How to Pick Up Chicks.

When I was a little bitty baby
My mama would rock me in the cradle,
In them old cotton fields back home;

It was down in Louisiana,
Just about a mile from Texarkana,
In them old cotton fields back home.

Oh, when them cotton bolls get rotten
You can't pick very much cotton,
In them old cotton fields back home.

~Lead Belly, as sung by CCR. 

Today I will be talking about some benefits of going to an agricultural college. I will at times be comparing my experiences with attending an agricultural college with my experiences attending a meat market college. These comparisons are not meant to incite riot on either side as, after all, I have been a student at both schools. And, as always, let me remind you that these posts are meant to have a degree of sarcasm in them. Hence, if you farm alfalfa, please do not think I am actually making fun of your livelihood. All complaints should be directed to my older sister Brunhilde (brunhilde912_TheEnforcer@gmail.com).

Pickin' up Chicks Like a Boss.

Picking Up Chicks

The good thing about going to an agricultural college is that you have an opportunity to learn certain life skills you really could not learn anywhere else. Take picking up chicks for example. When picking up a chick, you must use care not to crush the small bird in your hands. You do not need to give the chick the Heimlich maneuver. In fact, unsolicited abdominal thrusts usually will result in the chick slapping or biting you. Instead, use a soft cupping motion with your hands and scoop the bird up. Ideally the head of the bird should be oriented to allow the chick to properly draw air into its tiny lungs. This means that the legs of the chick should face down. Also, let me remind you to be careful when picking up chicks, because sometimes you can throw your back out. To wit, I picked up a chick one time and did not observe proper form. I lifted with my back and not my hips! My lower back was sore the next day. Although perhaps this was because the chick fancied herself a chiropractor.

The Alffies
Now these tips on picking up chicks are only a small sample of what you can learn at an agricultural college. There also are a variety of clubs one can join. Take the Alfalfa Growers of America (affectionately know as "The Alffies") for example. They have a strong following here at my agricultural college, with over three-quarters of the students pledging at the "Sprout" level or higher. Furthermore, we are one of only three schools in the nation to boast double digit wins at the annual "Reaper Races." In fact, the current record for the 100-acre harvest is held by Richard "Dickie" Kurtler, a former student of my agricultural college. He now has his own line of designer "work suits," with sales in the tens of millions of dollars. Agricultural college can progress your career in ways you never even imagined. And to think that it all began with a simple desire to cultivate a ditch bank weed.

Buck "The Blade" Jennings warming up before the 300-acre harvest race. (2009)

Side Chops
Another interesting thing about going to an agricultural college instead of a meat market college is that men can have beards without the Po-Po being all up on them. (Women can have beards at either institution by the way, although they do not occur with equal prevalence at both schools). I have seen many agricultural college beards. Long beards with beads. Long beards without beads. Medium beards with braids and curls. Short beards with streaks of green. Beards doubling as hairpieces, as well as hairpieces doubling as beards. You name it. I have even seen something the locals call "Side Chops." I grew these so called "Side Chops" one week and it increased my confidence level four-fold. That is the benefit of growing protruding facial hair. Unlike "The 'Stache" (a meat market favorite), sculpted facial hair is salubrious to both body and psyche. 

Feelin' Good.

Engineering
As is common with land grant schools, many agricultural colleges have a strong engineering department. My agricultural college is no different. You can tell how strong a college is in the field of engineering by how many buildings they devote to the subject. At my current school, I believe that there are 37 buildings devoted to engineering. They have names such as "The Engineering Building," "The Engineering Laboratory," "The Engineering Testing Building," "The Engineering Storage Building," "The Engineering Machines and Gadgets Building," "The Engineering Engine Building," "The Engineering Experiment Building," and "The Engineering Test Subject Storage Building." That last one has been rather controversial as of late, but I hear that they serve a mean omelet for breakfast if you have to stay for more than a week.

At my old meat market college, I think we had three engineering buildings: The new one, the old one, and the storage heap. When I was a freshman at the meat market college, I actually went inside "The Storage Heap." One of the first things I saw were some broken machines (steel presses) being stored in a chicken wire cage under a stairwell. Rumor has it that the Ark of the Covenant is somewhere in that building, hidden behind an old milling machine from the 1950s.


Beans 'n Brew
One thing that should not be surprising when comparing my old meat market college with my current agricultural college is the amount of coffee that is consumed at the latter. Although, let's face it, there are probably only about three colleges (Meat Market, Spud Market, Pineapple Market) in the world where people do not drink coffee. Hence this part of the post is less about my agricultural college and more about select encounters with people who consume coffee. I myself do not drink coffee, but I am aware that there are people in the world that drink coffee. This is not a big deal to me. The fact that people drink coffee is just a fact of life and I deal with it quite well.

Admittedly, I do not know why people drink coffee. I guess it wakes them up or something. (That is what exercise is for. Anyway.) But that aside, I have a girl in one of my afternoon classes that brings a one-liter thermos of hot coffee to class each day and drinks it from a tiny little cup. Mind you, she did this even when it was in the 90s outside. She drinks about 12 cups of this hot coffee through the course of the class. I think she might be addicted.

Photo Credit Wanda Lancaster.

Another encounter I had with coffee came during my recruitment to PhD programs. This school was not strictly an agricultural college in the sense of my current school, but the land for the university was donated to the state by two gamblers and a saloon keeper. During one of my days at this said university, we had a meeting for all recruits. The beverage served was coffee (else this story would not be in this section). But the coffee came in what can only be described as "bladders." We are talking light blue rubber bags, much like those in a CamelBak. And the food served was pizza. Nothing beats a good ol' cup of joe from a bladder and a slice of pepperoni pizza. Anyway. #CoffeePeople.

I Want to Hold Your Hand
As I have strolled the campus of my agricultural college, one thing that I have begun to notice is the comparative lack of hand holding. At my former meat market college, hand holding and kissing were plentiful. Sometimes, even faculty members took part in the festivities. I witnessed such an event once. Let's just say that there is nothing quite as awkward as seeing your professor having a private moment of romance in a Thai restaurant. At least it wasn't with a student. (See this former post).

Your average meat marketer. Photo credit JMC.

"Espionage." Photo Credit JMC

Graven Images
One interesting difference between an agricultural college and a meat market college is the statues and artwork they have on campus. At my former meat market college, the graven images were all of people.

Note the hand holding.

However, at my agricultural college, the graven images are a bit more abstract:

Five-way Arm Wrestle.

Stacks of firewood.

Lips.

French Fries

"Man and Club" Pastel on Napkin.
 It looks like he is aiming for a ravine.
Photo credit unknown. Possibly this random man's spouse.
If it was her, credit to her.

Conclusion
There are many other differences between going to a meat market college and an agricultural college. Time does not allow me to mention all of them. However, I will mention that ever since I became a student at my agricultural college, my ability to pick up a chick has dramatically increased. Perhaps this can be attributed to the wonderful symbiosis between my meat market college and my agricultural college.

Thank you to those of you who provided the images for today's post. You can have 100% of the proceeds from what I make from this blog today. Split it however you like.  

Throw it Away and Go Home: I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For.

Confusion never stops,

Closing walls and ticking clocks.
Gonna come back and take you home,
I could not stop that you now know.

Come out upon my seas,
Cursed missed opportunities.
Am I a part of the cure?
Or am I part of the disease?
You are, you are, you are.

~Coldplay

Before I get going on this post, I need to thank all the people I have stolen photographs from. It can be hard to chase down good photos. You cannot just tear a photo from anywhere you know.

Вот она

---

This is an old post I wrote quite a while ago. I am presenting it now as to clear out my old drafts and allow me move on to other projects on the blog. This post is presented in essence in its exact form from when I wrote it last December. Only slight modifications have been made to a few paragraphs. It may or may not contain current information.

What I write about here is by no means meant to be a new discovery, nor do I claim that the experiences related herein transcend in egregiousness that of other people. In truth, I am a bit hesitant to even use this post, as it seems pretty much just like a big complain and whine post. But, as stated in the first post on the blog, sometimes I just use this place as a catharsis center.

I begin with a prefacing story.

Back in 2012, I met this girl named Tex in a class I had. Her name is of course a code name and is short for the Textus Receptus. (I was writing a paper on the translation of the New Testament then). Now, this girl was not built to perform in the scholastic spectrum. Overall, she was a nice enough girl and had talents in other aspects of life, she just had no academic turgor. The poor girl possessed zero ability to stand in the pocket and deliver a pass. This ended up being a massive frustration since I wound up trying to help her get through the class we had together. However, she did not do homework on Saturdays, so this was naturally rather difficult. But, she did manage to pass the class. And then she let me know that she was not interested in having much contact with me.

It just so happened that as I was leaving town after this said semester that the song "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For" by U2 came on the radio as I was crossing the city line. Sort of fitting.

I have climbed the highest mountains
I have run through the fields
Only to be with you
Only to be with you

I have run, I have crawled
I have scaled these city walls
These city walls
Only to be with you.

But I still haven't found
What I'm looking for
But I still haven't found
What I'm looking for

~U2

This relates to children's literature. In the book Days With Frog and Toad, the two main characters attempt to fly a kite. At one point the phrase "Throw it away and go home" is uttered. Sometimes even now I think of that phrase.

As of late I have actually become a rather large believer in throwing things away and moving on to other venues. Most of you know where I went to school. I started school there nine years ago. And I have to say I reached a point where I became rather disenchanted with the social paradigm in the surrounding city (not a unique story of course). My people were consistently socially abused there. And I didn't appreciate it. But many of them have moved far away from there and have had success. The Beast, Mr. Melmac, El Toque, The Mamma.....they all threw it away and went home--then marched on to glory (so to speak) somewhere else. The interesting thing is that most casual observers thought these people somehow "failed" because they never embraced (or were embraced in) the prevailing social folds of the P-town in the Pleasant Valley. But these aforementioned people all have gone on to graduate degrees and have perhaps (dare I say) transcended what there, my former locale, could ever offer them. (Note that this is not a commentary on my former school, but rather the social strata that existed in the surrounding regions).

Now the message here is not that I think that moving to Alaska* will somehow jump start my life and I will end up marrying a young accountant/veterinarian/singer/attorney/beauty queen (all in one) and then also discover an untapped oil reservoir in my backyard. I would be totally fine with the girl only having a few of those jobs, and the oil money is really overkill. I do not require much. 

However, I do think that, given opportunity, it can be clarifying to move to a new place and see some new faces. Now this is a dangerous statement, as I recently have been prompted by some to actually meet new people now. And surprise! They know the "perfect girl for me." If I had a dollar for every time someone has told me that phrase, oil money would be pocket change. And I pretty much have zero motivation to try anything social now that I seem to be the only person in the entire city that is over age 25, not married, and still going to school (Okay, a vast over generalization). Although I did meet a girl once while we were volunteering somewhere together and she gave me a ride in her BMW. So I do participate in social expenditures occasionally. Very occasionally, that is.

Along those lines, I believe that my handlers have scheduled my next social expenditure for roughly May 14, 2016. Once this is approved on Leap Day next year, more details will be forthcoming. Consider arranging your schedules. Please do not wear lime green or yellow to the festivities, as it will clash horribly with the decor. Besides, white people do not look good in yellow.

For what it's worth.

As has been the common trend, my escapades with Miss BMW came to naught rather quickly once she realized that I was "strange."At first, she just took my inability to converse normally with someone of the opposite gender to indicate that I was not fluent at the language. This facade was quickly lifted.

Who knows, maybe some single woman out there is seeking for a curmudgeon/hermit/crazy with a vast amount of books on "Applications of Partial Differential Equations," "Lebesgue Measure and Stochastics," and "Homological Algebra." Perhaps one of you will have a night vision in relation to her. She can be the girl of your dreams. Literally. Maybe she will even let you ride in her BMW. Or her Honda. As long as she is not wearing yellow or lime green.

*To be clear, I have no current plans to move to Alaska.

The Curse.

This post was written in March of this year. I am posting it now because it has become more relevant to events in the near future. I know that a number of you claim to cheer for a different team and that this post will probably incite you to approach the pulpit with an announcement of your affinities. Good luck with that. 

As some of you are aware, I follow college football to a certain degree. I follow one team in particular. This team is in fact one of only two teams I follow in college football, so I would not consider myself a watcher of college (or pro for that matter) football. The other team I follow really deserves as little mention as possible here. So most of this post is about one team in particular. Some of you are going to try to guess which team it is, which will be rather amusing. Certain people have the ability to read between the lines. Others have not been as successful.

In order to perpetuate the code name charade, I am going to refer to the team I principally follow as "Victor Mattingly University" (VMU). Many of you actually attended this university, and its true identity will become clear to those that know any of the basic storyline I address below. I am going to refer to VMU's rival as "The Other Team" (TOT, or The Tots). The Tots is not a Napoleon Dynamite reference, although it could be. If you are unaware who Napoleon Dynamite is, you may be better off in life. But, he is played by a graduate of VMU. Hopefully no one will get lost in the metaphor. That would be about as good as getting a roundhouse kick to the face from someone wearing American Flag pants.

The topic I will be addressing today is the Curse of VMU's football team. Why are they cursed you might ask? I honestly blame a man whom I will call MH. Now MH is famous for some good things and he is also (in)famous for some bad things. His name is only slightly veiled, since he is actually slightly famous.

A little bit of back story is in order. Most of this stuff is pretty well known. MH was the starting QB for VMU for three years, during which he became the winningest QB to ever play for the Victor Mattingly University Ligers. I missed most of his career, as I was elsewhere. So I am skipping his first two seasons and all that 4th and 18 stuff. This brings us to the scene of his final home game. It was the first time in ten years that VMU had worn true Royal blue, not just the "Darkest Shade."

This person is wearing True Royal Blue

After losing to the Tots the year prior, MH came out and beat those Tots in overtime. I was there. I saw him win it. I saw him beat the Tots in overtime. This is something too few have witnessed as of late. Since that day, VMU has not beaten the Tots in football. And I think it is because of the MH Curse.

THE CURSE. The Awful MH curse. 
 
Probably none of this needs rehashing, but after winning the game, MH told the media

"I don't like the [Tots]. In fact, I hate them. I hate everything about them. I hate their program, their fans. I hate everything."

Naturally, the Tots did not like this. But, I am not going to rehash any more of this story. The further reaching aftermath is what I am interested in. Since that day, I think that VMU has been cursed. Different people will point to different sources of this curse. I claim no specific source of the jinx, however here are the results of the curse:

• No wins against the Tots since the MH win.
• An awful 44 point loss against the Tots on their return to VMU's stadium. I was at that game and the only way to describe what I witnessed is "Black Magic." I mean, there really is no other way to describe what I saw.
• No wins when wearing true royal blue (They did win a bowl game the MH year while wearing true royal blue, so I guess you sort of can count that. But not really). 
• A key player being taken away in an ambulance when wearing true royal blue.
• A key player breaking his leg when wearing true royal blue. 
• No wins in overtime since the MH win in overtime (Currently 0-3).
• No QB since MH has started a season as the #1 guy and gone on to play any sort of meaningful minutes in a bowl game victory.
• General QB instability. Broken backs and broken ribs. Five stars turns into five thumbs down.  
• General mass injury strikes the team. This is an ankle biting curse.
• Losses to teams VMU had not lost to since before anyone even knew who Walter Modale was. (Okay, well no one knows who he is anyway, but you get the point.)
• Recruits getting in trouble with the law.
• The Tots begin wearing big boy pants on a new playground.

I think that the curse has even spilled over onto the basketball team to some degree.*

• Again, more losses to the Tots.
• Freak injuries to starters. Last season. This season. 
• Four years ago, we had the number 1 RPI in the country, but......
• Even when we have an incredible season, it ends on a slightly low note when our center gets suspended. And then we just happen to come up against the one team in the tournament that has four starters 6'10" or taller. And then to add insult to injury our point guard cuts his chin on a slippery court. 
• If I have to see one more food hoarding commercial I probably am going to flip. Especially that one with the guy eating mac and cheese from a bucket. Maybe these commercials will continue even if we won a national championship.
• The fish stop biting and I wander in the Sahara. 

How could the MH curse not be real?

Personally, I think that a lot of this transcends any sort of causality by current coaches or players. You may disagree. All I want to know is how to end the curse. What type of reconciliation needs to be made? I already know that redemption does not come from enduring 20 years of pagan proclamations over the pulpit and by the campfire. Been there, done that. What do we need to burn to atone? How will the debt be paid? What will it take? We need to find a solution. Please comment with suggestions if you desire.

*I wrote this post right after a bad basketball loss to a so-so team. The basketball team did get a pretty big win last season, so this is at least a positive sign. And I think that the horizon does look better for basketball. We finally have a few more Mr. Rogers type people. Football......there is still a big question mark for me. 

Family Reunions

She knows her mind all right your Auntie Grizelda
She says she knows my kind she might, maybe so
Oh, yeah, she's raised you right your Auntie Grizelda
You only know the things she wants you to know

I know she's having a fit, she doesn't like me a bit
No bird of grace ever lit on Auntie Grizelda

You can't begrudge her style your Auntie Grizelda
She couldn't budge a smile and do it for free
So righteous making fudge your Auntie Grizelda
So proper judging others over her tea

You look just like her you do, I know by looking at you
That you've been listening to your Auntie Grizelda

~The Monkees - Your Auntie Grizelda

When I originally wrote this post, I had spent the week giving a large number of hours of test reviews for the math class I was teaching. This consisted of standing in front of a class for three or four hours and talking. You never realize how hard it is to stand in front of a class of people and talk for three straight hours without sitting down. Especially to do it for three days. At the end of it all I walked to Domino's and bought two pizzas for $12. They were having a deal. It was actually a student who told me about the bargain. This pizza turned out to be rather useful in the days to come.

Now to get to the actual topic of the blog post today. (See the photo below). We will discuss syngenesophobia (Fear of relatives) today.

Not a photo of my family member.
I hope no one has omphalophobia.

A common event each summer for many families is that of a family reunion. I am posting this at a time of the summer that will dispel thoughts of this post being about family reunions I have personally attended. Since I am aware that a few members of my family read this blog, I must release this disclaimer:  

Disclaimer: Not every weirdo I talk about on this blog is related to me. Hence the persons herein detailed should not be attributed to anyone I personally know, nor should these be taken as descriptions of the members of my family.

First off, while we are on the topic of family reunions, let me just disclose that I am the guy who tries to keep as low of a profile as possible at family gatherings. The last family reunion I went to, I hid in the foliage and hoped no one noticed I was there. I was able to drink four lemonades and two bottles of water, so all was not lost. Experience has taught me that it is usually best to stay on the fringes at family gatherings. This way you can avoid explaining for the bajillionth time why your wife is not in attendance.

"Yo buddy, stop asking that!"

As of late, when I am asked where my "eternal companion" is, I usually just say "I am not quite sure.....you know, now that you mention it, I cannot even recollect the last time I saw her." This usually stumps the attacker long enough that I can slip away. Another one of my favorites (this works especially well at weddings) is to tell anyone that asks where my lover is that "we will make everything official once the Board of Pardons clears her case." It takes someone with a significant grip on their wits to respond to that one. Admittedly, I have an entire arsenal of ambiguous statements about my marital status such as the one above. My brother highly dislikes it when I unleash one on an unsuspecting attacker, yet I have found them to be a rather useful tool.

I am also going to add fast that there was an unfortunate encounter I had once where a relative tried to refer her "beautiful granddaughter" to me. This granddaughter and I even went to the same school! Lo! Behold! We have all it takes! I then had to kindly remind this relative that only states in the South allow marriages between cousins. Well, okay, that hasn't stopped some families. But how do you explain that to inquiring minds. "Oh yeah, we met at a family reunion........" #AwkwardPause. #ThenTheyFigureItOut. 

I have also found that kids and babies tend to be in the inner circle at family reunions. I do not do babies. They are not part of my act and I do not plan on them ever becoming part of my act. Perhaps this is a result of a rather pronounced case of paedophobia. As I want to entirely separate myself from any contact with children, the edges serve me nicely.  You can dart in and out and get the food and beverages you want without having to make conversation. After all, we don't go to family reunions for the people--we go for the food. Let's face it. This is especially true when you are anthrorusticaphobic (Fear of Rednecks). Or if you are cacophobic. Fear of ugly people is certainly a reason to stay on the edges.

Here are a few of the types of people one might meet at a family reunion. Again, remember the disclaimer.

NRA Enthusiast.  This is the relative that comes to the festivities with a sidearm and a big #'Murica shirt on his back. The handgun changes family BINGO, that's for sure. You don't wanna mess with this relative. This is another reason to stay on the fringes of the fold. You never know when that pistol will go off.

Wait Cousin Bubba, that ain't a sidearm....nevermind.

That Don't Potluck. Many reunions are potluck. This means that, upon occasion, something weird gets brought. Kidney beans don't potluck with lemon jello. You don't put cheese in sugar cookies. Mustard does not go on steak. Turnip Stroodle is not a real dessert. In fact, turnips don't potluck, period. These are basic facts of life. Maybe this is a hold over from the Depression era relatives who had to mix whatever they had and eat it. "You kids eat this stuff or else. When I was a kid I ate pea gravel and dirt, and we were darn lucky to have the dirt."

Ninth cousin 27-times Removed. About four years ago I decided that I was tired of not knowing the difference between a second cousin and a first cousin once-removed. (Because this is something everyone wants to understand). This decision was actually brought on by a family reunion I attended, since some of us were trying to figure out how Great-Cousin Chuck actually was related to us in technical terms. Here is how it goes: Ordinal (first, second, third, fourth...) relationships are horizontal relationships. You come from the same lineal generation. So my mother's first cousin's children are my second cousins. On the other hand, removal is a vertical relationship. So my mother's first cousin is my first cousin one-time removed. Note that this can be rather confusing, since this goes both ways. I am also my mother's cousin's first cousin one-time removed. Wikipedia explains this with a lot of diagrams and does a pretty good job of it, so visit there for further questions.

Cousin Great-Grandpa. Have you ever been to one of those reunions where you see some of your parent's cousins and you wonder if they were even born in the same dispensation? I'm not just talking 10 or 15 years. I'm talking 40 years and 40 nights. First cousins with no removal, who are old enough to be the grandparents to your parents. I mean, I have a cousin who is 24 years my junior, but still, I'm barely old enough to be his parent.

Pretzels. A pretzel is someone who has....loops.... in their family tree. As in, a higher-up branch has connected with a lower down branch. Voila! A Pretzel. This is a term I heard from one of my own relatives. He is not a pretzel as far as I can tell. (Based on his provenance, I find it highly unlikely that he is in fact. Although he is browned and salty). Let's hope we never need to deal with pretzels in my family. Although maybe that would be an explanation for those families with the Cousin Great-Grandpa action going on. One way to test for pretzels is if you see your parent's cousins at reunions or if you see your parents' cousins at reunions. The punctuation is critical here.

Change of Face. This is the relative that you have not seen for 20 years who shows up and has drastically changed. This change can occur in many fashions. Maybe they put on 80 pounds. Maybe they lost 80 pounds. Maybe they are no longer your aunt, but your uncle. Pick your poison. If you have metathesiophobia, this relative is one you should avoid.

The Moochers. As a kid, I am pretty sure that I mooched at someone's family reunion by mistake. Now you might wonder how you can mooch by mistake, but here is how it happened. My own family was holding a reunion in a park in Idaho and my cousin and I were wandering and we somehow got into the wrong pavilion. We were probably about seven or eight years-old at the time. The family reunion we had originally come to attend (i.e. the one for our own family) was one of those reunions where some of the aforementioned "27-times removed" type people were in attendance. Being young, we had no idea who our "people" were. We just saw food and old people. We ate a few of their doughnuts (powdered) and played with some of the kiddos there. After 20 or so minutes we realized that our (immediate) family was at the next pavilion over. Ironically, we probably were more closely related to some of the people in the pavilion we mooched from than the pavilion we were supposed to be at.

The Lovers. Okay, I am going to admit it. I could not through this post without mentioning the lovers. These are the relatives that show up with lover en tote. This can be highly exciting when it is the first time that the relative has brought their lover. You could actually count "seeing the cousins' lovers for the first time" as a major reason I go to reunions. But after the same relative has brought a different girlfriend to each of the past four reunions, it starts to lose its excitement. And when your grandmother insists that the lover be in the family photo, it always creates issues........("Granny, we have had to shred the last three family photos because Clint keeps changing girlfriends.") 

Maybe one of these days I myself will have the privilege of marching in with full pomp and circumstance to the lauding salutations of family members as I present my lover for their examination. Praise, honor, and glory will then be poured out in full upon me and I will finally have my name emblazoned on the family wall of fame. Or at the very least I can stop hiding in the foliage every time I go to a family event because of the shame that otherwise will be bestowed upon me.  #WeShallSee.

Who's Your Daddy. This is not so much a person as an event. I have found myself at times introducing myself at a family reunion as "I am the son of _____, who is the sister to _____, whose wife is _____, whose father's mother's son's wife is your third cousin." So in other words, I am probably more related to the aspen trees in the park than some of my relatives. 

Do Not Mix. Occasionally there are relatives that cannot mix and mingle. For example, if your aunt is ablutophobic (fears bathing), she should not mix with your second cousin who is blennophobic (fears slimy things). You should definitely keep them at separate tables. In fact, if your aunt ain't bathing, you probably should give her her own table. 

Bufonophobic. Fear of toads can be a crippling phobia. If you or a relative is afraid of toads, seek medical help immediately. 

Did I miss any of your relatives? Comment below.  

When It's Over

When it's over,
That's the time I fall in love again.
And when it's over,
That's the time you're in my heart again.
And when you go go go go,
I know
And it never ends
It never ends.
All the things that I used to say,
All the words that got in the way,
All the things that I used to know,
Have gone out the window.
All the things that she used to bring,
All the songs she used to sing.
All the favorite TV shows,
Have gone out the window.

~Sugar Ray.

Here is a stream of conscience babble. I hope to by next week have grabbed my tail and be back on the strait and narrow path of my normal blog routine. We shall see. Although maybe people do not want the normal blog, since it usually involved drawn-out diatribes and large lexicon.

---

This week is the end. As in, the end of my time at the university I have gone to since 2006. That was nine years ago (if for some reason you were unable to do the math). Quite a bit has happened in those nine years. I have gone from high school graduate to graduate degree. In some senses it means nothing. All of this was just expected. The overall plan is not complete. I am barely over half way perhaps. In some ways, I feel as if I was just running on a treadmill--running to stand still.

But in terms of the details, much has transpired. I have had a bajillion roommates. I lived during Jimmermania. I changed my major three times. Homework was done, grades were earned, a thesis was written. I even earned some degrees I did not originally plan on obtaining. And I married the most beautiful woman in the world. Okay, that last one is not true. Truth be told, one can actually complete a master's degree at this university and not be married. I darn near made it without even talking to a girl. That's the glory of being in two majors that have almost no women. Sure, a few cute redheads threw themselves at me. And yes, once or twice I got a girl to actually remember my name was not Russell. But really the only contact I had with females was when I taught a school course. And dating your students is against the Honor Code. Or maybe the Morse Code. Something like that.

Another thing I was just realizing is that, for the first time in almost a decade, I can go an entire week without shaving and I will not be in trouble with the Boo-Boo police. Although, full disclosure, I have gone an entire week before and not shaved. This was usually at a time when I could sequester myself away in a far away country like Wyoming. And I have also been busted by a vigilante for having a beard on campus after I finished an undergraduate degree and had not started school again. However, I'm sure that there still will be people who keep me in line at my new school.

Enough said.

Furthermore, with this being "The End" and all, I had to move apartments. I have spent the last four years in the same apartment. I have had 10 roommates there over the course of these four years. To my count, four of my former roommates at this place have gone on to get married. Six of them have not. This can be calculated by what we call "process of elimination."

Now fours years seems like nothing in terms of time spent living in the same place. My grandparents lived in the same house since the 1950s I think. But four years of living in the same two bedroom (shared) apartment is a rather long time. Suffice it to say that I had a lot of digging to do. If you see my bedroom at home you might not believe this, but I threw out probably 150 pounds of  "stuff" from my apartment. And I'm not talking couches or something--I'm talking bent silverware, dozens of Amazon boxes, and roughly a 200-year supply of cumin. We also had a large stockpile of potato flakes and soup ladles. Good thing my associate was there to help. If those potatoes had reconstituted I might have been engulfed. Throw in the 8 pounds of cumin and they might have never found me. As for the ladles, all I can say is that it is better to be up late with the ladles and ladies than it is to have no ladle at all. And we sure had a lot of ladles. But only one lady.

There is not really much more to say here. The last two weeks have been such a whirlwind that I never even had time to think about the fact that the life I used to live was sort of over. This is true in more way than one. Honestly I try not to even think about it. It sounds sappy, but I have almost experienced a paradigm shift. The only way to describe it is to picture boarding a sea-liner and going down to the lower decks for years, then finally emerging. You finally come up on deck and ask "What does it even mean?" I feel as if several worlds are now being forced to meld together.

This is getting too philosophical, so I am just going to end here. But for the record, my apartment number is now #7 instead of #6. #WishMeLuck.

Not the Original Post

Every breaking wave on the shore

Tells the next one there’ll be one more

And every gambler knows that to lose

Is what you’re really there for

Summer I was fearless

Now I speak into an answer phone

Like every falling leaf on the breeze

Winter wouldn’t leave it alone

Alone

If you go?

If you go your way and I go mine

Are we so?

Are we so helpless against the tide?

Baby every dog on the street

Knows that we’re in love with defeat

Are we ready to be swept off our feet

And stop chasing

Every breaking wave

~U2. "Every Breaking Wave"

Why Hello! I had intended to post something else, but the past days have been too much of a scramble and my batteries did not have enough juice.

The Cute Photo.

Let's hope that next week is more peaceful, since I need to find some copper tops that last at least five years.

But right now, the end of school and losing sleep because of the issues my students cause me and  grading tests and passing a 300 bullet point cleaning check has put me behind on time and sleep. I could not brush my teeth for an entire day since the sinks and mirrors had to remain spotless. At least I had a student admit to me that she was afraid to come to office hours because I was a crazy old man, so that's out of the way. I'm walking a fine line.....although I think she did mention something about sending her mother after me. The harassment these people put me through. I might need an entire day just to decompress now.

The Road Trip To the East.

On the road again
Just can't wait to get on the road again
The life I love is making music with my friends

And I can't wait to get on the road again
On the road again

Goin' places that I've never been
Seein' things that I may never see again

~Willie Nelson (But not the ref)

First off, if you did not know, Kermit the Frog and Miss Piggy have split. Kermit had informed me a while ago that this could be in the works. There was a hint here, but no one saw it. More on Kermit perhaps to come at a later date. My people are talking with his people (or should that be frogs?), however that is all I can say.

Two years ago I went on road trip half way across the country. By "the country" I mean the "United States of America." There are of course some countries that one could traverse in a matter of hours. For example, I found a train that can take me from 춘천 (Chun-chǒn)  to 부산 (Pusan) in just over five hours. (Does someone want to come and ride the route with me next year?--and notice my use of McCune–Reischauer romanization. I much prefer M-R, although Korea no longer uses it officially.) So when I say "road trip," I literally mean "road trip"-- the type of trip that takes days and is done on the road, not on the rails.

Now understandably, some readers will be bored by a travelogue. This did get sort of long. However some of my advisors for the blog have indicated that I "came across as overly bitter and crazy" in my prior posts, "almost to the point of necessitating psychiatric evaluation." I openly admit that I am completely and entirely bitter. And admission is the the first step to recovery. Moreover, let's face it, it can feel good to kick and scream. But nevertheless, since there are now entire branches of my life that no longer want to have contact with me, I am going to give a mundane travelogue--even if for no other reason than to make a pretense of being a wonderful person who only writes about frolicking and happiness. 

[Insert cute photo here.][error: cutephoto.jpeg does not exist in directory "myLife.dir"]

Travelogue.

The setting is as follows: Two years ago I got in the car with two married people. They were married to each other in fact. In order to protect their identity, I will call the man Tung and the woman Tass. Those of you who get chemistry will know the reasons for these names. Since they now live far away, I feel pretty safe in talking about them. Yet I still feel like somehow I am taking my life in my hands......Let's hope they are not overly offended. This is Tung's "second" time being metioned on the blog by the way.

To up the ante here, let me add that Tung and Tass had only be married a month when I got into the car with them. (At the end of the journey they had been married for slightly longer). Now considering I was in confined quarters for extended periods with two newly married people, it was not horrible. Nothing catastrophic came of the arrangements. Although, I did notice that the back massages for the driver were put on hold while I was piloting the vehicle. Maybe you have to pay extra for that. That's what happens when you ride economy class I guess.

Before I get going in earnest here, let me also add that I am omitting a lot of commentary on some of the Church History sites we visited. I can only talk about so much, and this would make the post five times longer (because honestly I could tell you a lot about most of these places). 

Day 1.

The first night of the journey, we stayed in Wyoming. There are two parts of Wyoming: the Yellowstone part and the "So this is why less than 600,000 people desire to live here" part. We were in the latter. We pulled into the campground around 6 pm that evening and quickly noticed that we were in fact the only people there in tents. The rest of the folks there were RV drivers, which is something pale thighed people do when they retire and desire to tour the country in short pants. 

There also was a guy there in a black Chevy van. He had the camping slot next to us, which made Tung very nervous. (We were pretty sure the Man in Black has some "special" herbs he cooked his dinner with). But nevertheless we unloaded our gear and put up the tents. They had a tent and I had a tent. We did not share. After setting up my tent I looked over and saw the tiniest tent I had ever seen. At first I actually thought Tung and Tass had mistakenly packed a handkerchief instead of a tent. Somehow they fit both themselves and their duffel bag inside this tent. I guess it was a good thing they had been married only one month prior. Throughout the trip I had to remember the old adage "If the tent's a rockin' don't go knockin'." (To clarify however, I never did see the tent rock). 

Day 2.
We woke up the next morning and took off from Wyoming. I was at the wheel. We had this little rotation we used for driving. The order was Me, Tass, Tung. So I was first. I drove for about 3 hours until we were about half way across Nebraska. There are two parts of Nebraska: The part on the east and the part on the west. I drove the length of the latter. Tass then took the wheel (and the driver's seat). She drove the other half of Nebraska, which was pretty much like the first. Our pace picked up at this point, since Tass was a faster driver than I am. She's from Texas you see.

After crossing the rest of Nebraska we stopped at a place called "Winter Quarters." This is right on the border between Nebraska and Iowa. After I taught one of the sister missionaries (Sister Muhlsteed) there about Isaac Galland and the purchase of the City of Nauvoo, Tung took the wheel and we were off. The night ended at a campground near Des Moines, IA in a place called Lewis A. Jester State Park.

Day 3. 
We woke up at about 5:30 a.m. this day. We were in the Central Time Zone, so I think that was actually 6:30 a.m. We each took a shower at the campground and then I took the wheel and we were off. We were headed to see a wedding between the Beast and his bride. (Hence the shower). Tung hand fed me a few PopTarts while we were driving. We reached a point where we had to cross the Mississippi River into Illinois. There is a big toll bridge to cross the river and it is manned by a small Asian man who seemingly was mute. We paid our $2 and crossed the bridge. One of the first people we saw as we entered the city was the man of the hour: The Beast. He was scrambling around the motel parking lot like a skittish rooster since he had just locked his keys in the family van. This was T-minus two hours until his wedding mind you. However, we did not know about the keys being locked up until later, so we just drove on by.

The wedding happened. The Prince came. Blah, Blah, Blah.

After the wedding we went to eat at a buffet that had breaded jumbo shrimp. I had the honor of sitting next to The Beast. He had the honor of sitting next to his wife. Even at that point I think she was beginning to worry about how many crazy friends her husband had. This was solidified after four of us gave a speech.

Breaded Shrimp

After eating all we could at the buffet, we left. I think we probably gave our salutations to The Beast, but honestly by that point he had lost his grip on reality and had begun pouring sugar packets into everyone's lemonade, so no guarantees there.

We spent the rest of the day looking around town and going to a musical performance. We then went to the campground and slept without incident. (No tents were rocking. At least I think).

Day 4.
I woke up this day and felt in a bad state of affairs. The wedding was over and now we had to drive back home. Suddenly I realized that I was sort of tired--living on the road in a tent can take its toll. And I was not getting the rejuvenating back massages like the other two participants in the journey. But we had to get back home and I was first in the driving rotation, so we took off with me at the wheel. (We actually first did more things in the town where we had camped, but I am leaving that all out). Honestly, the drive from Illinois to Omaha, NE is rather hazy in my memory. (Maybe The Beast put more than saccharin packets in that lemonade....). But what is there to see in Iowa anyway? There are two parts of Iowa: the part with corn and the part with corn AND windmills. I drove the first part, which is probably why I do not remember it.  If I had been driving when there was corn AND windmills, I would have remembered.

I will pick the story up in Omaha. This is where, shall we say, it all went to heck. We had booked a campsite in a place called "The River West." I had wanted to stay in the KOA, but SOMEONE wanted to go to "The River West" since it had a shower. "The River West" is over the river and through the woods outside of Omaha. We showed up and checked into our slot. By slot I mean "6 foot by 6 foot patch of land next to tents full of inebriated people." We then drove back to Omaha to go to the Winter Quarters Temple. (Side note, the man at the desk looked a lot like Greg Wrubell).

To make a long story short, we had major reservations now about our reservations at "The River West." After looking into camping in a city park, we grudgingly made our way to "The River West." We went to again survey our plot of turf and assess the danger. Local time was 11:23 p.m. Brewskies were plentiful and I am pretty sure the Man in Black from Wyoming was there cooking with his herbs. He had even brought enough for everyone else it seemed. Mind you, we are doing all of this land surveying in dress clothes. Needless to say, not everyone was there in a shirt and tie.

A snap shot of an adjacent camper.

Tung handled the locals that approached us. He had a skill in doing that. He served a mission in the hood you see.

Seeing that the accommodations were less than regal, we pitched our tents in a big field that was next to "The River West." Local time was 12:17 a.m. At about 1 a.m., a local camper alerted the manager that someone was not in their designated spot. Mr. Manager exited his trailer, popped open a beverage to hold him over while he came down and talked to us, then shook Tung and Tass's tent. (He forgot the adage). Mr. Manager told us to move closer to the trees because otherwise "the PO-leez gonna bust [him] good." I think we ended up camping in the parking lot, which was also a field.

Day 5.
We got up at about 6 a.m. and fled "The River West." It was a Sunday, so we changed into dress clothes to visit a local church. Tung and Tass changed in a gas station restroom (a "Loaf-n-Jug"). I changed behind a dumpster in back of a bank. Nothing wrong with that.

After going to church and the Kanesville Tabernacle, we got on the road back to Wyoming. I think we went through the driving rotation twice. "The River West" had taken a large toll on our ability to stay awake and even massages proved powerless. Tass drove through the worst rain storm I had ever seen. I am pretty sure we were the only car that did not pull over. She's from Texas you see. Her work in that rain storm cemented her legacy in my mind. 

Day 6.
This was the final day of the journey. We drove home without incident. Really not much to say here.

Conclusion.
Maybe someday I will go on another road trip. I sure as heck am staying in a hotel if I ever go to Omaha. I have actually considered going on an international journey to a specific country next summer, but going back alone after seven years would be weird. And I am pretty sure there is some rule that says I am not supposed to return "before getting married" because it is "bad for the economy."

YouTube is suggesting Patsy Cline videos now, so I better just end this.
Thanks to Tung and Tass for not suing me for defamation.