Wednesday, August 31, 2005
I feel like a rockstar.
For those of you who are lucky enough to be friends with the true King Bee, the man behind the keyboard, you'd know that for a while (try 3 years), he had not cut his hair. As such, he was on par for true barbarian status, only his hair was dyed black. However, his hair was as long as the corn in Iowa is tall (basically as high as an elephant's eye). Those days have passed.
I got back from the coffeehouse a few days ago and cut about 10 inches off of my hair. However, this left me with about 7 to spare, so I decided to check out the Aveda Certified salon here in Ames, where the lovely Amanda (who hates math with a passion but still was really nice to me and didn't use my status as a graduate student as an excuse to have a "bad hair day," if I may) had the privilege of fixing me up with a new do. I felt like a total rockstar when I walked out of there. Now all I need are some massive sunglasses, preferably aviators. All the ladies will faint as I walk by, and everyone in general will be jealous of my sexy look.
I'm pretty pleased with the way things turned out, as you can tell.
I'd post a picture here, but for now, I'd like to keep the mystique alive. If you really want to know what I'd look like, just try to imagine what type of guy the (NSFW) Suicide Girl Stormy would be interested in. That's right, she adores me.
(I'm omitting a direct link to her because I'm at a coffeeshop right now, and I don't want everyone to know that I'm obsessed with Stormy. Not that I don't want people to know that I love a beautiful woman, but not everyone "gets" what SuicideGirls is all about. If you don't, keep your mouth shut. I don't care. She's easily in the top ten most gorgeous women on this planet, and if you haven't seen the new DVD yet, you have to. You'll probably die, just like I did.)
In other non-style, non-pinup-girl related news, holding office hours at a coffeehouse is the best idea in the history of ideas. Not only does almost no one come to bother you, but you're still fulfilling your obligation to your employer by smoking, drinking coffee, doing crossword puzzles, and updating your blog. It is "teh r0x0r." The only problem is that I have to chainsmoke to keep the bees and other sting-having creatures away from me. I must be coated in nectar or something.
I've discovered that in order to properly lose weight, I actually need to eat more than I have been in the past. If you eat 3 meals a day (or more), and are never really hungry and never quite full, your body metabolizes everything much more quickly, making sure that you don't store all the energy you intake by consuming edible goodies. I'm very pleased with this realization, as it's been working for me.
I've been adhering to a strict diet of fruits, vegetables, grains, cigarettes, and black coffee. Notice that there's no meat in that list. That's because I'm trying out a whole vegetarian thing for the most part (I'll have pepperonis on a pizza from time to time), which was a great way to make an awesome first impression on the gorgeous woman who works at the "buy a burrito the size of your head" place here. Man, I am so attracted to women in foodservice, let me tell you. I'm sure that the Freudian school of thought means that I like to subjugate women or something. Eh, it's probably true.
Football season starts next week Thursday, which means I'll have to start devoting my creative nature to my TMMMLB column. However, maybe that outlet will work to your advantage; you'll only get really sweet fucking amazing mother of hell posts from now on. Hey, it could happen.
In order to keep a promise I made in a previous post, (MP3) here is a song that I made about 3 years ago, under the moniker DJ G Sounds. It's called "Taken Down," and I think it rocks pretty hard. It's not mixed, or mastered or remastered (or whatever the term is) properly, but the potential is there. I hope you enjoy it.
Lastly, if anyone knows how to take a screenshot in OSX 10.4, let me know. I'm at a loss.
Friday, August 26, 2005
This entry is sponsored by the Campus Crusade for Christ.
Ah yes, I love these lazy Friday afternoons.
I'm whiling away the hours at the ol' coffeehouse, wondering what the Someday Bum might be up to. It's quite possible that maybe "someday" has come, and he doesn't have any more money to spend on fine teas and the like. Oh well.
So, last night, whilst whipping everyone and his brother in billiards, I went up to the bar to get a beer. The bar area was kind of crowded, and the only way I could squeeze my way in to get a drink was in between this rather attractive young woman and a rather disgusting older gentleman. I waited for my right moment, so as to not touch either of them (I don't know about you, but nothing is more annoying than sitting at a bar and having patrons squeeze in next to you to get a drink). Well, what I thought was the right moment was the wrong one.
Right as I decided to make my move, the rather attractive young woman (referred to hereafter as the RAYW for the sake of brevity) moved her elbow out towards me to get some cigarettes out of her purse. Naturally, I collided with her. Here is the conversation:
Me: Sorry about that. Just trying to get a drink is all.
RAYW: Ah, don't worry. You're fine.
Me: Why, thank you.
RAYW: What? That's not what I meant. [in a scoffing tone]
Me: I know. I was just being funny.
RAYW: I didn't think it was funny.
Bartender: Another "Harp," sir?
So here's the question I pose to you, gentle readers: was I out of line? I could have thought of other things to say had I actually wanted to upset the poor little RAYW, but I wasn't in the mood to put one of these vapid, slow-witted women who have nothing going for them except the fact that they look good while performing certain sexual acts in her place. See? I probably could have made fun of her for that. However, there was a rather strong-looking man to her left, so I didn't feel like losing my four front teeth in a battle that I had no hope of winning.
My opinion is that most everyone I meet is not as quick as I.
Moving on, since the summer is now over, we can take inventory on my list of goals outlined here.
1. Lost 1/2 an inch. I need to lose 10 more pounds before I am at the weight I desire.
2. Got nowhere with this one. Well, not nowhere. I have a really sweet 10 second intro into what the remix should be. I'll post some other techno-tunes I've made in the past in the next couple entries, and I'll post this one if I ever get done with it.
3. Again, nowhere.
4. Accomplished, and then some.
5. And how.
6. Not "Lord of the Summer," but I did win the summer pool championship.
7. *cough* No.
10. Too expensive.
11. I'm on my way. I'm in the midst of the fifth season, but I would be further along if I didn't start concurrently watching "Angel" as well.
So, as we can see, either I'm terrible at accomplishing the goals I set for myself, or I'm setting the wrong kinds of goals. I'm going to say it's the latter, just because I feel like being optimistic these days.
Since I love the laptop (apple powerbook) upon which I am currently updating my blog so much, I have taken to the task of theming my windowing system in Linux (my desktop OS, stay with me here) to look like OSX. It's coming along quite nicely, but it has become apparent to me that in order to get everything to work properly without crashing nonstop, I am definitely going to have to install the proper drivers for my video card. In Linux, this can be quite a task. Especially when your terminal window decides that, with these new drivers, it no longer feels like displaying any text. I'll post a screenshot if I ever get it to work.
The NFL season is starting up again soon, which means the fantasy football season is starting as well. This, of course, means my sarcastic take on the TMQ (Tuesday Morning Quarterback, the failure of an analyst Greg Easterbrook), called the TMMMLB (Tuesday Mid-Morning Middle Line Backer), will have to return for an encore of his column. I can't wait to get that started again.[/sarcasm]
I have to take a qualifying exam in January. I'm going to start studying within the next two weeks. That's how wicked these things are, people.
For our final random thing of the day, I must note this email I recently received from a professor. For background purposes, all you need to know is that I teach my own class at the university here, and that class happens to be Calculus 2. Here it is:
Please announce this in your 165 and 166 classes:
“How to Pass My Calculus Class (or anybody else’s)”
by Dr. Eric Weber.
Marston Hall 207; Monday, August 29th, 7:30pm.
I’ll be presenting tips and tricks to help students succeed in Calculus 1 and 2.
Well, that's all well and good, you might say to yourself. What an opportunity for these students! I thought the same thing. That is, until I read the last line of the email, which was this rather confusing piece of information:
This event is sponsored by Campus Crusade for Christ.
I'm not exactly sure what Christ has to do with Calculus, but I think we can all agree that if he were here, he would probably kick that class's ass so hardcore that it wouldn't know what hit it. Therefore, he is definitely a qualified tutor for the class. I hope my students go and learn something about doing integrals in the Garden of Gethsemane.
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
I can be cruel, I don't know why.
Sorry it's been so long since I've graced you all with my wild stories and correct opinions on music, but I've been in the business of reinstalling Linux five times in the past week or so. Due to that, and with the start of the new semester, I haven't had a lot of time on my hands. Actually, that's a lie. I've just spent most of that time at the coffee shop or watching Buffy/Angel episodes.
With the new semester upon us, I am again with a crop of new students to mold in my own graven image. It's fun being in front of 40 impressionable young minds and being able to yell at them. However, I probably shouldn't say anything too scathing, as it would be just my luck that one of them would find this blog and get me fired for being "insensitive."
As far as awesome stories go, I don't have many right now. I should note that two rather cute girls have moved next door to my posh apartment, so I should probably start hitting on them soon.
Since we have no stories, we'll have to delve (once again) into the world of music, where I will convince you that your favorite bands suck, or reaffirm your notions that my favorite bands rule.
We (meaning me and Someday Bum) went to the coffee shop today, as we usually do, to engage each other in a battle of wits. Of course, I am referring to a crossword puzzle race. You each get a copy of a crossword puzzle, and the first one to finish wins. It's fun, and it's the only way I know how to impress chicks (except by having a copy of "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance" on the table while I smoke a cigarette and look pensive and sexy).
It's not that the puzzle was hard today, but there was a slight annoyance. "Lazer 103.3" set up shop (meaning an SUV with large speakers on top) kitty corner from where we were sitting. In case you don't know, this station is one that plays 80s hair/glam/terrible rock, but claims to be playing "awesome hits." Occasionally they will play music by a band that is worthwhile, like Led Zeppelin, but they'll play "Rock 'n' Roll," commonly known as "The Cadillac Theme Song," which is the one Zeppelin song that I can no longer stand. So, I had to put up with mostly garbage while trying to relax during my insane crossword compettion.
I've been listening to a lot of Tori Amos recently for some strange reason, and that reason is due largely to the increased levels of estrogen that my hormonal glands are releasing because I am dying for female attention. I have come to the conclusion that the best record she has released is "From the Choirgirl Hotel." Why? I am under the impression that she wrote all of those songs shortly after she miscarried, and thus they are darker and cooler than any of her other work. "i i e e e?" "Hotel?" These songs are borderline Trip-Hop, not your standard Tori with her Cornflake Girl Nine Inch Nails panties or whatever the hell that one song talks about. That's why I dig on it.
Plus, "Raspberry Swirl" is all about one of my favorite pasttimes. You can't go wrong there.
Sometimes I wish Tori would miscarry more often. Actually, no I don't. Eh, whatever. Maybe I do.
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Better consult Stephen Hawking on this one.
I just got back from a romantic dinner alone, mainly because I am not aware of any female in a 50 mile radius who actively wants to be with me. I did, however, choose a place where I know a cute waitress works, and I went mainly so I could make eyes with her, which I did wholeheartedly. She even engaged me in some small talk for like 45 seconds, so we can safely say "mission accomplished." The only thing that irritated me was that she was waiting on every table in the restaurant except mine. Instead, I had the less than attractive male waiter, while the sexy-like-a-librarian-with-a-nose-piercing Nici tended to all of the elderly customers. Furthermore, I had to put up with some divorced thirtysomething man flirting with my love interest. I should have been more proactive. Needless to say, I was disappointed.
However, this is not going to be the topic for today's entry. We're going to talk about Best Buy today, and we will try to discover why it is a black hole for the memories of all the employees there.
I grant myself about 50 dollars a month to spend at Best Buy, otherwise I probably wouldn't have enough money to eat. I've been sticking to this pretty rigorously, so I was all happy yesterday when I finally got to go there for the first time this month. I had plans to buy Sin City on DVD, and while I was there, I decided to pick up the John Cusack classic "Better Off Dead" and New Order's "Waiting for the Sirens' Call," a CD that has just been dying to be in my collection since it came out back in early spring. After finding all these items, I gleefully walked up to the registers along with a 5 dollar coupon in hand.
First, my cashier was a lanky fellow, couldn't have been more than 19, who couldn't figure out that his scanning gun was caught in his cash drawer (there's a double entendre for you). He kept pulling and pulling, and wouldn't listen to my pleas to just open the cash drawer. After ringing me up, the bill came to 53-something, and I was astounded. He claimed everything seemed to be in order, so I paid him.
On my way out, the "meeter-and-greeter" gave me a head nod and told me to have a nice night. I reciprocated the sentiment, and I was on my way out the door. While passing through the Star Trek automatic doorjamb, I decided to look at my receipt and try to figure out how these 3 items, along with a 5 dollar coupon, could cost over 50 dollars. I then realized that he had rung up my CD twice when I had only one copy. Well, that's what we get for allowing failures to work as cashiers.
No problem, I think to myself. I can just walk back inside and get this taken care of instantly. I wasn't in "give me what I want or I'll destroy your company" mode, like I can be sometimes, so everything should run smoothly. I turn around and walk through the entrance door.
Dear readers, please realize that at most 12 to 15 seconds have passed since "my future lies in being a greeter at Wal-Mart" guy gave me the head nod and wished me a good evening. Here is the conversation that ensued as I reentered the store:
Him: Hi! [seeing the bag in my hand] Returning something today?
Me: Uh, no, not really. The guy over there just accidentally rang my CD up twice, so I just wanted to get that rectified.
Him: Okay, not a problem. Did this happen today?
Me: Are you serious? You just watched me walk out the door and you said "Have a good night." That was like 15 seconds ago.
Him: Sorry sir, I don't remember every face that I see throughout the day.
Me: Wow, then you must be a bang-up security guard. This was about 20 seconds ago.
Him: I'm not a security guard. I just stand here and make sure no one is walking out with any merchandise without paying for it.
Me: Isn't that what a security guard does?
Him: Yeah, well, I don't have a license or anything.
Him: So, let's see what you're returning today. Are you returning all 3 of the items in this bag?
Me: I just told you. I'm not returning anything. The cashier over there charged me twice for this CD, and I want rectified.
Him: Jeez, sorry. Let me walk you over to the returns counter.
I know I'm not the most unique person in the world, or the most memorable. However, I do know for a fact that I am in the top 2 percentile for men with the longest hair in this country. You don't often see someone with hair as long and as black as mine, especially here in Iowa. When you see me, acknowledge me, then see me 15 seconds later, you should be able to realize, "Hey, that's the same guy I just saw."
I think I lost some brain cells while conversing with this sorry excuse for a rational being, but that's the price one pays for shopping at Best Buy. That, and their "Buy one CD, pay double the price" promotion they have running right now.
As a second instance of memory black holedness, we turn our attention to the next part of the story. There is a girl about my age who works as a cashier there, and through some crazy roll of the dice, she is my cashier 9 times out of 10. Whenever that happens, I make some joke about how I don't want to have a free subscription to Entertainment Weekly, because I know she's going to ask because she has to. She always laughs and so forth. I assume she would recognize me. Here is the conversation we had:
Her: What seems to be the problem?
Me: [I explain.]
Her: Sorry about that. [Pushes some buttons, scans some things.] So, are you moving in today like everyone else?
Her: Into the dorms? Are you moving in today?
Me: No, I've lived her about a year now. Don't you remember me?
Her: Sorry! Where did we meet?
Me: Uh, here. I always joke to you about Entertainment Weekly, because I never want it.
Her: Sorry. I just thought you were a freshman is all.
Apparently this relationship meant more to me than it did to her.
I have no idea what's going on in this Best Buy. It is probably not unlike what happens in the movie Dark City, but I'm just not evolved enough to prove it yet. I'll keep you posted on that one.
Lastly, don't complain about the fact that "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance (book)" is on two lines on your computer screen. Get a bigger monitor with better resolution. It's all on one line for me.
Saturday, August 13, 2005
Le Fabuleux destin d'King Bee
Last night was such a treat, let me tell you. After getting back from a day at the state fair, I called up the Someday Bum to see if he wanted to play pool at around 6:30. He said he did. We went to our normal pool haunt as always, and strapped ourselves in for some insane competition. He's about 2 rungs higher on the pool ladder than I am, so my ass was pretty much kicked. However, this is not what makes the story funny/interesting/etc.
We were treated to "Pop Music that Nobody in His Right Mind Even Remembers Existed Anymore Night." Of course, by this I mean that the slow-witted hometown hillbilly boys were picking most of the music on the jukebox. Here's a small selection of some of the trash we were treated to (band, "song name" [year it came out]):
- Blues Traveler, "Run-Around" 
- Sister Hazel, "All For You" 
- Fuel, "Hemmorhage (In My Hands)" 
There was much more, especially some garbage by OAR, or O.A.R., or oar, or however the fuck you spell the name of that shitty band. So what we're going to discuss now is the terrible nature of that Fuel song I have listed, which I always thought was called "Duvall Away," since that's what he sings in the chorus. I'm not quite sure if he's talking about Robert Duvall or Shelley Duvall, but that's mainly because I can't be arsed to look at the actual words for the song. Before the worst song in the history of mankind came out, this song was one of my most hated. And people were requesting it. Not only that, they were paying a dollar just to hear it!
Now, you'll notice that I posted the year that these songs came out. The youngest one is 5 years old, while the oldest is 11. At first glance, you'd think I'd be an "out with the old, in with the new" type of failure. This is not so. If anyone paid attention to anything at all, they'd notice that most of the bands I like are of the older variety. My CD collection doesn't contain a lot of music from bands that have hit the scene in the past year or two (although it does contain CDs that hit the market in the past year or two). Hence, we can conclude that I'm not against older music, I'm against music that everyone forgot existed because it was a goddamned flavor of the month 8 years ago by a band that couldn't sell out a 200 max-capacity venue if they planned to buy all the tickets themselves.
There was also some sort of 3 song Shinedown extravaganza. In case you don't know who Shinedown is (and you really shouldn't, they suck with the force of a black hole), they are the ones who sing that crappy song about pretending to kill yourself or something, but no one takes this band seriously because the singer sounds like an inbred hick from Hazzard county, Georgia. I didn't list them above because they haven't had enough time to fade away yet.
After wasting all of our money on pool, we headed over to a place I go to a lot, and we watched a small jazzy ensemble with a female singer. Apparently, I was the only one paying attention to the music, as I was the only one applauding after each song. However, it did get the band to notice us, and they engaged us in small talk for about 2 minutes. It was great.
While there, I came to the realization that I am doing something very wrong with myself, and I don't quite know what it is yet. I will eventually figure it out, and when I do, I am going to become something the world has never seen. Cryptic, no? Deal.
I'm reinstalling Linux today, so if I never update again, it's because my computer blew up in the midst of trying to configure my XFree86 garbage or something. Let's just hope the flavor I chose this time is a bit more palatable than Debian.
Also, the guy who just moved in above me has a penchant for stomping around very loudly quite early in the morning. I'm going to make sure he complains to the landlord about the noise I make.
I think I'm going to watch Le Fabuleux destin d'Amélie Poulain later and think about the way things were once. Then I'm going to move on.
And I don't want any lip from anyone about Amelie. It's #25 on imdb, and I think that's quite an achievement.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Drugs are nature's hugs
The end of an era occurred yesterday/this morning, as my Nazi (read: German) friend and I had one last hurrah before he had to take one of those autogyros (not the 4:30 one) back to his Vaterland. We wrapped up our championships, and it appears that no one is lord of the summer. It's just as well, I suppose; I wouldn't want him to leave while still owing his allegiance to an American. We drove him to the airport this morning, and I had to endure the worst song in the world (see previous post), and I confirmed that the opening lines of the chorus are "sung" (and I use the term loosely) 10 times. That is just plain ridiculous. Now, I digress.
Now I'm in the ol' coffee house, the ol' Stomping Grounds, if you will (and I believe I will). My friend and I are embarking on our next photo project to turn us into the new A-bee (not "King Bee"). It's not going as well as I had hoped, because I can't download a program to allow me to remotely take pictures with a digicam. Sigh, perhaps I can find it another day. Our stopgap solution will hopefully be more than the 10 year old boy with his finger in the dike (double entendre city there, but we know that a boy would never do such a thing). Moving on...
Back to the original paragraph -- we celebrated the departure of our dear Führer with an extreme party. Hobo meatballs were present, in all of their hobo glory, and the same friend found at Someday Bum made some salad and some strange toasty things that I think involved pine nuts and cheese, although I can't be sure. It was delicious. We ended up playing "Mao" (which has nothing to do with impersonating the Chinese leader) until 3am, at which point I freaked out because the rules were not real anymore. And that was that.
I've read about "Kissing Jessica Stein," and now I want to see it. If you have seen it and you know whether or not it is worthy of my undivided attention, please let me know.
Friday, August 05, 2005
All shall love me and despair
Yesterday was the great "The Lord of the Rings" day (or "Der Herr der Ringe," if you're so inclined). Basically, that just means you have to watch all three of the extended versions of the LOTR movies back to back to back. The entire ordeal lasts roughly 682 minutes, and if you're hip to dividing things by 60, you'd see that amounts to 11 hours, 22 minutes. Let me just say that it was well worth the time spent, and that I love those movies. I strongly desire to find some hot Elven chick who will love me even until the end of the world.
I am also convinced that buying a frozen pizza and then putting fresh toppings on it (onions, peppers, artichokes, an 18 dollar block of parmesean cheese, etc.) is a quick and easy way to have a delicious pie at your fingertips.
Yes, folks, today we have music news for you. This has been grating my mind away for a few days, so I thought I'd share it with you. The worst song on the "alternative rock" stations in this country right now is "Sugar, We're Going Down" by Fallout Boy. This song is a travesty for a number of reasons, which I will outline here.
First, the name of the band quite obviously comes from the hit show "The Simpsons." There is a superhero in the made up comic books of that show called "Radioactive Man;" his trusty sidekick is "Fallout Boy." By default, this is then a stupid name for a band. We all know that if your name sucks and you make good music (The Beatles), nobody cares, and everything is great. However, if your name sucks and your music does as well (Jimmy Eat World), then you're in all sorts of trouble. Therefore, Fallout Boy is in all sorts of trouble.
Second, while I can't be arsed to actually have to listen to the entire song and count how many times the fucking chorus is repeated, I am almost certain that the opening lines of the chorus are said at least 10 times. This is extremely annoying, as it is quite obvious to me that the band thinks they came up with something awesome, so if they put it in the song a zillion times, everyone will love it. This is not so.
Third, they are headlining some sort of Nintendo Fusion tour, and the woman on the radio said that Fallout Boy would be bringing all sorts of cool bands with them. I hate the music Fallout Boy makes, so the chances are good that all the music they like is also terrible.
Fourth, the wavering of the lead singer's voice when he says "cock it and pull it" at the end of the chorus makes me want to take two phillip's head screwdrivers and insert one into my anus while I use the other one to pierce my eardrums, so that I will not be subjected to such a fucking terrible noise.
Fifth, the song is way too long. The song of the week (which you will find to your right) is only 2:35 seconds long. This is because it doesn't have a lot of varying parts, and largely because The White Stripes know how to write music.
Sixth, when you put confusing metaphors such as "a loaded god complex" into your song simply because you think that it sounds good when there is no real meaning behind it because your band sucks, you will fail. Oh, this song has that line in it, by the way.
Seventh, when you cite any movie starring Billy Dee Williams (with the exception of The Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi), you will fail. Oh, this song has that in it too.
Eighth, this song sucks. If you like it, you suck too.
Alright, enough of that. Just so everyone knows, Pearl Jam sucks. The only saving grace they'll ever have is found in the last 3 lines of the song "Black."
Speaking of the last lines of things, I love the last lines of the book of the week (also found to your right):
Once the silent majority of illegal drug users begins to speak out, the sterotypes that drive the war on drugs will be impossible to sustain.
He's talking about responsible people. You know, like most people who do drugs.
A few days ago, I saw a vehicle whose license plate said "TIMELRD." Now, we can only hope that this plate was referring to the classic NES title "Timelord," where you are sent back in time for some reason to collect orbs so that you can eventually go back to your original time. I know, I don't get it either.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Magikers, Lacks, and Restaurants, oh my!
I should have put something in the title about American history as well, but I'm lazy.
Yesterday, I made the trip of my life. The trip that would complete the task of the complete rearrangement and redesign of my apartment. (I was rearranging and redesigning because I was a fool and signed on for another year in this shitty apartment, where I'm surrounded by rubes, mental patients, and immigrants -- all of which are the cause of every problem America has.)
I went to Ikea.
I bought a magiker and a lack. Now, from the picture, that magiker may not look like much, but that's only because you fail at looking. If you'll look closely, you'll see that there is space for me to display my vinyl singles and such. Therefore, this will be the best magiker you've ever seen, which brings me to my next point.
The pact was made between me and a friend that this "coffee table" will be referred to only as "the magiker." Hence, when someone comes over, I can say things like this:
If you're going to put your glass on the magiker, could you please use a coaster?
Hilarity will ensue as $VISITOR tries to figure out what "the magiker" could possibly be. When I return to the room and find a coaster on my bookshelf, we'll all have a great laugh.
After this amazing Ikea experience, we went down to Nicollett Mall to find something to eat. We saw a sign for the "8th Street Grill," but what we found was something much more exciting, much more expensive, and much more pretentious:
The Capitol Grille.
Upon our entrance, I noticed that the sand in the ashtray had "CG" in script letters pressed into it. This instantly made me ask the host, "How would you rate the expensiveness of your restaurant?" The woman on the phone behind him started pointing towards the sky. I was confused.
We looked at the menu and found a couple of things for around 10 dollars. Not that bad, I figure. We're downtown in a real city, 10 dollars for lunch is not that bad.
Well, the food was absolutely astounding, but I felt as though I was sent through some sort of caste warp, like I was suddenly thrown onto a much higher rung of the social ladder than I currently am. (I know, you're all thinking, "But King Bee, who is on a higher rung of said ladder than you?" I appreciate it, but flattery will get you nowhere.)
They had pictures of Minneapolitan (it's a word now) socialites on the walls. The menu was one page, with the remaining 3 pages dedicated to a wine list. We were served large disks of what I could only figure was some kind of unleavened bread. My friend asked for mustard and got Grey Poupon. He was served iced tea in what looked to be a miniature wine decanter (a carafe, I believe they are called). My club sandwich came with the weirdest (and best) sauce of all time. My beer cost $4.75. The hostess winked at me on my way out.
After this excursion, we decided to head home, which is about the time I perished, as it was 373 degrees with 978 per cent humidity, and I refuse to ever use the air conditioning in my car. Due to this disgusting weather, the farms of Iowa smell worse than a fat man in a sauna. I almost wanted to rip out my olfactory bulb to avoid the odor. However, I did get to rock out to some radio edited version of Tool's "Lateralus," although it was only a specter of its monstrous 9+ minutes.
And now, we must change gears for a moment, and discuss the 1970s. There is a show on MTV called "That 70s House," where a bunch of "The Real World" rejects are forced to live as though it were the 1970s. The person who becomes the "most 70s" will win a free time machine or something, I'm not exactly sure.
Anyway, I caught the first 5 minutes of the most recent episode, where all of the occupants of the house were to take a "pop quiz" on things going on in the 70s. I thought these questions were easy for anyone with a mind. Therefore, I will post them here, and the first person to get all the answers will win a prize, probably something crappy. Please do not use the internet to find answers to these questions, use only your current knowledge.
1. What year did the United States celebrate its bicentennial?
2. "ERA" stands for "Equal Rights" what?
3. What major military conflict did the US pull out of in the 70s?
4. Name 3 presidents who served in the 1970s.
5. What country took American citizens hostage in 1979?
A few notes: I'm pretty sure there are 2 answers for number 2, one person on the show didn't know what bicentennial meant (as such, he answered 1953, which is the dumbest thing ever, because he's on a goddamned 1970s show), and one girl's only hope was "that there is someone dumber than me in this house."
Once again, I have just been shown that I have more knowledge and am likely smarter than roughly 78% of the people on this planet.
I hit a butterfly with my car. I felt kind of sad at the time. The feeling has since passed.