Yelling bad puns

I like to yell.
I like to yell things at people also.

As a cyclist, I know how futile it is to yell things at people while you are moving past them at high rates of speed. Usually a simple phrase shouted from a car moving past a cyclist turns into a doppler smear of unrecognizable sounds.

Therefore, today when I saw a couple walking through Durham, I chose not yell at them.

I saw a sweet couple walking hand-in-hand.
They were enjoying the cool late-summer evening, stolling along, swinging their arms in unison as they held hands. They were really swinging their conjoined arms.

So, I thought it might be funny to yell, "It looks like you guys are swingers, eh?"

Get it?
I thought it was funny.
But they wouldn't have heard it and it wouldn't have been worth ruining their evening.

The last semester and bit of history

This is my last semester at UNH.

It feels good to write that.

It, also, feels odd to write that.

Maybe it's time for a recap.

Last year at this time, I was sitting in Piazza Del Popolo, in Ascoli Piceno. I was totally confused, awestruck and drinking un caffe. I was sitting with my dear roommate Alex who, bless his soul, was not afraid, like I was, to walk in to anywhere and ask for a coffee or buy produce.

Oooh! I also bought grapes on my first day in Italy. They were green and had seeds. Funny story about that -- Alex and I walked into a grocery store and found the produce. We both picked out what we wanted, and as we were doing this we saw a local fellow being helped by the produce attendant. This was strange and new. After you selected and bagged up your produce, you took it to the produce fellow so that he could weight it and put a little price sticker on it. If Alex and I had not seen this local fellow do that we would have gotten to the cashier (who presumably spoke no English which complemented our "No Italian" status nicely) and would have been totally confused as to what we supposed to do, but didn't.

But it all worked out and I bought grapes.

Four years ago at this time, I was starting my first day at UNH. I remember that a week or so before classes started Tilly and I came up to campus and she showed me the buildings where my classes were. On the first day, I confidently strode across campus thinking, "Man, this is great. I'm not one of those confused freshman that have to ask someone where their building is."

Then a young lady asked me, "Excuse me, do you know where such-and-such-building is?"

I didn't know and answered, "Sorry, I don't. This is my first day too."

Hah! Take that stupid freshman Phil! Eat that awful, bitter Humble Pie! That's right. Every last bite of it!

Five years ago at this time, I was yelling at my freshmen through a bullhorn as a senior at Tech School. (The Williamson Free School of Mechanical Trades, for those of you who aren't familiar.)

I had them up on the platform ladder doing some dumb shit. I had thought all summer about what I would have them do.

I remember Oren in particular. A good-looking black kid from the Baltimore area. He tried to look like a thug, but he was too small and I could see the anxiety in his eyes.

When he got up on the ladder, I asked him what kind of music he listened to.

"Rap," he said.

"Who have you been listening to lately?"

"Lloyd Banks," he answered.

"Sing a little for me. Give me your favorite lines," I demanded.

He stammered out the chorus.

"OK. That's good enough," I told him. "But I know you've got a soft spot. You like Celine Dion? Because I do." I got up and handed him the lyrics to My Heart Will Go On.

"I know you remember this song. I know you took your girlfriend to see it, hoping that you would get some [action]." Oren took the lyrics and, now I can't remember exactly , but I might have let him get down and read them over before returning to the ladder to sing to a crowd of 20 kids.

When he got back atop the ladder, I said to him, "Go ahead. Sing to me. Make me feel pretty."

And Oren sang. He gave us what we wanted.

He was a real trooper that day. I really admired him for doing that. He could have been a real pooper and refused to do it. But he was a real man about it - he got up there and sang his heart out. And, indeed, I did feel prettier.

Seven years ago at this time, I was starting Tech School.

Man, oh man. I was a different person back then...

I had just finished an intense one-week Soccer Manager Training Program -- also known as the "I can play soccer, oh wait, I just tried to kick a ball and my foot hit the ground before it hit the ball, hmm, I think I'll cut my losses and be a manager instead" training program.

I was meeting my Seniors for the first time.

All the freshmen had to get up on the platform ladder and do something - tell a joke, answer a humiliating question, etc.

When it was my turn, Stinky looked at me and asked, "Gordon? Oh wait, you're Bunyon's roommate right?"

"Yeah," I answered.

"You can get down," Stinky told me as he and all the other senior and juniors laughed and laughed.

You see, Tony (a.k.a.; Bunyon- as in Paul Bunyon) was one of my seniors. This was a fairly odd arrangement having a freshman and a senior, from the same shop, rooming together. I might add that Williamson was structured in a para-military, highly-regimented fashion, and had fabled and horrific tales of hazing from the distant past.

Before I got down from the ladder I asked them, " You want to hear a joke anway?"

"Uh-oh. We've got ourselves an overachiever," Stinky said.

My joke flopped. I turned red. I slunk down from the ladder.

That's as far back as I care to remember. I have already tipped my hand too completely as to how wretchedly old I am.

More importantly, these events were much more influential to my development than high school was.

At this point in my life, looking forward and backward with equal fondness and contemplation, I wouldn't want to go back and do it any other way, nor would I want to tell Young Phil anything that Old Phil now knows.

Except, maybe, start winking at cute girls more often.

a joke to spice this place up.

A guy moves out to the middle of no where in order to get away from "it all".

He has no neighbors that he can see and is starting to wonder if moving so far away from everyone was a good idea.

The next day, a man comes to his door.

"Hi. I am your nearest neighbor and I live about five miles that way," the man says, as he pionts toward a path.

"Oh, great. I was starting to get a little lonely."

"I came to in invite you to a party that I am having this coming friday," says the neighbor.

"Wow. That's really nice of you. I love to come over."

"Now, I should warn you, there's going to be a lot of music, dancing and drinking," says the neighbor.

"That's not a problem."

"And probably some fighting, too," says the neighbor.

"Oh, well that's OK. I'll just stay out of the way of that."

"And there will definately be some screwing," says the neighbor.

"Well, that's alright. I'm pretty open-minded. This sounds like quite a party. Who all is going to be there?"


"Oh, it's just going to be you and me," says the neighbor.

Thank you Billy for that gem.

Shame on you ABC News! Shame!

ABC News is covering the reaction to Supreme Court Nominee Sonja Sotamayor's 2001 comments about old latina women vs. old white men.

ABC News, in their coverage, went to the pot-stirrer Newt Gingrich for a comment.

Well.... not really.

ABC News reported that Gingrich said, " "White man racist nominee would be forced to withdraw. Latina woman racist should also withdraw," Gingrich wrote. "

That's right, they said "Gingrich WROTE." Where, you might ask, did Gingrich write this?

ON TWITTER!!!!!!

SHAME ON YOU ABC NEWS! Shame on you for being so lazy! Twitter is not a viable source!

That could be anybody! You have no gaurentee that that is the real Newt. Did you confrim this comment? And, if you in fact did confirm this, why did you not just ask him to say it? That would be easy. He, like Rush Limbaugh, loves to spray light fluid on a fire, so why wouldn't he just say it because it would be free press for him.

You should be ashamed of yourself ABC News.
I'm am not going to punish you. I am just disappointed.

Levi should just start sucking wheels now.

I turned that miserable paper the other day. If you are interested in it -- and I don't see why you would want to -- you can check out my previous blog post.

But, today I have nothing to do and all day to do it.

I am in the MUB Computer Cluster and my fellow students are filtering in; looking worried, printing feverishly, sitting with their faces mere inches from the computer screens.

    However, I am watching the Giro and writing in my blog.

Like I said, nothing to do and all day to do it.

I was thinking about cycling-related things this morning though.

  Levi Leipheimer is no Andy Hampstead.

Now, I don't knwo much about cycling history, but I do know that Andy was the only American to win the Giro in 1988 (I think).

    [It is also funny to see an ad, possibly a TREK ad, that shows Contador kissing his Giro trophy and being able to see Hampstead's name amongst an international string of names.]

There have been a lot of reports about how the entire Astana team is riding in support of Leiphiemer. And that Levi is waiting for the Cinque Terre Time Trial. 

It is now that we have to look at Levi's history. I think that it can be accurately summed up briefly: wait for time trial, move up in the GC, suck wheels for the rest of the tour, never attack, give boring post tour interviews.

That's about it. That's how it seems to go.

I understand that if you are a GC contender that you are a marked man and that is very difficult to make killer moves. 

But, look at what Andy Hampstead did; he rode over a giant mountain in the snow! He didn't win the stage but he still rode over a mountain in the snow, which gave him the advantage he needed.       

I don't think that Leiphiemer has that sort of fire in him. I am not talking about "fire" in the sense of physiological/biochemistry make-up. But, the kind of fire that would make some one that would sing "Dude looks like a lady" on the kitchen then do naked kegs stands at a ripping party. 

More important than my opinion is the opinion of the Italian people. 

They are a fiery, excitable nation that ooze passion.  

I think that Leiphiemer should withdraw from his GC contender spot and start sucking wheels and giving boring interviews now.

Leiphiemer just doesn't have the fire to wear the Maglia Rosa. He doesn't have the personality that... well, he just doesn't a personality. Period.

And, if I know the Italians, they won't like that. 

Still Stalling and thinking about technology

I watched IRONMAN this weekend with my best friend Tilly. Well, I watched it; she watched half of it. 

And now, I am still thrashing my way through my last literature paper. Oddly enough, it does not deal with any sort of literature. We'll see how much of a train wreck this turns out to be. 

However, in my research and my leisure time I began to think about the cost and consequence of technology.

In the early- and mid-18th century (BAM! Suspensive hyphenation, suckas!) there was a technological shift away from the subsistence farming of the older colonial period toward an urbanized, industrialized society. During this time men began working away from the house in shops, factories and merchant venues. Women no longer need to dedicate long hours to converting fibers into thread, threads into cloth, and cloth into clothes. 

Historians point to this period as a time when the family structure began to mutate into what we commonly think of as traditional male-female roles; women at home, raising children; and, men out in the work place, bringing home an income. 

Technology forced this shift from subsistence farming and fairly equal labor roles in the farming homestead. Women ran the house, men ran the production of the profitable products.

There will be no smooth transition between 18th century gender roles versus technology and IRONMAN, starring Robert Downey, Jr.

Tony Stark, the main character and man made of not-iron, has an army of robots that run his house. He has robots that respond to voice commands and the subsequent snide and snotty sarcasm that he dishes out.

That is technological advancement right there. That is a worthy investment in technology -- a robot that is programmed to understand sarcasm! Brilliant! I would love to see the Honda engineers program ASIMO to understand sarcasm and playboy-style wit instead of being able to perform a task so common as walking down the stairs. I have met some very educated people that failed to understand sarcasm, which is quite pathetic since sarcasm -- while effective in some instances -- is the most base and ignominious form of humor.

There are also scenes in IRONMAN in which as fleet of robotic goo-gaws and appendages dress Tony Stark in his armored suit.  While the movie was very good, it completely rejects the idea that money is an issue. How much would all that cost? There is no sum of money in the world that could make all that possible.

I understand that I am viewing this in a hyper-literal fashion. But, what I was left pondering as Water Ram technology of the 18th century and IRONMAN awkwardly waltzed in my head is, where does all this leave the common man, the 21st-century schlub like you and me?

If the Marvel comic book world of IRONMAN is the direction of technology, and considering the Marxist idea of alienation of increased production [as you produce more for a large company, you become increasingly like a monkey trained to pull your lever and push your button, thereby removing any sort of pride and ownership in your work], how bitter and unsatisfied will we become when all we have is a robot to laugh at our sarcastic commentary of OMG!-style celebrity blog posts? And how long will it take before "LOL", "i heart you" and "muah" replace authentic gust-busting laughter, the actual sentiment of love, and an actual kiss?

Recently, as in the last 24 hours, I have piloted this crippled train of thought from my head to the internet.  I also have thought about deleting my facebook account and not renewing my cell phone when my contract expires. 

But, then who would listen to all these clever things I have to say?

The last literature paper ever- Stalling

There is no reason for this post, other than stalling.

I am stalling like a.... (get ready for an hours-worth of bad associations that relate to the word "stalling"):

... like a regional commuter airplane piloted by a over-tired , under-trained pilot.

... like a weed whacker with improper fuel-oil mixture.

... like a cattle farmer putting the cows away for the night.

... like a jockey approaching the start gate at the Kentucky Derby.

... like a 1985 Ford Escort diesel with no fuel filter.

... like a street rod small-block's transmission at 2,000 rpm.

... like a world economy.

... like a under-qualified homeowners on their mortgage payments.

... like a compassionate Sheriff delivering an eviction notice.

... like a Portuguese body boarder chilling in a sick tube.

... like a burned-out college student sitting in a computer lab on a Sunday the day before his last literature paper is due!!!!!!!