Edit: I found the quote on Keri’s page, so here is the linkage she deserves. Thank you, Keri.

All that Junk inside my Trunk

Gone are the days of the two door Honda Civic and its 35 mpg. Welcome is the era of The Sherman, a Ford Taurus that is now under my name. If it had a sun roof, I’d hire a chauffeur so I could practice General Patton impressions. Though the car does get much less gas mileage (25mpg) it has the following perks…

1.) Power steering. No more relying on the sheer brute force strength of my masculine security-providing lumberjack arms of raw power to steer us safely.
2.) Cruise control. No more relying on my ninja foot reflexes? Or the brick that weighs just enough to keep the pedal at 65mph.
3.) A trunk that doubles as a catapult. It opens with enough force to fling a cow over a fortified castle wall. The technology that opens my trunk is the same NASA uses to boost rockets to escape velocity.
4.) Seating for six. When you ride in this car it is possible to call front bitch or back bitch seat. Pretty much, it is a land yacht (originally I typed ‘yak’).
5.) A tape deck. Now when I enter a run down quick shop, I can seriously browse their tape selection. My previous car did not have a tape deck.

Friday, November the 18th, the car was christened as its maiden voyage with six people took place. Of course there was a Front Seat Dance Party starring me and Bethany breaking out the hottest moves in time to the Black Eyed Peas.

1.) Cat litter - I’m not sure why that is there.
2.) Mostly drank bottle of Carlos Rossi Sangria.
3.) Clipboard for writing funny ideas on. Also allows people in trunk to play tic-tac-toe.
4.) Black leather jacket for when I need to look more good.
5.) Dance Dance Revolution pad, in case I come across a road side DDR opportunity.
6.) Small brown towel that my mom is looking for.
7.) Pink paper in case I an Origami situation arises.
Hidden.) The sheet of wood is actually a cellar door.

That’s a lovely Deposit

In Boston I did the daily STA bank deposit. Since I went at the same time each day (and wore the signature hat) the Tellers (capitalized because they are people too) and I quickly became acquainted. I used either James or Nicole, and I preferred Nicole. The fact she is my age, flirty, and good looking had nothing to do with anything. One day during a transaction, while we were healthfully flirting…

Me: “How are you today?”
Nicole: “How does it look like I am, Seth?”
Me: “You look like you’re ready to go home.”
Nicole: “No, I don’t need that, but I’d love a drink.”
Me: “If I’d known margarita were in need, I’d have brought you one.”
Nicole: “A coffee would do.” (pause) “You should take me somewhere.”

Like Han Solo, I have my moments… and a space ship. I wanted to say yes, but at that point the transaction was over and I needed to return to the office. I returned to discover her contact information in the deposit papers. Later I took her a nicely decorated Starbucks gift certificate as a way of saying “Thank you, but I must pass for now.” We never did anything, but I later drew a series of humorous cartoons about what might have happened.

Day in Pane

I’m not sure why, but this cartoon makes me laugh hysterically. I wrote it months ago, and it still makes me laugh just as hard. In honesty, I make myself laugh a lot. Whenever I need a good laugh I go back and read my old posts. Even the early lame ones. Yes, it is egotistical. Even that makes me laugh.

Imagine you went in to the doctor’s office thinking you had a cancer, or sickle cell anemia, or some horrible condition. And then, in all seriousness, the doctor diagnosed you with a gargoyle up your butt (”Guy-Bee” condition it is pronounced). You’d be relieved, but somewhat horrified. How did it get there? What is it doing? Can it be removed?

This has nothing to do with anything, but I thought I’d post the picture. It is saved as “SheWillKillMeForPostingThisButImGoingTooAnyways.jpg” on my computer. Seriously. Besides, I know she won’t read this whole post.

In the process of moving, unpacking, and cleaning I’ve rediscovered my early writings and art. It never ceases to amaze me how bad things look in retrospect. Yea, be glad that Creative Writing class you took freshman year was peer based grading and that no one had the balls to say the truth… “Quite frankly, Seth, when I read this I barfed. I don’t mean a small inducible bit. No, I ruined the living room carpet.”

I took two Creative Writing classes, and my work was filled with lines as powerful as  “It was Saturday morning. Reese and I were in McDonald’s waiting for Dusty.” From there the story could go several ways. You can choose which happened:

1.) Nothing happened because it is a crap story.
2.) It turns in to some sort of “Shoot out at the McDonald’s Corral” modern day western.
3.) Nothing happens because it is a crap story, yet my “peers” tell me it is good, and I get an A on the crappy story.
4.) I plagiarize Tom Clancy and Thomas Hardy to produce a unique luscious modern adventure about a time traveler whose mission is to knock off Willa Cather so I can avoid reading “My Antonia” in American Literature class decades later.

Chapter 3: Everyone quits reading and just leaves a comment

Sometimes, when I think a post I’ve written was poor, I go back and read my early posts, which in my head are brilliant examples of my worst moments. My first post ever was “Alright, Xanga seems to be the craze right now. Hundreds of people writing about their day, hundreds of bad poems posted an hour, and no one reading anything. And somehow it is the very cutting edge of technology in a very useless way…” (an allusion to Eddie Izzard).

Then I skip a head a few days and find another shining example. “Q.) What is the difference between a chic you want to date and a chic you want to bump uglies with? A.) A chic you date there has to be some chemistry in attraction and someone you want to know better. A chic you want to bump uglies with you [only] want to give her your chemistry.”

That is when I smile and remember I am the funniest person to ever exist. Even my bad posts are pretty decent… sometimes… to me.

Phase One: Light up the World

Wednesday night I headed to Matt and Mark’s place. While there I helped them retrieve twelve billion Christmas lights from the attic. The picture above is an actual satellite image of the Ohnesorge residence after their Christmas lights have been turned on.

Around 9pm, after we’d eaten a good mexican dinner, Maggie picked us up in her car and we headed for the Enid movie theaters to pick up tickets to the Harry Potter 4 10:30pm showing. Maggie’s car kicks ass. It has a sun roof (aka “hatch”) and red dashboard lights. After the Cold War, the Russians apparently started designing cars, because her car is basically a submarine. I spent the entire time waiting for an enemy sub to ping us, but it never happened.

Phase Two: I Amaze Everyone (again)

After purchasing tickets I headed for the Galaga machine. For those of you not in the know, Galaga is the ultimate arcade space game. You move left or right while shooting evil space craft. Very similar to the real world situations you encounter each day.

One Galaga machine + One quarter + One Me –(yields)—> 129,420ish points @ Stage 20  = I amaze everyone. It was intense. So, if you wonder by the arcade there, be sure to notice the “2nd place…. SOH” spot (yea, my intials are the same as the definition of the Sine function).

Phase Three: Profit

Then we decided to burn time by standing around at the Sonic picnic tables and drink root beer floats in the 10:00pm frickin’ cold - me without a jacket which lead to spending the next four days (including Thanksgiving day) with a slight cough, very sore throat, and slightly elevated fever. Harry Potter 4 was good. It was completely predictable though, and I spent a large part of the time bored and wishing I’d purchased a bucket of butter with popcorn in it.

Turkey: the other non-cow meat

When I’m sick I don’t curl up in my bed. Instead I camp in the middle of the living room. I’m not sure why. It might subconsciously be so that everyone notices me and offers to bring me things. It is rare I am sick, and rarer do I need to see a doctor.

Side thought: If your Doctor dies of unnatural causes you are entitled to freak out.

Thanksgiving was crowded in a good way. Beth and Eddie drove down from Kansas City in their environmentally friendly Prius with their children Kiera and Aidan, and Rebecca and her fiance John were home from New York City.

Basically, I’ve napped four days straight. And there is very little I can write about that topic, except I find floors very comfortable. I love my feather pillow. And taking 12 ibuprofen within 24 hours will make your stomach heart. I met Kurt Vonnegut in a dream and made a joke. He laughed until he almost peed his pants. But he is old, so I guess that is expected.

Beaux Knows Art

Saturday evening, Fred Astaire - lacking both hat (tragically left at home) and cane (never owned one) - accompanied Audrey Hepburn to Beaux Art, which is a theme party allowing architecture students to hang out with each other outside of studio. Think of it as a one day release program for prisoners, except it happens at a country club and included the presence of a keg of Amber Boch for those old enough to partake (me). Yes, I know Fred Astaire was not in Breakfast at Tiffany’s… even though I’ve never seen it.

I spent an hour searching Stillwater’s stores for a cane and hat, but couldn’t find anything suitable. However, while I was out I did remember to buy a pair of black socks, which meant I did not have to embarrass Devin by sporting the famous “Bus Driver Look” (slacks + dress shoes + white socks).

You know you’re a nerd when you’re at a dance and recognize a song from Dance Dance Revolution. Even worse - I knew the majority of the steps by heart. If only DDR was acceptable in social situations.

Of course, if you’re dressed up for a night on the town, a person must stop at Third Place for a chai (credit to SethK for properly identifying who I was) and then head for a midnight snack at Shortcake’s, which is the Tiffany’s of diners.The fact this late night deep fat fried diner exists is seen by heart doctor’s everywhere as job security and by the UN as a solution to the world’s population problems.

Knee High to a Hoss Grapper

At the moment my niece Kiera and nephew Aidan are staying here to give their parents a bit of piece and quiet until Thanksgiving. I love children, and nothing is better than coming home and being greeted with squeals of delight. Following the greetings are piggy back rides, tickle fights, bounding around the yard in blurs of speed, and thankfully bed time too.

There is plenty of humorous content coming, but I’m very busy at the moment with family, but I will make my rounds as soon as I can. Thank you for the huge volume of comments on the last post.

Annual Elevator Invitational Formal

One night after playing Dance Dance Revolution, I was headed back to my room on the fourth floor of Jones with Reese and Tasha. As I’m carrying my DDR pad and walking to the elevator I notice a lovely young lady in heels and a skirt standing in front of the elevator…

Me: “Aren’t you a bit over dressed?”
Her: “My invitation said to wear this.”
Me: “I didn’t get an invitation. I had better take the stairs.”
Elevator doors open.
Her: “No need to do that.”
We get on, and the elevator doors close.
Me: “You look lovely. What is the occasion?”
Her: “Thank you. My friend took me out to dinner in the city.”
Me: “Your boyfriend?”
Her: *laugh* “No, just a friend. I don’t go on any dates.”
My brain: “That Death Star is full operational! Abort mission!” (Lando Calrissian does cameos in my head. He didn’t stop at Star Wars.) This can also be translated as “Damn. Do I fall back on the `You’ve lost that love and feeling’ bit? I could ddr right here but that would scare her away…”

Awkward silence ensues… Elevator doors open. The young woman steps out of the elevator and exits right on the third floor. Elevator doors close.
Tasha punches me.

Tasha: “I swear you are clueless. She practically asked you on a date.”
Me: “No, she said she didn’t go on any dates.”
Tasha: “No, she said she doesn’t go on many dates. Then she stood and waited for you to say something. Do you ever pay attention?”

We never did figure out who she was.

All those Stupid Rules

I enjoying learning new sports because of all the ridiculous rules. At first a game is simple. Each rule in a sport was made because some guy sucked and he wanted to give himself and advantage.Take Tennis for example, which I’ve started playing….

Fred says “try to hit the ball past me.” Bob hits it by Fred and yells “one point for me!” Fred says “no, umm… it has to bounce once on my side. Yea, that is it.” Bob hits it by Fred (letting it bounce once) and says “one point for me!” Fred says “No, umm… it has to bounce once on my side, but inside this smaller square.” And so on.

And they haven’t even gotten in to boundaries, Community Chest cards, volleying for serves, serves, the net, deuces, scoring matches and set, valid excuses for losing, etc… Eventually Bob gets piss off and has a decision to make. This is a crucial part in the evolutionary development of the game and either decision will have lasting ramifications. Bob can…

Option 1.) Kill Fred.
Option 2.) Vow to never play the sport again.
Option 3.) Petition the Kansas School Board of Education to force schools to also teach the “Intelligent Creation of Tennis” along side Bobism.

For all known sports the Bob chose option 2, which meant the Fred must find someone new to play the game with. The only exception to this is Hockey. Bob chose to kill Fred, and Fred liked the effort so much he decided to make it part of the game.

Fred finally finds someone new to play the game with - probably a girl (allowing him to hit on her while teaching the sport). His first move is to make a crucial precedent though - he must start by telling Julia “the rules are a little complicated, but this is how Frank and I always played.” Now the sport is set in stone.

Then the sport gets a name. Later Nike makes a shoe for it - the sport can now become an Olympic event. On top of that, each game caters to the breeding of a specific type of weird physical trait. For basketball you should be tall, hockey you want to be Canadian, sumo you want to be as big as Canada, baseball you want to be easily amused, swimming you want to be a dolphin, etc…