Who ordered the scrambled brains?

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From a grassy knoll

I’m currently sitting on a grassy knoll. This particular knoll is located in the UCLA Sculpture Garden. Here’s a pic of what’s near the grassy knoll.

You’ll have to take it upon yourself to envision the swarm of starving gnats that inhabit the garden. OK, you don’t need to envision the swarm. I just killed about 7 of them. I think they understand I’m here for business.

Anyway, I’m just here chillin’ out, maxin’, relaxin’ all cool. I’ll have you know I just finished my last of three midterms, all this week. Also had to pull an all-nighter to finish this piece of fluffy marshmallowy lard. Ridiculous that I’ll probably get a good grade on it. Just as it was ridiculous that I got a 91.5% on the linguistics midterm for which I studied 10 minutes yesterday. (Hehe, you like how I dropped that little victory in there, don’t you? Oh, OK, you don’t like it. Got it.)

That’s the mindframe I’m in right now. Exhausted from lack of sleep, validated by that grade and today’s job of BS’ing a sociology midterm, yet at the same time insulted by how low the standards are. Topped with a dollop of hazy confusion about it all. And relaxin’.

What would interest you, dear reader? Let’s see, I have a whole list of interesting things from the last couple weeks. I heard a good ringtone the other day. It interrupted the collective concentration of the young scholars in my sociology lecture — out of nowhere, a half-circus, half-Riverdance jingle-spasm pierced the still air, and then the clincher: “Eric!! Answer your phone! Come on, man, pick me up!” It was the voice of either an old Jewish crank or a nerdy Star Trek fan, with perfect level of urgency, emanating from his phone speaker. It’s not a new ringtone idea, but man, this guy executed it perfectly. I wanted to simultaneously shake his hand and kick him in the groin.

Speaking of physical pain, I thought I’d share a recent experience in this. The people that designed the Public Policy building at UCLA appear to have been on a budget. The rows of chairs, bolted to the ground, in room 2214 are dangerously close together. More like painfully close. So yeah, I hit an armrest hard against the front of my thigh, the mid-quadricep for you muscle fans out there (Janet Majors, I’m looking at you). Let me tell you, it was a lot of hurt me oww ouch ba-a-a-ad! That was Pain with a generous serving of Zing heaped on the side. The cool thing was, well, that I kept my cool. (So that cool thing, you could say, was me.) I just sauntered on past that demon-possessed ‘tard armrest from hell, found my seat, cracked my knuckles, did some waist-swivel stretches, yawned, scrathed my rear-bottom-region, and ever so lightly, glided into the seat (Note: in this case, ‘tard refers to bastard, not retard, or some nonsense like leotard). Then I ran my finger over ground-zero — the freakin’ armrest left a dang dent in my leg, in my muscle, and it smarted! How does that happen? A dent of soft mushy flesh. Like pate. Yeah, no joke. Luckily, after a week of yellow-and-purple-colored healing, the area returned to its normal rock solid muscly self.

I finally saw that Imelda Marcos documentary that she tried to have censored after realizing all the interviews she gave the guys made her look like a complete fool in the film. But I gotta say, that Marcos… beautiful. Beautiful enough to inspire even the acrid bowel-dwelling scum of our society to rise above their resignation, and strive for beauty as well! Wait. I just re-thought that sentence, and, despite it’s rhetorical genius, was utterly false. That woman is nuts. And worse, she’s evil. And ignorant. Like Bush. And it really pisses me off. Actually, she inspires me… to hate her. And to want to learn Tagalog.

Happy Birthday, Natalie! My one and only droog had her 24th birthday last week. We celebrated beach-style, at Red Lobster in Topanga. Great meal. You absolutely must try the alfredo sauce. It doesn’t matter what you get it with, just ask for it “alfredo-style” and they’ll know. Or at least this guy’ll know.

This is no laughing matter folks. But what is, or rather was, a laughing matter was how we happened to be seated next to the gossip hotspot of the restaurant. Right on the other side of the short-wall-with-green-leafy-plant that marked our territory of privacy, was all the talk of how Jenna had “already finished bussing and wiping down 5 tables in the upper lobby, [looks across room at hostess] but she keeps seating people there. This is the third time tonight. What the hell’s her problem?!” –”It’s OK, I’ll handle it. Why don’t you take a break upstairs.” “Fine, and I’ll be ready to throw it down if she goes up there.” Unbeknownst to them, Natalie and I had a profound laugh at this. Futhermore, there was some other minor controversy tactfully laid out but, alas, I haven’t the foggiest notion what it was.

So the next day, we trekked out to the Rocky Horrow Picture Show midnight showing! For the night I could shed my identity as a preppy elitist computo-music nerd with a bad attitude, and assume the free-wheelin’, fun-loving persona of Eddie, as only Meatloaf could have originated. The interesting thing about it all was how utterly lame the “live performance” was, especially as it was supported by terrible performers in the audience who served only to make you feel like you were in some high school drama club nightmare, rather than at an out-of-control rebellion against the principal, and the mayor, and the whole dictator-conformity of the quiet-theater social institution, the very core of social stability.

RAIN ALERT! RAIN ALERT! Man! One minute I’m cursing the damned heliosphere in the sky for making me feel like a soy chorizo taquito during the microwaving process, the next I’m holding my laptop under my backpack looking for shelter, like some pathetic Los Angelean panicking back east when the expected unexpectability of the weather whims turns worse, turns WET. Seriously, that was like a flashflood. Hello, God, duh! Death valley’s that way!

Artist’s rendition. But I didn’t have an umbrella… Stupid artist.

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