Freshman year in university during the mandatory writing class, we were asked to write a short story. I was reading a lot of Hunter Thompson at the time and decided to try my luck at the great writer’s gonzo style. I decided to write about a true life experience that had happened right before this assignment. My marks were dismal, and what I thought to be an entertaining story, was ridiculed by the class and the teacher (who didn’t wear shoes). I struggled, apparently, with the form and function of my writing style which was the last thing on my mind as I wrote the story. Even my good friend Pat sent me to the ground with his critique and I must admit that at this point in my life I had decided that writing was not my thing and I should stick to the nerd world. (Funny enough, as well as Pat and I get along, I still think he hates my blogs, but that is another entry.) So now, in blog form, is the story of one of the stupidest things I have ever done. There will be no pictures unfortunately, probably for the better of everyone involved. I will not use the real names of the people to protect them even though I doubt they read this blog.
Moving to University and staying in the dorms will be a requirement for my child(ren). Take a developing teenager and remove their parents and support lines and stick them in an over crowded arena full of other people in the same situation. At eighteen, the dorms had a strong influence on the development of my character that you may know today! I thought I would go through some of the memories that I remember from the dorms so you can have a little insight as to how I became who I am.
After reading Charlie’s ‘Like Oil and Coconut‘ entry and laughing hysterically, I was reminded of a hilarious encounter I have had with oil. I love the stuff and regularly use far too much of it when I cook, or at least too much according to you fat Americans… those last two words remind me of something i was told by a post office clerk yesterday here in England when I tried to pay with my debit card that does not have this integrated chip that all English people have in theirs.
Luke – “My debit card does not have a chip like all you English have.”
Mail guy – “It’s because all you Americans have eaten all the chips.”
I laughed and reminded him that the English are just as fat now-a-days and then we stared at each other. I recommend talking to my fattist friend Xavier if you want to continue this discussion but let me get back to the point of this entry. This is the story of how I enjoyed the benefits of a deep fryer I had found deep in the cupboards of my parents house. I wonder why they hid it so far back in the cupboards and never told me about it?
All my life I have been extremely interested in gadgets. My dad and I would goto Frys Electronics all the time just to walk around and gaze upon all of the useless things that we thought we needed. I would stare at all the voltmeters and the various type of desk lamps they offered. Funny enough the one in Woodland Hills was designed like you were walking into the rabbit hole from Alice in Wonderland and I always thought that to be appropriate. As a freshman at UCI I happened to run into a remote control blimp at Frys in Fountain Valley. It cost like $80. Here is the story.
I have always had this desire to have a flowing mane of hair. Unfortunately with my genetics, that is becoming less likely with each passing day. I have heard that a males hair gene comes from the mothers father. In which case I am going to have a nice shiny head with a ring of hair wrapping the back and sides with outragesouly bushy eye brows. Interestingly, in the last few months I have had a random hair growing from my left eyebrow that is exceedingly long and a different color from the rest of my eyebrow hairs. If I pull it out, it grows back really quick so I choose to leave it in and tug on it in front of people to freak them out. But I digress… the following three part story is about my effort to force myself to grow really long hair.
I love foosball… it can appear to be extremely haphazard and frantic to many people watching. But there are moments in a foosball game where…
