Tuesday in Athens

I told myself that it was the cold air forcing the tears out of my eyes and not the conversation that still ran through my mind like a broken record player, each skip pushing another saline drop into the night. The rushing February night cut into my face, swirling around me as cars gained speed down the long hill I was walking up. Two of my buddies wanted to meet up for a few cheap beers tonight and who was I to turn down a legitimate chance for drinking. The shortest distance between two points is a straight line; in this case, the shortest distance between me and a friend was an uphill walk from my apartment.

I regretted lighting the cigarette after the first drag. It tasted bad and the warm smoke took away the distracting chill saturating my lungs. A few cars passed but it was a dead night, a frigid Tuesday in another college town.

I crossed an awkward five-way intersection and into one end of the small downtown area. Right away the up-tempo sound of warm conversation struck my ears, groups of four or five people out for some drinks and socializing. I strode on, letting the cigarette dangle from my lips, pulling on it only every few dozen steps. A bar across the street blared out bad 80’s music. These places became town halls, meeting houses for kids stereotyping themselves for safety and comfort. Afraid of facing society alone these young adults grabbed on to a moment in time and held it for as long as needed. Nobody actually likes music from the 80’s. People said they did because it let them automatically tag themselves, willfully trapping themselves in a period so that others could join without the worry of actually knowing each other. A band advertised its sound out of the second story windows of this bar, playing to no one while the enclosed seats outside of the bottom floor were packed with bad haircuts, too many piercings, and dressed up attitudes. This bar played Nine Inch Nails and Nirvana to no one.

The light changed just as I approached the intersection and I passed behind the two cars waiting at the light. I had been moving constantly and managed to shake off the chill. I almost walked right past the napkin splayed out in the middle of the sidewalk, willfully ignoring it until a second glance overcame my first intention and I stooped down, pinching a corner in case it was hiding something unpleasant. Someone had sketched out a crude extraction system. A hot plate, copper tubing, bucket of ice, a collection jug… a rough sketch of a still. The calculations on the back may have just been for show.

Turning the corner and starting on a new block, my hopes of a quiet night were erased by the crowd huddled in front of my bar. This many people outside meant that indoors would be packed and overflowing - two dollar beer night has that effect. I stepped through the chatting mass and into the warm interior. This bar gives itself its own credibility by hiring only two haughty bartenders and brewing its own beer. Inside was thankfully less crowded than I imagined, and I made my way through the tight aisle between booths looking for either one of the two guys I was meeting.

They weren’t there yet so I slid up to the bar and ordered a dark brew, a house brew. I joined several other guys near the entrance, each of us looking like forlorn eighth graders waiting to be asked for a dance. Groups were starting to leave now, and an empty table and stools became my new stakeout, with the last few beers of someone else’s good time keeping away seat-hungry others. I kept a lazy eye on the ones and twos that walked in and wouldn’t you know it, Brian Howard walks right by me… but it’s not really. Four and a half years in the same old town and soon everyone becomes Brian Howard, or Todd Culpepper, any of those guys who you hung out with for a year and lost contact with as they moved away, dropped out, got jobs, went home or just faded into the background. Forty-five minutes and the only thing I’ve said out loud is the name of this beer.

It’s almost midnight and more importantly, my beer is almost gone. I’m still alone and I don’t drink by myself in public. I’m tired of this scene and if I get another beer it’ll be more of the same, catching glances of my empty table in the window and staring down half-finished drinks. I get up and taste the sticky sweet residue on my lips as I zip up my jacket and head back out into the cold night, back down the hill. I’m leaving before my friends can show up.

On the Nature of Pork Beasts

After a half-hearted hour of essay writing in the downtown coffee shop, I moseyed across the street to the sports bar, looking at catch the UGA-Kentucky game. Unfortunately, someone at DirectTV has their priorities backasswards and for some unexplainable reason that game wasn't available in the California area. But I had already ordered some chicken wings and a beer, so I settled for watching UNC beat the tar out of Wake Forest.

About halfway through my meal, I hear the door open and the shuffling of feet. This in itself is not odd, but what puzzled me is that even though I was sitting at the bar very near the entrance, none of the afternoon sunlight struck through into the restaurant. I turned my head to the side. I started. I did a double-take. There were two enormous mountains of flesh oozing through the portal. Each of these creatures literally encompassed the entire door, filling it out to from top to bottom, from side to side. One about 6'5", the other a few inches shorter. Each one weighed in at 300 easy, and were probably closer to 400. Let me state now that I am in no way exaggerating anything in this story, not even for comedy's sake - all the laughter/horror is built in to this one.

They rumbled up to the bar, and began speaking. This would prove to be the first of many times over the next 15 minutes that my brain refused to believe what my senses were telling it. They sounded exactly the same, and spoke with exactly the same tone and inflection as the fat henchman from The Venture Bros. And what did they talk about? Getting in trouble because "Mom said we could only be out for two hours and it's been almost three!!". How they shouldn't have spent so much time in "the gay Best Buy". That this place (very typical sports bar, with pool tables, Foosball, stupid beer signs, etc) "was off the chain." They actually asked me if the place gets off the chain. I responded "I don't know if this place gets off the chain." It was all I could to not run away with the remainder of my french fries and camouflage myself as a salad for protection.

What did they order? Two hundred wings? A platter of ranch dressing? Sixteen cheeseburgers with extra cheese and cheese instead of buns? No. One Shirley Temple. I shit you not. This enormous ham beast, with stupid emo black hair over his eyes, stupid emo Weezer glasses, orders a fucking Shirley Temple. I almost broke my Budweiser over his fat head but didn't for fear of his mistaking my arm for a Slim Jim.

A quick aside - I've got nothing against nerds. I like them. I'm a nerd in many ways. I can appreciate nerd humor, up to a point. These two things were uber-nerds, however. They had (d)evolved to the point of barely functioning human beings. I can imagine they spend 20 hours out of the day playing Playstation games, slobbering over Japanese anime, and stuffing Cheetos into each other's mouths. Just like with anything in life, moderation is key. Except booze. These organisms threw away their humanity and became Pork Beasts. Ahem, back to the story.

Why were they here? A sports bar is one of the last places you'd find 17-year old nerdsacks. They were here asking about tickets to distribute for their band. This shit just keeps getting better. Apparently the are entered into a battle of the bands, which I WILL NOT MISS FOR ANYTHING. What the hell would they play? Can they even get on the stage? I mean, the other creature, the 6'5" hunch-backed drooling mountain of meat, looked like he had an extra chromosome or two floating around. Would they get on stage and just make various farting noises by flapping their now-vestigial appendages around? My money is on them putting together some sort of keyboard/computer synthesizer deal and playing video game theme songs. Their band name, if I heard correctly (at this point I was pretty much in shock) is Forever King Kong. Their combined creative force is only matched by their combined masses.

After a few minutes of complaining, saying how sweet the bar is, and deciding which one of them should talk to the waitress ("No dude she was hitting on you, you talk to her." "Hey you're the one that wanted to talk to her, you go do it.") , the manager in charge of the battle of the bands appears and they literally waddle over to a table and proceed to take up more physical space than my car. I continued watching the basketball game, stunned mostly by the fact that these things actually existed. They left before I did - didn't want to make Mom any more upset - and on the way out the emo/pork/creature took a parting swig of his Shirley Temple, ambled out the door, stopped, returned to the bar, and sucked down the rest of his pink drink. "Had to get the last of it" he wheezed at me, and rolled out onto the street.

I must attend the battle of the bands. I must know more about these two former humans. It's like I've discovered a living dinosaur and instead of having plates on its back or spines on its tail, it is filled with Crisco.

Also, UGA rallied from 13 down at the half to defeat #25 Kentucky 78-69 in overtime. I AM THE KING OF THE LAND, BRING ME YOUR FINEST MEATS AND CHEESES.

I'm Big in California

Walking to the campus library, I was accosted by two gentlemen. "You there!" they cried. "Lad! Come hither, and gaze upon our magic lens, so that we may capture your likeness and broadcast it to the many! Furthermore, I wish to ask of you two questions, both very brief." So I was interviewed by the Press-Enterprise, some sort of local news group. You can see the video online at www.pe.com. On the right hand side, where the video player is, click on "Professor Blah Blah talks about the President blah blah". I don't make my appearance until around minute 3, but it's ok because you've got nothing better to do.

That same day, yesterday, I saw a stupid looking white guy with a waxed mustache, and then saw him again today. COOL, HUH?!? I bet he has to wax that thing every morning before he goes out. Or he sleeps in a special mustache barometric retrovibration chamber that holds his head in place and contains speakers that play music to soothe his mustache. Or he doesn't shower, which judging from his ratty hair and air of unrecognized genius seems the most likely explanation. I've got my big stupid test tomorrow so I'm trying to review 35 pages of notes, but since this is all I've been doing since moving here it's really boring and I want to go out and eat a huge dinner so I'll come home and be comatose. Also sleeping on the couch cause your cat popped the air mattress sucks out loud.

Snow in the Desert

Laughter is a wonderful sound. It is noise that can lilt gaily across the parlour or break out uproariously through a bar. Laughter is the best medicine, and prolonged laughing is actually good exercise. Rednecks laugh like this: haw haw haw! And I’m a huge fan of laughter and all things laughy, except taffy. But there are times when you do not want to hear laughter. Say, for instance, at your sentencing, or when you have sex for the first time. I bet you never want to hear a mortician laugh either, because what the hell does he have to laugh about? It has to be something really fucked up if a mortician is laughing. You also don’t want to hear laughter at 8 a.m. on a Friday morning, especially when the laughter is followed by the words “It’s snowing!”

There are two things wrong with this situation. First, someone is awake enough to be joyful at 8 a.m. on a Friday. Second, it is snowing. In California. In the desert. I rolled off the air mattress and surveyed the scene. Turns out what passes for snow around here is a forty-five second flurry of hailstones the size of crumbs that melted almost instantly upon landing. So the incident was brief, there was no imminent danger, and I went back to bed for another hour. However, the point remains: it snowed on me! I moved out here so that wouldn’t happen. Additionally, it rained a few days ago. I’ve been here two weeks and it rained both liquids and solids! I’m upset and plan on speaking with someone about this, possibly wording a stern letter to the management.

I’ve also had a nice turn of events with the University system here. Turns out I was given transfer credit for the wrong class here at UCR. The class I was supposed to get credit for I am (was) currently enrolled in, and they have since dropped me from that course and signed me up for the other one which is in the spring quarter. So now I am enrolled in just two classes for eight credit hours. Sweet! Tuition refund! An unexpected couple thousand bucks in your pocket will – wait, survey says? ThisisagreysuitNOT! Despite taking just two classes I am still considered enrolled FULL TIME and still have to pay FULL TUITION. This is bullshit and after we’re done celebrating the fact that it only took us three hundred years to stop being racist jackasses I’ll be speaking to someone else about this.

The class I was dropped from however looked interesting. Another liberal professor, and heavy use of technology. The class is podcasted and testing is done with a “Clicker”, an infrared remote control with alphanumeric buttons. Test questions are posted on a screen at the front of the class and individuals just press the button of their answer choice, which is instantly beamed via science to a computer, or “black magic pornography box”, and recorded. This technology is weird and different and frightened me a little so perhaps it’s better I’m not enrolled. During the one class I did make it to we watched Michael Jackson’s video for “Smooth Criminal” and the live performance of “Billie Jean” where he first did the moonwalk. At the end of the course the professor showed a three minute silent video montage of war footage from over the world. It wasn’t specifically addressed to the present war, but against war in general, and ended with a quote from Gandhi: “An eye for an eye will make the world blind.”

Now I’m off to a classmate’s birthday party. Turns out we live in the same apartment complex, so he invited me over. Our only connection was video games, so this should be interesting, or awkward. I’ll think I start drinking.

Liberal Professors!

Before I talk about the FIVE HOUR class I just got home from, let me briefly discuss tonight's College National Championship:

Ahem. The Big 10 sucks. The Pac Ten sucks. The ACC sucks. The Big 12 sucks. Notre Dame sucks. The SEC is by and far the best and toughest college football conference in the nation. I don't care what your stupid, pussy-footing-in-the-meadow team did or who they beat and how this supposedly makes them good. If they didn't play a SEC team, they didn't play anybody. From the SEC, watching other teams play each other is like watching the girl's flag football team practice. That's why it's frustrating to see everyone talk about the current USC or Ohio State or some other hack school that looks talented because they're playing against such powerhouses as Oregon (lost 38-8 to the Fightin' Mormons of BYU) or the Michigan "But we should be in the championship because we're sore losers" Wolverines (lost 32-18 to the aforementioned wieners SoCal). Wisconsin was the best team in the Big 10 this year. Final quote, from Florida defensive end Jarvis Moss after trouncing national darlings/sloppy vaginas Ohio State 41-14: "Honestly, we've played a lot better teams than them. I could name four or five teams in the SEC that could probably compete with them and play the same type of game we did against them." Ouch.

Now, about that marathon class. It's only the second class I've had here at UCR, but I had a crazy liberal professor! He was goofy, did imitations, referenced the current administration's policy choices, all the things that you think of when you imagine a college professor. The class itself was mostly a review of one of the courses I took at Kennesaw State, but having a teacher that cared about the material and is a dynamic force in the room really helped keep me up for the first three hours. In addition to just teaching the material, he actually made connections to the real world of teaching. He showed us how what we were learning applied to what we would be doing. This is a great way to maintain student interest, as I found myself imagining different ways I could present various lessons to a future classroom.

To be fair, my professors at Kennesaw also gave real world examples of what happened to them in their teaching careers. But when they, Crusty Old Southern Lady and Still Angry Black Woman , told their stories they were so far removed from the student experience that it sounded like a World War One veteran complaining about Elvis. Crusty Old Southern Lady was the worst in this regard: "Now. You won't believe this, but these kids were actually smoking in the bathroom." Pause for expected gasps of horror from the class. "No! No, it can't be! Surely no one is that horrible!" we would exclaim, in her mind. "Seriously. These boys - it's not always the boys now either, ok folks? I'm telling you. These boys, they would sneak into the bathroom at lunch and be there smoking! During lunch! In school! And you'll have to deal with this when you're a teacher." Add thirty minutes and that was basically my daily experience at Kennesaw.

But back to my current professor. He brought up issues ranging from middle school crushes to student suicide pacts he unwittingly discovered. He discussed how his own sons were educated and ways he found ineffective in his teaching (the topic was educational philosophies). But again, he was wacky! The most effective thing he did as a teacher, though, was actually care about his class. He also helped me make a Family Guy pop culture tie-in. Family Guy is basically nothing but pop culture satire, and in one episode Peter runs for school board because his favorite high school teacher is being fired or isn't fun anymore or something. The teacher that Peter remembers was, well, wacky. And it turns out that this teacher is insane and is put on medication before Peter gets him off of it and eventually the teacher is carted off to the insane asylum. Now the connection: while talking today about effective teachers, our professor mentioned an older movie called Teachers. He didn't go into plot details but, as you may have guessed, had high school teachers as the focus. All types of teachers were in this film, from boring to illiterate to mean, but the students' favorite teacher was their goofy history teacher who dresses up and acts out and makes learning come alive! And apparently the movie ends with this teacher being carted off to the insane asylum because it turns out he isn't actually a teacher but, well, a crazy guy. So there ya go. You learned something. Also starring Ralph "Yo Mistuh Miagi! Kom' mee' my ma!" Macchio.

The class tonight is actually the regular class followed by a two hour "lab" session. Our lab instructor is the professor's graduate assistant, and he talks just like Greg Giraldo. Same inflection, same cadence, different vocabulary. Tonight's blog is brought to you by the letter the colon and the number quotation marks.

Eight Days and Eight Differences

It's the morning of the 8th day - the Lord has created California and rested, and now it's up to me to name all of its creatures and possibly hump them until Woman arrives. As I explore this New World I've been noting some differences between here and the Old World, the majestic South.

1. People are nice. Generally everyone here has been very kind, helpful, and friendly. Not so different from Georgia, but here there aren't any accents that hinder translation. Ever tried to ask for directions from someone down in Marr-teen-ezz? And what the hell is up with that pronunciation? I'm from Martinis hurr!

2. They have wind here. Last night I was lucky enough to meet the Californian event that heralds the coming on winter: The Santa Anas, which is Spanish for both "Mexican Rebel General" and "Desert Typhoon". The wind maintained at a nice, constant 25-30 mph with gusts pushing 45 mph. The wind would literally stop me in mid-stride and I would be forced to lean forward at least 30 degrees to keep moving/upright.

3. There are no white people. There are easily more Asians here than any other race, followed closely by Hispanics. We're probably talking 40%/40%, with the last 12% Black and finally White people. This doesn't really bother me, as I never really liked White people. It is different being the minority, but it is in no way an issue in the social dynamic. It means nothing beyond the statistic.

4. Gas is expensive, food is not. While rent is at least twice as expensive here, gasoline is only 30-60 cents more per gallon (I know that is a lot, but not as much as I expected. I thought there would be ration tickets and roving bands of desert warriors with mullets and people with homemade gasoline stills.). Other than that, food is the same price, if not cheaper. Same for restaurants. I don't know yet about electricity. Or gas. Or doing my laundry. Maybe I should have held off on this one.

5. Geography! From my little porch you can see new mountains that actually have snow in the cracks and crevasses, while all around is the flat desert. Everything is brown. Cities have literal cut-off points. You'll be driving along and suddenly the road turns dead-ends in a T, and beyond is nothing. The city limits are here. Each city is snug in its own valley, connected by barren stretches of freeway. Riverside and Fontana are maybe 10 miles apart, but 80% of that is pure desert.

6. Nobody cares about football. During the height of the bowl games last week I had way too much trouble trying to find a sports bar. And when I asked the bartender if they were showing the Notre Dame/LSU game, her response was: "Umm... I think. I think it's on that screen over there." Applebees actually changed the channel during the UGA / Va Tech game, causing me to spew beer out of my mouth in disbelief. It just never occured to me that someone would change the channel during a bowl game. Wasn't even a commerical. Even worse, it was on a fourth down that Tech converted for a touchdown, which I found out later, during replays. The Louisville / Wake Forest game was on a single screen in a sports bar, muted, while NBA basketball dominated (granted that game sucked, but who gives a shit about the Clippers? They're like your embarassing cousin that lives down the street and keeps trying to hang with your friends even though he can't make a lay-up. And smells.)

7. The food tastes different. The bell pepper I bought has more flavor. The avacado has less. I can't find skim milk at the grocery store. There are new beers to try. My tolerance has gone to shit though. Like little Asian girl bad. The tap water is pretty awful. I guess when they extract it from the rocks they can't screen out all the minerals and nuclear radiation (The UC system handles all the design and testing work for the American nuclear arsenal. Learn something every day!).

8. Ummm... Florida will win the national championship in a huge upset(why not?). The Saints will make it to the Super Bowl. Mos Def's new album is good, but definitely his weakest effort yet. But his poorest album is still light years ahead of anything you'll hear on MTV. What the fuck is a Chingy? Keep it in a box on your left? Idiotic studio goat cheese. Instead of buying that crap and encouraging these people, why not just buy a 40 GB iPod, fill it entirely with a car horn honking a single note, and listen to it non-stop. You'll find that the experience is exactly the same and you don't have to worry about learning what new bastardization of music is currently down with the homies. At the half UGA is up on Florida by a point (26-25). Why can't Georgia ever maintain a lead in the second half? It's like the other team plans and adjusts to UGA's game, but Felton gets the team in there and serves them juice and Nutter Butters and they watch an episode of "The Simpsons" before going back out.

A brief word on words

The English language is extremely variable, one of the main reasons it is said to be very difficult to learn. New words enter the English lexicon every other week and are widely used by the end of the month. The flexibility of English makes it the global language in the math, engineering and science fields, as new techniques, technology, and terminology can be created and used on the spot with instantaneous understanding. The fax (facsimile) machine entered the international dictionary (minus the French), as well as DNA (deoxyribose nucleic acid) and other scientific and technical jargon. English is spoken by more than one billion people and considered lingua franca since the end of WWII. The one area English is often said to be lacking in, however, is literature.

Many people insist that much is lost in translation (see The Bible) and the true experience of a great literary work is found in the author's native language. The flaw in this argument is that the novel was written via its original language, and by that I mean the author used his or her words as understood in that particular frame. Words do more than translate experiences, as found in a scientific journal or medical text. They carry weight and meaning, have implications outside of the book and at the same time are affected by subtle relationships within a sentence. Every word carries its own traits and background, and by extrapolation every language operates from its own distinct vantage point and is completely unique from any other. So of course reading a translated novel may not have the same effect as reading the original. But a good translation will carry over the intention of the original and rebroadcast it through another antenna.

With that out of the way, let me introduce my two favorite sentences in the English language:

He'd get up on the couch and just fall off onto the floor again and nothing is sadder than a turtle falling. - from a website discussing the cons of owning a set of "Pet Stairs"

But even when they make soft forays into Latin-brushed balladry, the inevitable and often insufferable wankery leaps from the shadows by the end. - from All Music Guide's review of the newest Mars Volta album (applicable to all of them, however)

These sentences both run on just slightly, which I have a weakness for in my own writing but enjoy because that sense of stretching out the sentence implies a rushed and excited telling. That undercurrent of excitement can lend a feeling of importance to the sentence, as if the information must be passed on immediately in a single breath. This is found in the first sentence by the lack of commas. The second sentence combines alliteration with multi-syllabic words to create a feeling of weight and extra length. Each sentence is also formally composed, but around a silly idea. The Mars Volta review contains enough points to win a Scrabble game as long as you convince your opponent that "wankery" counts on a triple word score. And the first sentence maintains an almost tragic, futile air of someone helpless person or creature struggling up onto a couch and then it hits you that yes, there is nothing sadder than a turtle falling. Provided a turtle ever found its way into a position it could conceivably fall from, let alone even stumble or trip over, I imagine it would be a rather sad sight.

So there you go. What I thought would be just an excuse to put those two sentences out for public viewing turned into a run-on essay. I'm going to go study a lot today, shower, and then class from 5-8. Whoopee! And yes, I predicted that Brady Quinn wouldn't throw for 200 yards. And that Tech would lose.

It's Always Sunny in California

January 1^st

I made it, apparently. Leaving on the final 700-mile leg at midnight turned out to be a poor choice. The first caffeine pill wore off around 2:30 a.m., the second cup of coffee was ineffectual by 4, and even the cat couldn’t take anymore and shat on the seat at 5. Following a quick Burger King breakfast/litter box break we found ourselves in California, which turned out to be remarkable in only that we entered a new time zone. The landscape hadn’t changed since the Texas nightfall, and the blasted desert wasteland put an extra strain on my driving ability. In case you’re interested, someone put a George S. Patton Museum out there in that boring stretch of dust. Adding to the fun, with less than sixty miles to go, my engine light woke up and started staring me down. Oh good, I thought, my car is going to explode. I literally thought that, word for word, and it was the most intelligent thing my brain produced in ten hours. Turned out that letting the car sit for a few calmed it down, but I’m still getting everything checked over soon.

I settled into the apartment at 11 a.m. on the 30^th. I can’t remember what I did for the next six hours. I must have brought my stuff in, because I’m looking at it now. I think I went to the grocery store. It’s not important; what is important is my trying to find a sports bar at 5 p.m. (8 p.m. Eastern) after staying awake for 33 hours. Needless to say I could barely keep my limbs from shaking, let alone drive around and actively look for a place with televisions visible from the street. I settled on Applebee’s as it was a) kickoff and b) the only thing I could find. I had three beers and some nachos, watched the first half (which went miserably for UGA), talked with the two bartenders who are both interested in becoming teachers (History and Biology, respectively). They were nice enough and really the only people I’ve talked to in Riverside, so I’ll probably go back in a day or two. And then I left to find my way back to the apartment, which has no television or internet, and pass out. Now any of you who watched the UGA/Va. Tech game (the whole game) know why that last fact is relevant. UGA turned a 21-6 deficit into a 31-24 victory in an absolutely amazing second half. At least what I’ve been told and I’ll get to that in a minute. I spent a few minutes on the phone with my Mom so that she could actually give me a play-by-play of the touchdown and two-point conversion. I’m kicking myself for leaving the bar, but honestly my head was so far down on the bar that I was breathing in tortilla chips. Georgia Tech played today and I have no idea what happened but I bet they lost. I bet Reggie Ball ran out on the field in someone else’s uniform and totally screwed up, like wicked bad, like I bet he was trying to play defense and he actually intercepted the other team’s pass but then he ran into the wrong end zone because he’s a total ass. Man he sucks.

So now it’s the first day of 2007, and I’ve managed to get a chair, a big lamp, and some shelves for clothes, some more food, and a cactus. Trying to be environmentally sound and Californian I bought a three-pack of those spiral light bulbs that use less energy. Twenty-three watts! the box cried out. 1600 lumens! Save $4,000 in a year! Now I don’t know what a lumen is, but I do know what four thousand dollars is, and shit, I bet I need at least 500 lumens, so I’d be stupid not to buy these! For the record, a lumen is the brightness of one candle. 1600 candles, apparently, is equal in brightness to the sun as seen through a magnifying glass. I’ve got all three of these portable novas pointed at the corner of the living room like they’re all in time out, and even then the other side of the bedroom wall is glowing.

I still don’t have internet or cable, so I’ve been relying on the occasional Map Quest relay from the parents for directions to certain areas, or simply just finding out that certain areas exist. In addition, I do not have hot water. This will all change tomorrow at 9 a.m., when I’ll be waiting outside the office with a grim Clint Eastwood glare and hand-rolled cigarette which I’m smoking without my using my hands.

Later on I’ll write more about my impressions of these strange people called Californians. For instance, they have a completely different idea of personal space than we do in the South. I bent over to tie my shoe while waiting in line and I swear this woman behind me almost tried to run me over when the line moved forward a space. The line isn’t going to move any faster if everyone forms a conga line, but apparently that’s the norm around here. Next time I’m waiting in line I’m bringing maracas.

Also, I have the internet. All of it.