Lisa, Paul, and Kassie all want me to go back to posting every thirty seconds. Bharat says two posts per day, and they have to be good.
“Who is this Bharat fellow?” you might ask, and that would be a reasonable question, because you might not know about my late nights struggling to program my way out of a paper bag. Volunteering on the Gallery project has taught me more about programming than all of my programming and computer science courses together. On the other hand, I had never quite gotten object orientation except as a handy way to do things until the elaboring variable scoping puzzles presented in Scheme form in CSci 1901. Bharat was my almost-mentor for a long time. When I was at my lowest he tried very hard to talk to me about it, despite not seeming to understand very well. He used to kick me in the ass when I was dragging. I used to have a faux bumper sticker up in my cubicle: “I’d rather be programming.” If it weren’t for Gallery, and by extension Bharat, I wouldn’t be, and I wouldn’t call myself a programmer.
Things that will stop me from posting this fall:
- 16 credits of classes (”Post in class,” she says. “Buy me a new laptop,” I respond)
- Actually working at work. I love my job. We aren’t changing the world, but, uh, free movies at Coffman? That has to be a good thing.
- When I get home from all that my brain will be well and truly fried, so I will likely just watch tv and write code until I fall asleep.
- I have a friend who actually appreciates my fistfuls of metaphor. She might just receive all the written output that I would produce.
- I might get tired of all the narcississtic blather that I produce and go back to using this site as a place for public notes.
- I like to make lists
- Lists of lists
- Tra la la
Oh yeah, I mentioned that I am considering writing a novel, and Kassie suggested that I write it on my blog. I’ve seen that done, and it only works if the reader has kept up to date because of the reverse ordering thing. I suppose that I could write a little php magic to put novel posts in order on a special page, but, uh never mind. I shouldn’t have said anything, because once you say that you are going to do something you look like a jackass when you don’t end up doing it.
It should be noted that I still post more than everyone except maybe Paul.
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Continuing my streak of improbable luck, our neighbor Yolanda dropped off a free pass to an advance screening of the 40 Year Old Virgin. I was delayed, but showed up right at 7:30 in the butthole of the Twin Cities to find rock star parking waiting for me. I got a seat right in the front row. Maybe that wasn’t a great seat, but it was the last one, and it prevented me from getting any 93x feces thrown at me, since they were aiming for the middle of the crowd. The movie was hilarious and out of control. I almost worried that it was misogynistic and homophobic, but sometimes funny is funny, and the nice guy (who didn’t seem to be either) won in the end.
Also it was a musical.
The joke that any of you might make is that this movie is about me. Ha ha ha!
Don’t worry, 40 is the new 20.
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Mama Lisa: We Partied Like it was 1999 - Literally.
I don’t remember the end part where there were boobies. Well, I kind of do, but that’s where it gets hazy. Very hazy. And dark. And everything tasted like rum.
Get your skinny bitch ass down here, Paul
Spend the day in the bass bin
If the options are white or red, choose white because it doesn’t stain
Coming soon: my long distance relationship with booze
Backlit strippers — I mean burlesque dancers in the magic hour
Fucking Minnesota! JUST GO!
Everyone has to go to the bathroom, I just have to go in a timely manner
Hey, here we are!
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I’ve been leaving a drunken, hungover, bitter, depressed mess all over my website. I must rectify the situation with an erudite post that enlightens and edifies my audience. Instead I will post pictures.
Cake Woman made me a cake. Finally, someone who gets me.
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Happy Birthday to John Ross, blackbird23005, JustinP & arkaitz!!!
The best part of waking up is a hangover in your cup!
I love you, Wilford Brimley, but this calls for motherfucking pancakes!
When did I have corn?
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Paul offered to redesign this site.
Paul: ooo! you should post that i’m going to redesign it and you want reader input!
Paul: even if it’s just me who gives input
Paul: ha ha
Paul: liquid or non-liquid?
Make some comments.
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Time to jump off a bridge! I’m not nearly drunk enough, no matter how much I pretend to be sober.
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I’m Gonna Flip Out Like A Ninja and you should flip out, too.
I only invited two people to come hang out today, and both declined. Nonetheless, Pizza Luce block party, followed by random meandering drunkeness. Rumor has it that Paul will not be drinking. For shame!
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I might see Kung Fu Hamlet at 5:30 because the scene that I saw during the Scrimshaw show was hilarious. After that, uh, I got nuthin’. Well, I saw an open invitation that a friend of mine put out, but it is probably closed to me. If you have any ideas, let me know. I deliver fun and beer in mass quantities, or just fun. Or just beer. Take your pick.
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Yesterday when I called Cake Woman she said that I should call her after I got off of work and got myself all pretty. This process involved me changing into the brown t-shirt that shows off my man boobs and massive pipes. I didn’t even change my jeans with the red DaVanni’s pizza juices on them. We had a potentially full evening ahead of us, with as many as three fringe shows and a coworker’s going away happy hour on my mental schedule. I called a little later than I had expected, and Cake Woman said that she would be ready in twenty minutes.
For some reason I believed her.
I drove slowly over to her place, then came up to find her in a cute dress with a towel on her head. A dress?
“Don’t worry, I just have to do my hair.”
And her makeup? When did Cake Woman become an actual girl-type person? Instead of punk rock chick chic, she looked, well, there was still the septum piercing, loads of hot tattoos, red Cons, and non-matching socks, but she looked more dressed for picking up dudes (or chicks, as far as Cake Woman goes, it could really be either) than for rocking out. For the record, we rocked out anyway.
Approximately sixty hours later we went downtown, having missed our window for dropping in on Emily’s happy hour. We ate at Brits because it was reasonably close to the venue, but our waiter actually went to England to pick up some scotch eggs and made us late. Since we missed the first two possible fringe shows, we totally could have made it to the happy hour, and then everyone could have met the infamous Cake Woman. Good times.
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