I have a very sensitive soul, and I can rarely bring myself to do things like kill spiders or bugs without just cause. This deep, inextricable sissiness, combined with the intellectual maturity of a younger me, lead to some pretty odd behaviors that went largely unobserved. I had many stuffed animals and other vaguely anipomorphic (50 hits on Google, good enough) objects in my room as a child. Somehow I always felt their cold, beady and/or buttony eyes on me, and so always had to leave my room and go to the bathroom to change. Middle school gym class was quite a shock to me.
Even stranger: when I first started using a word processor to type papers and other things for school, I felt inexplicably bad about deleting letters. I don't know what it was, but I started getting into the habit of just copying and pasting unwanted text to the end of the document and only printing out the first n-1 pages to spare the poor unwanted letters' lives. When I upgraded from my AppleIIe to a proper PC with Word on it, editing and formatting became a lot easier, so I was sometimes compelled to be even more creative in my Schindler-esque efforts. Because I felt sad about banishing the letters to the lonely last page ghetto, a began to cut/paste them into a separate word document where they all lived and could be happy among their own kind. I remember being nervous about that, wondering if the cut/paste function was somehow deleting the letter and putting a copy of it at the target destination instead of preserving the essence of the letter. (Funnily enough, we spent an entire week on this subject in my Metaphysics class ten years later.) The height of the absurdity, I think, was when I would keep the string of unused letters just in front of the cursor in my document, and would drop them off in new words where appropriate. Foster words for the abandoned letters.
I honestly don't remember what broke me of these odd habits. I know I accidentally included the strings of gibberish when turning in my assignment a few times, and I remember one horrific accident where I must have hit the 'insert' button on my keyboard and I overwrote a whole two lines of them. I think the stress of writing papers in high school just made me more comfortable with the idea that letters are were my little slaves, and that I could deal with them as I wished.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Thursday, April 28, 2011
The Little Things
Back in high school I was much more of an outside person. I went on many camping trips with my scouting/venture crews and enjoyed being alone outdoors as well. Once school started getting more difficult, though, I let that part of myself slip away as I spent ever longer chunks of my time looking at various flat surfaces in attempts to find wisdom. I lost contact with most of my outdoorsy friends and let the stress of life keep me inside.
After about a year of this, I decided to go on my old Venture Crew's next scouting trip. It was fall, and the trip was the last one before the winter. The thing I enjoyed rediscovering most was how quiet everything could be. I had forgotten that I didn't need aural input during my every waking moment. I remembered that it was possible to enjoy the company of others just by walking together, sharing an experience, and that every moment of silence spent with others didn't need to be filled with banal chatter. I basked in the lovely quiet as we walked unspeaking through the leaf-littered woods, six of us I think, and felt perfectly content as we sat around looking at the fire, all of us deep within our own minds yet still somehow sharing in the loveliness of the moment.
After so many packed lunches full of individually wrapped goodies to be scarfed down during a short lunch break, it felt refreshing, and even oddly taboo, to cook successive meals in the same cast iron pot with only a splash of water to cleanse its palate in between. The main course's beef would flavor the apple crisp dessert, which would in turn give a faint sweetness to the bacon or sausage cooked the next morning. The tastes alway carried over just a little, giving a vague but satisfying sense of gustatory continuity to the trip.
When the sun set and the glowing fire burned down to its last glowing ember, I retreated into my dark tent where the only stimuli available to my usually racing mind was the musty smell of the ground that was unaccustomedly close to my head. Trying to pack light, the only thing I ever brought as a pillow was the jacket I had worn all day. As burrowed my face into it, I was pleasantly reminded of all the smells of the day that had been trapped in its folds. They always seemed to come back in order, ending with the smoke of the campfire, and I wondered what wood we had burned that night, and if there might be any way to imbue its scent into a car freshener so I could replace the omnipresent chemical pine smell in my mom's suv.
I have always wondered why I sleep so well on hard ground with rocks pressing into my ribs and a tent's damp fabric pressing against bare skin whenever I rolled over. I think this is probably the reason- there is really nothing for your mind to do but drift off into the sea of the unconscious.
This wasn't one of those well-slept nights, though. At some dark hour of the night, I awoke to hear something rustling outside my tent. Probably just one of my fellow campers stumbling into the night after drinking multiple nalgene's worth of water that day. But it kept rustling, and seemed to have paused right outside my tent. Hello? No answer. This was just the excuse my mind needed rush off and remind me of all the unlikely possibilities. In my adventures with that very group, I had encountered everything from fellow scouts waking up with squirrels joyously pillaging the contraband food items stashed in their sleeping bags to seeing a bear kill and drag off a young dear forty feet from our campsite. I knew I didn't have any so-called "smellables" in my tent, so whatever it was would likely leave me alone. But it didn't go away. It didn't sound large enough to be a threatening predator, said the rational part of my brain, and was movingly timidly enough that it was probably a good sized deer... which was probably being silently stalked by a much larger bear.
As the minutes wore on I had to know what is was, no matter what the purely-imagined danger. My plan was to unzip my tent-flap as quietly as I could, and then open my rainfly as quickly as possible and blind the lurking beast with my flashlight. I didn't have much of a plan after that, but I figured it was good enough. I executed it perfectly. But after ripping open the rainfly in record time and dashingly pointing my flashlight at the source of the noise, I saw... nothing. Nothing at all. I was prepared for my ego to feel shamed and embarrassed at seeing that the source of my nighttime dread was just a 'possum, or at least a very large squirrel, but I was completely baffled to see that there didn't seem to be anything outside my tent at all.
I waited, listened, and eventually heard the noise again. From outside of my tent, I could now tell that it was coming from beneath leaves on the ground. I got down close enough to see a dead leaf shutter and tremble, and then another one nearby did the same. I held on to my last chance to save my pride, hoping that it was a least some fangy, dangerous snake I would discover as I flipped over the leaves. It was a spider. A slender, friendly, almost translucent daddy long legs, working laboriously to navigate his comedically long limbs through the leaf litter.
In all my time wrapped up in the every day life of cars and central heating and headphones, I had forgotten the noise a single spider makes as it walks through crunchy leaves on a crisp autumn night. I gently uppicked my nocturnal nemesis and moved him far from my tent, a just punishment, I think, for such an obvious breach of the peace. As I drifted off for the second time that night, I wondered how I could possibly fall asleep back in the real world among sounds many magnitudes louder than the one that had just caused me to lose a half hour of well-earned sleep. Actually, I still kind of wonder.
After about a year of this, I decided to go on my old Venture Crew's next scouting trip. It was fall, and the trip was the last one before the winter. The thing I enjoyed rediscovering most was how quiet everything could be. I had forgotten that I didn't need aural input during my every waking moment. I remembered that it was possible to enjoy the company of others just by walking together, sharing an experience, and that every moment of silence spent with others didn't need to be filled with banal chatter. I basked in the lovely quiet as we walked unspeaking through the leaf-littered woods, six of us I think, and felt perfectly content as we sat around looking at the fire, all of us deep within our own minds yet still somehow sharing in the loveliness of the moment.
After so many packed lunches full of individually wrapped goodies to be scarfed down during a short lunch break, it felt refreshing, and even oddly taboo, to cook successive meals in the same cast iron pot with only a splash of water to cleanse its palate in between. The main course's beef would flavor the apple crisp dessert, which would in turn give a faint sweetness to the bacon or sausage cooked the next morning. The tastes alway carried over just a little, giving a vague but satisfying sense of gustatory continuity to the trip.
When the sun set and the glowing fire burned down to its last glowing ember, I retreated into my dark tent where the only stimuli available to my usually racing mind was the musty smell of the ground that was unaccustomedly close to my head. Trying to pack light, the only thing I ever brought as a pillow was the jacket I had worn all day. As burrowed my face into it, I was pleasantly reminded of all the smells of the day that had been trapped in its folds. They always seemed to come back in order, ending with the smoke of the campfire, and I wondered what wood we had burned that night, and if there might be any way to imbue its scent into a car freshener so I could replace the omnipresent chemical pine smell in my mom's suv.
I have always wondered why I sleep so well on hard ground with rocks pressing into my ribs and a tent's damp fabric pressing against bare skin whenever I rolled over. I think this is probably the reason- there is really nothing for your mind to do but drift off into the sea of the unconscious.
This wasn't one of those well-slept nights, though. At some dark hour of the night, I awoke to hear something rustling outside my tent. Probably just one of my fellow campers stumbling into the night after drinking multiple nalgene's worth of water that day. But it kept rustling, and seemed to have paused right outside my tent. Hello? No answer. This was just the excuse my mind needed rush off and remind me of all the unlikely possibilities. In my adventures with that very group, I had encountered everything from fellow scouts waking up with squirrels joyously pillaging the contraband food items stashed in their sleeping bags to seeing a bear kill and drag off a young dear forty feet from our campsite. I knew I didn't have any so-called "smellables" in my tent, so whatever it was would likely leave me alone. But it didn't go away. It didn't sound large enough to be a threatening predator, said the rational part of my brain, and was movingly timidly enough that it was probably a good sized deer... which was probably being silently stalked by a much larger bear.
As the minutes wore on I had to know what is was, no matter what the purely-imagined danger. My plan was to unzip my tent-flap as quietly as I could, and then open my rainfly as quickly as possible and blind the lurking beast with my flashlight. I didn't have much of a plan after that, but I figured it was good enough. I executed it perfectly. But after ripping open the rainfly in record time and dashingly pointing my flashlight at the source of the noise, I saw... nothing. Nothing at all. I was prepared for my ego to feel shamed and embarrassed at seeing that the source of my nighttime dread was just a 'possum, or at least a very large squirrel, but I was completely baffled to see that there didn't seem to be anything outside my tent at all.
I waited, listened, and eventually heard the noise again. From outside of my tent, I could now tell that it was coming from beneath leaves on the ground. I got down close enough to see a dead leaf shutter and tremble, and then another one nearby did the same. I held on to my last chance to save my pride, hoping that it was a least some fangy, dangerous snake I would discover as I flipped over the leaves. It was a spider. A slender, friendly, almost translucent daddy long legs, working laboriously to navigate his comedically long limbs through the leaf litter.
In all my time wrapped up in the every day life of cars and central heating and headphones, I had forgotten the noise a single spider makes as it walks through crunchy leaves on a crisp autumn night. I gently uppicked my nocturnal nemesis and moved him far from my tent, a just punishment, I think, for such an obvious breach of the peace. As I drifted off for the second time that night, I wondered how I could possibly fall asleep back in the real world among sounds many magnitudes louder than the one that had just caused me to lose a half hour of well-earned sleep. Actually, I still kind of wonder.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Raccoons
(Note- as I get into the habit, I'm going to try to limit the editing I do, since that is the part I most dread and most keeps me from it. Please forgive)
I worked at a waterfowl conservancy one summer, which is essentially a place that breeds endangered (and non-endangered) ducks, geese, and swans for release or zoos or sometimes private collectors. I lived on the grounds with my boss and the grounds-keeper, and the other employees lived pretty close, so it wasn't uncommon for us to go out to eat together. It was in a fairly rural part of Connecticut, so of course the closest Chinese food was a terrible all-you-can eat buffet that would ruin your digestive track for weeks at a time. One night we came back from that greasy but delicious GI destroyer and I was immediately in the john for about three hours as my body tried to cleanse itself. When the flood gates finally closed, I remembered that I was actually scheduled for a interview with the Magic Online people for a moderating position. I was thinking about canceling it because it would be awkward to have to repeatedly run off in the middle of it, when I heard what sounded like a gunshot from bird enclosure, followed quickly by two more.
"Hmmmm thats's odd," I thought to myself, but since I was in a place where everyone owned four or five guns, I didn't think much of it. A minute later, though, my cellphone rang. It was my boss. A raccoon had gotten into the enclosure and killed a half-dozen of our chickens. I had to come help him look for the perpetrator. My stomach twisted into a knot, and not from the General Tso's. Raccoons are mean motherfuckers, and actually seem to kill stuff just out of curiosity or fun. My boss one time had several dozen quail murdered by a pair of them. They had just come in and squeezed their little heads off. Sometimes the raccoons took a bit or two, but mostly the left the corpses laying around.
But my interview!
Doesn't matter.
But my bowels!
Doesn't matter.
The place's grounds-keeper had gone out and I was the only person on premises to help. I briefly e-mailed the contact I had for the interview and, grudging and miserable, walked into the night to go find my boss.
On the property we had some birds of whose species there are only only a few thousands left in the wild. We also had birds that were slated to be sold to zoos for tens of thousands of dollars. I knew we had to find that raccoon. It was just that my innards were in such revolt that I had to make a constant, concerted effort just to keep myself isotonic with my environment. But you gotta do what you gotta do. My boss showed me the gory chicken coup to give me an idea of what could happen if the raccoon found its way into the pens of anything important. It really did seem like it had been enjoying itself the way the blood was festively smeared all over the walls and floor, with the entrails hanging around like streamers. The survivors cowered in loft. I was determined to make the raccoon pay.
As I was thinking of all the terrible things I would do to that stupid mammal, my boss handed me a gun and a flashlight. "Whoa. I have no idea how to use this thing." "Ummm... point and shoot, idiot." We had a good rapport. "Don't you have, like, a sword or a taser or something?" "Shut up. What did you think we were going to do. Let's go." I've used shotguns and rifles before, but only in the context of Boy Scout Camp. The only pistols I had ever used were in Counter-Strike, and sometimes in Unreal Tournament, but only before I found a nice flak cannon. The only hint he gave me was to use the flashlight to catch the eye-shine of the raccoon, and we went off our separate ways, keeping parallel to make sure the intruder couldn't get past us.
We didn't find him. We spent at least an hour checking every tree and bush he could be hiding in. Hopefully he had left after murdering the chickens, and hadn't made it into the main enclosure. Still, we had to make sure the electrified fence hadn't somehow been compromised. Of course that meant -I- had to check while my boss continued to make the rounds of the high-priority tenants. So I spent the next chunk of my night walking the entire length of the fence that surrounds the entire conservancy. In the dark. Alone. With a gun. While my body desperately tried to rid itself of excess MSG. And did I mention it was electrified? And there wasn't really a path that went around it so much as just brambles. Lots and lots of brambles. Many flesh wounds and minor electrocutions later, I happily reported back to my boss that I didn't find any holes under or in the fence, and could 100% confirm that it was in fact electrified the entire way around. I breathed a sigh of relief as he said he hadn't found anything either, so the raccoon must have left after his chicken massacre. "Do one more walk around, though, just to make sure."
I ended up getting back to my bathroom at around 2:00 am and my bed at 2:30. Luckily my interviewer was in PST, and was a night owl, so I still got the chance to exhaustedly do my interview. One positive was that the night had given plenty of pre-and-post interview small talk, and they did end up offering me the position.
This is why I hate raccoons.
I worked at a waterfowl conservancy one summer, which is essentially a place that breeds endangered (and non-endangered) ducks, geese, and swans for release or zoos or sometimes private collectors. I lived on the grounds with my boss and the grounds-keeper, and the other employees lived pretty close, so it wasn't uncommon for us to go out to eat together. It was in a fairly rural part of Connecticut, so of course the closest Chinese food was a terrible all-you-can eat buffet that would ruin your digestive track for weeks at a time. One night we came back from that greasy but delicious GI destroyer and I was immediately in the john for about three hours as my body tried to cleanse itself. When the flood gates finally closed, I remembered that I was actually scheduled for a interview with the Magic Online people for a moderating position. I was thinking about canceling it because it would be awkward to have to repeatedly run off in the middle of it, when I heard what sounded like a gunshot from bird enclosure, followed quickly by two more.
"Hmmmm thats's odd," I thought to myself, but since I was in a place where everyone owned four or five guns, I didn't think much of it. A minute later, though, my cellphone rang. It was my boss. A raccoon had gotten into the enclosure and killed a half-dozen of our chickens. I had to come help him look for the perpetrator. My stomach twisted into a knot, and not from the General Tso's. Raccoons are mean motherfuckers, and actually seem to kill stuff just out of curiosity or fun. My boss one time had several dozen quail murdered by a pair of them. They had just come in and squeezed their little heads off. Sometimes the raccoons took a bit or two, but mostly the left the corpses laying around.
But my interview!
Doesn't matter.
But my bowels!
Doesn't matter.
The place's grounds-keeper had gone out and I was the only person on premises to help. I briefly e-mailed the contact I had for the interview and, grudging and miserable, walked into the night to go find my boss.
On the property we had some birds of whose species there are only only a few thousands left in the wild. We also had birds that were slated to be sold to zoos for tens of thousands of dollars. I knew we had to find that raccoon. It was just that my innards were in such revolt that I had to make a constant, concerted effort just to keep myself isotonic with my environment. But you gotta do what you gotta do. My boss showed me the gory chicken coup to give me an idea of what could happen if the raccoon found its way into the pens of anything important. It really did seem like it had been enjoying itself the way the blood was festively smeared all over the walls and floor, with the entrails hanging around like streamers. The survivors cowered in loft. I was determined to make the raccoon pay.
As I was thinking of all the terrible things I would do to that stupid mammal, my boss handed me a gun and a flashlight. "Whoa. I have no idea how to use this thing." "Ummm... point and shoot, idiot." We had a good rapport. "Don't you have, like, a sword or a taser or something?" "Shut up. What did you think we were going to do. Let's go." I've used shotguns and rifles before, but only in the context of Boy Scout Camp. The only pistols I had ever used were in Counter-Strike, and sometimes in Unreal Tournament, but only before I found a nice flak cannon. The only hint he gave me was to use the flashlight to catch the eye-shine of the raccoon, and we went off our separate ways, keeping parallel to make sure the intruder couldn't get past us.
We didn't find him. We spent at least an hour checking every tree and bush he could be hiding in. Hopefully he had left after murdering the chickens, and hadn't made it into the main enclosure. Still, we had to make sure the electrified fence hadn't somehow been compromised. Of course that meant -I- had to check while my boss continued to make the rounds of the high-priority tenants. So I spent the next chunk of my night walking the entire length of the fence that surrounds the entire conservancy. In the dark. Alone. With a gun. While my body desperately tried to rid itself of excess MSG. And did I mention it was electrified? And there wasn't really a path that went around it so much as just brambles. Lots and lots of brambles. Many flesh wounds and minor electrocutions later, I happily reported back to my boss that I didn't find any holes under or in the fence, and could 100% confirm that it was in fact electrified the entire way around. I breathed a sigh of relief as he said he hadn't found anything either, so the raccoon must have left after his chicken massacre. "Do one more walk around, though, just to make sure."
I ended up getting back to my bathroom at around 2:00 am and my bed at 2:30. Luckily my interviewer was in PST, and was a night owl, so I still got the chance to exhaustedly do my interview. One positive was that the night had given plenty of pre-and-post interview small talk, and they did end up offering me the position.
This is why I hate raccoons.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Humor and Sanity
Back during sophomore year of college, I was involuntarily committed to a psyche ward. They weren't especially nice about it. The calm, maddeningly dispassionate lady at student health "recommended" that I check in "of my own accord." When I told her that I didn't want to, she strongly recommended it, and I strongly restated that I was disposed otherwise. She broke the awkward silence that followed by tenatively asking what I was thinking. Since I have the unfortunate defense mechanism of naive honesty, I told her I was wondering what would happen if I tried to leave. I had blinked first, and she excused herself from the room, leaving me alone with the increasingly disturbed Calm-Lady-in-Training, who, with wide eyes, made small talk with me as I tried to remember what floor I was on and how I might make it to the front door.
My defense honesty and genuine curiosity broke through again: I asked her if it was standard practice to bring a new recruit into such an unconventional "counseling session". She said that it wasn't, but only said a few words of explanation before realizing her mistake and clamming up. Apparently my "case" was informative enough for a neophyte to cut her teeth on. I laughed at this, since it wasn't the first time my internal idiosyncrasies had been put on display. Before I got my tonsils out I used to get strep throat or some other bacterial infestation of the ENT area once every few months or so since I was very young. My tonsils were got so ravaged, and my lymph nodes swell up to such abnormal sizes, that doctors would often call in their peers and students to check out just how bloated a face can get. One time, with a fever of around 103, I had to sit on the cold, adjustable bed for an extra half-hour while my doctor rounded up three med students from UNC and gave them all a lesson on neck palpation.
Anyway, it turns out that "we strongly recommend" really means "we're calling the cops," and they were on their way. As the Calm-Lady-in-Training got more and more visibly excited, I began to shut down. They were locking me up, against my will, and there was nothing short of physical flight that I could do about it. They even brought in a big burly dude to stand behind me with one hand on my shoulder so that I wouldn't cause any trouble. But I had accepted my fate. I was forced to make the most surreal phone call of my life. "Hey mom. Yep, I'm crazy I guess. Yep, been like that for a while. Nope, never told anyone. No I'm not going to hurt anybody." They had actually told my parents that I might be a danger to other people. What?
The cops showed up and very politely asked me if I needed to be handcuffed. My brain actually slipped out of gear for a few seconds. There are some questions that feel so bizarre that your brain doesn't really know how to go about processing them. What if I said yes? Would that make them think I was more crazy, or less? Would a sane person be more or less likely to tell a cop they needed to be handcuffed? My brain did kick in, though, as I saw the handcuffs come out, and said no if I actually had a choice I did not prefer to be psychically restrained. So instead of a cop car in handcuffs, I got a ride to the hospital strapped down to a gurney in an ambulance. The ambulance technician was actually great. "Shit, you look fine to me. What do you get to lie down on a soft bed for?" I know! Tell them that! It was the last time someone treated me like a normal person and not some fragile, glass doll for a long time.
They took me to the suicide ward, which is the worst. They take all your stuff from you, including your shoe laces, and leave you to floppy-footedly stumble around a cell with only three walls and no place to hide from the disapproving, large black nurse who gives you annoyed glances every five minutes. I guess it's to make sure your sorry ass isn't trying to smother yourself by shoving your shirt down your throat, or however people manage to kill themselves in such uninspiring circumstances. The worst part is that it's freaking cold and you have no blanket. You don't really have anything at all, so there is nothing to distract you from everything that has just happened... and everything that might happen. All there is to do is lie down, shivering, and do battle with all the malicious thoughts that have set out to wreck your brain.
I did have a nurse, though, come and patch me up. As she applied the disinfectant, she worriedly warned me, "this may hurt a bit," and I flinched. I flinched at the thought that the liquid meant to treat my self-inflicted wounds might sting a little bit. Dumbass. But the worst part, the thing that made me realize how far gone I actually was: I didn't laugh. I didn't laugh at one of the most unintentionally hilarious thing that had ever been said to me. I always laugh. But I didn't.
The next stop was the pysch ward, which was straight out of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. My two roommates were a guy who would go back to our room at least thrice an hour to make sure the FBI hadn't bugged it while he was drinking his apple juice, and a fellow student who had experienced a "prolonged psychotic break from reality". A few doors down from me from a lady who had an entire room to herself, kept dark. She was always strapped down to her bed, and screamed horrible things at the top of her lungs every moment she was awake. It was mostly incoherent shouting, but when I could make out words, it was usually about how she didn't belong there and how she wanted to call her lawyer, and that she demanded to be released right that moment. But... that's how I felt. If she couldn't tell how crazy she was, or at least how crazy she was acting, how I could I? It was that woman's incessant, mind-fracturing howls that convinced me that I was, in fact, crazy; that I was, in fact, broken; and that I did need to be locked away. Why else would I be there, with all those other crazy people?
My mind shut down, and I was completely numb in the brain for a good thirty-six hours as my body went through the motions of being a person. I colored... a lot... with crayons. I think I still have the drawings somewhere. I got to call my new girlfriend and tell her where I was. She actually stayed with me, but I think she regrets it now. I interacted vaguely with all the other crazies and met with doctor after doctor who tried to diagnose me. I stumped them all. I didn't quite fit anywhere. Like when your car won't stop making that funny noise, but every mechanic swears there's nothing causing it- my glassy-eyed stories didn't place me solidly into any medically established category. They recommended that I stay on for observation, though, and informed me that they could hold me for fourteen days without consent. I knew not to argue.
But then I found the thing that would make me feel human again. I laughed. It was in the "lounge" where people dully watch TV all day. I was staring out the barred, frosted glass windows at what I guessed was a tree, half-heartedly trying to figure out exactly where in the city I was, when they made the daily announcement that "All patients who wish to shave should report to the back room for supervision." I glanced around as half the clientele drowsily got to their feet and started shuffling down the hallway. I accidentally met the gaze of a woman, not much older than me, who had come in around the same time I had. We both broke off eye-contact immediately (you never know what sort of shouting fit that might set off) and watched as two of the more out-of-it patients started to loudly argue and scuffle over who got to shave first. Our eyes met again... and we laughed.
We spent time talking after that. She was a law student sent in for almost ODing on pain killers. She had some brutal scars that put anything I had to shame. We shared stories of family reactions and future worries. She had once kicked a cocaine habit cold turkey with nothing but a dark room and the series run of I Love Lucy. Wow. She was married to her cousin. Wait... what? Oh yeah, she and her cousin drunkenly made out one night at a family reunion, and the thrill compelled them to keep it going. They discovered, much to their dismay, that they were actually quite compatible and ended up getting hitched. She calls him her cousband. They keep a picture of their shared ancestors on the mantle just so people will ask who they are and they can reply with "our grandparents." That's actually how most people find out.
That story, shared with a smile, did more to help me than anything else at the center. From then on, I had someone with whom I could revel in all the little absurdities of living full time in a nut house. I told her the story of the nurse on suicide watch. The nurse had warned her too! She had heard it before, though, and had already prepared a witty retort ready. I told her how our Nurse Ratched would slightly move my schizophrenic roommate's stuff around just to bug him out because he always put up a fuss about medicine, and she told me how cliques would form among the women around mental-illness lines. Depressed against anorexics. What, a depressed anorexic? Girl, you got to pick a side.
Once, when we happened to roll the same group therapy session, we both got to hear the story of The God Lady for the first time. We called her that because she was always rambling on about the end of the world and judgement and salvation, which I figured was enough per se to get her impounded with us. But it turns out she had actually broken into and vandalized a church. I intentionally avoided catching my friend's eye. Specifically, she had set fire to a crucifix and drawn something sexually suggestive on some of the Jesus paintings. Look at the ground, just look at the ground. You can always pretend to be crying. Why did she do all that? Because God told her to. I had to tap out. I faked a sob to stifle my giggles, excused myself, and ran to my room where I broke down in laughter loud enough to drown out the screams of the woman next door. My friend followed me and we sat there gasping for breath at having found out the true nature of God Lady.
These weren't laughs of feigned superiority. I laughed at myself, often, and was ribbed by my friend for my own insecurities and bizarre tendencies. The deepest, darkest secrets you would never tell anyone become the small talk in places like that. But finding humor in it all allowed me to process and filter the things that I was feeling and experiencing in a healthy way. When I could jokingly share tips at how to hide scars (I would cut on my scalp), or talk about the crazy things I would use to inflict pain without leaving marks (keys worked well), it all helped me understand how messed up I actually was, but at the same time compartmentalized the damaged bits so that I could have another, healthy part of my brain objectively analyze and start to fix it. Laughing helped me realize that it wasn't -me- that was broken, it was just a part of me, and that there were plenty of systems still functioning.
That is, essentially, how comedy and humor kept, and keeps, me sane.
My defense honesty and genuine curiosity broke through again: I asked her if it was standard practice to bring a new recruit into such an unconventional "counseling session". She said that it wasn't, but only said a few words of explanation before realizing her mistake and clamming up. Apparently my "case" was informative enough for a neophyte to cut her teeth on. I laughed at this, since it wasn't the first time my internal idiosyncrasies had been put on display. Before I got my tonsils out I used to get strep throat or some other bacterial infestation of the ENT area once every few months or so since I was very young. My tonsils were got so ravaged, and my lymph nodes swell up to such abnormal sizes, that doctors would often call in their peers and students to check out just how bloated a face can get. One time, with a fever of around 103, I had to sit on the cold, adjustable bed for an extra half-hour while my doctor rounded up three med students from UNC and gave them all a lesson on neck palpation.
Anyway, it turns out that "we strongly recommend" really means "we're calling the cops," and they were on their way. As the Calm-Lady-in-Training got more and more visibly excited, I began to shut down. They were locking me up, against my will, and there was nothing short of physical flight that I could do about it. They even brought in a big burly dude to stand behind me with one hand on my shoulder so that I wouldn't cause any trouble. But I had accepted my fate. I was forced to make the most surreal phone call of my life. "Hey mom. Yep, I'm crazy I guess. Yep, been like that for a while. Nope, never told anyone. No I'm not going to hurt anybody." They had actually told my parents that I might be a danger to other people. What?
The cops showed up and very politely asked me if I needed to be handcuffed. My brain actually slipped out of gear for a few seconds. There are some questions that feel so bizarre that your brain doesn't really know how to go about processing them. What if I said yes? Would that make them think I was more crazy, or less? Would a sane person be more or less likely to tell a cop they needed to be handcuffed? My brain did kick in, though, as I saw the handcuffs come out, and said no if I actually had a choice I did not prefer to be psychically restrained. So instead of a cop car in handcuffs, I got a ride to the hospital strapped down to a gurney in an ambulance. The ambulance technician was actually great. "Shit, you look fine to me. What do you get to lie down on a soft bed for?" I know! Tell them that! It was the last time someone treated me like a normal person and not some fragile, glass doll for a long time.
They took me to the suicide ward, which is the worst. They take all your stuff from you, including your shoe laces, and leave you to floppy-footedly stumble around a cell with only three walls and no place to hide from the disapproving, large black nurse who gives you annoyed glances every five minutes. I guess it's to make sure your sorry ass isn't trying to smother yourself by shoving your shirt down your throat, or however people manage to kill themselves in such uninspiring circumstances. The worst part is that it's freaking cold and you have no blanket. You don't really have anything at all, so there is nothing to distract you from everything that has just happened... and everything that might happen. All there is to do is lie down, shivering, and do battle with all the malicious thoughts that have set out to wreck your brain.
I did have a nurse, though, come and patch me up. As she applied the disinfectant, she worriedly warned me, "this may hurt a bit," and I flinched. I flinched at the thought that the liquid meant to treat my self-inflicted wounds might sting a little bit. Dumbass. But the worst part, the thing that made me realize how far gone I actually was: I didn't laugh. I didn't laugh at one of the most unintentionally hilarious thing that had ever been said to me. I always laugh. But I didn't.
The next stop was the pysch ward, which was straight out of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. My two roommates were a guy who would go back to our room at least thrice an hour to make sure the FBI hadn't bugged it while he was drinking his apple juice, and a fellow student who had experienced a "prolonged psychotic break from reality". A few doors down from me from a lady who had an entire room to herself, kept dark. She was always strapped down to her bed, and screamed horrible things at the top of her lungs every moment she was awake. It was mostly incoherent shouting, but when I could make out words, it was usually about how she didn't belong there and how she wanted to call her lawyer, and that she demanded to be released right that moment. But... that's how I felt. If she couldn't tell how crazy she was, or at least how crazy she was acting, how I could I? It was that woman's incessant, mind-fracturing howls that convinced me that I was, in fact, crazy; that I was, in fact, broken; and that I did need to be locked away. Why else would I be there, with all those other crazy people?
My mind shut down, and I was completely numb in the brain for a good thirty-six hours as my body went through the motions of being a person. I colored... a lot... with crayons. I think I still have the drawings somewhere. I got to call my new girlfriend and tell her where I was. She actually stayed with me, but I think she regrets it now. I interacted vaguely with all the other crazies and met with doctor after doctor who tried to diagnose me. I stumped them all. I didn't quite fit anywhere. Like when your car won't stop making that funny noise, but every mechanic swears there's nothing causing it- my glassy-eyed stories didn't place me solidly into any medically established category. They recommended that I stay on for observation, though, and informed me that they could hold me for fourteen days without consent. I knew not to argue.
But then I found the thing that would make me feel human again. I laughed. It was in the "lounge" where people dully watch TV all day. I was staring out the barred, frosted glass windows at what I guessed was a tree, half-heartedly trying to figure out exactly where in the city I was, when they made the daily announcement that "All patients who wish to shave should report to the back room for supervision." I glanced around as half the clientele drowsily got to their feet and started shuffling down the hallway. I accidentally met the gaze of a woman, not much older than me, who had come in around the same time I had. We both broke off eye-contact immediately (you never know what sort of shouting fit that might set off) and watched as two of the more out-of-it patients started to loudly argue and scuffle over who got to shave first. Our eyes met again... and we laughed.
We spent time talking after that. She was a law student sent in for almost ODing on pain killers. She had some brutal scars that put anything I had to shame. We shared stories of family reactions and future worries. She had once kicked a cocaine habit cold turkey with nothing but a dark room and the series run of I Love Lucy. Wow. She was married to her cousin. Wait... what? Oh yeah, she and her cousin drunkenly made out one night at a family reunion, and the thrill compelled them to keep it going. They discovered, much to their dismay, that they were actually quite compatible and ended up getting hitched. She calls him her cousband. They keep a picture of their shared ancestors on the mantle just so people will ask who they are and they can reply with "our grandparents." That's actually how most people find out.
That story, shared with a smile, did more to help me than anything else at the center. From then on, I had someone with whom I could revel in all the little absurdities of living full time in a nut house. I told her the story of the nurse on suicide watch. The nurse had warned her too! She had heard it before, though, and had already prepared a witty retort ready. I told her how our Nurse Ratched would slightly move my schizophrenic roommate's stuff around just to bug him out because he always put up a fuss about medicine, and she told me how cliques would form among the women around mental-illness lines. Depressed against anorexics. What, a depressed anorexic? Girl, you got to pick a side.
Once, when we happened to roll the same group therapy session, we both got to hear the story of The God Lady for the first time. We called her that because she was always rambling on about the end of the world and judgement and salvation, which I figured was enough per se to get her impounded with us. But it turns out she had actually broken into and vandalized a church. I intentionally avoided catching my friend's eye. Specifically, she had set fire to a crucifix and drawn something sexually suggestive on some of the Jesus paintings. Look at the ground, just look at the ground. You can always pretend to be crying. Why did she do all that? Because God told her to. I had to tap out. I faked a sob to stifle my giggles, excused myself, and ran to my room where I broke down in laughter loud enough to drown out the screams of the woman next door. My friend followed me and we sat there gasping for breath at having found out the true nature of God Lady.
These weren't laughs of feigned superiority. I laughed at myself, often, and was ribbed by my friend for my own insecurities and bizarre tendencies. The deepest, darkest secrets you would never tell anyone become the small talk in places like that. But finding humor in it all allowed me to process and filter the things that I was feeling and experiencing in a healthy way. When I could jokingly share tips at how to hide scars (I would cut on my scalp), or talk about the crazy things I would use to inflict pain without leaving marks (keys worked well), it all helped me understand how messed up I actually was, but at the same time compartmentalized the damaged bits so that I could have another, healthy part of my brain objectively analyze and start to fix it. Laughing helped me realize that it wasn't -me- that was broken, it was just a part of me, and that there were plenty of systems still functioning.
That is, essentially, how comedy and humor kept, and keeps, me sane.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Mascot Madness
[b]East[/b]
[spoiler]RO64
Buckeyes v TBD: I'm not entirely sure what a buckeye is, but at least it is decided.
Patriots v Wildcats: America, Fuck Yeah
Patriots
Mountaineers v Tigers: Giant axes and shaggy beards can take on any cat.
Mountaineers
Wildcats v Tigers: Tigers are a subset of wild cats, therefor tigers < wildcats
Wildcats
Musketeers v Golden Eagles: It is a federal offense to shoot a golden eagle. Can't play BBall from jail. Also, who uses muskets anymore?
Eagles
Orange Men v Sycamores: Ummmm, what? At least orange men are motile.
Orange Men
Huskies v Bulldogs: Big, wild, powerful dog v domesticated, inbred, half-blind dog.
Huskies
Tar Heels v Black Birds: True fact- nobody really knows where the tar heel nickname came from. The mysterious allure gives them the victory
Tar Heels
RO32
Buckeyes v Patriots: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/T-2_Buckeye
Buckeyes
Mountaineers v Wildcats: Another cat, another win.
Mountaineers
Golden Eagles v Orange Men:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r3n4qPpL8T0
Eagles
Tar Heels v Huskies: Completely original nickname v obvious ripoff of a popular SC2 caster. Huskies get sued for trademark infringement.
Tar Heels
RO16
Buckeyes v Mountaineers: It seems like buckeyes are actually a type of tree. So after trapping and skinning two cats, the Mountaineers fell some trees with their fists Minecraft-style so their axes don't get dull.
Mountaineers
Golden Eagles v Tar Heels
The eagles swoop in to carry the tar heels off a cliff. But their feet are stuck in tar and pitch from the booming colonial naval stores industry! The eagles ricochet off and tumble to their doom.
Tarheels
RO8 Tar Heels v Mountaineers: The mountaineers attack. But just like during the civil war, the NCians stand fast as if tar were sticking their heels to the ground. The mountaineers run away!
Tar Heels
[/spoiler]
[b]West[/b]
[spoiler]RO64
Blue Devils v Doesn't Have a Wiki Page for Their Athletics: As much as I hate to see it, Blue Devils win.
Blue Devils
Wolverines v Volunteers: Volunteering is a nice thing to do. Ripping someone's face off with your terrible claws and teeth is a winning thing to do.
Wolverines
Tigers v Wildcats: Wait, again?
Wildcats
Longhorns v Grizzlies: Herbivore v carnivore. Any questions?
Grizzlies
Bearcats v Tigers: Both Asian animals. Bearcats win on originality
Bearcats
Bison v Huskies: Bison are... kind of husky? Sure.
Huskies
Owls v Nittany Lions: Owls!
Owls!
Aztecs v Bears: Man v wild. Gotta root for the home team
Aztecs
RO32
Blue Devils v Wolverines: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Wolverine_(vol._1)_1.jpg v http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:BlueDevil1.jpg ? Come on.
Wolverines
Wildcats vs Grizzlies: Grizzly SMASH
Grizzlies
Huskies v Bearcat: Are you a cat, or are you bear? MAKE UP YOUR MIND.
Huskies
Aztecs v Owl: Aztecs are also stupid-looking cars. I worked at a place where we got a car-hit owl in almost bi-weekly. :-(
Aztecs
RO16
Wolverines v Grizzlies: Adamantium v calcium? It doesn't matter how big you are. This ain't no Timothy Treadwell here.
Huskies v Aztecs: Again, I've got to root for my home species.
Aztecs
RO8
Wolverines v Aztecs: Wolvie is a badass, but it is a bit much to expect him to take down an entire civilization. When the Aztecs discover that Wolverine's healing factor causes him to grow back a new heart each time they rip it out and offer it to the gods, they realize they don't have to sacrifice virgins any more! As a result they chill out, enjoy their new virgin surplus and conquer the world while Wolverine suffers a promethean fate of continual human sacrifice
Aztecs
[/spoiler]
[b]Southwest[/b]
[spoiler]
RO64
Jayhawks v Terriers: I once saw a hawk swoop down and pick up a small yappy dog. Only the leash saved it.
Jayhawks
Runnin' Rebels v Fighting Illini: I'd rather have fighters than runners.
Illini
Spiders v Commodores: Everyone's afraid of spiders. Even enlisted officers
Spiders
Cardinals v Eagles: In the air, being small and mobile is actually better than fast and strong. If you've ever seen crows mobbing an owl or a hawk, you know what I'm talking about.
Cardinals
Rocks/Bulldog v TBD: Strange
Rocks/Bulldogs
Boilermakers v Peacocks: Peacocks are mean and quite feisty... but they're peacocks.
Boilermakers
Aggies v Seminoles: The notoriously tough and warlike tribe takes on... some dudes who study farming and stuff.
Seminoles
Fighting Irish v Zips: Zips? Zips?!
Irish
RO32
Fighting Illini v Jayhawks: So I looked it up and apparently the jayhawks get their name from the Jayhawkers who were "guerrilla fighters who often clashed with pro-slavery "Border Ruffians"" during the Bleeding Kansas period. Bad. Ass.
Jayhawks
Spiders v Cardinals: There is no web strong enough, little spider. Just give up before you get etted.
Cardinals
Hoya/Bulldogs v Boilermakers: What rocks?
Boilermakers
Fighting Irish v Seminoles: This would truly be a battle for the ages. Unfortunately, Europeans [i]did[/i] come over and royally screw the Seminoles. Also, Andrew Jackson was the son of two Irish immigrants :-/
Irish
RO16
Jayhawks v Cardinals: The cardinals miraculously transform from birds into...... senior ecclesiastical officials, who can only move diagonally. The jayhawks set upon them and tear them to shreds with pitchforks and torches.
Jayhawks
Boilermakers v Fighting Irish: The two sides face off, one dressed in green and well beer-ed, the other armed with blowtorches and clad in heavy leathers. Suddenly, one of the Irishmen realizes: if there are no boilermakers to make distilleries, that means no more beer and whisky. The Irish back off, leaving the Boilermakers in stunned silence.
Boilermakers
RO8
Jayhawks v Boilermakers: The boilermakers approach the bloodied battlefield, looking on in horror at mangled corpses of the religious leaders, Illinois natives, and finally, small dogs. As they soak in the sight of the blood-suffused ground, they realize that their battles so far have included chasing off some peacocks, looking baffledly at some oddly shaped rocks, and having the Irish concede in good spirits and buy them drinks. They aren't remotely prepared for the horror that follows.
Jayhawks[/spoiler]
[b]Southeast[/b]
[spoiler]RO 64
Panthers v Bulldogs: This feels familiar somehow.
Panthers
Bulldogs v Monarchs: They combine to form Winston Churchill and smash through the rest of the tournament! But seriously- too many bulldogs.
Monarchs
Wildcats v Aggies: Wildcats also. Stop it. Also, Aggies would be good at catching wildcats that attack their livestock.
Aggies
Badges v Bruins: As the giant bear corners the hapless omnivore, he hears it start to hum a strangely familiar, repetitive tune. Suddenly, there are badgers and snakes everywhere, biting him from every direction. As he slinks into a venom-and-badger-bite-induced coma, Bruin the bear can't help but notice that the swirling colors remind him of the last time he did shrooms.
Badgers
Cougars v Terriers: Anyone who has lived in the suburban west knows what happens here.
Cougars
Red Storm v Bulldogs: The bulldogs bark a big bark, but run for the safety of an under-bed refuge at the first clap of thunder.
Red Storm
Bruins v Spartans: THIS... IS....a very stale joke.
Spartans
Gauchos v Gators: Fact- you can't put a saddle on an alligator.
Gators
RO32
Panthers v Monarchs: Stripped of his rank and his body guards, the king briefly wishes he had paid more attention in fencing class as the deadly, black panther creeps in for the kill.
Panthers
Aggies v Badgers: This time when the haunting tune starts up, the disgruntled farmer just throws a sack over the badger and tosses it into the river.
Aggies
Red Storm v Cougars: It's hard to see how a large cat could beat a meteorological phenomenon... until the polite and well mannered cougars shed their false mascot and take on their true aspect: the STORMIN' MORMONS. Their bodies billow and thin as they transform into ethereal air elementals that charge at the incoming red thunderheads. What happens next can only be understood after three meteorology degrees, ten years experience as a local weatherman, and quite a few drinks.
Cougars/Stormin' Mormons
Gators v Spartans: "Madness? THIS... IS...well yeah actually it's March Madness. Sorry for shouting at you. No, I'm fine. I'm just pretty embarrassed is all. Yeah, I think I'm gonna go."
Gators
RO16
Panthers v Aggies: Ugh. This is really killing my bracket. I just can't put the Aggies to lose against an animal commonly found and dealt with on a farm.
Aggies
Panthers v Gators: This is probably the first animal fight that would actually be interesting 1v1. In my extensive research for this blog, I found these two awesome videos. http://www.metacafe.com/watch/308780/jaguar_vs_crocodile/ (Attenborough- style violence)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y-k2mCytq3Q (NSFBrain cells)
It seems like on land, panthers win, and in water the gators would. Panthers are probably too smart to engage on the gators' terms though, so I've got to give it to the big cats, which sets up...
RO8
Aggies v Panthers II: BYU has already used up it's one deus ex machina to avoid totally screwing my bracket, so by precedent and [i]bloggus decisis[/i], the Aggies are apparently into their first final
four in school history.
[/spoiler]
[b]Final Four[/b]
[spoiler]Aztecs v Tar Heels: The ancient Aztec civilization, brought back from extinction by a time-travelling Wolverine, faces off against the dreaded, the feared, the notorious: residents of the great state of Naaaawwwwwwwth Cackalacky. Both sides agree that coming battle would be far too devastating to carry out [i]in toto[/i], so they negotiate to each send a champion to fight to the death on neutral ground. The Aztecs choose their god of war: Huitzilopochtli. Conceived in a "shameful way," Huitzilopochtli was going to be killed in his mother's womb by his sister Coyolxauhqui. However, he managed to catch wind of this dastardly plot and "sprang from his mother's womb fully grown and fully armed. He then killed his sister Coyolxauhqui and many of his 400 brothers. He tossed his sister's head into the sky, where it became the moon, so that his mother would be comforted in seeing her daughter in the sky every night. He threw his other brothers and sisters into the sky, where they became the stars." This is one bad mother'.
The Cackalackians chose as their champion their favorite son: famous basketball hero and Nike spokesman Micheal Jordon himself. The match will be a best of three sets:one-on-one winners walk hoops; a game of good ol' fashioned Mesoamerican Ballgame; and one round of mortal combat. No, not Mortal Kombat- mortal combat.
The first set, hoops, quickly goes to MJ, as the average height of the Aztecs is around 5'3". Awkward. For the next set, each combatant must choose a teammate, as there is no 1v1 ballgame rule set. Micheal Jordan calls on Bugs Bunny, who owes him a favor from Space Jam. Huitzilopochtli chooses Olmec, from Legends of the Hidden Temple, hoping his bulk will make up for his immobility. Unfortunately, it doesn't, and the MJ/Bugs teams takes the set and match. Huitzilopochtli tears out yet another Wolverine heart as a sacrifice to himself in frustration.
Tar Heels.
Aggies v Jayhawks:
The Aggies like to farm. Farmers used to have slaves. The Jayhawks haven't forgotten. Neither will the lone Aggie survivor.
Jayhawks
Tar Heels v Jay Hawks
In the blue corner we have the soldiers famous for defending their rights to own other humans in the bloodiest war this country has ever experienced. In the darker blue corner we have the Kansans who were brutally killing people who claimed that right, and the war hadn't even started yet. The contestants are staring each other down as the ref steps into the ring. Wait, what's that? After all these gruesome conflicts and earth-shaking battles, after all the violence and terrible blood shed, the abstract concept brought in to referee the last bout is... History herself? The Tar Heels' faces fall as they realized the bitter truth: History is the final judge, and there is no way to bribe or extort her. The Tar Heels coach throws a towel into the ring, accepting the inevitable defeat. The Jayhawks are final victors.
[/spoiler]
[spoiler]RO64
Buckeyes v TBD: I'm not entirely sure what a buckeye is, but at least it is decided.
Patriots v Wildcats: America, Fuck Yeah
Patriots
Mountaineers v Tigers: Giant axes and shaggy beards can take on any cat.
Mountaineers
Wildcats v Tigers: Tigers are a subset of wild cats, therefor tigers < wildcats
Wildcats
Musketeers v Golden Eagles: It is a federal offense to shoot a golden eagle. Can't play BBall from jail. Also, who uses muskets anymore?
Eagles
Orange Men v Sycamores: Ummmm, what? At least orange men are motile.
Orange Men
Huskies v Bulldogs: Big, wild, powerful dog v domesticated, inbred, half-blind dog.
Huskies
Tar Heels v Black Birds: True fact- nobody really knows where the tar heel nickname came from. The mysterious allure gives them the victory
Tar Heels
RO32
Buckeyes v Patriots: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/T-2_Buckeye
Buckeyes
Mountaineers v Wildcats: Another cat, another win.
Mountaineers
Golden Eagles v Orange Men:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r3n4qPpL8T0
Eagles
Tar Heels v Huskies: Completely original nickname v obvious ripoff of a popular SC2 caster. Huskies get sued for trademark infringement.
Tar Heels
RO16
Buckeyes v Mountaineers: It seems like buckeyes are actually a type of tree. So after trapping and skinning two cats, the Mountaineers fell some trees with their fists Minecraft-style so their axes don't get dull.
Mountaineers
Golden Eagles v Tar Heels
The eagles swoop in to carry the tar heels off a cliff. But their feet are stuck in tar and pitch from the booming colonial naval stores industry! The eagles ricochet off and tumble to their doom.
Tarheels
RO8 Tar Heels v Mountaineers: The mountaineers attack. But just like during the civil war, the NCians stand fast as if tar were sticking their heels to the ground. The mountaineers run away!
Tar Heels
[/spoiler]
[b]West[/b]
[spoiler]RO64
Blue Devils v Doesn't Have a Wiki Page for Their Athletics: As much as I hate to see it, Blue Devils win.
Blue Devils
Wolverines v Volunteers: Volunteering is a nice thing to do. Ripping someone's face off with your terrible claws and teeth is a winning thing to do.
Wolverines
Tigers v Wildcats: Wait, again?
Wildcats
Longhorns v Grizzlies: Herbivore v carnivore. Any questions?
Grizzlies
Bearcats v Tigers: Both Asian animals. Bearcats win on originality
Bearcats
Bison v Huskies: Bison are... kind of husky? Sure.
Huskies
Owls v Nittany Lions: Owls!
Owls!
Aztecs v Bears: Man v wild. Gotta root for the home team
Aztecs
RO32
Blue Devils v Wolverines: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Wolverine_(vol._1)_1.jpg v http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:BlueDevil1.jpg ? Come on.
_1.jpg){kind=link}
Wolverines
Wildcats vs Grizzlies: Grizzly SMASH
Grizzlies
Huskies v Bearcat: Are you a cat, or are you bear? MAKE UP YOUR MIND.
Huskies
Aztecs v Owl: Aztecs are also stupid-looking cars. I worked at a place where we got a car-hit owl in almost bi-weekly. :-(
Aztecs
RO16
Wolverines v Grizzlies: Adamantium v calcium? It doesn't matter how big you are. This ain't no Timothy Treadwell here.
Huskies v Aztecs: Again, I've got to root for my home species.
Aztecs
RO8
Wolverines v Aztecs: Wolvie is a badass, but it is a bit much to expect him to take down an entire civilization. When the Aztecs discover that Wolverine's healing factor causes him to grow back a new heart each time they rip it out and offer it to the gods, they realize they don't have to sacrifice virgins any more! As a result they chill out, enjoy their new virgin surplus and conquer the world while Wolverine suffers a promethean fate of continual human sacrifice
Aztecs
[/spoiler]
[b]Southwest[/b]
[spoiler]
RO64
Jayhawks v Terriers: I once saw a hawk swoop down and pick up a small yappy dog. Only the leash saved it.
Jayhawks
Runnin' Rebels v Fighting Illini: I'd rather have fighters than runners.
Illini
Spiders v Commodores: Everyone's afraid of spiders. Even enlisted officers
Spiders
Cardinals v Eagles: In the air, being small and mobile is actually better than fast and strong. If you've ever seen crows mobbing an owl or a hawk, you know what I'm talking about.
Cardinals
Rocks/Bulldog v TBD: Strange
Rocks/Bulldogs
Boilermakers v Peacocks: Peacocks are mean and quite feisty... but they're peacocks.
Boilermakers
Aggies v Seminoles: The notoriously tough and warlike tribe takes on... some dudes who study farming and stuff.
Seminoles
Fighting Irish v Zips: Zips? Zips?!
Irish
RO32
Fighting Illini v Jayhawks: So I looked it up and apparently the jayhawks get their name from the Jayhawkers who were "guerrilla fighters who often clashed with pro-slavery "Border Ruffians"" during the Bleeding Kansas period. Bad. Ass.
Jayhawks
Spiders v Cardinals: There is no web strong enough, little spider. Just give up before you get etted.
Cardinals
Hoya/Bulldogs v Boilermakers: What rocks?
Boilermakers
Fighting Irish v Seminoles: This would truly be a battle for the ages. Unfortunately, Europeans [i]did[/i] come over and royally screw the Seminoles. Also, Andrew Jackson was the son of two Irish immigrants :-/
Irish
RO16
Jayhawks v Cardinals: The cardinals miraculously transform from birds into...... senior ecclesiastical officials, who can only move diagonally. The jayhawks set upon them and tear them to shreds with pitchforks and torches.
Jayhawks
Boilermakers v Fighting Irish: The two sides face off, one dressed in green and well beer-ed, the other armed with blowtorches and clad in heavy leathers. Suddenly, one of the Irishmen realizes: if there are no boilermakers to make distilleries, that means no more beer and whisky. The Irish back off, leaving the Boilermakers in stunned silence.
Boilermakers
RO8
Jayhawks v Boilermakers: The boilermakers approach the bloodied battlefield, looking on in horror at mangled corpses of the religious leaders, Illinois natives, and finally, small dogs. As they soak in the sight of the blood-suffused ground, they realize that their battles so far have included chasing off some peacocks, looking baffledly at some oddly shaped rocks, and having the Irish concede in good spirits and buy them drinks. They aren't remotely prepared for the horror that follows.
Jayhawks[/spoiler]
[b]Southeast[/b]
[spoiler]RO 64
Panthers v Bulldogs: This feels familiar somehow.
Panthers
Bulldogs v Monarchs: They combine to form Winston Churchill and smash through the rest of the tournament! But seriously- too many bulldogs.
Monarchs
Wildcats v Aggies: Wildcats also. Stop it. Also, Aggies would be good at catching wildcats that attack their livestock.
Aggies
Badges v Bruins: As the giant bear corners the hapless omnivore, he hears it start to hum a strangely familiar, repetitive tune. Suddenly, there are badgers and snakes everywhere, biting him from every direction. As he slinks into a venom-and-badger-bite-induced coma, Bruin the bear can't help but notice that the swirling colors remind him of the last time he did shrooms.
Badgers
Cougars v Terriers: Anyone who has lived in the suburban west knows what happens here.
Cougars
Red Storm v Bulldogs: The bulldogs bark a big bark, but run for the safety of an under-bed refuge at the first clap of thunder.
Red Storm
Bruins v Spartans: THIS... IS....a very stale joke.
Spartans
Gauchos v Gators: Fact- you can't put a saddle on an alligator.
Gators
RO32
Panthers v Monarchs: Stripped of his rank and his body guards, the king briefly wishes he had paid more attention in fencing class as the deadly, black panther creeps in for the kill.
Panthers
Aggies v Badgers: This time when the haunting tune starts up, the disgruntled farmer just throws a sack over the badger and tosses it into the river.
Aggies
Red Storm v Cougars: It's hard to see how a large cat could beat a meteorological phenomenon... until the polite and well mannered cougars shed their false mascot and take on their true aspect: the STORMIN' MORMONS. Their bodies billow and thin as they transform into ethereal air elementals that charge at the incoming red thunderheads. What happens next can only be understood after three meteorology degrees, ten years experience as a local weatherman, and quite a few drinks.
Cougars/Stormin' Mormons
Gators v Spartans: "Madness? THIS... IS...well yeah actually it's March Madness. Sorry for shouting at you. No, I'm fine. I'm just pretty embarrassed is all. Yeah, I think I'm gonna go."
Gators
RO16
Panthers v Aggies: Ugh. This is really killing my bracket. I just can't put the Aggies to lose against an animal commonly found and dealt with on a farm.
Aggies
Panthers v Gators: This is probably the first animal fight that would actually be interesting 1v1. In my extensive research for this blog, I found these two awesome videos. http://www.metacafe.com/watch/308780/jaguar_vs_crocodile/ (Attenborough- style violence)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y-k2mCytq3Q (NSFBrain cells)
It seems like on land, panthers win, and in water the gators would. Panthers are probably too smart to engage on the gators' terms though, so I've got to give it to the big cats, which sets up...
RO8
Aggies v Panthers II: BYU has already used up it's one deus ex machina to avoid totally screwing my bracket, so by precedent and [i]bloggus decisis[/i], the Aggies are apparently into their first final
four in school history.
[/spoiler]
[b]Final Four[/b]
[spoiler]Aztecs v Tar Heels: The ancient Aztec civilization, brought back from extinction by a time-travelling Wolverine, faces off against the dreaded, the feared, the notorious: residents of the great state of Naaaawwwwwwwth Cackalacky. Both sides agree that coming battle would be far too devastating to carry out [i]in toto[/i], so they negotiate to each send a champion to fight to the death on neutral ground. The Aztecs choose their god of war: Huitzilopochtli. Conceived in a "shameful way," Huitzilopochtli was going to be killed in his mother's womb by his sister Coyolxauhqui. However, he managed to catch wind of this dastardly plot and "sprang from his mother's womb fully grown and fully armed. He then killed his sister Coyolxauhqui and many of his 400 brothers. He tossed his sister's head into the sky, where it became the moon, so that his mother would be comforted in seeing her daughter in the sky every night. He threw his other brothers and sisters into the sky, where they became the stars." This is one bad mother'.
The Cackalackians chose as their champion their favorite son: famous basketball hero and Nike spokesman Micheal Jordon himself. The match will be a best of three sets:one-on-one winners walk hoops; a game of good ol' fashioned Mesoamerican Ballgame; and one round of mortal combat. No, not Mortal Kombat- mortal combat.
The first set, hoops, quickly goes to MJ, as the average height of the Aztecs is around 5'3". Awkward. For the next set, each combatant must choose a teammate, as there is no 1v1 ballgame rule set. Micheal Jordan calls on Bugs Bunny, who owes him a favor from Space Jam. Huitzilopochtli chooses Olmec, from Legends of the Hidden Temple, hoping his bulk will make up for his immobility. Unfortunately, it doesn't, and the MJ/Bugs teams takes the set and match. Huitzilopochtli tears out yet another Wolverine heart as a sacrifice to himself in frustration.
Tar Heels.
Aggies v Jayhawks:
The Aggies like to farm. Farmers used to have slaves. The Jayhawks haven't forgotten. Neither will the lone Aggie survivor.
Jayhawks
Tar Heels v Jay Hawks
In the blue corner we have the soldiers famous for defending their rights to own other humans in the bloodiest war this country has ever experienced. In the darker blue corner we have the Kansans who were brutally killing people who claimed that right, and the war hadn't even started yet. The contestants are staring each other down as the ref steps into the ring. Wait, what's that? After all these gruesome conflicts and earth-shaking battles, after all the violence and terrible blood shed, the abstract concept brought in to referee the last bout is... History herself? The Tar Heels' faces fall as they realized the bitter truth: History is the final judge, and there is no way to bribe or extort her. The Tar Heels coach throws a towel into the ring, accepting the inevitable defeat. The Jayhawks are final victors.
[/spoiler]
Friday, January 7, 2011
Yogurt
Cleaning up my computer, and I found these two stories from the first couple weeks of Hungary, when I didn't have internet.
Two grocery related stories:
Since my default lunch is always sandwiches, I decided to try getting salami at the supermarket on the way back from class. Unfortunately, we have only been taught integers in my language class so far, so I couldn't ask for a half pound. I was surprisingly unsuccessful in miming out a fraction. "Edy" *slash hand through air "ket." Like the idiot at charades I am, I did that maybe five times varying only the angle I which I moronically slashed my hand through the air. I think I tried one more time holding up my fingers as I said the number, but I quickly realized that it wasn't my pronunciation that was the problem. Eventually I just gave up and said "edy" (pronounced kind of like 'edge' but more like 'edj'). She inquired, pretty amusedly, "Egy kilo?" Oh yeah. Kilograms. I responded, crestfallen, "Igen," and received my 2.2 pounds of salami. My bet: she works on commission an intentionally misunderstood me.
I also bought yogurt from the supermarket for breakfast. I opened it up, started eating, and immediately something seemed off. It just... didn't taste right. At all. And the texture was all wrong. I looked at the expiration date. It was well into the future. I checked to make sure my refrigerator was working. It was. I checked the label again. It said "Yogúr" and underneath that "tejföl." I remembered my Spanish teacher telling the story of being "embarrassado" and warning of the danger of false cognates. "But," I thought, "I didn't like greek yogurt the first time I tried it. Now I love it." I bet this is just Hungarian, or more likely Turkish, style yogurt. Yeah, I bet 'tejföl' is just Hungarian for 'Turkish style." This whole time I'm sure I had a Hungarian dictionary within reach, since everything is within reach in this apartment. But, with flawless logic, I plowed on forcing myself to be open to new styles of yogurt.
Today we learned food words in Hungarian class. I turns out that the "Turkish style" yogurt I ate was just sour cream. I ate about a half-pint of pure sour cream. I feel kind of sick just thinking about it. Yogúr is actually a Hungarian dairy company (thus the capitalization), and 'tejföl' just means sour cream. I think having read so much Sherlock Holmes in so little time has really made me think I'm a lot more clever than I actually am.
I have not been able to eat yogurt since that day.
Two grocery related stories:
Since my default lunch is always sandwiches, I decided to try getting salami at the supermarket on the way back from class. Unfortunately, we have only been taught integers in my language class so far, so I couldn't ask for a half pound. I was surprisingly unsuccessful in miming out a fraction. "Edy" *slash hand through air "ket." Like the idiot at charades I am, I did that maybe five times varying only the angle I which I moronically slashed my hand through the air. I think I tried one more time holding up my fingers as I said the number, but I quickly realized that it wasn't my pronunciation that was the problem. Eventually I just gave up and said "edy" (pronounced kind of like 'edge' but more like 'edj'). She inquired, pretty amusedly, "Egy kilo?" Oh yeah. Kilograms. I responded, crestfallen, "Igen," and received my 2.2 pounds of salami. My bet: she works on commission an intentionally misunderstood me.
I also bought yogurt from the supermarket for breakfast. I opened it up, started eating, and immediately something seemed off. It just... didn't taste right. At all. And the texture was all wrong. I looked at the expiration date. It was well into the future. I checked to make sure my refrigerator was working. It was. I checked the label again. It said "Yogúr" and underneath that "tejföl." I remembered my Spanish teacher telling the story of being "embarrassado" and warning of the danger of false cognates. "But," I thought, "I didn't like greek yogurt the first time I tried it. Now I love it." I bet this is just Hungarian, or more likely Turkish, style yogurt. Yeah, I bet 'tejföl' is just Hungarian for 'Turkish style." This whole time I'm sure I had a Hungarian dictionary within reach, since everything is within reach in this apartment. But, with flawless logic, I plowed on forcing myself to be open to new styles of yogurt.
Today we learned food words in Hungarian class. I turns out that the "Turkish style" yogurt I ate was just sour cream. I ate about a half-pint of pure sour cream. I feel kind of sick just thinking about it. Yogúr is actually a Hungarian dairy company (thus the capitalization), and 'tejföl' just means sour cream. I think having read so much Sherlock Holmes in so little time has really made me think I'm a lot more clever than I actually am.
I have not been able to eat yogurt since that day.
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