Sugar

The last couple days have proved that it is possible to survive eating only sugar. I don't mean sustain oneself and not starve. I mean eat Tootsie Rolls for breakfast, pudding for dinner, and a 60%-40% Tootsie-Roll-to-pudding split for brunch, lunch and 2nd lunch, AND (this is the important part) not die or lose more than four teeth a day. I have accomplished this feat singlehandedly and have not even felt any side effects, though I wouldn't recommend it to the average weakling. The only hard part of this most worthy endeavor is getting Tootsie Rolls into your mouth when your arm and head are shaking at different frequencies.

Yesterday introduced me to a wonderful new show - Manswers. "You've got questions, we've got MANSWERS!" In one half hour session with Manswers, I learned invaluable street smarts. I now know three ways to survive a tiger attack, how tiny my bikini can be without getting me arrested, how much more the average pimp is making than I am, what set of sexual preferences makes a girl easier to get into bed, and why chickens and humans have identical tastes in women. Compare this to what I learned in four years of college - that it's only a temporary respite before you need to get a job, and I think we can agree America needs to rethink the education system.

I've been learning some Led Zeppelin songs lately. It's tremendous fun. It's also a bit like putting on glasses that flip your perception of left and right and then running around the house at top speed, but applied to rhythm instead of vision. I've realized now how relatively sane most rock/metal bands' music is when it comes to time signature. 4/4 time, 3/4, 9/8, even 7/8 are manageable when the whole song sticks to one or two, but in Zeppelin songs, you're liable to have measures thrown in seemingly at random with half a beat missing, or an extra three. And then, when you're back in 4/4 and you think it's smooth sailing, you get taken again. They mercilessly throw you a 9/8 riff over that 4/4 and your brain-fingers connection melts right down. Awesome.

...

We just went to Starbucks again. This time we planned out the whole operation and the result was a resounding success. We managed to spend somewhere between twelve and thirteen dollars from Mario's giftcard on two drinks and two scones. This is quite an achievement when you consider that twenty five dollars feeds the two of us for a week.

(mis)adventures

I received a complaint yesterday. Apparently my most recent entry was more depressing than a bag of drowned kittens. I didn't think so, but my subconscious must have taken it personally. It rebounded today with an optimistic dream, knowing full well I'd tell it here. You get to hear it first, before it is shamelessly converted into word-mass for my novel.

I'm somewhere off in nondescript-setting land. The dream isn't really visual in any way. I'm listening to a Queen song I haven't heard before. It's important to note hrtr that I pretty much worship Queen. So I'm listening to the song for a while. It changes pace several times in that sexy Bohemian Rhapsody kind of way. Very enjoyable. And then, all of a sudden I'm hearing something very familiar. It takes me a moment, and then I realize I'm hearing one of my own songs, but sung by Freddie Mercury. And here I'm faced with a choice. I could get depressed, because there's nothing more depressing than taking a good song out of the bank. I definitely consider mourning the loss for a second, but then another idea occurs to me. "Hey!" I think. "This means my song kicks ass!" And on that happy note, the dream ended, at least I don't remember anything else. And no, I have no idea which one of my songs it was. It being kickass doesn't really narrow the search down.

Yesterday, Mario and I went to Starbucks. We looked up all the Starbucks in our area and found one that was open till eleven, because it was already ten when Mario got back from work. I even called a couple (so you can appreciate the effort). Having found it, we left the apartment in a hurry.

So we're in the car, we've driven out of the apartment complex, and we need to make our first decision - right or left. That's when we realize we forgot to do one insignficant little thing. We never wrote down the coordinates or phone number. In fact, neither of us remembers a single piece of information that would aid in the search.

Being optimists, we decide to drive around for a while. We roll down our windows. We think maybe we can pick up the scent of overpriced-ness. Our optimism lasts about ten minutes.

Then Mario has the brilliant idea of using On-Star. On-Star is a ghetto version of the GPS monitor+screen that's so generously contributing to the further mental retardation of America. You press a button, the car places a phone call, you tell the operator where you want to go, and they send directions to your car. Anyway, we use On-Star, and it takes us pretty much back to our apartment. Apparently there's a Starbucks in the next-door Kroger. Feeling most triumphant, we march into Kroger's only to find that we're about three hours too late. This wasn't the lucky Starbucks after all. After that we gave up and went home.

This reminded both of us of another of our many failures, one that took place sophomore year of college. We had decided to go to Costco. We were really excited about it for some reason. I think we were under the illusion, or rather delusion, that Costco is a magical place where pennies are still worth something - specifically vast amounts of food. We got ready, we took our biggest suitcases, and walked bravely out of Next House (our dormitory), dragging them behind us. We only went about thirty meters. We realized neither of us had a Costco card at twenty meters, the other ten were by inertia. Then we stopped and turned around without another word. We were each still willing to go, provided that the other would buy a card, and the resounding "No Way!" was palpable without us having to prompt each other.

Your easy life

So National Novel Writing Month is steadily chugging along. I've been keeping to a pace of ~1666 words a day in an unprecedented feat of anti-procrastination. Yes, I feel very ashamed. No, you can't leave judgmental comments, I'm under enough stress as it is. For those of you who haven't already read it in Scientific American, it has recently been discovered that the pain of childbirth is like popping zit when compared to creating a novel. So it's been hard to force myself to procrastinate, as much as I would love to.

Because judging anyone is heavy on the psyche, and because I claim to care about others' well-being, I will help you not to judge me. I will justify my betrayal of the technique so fundamental to success in school, college, the workplace, testing of oddly shaped lumps in the breast or under the armpit...well maybe not the last one. You see, I'm up against a formidable enemy - the cold vice-like hand of fear. There's a fundamental quality that separates this project from past ones. This quality is the voluntary nature of the undertaking. I am not doing this project for a grade. I am not doing because my fat boss is breathing down my neck. I am certainly not doing it because my personality demands a high degree of planned action. I'm doing it because I'm a badass, and doing it will scream my badassness (short for bodaciousness) to the world. I'm doing it because every word that brings me closer to meeting the deadline makes my enemies weep bitter tears of envy and defeat. And...I'm doing it because I care.

Now normally, the word "care," when used by a male and not preceded by a negation, raises suspicions of high estrogen levels, homosexuality, or homosexuality. It is common courtesy to follow up a statement involving the word "care" with "Did you mean scare?" as in:

"I love caring for old people."
"Did you say care or scare?"
"Umm...scare, of course. Ha! Caring for old people, that's for sissies. I scare for them. They pay well to scare their own. Extra, if you cause a heartattack."

The exception is when "care" is uttered by a badass, in which case the world takes it in stride without a second thought. This is that case.

Caring is the procrastinator's nightmare. For those of you amateurs who think procrastinating is easy, try investing some personal interest and you'll quickly find yourself slipping. Caring about a project makes procrastinating feel like you're holding in number one: for a short while it's bearable, and then you get to thinking that if you don't go now, you may never go again. Or, for those of you with tubes taking care of your urine I/O, it's like not sleeping for more than forty eight consecutive hours: you experience an acute lack of will-power. You brain says to you: "Come on, just go to sleep for a little while, and try this experiment tomorrow. Really, there's all the time in the world to try this another time. Listen to me! I'm so convincing!" And you give in, unless you're Jesus Christ or a donkey.

That is my situation. Daily, I dip below the threshold of will-power necessary for fueling procrastination, and I give in and write another 1666 words. Once I do, I feel guilty. It's a hellish existence. Prometheus had it easy.

NaNoWriMo

In accordance with piece-of-advice #3 from the NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) intiation email, I am notifying the world that I will be writing a novel during the course of November. I will start on the 1st, stop on midnight of the 30th, and somewhere during the course of the 30 days, I will write 50,000 words of something that will be at least pure garbage. Piece-of-advice #3 says that if I flake out at any time, you have permission to deem me pathetic and to express that opinion freely. Yes, yes, I know, with this blog's three-billion+ readers I will be reading praise-brimming comments till November 2030, but what the hell, I'll take that chance. Other people who have put November to NaNoWriMo's sacrificial altar include Natasha...yea, Natasha. However, if someone decides that they could use a thirty-day-long kick in the balls, I would be glad to oblige. ...And also they should sign up for NaNoWriMo.

Tomorrow is Halloween, and the Mendiolas + extended family are having a party. I have been invited as the token "friend," which says a lot about the Mendiola's and their standards for friends. Then again, look at Mario, and you'll wonder about their standards for family. Anyway, Ben, Daniel, Mario and I have been ordered to dress up as the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Daniel and Ben are in charge of supplies, Mario and I are to put the costumes together. I have more faith in my novel-writing abilities than in my costume-building skills so disappointment is inevitable. At least we won't be disappointed with that.

On a low note, food is running low. I finished off three boxes of grape nuts today, each having only those crumbs at the bottom that are always left until all the boxes full of full-fledged grape nut chunks have been devoured. The fridge is nearly empty, in accordance with moneysaving rule #2: "never shop until you've eaten everything in the refrigerator and licked the racks clean (Note: do not lick the inside of the freezer, or you might find out why you shouldn't have done it)." There's an egg or so, but those will be today's dinner, along with the remnants of the Angel Food. Yes, believe it or not, there's still Angel Food left over, though my previous comments on its quality render this fact unsurprising. Mostly we've been prefering oatmeal in large quantities, and so far nothing has proven to be as filling/$ as the tubs we buy biweekly. Once the oatmeal and the Angel Food are gone though (later today), we'll have to resort to ancient wisdom to keep our bellies full. I'm having trouble deciding between D'Artagnan's: "He who sleeps, eats," and the Russian: "A ton of water replaces a kilogram of bread."

The Wonderful World of Mucus

If you don't want to read about mucus coming out of various orifices of my body, stop reading now.

Over the last few days, my sickness has summoned vast amounts of mucus to aid in its quest to torture me. The current trend is a steady migration upwards through my body. If this journey continues in similar fashion, the story of my malady may get a whole lot more interesting.

Two days ago, my throat was my only enemy, and I frequently cleared it, spewing yellowish globs wherever I happened to have been aiming. Yesterday, my nose joined in on the game, and I found myself with two more nozzles to spray out of, and as trigger-happy as a Clint Eastwood movie. Today, the mucus has completed a leg of the journey and resides almost solely in my nose. Unfortunately, due to my severe case of JAD (Jammed Attention Disorder - the inability to switch attention quickly), I often find myself stripping off headphones and guitars and catching drips Mission Impossible style, i.e. nanoseconds before they hit the floor. But this is irrelevant. What's bothering me is where this mucus is heading next. "Ear-nose-throat" I hear are connected, so I may soon be blowing my ears (I've been practicing all day). And after my ears have succumbed, what next? In the worst case, I'll be blind for a while, but in the best, I may have a imminent cure for my dandruff problem.

Angel Food Update

Part of the Angel Food is 10 prepackaged frozen meals (The Senior Citizen Special). The meals are in plastic boxes, and have three compartments - main course, greens, and a mystery compartment which has so far included garlic bread, applesauce and boiled carrots. The quality of these meals, so far, has a very high variance.

The first tested the limits of edibility. It was advertised as "Chicken in Barbecue Sauce, Greens, and Applesauce." After consuming a large part of it, I was convinced that it was in fact "Barbeque Sauce with a Splash of Chicken, Something Green That Normally Isn't, and an Applesauce/Previous Mystery Green Stuff Infusion."

Five days later, when my hunger overpowered my discouragement, I selected another prepackaged meal at random. The label read "Parmesan Chicken, Greens and Garlic Bread." Once again, I was surprised, but this time, pleasantly. The chicken was tender, the pasta tasted like pasta, and the garlic bread...well it was pretty much a glorified cracker that didn't even smell like garlic. But on the whole, my low expectations combined with the meal's adequacy produced pure delight. The greens were still inedible, but looked vaguely bean-ish. That was yesterday.

Today, the third meal was opened, this time by Mario. It was "Roast Beef, The Inevitable Greens, and Boiled Carrots." He started off with the main course, replying "eh" when I asked him if it was good. He was almost done when I suggested he try the greens so that he would have something edible to wash it down with in case they proved again to be unpalatable. He grabbed a good forkfull of greens and bravely shoved it in his mouth. His face immediately turned upside down. The greens were apparently the only part of the meals that guaranteed consistency. After the initial surge of facial turmoil, Mario put on a very serious face and sat motionless. I ventured a guess: "are you trying to swallow?" He nodded dumbly, and continued to sit there. I could feel his gag reflex throwing a fit all the way across the table. To help him, I started laughing at him as hard as I could. It was a battle of pride against the body's instincts, and was almost up to Stephen Chow physical comedy standards. Finally he gave up and spit it back out into the greens compartment. Poor guy, he should have swallowed. Now I'll have to remind him of this failure every day of his life.

Wo jianzai

Celebrated a few birthdays with some drinking at our place the other day. There must of been something extra special in the drinks because Mario was experiencing weird effects. We had the following two conversations at the peak of inebriation:

Mario (chewing a piece of gum): dude, my senses are so powerful, I can taste that piece of chicken you're eating from all the way over here.
Me (demolishing a piece of fried chicken): what does it taste like?
Mario (gets a bearing on his long-distance taste buds): ...gum.

(a little later)

Mario (still chewing gum): dude, my brain...I don't think anyone can understand what's going on in my brain right now. It's amazing.
Me: psh, I bet I can. Summarize it in two words.
Mario: Gum... ... ... ...good.

Nevermind, that sounds pretty much like the effects of alcohol.

I've been watching some Chinese movies lately, namely The Chinese Odyssey Part I & II. It's pretty glorius slapstick. There's lots of crotch humor, which is apparently as funny in China as it is in the United States. It must be some kind of genetically grounded reflex, like a mental kneejerk - when a man's crotch gets kicked, punched, set on fire, hit with a combination of gravity and tree branch, etc., you MUST laugh. And since I must, I did. A lot. Of course there can only be so much vicariously experienced pain before habituation sets in, but the movies threw in a good measure of other guaranteed laugh-elicitors - unibrows, horrible special effects, cross-dressing, and funny phrases like "Boyo Bolomi!"

I downloaded some more singing-training material. According to the latest, in five weeks I will no longer sound like a creaking door being slaughtered, or if I do, it will be as much as an octave higher than currently.

I've also been learning lots of Chinese lately by chatting with Chinese girls on various continents. Hmm, thought I had more to say about this...