High Five Anxiety

Having gone home for a weekend, I feel renewed and better equipped to criticize the world, especially my own state.

Apparently a school in Northern Virginia has a strict no-touching policy. The second you first hear that, you're probably thinking to yourself, "Good, I should hope someone gets expelled or fired for touching Jimmy or Jane's no-no places." But this is full-fledged no contact. That means that whenever some girl in school cries (probably a fairly frequent occurrence) she doesn't have a shoulder to cry on. Even more appalling, there's a ban on handshakes and high-fives. My immediate reaction? "Fuck that."

The high-five is odd. It's only been around since the late seventies, and it's a cultural staple. I remember one night when my friends and I were hanging out and decided to walk around downtown. One guy (ironically the only guy who hadn't been drinking) proposed a high-five contest. Our party would walk around downtown, trying to get as many high-fives as we could from whoever happened to be on the street. Naturally, this sounded like a great idea to those of us who had been drinking, so we ran with it. What puzzled me is that the sober guy who proposed this idea was in the lead from the start. Every high-five he received from passing strangers was met with a hearty "yes!" and a fist pump, like you had just suggested we find and beat up his arch-enemy.

He's also originally from Northern Virginia. Just imagine if he were forced to go to this school where his high-fives were offenses against school code. I could easily envision him leading a campaign to be elected class president solely on the platform of re-establishing the legality of high-fives. He probably couldn't give a shit about hugs or handshakes, but he has a talent for getting you really excited about high-fives. I imagine it would even work if you were listening to him when you were sober.

Who's Up For Batting Practice?

So today I discovered that I am a giant pussy.

Because I am waiting on a professor to get back to me regarding some issues on modeling, I was browsing the internet today. By the way, if you're ever a grad student, there is evidently a very high likelihood that you'll be waiting for n professors to get back to you, where n is any number from 1 to the entire faculty of your university. So I was checking my e-mail when I noticed this Men's Health article.

Now, I've been considering buying an issue of Men's Health, since a regular focus of the magazine (I believe) is physical fitness, an aspect of life upon which I am currently trying to focus. For example, I've started eating nothing but bagels and bananas for lunch at the office every day. Oddly enough, the primary motivation behind this move was not the fact that it's a lunch that is loaded with energy and essential vitamins. I bought them because it gives me food at about $6.00 per week. Compare that with at least $30.00 per week if I eat out.

So anyway, the article lists eighteen random things you should do to exhibit "strength." Seems like an interesting prospect. Strength is manly, so why not? I realized relatively quickly that I would have a hard time living up to the standards of manhood that are assumed in this list. The realization came by way of number four, "Stopping at second base on a first date. Especially when she's waving you in from third. Settling for a stand-up double almost guarantees fireworks next time, when you put it over the fence."

Now, before I continue, I'm going to go over the baseball euphemism. I'm a fan of anything baseball, so I have this one committed to memory. "First base" is french kissing. "Second base" is fondling. "Third base" is either fondling of the genitals or oral sex, depending on whether you're in the AL or the NL. "Home plate" is, of course, traditional coitus.

Now that we have that settled, I've got a slugging average that's about as good as a minor league pitcher. Actually, that's just extending the metaphor into a really weird dimension. That means that my primary purpose in the game is to prevent others from getting bases. Does that mean women are pitchers? Maybe they're the umpires. Or maybe they're off playing soccer and we haven't realized it yet.

Anyway, my point is that if I can even get a base hit on a first date, I'm feeling pretty goddamn good about myself. I mean this is the first date we're talking about. My first dates are usually spent thinking about what I should say that will keep some conversation going while avoiding convincing the girl that she should seek a restraining order against me. My wildest dreams end at a simple kiss goodnight at a front porch or some other cliché location. Having even the opportunity to say, "Wait, let go of my dick; I think we should take it slow" is beyond those wildest dreams.

Now I'm torn. Either I should never lay a finger on this magazine since I have about as much business reading it as I would reading an instruction manual for a German cotton candy machine, or I should order as many back issues as I can in the hopes of sculpting myself into a guy who could potentially get to third base on the first date, only to exhibit great strength by settling for mere fondling.

While I try to decide, maybe I'll do number one on the list, "Return a wallet. With all the dough." I'll just have to steal one first...

(Edit: 23:24 - Stopped by Barnes & Noble and saw an issue of Men's Health that was labeled the British Edition. Bought a copy immediately.)

This Putt Could Go All The Way

As you are probably unaware, the U.S. Open (yes, that's golf) is currently being played up in Pennsylvania. While I used to watch golf on weekends back when the great Jack Nicklaus was still playing, I really don't give a shit about golf anymore. But the fact of the matter is that ESPN decided that's what they'd be showing at noon today, so I figured that while on my elliptical machine, I'd watch that instead of the local news or one of the estrogen-packed talk shows of daytime television. And boy, was I not disappointed, because who did they have as a commentator? None other than Chris Berman.

Now, for those of you unfamiliar with Berman, he's probably best known for his catch phrase, "He could.. go.. all.. the.. way!" when reviewing football touchdown highlights. He's the type of sportscaster whose voice just gives an image of being the chief orchestrator of the best damn tailgate in the parking lot before a big football game, swigging back cheap American beer and calling you a little pussy for preferring hot dogs over bratwurst. It's like he's training himself to become heir to the Madden dynasty.

Now, to be fair, I have seen Chris Berman covering baseball, too, so I do know that he is definitely not restricted to football. But if we're talking about good all-purpose sportscasters, two figures who immediately pop into my head are Howard Cosell and Bob Costas, the latter being my personal favorite with great coverage of the Olympics. Chris Berman, however, just doesn't have that all-purpose personality necessary to cover the much more tame sport of golf.

I'll give you an example. As we watched Joe Durant taking his final stroke on what I think was hole seven, it gradually became clear that it was a really great shot, giving him a birdie after two straight bogeys. Berman's gem of a response? "Durant, Durant... He is hungry like a wolf."

Now, I love Duran Duran. I appreciate whenever they're mentioned, and I even appreciate the occasional Sportscenter-esque pun or catch phrase. But this is golf, the sport of Thurston Howell IIIs. Even if it's not devoid of emotion, it's certainly devoid of intensity relative to other sports. Occasionally there's the putt that will make or break you, but not on every hole. This shot in particular was decent, but not dramatic.

As in tennis, there are no teams, so you have to pull for individual players. What golf really needs is a high-intensity figure. The John McEnroe of golf, if you will. Just imagine how cool it would be to see a golfer get really violent. He'd be especially fun to watch today, as apparently everyone was having an off day due to the difficulty of the course. There were a lot of bogeys, and I would have loved to hear some profanity as a result.

But golf is what it is, and at least I recognize that. Why can't Chris Berman do the same? Really, though, I'll take whoever they give me, as long as it's not Al Michaels. God, I hate that guy.

Salute Your Shorts

Today, I was subject to a personal milestone of greatness. While fixing breakfast in the kitchen, my shorts fell down to the floor. Whoosh, right to my ankles. Never before have I felt so accomplished.

I guess I should probably back up and explain that since February, I've been trying to lose weight by working out nearly every day at the gym. Mostly via a bastardized form of running on the elliptical machines. But apparently the process of losing weight is extremely slow, so that in my eyes, my day-to-day appearance has remained constant. Only the objectivity of the scale showed that I was making any progress. However, standing in the kitchen with a bowl of Cheerios with my old, wide-waisted pair of shorts having fallen to expose my triumphant bare ass to the refrigerator, I knew that I had come a long way.

Those of you who know me personally know that I am very, very lazy. The campus gym, which is free of charge for us students, is located on the other side of campus from where I work, so about 15 or 20 inconvenient minutes away. My gym, however, is right across the street from my office and costs a considerable amount. The way I see it, it all adds to the motivation. Not only is it closer, but I'm also wasting money every day that I don't go. Through suffering only will I achieve my goals.

Now then, there are two distinct groups of people at the gym. First, there are the testosterone-ridden guys working hard at their weight training, probably daydreaming about drinking a protein shake. Fortunately, as I am trying to focus on losing fat more than building muscle, I spend my time surrounded by the second group - the ridiculously attractive girls who only do cardiovascular exercise. Half are blond, most are already skinny, and all are working out around me. Their bodies are bouncing to the beat of the workout, and the amount of fabric they've donned isn't helping me keep my hormones under control.

What I never understand, though, are the girls who wear the very short shorts with a single word on the back, written across the whole span of the ass. Since it's huge English text, my eyes are naturally drawn to it. With nothing else going on, is there anything else to look at? If anyone were to catch me staring, though, I would really be at a loss for words. After all, it only takes so much time, say a few milliseconds, to read the word "pink." Maybe the whole reason they wear those shorts is the hope of catching me in the act (of looking) and calling me a pervert.

Fortunately, the gym has something that will distract me now - TV monitors on all the elliptical machines. You can watch anything on basic cable while you work out. It's great to know where my gym membership fees are going. Of course, within the first month of their installation, there were problems with certain monitors. Now there are the three or so that you would rather avoid if possible, because they've screwed you in the past and they might screw you again. Of course, if you're unfortunate and there's no way to watch TV, there's always the mp3 player or, my personal favorite, the aforementioned butt of the girl in front of me.

Man, I hope she's working out to lose weight. She's not really fat at all, but what I wouldn't give for her shorts to fall down right about now... Come on, join me in victory!

Who Listened to Too Much Tom Jones?

I saw a story on this subject from FOX News, that shining beacon of journalism's light of truth, but then I found out that the BBC covered the same story two years ago. What story, you ask? The wackiest idea I've heard yet - the Sex Bomb. If you're too lazy to click, I'll just sum up - the US Air Force investigated the possibility of a chemical weapon which, upon use on enemy soldiers, would make them sexually irresistible to each other.

I love imagining the military thought process that must have resulted in this idea. "Let's see, we're definitely sure that the enemy is evil. Wait a minute, you know who else is evil? Gays! So perhaps the enemy is especially predisposed to homosexuality. If we could simply release a chemical agent to trigger their faggotry, they'd surely rip their pants off and start screwing each other left and right! Then we move in and kill them all."

Personally, I'd love to have my own sex bomb. Seriously, if someone from the military actually developed this and it was never released, get in touch. I could just imagine setting it off at a college party. All of a sudden, I'd be Southwest Virginia's host with the most.

Hell, let's even market this sucker: Are you tired of being unsuccessful with women? Fed up with all of that illegal date rape? Heck, are you even just tired of being able to seduce only one woman at a time? Well, Poindexter, kiss your bodily fluids goodbye, and say hello to the all-new Ero-Blaster! Developed by the USAF with your precious tax dollars, the Ero-Blaster releases a host of concentrated chemicals that we're pretty sure aren't toxic. Then, those chemicals enter the brain of every not-so-innocent bystander and fills them with raging lust. There's even a chance for brain damage, so won't the next morning be fun! (Side effects may include attraction of people who are boring, unattractive, or of the undesired sexual orientation.)

Another thing I love about this article is the other non-lethal chemical weapon ideas that they thought up, especially the "Who? Me? Bomb." Since the year of our Lord 1945, there has been talk of simulating flatulence amongst the ranks of the enemy. Honestly, how much of a deterrent or a blow to morale would that be? I'd imagine that if I were being shot at, trying to determine who farted would be a relatively low priority on my immediate to-do list.

Apparently, logic yet again is not the preferred military route, as the rationale they use against Dr. Demento's Fart Machine is that "people in many areas of the world do not find fecal odor offensive, since they smell it on a regular basis." Way to build our international reputation, General. "Well, I'd totally bust open a stink bomb in your camp, but you smell so much like shit that you wouldn't even notice. Oh yeah, and your momma's so fat, when she gets on the scale, it says 'to be continued!' Ooooh, burned!"

So anyway, I actually think the sex bomb is a good idea. In fact, let's set it off everywhere. No more fighting, just sweet, sweet lovin'. Sure the birth rate will spike and we'll be plowing through all the Earth's resources even faster. But honestly, wouldn't it be worth it just to get laid end war?

Getting a Software Hard-On

We engineers have to install a lot of software. Really, a lot of software. MATLAB, LabVIEW, Multisim, SAS, Autodesk, Microsoft Office... the list goes on. And it's not your typical installation of, say, the new Apple internet browser for Windows. These are massive, security-laden, leviathan programs that could probably eat small children, or twenty-six-toed cats.

I'm just going to go over what I had to install in the last week. Beginning last Monday, I had to try (unsuccessfully) to install LabVIEW so I could actually record data signals with my laptop. I have an older version sitting nicely in a box at home, but as with all great software, there's a new version released seemingly every year. I tried installing the lab's copy, but the disk failed cyclic redundancy checks, meaning that the disk is scratched. I should have expected this, since the copy was on a DVD-R, which can become scratched so easily that it's dangerous to even look at the disc surface if you've recently had impure thoughts. I quickly became frustrated and asked another person in the lab if I could use his computer for a day. Fortunately, the computer was free and I did my experiment. The experiment actually took less time than installing the necessary software would have. You know, had the fucking disc worked.

Then, once I had the data, it was time to analyze it with MATLAB. Most people I've talked to don't like MATLAB. Actually, I take that back, most people I've talked to don't even know what MATLAB is. If I mention it to them, I get a look that's blanker than Paris Hilton's SAT answer sheet. Most engineers I've talked to don't like MATLAB. However, I think it's one of the greatest programs ever, especially since I do a lot of signal processing. When I get a house, I may build a small altar to MATLAB down in my basement, and to it I will sacrifice tiny, hopeless accelerometers in an elaborate ceremony. For those of you who don't know what it is, let's just say it performs a slew of mathematical operations on data. If you can't answer it in MATLAB, it's probably not a real question.

Anyway, I was told I had to analyze data and generate a model for the system I was experimenting with. (Hmm, experimenting... sexual experimentation... lesbians... Damn it! Another DVD-R ruined.) This seemed fine, except that I needed to install the "System Identification Toolbox" in order to do it. Why MATLAB doesn't automatically come with all it's subprograms, I'll never know. Actually, of course I know - it's to make even more money. So of course, my version of MATLAB is too old, so I have to map a network drive and install the whole fucking thing again. This takes half of my work day.

Today, I tried activating Multisim, from the same wonderful people who brought us LabVIEW. Basically, it's software that simulates the behavior of electrical circuits. I'm sure it does a shitload more, but that's all I need it for. I spent my day as follows: Downloading and installing the student edition, trying to activate the student edition with my serial number, calling tech support twice, finding out I needed to download the academic edition, uninstalling the student edition, installing the academic edition, and then feeling so exasperated I had to write a post about it. An entire day lost to the demons of software.

I should stop, as I'm getting pretty worked up. At least tonight I'll be having chicken wings with my friends. It's a fairly simple model to derive - as long as you input wings, the output will always be happiness... Oh god, engineering jokes. Time to look at that freak cat one last time and just call it a day

Corn: The New Black, Says Iowa

You know, corn prices are on the rise. No, it's not that people are finally believing Tony The Tiger's claims that Frosted Flakes of Corn really are great. (Yes, I included the prepositional phrase in the name. That's what they're called. Read the goddamn box next time.) Instead, it's saving the planet that's making corn so expensive.

Now, I'm going to ignore the wacky theories that claim that corn is evil personified. Well, personified in an inhuman vegetable sense. No, this will instead focus on ethanol production. Everyone is finally starting to talk about climate change, with topics such as "Gosh, we're such a stupid species; I'm going to prepare for the upcoming apocalypse" and "Hey, Al Gore - wasn't he that guy on that ABC sitcom?" Thus, the demand for ethanol, a corn-derived popular choice as an alternative to petroleum, is driving the price of corn up ridiculously.

Come to think of it, my roommate just finished converting a Chevy Equinox to run on E85, which is 85% ethanol. His team's vehicle won "lowest petroleum use" in a collegiate competition, making it seemingly the best option for reducing our petroleum usage. But as has already been revealed, it's driving up the demand for corn. On the other hand, it gives us something else which we all love - the chance to poke fun at Mexicans.

Go to any Mexican restaurant and you'll discover three things - the food is usually cheap, tequila increases your social acceptance at the expense of your body, and tortillas are essentially a basic food group. And that's only in the United States, the home of cheap rip-offs of foreign cuisines and cultures. I mean, I ate an average of more than one a day while I was in New Mexico. Just imagine how many corn tortillas are eaten in Actual Mexico every day.

Apparently it's so bad that people in Mexico have been protesting. There's recently been a 400% increase in the price of corn tortillas. That's right - screw NAFTA, we're liquefying your dinner and pumping it into our gas tanks.

Which would we be more willing to pay for, though - gas or corn? I mean, I don't use gas but for one thing - powering my automobile. Corn, on the other hand, has tons of uses - side dishes, cooking oils, improvised sexual devices... What would happen to the economy if corn prices went through the roof? I hate to have to do this, but the link to the book I mentioned says that more than a quarter of the 45,000 items in a supermarket contain corn in some way.

Here's a novel idea - let's just stop driving. It's a lot cheaper and if cars weren't on the road, it would be a lot safer for me to bike to work. Hell, if we all biked to work, maybe we wouldn't be such a fat-ass nation. But before that morning bike ride, I'll need some Wheaties. Who knows what the price of Corn Flakes will be in the near future.

My guess? Not so Grrreat.

Take a Ride on the Short Line

Because you can't get decent news in America anymore, I was browsing the BBC News website. I had just finished reading in depth about a man with sulfhaemoglobinaemia, the rare blood condition which turns you into a well-known alien from the late 1960's, when I saw a piece on those rarest of documents, U.S. Passports.

I say rare because it is estimated that only 25% of the U.S. population currently holds a passport. That's only one our of four, meaning that for my experience traveling abroad, there are three other people perfectly content with never leaving this country. That's just a frightening level of blissful ignorance, considering how much there is to see in the world, and the all-too-rapid approach of death, which is essentially boredom setting in forever.

Granted, there is a lot to be said for the United States. There's 3.7 million square miles of territory, and it's far from homogeneous. If you've ever been to Texas, you can essentially count that as travel abroad, in my opinion. I certainly like the idea of distancing myself from Texans as much as possible - why not give them some sort of alternate citizenship?

Yet, nothing beats international travel. After all, it's the reason I understand jokes about Tesco. If you're considering traveling abroad, let me tell you something that the government doesn't want you to find out - most members of the international community don't hate open-minded Americans. They hate our government, sure. But who doesn't? When in doubt, just call President Bush an idiot (regardless of your opinion), and you shouldn't run into too many problems.

Apparently, though, I'm preaching to the choir, because between March and May, more than 4.5 million U.S. Passports were issued. The demand for them is so high, in fact, that the government has acted in true government fashion - by rendering actual passports meaningless for the whole summer. That's right, now your driver's license doubles as your "get out of country free" card. As long as you've applied for a passport, you can fly to or from Canada, Mexico, the Caribbean or Bermuda no problem.

I guess there's nothing truly wrong with this move, but I do love the fact that it has to be done, what with bureaucracy being what it is. The exposure of folly within a system is always a great thing to witness, whether it's passport office delays of up to three months or a fat man cleaning up on "Press Your Luck."

Speaking of international travel, can we deport Paris Hilton? I'm thinking maybe to Texas.

Fast Fish Food

Apparently Arby's now has fish. Don't look for it on the menu, though. I'm talking about the Arby's in Christiansburg, and not the kind you can eat without making a scene. I was chatting with a friend who had recently eaten there, and he informed me that out front, there is a twenty-gallon fish tank full of fish on display.

Just imagine all the restaurants you've gone to eat where there were fish on display that you got to see while you waited to order or eat your food. Can you envision them? There are probably a number of similar traits they all share, such as nice decorative curtains and a dark, candlelit atmosphere. I've never heard of a fish tank in a fast food restaurant, for which one of the most desirable qualities is a soda fountain in the dining area so you can get unlimited refills.

To be fair, though, it sounds as though the fish are as much of a letdown as the Arby's dining experience is. I'm told that there is some sort of ugly sucker fish on the side, and the whole tank is covered with a thin film of algae. Thank goodness that the fish don't have a concept of what dignity is, because living in a dirty fish tank at an Arby's is one thing. Being aware of how pathetic that is is something different altogether.

For some reason that's lost to me, the staff has supposedly put the tank on a wheeled television stand. In addition, they also plugged it into one of the soda fountains in order to connect the air pump to an electrical outlet. So in summary, we have a) living things, b) water, c) mobility, and d) electricity. I smell a recipe for a tremendously comedic situation. And that's not mentioning the Arby's soda cup with "fish food" Sharpied on it.

Tonight, I'll most likely fix some spaghetti for dinner, since I'm trying to give up on eating out. I can't really afford doing so, being a grad student. Maybe if I had the kind of money that Tom Arnold made being the voice of the Arby's Oven Mitt. I can liven things up by watching DVDs or television, but no matter what I do, I will have a twinge of sadness knowing that I'm missing out on the farcical experience I could have had at Arby's.

XI. Thou Shalt Not Eat at Homeplace

For those of you unfamiliar with it, there is a restaurant in Catawba, Virginia called the Homeplace. It's located about forty minutes away from Blacksburg, along a road so twisty and backwoods that it can only truly be appreciated by people who own motorcycles or sports cars. I've been there a number of times, and it's always a special occasion.

The restaurant's primary hook is that it serves homestyle food to your entire party en masse. They'll bring out fried chicken, roast beef, biscuits, green beans, mashed potatoes, gravy, etc. in bowls for you to pass around the table, refilling them as necessary. It's just like a family reunion dinner, only without the fear of an awkward appearance of your drunk and/or crazy Uncle Ted.

This evening, I had the good fortune to go with some friends who had left town for the summer like good, sane college students are supposed to do. However, I ran into one of the Homeplace's vile traits for the first time ever. I had always heard that the Homeplace serves the best food on the Appalachian Trail, which stretches from Maine to Georgia, and runs right by the restaurant. That means that you're occasionally going to have some hikers at the restaurant who are in the middle of a trek of up to 2,174 miles. We were seated by a very large table of said hikers, whose body odor was so palpable it either countered or enhanced the effects of my allergy medication.

The entire reason for a journey to the Homeplace, however, is not the atmosphere. Tons of restaurants have hardwood floors. It's the opportunity to completely destroy your stomach from the inside out by filling it with as much food as you want for $13. Personally, I managed to get down four chicken breasts, and about two helpings of biscuits, mashed potatoes, and gravy. They even top it off with a helping of a random fruit cobbler just to spite whoever in the world suffers from famine. The restaurant is filled with what are most likely Bush supporters, who are so prevalent in Southwest Virginia. So to sum up, we've already got imperialism and gluttony out of the way during your visit. At this rate, why doesn't the Homeplace have an orgy room? I mean, let's stop kidding ourselves and just surrender to the ways of the Roman Empire. After eating there, I'm prepared to don a toga, get a boner, drink alcohol, and get my freak on in the name of the American Way.

But not before I get another biscuit.