Ghost of Christmas Future, Steve, Ghost of Christmas Future.

Fla. man in women's bathing suit arrested

Tue May 30, 6:47 PM ET
KEY WEST, Fla. - A man wearing a purple women's bathing suit and carrying a flare gun was arrested after he told a bartender he was going to "get rid of all the dirt bags in Key West," authorities said.
Jeffrey C. Anderson, 55, was charged with carrying a concealed firearm Monday after he brandished the flare gun, which was under a skirt he was wearing, Key West police spokeswoman Christie Phillips said.
The bartender, who was not identified, was working in the downstairs bar of The Bull and Whistle, a popular Key West watering hole located on Duval Street.
"She reported she had seen a man, later identified as Anderson, dancing in the street showing tourists his private parts, and asking people for money when they took his picture," the news release said.
The bartender said Anderson then approached her, telling her he was going to get rid of the city's "dirt bags" before displaying the gun, police said.
Police quickly located Anderson and found an orange 12-gauge flare gun in his possession, Phillips said. He was transported to the Monroe County detention center. It was not clear if he had a lawyer.

Several thoughts:
1. 55 eh? MEEP.
2. How do you hide a orange 12 gauge flare gun in a swim skirt?
3. Who the hell wants to take pictures of a 55 year old man in a ladies swimsuit?
4. Who the hell wants to pay to take pictures of a 55 year old man in a ladies swimsuit?
5. If indeed people were taking pictures of this man, why are none on the damn internet?
6. Are any man's parts private when they are wearing a ladies swimsuit?
7. What kind of folks would an aging delusional tranny with no fashion sense consider a "dirt bag"?

The more you know.

The more you have to fear.

Last weekend I watched an intriguing documentary series, The Last Days of WWII. I learned many interesting things, but the one that stuck with me was about the scores of new technologies developed in Germany and Japan that would revolutionize the art of warfare.

Having carefully researched WWI techniques Japanese leaders decided that the atom bomb was too far off and that given the success of Germany’s use of poison gas, germ warfare was clearly the wave of the future. Japan went straight to work using civilian slave labor to build a secret facility in Japanese occupied Manchuria. There they experimented with different diseases and methods of deploying them, using human guinea pigs.

Their first real act was to poison the waters and food stores of the Chinese front with natural diseases. 70,000 Chinese civilians and soldiers died of cholera and dysentery when the Japanese forces feigned a retreat.

They next developed a plane, fast as a fighter plane, that could fly from Japan to the west coast of America and back. Finally, in the most terrifying act in the war, Japan developed an ingenious approach to long-distance warfare. After testing several diseases and missile designs (on Chinese civilians and POWs), Japan picked the bubonic plague as their next long range super-weapon. They made a two part missile that would explode at an optimal altitude over the major cities of America’s west (to coincide with attacks on the East by the Nazi navy) scattering millions bubonic plague infested fleas across the city.

The planes went into production and plans to first bomb San Diego were created. They began amassing fleas and infecting them with the plague, testing them on Chinese POWs and soldiers to perfect the method. By V-J Day Japan had enough bubonic plague to wipe out the entire human race.

I’ve always felt bad about America breaking the seal on the nuclear menace. All the destruction and civilian death seemed like a waste; that because Germany had surrendered, the war was really over. But I think I was wrong. The war wasn’t over, Japan was still desperately trying to hold onto their annexed land and prevent a western invasion. The bomb protected us from countless civilian deaths and possibly the eradication of the entire human race.

Studying WWII is like watching horror movies alone. After doing all this research (I say research you say unhealthy obsessing), I realize how close Hitler was to winning. If he had listened to his military advisors, even the entrance of America would not have prevented him. Battles like Stalingrad, where Hitler ignored his advisors, were the ultimate downfall of the Third Reich, not the fresh American military.

Without nuclear weapons, I can’t imagine the world we would live in now. Maybe the world that nobody would live on anymore.

Darwin in Action

Admittedly cute action though.

Lovesick swan falls in love with swan paddle boat
Fri May 26, 3:16 PM ET
BERLIN (Reuters) - A swan has fallen in love with a plastic swan-shaped paddle boat on a pond in the German town of Muenster and has spent the past three weeks flirting with the vessel five times its size, a sailing instructor said Friday.
Peter Overschmidt, who operates a sailing school and rents the two-seat paddle boat on the Aasee pond, said the black swan with a bright red beak has not left the white swan boat's side since it flew in one day in early May.
"It seems like he's fallen in love," said Overschmidt. "He protects it, sits next to it all the time and chases away any sail boats that get anywhere nearby. He thinks the boat is a strong and attractive swan."
Overschmidt said the swan will figure it out sooner or later but hopes he won't be too heartbroken.
"I'll wish him all the best and hope that he doesn't make the same mistake again," said Overschmidt."

Are you looking for your mommy, sweetheart?

When did it become ok for guys named “Cooper” to hit on me?

Or “Tucker” or “Skylar” or "Tanner" for that matter.

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Last time I checked if you were named Cooper, you either looked like this:

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Or this:

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Totally unacceptable.

Scientists Find Real Answers to Tough Questions

Philosopher, scientist, farmer crack chicken-egg question

LONDON (AFP) - Which came first, the chicken or the egg? According to a scientist, a philosopher and a chicken farmer, it was the egg, British newspapers reported.
The key to the age-old question apparently lies in the fact that since genetic material does not change throughout an animal's life, the first bird that evolved into a chicken must have initially existed as an embryo inside an egg.
Professor John Brookfield, from England's University of Nottingham, concluded that because of this, the living organism inside the eggshell would have had the same DNA as the chicken it turned into.
The specialist in evolutionary genetics was quoted in a number of newspapers as saying: "Therefore the first living thing which we could say unequivocally was a member of the species would be this first egg. The egg came first."
Brookfield's conclusion was backed up by Professor David Papineau, of King's College, London, and the chairman of the trade body Great British Chicken, Charles Bourns.
Papineau, an expert in the philosophy of science, argued that the first chicken must have emerged from an egg even though it was laid by a different species of bird, but it was still a chicken egg because it had a chicken in it.
"The conclusion therefore must be that the egg came first and the chicken afterwards," he stated.
Bourns' methodology was not explained in The Times, the Daily Mail and the Independent, who all carried the story.
"Eggs were around long before the first chicken arrived," he affirmed.

Well, now that that issue is taken care of, how about a cure for that ebola thing. AIDS? Cancer? No dice, eh? Well, thanks for the egg thing though. That was totally great.

Demonic Weasel Assault and Takin it to the Street: this is all Your Fault, Stromboli.

Chef's assistant Sean and I were making stromboli last night when I burned myself, like a complete moron. I wasted the rest of the evening lounging about watching Mystery! (emphatically) and the finale of American Idol. I have seen the finale and only the finale of every season of American Idol and every viewing reinforces me with the belief that they pick people who blow. I would bet good money (or cupcakes, whatev) that every one of the back-up singers on that show has ten times the technical skill and natural talent than Taylor Hicks. Does he not know that Michael McDonald is not dead yet? Sorry, all full of Michael McDonalds at the mo, maybe try back in ten years, maybe grow a beard, change your name to Michael. And maybe also McDonald. Maybe nobody would notice the difference, we could just slip you in like the replacement for a dead pet on a sitcom.

Anyway, all night my hand was hurting like the dickens and just generally upsetting me. I watched a fair amount of Battlestar Galactica, I mean er... Masterpiece Theater with a bag of frozen corn on my hand before I could fall asleep. Finally, as I lay in bed, blissfully slumbering I dreamt that Sean and I were out hiking in a lush forrest and came upon a beautiful giant otter. He was floating on his back in a deep pond and gesturing to us, like Mr. Beaver in Narnia. We came closer to the edge of the water and he paddled to us, his lunch on his long, glossy, flat belly. He leaned forward and as I watched the shell slide off his belly and down through the clear cold water, he grabbed my outstretched hand and bit it. Little bastard.

This morning I came in and all the office ladies were horrified. So now I am safely swaddled in neosporin and gauze. Unfortunately, now that I look like an extra from the curse of the mummy everyone keeps asking what happened. And then I have to tell everyone that I'm a total idiot.

Echoes

Here's your grenade -- you want fries with that?

Reuters
Mon May 22, 10:10 AM ET

YORK (Reuters) - Workers at a British factory making French fries were evacuated two days running last week after bomb parts turned up in potatoes imported from France and Belgium, the site of battles in World War One and Two.

The Scarborough plant, owned by Canada's McCain Foods, the world's largest producer of frozen fries, was emptied Friday after a worker spotted a shell tip among the potatoes as they were being cleaned for slicing. "The police were called and the bomb squad advised a 100 meter exclusion zone should be set up," said a McCain spokesman.

Saturday, an entire hand grenade was discovered in the potatoes and the plant in northern England was evacuated again. "The army took the device away and blew it up in a controlled explosion in a field nearby," a spokeswoman for the North Yorkshire police said.

The Scarborough plant was opened in 1969 and uses 1,400 tons of potatoes every week. Production is back to normal.

McCain's Whittlesey plant near Peterborough in eastern England has also been evacuated several times this year after World War Two ordnance was found in batches of potatoes.
"Occasionally during the use of imported potatoes from Belgium and northern France, ordnance debris from the First and Second World War is found," McCain said in a statement.

titter titter

Is it just me or is this funny?

Insistent bar-guy, you are ruining my Indian man fetish.

Seriously, multiple phone calls, text messages and now two emails in one day. I must be smoking hot. But let’s be honest with each other, desperation is a stinky perfume. And I know you might have thought that you smelled it on me last Friday at the bar, but you were mistaken… it was actually just a lot of vodka.

Stupid, stupid vodka.

DEVO Resurgence Fascinating-- Scientifically, of Course

I get very frequent emails from the many exciting venues in Seattle- God knows if I miss anything, I will actually die. Today an email came from the Paramount, letting me know that I could Pre-Order Devo tickets at any time. (I should mention that they sent me notifications for EVERY show- not just DEVO.) Curious about how much Devo could possibly set you back ($46-$66) I clicked to view the ticketing page (no, seriously, $46-$66). The following text appeared:

One of new wave's most innovative and (for a time) successful bands, Devo was also perhaps one of its most misunderstood. Formed in Akron, OH, in 1972 by Kent State art students Jerry Casale and Mark Mothersbaugh, Devo took its name from their concept of "de-evolution" -- the idea that instead of evolving, mankind has actually regressed, as evidenced by the dysfunction and herd mentality of American society. Their music echoed this view of society as rigid, repressive, and mechanical, with appropriate touches -- jerky, robotic rhythms; an obsession with technology and electronics (the group was among the first non-prog rock bands to make the synthesizer a core element); often atonal melodies and chord progressions -- all of which were filtered through the perspectives of geeky misfits. Devo became a cult sensation, helped in part by their concurrent emphasis on highly stylized visuals, and briefly broke through to the mainstream with the smash single "Whip It," whose accompanying video was made a staple by the fledgling MTV network. Sometimes resembling a less forbidding version of the Residents, Devo's simple, basic electronic pop sound proved very influential, but it was also somewhat limited, and as other bands began expanding on the group's ideas, Devo seemed unable to keep pace. After a series of largely uninteresting albums, the band called it quits early in the '90s, and Casale and Mothersbaugh concentrated on other projects.

This is the text designed to interest you in coming to the concert. Is it normal for this sort of text to include why nobody listens to this band anymore? Just imagine...

One of pop's innovators, Brittany Spears popularized the good girl gone bad pop diva genre of music. Her many smash hits topped the charts until in a bizarre twist she got knocked up by a no-talent, white trash, wigger and became a fat shrew with the parenting skills of a guppy. Sucked down the toilet by her fascinatingly dysfunctional home life and the public realization that she couldn't sing, Brittany sank into a deep Ho-Ho induced coma for 25 years- I mean focused on other projects. Catch her this Friday at the Tractor Tavern. 3$ cover.

Sloth Bears are Bastards

and also much more energetic than their name implies.

Apparently, earlier today in a Netherlands Safari Park some Sloth Bears chased a Barbary Macaque into an electric fence (tool use eh?) where it was stunned and eventually escaped to a wooden structure, to which one bear pursued and mauled the screaming monkey before bringing it back to its buddies to eat... in front of a horrified live audience of zoo-going families. Apparently these creatures had coexisted harmoniously in their habitat until one day something snapped.

Some may be reminded of the deranged hippie who shares the opposing side of my cubical wall. I think something similar may occur... our zoo-manager, I mean divisional supervisor will say, "Usually it isn't possible for keepers to intervene when an animal, I mean worker, kills another. They have coexisted harmoniously in their habitat for quite sometime, but today when Gargoyle Toes bitched about being fat having just consumed a Jenny Craig meal and several Milwaukee-size cookies, then burned popcorn, ate it and made a second bag, something just snapped."

If you're interested in this bit of "animals behaving exactly as animals can be expected to do, even though it shocks us civilized creatures" news you can find it here. WARNING- picture of mauled macaque.

For more Mauled Macaque news and pictures click here, you sick bastard.

Inventive way to meet cops

One of many reasons I do not own pets or children. This is a true short story from a professor at Ursinus College.

This is the story of the night my ten-year-old cat, Rudy, got his head stuck in the garbage disposal. I knew at the time that the experience would be funny if the cat survived, so let me tell you right up front that he's fine. Getting him out wasn't easy, though, and the process included numerous home remedies, a plumber, two cops, an emergency overnight veterinary clinic, a case of mistaken identity, five hours of panic, and fifteen minutes of fame.

First, some background. My husband, Rich, and I had just returned from a five-day spring-break vacation in the Cayman Islands, where I had been sick as a dog the whole time, trying to convince myself that if I had to feel lousy, it was better to do it in paradise. We had arrived home at 9 p.m., a day and a half later than we had planned because of airline problems. I still had illness-related vertigo and because of the flight delays had not been able to prepare the class I was supposed to teach at 8:40 the next morning. I sat down at my desk to think about William Carlos Williams, and around ten o'clock I heard Rich hollering something indecipherable from the kitchen. As I raced out to see what was wrong, I saw Rich frantically rooting around under the kitchen sink, and Rudy -- or, rather, Rudy's headless body -- scrambling around in the sink, his claws clicking in panic on the metal. Rich had just ground up the skin of some smoked salmon in the garbage disposal, and when he left the room, Rudy (whom we always did call a pinhead) had gone in after it.

It is very disturbing to see the headless body of your cat in the sink. This is an animal that I have slept with nightly for ten years, who burrows under the covers and purrs against my side, and who now looked like a desperate, fur-covered turkey carcass, set to defrost in the sink while it's still alive and kicking. It was also disturbing to see Rich, Mr. Calm-in-an-Emergency, at his wits end, trying to soothe Rudy, trying to undo the garbage disposal, failing at both, and basically freaking out. Adding to the chaos was Rudy's twin brother Lowell, also upset, racing around in circles, jumping onto the kitchen counter and alternately licking Rudy's butt for comfort and biting it out of fear. Clearly, I had to do something.

First we tried to ease Rudy out of the disposal by lubricating his head and neck. We tried Johnson's baby shampoo (kept on hand for my nieces' visits) and butter-flavored Crisco: both failed, and a now-greasy Rudy kept struggling. Rich then decided to take apart the garbage disposal, which was a good idea, but he couldn't do it. Turns out, the thing is constructed like a metal onion: you peel off one layer and another one appears, with Rudy's head still buried deep inside, stuck in a hard plastic collar. My job during this process was to sit on the kitchen counter petting Rudy, trying to calm him, with the room spinning (vertigo), Lowell howling (he's part Siamese), and Rich clattering around with tools.

When all our efforts failed, we sought professional help. I called our regular plumber, who actually called me back quickly, even at 11 o'clock at night (thanks, Dave). He talked Rich through further layers of disposal dismantling, but still we couldn't reach Rudy. I called the 1-800 number for Insinkerator (no response), a pest removal service that advertises 24-hour service (no response), an all-night emergency veterinary clinic (who had no experience in this matter, and so, no advice), and finally, in desperation, 911. I could see that Rudy's normally pink paw pads were turning blue. The fire department, I figured, gets cats out of trees; maybe they could get one out of a garbage disposal.

The dispatcher had other ideas and offered to send over two policemen. This suggestion gave me pause. I'm from the sixties, and even if I am currently a fine upstanding citizen, I had never considered calling the cops and asking them to come to my house, on purpose. I resisted the suggestion, but the dispatcher was adamant: "They'll help you out," he said.

The cops arrived close to midnight and turned out to be quite nice. More importantly, they were also able to think rationally, which we were not. They were, of course, quite astonished by the situation: "I've never seen anything like this," Officer Mike kept saying. (The unusual circumstances helped us get quickly on a first-name basis with our cops.) Officer Tom, who expressed immediate sympathy for our plight -- "I've had cats all my life," he said, comfortingly -- also had an idea. Evidently we needed a certain tool, a tiny, circular rotating saw, that could cut through the heavy plastic flange encircling Rudy's neck without hurting Rudy, and Officer Tom happened to own one. "I live just five minutes from here," he said; "I'll go get it." He soon returned, and the three of them -- Rich and the two policemen -- got under the sink together to cut through the garbage disposal. I sat on the counter, holding Rudy and trying not to succumb to the surreal-ness of the scene, with the weird middle-of-the-night lighting, the room's occasional spinning, Lowell's spooky sound effects, an apparently headless cat in my sink and six disembodied legs poking out from under it. One good thing came of this: the guys did manage to get the bottom off of the disposal, so we could now see Rudy's face and knew he could breathe. But they couldn't cut the flange without risking the cat. Stumped.

Officer Tom had another idea. "You know," he said, "I think the reason we can't get him out is the angle of his head and body. If we could just get the sink out and lay it on its side, Ill bet we could slip him out." That sounded like a good idea at this point. ANYTHING would have sounded like a good idea, and as it turned out, Officer Mike runs a plumbing business on weekends; he knew how to take out the sink! Again they went to work, the three pairs of legs sticking out from under the sink surrounded by an ever-increasing pile of tools and sink parts. They cut the electrical supply, capped off the plumbing lines, unfastened the metal clamps, unscrewed all the pipes, and about an hour later, voila! the sink was lifted gently out of the countertop, with one guy holding the garbage disposal (which contained Rudy's head) up close to the sink (which contained Rudy's body). We laid the sink on its side, but even at this more favorable removal angle, Rudy stayed stuck.

Officer Tom's radio beeped, calling him away on some kind of real police business. As he was leaving, though, he had another good idea: "You know," he said, "I don't think we can get him out while he's struggling so much. We need to get the cat sedated. If he were limp, we could slide him out." And off he went, regretfully, a cat lover still worried about Rudy. The remaining three of us decided that getting Rudy sedated was a good idea, but Rich and I were new to the area. We knew that the overnight emergency veterinary clinic was only a few minutes away, but we didn't know exactly how to get there. "I know where it is!" declared Officer Mike. "Follow me!" So Mike got into his patrol car, Rich got into the driver's seat of our car, and I got into the back, carrying the kitchen sink, what was left of the garbage disposal, and Rudy. It was now about 2:00 a.m. We followed Officer Mike for a few blocks when I decided to put my hand into the garbage disposal to pet Rudy's face, hoping I could comfort him. Instead, my sweet, gentle bedfellow chomped down on my finger hard, really hard, and wouldn't let go. My scream reflex kicked into gear, and I couldn't stop the noise. Rich slammed on the brakes, hollering "What? What happened? Should I stop?", checking us out in the rearview mirror. "No," I managed to get out between screams, "just keep driving. Rudy's biting me, but we've got to get to the vet. Just go!" Rich turned his attention back to the road, where Officer Mike took a turn we hadn't expected, and we followed. After a few minutes Rudy let go, and as I stopped screaming, I looked up to discover that we were wandering aimlessly through an industrial park, in and out of empty parking lots, past little streets that didn't look at all familiar. "Where's he taking us?" I asked. "We should have been there ten minutes ago!" Rich was as mystified as I was, but all we knew to do was follow the police car until, finally, he pulled into a church parking lot and we pulled up next to him. As Rich rolled down the window to ask, "Mike, where are we going?", the cop, who was not Mike, rolled down his window and asked, "Why are you following me?" Once Rich and I recovered from our shock at having tailed the wrong cop car and the policeman from his pique at being stalked, he led us quickly to the emergency vet, where Mike greeted us by holding open the door, exclaiming "Where were you guys???"

It was lucky that Mike got to the vet's ahead of us, because we hadn't thought to call and warn them about what was coming. (Clearly, by this time we weren't really thinking at all.) We brought in the kitchen sink containing Rudy and the garbage disposal containing his head, and the clinic staff was ready. They took his temperature (which was down 10 degrees) and his oxygen level (which was half of normal), and the vet declared: "This cat is in serious shock. We've got to sedate him and get him out of there immediately." When I asked if it was OK to sedate a cat in shock, the vet said grimly, "We don't have a choice." With that, he injected the cat; Rudy went limp; and the vet squeezed about half a tube of K-Y jelly onto the cat's neck and pulled him free. Then the whole team jumped into "code blue" mode. (I know this from watching a lot of ER.) They laid Rudy on a cart, where one person hooked up IV fluids, another put little socks on his paws ("You'd be amazed how much heat they lose through their pads," she said), one covered him with hot water bottles and a blanket, and another took a blow-dryer to warm up Rudy's now very gunky head. The fur on his head dried in stiff little spikes, making him look rather pathetically punk as he lay there, limp and motionless. At this point they sent Rich, Mike, and me to sit in the waiting room while they tried to bring Rudy back to life. I told Mike he didn't have to stay, but he just stood there, shaking his head. "I've never seen anything like this," he said again. At about 3 a.m, the vet came in to tell us that the prognosis was good for a full recovery. They needed to keep Rudy overnight to re-hydrate him and give him something for the brain swelling they assumed he had, but if all went well, we could take him home the following night. Just in time to hear the good news, Officer Tom rushed in, finished with his real police work and concerned about Rudy. I figured that once this ordeal was over and Rudy was home safely, I would have to re-think my position on the police.

Rich and I got back home about 3:30. We hadn't unpacked from our trip, I was still intermittently dizzy, and I still hadn't prepared my 8:40 class. "I need a vacation," I said, and while I called the office to leave a message canceling my class, Rich made us a pitcher of martinis.

I slept late the next day and then badgered the vet about Rudy's condition until he said that Rudy could come home later that day. I was working on the suitcases when the phone rang. "Hi, this is Steve Huskey from the Norristown Times-Herald," a voice told me. "Listen, I was just going through the police blotter from last night. Mostly it's the usual stuff breaking and entering, petty theft but there's this one item. Um, do you have a cat?" So I told Steve the whole story, which interested him. A couple hours later he called back to say that his editor was interested, too; did I have a picture of Rudy? The next day Rudy was front-page news, under the ridiculous headline "Catch of the Day Lands Cat in Hot Water."

There were some noteworthy repercussions to the newspaper article. Mr. Huskey had somehow inferred that I called 911 because I thought Rich, my husband, was going into shock, although how he concluded this from my comment that "his pads were turning blue," I don't quite understand. So the first thing I had to do was call Rich at work Rich, who had worked tirelessly to free Rudy -- and swear that I had been misquoted. When I arrived at work myself, I was famous; people had been calling my secretary all morning to inquire about Rudy's health. When I called our regular vet (whom I had met only once) to make a follow-up appointment for Rudy, the receptionist asked, "Is this the famous Rudy's mother?" When I brought my car in for routine maintenance a few days later, Dave, my mechanic, said, "We read about your cat. Is he OK?" When I called a tree surgeon about my dying red oak, he asked if I knew the person on that street whose cat had been in the garbage disposal. And when I went to get my hair cut, the shampoo person told me the funny story her grandma had read in the paper, about a cat who got stuck in the garbage disposal. Even today, over a year later, people ask about Rudy, whom a 9-year-old neighbor had always called "the Adventure Cat" because he used to climb on the roof of her house and peer in the second-story window at her.

I don't know what the moral of this story is, but I do know that this "adventure" cost me $1100 in emergency vet bills, follow-up vet care, new sink, new plumbing, new electrical wiring, and new garbage disposal, one with a cover. The vet can no longer say he's seen everything but the kitchen sink. I wanted to thank Officers Tom and Mike by giving them gift certificates to the local hardware store, but was told that they couldn't accept gifts, that I would put them in a bad position if I tried. So I wrote a letter to the Police Chief praising their good deeds and sent individual thank-you notes to Tom and Mike, complete with pictures of Rudy, so they could see what he looks like with his head on. And Rudy, whom we originally got for free (or so we thought), still sleeps with me under the covers on cold nights and unaccountably, he still sometimes prowls the sink, hoping for fish.

Catalyst

I guess I wasn’t “Bryn Mawr material.” I drank, smoked, and generally gallivanted about. I was hands down the worst President of the Bryn Mawr and Haverford College Christian Fellowship, possibly ever. I listened to loud rap music and mouthed off to the multi-ethnic student group and made a few of them cry. I had parties. I had male friends. I had male friends… at parties.

Megan was my perfect match- the only other straight girl at Bryn Mawr who understood the joys and sorrows of tequila. We strolled into poetry class late with lattes and flirted with the professor. We shared a mutual affection for belts encrusted with glitter and flip flops no matter the season. We fought like cats. It was as close to love as I like to get.

Senior year we didn’t have much to give after 9/11, both being scholarship students. Our babysitting money barely covered books and transportation; we felt helpless. Megan, a New-Yorker, felt particularly miserable. One day over chai she had a brilliant idea. An idea that could benefit Bryn Mawr and New York. Something that could bring two incredibly diverse communities together. Something that could get the girls out of the library and onto the dance floor. Something with… beer. And that is how the boys of Sigma Nu came into my life. Well, the Villanova chapter at any rate.

We emailed local fraternities proposing a scheme: a bachelor/bachelorette auction. And kegger. Sigma Nu happily agreed to help. Administration flipped their collective wig. Neither of us were strangers to the Dean’s office and the very thought of Villanovan frat boys and kegs on their pristine campus was quite the shock. But we took it to the top and got the permissions needed.

It was the party of the year. We raised well over two grand for the Red Cross in cup fees and auction proceeds. Many girls got much needed action. Many guys got much undeserved action. Megan and I both started dating burly ‘Novans that annoyed and threatened my other male friends. Eventually we got excellent breakup stories and a trip to Rhode Island.

Yesterday Megan called. She had found out that our auction and subsequent parties were the foundation for a relationship with Sigma Nu that continues today. Apparently our ‘little sisters’ kept a relationship with the frat and their ‘little sisters’ did too. Out there, this weekend, there could be an Alcohol for Africa party. Who knows?

I guess I left a legacy at Bryn Mawr after all- I certainly didn’t put any effort into it. It figures that my legacy would primarily involve worthless men and beer.

My Humps

I went for my second sensitivity training session last week. We were strongly encouraged to attend this “voluntary” session. By “strongly encouraged,” I mean forced. And by “voluntary,” I mean mandatory.

It opened with a GOOOOOOOOONNNNGGG!

We were then instructed to pair up and switch work rolls, i.e. supervisors acted as staff and staff as supervisors. I was paired up with a woman who we refer to as Jabba. Sure, the earth trembles, shaking my cube walls as she passes on her way for her breakfast (Doritos and Mountain Dew)- but we don’t call her Jabba simply because she’s a big girl. We call her Jabba because she is actually evil. She even has a sidekick, who I call Salacious (though nobody has figured out why*).

At any rate, she had to be a crap employee and I had to be her boss in the play acting and she was so mean I couldn’t focus enough to complete the task with any success. I actually compacted into a tiny ball on my chair. Eventually, her aggressive wining tirade was brought short by another (atonal) chime of the GOOOOOOOONNNG. After which she gave me a half-hug (NO LIKEY THE TOUCHY!!!) and said, “Whew all this acting is hard, thank God I don’t have to be like that all the time.” Well, while you don’t HAVE to be a bitch all the time, you do manage it at least 8 hours a day.

Next we were instructed to take a break for cookies; and thank God I grabbed a couple extra. Our next activity was to decide what animal our “emotional selves” were. Animals are meat and meat is good. But somehow “emotional animals” didn’t have much appeal to me. Emotions are suspiciously similar to feelings (nice try, Tricky) and everyone knows I DO NOT TALK ABOUT FEELINGS.

As she announced the criterion for picking our “animal selves” I let out just one snort. As people commented that they were bunnies, turtles and tigers in emotionally charged situations, I was completely unable to look at anything beyond my shoes. Making any eye contact with people who seriously believe themselves to be “emotional opossums” would actually have sent me headlong into the Giggle Loop.

After a long term of silence, I determined that I am a Camel. Camels are useful, often amusing, but uncooperative and stubborn. In conflict situations a camel will simply sit down. If you continue to bother it, it will spit at you. If you foolishly persist, a violent kick or bite may head your direction.

Momentary relief at coming up with something to say was instantaneously destroyed with the realization that my entire supposition that this entire exercise was bullshit was slightly flawed in that I definitely do resemble a camel in that particular sense. But not all senses, my milk is not considered an aphrodisiac in Ethiopia. Yet.

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*Salacious Crumb is a Kowakian Lizard Monkey. You know the thingy that Jabba hangs out with. It screeched when R2-D2 zapped it on the sand barge when they were trying to feed Luke to the Sarlacc… uhm. You know, the part with the gold bikini…. Nevermind.

Still single, fellas.

Word.

The following appeared in my inbox this morning, courtesy of KEXP....

Good morning John,

In my never-ending quest to provide you with the information you need on the artists that

matter, today Ill answer the question, Who is Kevin Federline? As you may know, Federline is occasionally referred to as Mr. Britney Spears. Well, thats all about to change, bitch.

You see, Federline has been promoting his upcoming debut record, Playing With Fire and it sounds like were in for a treat. In a statement released through his publicist on Tuesday,

Federline, billed as "performer and rapper," says: "The inspiration and meaning behind the title is self explanatory, (because) my album is sure to set the dance floors across the world on fire!"

Wearing the ensemble that has become his signature look wifebeater, jeans, ponytail, bling Federline, says Ive been quiet for two years, he says. Now its my time to say, Hey, Im here, like it or not.

Federline says hes been a bedroom rapper for years and actually got into dancing through hip-hop. Still, when he first stepped into a studio he worked on rock and alternative music before going back to his first love. He says, I have other stuff I tried that actually sounds pretty good, alternative stuff, rock stuff, but I'm gonna go this route 'cause this is what I grew up with. This is what's in my blood. I don't know no different."

In fact, Federline says that sometimes, he just gets hit with the beat upside your head and it's like, 'Put me in the booth right now. I don't even need to write nothing down. Let's do it.' That's it for me. It's like a rush, man."

Federline has already released his first single via the Internet, "PopoZao," which is slang for "nice ass" in Portuguese. But he told MTV that his "favorite joint" is the track "Down South," a crunk tune with the opening lyric, "Put your middle fingers up if you really don't give a f---." "Pot Roastin'" is a "booty joint" with sexed-up lyrics over a simplistic beat that includes the line "Between the cheeks/ Turn your little girls from sweet to freaks." Others songs recall his troubled teenage years, including "Untold Stories," which samples a Journey track. "Using your life situations and talking about 'em, that's what hip-hop is," he says. "I'm just a real person, man. That's it."

Most of his songs, however, are straight-up club tracks. "I want to be able to go out there and dance," he explains. "I don't want to give that up. That's a big piece of my life. So in order to do that, I need to get everyone else out there to shake their ass."

Unfortunately, new-wave trailblazer and apparently, party pooper, Thomas Dolby is considering taking legal action against K-Fed for violating copyright law by using his 1983 hit, "She Blinded Me With Science in the future smash, "America's Most Hated." Dolby says he considered turning a blind eye to it before finding out the song had already aired on VH1. It's like what Vanilla Ice did with 'Ice Ice Baby' [illegally sampling Queen and David Bowie's 'Under Pressure'], although I think Vanilla Ice is a superstar compared to this guy," says Dolby. Interestingly, Federline refers to the paparazzi that follow him and Spears as "Pavarottis" in the song. Opinions vary as to whether this was intentional.

But just who is this misunderstood genius? Lets take a look.

He grew up in Fresno, California where he says, A lot of just crazy, crazy sh*t went down, so I had to get myself out of that situation. Dancing brought me out of it. Federline dropped out of high school to pursue his dancing career, and surpringly, has yet to complete his GED. He got his first breaks dancing backup for Pink and Justin Timberlake.

The relationship between Spears and Federline began with their meeting at a Hollywood club called Joseph's. Spears soon invited him on her European tour, The Onyx Hotel Tour, and she proposed to Federline on the plane ride back from the tour. On the night of September 18, 2004, two months after his second child was born to actress Shar Jackson, Federline and Spears engaged in a surprise wedding ceremony at a private home in Studio City, California. Although not legally binding, this "faux wedding" allowed the couple to finalize legal details of their marriage without the deadline of an upcoming ceremony. To celebrate their beautiful love, Spears gave Kevin a Ferrari 360 Spider that he repainted to read "Federline" instead of "Ferrari".

Federline and Spears have collaborated on a few tracks, but Federline is sitting on them for the same reason. "I think people need to get to know me a little bit more, and that way when we do something, people will respect it that much more," he said.

More good news - In fact, Federline's planning a promotional club tour, where he'll bring advance music for DJs to play so he can gauge fan reaction. "I'm excited about ... seeing the firsthand reaction of my fans listening to my songs for the first time," he says.

And hes already putting together his live show! "That's going to be the best part of my album is watching me perform it," he says. "I've seen so many stage performances and so many shows, the ideas I have for this tour are ridiculous. It's gonna be something totally different. You don't see rappers dancing, and I'm dancing for sure. And it ain't gonna be no poppy dancing. The people I got with me are a bunch of street cats who are ridiculous."

While we look forward to that, we can read into the K-Fed mind with the lyrics from
Americans Most Hated:

(Kevin Federline talking) Waitress, can I have another drink please? I'd like to formally introduce my self

Im the talk of the town

Thats the reason why they stare

4 karats in my ear

If you look see a glare

Im - one of a kind

With a wonderful rhyme

Im skatin off in a 'rari

You'll get left behind

My raps fully automatic like an AR

Droppin - nothin but heat me an JR

Im livin life in the fast lane

Then the cash came

Fire wont quit, still burnin like a gas flame

They watch me

So i duck and roll

Middle fingers still up sayin f*ck the globe

And my dawgs still down

We dont trust them hoes

I live life like a King

I was extra stoned

Kevin Federline -

I come tight with every rhyme

I built a kingdom down the street from pepperdine

This marijuana got me heavily sedated

Im Kevin Federline

America's most hated (what!)

(talking) Aww yea baby - JR mane, JR you there mane? Hey man, why dont you pass me that

bottle over there guy

Im on the frontline

Dodgin cameras like the one time

Cant even chill in this california sunshine

But its okay, i got somethin for ya

Im handin out ass kickins like diplomas

Who the first to get it?

Ya know K Feds wit it

All that sh*t rappers talk about, I already did it

Im committed - to the game

The fames why I hustle

Lyrical exercise, workin every muscle on the double

Chief and commanda

Hand ya

Ass to ya in a basket wrapped in plastic

Im looney

All these model chicks wanna do me

Tabloids tried to screw me

Magazines try to kill me

But im nasty

Too f*ckin slick and sly

So high

I could prolly drop a sh*t and fly

You gonna need a big army

If you comin for me

K. Federline - I hit like tsunamis

(talking) whoo - yea baby, that sh*t is fire right there, you know what im talkin about?

Lets get drunk to this one damn it. hoo, one more jack and coke bitch

Im bigga than you

Im sicka than you

Im here now

So they not gon pay attention to you

They listen to dude

I sizzle the booth

Im livin the truth

You f*ckas talk sh*t

Couldnt fit my shoes

I got my blue yankee fitted on

Watch to match

Little boys we can get it on

Watch your back

I got my name spreadin faster than crack

And thats just a fact

Sucked in Americas hate and now im passin it back

Uh

Who told this bastard that he cant rap

I got 50 mill.

I can do whatever I want

I dont need a deal

I can do whatever I want

I just keep it real

I can say whatever I want

Dont buy my sh*t

I bet your girl ridin to it

With her hair in the wind

And her mind on the new kid

The most anticipated

But still underated

Kevin Federline - Americas Most Hated (what!)

(talking) Ah - thank you baby. I got a tip for you after this too girl, we all gonna go

swimmin with women...dont forget your swim suit.

Word.

Some advice to give, on how to be insensitive.

Last October I whipped out a chocolate covered orange marshmallow pumpkin at poker night. Everyone was appalled to find out that I LOVE them. Every week thereafter, for literally months, I received one every Wednesday via my account box at the comic book store (where I play poker).
Each week when I would pick up my comics, I would pick up my marshmallow pumpkin and not once did I ask who they were from.
Last night, as I attempted to sleep it occurred to me that I'm an odd duck not to wonder who had been gifting me with numerous artificially citrus flavored marshmallow squashes.
I wonder what that means.





















Did I let them down? Was it meant to be mysterious? Was this a gently meant teasing gesture? A friendly joke? A romantic overture? Did someone simply find them on sale? Why not leave a note? Who was it?
I guess it is hard to say at this point. After a while the marshmallow pumpkins piled up in my candy bowl, overflowing onto my table until I shifted the pile into my bread basket. Too much of a good thing, I couldn't choke another down.