and not funny enough to get censored by the FCC. We wake up at 6PM, and marvel at how quickly our sleep cycle changes in one direction but not the other. Day 1 was a punt day.</div><div><br /></div><div>Day 2: Wake up at noon, eat a lazy breakfast/lunch. Lay by the pool. Go back upstairs and play video games. Tomorrow, my grandfather is coming down to gamble, and he's got us a hotel room at a casino so fancy, the smallest steak they serve is 38oz. We go down to Miami Beach for the night. I take my roommates to a Cuban place called David's, a place I was only vaguely sure even existed until I managed to smack right into it. If only the people of Cuba knew that their food cost 60 dollars for three people in Miami, there would be a second Mariel Boatlift. There's a bowling alley here where the waitresses wear short skirts and high heeled boots. The lanes are half as long as normal, which is why I break 100 for the first time since I was twelve. After ogling/bowling, we stop by a music bar can Base. There's an enthusiastic indie girl behind the counter, the first black hipster I've seen besides Kele Okereke. Just kidding, I forgot about TV on the Radio. There are walkmen superglued to the bar. You ask the bartender for a CD and obliges you for as long as you need. I buy the new Franz Ferdinand album out of obligation, and the new Morrissey album because he's fucking brilliant. My roommates buy techno for the ride home. I'm in a new car, a bright orange Hummer with chrome wheels. I get pulled over for speeding on the way home.</div><div><br /></div><div>Day3: I got lost on the way to the hotel. Fucking Mapquest. The stupid thing is, I saw the hotel, or what I thought was the hotel. I thought it was the hotel because it was the only nice building we had seen in the entire Indian reservation that we had driven through. It struck me that I had driven straight across the Seminole nation in about ten minutes. How many dead indians do you need to buy an acre of land in Florida? Anyway, I drive by this gigantic white behemoth in the middle of a lush sea of palm trees and limousines. I drive by it and assume that I must be looking for the OTHER billion dollar resort. Their is a cigarette store near the hotel, made of adobe clay and painted such a bright red that I tapped the brakes when I saw it.</div><div><br /></div><div>My grandparents are happy to see me, the feeling is mutual. My grandpa traded in his walker for Bono shades. Good for him, as long as he doesn't go off and try to solve the AIDS crisis. That guy only used the walker to lull his enemies into a false sense of security. I got my badass genes from him. My roommates and I go to our rooms and change for the pool. There's a water slide here, with a clearly posted weight limit of 200 pounds. 2/3 of our group chose to ignore that rule, and get fun was had by all. Poolside bars charge 9 dollars for a strawberry daiquiri, 6 for a virgin one. They also don't card. </div><div><br /></div><div>That night, we eat dinner at the most expensive steak house in the universe. The three of us order the prime rib king cut. Its a 42 oz. steak, with a side of Yorkshire Pudding. Yorkshire pudding is dough, mixed with all the juices of a cooking steak, and baked. A beef muffin, if you will.</div><div><br /></div><div>My grandma gives us each a hundred bucks, tells us to knock ourselves out. As a scientist, I will rarely be able to do something like that. I need to invent a virus that eats garbage and poops Reality TV, then I'll be rich. It was 9, so nothing was open yet. That was kinda funny to me, actually. We waste some time in the room and then go to a Billiards bar. The sign outside the door clearly says, " MUST BE OVER 21 TO ENTER." I am twenty, but cocky. I hand over my ID, which has not been modified in anyway, and get in without a bit of trouble. The lady must've looked at the year I was born, figured I was a few months from 21 and she could say she misread my ID. She needed the tips anyway. We play pool and dance to hip-hop videos. I don't listen to hip-hop unless its playing over a PA in a club. I decide to be Cocky McCockerson and order a Guiness. The waittress gives me a look, but brings me one anyway. Plausible deniability.</div><div><br /></div><div>We decide that the evening is not complete if we don't go dancing. Going dancing on a monday night is like trying to go scuba diving on Christmas; people look at you funny, and you end up having a less than stellar time. The resort we were at has 3 night clubs, but none of them were open, so we went to an Irish pub that I knew had a band. My roommates and I are the only ones dancing in the entire place. Everyone else is staring at their table with a drink in hand and a cigarette in their mouth. Fun. This was the only band I've ever seen in my life where the drummer was morbidly obese. I thought that by nature of the job, all drummers would be at least somewhat fit. You learn something new every day.</div><div><br /></div><div>The next day, I win 90 dollars at the slots. That about pays for the drinks, ice cream, and food I splurged on during our little night out on the town.</div><div><br /></div><div>That about covers Days 1-3. I'll write more on the topic if I feel it'll be interesting.</div>Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01660730456772670156noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6491122330900011980.post-85329577459885323582008-07-21T05:18:00.001-07:002009-03-27T00:04:20.803-07:00Boom De Yada Boom De Yada<div>You might all be wondering why I haven't written an entry in several weeks. I assure you, it's not from lack of interest or material, but from sheer physical exhaustion. I have been working as a camp counselor and teacher at a computer camp in Massachusetts since June 23rd. As much as I love my job, my joints and bones feel like their on fire, ALL THE TIME. Here's a little glimpse of my schedule for today:</div><br /><div> </div><br /><ul><br /><li>6:30 AM: Get up, navigate to shower with my eyes still closed, try to sleep in shower.</li><br /><li>7:15 AM: Walk to breakfast, eat powdered eggs and stale bagels.</li><br /><li>7:40 AM: Trudge up the "Stairs of Doom," a set of 106 steep stairs that leads to the computer labs. Yes, I counted.</li><br /><li>7:45 AM: Sit in a computer lab, wait for day campers to arrive. Nobody comes to my lab for some reason.</li><br /><li>8:40 AM: Climb more stairs, go to "morning meeting." Feel like an old fogey because my knees hurt and I can barely keep up with the kids' conversations.</li><br /><li>9:00 AM: First period class is RC Cars. The easiest part of my day is teaching. Spend an hour and a half screwing in screws and pleading with kids to clean up after class.</li><br /><li>10:30 AM: Second period class is Retro Games. Playing outside is considered "retro" now. Spend ninety minutes pleading with kids to play soccer and ignore the wool blanket of humidity that is smothering us all.</li><br /><li>12:00 PM: Lunch. Just like breakfast but fried and louder.</li><br /><li>1:00 PM: Third period class is RPG game design. I spent a month learning a special programming language to teach this class. Turns out, I don't need it. Half of my class knows more about the game than I do.</li><br /><li>2:30 PM: Fourth period class is RC Cars again. Half of my class knows more about the cars than I do.</li><br /><li>4:00 PM: Two hours of freedom, spent playing World Of Warcraft in my boxers. My laptop overheats right when I'm about to kill a mutated tree monster.</li><br /><li>5:30 PM: Go to dinner. Still technically my break time, and I deflect any comments or questions by kids with those three magic words: "I'm Off Duty."</li><br /><li>6:00 PM: Half the kids go to the computer labs to play. The other half goes to the field and asks me when they get to go to the computers. The only popular games are those that involve standing around in a circle, or significant risk of injury.</li><br /><li>7:15 PM: The two groups switch places. Nothing changes.</li><br /><li>8:30 PM: Back to the dorm. Making sure the kids don't swallow the laundry detergent, fall down the stairs, or destroy the bathroom.</li><br /><li>11:00 PM: Bed. Unless we have a staff meeting, in which case I get to be more exhausted tomorrow.</li></ul><br /><p>So yeah, that's my day, in pretty gory detail.</p>Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01660730456772670156noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6491122330900011980.post-72480931275031901712008-06-16T08:32:00.000-07:002008-06-17T21:12:00.039-07:00Happy Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday Cake!<div align="left">My birthday's coming up in a few days. I didn't surround that statement in blink tags because I stopped being really excited for my birthday when I turned 14. I don't know why, but after my bar mitzvah, turning another year older just never seemed a huge deal any more. Even the prospect of presents arouses only slight excitement from me. Actually, I really dread the inevitable pre-birthday question:<br /></div><p align="center"><em>What do you want for your birthday?</em></p><div align="center"><br /></div><p align="left">First of all, since when did we start telling people what they're getting for their birthday? What about the joy of anticipation, the excitement of tearing wrapping paper away from the unknown? Now, opening presents is like a formality, a useless chore we do for tradition's sake, like daylight savings time. It gets even worse when someone gives you a gift card. To me, a gift card says, "I like you, but not enough to carry your present out to the car." By the way, if you're going to give a gift card, PLEASE give more than 15 dollars. There's nothing quite like going into a Barnes and Noble and being confined to the little books of inspirational sayings near the cashier.<br /></p><p align="left">And please stop telling me that you can't believe how old I've gotten. I swear to God, arthritis is a communicable disease; its spread by morons who tell you that you're old on your birthday. I'm going to be twenty, which means that I'm still indestructible for a few more years.<br /></p><p align="left">Birthdays do make you look back, though. For me, they make me remember all of my accomplishments, and al of the aliases I've had over the years. Here is a partial list of my accomplishments; the full list can be found by going to wikipedia.com and clicking "Random Article."</p><div align="left"><br /></div><p align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;">My Accomplishments:</span><br /></p><ul><li><div align="left">Created the first vaccine for polio. FDR gave me the Invisible Medal of Honor for this one.</div></li><li><div align="left">Ran the 100 yard dash in 9.4, making Hitler look like a damn fool.</div></li><li><div align="left">Accidentally droppeda VCR on the Radio Star's head, killing him instantly. Sorry.</div></li><li><div align="left">Grew a beard, sold Oxi-Clean on TV.</div></li><li><div align="left">Invented the interwebs, which is an information superexpressway.</div></li><li><div align="left">Started a fist fight in the Taiwanese parliament by sneezing the wrong way.</div></li></ul><p align="left">This is why I get depressed on my birthday. I've accomplished so much! What is there left to do?</p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5212534605188163506" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP-wwlAYGjOELtrjooJh585wOOOAbLCC9qtSSu2HoeqFdVTpx-bip7Kfd3JZ_bnTuGRoccGrvMZQoY1U1WVcMSV5igrpZS7RXbo-fjl0Ry_eKiQ_e-SNEqmZ5U-l3ISIvEWLbOguUj-qc/s320/bodybuilder.jpg" border="0" /> <p align="center">I guess I could work out a bit... </p>Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01660730456772670156noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6491122330900011980.post-75310308928348837242008-06-09T21:08:00.000-07:002008-06-09T22:17:04.917-07:00Dream On<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjER0H-P8I3-QiBwuPoMinYFKQyH7-6INZJGuLLpt_dlKDOQFbspBL2w8z9d_QN3aztIggTDpb2aKPag2pOJcnLxYXV3GyGyDbqH8t2wB-Yrb-U2dlsx7z69V2Gt8czecDyYJuZGpQsq8/s1600-h/untitled.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210107350329977682" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjER0H-P8I3-QiBwuPoMinYFKQyH7-6INZJGuLLpt_dlKDOQFbspBL2w8z9d_QN3aztIggTDpb2aKPag2pOJcnLxYXV3GyGyDbqH8t2wB-Yrb-U2dlsx7z69V2Gt8czecDyYJuZGpQsq8/s200/untitled.bmp" border="0" /></a> Everyone has a dream, some goal that they aspire too and work towards. Some people want to dig ditches for a living. Others are happy to fetch files and coffee in a law office until they are discarded like a threadbare dishrag. As for myself, I have a bold, inspiring dream, one which will come true within the next ten years. I guarantee it.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Knee a mugger in the face.</span><br />Here's the scenario, daddio: A defenseless elderly woman is walking down the street, minding her own business and generally looking as harmless as possible. Unfortunately, not everyone is as nice as I am. Out of an alley springs what can only be described as a "punk"; that is, a skinny, angry boy with a Black Flag t-shirt from Hot Topic and bad hair. The miserable bastard grabs her purse and tears down the sidewalk towards me. Luckily, I have seen these troubling events, and I am in total control of the situation. I dart across the street to get to the mugger, causing a car to swerve into a fire hydrant. I then let loose my best battle cry, which sounds something like, "RRRRRAAAAAUUUUGGGHHHHH." The mugger sees me coming, and starts to turn back to run away. That's when he sees that he has most definitely mugged the wrong old lady. She takes off her jacket to reveal that she is in fact Stephen Hawking, and not a very short old lady on wheels. Hawking drives his wheelchair at full speed into his attacker's legs, forcing him to his knees. Right at that moment, I jump up, fly through the air anime-style, and knee that sucker in the face with a satisfying "Ker-thunk." Then, Hawking blasts him with Hawking radiation, which he keeps in a tank underneath his chair. The mugger gets everything cancer, and Stephen Hawking and I go to a bar. He later beats me in darts, but lets me use his voice machine to pick up chicks.Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01660730456772670156noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6491122330900011980.post-10560958678899261582008-06-08T17:20:00.000-07:002009-03-27T00:04:05.634-07:00¡Fantastico! Stories from the life of an American Madman<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj69pmeSaNVYFnJAOKNqYXAUUd_NbfZnLelxw5647QhP53J8hMKbI_qzOF1xff20HslxHSoH_w_yxva8wisIp0z30rMsRkKpM2vZrj8X6oAsdrfbb-0w7L9Y9R9tVmPfxR_g2XAwlZn3s8/s1600-h/vodka.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209715535014483858" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" height="195" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj69pmeSaNVYFnJAOKNqYXAUUd_NbfZnLelxw5647QhP53J8hMKbI_qzOF1xff20HslxHSoH_w_yxva8wisIp0z30rMsRkKpM2vZrj8X6oAsdrfbb-0w7L9Y9R9tVmPfxR_g2XAwlZn3s8/s320/vodka.bmp" width="240" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I am somewhat of a mysterious figure to many of you, as my frequent ranting affords me little time to talk about myself. I feel badly about this, as you are all my friends and therefore ought to know what you're getting yourselves into. Too late to turn back now, but at least you're not going into it blind, right? Here's a little story that I like to tell. I changed all the names, but otherwise, everything in this story is true, and as free from exaggeration as possible. My life doesn't need exaggeration.<br /><p> </p><p>When I was 16, I got an internship in a Senator's Office in Washington D.C. I won't bore you with details of the job itself, we're here to talk about the weekends.<br /><br />My friend Alex and I went to a house party one night, where we met two people who worked in the same building as us. Julie was a good-looking girl who offered us beer and laughed when I told her I was 20. I managed to get her number with all the charm that a 16-year-old could muster. Her friend Gabriel was a dumpy Panamanian with sweat stains on his shirt and a beard that I could have grown in 3 days. I specify his nationality because when I told him that my mother was Venezuelan, he insisted on calling me "Venezuela" for the rest of the night. Guess who I wanted to hang out with.<br /><br /><br />Alex, Gabriel, Julie and I talk for about an hour. The three of them are fairly buzzed by now, and Alex suggests we go to the kitchen for some snacks. I grab a box of Cheez-Its. They grab a quarter-full jug of vodka. Shot after shot reduce the three to one large, tipsy animal, trying to balance on six uneven legs. When the bottle drains, I fill it with water; only Alex notices the change in taste, though he merely winks at me and stays silent. The group gets drunk off its own drunkenness, and makes enough noise that the residents kick us out of the house.<br /><br /><br />I should mention here that I was completely sober, and in fact did not drink until I got to college, 2 and a half years later.<br /><br /><br />With difficulty, I herd them in the direction of Alex's apartment, and make some decent progress until Julie breaks from the group and starts to cry. To a 16-year-old boy, this is a new and troubling experience, comforting a spontaneously hysterical drunk girl on the street at 1 AM while my best friend accidentally headbutts a tree. I sit her down on a stoop, and she pours out a semi-coherent sob story, which after 10 minutes basically translates to, "People only want to hang out with me because of my uncle." Sitting down on the sidewalk next to her, I could think of a few more reasons, but I didn't say so. I asked her who her uncle was. "Pete Domenici," she says. Not a name you would recognize, probably, unless you live in New Mexico and know who your senator is.<br /><br /><br />So here I am, an employee of a United States Senator, carrying the drunken niece of another senator on one shoulder and my friend on the other. No way I was touching Gabriel. We get to Alex's apartment, which appears at first to be mercifully empty. The group collapses on the couch, and I take a much needed break from my job as shepherd. All good things come to an end, of course; Alex's roommate, John, wakes up from the noise and stumbles out of bed to find three drunk people and a confused teenager in his living room. John asked me, "Taylor, are you drunk?" I replied that I was not. John looked me straight in the eye here, and said, "Then I need you to get these people out of here. Now." There is a bond that happens when one man kicks another man out of his apartment, a strong and unbreakable connection. To this day, I think John is one of the coolest people I have ever met.<br /><br /><br />I am thankful that Alex is sobering up quickly, as he has no qualms about giving Gabriel a shoulder to lean on, and Julie wants nothing to do with Gabriel. Gabriel, on the other hand, very much wants to have something to do with Julie, and begins to grab her arm in an attempt to lead her home. He attempts to wave off my offers of assistance and merely succeeds in unbalancing himself, and Julie in the process. He insists that he knows where Julie lives and can take her home from there. He again grabs her arm, and resists weakly when Julie pulls away. I am now convinced that he is a rapist. Julie seems to realize that Gabriel's intentions are less than noble, as well. She giggles, yells "Taylor, run with me!", and shoots down the sidewalk with all the speed and grace that drunkenness allows. I am rather confused as I run after her, unsure if I was going to get laid or arrested. As it turns out, she leads me straight to her house, with Alex and Gabriel not far behind. She goes around to the back door of the house and lets herself in quietly, to my relief. A quick goodbye leaves Alex, Gabriel and me alone in Senator Domenici's driveway.<br /><br /><br />I though that my little Odyssey was over, that I had reached Ithaca and Penelope was already making me a sandwich. Not so, unfortunately. Gabriel decides that he is going to spend the night at Julie's house. Alex, who is nearly sober by now, tells him to go home, but Gabriel is too fast for us. He darts into the house and locks the door behind him, marking the first time that night that I was truly scared that something bad might happen. Strangely enough, calling the police never occurs to me. Instead, I call the number the Julie gave me, but it goes to voicemail and I suspect her phone is off. As Alex and I silently panic, two people approach us on the sidewalk. They're scruffy college kids, looking for a late night weed dealer. I recall that one of them had a "Jew-fro." We explain the situation to them quickly, and the one who asked for the marijuana looks me straight in the eye and tells me, "Dude, she's gonna get raped and it's your fault." I didn't feel the same connection with him that I had with John.<br /><br /><br />Finally, I am reduced to banging on the door of Senator Domenici's house, hoping to God that Secret Service doesn't arrest me. I imagine the conversation I might have with the senator, if he answered. "Hello sir, your niece is being molested by a smelly Panamanian." Unbeknownst to me, the Senate was in a special 2 AM session that night to vote on a gun bill. The purpose of the bill was to keep American homes safe. To my relief, after 5 minutes of banging, Julie comes to the front door and motions for me to go to the back of the house. I run there, ignoring the inquiries of Alex and the stoners.<br /><br /><br />Julie comes to the door and sweetly asks what's going on. The tears are gone and she has forgotten the paranoia of the hour before. I muster up all the authority that I can, and explain to her that for her own good, she needs to drink water, go to bed, and lock her door until morning. I told her that Gabriel was up to no good, and that he was in the house. She tells me not to worry, that she would do everything I said. She closes the screen and whispers, "You're the greatest, Taylor."<br /><br /><br />That Monday, I wanted to go see Julie in Senator Domenici's office, to ask her to lunch. Alex tells me not to, says I might seem too eager. I listen to him, and eventually forget about asking her out. I never see her again. I learn later, from various sources, that Alex wasn't giving me girl advice. My good friend Alex was shielding my young ego from an unpleasant truth.<br /><br /><br />Julie was completely unharmed, thank God, but she had no recollection of me or anything that happened that night.<br /><br /><br />I will conclude with a personal note to Alex: Life was always more interesting when you were involved. D.C. was fun because you were a true friend, and you dragged me out of the house when I was feeling lazy and you knew that I needed to get out and meet people. I can't thank you enough.</p>Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01660730456772670156noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6491122330900011980.post-50717213922872253762008-06-05T20:46:00.000-07:002008-06-08T21:06:10.483-07:00Ramblin, Gamblin ManI suck at poker. I realized this at my grandfather's poker room today. I know this must be hard to believe, but a man as charismatic and witty as I can't bluff a hand to save his life. My problem is that I have faith in Gaussian statistics, so I naturally assumed that if I sat at a poker table with $100 in chips and waited for 4 hours, I would get a few good hands. Here's the conversation that I had with the universe today:<br /><br />Me: Hey universe, how about dealing me ONE good hand, maybe?<br /><br />Universe: How about a King-2, off suit?<br /><br />Me: I don't want that.<br /><br />Universe: How about FIVE of them?<br /><br />This is why I want to be a physicist: The universe is a jerk, and the more we understand it, the sooner we can get revenge on it for pulling all this crap. I know the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Large_Hadron_Collider#Safety_concerns">LHC</a> isn't gonna destroy the universe, but how about giving it a little scare, you know?Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01660730456772670156noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6491122330900011980.post-57402931598769008732008-06-05T09:52:00.000-07:002008-06-05T20:36:12.515-07:00The International Tweecore Underground<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitR3Bcg50Ec3rh-8BHkqk9tp1Ok5qQbDSKdIaBcTe3b_wyH2GZWBwRHmE7q-fCC3V8MjMBeecwm94-0kgKMqvKwhCnnvW-FgtLPzD4IMQNXZC_YBsA1VsrG2CceSk-6bXyufkJu1IFYn4/s1600-h/hold_on_now_youngster.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5208442730756882274" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" height="169" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitR3Bcg50Ec3rh-8BHkqk9tp1Ok5qQbDSKdIaBcTe3b_wyH2GZWBwRHmE7q-fCC3V8MjMBeecwm94-0kgKMqvKwhCnnvW-FgtLPzD4IMQNXZC_YBsA1VsrG2CceSk-6bXyufkJu1IFYn4/s320/hold_on_now_youngster.jpg" width="140" border="0" /></a>I will admit to a fondness for unusual band names. Belle & Sebastian, Aesop Rock, Camera Obscura, Gorillaz, and The Pipettes got a first listen from me solely on the merit of having interesting names. If the greatest band on Earth decided to call itself "John's Rock Band," I would probably miss out.<br /><br />Los Campesinos! caught my attention the same way, but they kept it with a mix of catchy melodies and enthusiastic, upbeat vocals. Plus, they've taken the interesting names concept a step further: Every member of the band legally changed their name to Campesinos!, including the exclamation point.<br /><br />The first song I heard was a catchy one called <a href="http://www.loscampesinos.com/stuff.php">"Please Don't Tell Me To Do The Math," </a>which I thought was ironic, seeing as I go to a tech school. You can download it free from their website, and I guarantee that the rest of the album is just as brilliant.<br /><p>Here's the first track off the new album, <em>Hold On Now, Youngster</em>. Its called "Death to Los Campesinos!," and its pretty representative of what you're going to hear on the album, so if you like this song, buy it!<br /><br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Dc4GethJnBg"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Dc4GethJnBg" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br />Tragically, she really did die of her unicorn-inflicted wounds.</p>Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01660730456772670156noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6491122330900011980.post-73250691060290161692008-06-04T18:17:00.000-07:002008-06-09T22:23:55.220-07:00I'm Lonely, But I Ain't That Lonely Yet<div align="left">It's official, folks: Barack Obama has a majority of the Democratic delegates, making him the presidential nominee. Now, I am a Obama supporter, but I have to hand it to his opponent. Hillary Clinton ran an excellent campaign, especially considering that she hasn't watched the news for the past 3 months, and therefore still believes she is in the race.</div><br /><div align="left">I kid you not; as of time of writing, she still refuses to concede, and her <a href="http://www.hillaryclinton.com/news/">website</a> had this to say,<br /><em></em><br /><em>The AP story is incorrect. Senator Clinton will not concede the nomination this evening.</em> </div><div align="left"><br />That is the entirety of the release, and is therefore one of the shortest press releases in the history of campaigning, second only to Nixon's post-Watergate statement:</div><div align="left"></div><div align="center"><em></em></div><br /><div align="center"><em>Go to hell.</em></div><br /><div align="left">There is really only one reason that she is still in the race. Its the same reason she made that little <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2008/05/23/clinton-kennedy-assassina_n_103319.html">Bobby Kennedy reference</a>, and its the same reason she felt the need to talk about non-existent sniper fire during her trip to Bosnia. </div><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5208241965405633874" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj7qQKpzedtr6uZLX01Ug70dWVc7t0oO1_6p1xpLTngWWrXJ3lCi3mlAC0JB1KFOLGebpKJX274O-1Hw8HyNVJL2ScebYDs60XTQX_Q9MGtEAMwu_WsSrV1Sj6yVqf1auUaCwlJi4KgrY/s320/untitled.bmp" border="0" /><br /><p align="left">This isn't the goddamn New York Marathon, you don't get hugs for chugging along until the end. The only way for her to win now is for Obama to kick the bucket, and seeing as he is the only candidate who can't join the AARP yet, I don't see that happening. So either Hillary is gunning for some last minute support from the NRA, or she's sending Obama a message: "Make me VP, or you're gonna OD on 50 caliber aspirin."<br /><br />So now we face the possibility of an Obama-Clinton ticket. Can these two really forget all the bitterness that they've been flinging back and forth for the past 5 months?<br /><br />In other news, Billy Graham and Anton LaVey were seen holding hands and cuddling in Central Park today. When asked for comment, LaVey giggled like a little girl, and Graham reportedly nibbled on LaVey's ear. Details forthcoming. </p><p align="left">Edit:</p><ul><li><div align="left">I should really give my Grandpa Armando credit for the "Hilary is going to kill Obama" idea. He's the other genius of the family, and his rantings are no less phenomenal.</div></li><li><div align="left">Hillary is going to concede the race on Saturday, so the assassination story is shot, but she still wants to be VP, and that's just as bad.</div></li><li><div align="left">Billy Graham and Anton LaVey are NOT gay lovers, according to a recent joint press release. The statement goes on to explain that LaVey recently underwent a sex change operation in Thailand, and therefore the relationship is technically heterosexual. </div></li></ul>Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01660730456772670156noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6491122330900011980.post-29699201393406920112008-06-04T13:05:00.000-07:002008-06-04T13:35:38.649-07:00It's A Wonderful WorldI remember a time when people used to put their thoughts into journals and diaries, and nobody ever read them until long after that person died and his stuff was auctioned off to pay his gambling debts. How lucky you all are! You get to read my thoughts, and then congratulate me on my rapier wit, <em>in person. </em><br /><br />I was watching a commercial for a new TV show called <del>MXC</del> Wipeout last night. Contestants in the show run through a ridiculous obstacle course, and get smacked around in ways that most TV contestants would benefit from. For example, if I were an executive at ABC, I would devote a whole episode to beating the bejeesus out of this woman.<br /><br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/rLCFX3iX7MU&hl=en"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/rLCFX3iX7MU&hl=en" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />Maybe we can have a Beat-a-thon, where kids with leukemia get money every time they muster up the strength to kick this woman in the face.<br />Seriously, when did it become OK to say the truth on national television?<br /><span style="font-size:180%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span>Taylorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01660730456772670156noreply@blogger.com0