C-ya Later, Gator Tater

I'm still chuggin' away at the Secret Clearance application, and I hate to think what hoops I'm gonna have to go through to get my license to kill. Since it was getting tedious, I resorted to my usual method of wasting time when I want to feel a sense of accomplishment without expending any energy or thought: giving blood.

Actually, I got bored with regular blood and switched to giving platelets and RBCs, via a process called aphoresis. I don't know how it works, and I'm not sure the nurses do either, but they have a cute little machine that sorts out which cells go where and what gets put back in. All they have to do is run through the 50-part medical questionnaire in under 45 seconds and stab me with whatever sharp objects they have handy.

I get an even bigger kick out of it because my blood type, like just about every other parameter you might use to describe me, is rare in more ways than one. I'm O+, CMV-, which means my blood cells can go to premature babies, cancer patients, and people suffering from immune disorders like HIV. If nothing else, that's my contribution to humanity (well, that and the prestigious publication that you, dear reader, are now enjoying).

Since it's Friday, and since the men at Samford are afraid of cooties, and since the girls know I have nothing better to do, I was summoned to go swing dancing at Roman's. I figured I'd take it easy, seeing as how I'm sort about 40 million platelets, but I had to revise that figure to keep the ladies happy. (Keeping women happy, I've found, if possible at all, involves, among other things, the ability to revise, rework, remove, and refuse all kinds of logic).

Anyway, the one who requested my services was of course not interested in dancing more than a half a song once I got to the place, but that was fine, since the crowd contained better dancers anyway. Granted, pulling me off my couch when I'm studying valuable educational programming and then refusing to dance with me when I ask her to dance, citing a disinclination to dance to the current song, then dancing with some old geezer 8 bars later is enough to make me want to break her ankle all over again. But I was in a good mood, and still feeling the effects of the missing brain cells that I suspect the people at the donation center helped themselves to while I was distracted squeezing the hand exerciser, so I let her off with a few choice comments. Not that they're comments anyone else would've chosen, but I guess I must've chose them on some level, because they came out of my mouth.

The alert reader will have noticed by now that my narrative, to this point, has nothing to do with my title. For the rest of you, notice that my narrative, to this point, has nothing to do with my title. This is the point at which the one matches up with the other, thus resolving the suspense I've been building up until now.

At some point, two couples of young people (gasp!) showed up. They were all interested in dancing and relatively inexperienced, so I took the liberty of teaching them everything they needed to know. The first thing the men learned under my tutelage was that, just as in chess, if you take your finger off your girl, it's my move.

Anyway, both of the ladies proved excellent followers and a joy to lead, and as an added bonus, one of 'em is a radio personality, interning for none other than Rick and Bubba. For those of you outside of the sphere of influence of the Southern Trump, Rick & Bubba are to redneck radio what Ben & Jerry are to quantum electrodynamics. (All four of them eat inordinate orders of ice cream). So that was kinda exciting, and she told me her name--voted on by the listening public--was none other than the legendary Gator tater, a reference to her alma mater and her favorite flick. She took a picture with me on her camera, but tells me that they can't put it on the Rick & Bubba website on account of the absence of the two sexy fat men, the event not being sanctioned by the Birmingham Buddhas. Luckily, since my editorial staff consists largely of my imaginary friends (and I use the term loosely, as many of them aren't speaking with me anymore), nothing prevents me from posting her picture here. If you haven't gotten anything out of the reading material in this article (and I can't blame you, as I certainly haven't put much into it), here's some eye candy.



She'll probably remember me, because she managed to slip and land on her butt at the end of the fourth dance. I caught her head, though, and she was no worse for the wear. Naturally her smart-ass date chose that moment to tell me she had a torn ACL, but I can't take credit for dropping a girl if she was standing on her own feet at the time. Unless I put you in the air, you're generally responsible to handle any unfavorable gravitational situations that arise.

Coup Data

So I'm in "the final stages of the application process" with the blower-upper-designer people in Colorado, and they've got me filling out an app.

Now I get the thrill of tracking down payroll records for jobs I worked at 16 and 17, figuring out if I have an alibi that I was self-employed as a tutor in high school, and trying to sort out how to list the five or so different gigs I held at Tech while I was busy doing everything else.

My favorite question, which is a simple yes/no, actually comes at the end of the form, but it would have made more sense at the beginning methinks:

Have you ever been an officer or a member or made a contribution to an organization dedicated to the violent overthrow of the United States Government and which engages in illegal activities to that end, knowing that the organization engages in such activities with the specific intent to further such activities?

It gets better:

If you answered "Yes", explain in the space below.

And, yes, they provide a total of one line for the explanation. I feel safer already.

What bugs me about it is the hyprocracy of the thing. I mean, here we are, the week of Independence Day (or Good Riddance Day as the British call it), patriotically celebrating the anniversary of an act of high treason. We're a nation founded on the notion that there are times when a government simply has to go. I'm not engaged in the violent overthrow of the United States Government, nor do I belong to any organizations that are (although the Society of Women Engineers always seemed a bit sneaky...). However, I wouldn't be a Patriot if I put my love of my country ahead of my commitment to what it stands for in the first place. Government is a tool to protect freedom, and freedom should not be sacrificed to protect it.

Of course, it gets interesting determining what constitutes "illegal activities" in this context. I mean, a coup d'etat is only illegal if it fails. Revolutions are righteous, but rebellions are punishable by death. Kinda an all or nothing game.

Anyway, if there are any G-men reading this, don't get your g-strings in a wad. I've invested too many tax dollars in Uncle Sam to want to topple him by force. Naturally there are some things I would change if I had my 'druthers, but I'm really not charismatic enough to lead a coup.

On a more serious note, I wrote the above sections yesterday, before the attacks in London, and no connection to those tragic events should be inferred. All references to hypothetical future revolutions are abstract musings and should not be construed as threats.

I Left My Skin in Sandestin.

While there are innumerable stories I could post about the members of my traveling party over the last week, I've about decided that this is not the place for it. On the one hand, it's too easy to poke fun at one's own family, and on the other, it's too easy for them to read what I write. I'll let things cool off for a spell and then go about my venting in less obvious ways when I've recovered from my R&R.

Among the throngs of people vying for the coveted position of first against the wall when the revolution comes we now have the Coppertone R&D department. It seems somebody thought it would be a good idea to make sunblock that goes on like spray-on deodorant. They did, and it wasn't. You end up with a cloud of sticky, useless stuff that seems to call out to the UV gods, "Hey, look, I'm over here!" Anyway, when I get around to posting pictures you'll be able to see how unfairly the tanning genes were distributed in my clan.

Creditors don't seem to understand the concept of vacation. They just went ahead and sent bills last week anyway, when I was quite clearly not at home to pay them. I figure those shouldn't count, since they weren't considerate enough to bill me at my own convenience. I'm gonna be lucky if I can avoid an overdraft fee; it gets confusing when we switch months like that. I hate how they divide the calendar into such unmanageable chunks. What we need is an 8-day week, where you work two days on and two days off on average, and half the population alternates with the other half. Then put 32 days in the month, with 256 to the year; much better all around. The astronomers can sort out how it affects the rest of the cosmos. Maybe I'm just saying this because the sun and I aren't on particularly good terms right now, but whatever.

What I don't get is why monkeys never get sunburned, and who decided it was a good idea to develop fair skin in the first place. In the future you'll just take a pill at breakfast to determine what color your skin is for the day, unless you opt for the modular body package, where you mix & match limbs and features much like Mr. & Mrs. Potato Head. It's not just a game anymore; our grandchildren will be crawling on the floor trying to find their noses half the time, while generation Y is still fiddling with contact lenses.

The next big thing after that will be artificial beaches. I foresee Japan mastering the concept first, creating a comb-like island where 98% of the surface area is within 200 meters of the shoreline, and all the properties are perforce beachfront. The more dangerous the weather, it seems, the more valuable the property is these days, so the whole Ring of Fire could be a major attraction.

It'd be cool if supermodels could shed their skin all at once like snakes. There might be a market for a Heidi Klum shell somewhere. If nothing else, I'd buy a set of skin just to wear on the beach. Combine that with temporary freckles and you'd be set for life. Maybe the halfbakers should hear of these breakthroughs...

I'm actually working today, which means they didn't find a way to fire me while I was gone. I had hoped to hear an offer last Friday so I could've used last week as one of my 2 notice-weeks, but it looks like I'm stuck for a while. I didn't sell anything while I was out, but some people brought some things back, so it all evens out.

If Anybody Needs Me...

tough.

I'm going to the beach with my hyper-extended family for a week. Zoloft, don't fail me now.

My Legacy

I am contacting you on behalf of the Office of Student Life at Caltech because you are currently storing boxes in the Caltech SAC trunkroom. Due to the renovations to the South Houses that will be going on in the next year, the trunkroom is going to be completely emptied of its contents by June 26, 2005. If you are able, please remove your belongings by Friday June 24th at noon. If you are unable to do this, the Office of Student Life can move and store your belongings until October 8th, 2005 (end of the second week of classes) for a fee of $7 per box. If you would like the Office of Student Life to provide you with more information about what you have stored, please email cleanout@thebasement.pacifictech.edu.

Thank you.

Elizabeth
Communications Coordinator
Pactech Alumni Association

Hi,

I didn't realize I had something still down there. Could you please tell me what it is? You have my permission to open any boxes with my name on them.

Thank you,

Oscar

You have a blanket, throw pillow, some solaris 8 manuals, a box of plastic
easter eggs, some student health extension forms, what looks to be a 5x
board, a Technics CD player, a 15" monitor, a HP Deskjet 5000, and 2
plastic drawer units with assorted computer junk.

-Curtis Smith

Curtis,

Is there any candy in the Easter Eggs?

I think I can live without most of that stuff. You have my permission to donate the blanket, throw the pillow, recycle the manuals, eat the candy from the Easter Eggs (or hide them somewhere), shred and recycle the health forms, dump the 52 board somewhere (preferably the La Brea Tar Pits), donate the CD player to the nearest museum of natural history, and deposit whatever you can't identify in the Blacker or Dabney courtyard, whichever isn't full at the moment.

Thanks,

Oscar