A grain of an argument

My girlfriend and I recently had an argument. Naturally, she could not be more wrong, and as far as I know, she has no blog with three readers to dispute my claims. She made the heinous suggestion that wild rice is the worst rice. The only way this could be more wrong would be if the claim at hand were to say that the Temple of Doom is the best Indiana Jones movie. Everyone knows that Raiders is best, followed closely by Last Crusade. We will just ignore that stupid one with that kid with the weird name. (Similarly, Empire > Jedi > New Hope, ignoring that stupid new trilogy.)

Here's the skinny on rice: Yellow is the best. Yellow rice is the America of rice. No one denies this. It is flavored with saffron, of course, which is superexpensive. Every time I eat yellow rice it's like I am eating gold in every bite. That is incredible, and untouchable by anything else that rice has to offer. Next, though, is wild rice. Wild rice is Great Britain. She is implying that it is like Cameroon. No way. That's like white rice that you cook too long and it's like a paste.

White rice and I have had our problems, though. It is kind of bland and I don't have a rice cooker so I would make a poor Asian and when you boil it, the rice water that spills over the pot is really gross. How much superexpensive herb is involved with white rice? None. Step up your game, white rice. At least the Thais put jasmine in theirs to make it taste like something. White rice is the Cameroon of rice. At its best, it is really just a vehicle to put other things on. Lots of upside there. You can make gumbo with yellow rice, I'm sure, and it would be glorious.

Broccoli cheddar rice is Germany. It has no glaring weaknesses, brings a lot to the table, and doesn't try to be something it's not. You're not putting sweet and sour meatballs on it, but if you have it next to roast beef you are having a heck of a meal right there. I haven't had brown rice in like 35 years so I don't really have anything to say about it.

The moral of the story, though, is that wild rice is great and those that disagree need to be convinced. I would suggest you help convince in the comments section, but I don't think she reads the comments. Or the posts.

Sometimes I nuaaowkk qiesa

A silly thing happened to me last week at work. I know I promised not to talk about work here before, and this will not be too much about that. You do not want to hear me talk about my job because engineers are boring, right? At work, I am an engineer. Here, on the internet, I can be anything! A swashbuckling writer who just does not care what the world things -- I am going to continue observing! You are welcome, internet.

Anyway, I got a reply to an e-mail I sent to a colleague that went something like this:

Colleague,

Do not worry about the content of this message. Rest assured that it was technical and boring yet still reaffirmed how awesome I am.

Thanks,
Engubrrt

Normally, I sign with just my first name, but somehow my fingers managed not to land on the homerow exactly right and my otherwise superlative typing came out a little confused. Colleague had the good manners not to ask, "Who the hell is Engubrrt?" but if I know him, he probably showed everyone in his cubicle row while saying something along the lines of, "Get a load of this guy!"

This is not the first time I have confused my own now in communication. I remember one time I called a Tall Friend in elementary school to ask him about Command and Conquer or whatever we talked about in those days and left him a message along the lines of, "Hey Engineer, this is Tall Friend. I don't remember what this said but it was probably me calling you out as a crappy C&C player." He was both amused and bewildered by my nontraditional approach to trash talk.

The moral of this story is that even I cannot escape my powerful observations. I must continue my swashbuckling. My observations cannot esoy!

No question prompting for a y/n ends well

You know what question bothers me a lot more than it should? It's not one of those cliches like paper or plastic, boxers or brief, or do you want fries with that. (Plastic, boxers and yes.) I know one of you clever jokesters is probably thinking something like, "Are you sure you're in the right restroom, ma'am? Oh, I'm sorry." Nor is it anything as scandalous as "Why on earth would you think she was over 18?" Sadly, both of those questions make better stories, but you will be enthralled by mine; a testament to my highly developed writing powers.

Using my clues, surely you have deduced that it is when automatic card readers say: "Credit or debit?" or "Debit? y/n." This offends my sensibilities for two reasons:

1. As you can see from my blogger name, I am an engineer. I work in a technological field, so that reflects on me personally, rightly or wrongly, in the same way that when my basketball team gets bounced in the first round by a team from *gasp* Michigan that's not Michigan State, it reflects poorly on the whole Clemson community. It's that personal.
2. I'm lazy.

I also noticed that you saw more colons in the previous paragraph than your average proctologist. I was going to apologize for that, but then I realized, colons (the punctuation) are great, while colons (the organ), that would demand an apology. I apologize for nothing.

The D or C question bothers me a lot. This card can hold a magnetic strip that contains my entire personal information and credit history* but they didn't think to add "Oh, by the way, this is a credit card"? How ludicrous is that? How different is the billing process anyway? What happens if I choose debit for my credit card? Will the pump take my gas back? Truthfully, that would almost be worth it.

I know there are probably other things I should worry more about. Like about AIDS in Africa and economic collapse and if we all be speaking Chinese in 20 years and what made Mike Myers stop being funny. You know what they say: I don't, I just wanted to throw in another colon.

*I have no idea what is on that magnetic strip, honestly.

But why a spoon, cousin?

I like eating things. I hope you do, too, because really, there are fewer pure pleasures than delicious food. I noticed today, while I was eating a rather tasty pizza [that I assembled myself], that there are a couple of pitfalls that one can run into when eating. One of the more obvious and moderately embarrassing is burning your tongue. This one is redeeming quality of burning your tongue, though, is the reaction that immediately and inevitably follows. It's always the same, too, no matter who does it: a quick ducking of the eater's head, pulling into the body along with the squaring of the shoulders and raising of the arms into a bracing position; a polite removal of the offending food and replacement onto its plate; a public declaration of "Ih ott", as if there were any doubt.

That's not what happened to me, though. That never happens to me. The pitfall I experienced was one that was less destructive to my taste buds but has a higher potential for humiliation. I was taking a bite of my tasty pizza when, due to all of the awesome toppings, the sauce and cheese touched my nose, causing some of it to remain on my face. I hate that. It happens sometimes with drinks like hot cocoa that has whipped cream on it (I also never burn myself on that) or like a cake that you eat with your hands. Or if you stick your face into a bowl of ice cream, if, for instance you don't have any spoons. I myself have a comical of excess spoons; I never want for spoons.

Not only was there the disgrace of pizza sauce on my face, that was pizza sauce that would never make it into my mouth. It would be wasted, tragically, on some paper towel, unable to fulfill its designed purpose, its destiny. I'm not sure if that's worse that getting spilled on the floor -- not it's not worse, because it's a bit easier to clean up and I have the added bonus of smelling pizza for the rest of the evening. But the point is, that bit of food is deliciousity that I don't get to experience because of an awkward bite. How unfortunate is that? Eight. It is eight unfortunate.

Can I wander in your garden

I have heard a few Led Zeppelin songs on the radio lately, and quite frankly, that pleases me. I wish there were a station in Augusta that played only Led Zeppelin. Actually, that doesn't seem all that practical, considering I do own their entire studio catalogue. Anyway, I just wish I could hear whatever I wanted whenever I wanted. I know what you are probably thinking, and it involves an mp3 player and I don't want to hear it. I am not going to buy an iPod and it is unlikely that you are going to convince me otherwise since I don't really have a good reason not to buy one other than I just want to resist the temptation of selling my soul to Steve Jobs for a little while longer. Also, I still kind of want an iPhone, although now my job would make it pretty much completely useless.

The drawback, though, to Led Zeppelin is that I can only sing along if I am alone in the car. You see, my singing voice is not what one would call "pleasant." I am a terrible singer, although I do enjoy singing on Rock Band. I don't a care who's around for that, because the computer generated AI fans love me. This also applies to other bands, like AC/DC, G'n'R and the Beach Boys, all of which are comically out of my range. When I try to be Robert Plant, I sound like an angry person screaming It's been a long lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely time sped up quickly, in the style of the Chipmunks. AC/DC is a little bit different, but my throat hurts after I listen to that cd for a while.

Listening to a lot of classic rock can get to you sometimes, though, because really, they don't really make a lot of it anymore. So I feel like I've pretty much heard all of the songs in the genre. And there are only so many times one can listen to Peaceful Easy Feeling without screaming and throwing rocks and other cars on the highway. Sometimes, though after going long enough without hearing a little Zep you can be reminded of how kickass they really are. I could listen to Gallows Pole like nine times in succession without any problem, especially if you throw in a little Custard Pie. I'm pretty sure that last song is dirty, though.

I am not a [strong] man

There are some things that I feel like I should be able to do. Some of them are pretty grandiose, like I feel like I should be given an orb and scepter as visible symbols of my awesome. I also wouldn't mind getting paid for this. I have no shame for wanting to sell out. Writing nonsense for a living? I'm pretty sure that's the life that Jesus wants for me. Also, I want some sort of animal or robot to do my laundry for me. Are those things too much to ask for?

Well, not all of them are so dramatic. I think I should also be able to blow a bubble out of gum, but I can't. It's really the secret reason that I don't chew gum anymore. I'd like to be able to tolerate the less interesting, but I'm just not that big of a person, sadly. It's a lot like the attitude that Rudy Giuliani has for Iowa. I just don't see the point.

The thing that I am thinking about, though, is that I would like to be able to release the emergency break of my new car with one hand. I can't; I have to grip the handle with both hands, much like I would imagine Arthur did when he grabbed Excalibur out of the stone,
so I can drive my car after I park it on a hill. I don't really know what sort of exercises I can do with my thumbs in order to make this dream a reality. There really hasn't been anything that makes me feel quite as weak as this. Not the time I was barely able to bench the bar, not the time that couldn't pick up my backpack in high school, and not the time I got beat mercilessly by a class of kindergarten girls in tug of war. My last vehicle was a pickup truck, so I only had to use my feet to engage this break. I miss those days, because I kick like a mule.

Out of my brain on the 5:15

Hey guys, I wanted to offer a little bit of an explanation as to why the output has been down a little lately. I am so close to finishing up with grad school I could pee and hit it on the up-arc from here, and I don't want to be held up by much. I am taking a break right now because my eyes hurt and I'm pretty much at the end of my day. I might be back in the lab wondering if this decision was worth it when I just talked to a college buddy who's married with a kid and sounds the happiest I've ever heard him. Most of my thoughts have centered around Fortran, finishing my paper, and trying to decide if I want to trade down from the Sharp Aquos to the Vizio in order to better justify the purchase of an iPhone.

So, I cannot guarantee when the next update will come. But once I'm out of this mess, I can guarantee that they will be funnier. For example, I realize I have to shop for car insurance, and that means I have to negotiate the ever expanding field of the Geico Cavemen, Erin Esurance, and the guy the Unit/president from 24. That's got all sorts of hilarity potential right there. Will it really prove to be so easy a cave man could do it? Will I be won over by the sex appeal of a pink haired cartoon? Not if Jack Bauer's boss (ex-boss?) has anything to say about it. I don't know if he termed out or died or what.


Anyway, I'll try to get some good stuff out. I don't want to lose any more of my six (or was it five?) readers that I had before. Anyway, hope all you guys are staying awesome out there this summer. Word on the street is that there's a weekend coming up...

I see now, baseball is a metaphor for life. It's boring.

This is baseball season, unfortunately. We are in the wasteland of sports that is the summer, and although there are folks who are probably excited about tomorrow night's NBA playoff game, I'm sure it'll pass. I watched some of the NCAA baseball tournament today, and the vile Mississippi State Bulldogs ended the noble Clemson Tigers' quest for a national title this afternoon. But I finished following it on the radio. If you have read any of my work, you know I have rather strong opinions about the commercials. (I write this as if I expect somebody new to come across this page today.) I did see a Sonic commercial I did enjoy the other day, involving some uncertainty as to whether or not one of the characters knows how many letters there are in the standard Roman alphabet. (That's our alphabet, by the way.)

I was going to take this in the direction about how annoying commercials on the radio are, even more so than on television because you don't get the odd Geico or Sonic commercial that makes the whole free tv worthwhile. (Apparently, it costs like thirty bucks to get a commercial on the radio, because they make Alltel look preferable. [Actually, that's not true. Alltel is still much worse.]) I realized, though, as I was getting ready to write about the commercials on radio, that my life was pretty hollow right now. Like those delicious, delicious Easter bunnies.

I was also given a depressing description of the way life goes. I described my days as spending some time in the lab, coming home and talking to folks online afterwards while occasionally watching Law & Order. My mom basically said that's how life goes, except I'll have more money then. You know what? No dice. I don't want to be that guy who wears shirts and complaining about mortgage rates. I want to be the guy who wears shirts and talks about how I wish I were born in the 1820s so I could wear monocles and top hats. If my life were boring, then my blog were boring. Then I would be wasting your time, wouldn't I? I have an obligation to talk about the 1820s rather than mortgage rates, and it's a responsibility I don't take lightly.

317 days

I like to think of myself as a reasonably cultured individual, as much as I can be considering I was born in the United States to parents who aren't dukes and in a city without an opera house. I have a pretty solid understanding of foods and what sorts of meals are good ideas in certain cases and I know enough about wines and liquors not to look stupid (for example, Wild Turkey bourbon is not actually made out of wild turkeys). I'd read a couple of books (no, they weren't comic books) and I've seen a lot of movies, many of them "old fashioned" types. I own more than one movie made before 1950 on purpose. However, there are gaping holes in my movie watching that are egregious, and I feel like I need to atone for that in an oddly public way. These are movies that I have never seen, in order of decreasing egregiousness.

1. Die Hard. I have never seen a single Die Hard movie. Ever. Any of them. I have never seen Bruce Willis walk across broken glass, my exposures to Alan Rickman are limited to Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves and Dogma, and as a result, my standard for action movie series is Lethal Weapon. Now Danny Glover is a communist, Mel Gibson is a racist while Bruce Willis is still busy being hardcore. Where did I go wrong?
2. Rocky. Again, I have never seen any of them. No running up the steps in Philadelphia, no "Adrian!" and no Dolph Lundgren (who went to Clemson, by the way)/Mr T/Burgess Meredith. It took me a while to understand the "It's over Rock!" "It ain't over, just get me something to drink" Lipton Iced Tea commercial (I had to use context clues). It was, as a result, hard to get excited about Rocky Balboa. I almost feel like I'm still just a boy since I haven't seen one of these.
3. Psycho. Everybody everywhere knows about the shower scene, the staccato strings and the amazing cinematography to imply the stabbing. It's like grown to be part of our collective culture, and I'm pretty sure if you were to go to a foreign country and make the "Rhee! Rhee! Rhee!" sound, they would answer back with (insert vaguely racist stereotype of a foreign language) "Ah, Psycho!" but they probably wouldn't understand why the p is there. And it's Alfred Freaking Hitchcock. If he had just made this movie he would have been a legend. Or The Birds. Or Vertigo. Or Rebecca. But he made all of them. And, interestingly enough, I haven't seen any of them, either. (I have seen Rear Window and Dial M for Murder, though.)
4. Caddyshack. I know it's about golf and considered one of the funniest movies out there, like on the level of Animal House or something. I own Animal House, so I have that one covered. But something involving gophers or sprinklers or both, and I feel like I need to rectify this one, probably more than some of the ones above it. I just can't put this higher than Psycho, and the first two are like 8 movies, so they earn their spot simply by proliferation.
   
5. Fast Times at Ridgemont High. All I really know about this movie is that Cameron Crowe made it and it has one of the most famous nude scenes ever. Phoebe Cates removing her bikini top to Moving in Stereo. She's married to Kevin Kline now. Wouldn't it be weird to be married to a sexual icon like that? I wouldn't know where to begin imagining that, since I've never seen the movie. I heard it [the movie] wasn't that good though.
6. Harry Potter. I haven't seen any of the movies or read any of the books. And I put this one last because I don't care. Everyone around me seem to be freaking out about it all the time. This also revives the Alan Rickman component of this, who I wish was in more stuff. (I have also seen him in Something the Lord Made and Galaxy Quest, two movies which makes me want to rephrase: I wish he was in more stuff I actually want to watch.) It also sort of revives the nudity component, because I hear that the kid who plays Harry appeared naked in a play involving a horse somehow. Also, I think it's kind of funny that every pedophile in the country is counting down to the girl in the movie's 18th birthday. I, for one, have no idea how many days it is until then. I'm not putting a picture of her up, because that's just too creepy.
   

I feel like I have my work cut out for me, and those are only the ones I could think of off the top of my head right now. I own a few movies that I've never actually watched, but they don't quite look like they will make the list. (One of them is Battlefield Earth.) I did finally see the Da Vinci Code movie, but I still haven't read the book. It was ok. And I never know what to say about it, because I heard from somebody I trust that it was a terribly written book and then I hear people say that it was really well written, and it makes me wonder if those people are stupid. I guess it could also be that they are just egregiously missing out on very important cultural touchstones, so that good writing isn't judged by Dan Brown any more than good action flicks are judged by Lethal Weapon.

Man, my superpowers are lame

I discovered I have a new superpower yesterday. I already knew of this one and this one, but I guess I'm not done yet. Again, though, it's a skill that really isn't the sort of thing that would get comic books written about you or attract women. Really, is there any other reason to want superpowers? Helping people, I guess, but regular people can do that, so who cares. Maybe to do tricks to win bets. I could see the Flash getting really drunk and betting people that he could do things like grab all the jacks before the jack ball hits the ground and then when people start to believe he can do anything start making things up like saying he can vibrate a chair into a harmonica.

My newest one is that I can smell ammonia way better than everyone else in my lab. Isn't that spectacular? I'll be sitting around, minding my own business doing math and wishing I was somewhere more interesting like a box factory and then I will be overwhelmed with horrible ammonia smell. I'll make some disgusted sound, like "Hushhgah," and then everyone will look at me as if I just told them that a gnome pooped on my shoe. I normally wear flip-flops this time of year so that would be particularly troubling. The others can't figure out how I am able to detect the smell when either a) I am very far away or b) there is no ammonia being vented. One of the guys even enlisted me to smell around his apparatus to find a leak because he couldn't detect the smell. Really. So far, my powers have let me not sleep in when I'm tired, avoid stinking in warm weather and be used as if I were a trained animal to detect a leak. Call Stan Lee.

I don't know how long my hair is or should be

I am right at that point in my hair growth where I could probably use a haircut. However, I have an interview on Thursday, so I'm not sure it's a good idea to get a haircut tomorrow, since if it sucks, I'll look like a guy with a bad haircut. I wouldn't hire a guy with a bad haircut. The upside to being right tat that point is that I could probably go a little while with my current hair arrangement and be ok for a little while.

It's such a tenuous time, though. Like when you finish shaving and are wondering if it's time to lose the current blade and go to a new one. If you jump the gun, you're being wasteful; if you're too late, then you look foolish in public. A friend of mine basically told me once that if I have to ask if I need a haircut, I need to get one. I'll tell, you, though, I'm going to take the risk and wait it out for a few days. I live that close to the edge.

It's tricky, because I basically only know how to do one thing with my hair. I have no knowledge of gels or pomades, and I'm not even sure that, considering my hair, either one of those things would be a good idea. (I think there'd be no doubt, though, that I'd be a Dapper Dan man.) It does get old having the same hair all the time, but I feel like my hair is holding me hostage and I don't have a lot of choice in the matter anyway.

No, no, not a Jew. Achoo.

I have a funny sneeze. I purposely chose an adjective of ambiguous meaning in "funny" because I mean it both in the sense that it's distinctive and at times comical. That's expected, though; I come from a rather solid pedigree of funny sneezers. My mom's is superbly loud, my dad's actually sounds like "achoo", and is the only sneeze I've ever actually heard that sounds like that. To be accurate, though, it's more like "ah.... CHOOOO!" and it sounds like he's emphasizing the last part on purpose and kind of faking it. My mom and I have called him on it, but he thinks we're crazy. All I have to say is that I'm not faking my ludicrous sneeze. My brother's individual sneezes aren't anything to sneeze at (had to be done and I apologize for it) on their own, but the real distinctions is they travel in packs. He goes for like thirteen in a row, usually.

I remember the first time somebody laughed at my sneeze. It was kind of a strange experience, because really, what's funny about a sneeze? Apparently, the answer to that question (if it's my sneeze) is "the sound." I don't know what the acoustic cause is, maybe nostrils that are just perfectly shaped to get an unusual intonation. I wonder if it would change with a nose piercing. Anyway, somebody recently said "Is that a bird call?" after one of my sneezes in place of the more traditional "bless you."

This makes me wonder what sorts of etiquette implications are involved in a sneeze. Surely it is preferred to offer the bless you than not; but where is the line drawn? And how funny does the sneeze need to be for the laugh and the [not] clever one-liner to take its place? My typical rule of thumb is that I don't give the bless you to people I don't know, and even then, usually not to dudes. Don't know why, but that's just how I roll. I sometimes don't even bother with the ladies, though, because if a person has a quiet sneeze or like a half-sneeze, it's hard to tell if a bless you is warranted, because really, is there anything more embarrassing then blessing a cough? I submit there is not.

No funciona la computadora

My regular schedule has been slowed due to a catastrophic failure in my laptop's backlight, making it very difficult to do things like see what I'm clicking. Instead, I have to use my lab computer as if it were my own, which is ok, I guess, but it makes me feel like one of the foreign people who basically lives in their offices, like the tall Sikh or the Chinese girl who has a boy's haircut but is still somehow kind of cute. I'll bet they know how to make good food, though.

Anyway, I'm sitting in my lab, trying to justify my time here by looking for articles on how to improve the vacuum seal of my project, but really, I don't think there's any search terms that will give me any sort of useful journals, since "vacuum seal" is pretty generic. It's like the mechanical engineering equivalent of searching for something like "existential angst" in an English database; it's not the most common thing, but you have your hands full looking through the results.

As you can probably imagine, at 8:15, I'm not making a lot of progress. I'm pretty sure the answer is that my setup won't work, so I'm not really that concerned anyway. I'm in here by myself rocking out to Pet Sounds. Actually, there may or may not be a post doc in the next lab over, listening to me harmonize. But who is he to judge?

Anyway, I didn't want to lose my surging fanbase of 6 because I have been having trouble updating. I expect to resume my normal level of output sometime next week, after I steal my little brother's hand-me-down, which is a little shaming for an engineer to admit.

Dear Alma Mater Be Our Guide / Reveal to Us the Way

I have gone to three schools that have an Alma Mater, and I still don't know why the songs are called that. I understand a little bit as to why the schools themselves are called that, since there is a bit of "nourishing" of a person through education. For all you ignoramuses out there (and yes, that is the plural, it's not ignorami), alma mater is Latin for nourishing mother. So, the school itself sort of makes sense, but the naming of the song doesn't.

Mr. Wagner, one of those teachers you'll remember forever (if you had him) made all of us new freshman in his class memorize the Spruce Creek High School Alma Mater. The totality of what I remember from that exercise is visible in the title bar above, so it made quite an impact on me. We also had to memorize the fight song, the Gettysberg Address, the Constitution, and the 1st and 4th verses of the national anthem. There were probably other things he had us memorize, but I can't remember what they were.

Rose-Hulman had an Alma Mater, too, I'm pretty sure. I must say that after three and a quarter years there if the Rose pep band played it in my living room, I wouldn't be able to identify it. Then again, they could be playing Pinball Wizard and I wouldn't recognize it (that actually happened - not in my living room). They weren't very good, but the point is I don't know the Alma Mater for my alma mater. I think the fight song is called "Dear Old Rose", but I don't know the words. I understand the football team sang it after wins, which I didn't know until halfway through the senior season. The probably did a lot of stuff that they didn't publicize very well. I blame the newspaper.

There is no mistake about Clemson's Alma Mater. They sing it all the time. Before games, after games, before class, when the president goes to the bathroom, etc. It's a fine song, with one glaringly monumental flaw. The first two lines are "Where the Blue Ridge yawns its greatness / Where the Tigers play." So far, so good; Blue Ridge Moutains are right up the street and yawning greatness is a pretty good image of effortlessly being awesome. We are all Tigers, and play is better than work, so I'm ok with this part. The next lines are "Here the sons of dear old Clemson / Reign supreme alway." I hate the missing s in always. It turns out, though, that it is an acceptable archaic or poetic form of the word, but it doesn't make it easier for me. The word looks naked. If it were a sexy, feminine word like curvacious or bassoon, then nobody would be complaining about the word being a little immodest. But with a stubby misshapen word like always, it needs the s to pull off its look.

Invented by Terrorists: Pant buttons

Yesterday, something happened to me that I can't remember ever happening before. As I was leaving my lab, my shorts started to fall down. At first, I just thought, "Well, maybe they're a little big," and pulled them up. Then it became quite clear that it wasn't that they were a little big. Evidently, the button at the top of the zipper doesn't always latch in the best way, and my walking action coupled with the weight of my cell phone and wallet worked my zipper down a ways as well. So, effectively, my shorts weren't actually on.

So, I'm standing in the middle of an engineering building on Clemson campus, and fortunately, there aren't too many gawkers standing nearby. So I angle myself towards the wall and a plant, and correct the problem. I then realize that it may look like I'm relieving myself into the plant. That could have been a rather embarrassing turn of events had anyone been around to point and laugh. So for now, only you, dear readers, will be aware of my wardrobe malfunction.

I know what you're thinking now: "Maybe he just went to the bathroom and forgot to button his pants, like a moron." I'm pretty sure that this is not true because the button popped loose again later that day. I did manage to catch it before zipper failure occurred, so crisis was averted. I can understand your skepticism, though. I can assure you that I do understand the mechanics of dressing myself.

Somebody light a match

Today was a milestone day for me. For the first time I can remember, and maybe ever, I lathered, rinsed and repeated. I did this because I needed to shower to wash lake off of me after a quick trip to Lake Hartwell. The lake didn't all come out after one rinse, so I followed the directions on my shampoo.

It was quite nice this morning. But the Carolina clay/mud at the bottom is a little bit gross. I imagine it's what a bug feels like when it accidentally flies into your nose and lands in a pool of snot. At least, that's what I'm thinking about as my feet disgustingly sink into the waiting lake bottom. It was warm, but the sun was low enough that the trees shaded my water and keys so the water wouldn't taste like the lake and the keys wouldn't burn my hands when I pick them up to unlock my car.

I also noticed that the lake, much like all other bodies of water, is not above making humorous pockets of air get trapped within my bathing suit. In fact, as I was getting ready to leave, there was such a pocket trapped in my left pant leg behind my left thigh that expelled itself as I bent down to collect my book, keys and water, sounding suspiciously like an expulsion of gas that would ordinarily come from a region not terribly far away from that left thigh. Fortunately, no one was around to hear it, so I didn't have to explain anything to anybody. I'm pretty sure I did hear the lake giggle a little bit, though.