Europe, here we come

I find it quite ironical (Waiting for Guffman) -- seeing as I rarely, if ever, experience emotions on a normal human level -- that when my excitement and enthusiasm are at about an all-time high (we did win the national championship in April, you know), I don't really have any idea how to go about expressing it. So, I won't even try to bother.

We're going to Europe, and that's all I have to say about that.


*also, while one of the main reasons I blog is to document the life and times of DTM (perhaps for little dtm'ers to peruse one day? -- except for the pervasively offensive language and the fact that I think it would forever scar them to see exactly who/how lame their father is/was), but for some reason I don't see myself having the desire, time or money to keep up the ol' blog while out on the dusty trail. So goodbye friends and foes and stalkers alike -- come back next month, and while I don't foresee doing any sort of all-encompassing recap either, you might be lucky enough to get some pictures. Maybe.

ciao, adieu....Sprechen ze Deutch?

Is a pig's pussy pork?

R.S.V.P.

Is there a more anachronistic word in the freaking "English" language? I mean, I know it's not a word, but still.

First off, nothing against them (at least not too much), but it's fucking French. (Repondez S'il Vous Plait, if you care).

Secondly, it's so old and outdated, nobody knows what it REALLY stands for ("Respond, if you please").

Thirdly, we use it wrong. (Most try to act like it's mandatory or something -- and it has sort of become so, as in it's rude not to).

Fourthly, it's four freaking words from a different language, acronymized (cool linguisitic creation by yours truly) by four letters that do not come anywhere close to forming a suitable acronym. It's not cool like radar or laser or scuba or D.A.R.E (wait, that's not cool either, but you get my point -- when was the last time you were like, "R.S.V.P. -- wow, that just rolled off the tongue!!!)

I could go on forever. But basically, you get the point. We need a new word to take over for this one. I suggest lorf.

MSUs

Since I don't frequent libraries (until this summer and my job, I'd never ventured into Davis), I have an excuse for not knowing about these wonders of academia. You, however, don't. So don't even ack like you don't know what I'm talking about. You've seen them. You've used them. You've loved them.

MSUs -- mobile study units. They line the lounges of Davis, presenting the epitome of study efficiency for dedicated, motivated students. They've got everything an all-nighterer would need. Comfort, provided by a sleek layout featuring ample cushions. A great study surface, headlined by a perfectly large desk extension that can handle any workload. And to cap it all off, it's mobile -- that's right, the beast has got wheels!

To be honest, from the moment I saw it, I was completely awed by this incredible invention. After playing around in it for awhile, I immediately realized why everyone studies in libraries. With an asset like the MSU, nothing can possibly stand in your way. And if something does, you can just wheel yourself around it. It's like an indestructible tank in the pursuit of intellectual growth, and it's equipped for all obstacles.

I only have one question. Why does a desk/chair need wheels?

photodocumentation

here at "the life and times of DTM," we recently told you that Manish turned 21 and that the festivities were a fucking blast. But as those of you who frequent DTM's online hideout know, we hold ourselves up to a higher standard than simply delivering frivolous tales of bygone times -- we give you the glorious (and even the inglorious) proof.

So did Manish REALLY turn 21?........you want the REAL story?


You want the truth? You can't handle the truth!

(what a lame intro, we do apologize)

a normal beer pong beginning to the night at 2H

naturally progresses

rather quickly (I mean, it was his 21st after all)

including an epic game of flip cup

with many twists and turns along the way

before friends

and "enemies"

initiate the (obviously awkward -- at least for one in particular) trek to the bar scene

where ample women abound

but our man(ish) is clearly too far gone (tequila and tabasco induced) for anything but...

A SPECTACULAR ENDING (for which DTM productions apologizes for having no footage, but Top of the Hill refused to sign over the rights to the scene of the "crime" -- that being the heart of the bar itself).


I told you it was a night to remember -- and all but one did.

color me a loser, if you wish

but you'd be sadly mistaken if you mistook my absolute infatuation with Laguna Beach (which re-"debuts" tonight -- SEASON TWO!!! -- a fact that I've had my hopes pinned on for months) as anything other than a sign of the most refined appreciation for the arts. In fact, were you to interpret it as an indication of crude immaturity or shallowness, I'm afraid there's no hope for you.

Because, you see, Laguna Beach is simply the best show on TV (excluding the possible re-emergence of Arrested Development (someone PLEASE pick up the third season) as well as immutable hallmarks South Park and Reno 911). I've said it before, and I only hope I'm singing the same tune after tonight (I've got my doubts about Kristen leading the brigade -- L.C. was always my fave), but the show is without a doubt the shit. So much so that upon learning of exactly how much our Europe trip conflicted with the new season, Manish (who has an identical love and respect for all things Laguna) and I considered canceling our cross-Atlantic jaunt. Alas, prudent minds prevailed and we are foregoing our one and only true love (but only for a little bit and only because we know MTV plays marathons like ESPN 2 plays poker). It's like an early lent, and it will be even more awesome when we do get to seen it all (hell, maybe we can find some bars with satellite dishes in Europe. Or fuck, MTV probably pumps it over there, too).

anyways, tonight we will get one sweet, delectible taste from Laguna's nourishing teat, a taste that is sure to haunt us in the harrowing weeks ahead, a taste that like Sirens will beckon to destroy us, a taste that is guaranteed to bring us back to our homeland eager to catch up on everything important happening in a high school 3,000 miles away (and last year).

"I'll let you go"

I love when people say this, or better yet, when I do.

It's bullshit at it's absolute finest. And I'll tell you why.

It's a complete lie. People only say "I'll let you go" when THEY are the ones who need to go. It's supposed to be a polite way to end a conversation. And people use it that way and then think they are clever and smooth. The only problem is I see right through it. I know their game, and I don't appreciate it.

I see that you are in a hurry and care not to proceed with our convo. Were I not my assholish self, I would say, "I don't mean to keep you" (which, ironically, is often used as a substitute for "I'll let you go") and send you on your way, but instead I'd prefer to stay here and draw out our mindless banter (maybe even begin a new line of discussion) purely to watch you dangle in awkwardness. Finally, at your wit's end and probably late, you are forced to pull out the life-saver -- only this time, it backfires. Like this, is DTM.

But enough of me, I'll let you go.

"Things got a little crazy last night."

seeing as it's roundabout 8 p.m. and Manish STILL has yet to rise from his bed (which is marked by water and gatorade spills in addition to puke), I'd call his 21st birthday an unequivocal success.

Best party of the summer, no doubt.

"Tears" of joy

After months of waiting, and intolerable incompetence on behalf of various (read French) consulates, Manish finally got his Visa (and not a week too soon -- sort of). Rejoice!

I'm not fucking joking. You better be goddamned happy, because while the trip could have been salvageable solo, its greatness is magnified exponentially by Manish's legal accompaniment. Just to give you a taste of how significant this is to me, the throes of emotion actually made themselves known to my lifeless, rock-like interior. First I was very mad and sad and very anxious (bye bye fingernails), and now I am absolutely, positively, indubitably overjoyed. Still can't cry, but I'm working on it, as this moment is certainly deserving.

WE're going to Europe, baby!

wife evaluation criteria: handwriting

the other day I realized the criticality (again, not sure if that's a word and I'm too lazy to google it -- which puts laziness at a whole new level) of good handwriting to my search for a future wife.

Now straight off, I have no room to talk as my penmanship is the crown jewel of motor skill deficiency, but still, I found myself wondering if I could honestly date or even be attracted to a woman significantly lacking in pretty writing skills? Silly and shallow and horribly unimportant as it sounds (and is), I think not.

More pertinently, do such women exist? Luckily, I think not.

Maybe it's a tacit, telepathic message that spans the fabric of the universe from all men to all women: you must write pretty. And so they do. And I'm glad for it.

Or maybe their curly curls and hearted 'i's simply arise from practicing writing their name a million times a day.

enjoy?

this week's sign of the apocalypse:

the U.S. Men's National Team is ranked 6th in the world?!?!?!

What

the

fuck.


Mexico is still ahead of us, though, so there's some hope that the globe has maintained a proper rotation about its axis and we're not doomed for immediate destruction..

I told you I loved this shit

enamor = en amor

revelations rock.

Go see Wedding Crashers

You have to -- that's all there is to it.

Best movie in .... well, a LONG time. Friggin HIlarious.

The essence of DTM

I cannot express how mindblasting an experience it was to discover a quote by one of my personal favorites the other day that literally sums all that is DTM up in one nice, tight little phrase (it does the same for the original author, too). With these few words, DTM has been totally, completely and foever captured in a mantra than encapsulates his entire existence.

"I don't do drugs. I am drugs." -- Dalí

I tell you

you gotta check Mr. Booober's away messages:

One of the finest pieces of writing you'll ever see:
When I think of good films, several movies come to mind. But as of March 20th 2005, when I think of good films, I will now think of "Spring Break Shark Attack". At first I was skeptical, will there be Sharks? Will they attack? And if they do, will they attack during spring break? The answers came soon enough and they were "yes", "yes", and "yes". This movie is loaded with Hollywood Juggernauts such as Justin Baldoni, Ryan Brown, and Shannon Lucio. It was a star studded cast, and i'm sure Hollywood is going to take notice of the outstanding piece of history. Not since the legendary Corey Feldman took to the silver screen have I seen such outstanding performances. Three cheers all around, to every person who worked on this masterpiece, and for the first time in so long, made a true American classic.


(if this really did it for you, check the first installment)

and I'm off

to Charlotte for the wee-KEND (I love how the British say it) to see my mom and grandparents.

Hold down the fort.

so I almost died last week

but didn't.

meant to tell you about it.

sorry.

here's what happened:

There was a deadly strain of TB that cripples the neurologic system stored in a lab directly across the hall from our own. Strike 1. (It'd be nice to know that ahead of time, you know? Maybe make you think twice about working there/breathing)

So, the doctors in that lab are done fucking with the TB or whatever and need to destroy it before it kills me and everyone else. OK.

Problem: they should probably notify the people across the hall before they pump in a lethal concentration of fermaldahyde (which, as a bonus, is carcinogenic for those keeping score at home) into the ventalation system in order to neutralize the strain. It turns out everyone in the building had received an email specifying the need for a prompt evacuation of the building before 5 0'clock Friday. That is, everyone BUT us.

to make a long story short, we escaped by the skin of our teeth (and thus prevented a similarly horrendous affliction from showing up in any of my progeny due to exposure). It very nearly screwed our study over though, as we happen to house a CONTROLLED SUBSTANCE (cocaine, governed by strict federal laws) in a refrigerated safe on our floor that is critical for the injections we give the rats everyday. Seeing as we had no time to figure out another plan and the alternative was death, the guys I work with had to do all the stuff with the animals while sporting full out nuclear radiation garb.

So there. That's it.

I escaped.

Try as they might, can't get DTM down (or, in this case, out).

I'm losing my faith

in science. (and that's a big one for me, people)

Why?

Well the fact that I work in a lab where organization seems non-existent and data something akin to unsacred has a whole lot to do with it. In fact, the only reason I have the splendiferous job of entering data is because someone else screwed it up before me and my job is to fix it/do it over. Problem is, some of the problems are unfixable. Whole YEARS of data are missing. Half of the stuff is labeled wrongly and then just changed by someone who, in a moment of divinity-inspired epiphany, magically "figures out" what number rat this actually was (although in my opinion it's more a case of, "shit, we spent four years doing this study and we have all this data with no idea where it came from, so we'll just make up which freaking rat it's from since we lost all the other information and that way we can just shape our study to get the results we want"). I wish I was somewhat kidding.

Don't get me wrong, I'm happy to have a job. And I'm happy someone screwed up to make it possible. But I always viewed science and scientists as things of utmost precision and care, not of sloppiness and (dubious?) alterations. Now, I have some doubts, at least with regards to the findings of how cocaine affects maternal behavior. Or anything coming from our fucked up lab.

How can you get a huge grant like that and then blow it by straight up LOSING data and FUCKING UP the good data you actually get?!?!?! Come on people! Imbeciles and morons abound.


That's me in the corner (typing unverifiable data into the computer). That's me in the spotlight, losing my religion.

a rebuttal

I don't read any "real" blogs, but I seem to have the impression that they interlink a lot in order to make counterpoints and discredit arguments etc. (psss...politics suck). Therefore I will show my human weakness and submit to the trend.

for specimen numero uno, we have this admittedly funny and appreciated post from the heralded Mr. Markman (who, of course, is away in SC on hobbysiness and therefore is unable to defend himself from this unprompted attack -- hence it's current timing. I keed, I keed).

Still, the question must be asked to the man of the hour: how can you possibly cite a dude and a cow as your favorite commercial when a scantily clad slut (yes, I'm being sexist, but not by calling her a slut) is but a mouse click away from bringing untold joy to your world?


(pssssssss.....Paris Hilton sucks, and I honestly don't think she's THAT beautiful, or pretty even. But that commercial is simply DYNAMIC.)

two things worth stealing

from dave sez:

this cool (and elucidating) college football graphic (originally from Paulwesterdawg's Georgia Sports Blog)

and, the seemingly nationally ignored medical implausibility of the explanation behind Wyatt Sexton's antics.

how pathetic is it

that I just snuck to the basement of work in order to finish "watching" what "appeared" to be an amazing Armstrong ride in the 10th stage by -- get this -- reading refreshed html code every 30 seconds?

Yes, that's right....all browsers were failing to load, so I was reduced to viewing the page source code from olntv.com (my life source during my morning job) as Armstrong made his almost-victrorious (and still very impressive) charge.

So, in all sincerity, I ask once again -- before I get back to reading code in order to figure out just how much time he gained on his rivals -- how pathetic are these tour-de-france-mandated exploits of mine?

so I went to see teen soccer phenom Freddy Adu last night...

and that's about all I have to say about that.

(He was very good, but didn't play enough or do enough to show all-world good.)

you've got to be kidding me

A few things stand out to me about this picture:

1. He's not sweating.
2. Where's Larry Eustachy?
3. We all love chicken wings.
4. Is Gary Williams the coolest guy in the world?

the link in all it's glory

What with

all the bitching I do around here, it's high time I dish out some seriously thick DTM praise (consider it like a Nobel, only a notch or two better).

therefore, without further (or any) ado -- I guess I'm only longwinded about the things I hate (save UNC bball) -- I salute the writers of "Arrested Development" for their brazen wit, masterful foresight, and comedic genius. You, good sirs (which they have to be since we all know women just aren't funny -- that's why EVERY female stand-up comedian resorts to horribly crude sex "jokes" completely devoid of any humor to compose the body of their act), have earned my utmost respect for writing a show that, quite simply, is brilliant. In this day and age, that is worthy of awe, and they have mine. Positively superb.


* of course, while the pigs are still flying, regular mainstays South Park and Reno 911 deserve some credit for their unparalleled (except by each other) excellence as well. But most of yinz (P-town, what's up?) are already aware of my unhealthy fascination with those fantastic television creations.

and so concludes

an absolutely TITTIES weekend.

GJ did CH in style, and an incomprehensibly outrageous time was had by all (thanks to all who partook).

Among the remembered highlights: a 2H keg "party" (nobody really came), Manish and I winning 15 games of beer pong on night 1 (and playing 17 ------> ridiculous), Rubik's cube challenges (Junction nerds), taking survey of the world as we stood on the bench and pissed off the balcony, having the hair burnt off of my leg by an aggressively flaming ping pong ball that Manish chucked at me after accidentally lighting it on fire and panicking, watching the fan demolish a bug and send it careening off the walls, singing songs at 5 a.m., an epic campus tour, "breaking in" to the Dean Dome (including the best experience of my life: kissing the center of the jump circle -- picture confirmation is eagerly awaited), losing two unbelievable OT beer pong games to Manish and Arne (the only two we lost on night 2), visiting Top O to show Adam an authentic bar scene and witnessing his game in full effect, and getting to hang out with a fantastic friend.

let's do it again soon.

today's the day!

Adam arrives!

I feel like a girl getting dressed for the prom, or since I seem to be disturbingly fixated on this theme, I'll go MJ young (although of the opposite sex) and say I'm like (NOT I like) a giddy schoolgirl.

madness shall commence shortly....be there or be circular.

OH HELL YEAH!

It's on!!!

Adam (and some GaTech engineers) is coming up for a little Chapel Hill innauguration this weekend, which means all you fuckers best begin your mental preparations for a GJ drunkenfest invasion.

Seriously, it is very likely that there will be kegs and parties and massive amounts of beer pong in 2H these glorious coming days, so consider yourself forewarned....and invited to partake.

you don'ta speaka da spanish?

too bad.

Seeing as I had to suffer through dissecting every work and author ever produced in the history of latinamerican literature, I figured I might salvage something from it by documenting the highlights along the way (or at least pissing off you angloparlantes):

En perseguirme, mundo. ¿qué interesas?
En qué te ofendo, cuando sólo intento
poner bellezas en mi entendimiento.
~Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, Sonetos y redondillas

4° Aúlla con los lobos
~José Joaquín Fernández de Lizardi, Decálogo de Maquivelo

No hay odio de razas, porque no hay razas. ... El alma emana, igual y eterna, de los cuerpos diversos en forma y en color.
~José Martí, Nuestra América

Yo soy un hombre sincero
de donde crece la palma,
y antes de morirme, quiero
echar mis versos del alma.
~José Marti, Versos sencillos

La princesa está triste . . . ¿Qué tendrá la princesa?
Los suspiros se escapan de su boca de fresa,
que ha perdido la risa, que ha perdido el color.
La princesa está palida en su silla de oro,
está mudo el teclado de su clave sonoro,
y en un vaso, olvidado, se desmaya una flor.
~Rubén Darío, Sonatina

!Ay!, la pobre princesa de la boca de rosa
quiere ser golondrina, quiere ser mariposa
~Rubén Darío, Sonatina

Y siempre silbando.

La muerte. ... Es la ley fatal, aceptada y prevista; tanto, que solemos dejarnos llevar placentaramente por la imaginación a ese momento, supremo entre todos, en que lanzamos el último suspiro.

Nada, nada ha cambiado. Sólo él es distinto.

~Horacio Quiroga, El hombre muerto

Sólo para nosotros
Viven todas las cosas bajo el Sol.
~Vicente Huidobro, Arte poética

El poeta es un pequeño Dios.
~Vicente Huidobro, Arte poética

La Poesía es el lenguaje de la Creación.

... la poesía no es otra cosa que el último horizonte...

~Vicente Huidobro, La poesía

Me entra [el mundo] por la boca y se me sale
en insectos celestes o nubes de palabras por los poros
~Vicente Huidobro, Canto I de Altazor

Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Escribir, por ejemplo: "La noche esta estrellada,
y tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos".

El viento de la noche gira en el cielo y canta.
Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.

Yo la quise, y a veces ella también me quiso.
En las noches como ésta la tuve entre mis brazos.
La besé tantas veces bajo el cielo infinito.

Ella me quiso, a veces yo también la quería.
Cómo no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos.

Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Pensar que no la tengo. Sentir que la he perdido.

Oír la noche inmensa, más inmensa sin ella.
Y el verso cae al alma como al pasto el rocío.
Qué importa que mi amor no pudiera guardarla.

La noche está estrellada y ella no está conmigo.
Eso es todo. A lo lejos alguien canta. A lo lejos.

Mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.
Como para acercarla mi mirada la busca.

Mi corazón la busca, y ella no está conmigo.
La misma noche que hace blanquear los mismos árboles.

Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos.
Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero cuánto la quise.

Mi voz buscaba el viento para tocar su oído.
De otro. Será de otro. Como antes de mis besos.
Su voz, su cuerpo claro. Sus ojos infinitos.

Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero.
Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido.

Porque en noches como ésta la tuve entre mis brazos,
mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.

Aunque éste sea el último dolor que ella me causa,
y éstos sean los últimos versos que yo le escribo.

~Pablo Neruda, Poema XX

Sucede que me canso de ser hombre
~Pablo Neruda, Walking Around

Venid a ver la sangre por las calles,
venid a ver
la sangre por las calles,
venid a ver la sangre
por las calles!
~Pablo Neruda, Explico algunas cosas

No sé por qué piensas tú,
soldado, que te odio yo,
si somos la misma cosa,
yo,
tú.
~Nicolás Guillén, No sé por qué piensas tú

Al otro, a Borges, es a quien le ocurren las cosas.
~Jorge Luis Borges, Borges y yo

¿Pero qué es la historia de América toda sino una crónica de lo real-maravilloso?
~Alejo Carpentier, Prólogo

Soltera, sí. Pero no virgen.
y prefiero una que otra cicatriz
a tener la memoria como un cofre vacío.

… y un día
vendrá el Príncipe Azul
No no he tenido novio. No ninguno
Todavía. Mañana.

~Rosario Castellanos, Kinsey Report

Dadme un prejuicio y moveré el mundo
~Gabriel García Márquez, Crónica de una muerte anunciada

La fatalidad nos hace invisibles
~Gabriel García Márquez, Crónica de una muerte anunciada

Sobre todo, nunca le pareció legítimo que la vida se sirviera de tantas casualidades prohibidas a la literatura, para que se cumpliera sin tropiezos una muerte tan anunciada.
~Gabriel García Márquez, Crónica de una muerte anunciada

Me desconcierta tanto pensar que Dios existe, como que no existe.

No llores porque ya se terminó... sonríe, porque sucedió.

El amor es tan importante como la comida. Pero no alimenta.

Sólo porque alguien no te ame como tú quieres, no significa que no te ame con todo su ser.

La sabiduría nos llega cuando ya no nos sirve de nada.

No tenemos otro mundo al que podernos mudar.

La vida es la mejor cosa que se ha inventado.
~Gabriel García Márquez

don't worry, be happened

who ever said that getting bad grades doesn't pay?


(and who ever instilled in me that a 'B' is a "bad grade"? A: probably yours truly. ........ still, my mindset is rapidly changing due to these types of developments)

some rap thoughts

old-school rap, while some of it can be good (very good even) can also be downright awful

the good news is rap has definitely progressed. That's not to say everything out there now is better than what used to be, but some advancements/developments have definitely evolved.

Jay-Z feels and expresses the mood and feeling of his beats better than anyone else. He likes to talk about himself a lot, too, but at least he sounds good doing it. And he might be the best at talking over a track before it really gets started -- whatever that's called.

LL Cool J and Busta Rhymes mystify me in many ways...some good, more not.

someone should tell Kanye that there is a better way to express the sentiment of discrimination than his Sam's Club reference. Everyone has to show ID to get into Sam's Club.

50 Cent needs to learn that the word is "aspiring" not "inspiring"

I like it when rap is unique, different, and fresh. Too much regurgitation, "plug it into the formula" these days. Always appreciate the pioneers and the reinventors.

if Eminem would allow himself to be even the slightest bit soulful and rap about things of simply minimal importance, he would be the best rapper ever, HANDS DOWN (and he might could be anyway).

"let me just go check on Mr. Brown's fluids, first...

and then I'll be right out for a smoke."

Ever notice the sad irony in how many people smoke right outside of HOSPITALS, including and especially hospital employees? At home, I live right next to a hospital, and now I walk past one everyday and it depresses me pretty much every time. Honestly. Sad.

Why I'm choosing to share this with you and possibly subject you to similar feelings in the future is food for thought, but hopefully there's some purpose to it. I'm not sure there is, but hopefully you'll come up with something.