The Bloody Pillow

As it happened, all three of us who live together have been out of town for the weekend. My housemate Owl happened to get back earlier than the rest of us, and this is what she found:

Her door, at the landing of the first flight of stairs, was open; I can tell you from personal memory that it was closed when we left. The light to the bathroom next to her door was on; it had been off. In her room, she noticed her fake sword was missing. The books and stuffed animals on her bed had been moved neatly to the side, and there was dirt and drops of blood on her sheets and a pool of it staining her pillow.

There are, to my knowledge, six people with keys to our apartment. Walrus and I are here, in a state far away. Owl was obviously not there for the duration. Our friend Arisbe has one kind of by accident, but she's also in a different state. The two people both in the same city and having a key are the landlord and my friend who is taking care of my cat.

First order of business, we contacted those two. The landlord claims not to have been in our apartment since last I was there with him. My friend taking care of the cat said that Owl's door had been open every time he'd been there, though he hadn't gone far enough in to notice the blood and dirt. The cat was fine and nothing obvious had been messed up- no outer doors or windows open, no footprints in the house, nothing missing. The window between when we left and the first time he was there is approximately 18 hours.

Second order of business was to contact the police. They found nothing I hadn't already gathered; the blood pattern sounds like a nosebleed, and there was no sign of forced entry or robbery. Either all the cop shows are paying off, or these police folk aren't any better at their job in person than I am FROM MILES AWAY. According to Owl, the officer who came to look around thinks that Walrus and I somehow had a drunken revel (we don't drink) and forgot to clean up only Owl's room of all things. Did I mention that we are in a different state?

Walrus theorized that it was elves. When we told this to Owl, she said that this is what the police seemed to think, too.

Drat those elves.

Flash Circus

Dear gods, has it really been over a month since I wrote here? I suppose it has. My apologies.

Well, tonight something truly spectacular- in every sense of the word- happened. Every Monday, it is my custom to go out and practice spinning poi. No, not taro root goop found in Hawai'ian cuisine, the fire-dancing implements that are essentially wicks on chains. I've only gotten to actually burn a few times, but I do go practice whenever possible.

Normally, the place where people I know gather to spin is at University Campus X. This is a good distance from my home, but easily accessible by train, so not too inconvenient. Tonight, on my way to University Campus X, I happened by the main square near my home, and saw, to my surprise, people spinning.

What's this, I thought, and looked closer. I saw the shining bald head of someone I knew. I needed to investigate further!

When I arrived, I saw what seemed to be the entire spin jam crammed into the square. One of my friends found me and told me this story:

Originally, there was to be a professional circus performing in the square tonight, but for some reason, they didn't show up. One of the spin jam folks happened to be part of the circus/organizing for the circus/in some way connected, and called one of the more prominent spin jam vets. The spin jam was promptly packed up from University Campus X and brought straight away to my home square. Instant circus!

Well, it's extremely convenient for me! And great fun, too!

Street Fighters

Recently I was walking to a subway station in a very public, well lit, heavily populated area, when I spotted two men apparently fighting each other, very poorly. They would have each other at arm's length, almost in a stranglehold, and then sort of halfheartedly punch at each other, almost like a catfight. People were passing them by, barely giving them a glance.

I stopped, not wanting to succumb to bystander apathy, and seriously pondered calling the police. I mean, wtf, mates? But I couldn't decide just from what little I observed whether they were actually fighting, just poorly, or play-fighting, and I have so been there. I wouldn't want to get the cops called on me every time I mock-spar with a friend.

So I watched for a moment, trying to decide. They stopped for a second, and spoke to each other in calm tones in a language I didn't recognize, probably something subcontinental. They let each other catch his breath, then started again. I decided that if it WERE an actual fight, either no one would be injured and it would be fine, or it would escalate and someone else would have to handle it, because I was going home.

A little perturbed, I made my way past the fight and towards the subway when I heard a woman shriek on the other side of the street. I turned, my adrenaline pumping, only to realize that she was drunk off her behind and only hiding from her friend, who had poked her.

What on earth is with these people?

The Chanting Man, II

Several weeks after I encountered the chanting man, I was headed home on the last train with a friend of mine who shall be known as Polly. Polly and I rarely see each other, even though at the time we lived barely a block apart, so we were fairly engrossed in talking to one another. Most of the way home, I notice a faint chanting sound. I look around, and there behind me is the chanting man himself! I didn't mention him to Polly at the time, but I really wanted to see where he went.

He got off the train first, and we followed him up the stairs. He walked out of the station in the same direction we were going. By the time we got to the doors, however, he was gone. And there aren't any places on that street he could have gotten inside before we got there.

So I turned to Polly and said, That man, the dark skinned, black haired guy who was singing, did you see him?

And she said, I did! Where'd he go?

So I told her the story of the chanting man, part I. I have never seen him since.

The Chanting Man

One day, back when I had regular work hours and commuted back and forth just slightly off of rush hour, I found myself on a crowded train. Shocking, I'm sure.

As I stood there, facing out into the blackness of the subway tunnel over the heads of some anonymous ants, I heard a chanting voice, dark and deep, coming from behind me. I turned to look. A very out-of-place looking man, red skinned and black haired, was sitting on the other side of the car, eyes closed, singing in no language I recognized (and I recognize a good few). I smiled and went back to my book.

After a few stations, I realized that the chanting hadn't ceased, even when the doors opened, and I hadn't heard the chanting when I got onto the train. I turned again to look, and this time his eyes were open- and he was staring straight at me. His eyes were the same black as his hair. The chant changed slightly as I looked at him, then returned as I managed to look away.

Normally when something odd happens on a train, people will look, acknowledge, and then NOT-look, which isn't the same as ignoring. But no one else seemed to notice the man, no matter how loud he chanted. Even the people sitting right next to him didn't seem to notice. But I noticed, and he was looking at me.

This could have been creepy... maybe it should have been. But all I felt the entire time was a sense of content and purposefulness. As if this were something beneficial and directed at me.

Eventually, we got to my stop, and I exited the train. I noticed that the chanting stopped, turned slightly, and saw that the man had come off the train here, as well. Aha, I thought, maybe if I slow down, he will pass me and I can see where he goes.

But when I turned again a few steps later, he had vanished. There was no one remotely like him on the entire platform.

The Jew Card

Recently, my friend Junebug's purse was stolen. While this stinks in many, many ways, the worst part is the irreplaceable object: her Jew card.

A Jew card, you ask? What on earth is that? I didn't know either, so I asked.

When Junebug was in middle school, she was working on a project in a group with two other students. She and the other girl were both mostly-secular Jews, and the third was a devout Catholic boy. The girls were fascinated by the concept of a devout anything, and asked him many questions. At one point, it came up that he was, in fact, a "card-carrying" Catholic, and had a card in his wallet identifying him as Catholic in case he died and no one knew that he wanted Catholic rites. This became a subject of much hilarity. Thus, it comes as little surprise to me that on Junebug and her friend's next Hannukah they both received photo identifications, made by the little Catholic boy, declaring their religion and personal information. This treasured card never left Junebug's side.

In fact, it even came in handy once or twice; when Junebug went to visit our friend Chelonia (on whom more later) out in the vastness of the western US, Chelonia's friends decided to take them to a sex shop kind of in the middle of nowhere. Everyone out there has driver's licenses; it only makes sense, what with the lack of public transportation. But Junebug grew up in a place with the subway and a half-decent bus network, and never had learned to drive. Nor, in fact, did she have any form of official photo ID except her passport, and who carries around their passport when they don't have to? So when the sex shop workers asked the group of young college kids for their IDs to make sure they were over 18, Junebug didn't know what to do. Chelonia said, give me your wallet; I will find something. A few moments of searching later, she looked up with a huge grin on her face and said, I found it, but you're not going to like it, and handed the Jew card over to the sex shop employees.

Now, Junebug had already been mortified at holding the group up by not having a regular photo ID, and seeing the sex shop workers marvel at her Jew card (for all they knew, this was a thing carried by all Jews) made her want to just run away, but after a brief time the sex store employees handed it back to her and, being satisfied that her date of birth and picture matched reality, sent the whole group on its way in.

Hell of a thing to lose. I only hope she can get a replacement someday.

Convenience Magic

General consensus has declared that I have begun to develop a series of low-level magic spells, mainly relating to convenience.

My most practiced 'spell' is that of waitstaff summoning. When I need something at a restaurant, all I have to do is look around briefly or put something on my table ajar, and suddenly a waitstaff will appear. Some folks are more resistant to the pull of the summons than others; the other day, Walrus and a few friends and I were out to lunch, and we needed a drink refill. Our waitress was on the other side of the restaurant, talking to someone. After a few minutes of summoning, the MANAGER appeared at our table and eagerly asked if there was anything he could get us, and proceeded to wait our table for the rest of the meal. Walrus' theory is that my summoning had nearly reached critical mass, and the manager came to forestall whatever consequences that might have had.

The other similarly useful conjuration is the ability to find a parking space. It has a decent chance of working within a block of where I want to be, a good chance of working within two, and a very good chance within three. Even on busy days, or nights when only half the street is parkable, or in really crowded places.

Bones

I should start this story by telling any of you who might not know that the only nickname (or set of nicknames, I suppose) that have ever stuck to me center around cats. I am frequently known as Cat, Kitty, Koshka, Neko, and a host of other things that mean, well, cat. And no, I am not some ridiculous hardcore anthro fetishist, I am simply very catlike and have a great fondness for the creatures. This makes for a good deal of humor when there is a cat around or something that references cat behavior, for instance, when discussing the typical roleplaying merit of 'Catlike Reflexes', &c.

Now, on to the story.

A few weeks ago, Walrus and I and some friends were out to dinner. We had all been very hungry, so we ate pretty fast and then were very full. I'm sure you know the feeling: happy food-coma lethargy. Walrus had been eating ribs, and had a good portion left over, so he asked for a box. It is well established fact at this point that I love chewing on bones, and getting the marrow and such out where possible, and rib bones are pretty good for that. So when he got the box, he started putting his finished rib bones in the box as well as the ones that were still intact.

The waiter, seeing this as slightly odd behavior, stopped and asked, "Taking those bones for your dog?"

The Walrus replied, "No, cat, actually."

Worst Couple Ever

The other night, I happened to wind up on the last subway train home. Just before the busiest stop on my ride, the train stopped, mid-tunnel. This is not hugely unusual, and I was prepared for it, so I just kept reading my book.

Unfortunately for me, the people across from me on this relatively uncrowded train were not so prepared, and were evidently not having a great evening anyways.

They were a hetero couple, a standard looking blonde woman and a slightly metro man, late twenties or early thirties. The woman was holding a bouquet of flowers, mostly lilies, to which I happen to be terribly allergic. Since they sat down, the woman had been whining about what a horrible evening it was, and the man had been getting progressively more terse in his attempts to quiet her. I wasn't listening too closely, but at one point, I heard the woman say, "Fine. If you want to pay for it, open the doors and I will get out here." That's right, in the middle of the tunnel. The man replied, "Will it shut you up?" At this point, I was finally curious enough to look at them again, and was deeply perturbed to see the two of them, miserable expressions and all, snuggled up like the closest of lovers.

I looked up, sneezed, looked down, sneezed, and buried myself in my book until they got off at the next station.

Humorous Interlude: Dodging Phones

So, yesterday morning I was walking along the sidewalk not far from our house. Just like a perfectly normal walrus might do. As it happens, there's a section building which is presently under construction/repair/something, and is thus faced with scaffolding, which is built right over the sidewalk in question.
As I proceeded along, I heard a rattling noise, and was then narrowly missed by a falling object. Investigation proved it to be an older-model cell phone, apparently plummeting from the scaffolding.
I thus decided that either:

A. Someone wanted to murder me and had managed to climb up the side of a building but forgotten to bring any rocks OR
B. A construction worker just couldn't cope with the idea of one more bloody wireless bill,

In case it turned out to be A., I moved out from under the scaffolding. Once clear, I turned to look back up, and perhaps confirm either hypothesis. The scaffolding was deserted. This lead to hypothesis C:
C. Verizon will shortly be adding 'wormhole generation' to their monthly phone packages. (And yet, people will keep buying iPhones instead.)

Mr. Slimeball

It occurs to me that I have not yet taken the time to introduce you to the insanity that was my high school. I foresee that it will be the subject of many stories to come, so let me begin by painting for you a portrait of my first high school principal, Mr. Slimeball.

What I did not know going in to high school, although apparently my parents did, was that the newly appointed Slimeball was a devout follower of Louis Farrakhan. While I couldn't give a toss about his religious views, the fact was that he seemed to despise anyone not black, and this is something of a problem in a school which is 58% Hispanic and 2% white (with a few Asians mixed in), especially when, because of the fact that we were in a ghetto, that 2% are pretty much exclusively in the magnet program. The magnet program, by the way, was maybe half Caucasian, but that other 50% didn't stop us from being seen as exclusively white.

Naturally, there were conflicts from the start between my program and the principal. He would cut our funding, rearrange our teachers, and screw with our records. He put his mistress in a position of power over the magnet program, and she had no love for us either in her crazy little head. Her daughter was caught fucking some boy in a stairwell, and this lady's reaction was to get in a public screaming match with her daughter and chase her across the parking lot, beating her with a shoe. When a teacher should have been fired, Slimeball spent his oily words on keeping her around and making sure the Board, headed by his mama, wouldn't allow her to be removed. He did drive off one of the primary drivers of the program who should have been around for years to come.

It was well known that he would take every opportunity to use the funds the school received for him to spend on teacher workshops or conferences or whatever improvements he could get away with taking to vacation with his mistress. He wasn't always very bright about it, either, since one time the two of them stayed at the same hotel as a bunch of magnet kids on a field trip.

When he finally replaced his mistress as magnet counselor (maybe due to complaints, maybe he tired of her, maybe because his daughter was starting school and he didn't want to put his own daughter in her charge, or maybe his wife found out), the woman he got was even more of a racist nutjob. It all came to a crux when she sent an email, obviously meant only for Slimeball's eyes but mistakenly CCed to several of the magnet parents it was about, calling the magnet parents blue-eyed devils and using the most horrid grammar I've ever encountered (and I am a proofreader!). Incidentally, the people she called blue-eyed devils? Three Jews, a man from Africa, and a woman from China. They considered getting letter jackets.

I am skipping a number of things, but you get the idea of how he treated the magnet program. On to how he treated the Hispanic kids. You remember, the majority of the population of the school? He embezzled nearly all the funding for the ESL program, which in that neighborhood was an absolute necessity. He hired exclusively black underlings and gave them all the idea that because they were black and in power that they were superior. I don't know how many times I saw a black kid get away with something and blame it on a Hispanic kid with no retribution. He treated them with utter contempt, and encouraged it in those around him.

Naturally, the magnet parents opposed him every step of the way. They started by protesting to him, making it known that they saw what was going on. Eventually, they took it to the School Board, one of the largest in the country, and to the press. The biggest newspaper in a very big city ran a story on Slimeball the slimeball. And still, because his mama was on the board, he was never removed. In order to shut us up, the board decided to give the magnet program its own campus. Fine, we agreed, but what about the poor Hispanic kids? Well, what about them. Eventually Slimeball was promoted off the campus and into an administration position as 'punishment'. That's right, promoted.

At my graduation from the newly formed school, a tiny, underfunded affair practically designed to anger anyone with anger left to spend (in a church, presided by a board member who was firmly in Slimeball's pocket), the thing that, to my mind, was the absolute slimiest of all the slimy things I'd seen him do happened. Maybe because it directly involved me. As we waited for the ceremony to start, grumbling at our disgustingly patriotic graduation robes and absurd situation, who should show up but Mr. Slimeball himself. You could have cut the silence with a knife. Up he walks to me, and forcibly takes my hand, and shaking it, says, "Congratulations." And then he tried to chat with me. I washed my hand like an OCD hard case for a week.

Taking the Meter

Normally, I'm rather fond of my current gas/electricity company. They are much less of a hassle than any I've dealt with before, in general, not least because they make online payment exceedingly simple. But occasionally they pull out all the idiot-stops.

Several months ago, I received a letter saying that our gas meter was overdue to be inspected or changed or whatever it is they actually do. So I called to make an appointment, figuring that they don't really need me to be around because gas meters go on the outside of the house anyway, but I may as well schedule it for when I'm here in case something is wrong. I work out a time with them, and they say they'll be here within a four hour window. Fine.

About two days before they are supposed to come, they call to reschedule. Something has come up and the earliest they can reschedule the meter checking to is nearly a month later. That's silly, but fine; I can handle the day they want to come, although I may have to get my housemate to be in charge of idiot control.

About a week later, though, they call back AGAIN. They have to reschedule again, for some unspecified reason, and their date is yet another month later (a few days ago now). Fine, fine, as long as it's after I'm back from vacation, you silly whatsis.

Finally, the date they are supposed to show up arrives. I am faced with a mild conundrum; I have a four hour window in which to expect them, and I haven't yet showered. So I figure, okay, I'll just take a quick shower and by the time I get out, either they will have called and I can call them back, or they won't be here yet. Besides, they're supposed to call fifteen minutes before they get here, so unless they call the second I get in, I won't miss them.

Predictably, however, the second I step out of the shower, the doorbell rings. Hello, Mr. Gas Meterman. I step out to say hello and ask if there is anything he needs from me, which as far as I know there shouldn't be. Instead, I am cut off by a rant about how important it is that I answer the phone, and what if he had rung the wrong doorbell and gotten someone who hadn't taken their meds today and came out shooting, because that happened once you know.

After a few seconds of staring at him in annoyance and mild disbelief, I interrupt the flow of vaguely accented words to apologize briefly and ask if there is anything he needs from me.

Yes, he says, he needs to get into the basement. Wait, what? No one said anything about that. So I ask, isn't the meter outside? Well, apparently he needs to get to some 'appliances', mainly the furnace, to make sure that everything is relit after he messes with it. Well, I say, I didn't know that, and I can't get into the basement because that's my landlord's apartment. If you'll just wait a moment, I'll go get my phone so I can call him.

Only I don't get to say all of that, because as soon as I say I can't let him in, he goes on another tirade about how I should have made arrangements for this and where is my landlord can he talk to him and... At this point, I cut him off midsentence, because I couldn't figure out what else to do. If you will excuse me for just a moment, I said, I will go call my landlord and find out about this. Please wait here. He didn't shut up long enough for me to leave, so I left him standing there talking to the door while I called my landlord.

Here comes the interesting part, because as soon as I told my landlord what was going on, he says: What's the guy's name? Unsure how it matters, I find out and tell him. He goes, let me talk to him.

Turns out, my landlord knows the guy, and well enough to be able to shut him up and get something useful out of him. When I get the phone back, the meter guy goes and works on the outside of the house, like I thought he would, and I am assured that everything else is normal and needs no interference.

What a lot of bother over nothing!

AirTran

I recently took a vacation to visit my friend Wolf down in parts far enough from here that driving would have been more than flying. Upon perusing the cost of tickets, I determined that AirTran was the cheapest and the most direct. I had no experience with AirTran, despite having travelled at least once every couple of months for most of my life, but reviews were decent, so I (poor, foolish me) went ahead and booked them.

Dear readers (if indeed any of you are still reading after my absurdly long hiatus), please do yourself a favor and do not use AirTran unless it is the only option. The customer service bucket? They took it.

Due to circumstances which could be another entry here entirely, I was five minutes late for my 7:30 a.m. flight home. I assumed that I would be put on another flight and perhaps made to spend slightly more money, but that I would still be able to get home relatively soon. That was, while not making me any happier, fine.

What actually happened was this. When I got in the line to the check-in counter to go deal with this issue, I tried to ask the woman directing the line about it. Before I could do more than say that I had missed my flight, she snapped at me rudely and said that I'd have to go on standby. She didn't even tell me whether or not I was in the right line, which was all I wanted to know from her.

Then I got to the woman behind the counter and began to ask her. At the same point in my question, she interrupted me to tell me the same thing and peremptorily asked for my ID. She looked at me as at a small child who had misbehaved or a dog which had shat in her best shoes and told me to go to gate FarAway39 and wait to be told what to do.

Annoyed, but glad to know where to go, I left. When I got to the gate, I went up to the counter to see if there was anything else I should be doing. I was informed off-handedly that I was number five on the list of standbys and that the flight was oversold, so not to bother waiting. The next flight would be four hours later at the next gate over.

At the next gate, they told me that I was number 12 on a standby list of nearly 30. Having now been at this airport for two hours past when I was supposed to arrive home and having been treated horribly thus far, I persisted in asking what else they could do to get me home. At length, they asked if I had been confirmed on any flight. No, I said, what does that mean and why hasn't it been done already? It meant that they should have, at the check-in counter, confirmed me on a seat for the first open flight after mine when they put me on standby, and if they had, I'd have had a seat on the 2:00 flight. By the time I found this out, however, the only seat they could get me was for the 9:00 flight, the last one of the day. Fuming, I waited as they called perhaps five standbys on to that flight and sent me back to the previous gate for the next flight, going out at 3:00.

Back at the first gate, I went up again and explained a little less patiently my situation. They told me that I was now 15 on a list of 40 standbys, and that there was nothing they could do about it. Predictably, this flight, too, went by without me, and I was sent to yet another gate to wait for the 4:30 flight.

At this gate, at last, someone seemed to give a shit. They seemed shocked at how I'd been treated thus far, and not only moved me up to number 1 on the standby list, but then figured out that they could confirm me a seat on their flight. At last, I would go home!

And then the flight was delayed by weather. Hah.

But I think the best part is that after all of that, AirTran sent me a survey. Well, I guess they won't like that data!

The Place

Long ago in a land far, far away, I lived in an apartment complex. This apartment complex was fairly nice, and I enjoyed most of my time there insofar as one enjoys an apartment per se. You know, except when the gate was broken or the roof falling in. But it was pretty good overall; I even had power when the rest of the city was out.

Telling people how to get there, however, was always interesting. The name of this apartment complex, you see, was The Place. While at first glance this seems clever and slightly metaphysical, in practice it caused much confusion and hassle.

Me: It's The Place, right ahead of you when you come down the road.
Potential visitor: Okay. What's it called?
Me: The Place.
PV: The Palace?
Me: No. The Place.
PV: What place?!
Me: That's what it's called!

Sobriety is for Wimps

Greetings, fellow internettians. After a few months of reading this, I suggested to Neko and Walrus that I might have something to contribute, and get this, the fools believed me. So, story-time with Fizzgig commences now.

Early on in my freshman year at PCU, I still spent evening times with my hallmates more often than not (like ya do). One night in particular, there was a party with a decidedly sexual theme, and these hallmates decided, with inarguable logic, that it would be best to combine this event with alcohol. Now, being not so much a drinker at that point in my life, I had but a little, but one of my hallmates, we'll call him Mr. Potato Head, had quite a bit more. So much more, in fact, that another of my hallmates, we'll call him Yankee, was prompted to begin what would become the most memorable exchange of the evening:

Yankee: Potato, you're looking a little flushed...
Potato: WHaa?
Yankee: Your face is looking a little red.
Potato: /dabs finger on face, licks finger/ Doesn't taste red...

The moral of this story: If it ever starts to seem reasonable to taste your skin to determine color, put down the booze.

Time Travel

An odd thing happened today. When I checked my Facebucket account, I discovered a friend request and message from a woman I've never met... maybe.

As many of you know, my Facebucket is under a name which is not mine; it was an experiment to see if it would work to change my name, and even though it has failed I haven't ever gotten around to changing it back. When combined with my own last name, it is very distinctive; even our Google Overlords (all hail) only know of one person by that name.

The message I received went something like this:

Bonjour! There can't possibly be two people by that name; are you the one I met in Paris in the early 1980s with a mania for punctuation?

Well, as I was born in the early 1980s, it seems to me that this could not be. But I do love both French and punctuation. So I wrote back to this woman, letting her know of the odd coincidence.

But really, what's in a name, or for that matter, a date? The Walrus theorized that, since there are no coincidences, I must have traveled back in time; I haven't met this woman yet- but I will!

Western Spaghetti

Apologies, Dear Readers, for the unscheduled break for... technical difficulties. Right. That was it. It totally wasn't because I was busy and forgot until I was nearly asleep for the last week or so.

In any case, let me tell you of a strange thing which happened today.

Today, as happens every so often, the Walrus' parents came to visit. When they do this, they like to take us out to dinner. A fairly normal problem with this habit is that we can't think of anywhere to go. So tonight, a steak place was suggested, and we decided to ask the giant brain of humanity: the internet.

The internet thought of a couple of places, the closer of which was a restaurant which shall be known as The Corral. Given the name and the many reviews saying that it was good, we had a reasonable expectation of getting some good steak. So off we drove to the Corral.

We entered the Corral and were met with a bizarre sight: a sports bar-like atmosphere at the entrance with Western decor on the brick walls, but bright lights and fancy place settings on the tables. The empty tables. There was one guy at the bar, and one small family in the restaurant itself. Over the speakers came the sounds of a light-rock radio station. But it had gotten good reviews, so we decided to stick it out.

In confusion, we sat and looked at our menus. The menu contained two steak products: steak tips and a sirloin. Instead of the anticipated cow feast, we found ourselves presented with a very typical Italian menu. After much hemming and hawing, we again decided that we would stick it out- we were too hungry to find another place.

Our waitress, although clearly an established member of the small staff, was very inexperienced and slow. There was one other waitress, but she spent all her time chatting with the family that was already seated.

The Walrus brought up the fact that there was a sign outside saying the ownership had recently changed. How long ago were those reviews? Before they decided to have an Italian restaurant in a steak joint, apparently!

Meanwhile, in between getting our appetizers and ordering our main courses (yes), someone hit the jukebox with a country western song. Right over top of the light-rock radio and the hockey game on TV. After a few minutes of acoustic bombardment, we finally caught a waitress and asked her to get one or the other turned off. Eventually it did.

At one point, right behind me, I heard our waitress sing (off key and not in time with the jukebox song anyways), "Rock the beat!"

By this point, we have decided that we've definitely lost our hats* and run into a surrealist restaurant. Perhaps they should rename it the Frosty Chicken**!



* http://www.girlgeniusonline.com/comic.php?date=20031017
Also, a nod to the spaghetti western tradition of hats taking bullets for the hero.

** See story to come.

Nice Hat

There came a point, not far one direction or the other in time from that fateful September, at which I was returning to this country from studying in Europe. It was summer, and I had needed a large hat in order not to burn horribly while I puttered about the European countryside. This meant that I was wearing the hat while going through customs; large hats are somewhat inconvenient to pack.

At the customs desk at the end of the line, there was a young man in his twenties or so looking bored as bored can be. I handed him my passport with some moderate trepidation (I always feel slightly nervous when dealing in Official Papers). He took it, looking me straight in the eye, then glancing up at the hat, then back to me. He took his stamp, opened the passport to the appropriate page without looking, stamped, and said, "Nice hat," somewhat derisively.

He then handed my passport back and moved on to the next person with equal boredom.

Hurricane

Several years ago, back in my hometown of Hell, a rather large hurricane came through. Everyone was stampeding grocery stores and outdoor goods places like a herd of spooked wildebeest with a penchant for stakeouts. Dutifully (prompted by my mother) I picked up some bottled water and canned food; I then got a couple of plastic tarps and nailed them over the giant windows in my apartment (which I thought was more likely to be useful).

The hurricane was supposed to hit from late afternoon/evening to early the next morning. I went out on the walkways of my second floor apartment during the early afternoon to watch the storm roll in. Then, as the rain started, I went back into my apartment and double checked all the plugs, the pipes, the windows. Then I settled in bed with a good book and read until I finally fell asleep to the sound of pouring rain and lashing winds.

About five in the morning, my cell phone rang. It was still pitch black, and the rain was beating at my windows with greater fury than I had ever seen. I answered the phone groggily.

"Are you all right?!" my mother asked. "It's supposed to be worst where you are!"

I took stock. Myself, undamaged but for interrupted sleep. My windows, intact. My roof, intact. My power, still on, although the clocks were flashing. "Yes, Mom, I'm fine. Are you okay?"

Apparently, about an hour earlier, the tree behind her house had started creaking mightily, and she decided it was safer to hide in the closet than her bedroom, which was rather close to said tree. She'd been up listening to the radio since, and got the idea into her head that I was in terrible danger. After reassuring her a couple more times and making sure she was okay, I went back to sleep.

When the storm cleared, it was obvious that I'd escaped any real damage. I took down the tarps; the windows hadn't cracked. My car was fine; my home was fine; my power was on. The water didn't work, but I'd planned for a day or so of that. As it turns out, I was among 4% of the entire city that still had power, and pretty much the only person I knew in town who hadn't suffered so much as a broken window or a flooded car. My mother's tree fell, but fortunately it fell in the direction it could do the least possible damage: into the pool. I ended up having three (sometimes four) friends over in an extended slumber party to keep them out of the heat.

But the funniest part? I slept through a freaking hurricane. G'night, folks.

Travels and Tribulations

Yesterday, the Walrus and I were taking the train home from a place so far that we were scheduled to be aboard said train for approximately eight hours. We had a very nice vacation; thanks for asking.

The first absolutely ridiculous thing was that the main announcer on the train was a woman who clearly did not know that her microphone was set to 11. The rest of us cringed every time an announcement was made as we tried desperately to not need that analgesic yet again. At one point, the conductor came on at normal volume and said, "Conductor to mid-train, do you read me?" to which the very loud woman replied, "I hear you just fine, but apparently you're not hearing me." The irony was not lost on our poor ringing ears.

About halfway through the trip home, we encountered one of the larger stops along the way. The train stopped just short of the station, and then the very loud woman began again. "Attention all passengers, please clear the aisle; the conductor needs to come through, and the faster he can get by the faster we can get this figured out." A few minutes went by. "Attention all passengers, please take your seats. We will be backing up the train and you must be seated for us to move." The train began to inch slowly backwards.

About ten minutes of backwards crawl later, the conductor came on. "I'm sorry folks; there's a disabled train ahead of us at the station, and we're backing up to switch to another track. We'll be out of here as soon as we can." Everyone's frowns lessened slightly and we waited some more. About five minutes passed, and yet another voice came on and announced, "It seems there's a disabled train on our track. Thanks for your patience while we back up and switch to another track." Hmm, thought I, the right hand knows not what the left does. Another five minutes of backing, and suddenly the loud woman came on. "I think what's going on is that there's a disabled train at the station. We're backing up to find another track. I repeat, there's a disabled train, and we're backing up to find another track."

Another ten minutes or so went by before we managed, evidently, to switch tracks and get into the station. The ticket takers walked through the train explaining that we had just gotten around a disabled train, and that we would shortly reach the station.

Getting back to our city (an hour late), the Walrus and I then proceeded to get on the local subway. The time there said 12:15. This being clearly wrong, we thought it must have simply been forgotten during the change of DST. We were tired, went home, and collapsed. When I awoke this morning, however, it occurred to me that this could not possibly have been the case; if they had forgotten to switch the time, it would have been 10:15. Some silly station worker must have switched the clocks twice!

Story the Fifth: Lions

A few years ago, my mother and I went on a week-long photo safari in South Africa. There are any number of remarkable events associated with this trip, including the bizarre story of how we came to go on it in the first place. These, however, are stories for another day. Today, we shall speak of lions. We were assigned a group of four other safari-ers, and the resulting group of six was assigned a guide. Our guide, who shall be known as Gerald (needless to say, this is not his name), joined the group for meals to discuss what we wanted to do and see during the day, and would drive the open truck-like vehicle from which we observed the wildlife each day. The 'hotel', for lack of a better term (it was more like a 'motel without cars, but with monkey and attached massive wooden Beowulf-style dining hall'), was located on a massive game reserve - there were no other buildings visible in any direction. Most days, we would drive about on this, at look at zebras, warthogs, giraffes, and rhinocerii. However, it was generally agreed that it would be silly to go on such a trip and not see elephants, and there were very few elephants on this particular reserve, so the chances of seeing one were low. To correct this, we planned a day-long trip the the much larger Hluhlu-Umfoluzi game reserve (this is even harder to say than it is to spell. I've probably done both wrong. Sorry). Elephants there were, in plenty. and Gerald was ebullient. "See!", he cried "You ask for elephants, I find you elephants. What do you want to see now?"
We wanted to see a lion. Even in this larger reserve, however, lions were scarce, and we were prepared to search in vain. We were lucky, however, and got a tip from another truck of tourists that there had been a lioness seen at a particular location earlier in the day. When we arrived there, there was a single large dead tree perhaps a hundred yards from the road, and in it was a lioness. This was fantastic, and we spent perhaps half an hour photographing, filming, and generally being in wonder of the big cat. Careful observation revealed two sets of ears likely belonging to more lions otherwise entirely concealed in the long grass at the base of the tree. It is at this point that things take a turn for the truly bizarre, for at this point Gerald began to climb out of the vehicle. Apparently, he wanted to convince the lion to move for us. When the lofty cat took no notice of him, he tried shouting at it. The lioness, however, was clearly quite satisfied with her location, and simply stared back, no doubt wondering what the silly apes was up to this time. Having failed to produce results by any method still in the general vicinity of sanity, Gerald picked up a rock and hurled it at the lion. I'm going to say that again, because most readers 'weirdness filter' will have prevented them from fully comprehending it. He began throwing rocks at the lion. He had an impressive arm, and the rocks were falling perhaps two thirds of the way to the tree. This was apparently enough to convince the lioness that this was no longer a sufficiently restful sunning spot, so she stood and gracefully and deliberately descended the tree and vanished into the grass.
All I can add to this is the Mythbusters Standard Disclaimer: "Don't try this at home, we're what you call 'experts'."

Story the Fourth: Trains

I'm a big fan of trains as a way of getting where you're going. They're safer than cars, faster than walking, and much, much freer of irritation than airplanes. Train travel places the traveller in a slightly surreal state of being: the landscape slides by, gradually changing. If you fall asleep, you awaken in a distinctly different place. Some would say an airplane does the same, but honestly one bunch of clouds that you have to dislocate your neck to see through two layers of semi-transparent material look much like any other. In any case, the unique environment of trains can lead to odd experiences, and so I shall relate one such. This event took place when I was about five. My parents and I were taking a cross-country trip, by train, to visit an aunt in California. For anyone who hasn't done this, it's a three full day trip, which means sleeping on the train at least twice. During the second night, somewhere in the wilds of the American west, we were awakened by the train crew with the news that due to heavy rainfall, a bridge somewhere farther along the line had literally fallen down. It was stated that we might well have to get off the train and get shuffled to another on the far side of the ravine by bus, but that we should 'wait and see'. For what, we weren't entirely sure. The mystery persisted for at least an hour, at which point we were informed that the Army Corps of Engineers had been dispatched and that they had erected a temporary replacement bridge. We were unaware that this was a thing, and the attitude of the train crew was less than reassuring. However, after only a few more hours the train began to inch slowly forward. It made its way over the 'temporary replacement bridge' with much groaning of metal, and we were on our way again.

Not What It Looks Like

Back in high school, I was part of a group called JSA. For those unfamiliar, this is essentially a big political debate mock-government for high schoolers all over the country, thus Junior Statesmen of America. Normally I make a point of staying out of politics, especially in my home state, but that was the club my friends were in, and it was run by the best teacher.

One of the many odd things brought about by this club happened on one of the semiannual field trips to other parts of the region, where we, a group of crazy high schoolers, stayed together in a hotel with a bunch of other crazy high schoolers. It was getting late one evening, and my friend Cello was getting tired. She borrowed a friend's green sweater, which was so huge on her it went down past the end of her skirt, but mainly this looked cute; after all, she was very small. Then she got our friend Ozzy, a big, burly guy with rocker hair, to carry her back to where our rooms were. This involved, at one point, going down some stairs.

Perhaps you have seen where this is going. They certainly didn't.

On the second or third stair down, Ozzy tripped, dropped Cello, fell down the stairs and came to rest directly on top of her. He immediately went into a pushup position and started asking, "Are you okay?" worriedly.

After a few seconds and Cello's sleepily bemused answer that she was fine, Ozzy noticed that people were staring. He was atop her, face to face at the foot of the stairs, and she looked to be wearing nothing but a big green sweater. I think he hurt himself getting off her so quickly. I probably hurt myself laughing.

Quote Day, the Fourth

"This is the happy van, dammit!"

-the Angry Chainmailler

Tea Party in the Park

Today (yesterday?) was my friend Alice's Unbirthday Party. The festivities were held in a large public park, an Alice-themed tea party of magnificent proportions, costumes required. Naturally, yours truly went as the Cheshire Cat, the Walrus as the Walrus. Before the party, though, my good friend Pixy wanted some help with her costume: the Oysters.

So we got some clam shells and cleaned them out and drilled some holes in them, then strung them together to make a castanet and some hand-coverings. As one does.

So, a Walrus, a Cat, and some Oysters trundled down to the park for tea.

This is a big park, so once we got there, we had a little trouble finding our friends. Luckily for us, as we meandered we encountered the March Hare and a Domino woman. "You must be on your way to the tea party!" exclaimed the March Hare.

"Why yes," I grinned, "we are indeed."

"Follow us; we know the way!" And off they skipped, arm in arm, down the path ahead. After a brief stop to dance for some onlookers, they led us directly to the festivities.

There must have been fifty people there, fully costumed and partaking in such fine activities as juggling, tumbling, and general merrymaking. There were, of course, snacks and tea. We saw the White Rabbit and his lady, Alice; there were Cards with bouquets of white roses painted red; we saw a Jabberwock, who lent her mighty steel claws to the dormouse for safekeeping; and more and more and more. I do believe I might have been the only Cheshire Cat, but that was all to the good. I went over to some friends I'd seen and took out my contact juggling ball, joining their fun.

Not long later, our attention was called by the Unbirthday Girl herself, Alice. She proclaimed that each of the four Mad Hatters must join in a battle to the death - or at least de-hatting - until only one Hatter remained. The rules were as follows: each must grab a weapon of their choice; the fight would go on until only one hat remained on; the participants must be insane; and the weapons could not be held by hands. The Hatters took to this challenge with grins on their faces and weaponry in their elbows. Two were quickly defeated. The remaining two were called for a second round. They must fight by pinwheel until only one retained his weapon! They began by holding their weapons in their teeth, but both soon tired of this. Alice proclaimed that they must resort to their knees. With mighty shouts from the crowd (Keep it UP, lads!), the battle recommenced, but soon, one Hatter moved too fast and lost his pinwheel to gravity. The remaining Hatter was declared the victor, and all other Hatters must remove their hats in tribute.

After convincing the Walrus to attempt to learn contact juggling, I relented at last and took up my poi instead. Hours of silliness, spinning, crowd-garnering attention, and conversation with friends old and new, at last it came to dusk. As it grew cold again, we packed up our things and left.

Then we met up with Pixy's husband for fried chicken and silly Youtube videos. No matter how depressing things can get, this kind of crazy day is what makes me love my life. "The dandelion has my smile..."

Flying Tiger

Back to PCU. The Walrus, Fizzgig, Schmendrick and I lived together for a couple of years. Naturally, some funny things happened. Many of them centered around Schmendrick doing something silly.

Schmendrick happens to be obsessed with most things to do with WWII, and not least among these things is the board game Axis and Allies. For those not familiar, this is a Risk-like game in which each player takes on a role of one of the major powers involved in WWII: the US, the UK, Russia, Germany, or Japan. Schmendrick thought it would be fun to play a game among our housemates. He took Russia, mostly to show us how to play and then to extricate himself from the game (by the third turn, Russia had a couple of ships left), Walrus took the UK, Fizzgig took the US, and I took the Axis. I sucked as Germany, but apparently I did very well as Japan (shock, surprise).

Schmendrick stopped helping me after the third turn, giving his advice to the Allies. But he did hover over my shoulder, making comments on the historical accuracy of my moves. As I sent some air troops over China, he started going on about a squad known as the Flying Tigers who did something more or less like it.

I happen to have no real audio filters. This occasionally makes it very hard for me to concentrate on complex things, such as an Axis and Allies turn, while people are talking around me. After a few moments of waiting for Schmendrick to stop, I finally decided to stop him myself.

I turned suddenly on him, got in his face, held my hands up in claws, and roared at the top of my lungs.

Schmendrick choked on his words, turned bright red, and, eyes widening in startlement, backed away as far as he could go. Which wasn't very far, as it happened; he backed straight into a corner. And then slid down the wall. Into the trash can.

After the laughing stopped, I took my turn.

The Virtuoso: Three Stories

Ever since I was very small, I have known I have a good friend out there, even if we haven't seen each other in years. The Virtuoso is the son of my mother's best friend from childhood, and every time we traveled back to the breadbasket town whence came my mother, we went to go visit. Of course, this being something in my life, most every time we have met up has been strange enough to warrant a story.

When I was scouting universities, we went to visit my parents' alma mater, which, not so incidentally, is also my mother's best friend's alma mater and employer. Of course, we visited with the family as well. The alma mater is in a place where, unlike my hometown, it snows in the winter, and it was about to be winter, but it was not supposed to snow until after we had left. I adore the snow, so I was very disappointed.

The Virtuoso and I were discussing a mutual passion, fencing, and we decided to go outside where there would be space enough to demonstrate. When we walked outside, it had begun to snow.

We promptly abandoned the idea of fencing and ran to acquire sleds. It was my first time actually sledding; we had a great time. But as we returned indoors, I realized I had lost my favorite necklace, a pendant of a cat with a purple globe. I was sad, but it was worth it; the Virtuoso, however, decided to put some time and effort into finding it. After scanning the yards and roads all along the hill we sledded down, he actually found it right in his own front yard. He put it in an envelope and sent it to me.

It never arrived.

The next oddity was about five years later. I was living back in my hometown, working and plotting ways to come back to places where it snows, when one Saturday I got a phone call from a number I didn't recognize. When I picked up the phone, who should it be but the Virtuoso?

"Hello, I am in your town visiting my girlfriend! We are going to see the Christmas Revels in an hour, and we have a spare ticket. Want to come?"

I used to go every year with my best friend; of course I was going! But I was rather shocked. I was especially shocked to realize that his girlfriend and her family lived a mere three streets away from me!

Between then and yesterday, I hadn't heard from him and didn't particularly worry about it. In that time, I moved across the country and settled in. In fact, I'd been here a full year when I noticed late the night before last that the Virtuoso's Facebucket status mentioned he would be here for an event. Naturally, I sent him a brief message, hoping we could meet up, and got a real surprise.

He wasn't coming here; he lives here. In fact, he lives about a ten minute walk from my apartment. After a few brief messages yesterday, he showed up for my weekly game night!

Who knew.

"Linguistics is a pile of cats"

Walrus and I have been talking again (at this hour, a sure sign of trouble/hilarity). We have just been expanding on the metaphor of languages as various kinds of house cats.

American English, we've decided, is a big, fat, orange tabby with a torn ear and no taste for new people. Japanese is a sleek gray kitty who will come investigate but doesn't like to purr or be played with. The Romance languages are purrers.

Russian is a big, angry tomcat who likes to sleep on things. "I claim this couch for RUSSIA!"

Swahili is a climbing cat, doesn't like to sit still. And the Nordic languages are the friendly ones, the ones that are almost dog-like in their affection.

Additions to the list are welcome.

We Sharpen Anything!

Somewhere among the backroads around PCU there is a little shop. This shop has a little sign, very old and mostly illegible, hanging by the road. The only words that can be read on this sign are, "We sharpen anything!"

Needless to say, every time my friends and I drove past this sign, it was a real contest for who could come up with the funniest thing to take in to get sharpened.

"A banana!"

"Your hair!"

"Vermont Cheddar!"

"My wits!"

Sadly, we never did get around to taking anything odd in to get it sharpened. Perhaps someday we shall.

Quote Day, the Third

Braaawk! Trite postmodernism!

-Count Zero

BiiiiiirdMAN!

The other week, I was out to dinner with Sweetums and his aunt, a formidable old lady with a no-nonsense attitude and a great sense of humor. I looked out the window at one point and couldn't help but stare as a figure in a bird mask, complete with raptorial beak and covering his whole head, and colorful cape strode by the restaurant. I stopped mid-sentence in conversation with Sweetums' aunt and had to take a moment to find my place again.

A few days later, Walrus was coming home from somewhere, and he came up to me chortling and bemused. "I just saw a man in a bird mask," he told me.

Evidently, Birdman lives around here, somewhere.

Story the Third, Part the Second: Thin Walls make Strange Neighbors

A brief refresher: During our storied second year at PCU, Schmendrick and I were housed in a particularly unpleasant building among strange and unpleasant people. This is an account of one such, who occupied the room next to ours.
I don't believe I ever learned this personage's name, as we seldom met. In the way of visual information, we assembled the following: Our neighbor was almost certainly male, tall, thin, and probably possessed of some Asian ancestry.
All else which we learned of him came in the form of auditory transfer of insufficiently buffering materiel. Which is to say, the connecting wall was thin and of shoddy construction and we could hear him all too well. Via this route we learned:
Firstly, that he was inordinately fond of online poker games. Late into the night we would hear the steady yet intermittent bells, whistles, and synthesized wind chimes as he presumably amassed and lost fortunes. These were punctuated by infrequent cheers and significantly less infrequent curses and shouts.
Second, he was posessed of... what's a suitable phrase... 'intimate companion'. We never saw her, and in fact can only assume it was a her based on... erm... audio cues, let's say. Of course, we strongly hope that said cues were not entirely accurate, since if they were, the person in question was about twelve.
These, then were the conditions we tolerated at all times. I will finish by recounting an incident which, while it occured but the once, feels representiative of said conditions.
This story takes place during late evening*. I believe Shmendrick was already asleep, I was finishing some assignment for my data structures class (see entry '...and the Wings Fall Off!') when I heard from the hall just outside our door a series of sounds for which 'kerfuffle' should be elevated to onomatopoeia. This sort of thing happened in this setting, so at first I paid it no mind. Once the sirens started, however, it seemed prudent to peek out and ensure that the world wasn't coming to an end. By the time I extracted myself and made my way to the door (armed with a sword, just in case I was wrong and Armageddon was at hand), I observed the following individuals clustered around our neighbor's open door: said neighbor, clearly dressed for bed and apparently bleeding from a sizable cut on his hand, a young woman I had never seen before, a middle-aged woman I had also never seen before, a representative of campus security, and what looked like both a real live paramedic and an honest-to-goodness policeman (the latter in particular being an extreme rarity in this building). Having established that no demons were going to attempt to batter down the door, I went back to work. It was later established that the course of events outside had been roughly these:
The young woman was a recent graduate who, for reasons unclear, had brought her mother (the older woman) back to campus on some sort of nostalgia-fueled tour. She, the daughter, was a member and former resident of the building in which we resided, and had occupied last year the room now containing our next-door poker-loving non-associate. Clearly drunk off her ass, she had decided to visit her old room. At around 11 pm. I'm not sure what her mother's excuse for allowing this was. Perhaps she was drunk too. Anyway, they had approached the room and simply walked in - without bothering to turn the light on. Neighbor Boy, awakened from a likely drug-influenced nap, in the dark, by two people invading his room, got up with such haste and lack of coordination that he broke a mirror and cut his hand on it, at which point he commenced screaming with such volume and ferocity that his uninvited guests called the police.



*A note for non-college students regarding the divsion of time: Time in for us was described by the interactions of the 24 hour solar cycle and and the variable length 'waking cycle', defined as the duration between two times when you wake up, with a minimum of about 14 hours and a maximum in excess of 72. Evening, on a day where you have classes, begins at the end of your last class and lasts until the time you begin the sleep that end with the beginning of the next waking cycle. On days when you do not have classes, evening begins either at dusk or shortly after the first meal of the waking cycle, and lasts until the first time you say or thing 'I should have gone to sleep by now'. Evening follows 'day', and is followed either by 'sleep time', if you took your own advice about going to bed, or 'ass-o-clock in the morning', if you did not.

Taking the Plunger

Sweetums has a work-study job, and, like so many of them, it includes a moronic overseer type. Today he came back with a story from one of his fellow underlings about the severity of the boss' moronic tendencies.

This poor schmuck is the janitor for the offices of a technical school. He goes in to a bathroom one day only to find that some asshat has made a complete mess of one of the stalls. He looks about for a plunger to start repairing the damage, and can't find one. So he goes to the bossperson and says, "Do you know where I can find a plunger?"

The bossperson looks at the janitor and says, "What the hell do you need a plunger for?"

Okay, so this is the janitor's boss, and the janitor kindly refrains from pointing out that HE'S A JANITOR. Why else would he need a plunger? "Well, sir, one of the bathrooms is a mess, and I'd like to start cleaning it up."

"You don't know where the plunger is?" comes the incredulous reply.

"No, sir, I looked everywhere, and I didn't see one, so I came to ask."

This scintillating repartee went on for some five minutes before the boss finally exclaimed, "This is not my problem! Why did you bring this to me? Go deal with it!"

...

Later, it was determined that the janitor was docked pay for the duration of this interview.

Weave

I went to an inner city public school with a magnet program. The proportions of the school were something like as follows: 54% Hispanic, 40% Black, 5% White and 1% Asian. As you might guess, the 5% were all in the magnet program. This did not mean that all the White kids were better off than the rest; it meant that the neighborhood around the school was predominantly Black and Hispanic. However, this was often interpreted as some kind of holier-than-thou racism. I never quite understood it.

As one of the minority, I was from time to time subjected to contempt, anger, and ridicule. Some were more subtle than others. But one of the strangest I can recall happened late in the spring of my junior year.

I was heading home at the end of an unusually pleasant (weather-wise) day. My car was parked in the back lot, past a number of buildings that only held classes for students who were not in the magnet program. As it was a nice day out, I had let my hair down for once. My hair, for those of you who don't know, is a giant mass of frizzy, curly, auburn tangles that, when well treated, goes down about to my waist. Most of the time it is either too hot out or too much of a pain to let down.

As I walked past the last of the buildings towards the parking lot, I passed a group of girls from the regular program sitting on some stairs. I didn't know them, and they seemed engrossed in their conversation, so I walked by without thinking too much about it. Suddenly, I felt a great pain in my scalp, stepped backwards and whirled, ready to face my attacker.

One of the girls had gotten up, reached out, and grabbed a large hank of my hair towards the bottom. She immediately let go and backed away as I turned, saying only, "Nice hair."

I contemplated the situation for a stunned moment, deciding to let it go. "Thanks. Don't ever do that again." I walked away hoping they wouldn't follow me. They didn't.

Hours later, I realized that she hadn't meant to hurt me- she'd thought I was wearing weave and wanted to tear it out and make fun of me. The preposterousness of the whole event boggles me to this day.

The Violet Abomination

Since moving to this town, it has been my (admittedly adopted) custom to host a board games evening every Tuesday. For a long while, the regular attendees were myself, my housemate Arisbe, and our friend Francis. All of us happen to share a love for absurdity, and one week, Arisbe announced that she had found something we would all enjoy that happened to happen on board game night: the Spike show "Deadliest Warrior".

As some of you may already know or have guessed, this show was a finely honed example of absurdity and violence. The premise is this: take two categories of famous warrior (say, Shaolin monk and Italian mobster) and get some 'experts' to come on the show, talk big, and demonstrate some of the preferred weaponry. Then they put their data into a magical computer simulator and decide the victor. Complete with 'reenactments' of the supposed fights.

All three of us are history buffs of one sort or another. We decided it must be watched. Francis declared that this would require hard liquor to numb the pain of stupid; he said he'd bring some.

The next games night, after a rousing game of something or other, we sat down in front of the telebi and turned the channel to Spike. Francis pulled out his backpack and brought forth two bottles: Scotch and something brilliantly purple and slightly disturbing.

The violet liquor was something Francis did not know; he'd gotten it out of an elderly relative's cabinet somewhere, and decided that if ever there was a time to find out, this was probably it. We each took a tiny swallow.

It tastes, if you will forgive the poetry, like some rose petals died in a vat of sugar water and then fermented.

Francis declared that he was going to pour it out, but I decided I liked the color of it. He let me keep it. Even now, it lives on top of the television. Right next to the duck.

Sick

When I was about eight, I had a very surreal experience while rather ill.

I had contracted some sort of virus, as I often did (and still do, albeit less frequently) and was miserable for much of a day and evening. At long last, around dusk, I finally fell asleep. When I woke, I noted that a) my fever had broken, and b) the dawn was just breaking. How odd, I thought, to have slept only until dawn.

I went out into the kitchen, feeling hungry for the first time since I fell ill, and was surprised to find my entire family dressed and at the table. "Family breakfast?" I asked. My family stared at me, apparently not having heard me get up. They took in the nightgown and the question, and finally my mother said, "No, it's dinnertime."

I had slept a full 24 hours and not even noticed.

Quote Day, the Second

In honor of my good friend's wedding, which happened two days ago, and also the fact that I am feeling lazy.

"Knives are a lot like cards, you know; at first you keep them concealed." Insert image of a small, fey girl holding a bunch of plastic knives all lined up so they look like only one. "But then you go ALL OUT!" Then she fans them out, grinning maniacally.

Swimming

We return you now to the life and near-death times of our good friend Shmendrick. Shmendrick spent a while abroad in Germany, and while he was there he and a couple of his friends encountered a river. The river was at a place that was narrow-ish and curving, and the current near the bank they were on was slow.

Somehow these factors added up in Shmendrick's head to the need to swim across the river.

His friends tried to dissuade him, but were eventually persuaded to meet him on the other side. In full garb, Shmendrick jumped into the river and began to swim.

About halfway across, physics asserted itself; on the outside of the curve of a narrow part of the river, the current is FAST. Shmendrick found himself being carried quickly off course and struggling just to stay above the water. He told me later that he wasn't sure he would make it across at all, and was exhausted when he pulled himself up on the bank a couple of miles downstream.

When Shmendrick was telling me this story, about six months later, I laughed, called him an idiot and reminded him not to break The Rule (no dying). I then invited him to come swimming with me in a much safer environment: the PCU gymnasium. He agreed readily, and off we went.

I am something of a natural swimmer. I don't tire easily, once my muscles remember how the swimming thing goes, and I usually end up stopping around ten or fifteen laps because I need to go do something else rather than reaching my limit. After a half a lap at my slow, breaststroke pace, I look over to see Shmendrick flailing around in a semblance of a breathless front crawl, kicking up three times as much water as he needed to and turning red in the face from effort. I waited for him to reach me and asked if he was okay. He said he was fine but a little out of breath. I asked him if he was having more trouble than usual with the crawl, and he said no, he just wanted to do another lap. I persuaded him to catch his breath at least, then went back to swimming.

After perhaps a lap and a half, Shmendrick was past the point of endurance, red and sweating in the water, clearly cramping and having trouble breathing. I ordered him (yeah, I'm bossy) to get out and go sit.

When I got out several laps later, I couldn't help but ask, "And you decided to SWIM A RIVER?!"

...And the Wings Fall Off!

PCU numbered among its professors a particularly unfortunate computer science teacher named, for the duration, Professor Vizzini. Vizzini was an exceptionally nice man with, as far as I can tell, no experience programming computers whatsoever. At different points, both Walrus and I had Professor Vizzini, but today's story is actually from Walrus' experience rather than mine.

Professor Vizzini was trying to explain why some computer science languages are not used for things like, say, airlines. The explanation culminated in the exclamation, "...and the plane goes, I don't know how to add two strings!, and THE WINGS FALL OFF!"

Bad Taxi

Earlier today, my friend (who shall henceforth be known as Sweetums) told me a tale from upstate New York that I think qualifies as taking the bucket.

He was attempting to get somewhere, and, as one might, hailed a taxi. The taxi driver looked back apologetically and asked, "Do you mind if I run into a store real quick?" Being as Sweetums was not in a terrible rush, he said sure, no problem.

The taxi driver pulled up to a porn shop and went in. It was thirty minutes before he came back.

After he finally got Sweetums where he was going, the driver still had the nerve to charge him a fare. Fortunately for all concerned, he had NOT left the meter running while he jerked off.

Story the Third, Part the First: On Living Conditions

Having posted two stories therefrom, I believe the time has come to discuss the exact nature of the accommodations shared by Schmedrick and myself during our notorious second year at PCU. To begin, I should explain how the housing system at that estimable edifice operates. First year students are assigned their rooms based on some fairly loose guidelines of their selection. They vary in quality but are, on the whole not bad. After the first year, students organize themselves into housing groups from one to around six people they wish to live with in various sized houses, rooms and apartments. These groups receive a number, randomized within year groups, and then each take a turn choosing where they will live, based on the space still available. Lower numbers go sooner, and are thus more desirable. As it happened, there were 463 groups on the year in question. I was part of a group of six, although that will turn out to be largely irrelevant. This is because we received number 463. As in last. So. There was a series of large gatherings at which the groups' numbers would be called and they would select their housing. We went to the last of these, naturally, and waited while, say, numbers 325 through 440 were called up and picked through the increasingly distasteful refuse of the earlier groups. At this point it was announced that:
A. The university had a '100% occupancy' policy - meaning that, in theory, they needed to fill every space in every room.
B. There was an estimated number of students who would not return next year, due to transfers, dropouts, and... I dunno, being eaten by weasels wearing jetpacks, maybe. Therefore:
C. All the rooms were now filled, and the remaining 20 groups or so might as well not have bothered coming, because there was no space left to give out. Instead, they would wait for those estimated people to do their transferring, dropping out, and feeding of jet-propelled weasels. Then, everyone who had already gone would 'move up' into such spaces as those folks had vacated, and we, the lucky last few, would get whatever those people had already rejected. We would be informed of what those places were a few weeks before the semester started.
This took place over five years ago, and just thinking about it still makes my long for the chance to eviscerate those responsible with a spork. In any case, the appointed time arrived, and we learned where we would be spending the next several months. Firstly, two of our group (entertaining pseudonyms as yet unselected) would be located far across the campus, on the far side of a busy multi-lane thoroughfare. I'm given to understand that one or more students are hit by cars on it in a typical year. Needless to say, we didn't see them very often. The rest of us would be located in a building that was home to a group which, for all that they called themselves a 'Society' is best understood as the agglomeration of the worst aspects of every crap-tastic fraternity you may have encountered in fiction or fact. Let me tell you of them.
At some point in the distant past, they must have been fairly respectable. Their house was, from the outside, a pleasant enough neoclassical brick structure. On the inside, however, it showed clear evidence of a past rich in idiocy and poor in maintenance. It was dingy. Most anything that could be broken had been, and none of it repaired or replaced. It stank - I would estimate it smelled of 50% spilled beer, 30% urine, 10% sweat, and 20% unidentifiable horror. At any given time, counting the partially empty beer cans and bottles in the upstairs hallway would require the fingers of both hands (not that any of them likely every did this at a time when they were sober enough to count, even on their fingers). At one time, there had been a kitchen. Or so I am informed. I am also told that, in the recent past, the inhabitants stripped the kitchen in order to sell the appliances. Apparently the supply of drugs was running low. Yes, the majority of the occupants were almost certainly on drugs. You're probably thinking I'm referring to the 70/20/10 mixture of caffinne, booze, and weed that is typically associated with college students. That is not what I mean. That would have been a vast improvement. So how do I know they were hopped up on something illegal? For one thing, none of them ever slept. I have a fairly odd sleep schedule when there aren't classes to nail it down, so there were times when I was awake at every hour of the day over a week-long period. No matter what time I dared venture from our room, there they were: drinking and being generally noisy in the hall. The same people, for the most part. I consulted with Schmendick, who had a more normal schedule and was thus awake often when I was not. He confirmed that these people did not sleep. Additionally, they were prone to random acts of violence, generally against the various parts of the building not already destroyed. One more story of note along those lines is yet forthcoming. It should come as no surprise that these folks loved to party. However, they apparently saw no reason to go elsewhere to do it. Thus they hosted parties. Every weekend. And by weekend, I mean Thursday afternoon through Monday morning. Needless to say, Shemdrick and I both had morning classes on Friday. 8:30 AM on Friday is one of the few times it was quiet in that hellhole. It's possible the natives slept, but I consider it far more likely that they were simply busy drugging themselves in order to be ready for the party to resume in a few hours. We got to walk, carefully, to avoid the cans and puddles of ichor, downstairs to the door. On the way, we would pass the hired cleaning staff, who would be disgustedly sweeping the piles of crap in the downstairs rooms into piles. We would attempt to convey by our expressions at firstly, we were very sorry they had to deal with this and secondly, it really wasn't our fault. I don't know if they understood. I hope they did.
The parties were quite popular among the sort of person who likes that sort of thing. There were enough such that most evenings during the Party Span, it would be too crowded to get inside and to our rooms. Getting back inside involved going round to the back of the building. First, we would convince a large and likely intoxicated person that yes, we really did live here. Then, we would climb two floors up the fire escape (the point where it started was below the level of the ground floor). We didn't get out much, and once out, we did not lightly return.
The closest thing to a positive memory of our time there was going out to the aforementioned fire escape and climbing the last flight up to the roof. No one else seemed to go there, it had a great view of the campus, and it gave much needed detachment from the noise below.
Given these remarkable conditions, it is perhaps unsurprising that many of my stories come from this time period.
Next Time, in Part Two: Thin Walls Make Poor Neighbors

A Coincidence

My friend Chinmoku recently discovered a roleplaying game called Little Fears. The premise of this game is that the monsters under the bed, et cetera and so on, are real, and that only children of a certain age and temperament are ever given the ability to perceive and thus fight the horrors from this nether realm. However, once they reach a certain age, they are cut off from this and forget their experiences with it.

In looking at my own childhood, I have decided that this is the best explanation I have yet encountered for several things, among them, memory of flying under my own power at age four and my somewhat inexplicable fear of vampires.

Quote Day!

Neko: I thought you kept saying "waif-a-lo," and I was thinking, "What's a waif-a-lo?"

Benedick: It's like a buffalo, only it's a small, thin girl... who roams the plains.

When you dream...

One evening, my friend Francis and I were coming home from a long day out of town with our fellows. It was about two a.m. when we started the drive, and it was a two hour drive, so mostly his job was to keep me awake so we didn't crash and die.

This was several moons past, so I no longer recall the exact context of either of the following, so you will forgive me if I insert something comparably irrelevant. Please note that Francis is quite in the habit of stating things declaratively and argumentatively; it only makes it better.

Me: I always thought polecats were something like a large weasel.
Francis: Well, no, their feet are different.
Me: Different how?
Francis: A polecat's feet are kind of like... a compound fracture of the foot.

Pardon?

Turns out Francis had fallen asleep midsentence. Who knows what he was dreaming in between. It happened a couple more times on the drive, but none so dramatically as this:

Me: I like webcomics.
Francis: So, are you afraid that there will be too much peanut butter versus the jelly, or that the jelly is the wrong kind?

New goal in life: get Francis sleep deprived and semi-caffeinated more often, and have a tape recorder next time.

Ehoba

Once upon a time, I was living with a family in a suburb of a major city in Japan. Japanese suburbs are fairly rural- the Japanese tend to build vertically when they build due to lack of space, so there were small farms and rural temples about mixed in with the fairly nice modern houses.

When one does laundry in Japan, it is generally hung outside to dry rather than being run through a dryer. Since I was in school most of the time, my choices for doing laundry were fairly limited to the weekend. One Sunday, I was starting to take my wash out to hang when my host mother stopped me.

{Don't dry your laundry out there today!}* she said. {The neighbors always have barbeques on Sunday. All your clothing will smell like food for the week.}

I thanked her for telling me, going to set up the indoor drying rack in my room instead. When I came back, I asked her why the neighbors did that. As far as I had seen, they were a fairly normal Japanese family, doing their best to ignore the fact that their neighbors were hosting a gaijin and going about their business.

{They're... what do you call them...} She thought for a moment. "Ehoba."

"Ehoba?"

{Yes... they're not quite Christians... they come to the door sometimes and ask if we've accepted Jesus, and I tell them 'No thanks, I'm Buddhist!'}

{You can't mean Jehovah's Witnesses?}

{That sounds right.}

{I didn't think they HAD Jehovah's Witnesses in Japan!}

{Maybe not; let's look it up.}

So we pulled out the battered old Japanese-English dictionary she kept by the kitchen table, and there it was... Ehoba- Jehovah's Witness. You could have knocked me over with a poke, I was so surprised to find out that my Japanese next door neighbors were Jehovah's Witnesses.

Come to think of it, I'm still kind of shocked!

*{} = Translated from Japanese

Pikeys

My friend Knives just had her car stolen. By Pikeys. Honest to goodness Pikeys.

Haunted

At certain times in my life, I have found myself facing things that I could not rationally explain under the current understanding of scientific law. Most of them have been pleasant, or at least interesting; a few of them have been frightening.

At one time, I was dating a young man who shall be known as Benedick. Benedick lived in a neighborhood not far from the one I grew up in, but in some ways it was as different as if it were in another town entirely. It was slightly lower income, so the houses were all a little smaller and in a little poorer repair... and it was haunted.

That's the only way I have of explaining it. Sometimes it was just a feeling of something creepy behind you. Sometimes it was shadows where no shadow should be. Benedick not only agreed with me about the feel of the neighborhood, he told me a story about it.

Many years ago, he was alone in his family's house, and he heard a voice, a child's voice, screaming repeatedly "Let me out! Let me out!" coming from the direction of his garage. He went into the garage, looking about, but he didn't see anything or anyone. He went outside to see if there were someone outside, but again he heard the noise from his garage, "Let me out!" He checked once more, but there was nothing.

I thought it was a nice spooky tale and fit the feel of the neighborhood, but as time went by I forgot all about it. It wasn't until years later that I would remember.

I was driving through the neighborhood on my way to his house, something like four years later. It was dark, and there was no one on the streets, not even the usual contingent of cats. All of a sudden, I heard a child's shrill voice screaming from behind me, as if it were coming from my trunk, "Let me out! Let me out!" I screeched to a halt, looking around wildly, but there was nothing and no one to be seen. I drove the rest of the way to his house, pulled over, and opened the trunk. Nothing. No one was around.

It wasn't until I was telling him what happened that I remembered what he'd said.

Giant Metal Chicken

For a couple of years after graduating from PCU, I went home to Hell, a city in the southern part of the country. You may guess from the moniker that I'm not precisely fond of that place, but after all, it is where I grew up, and it has a number of redeeming qualities. Mainly, those 'qualities' are individual people who are pretty awesome and good friends of mine, but there are also some occasional oddities that just come out of nowhere.

The giant metal chicken was certainly among the latter.

I worked at a university that was stuck out in the middle of a not-so-great part of town. There were two reasonable ways to get out of the university campus for me; one took me home to my own apartment, the other to my mother's house where I grew up. On the not too infrequent happenstance that took me straight from work to Mom's house, I would drive past a very odd building, a sort of shed, with an outdoor component that seemed to house all manner of odd things (i.e., a cowboy made out of tire scraps, something that looked like a giant ball of yarn made of wood). They changed from time to time, but one thing that was almost always there was the giant metal chicken.

The chicken seemed to have been built around the frame of an old VW hippie van. The neck and head added at least as much again to the height, and the tail about half again as much length. Each individual feather had been made out of rippled metal and welded onto the structure in a very solid-looking, realistic sculpture. Realistic... except for size and material and the holes in the base (presumably for weight issues).

The first time I saw this thing, I had to pull over and get a closer look. I probably chuckled all the way to Mom's. After a while I got used to seeing it, although the novelty didn't really wear off too much. But it wasn't until I was driving about later in the evening a while later with my friend, Miss Piggy, that I realized just how amazing this contraption was.

We were stopped at a red light, and I looked at the other cars at the intersection, and had to do a double-take. "I didn't know the giant metal chicken was mobile!"

Miss Piggy looked at me, looked at the chicken on the road (with its glowing red eyes), looked at me, and said, "You knew there was a giant metal chicken?!"

Out of the Mouths of Babes

When I was very small, four or five years old, perhaps, my family decided to go on vacation for a week or so. This was not the first time we had gone away, not even for so long, but this time, I had a feeling, was different.

"But Mom," I said, "what if somebody tries to rob our house? We should booby-trap it!"

My mother assured me that the neighborhood constable had already been alerted and that the house would be perfectly safe, but she agreed to put a few of our more irreplaceable valuables in hiding. She probably had been doing that anyways, but it felt like progress to me. I decided to booby-trap my own room, at very least; anyone entering would find themselves struck with tennis balls, paperclips, and a child's ill wishing. I put a sign on the door that said "ENTER AT YOUR OWN PERIL" or something like it, and drew a skull and crossbones on the bottom. My parents smiled and told me I'd have to clean it all up myself when we got back.

We had a lovely vacation, and on our return, we discovered that our precautions had not been enough. The house had been ransacked; the bedrooms were disheveled and the public areas stripped of valuables.

Except for my room. My room was untouched, the door still shut, and even my inherited diamond ring was still right where I'd left it.

After that, my parents installed an alarm system.

Solicitors

Once, while I was living with my friend Sarah, we were hanging out around midday when the doorbell rang. At the doorbell was a creature I like to think of as an isz (see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Maxx#Isz, or for a picture, http://www.cybercomicsandtoys.com/actionfigures/images/Other/SpawnMaxxFaoShwarzWith4Isz.JPG). It was a solicitor.

The isz began to speak as soon as the door was opened, saying something like this: "Hi I'm selling this thing we want to go to Cancun just sign your soul away and win a free trip hey do you want to come with us we have a free spot in a magazine! Come on just one little signature and we'll all get to go to Cancun..." right past the response of "No thanks" up until the door was shut in his face.

He went away, but we were concerned he might come back, so measures were taken. Sarah made a lovely sign to hang on our door which read: Solicitors will be Eviscerated. Thank you and have a nice day! We hung it with an X made of red duct tape. In the window next to the door, we arranged a cutting board with a large kitchen knife and a banana cut into pieces. We piled our weapons by the door where they could be seen if the door were to be opened. Each of us took one, naturally.

Predictably enough, the isz (or another like it) came back with the same shpiel, Sarah and I answered the door.

"Did you see the sign?" Sarah politely inquired. The isz ignored her and kept talking.

"Should we kill him, or just shut the door?" I asked Sarah.

We exchanged a glance, the kind of glance which says: I don't want to clean the blood off the door, let alone explain it to the police. Then we shut the door in his face.

Amazingly, as we did so, the solicitor stopped his rant long enough to say, "Thanks for being rude!"

"You, too!" I sang sweetly as the last crack of light from the doorway disappeared.

Story the Second: Mouse

I return you now to our detestable second year at PCU. Shortly after Gabriel had his bucket taken, these events transpired for those of us in the room down the hall. I had set up a cardboard box with a towel over it a combination bedside table and printer table. I awoke, for reasons I do no longer recall, and thought I saw something moving in that direction. I turn my head, and find a pair of very small, very red eyes glowing in the general direction of the table. I found and lit a small flashlight, and determined that they belonged to a small white mouse. The mouse was pondering me - from my printer's paper tray. I stared at the mouse. The mouse stared at me. After a few seconds mutual contemplation, the mouse turned and whisked itself away into the innards of my printer. I addressed my sleeping roommate, who Neko informs me shall be named Schmendrick. "Shmen...", I said. He made a sound. In comic books I believe it is generally spelled 'unnnngh'.
"Shmen!" I repeated.
The responding grunt had the rising intonation of a question, "UnNNgh?". I took this to mean that he was as alert as he was going to get and what could I possibly be waking him for?
"We have a mouse." I told him.
"unnnghu?"
"A -mouse-. As in 'squeek squeek'. It's in my printer. "
"Uhn."
I gave up and told him about it in the morning. He remembered nothing.
For the remainder of the year, the mouse lived in my printer. I would see it infrequently, hear it occasionally, and refrain from printing things, so as not to get mouse guts on my papers. I like to think it was hiding out with us because we were the only sane ones in that benighted house. If I were a mouse, it's what I would do.

The Blue Squirrel

One day, my friend Fizzgig and I were walking to class at our lovely PCU. Our route took us across a small, generally unoccupied but pleasant green space right next to the campus power plant. As we walked, I looked out across the park and saw a squirrel.

Many of you, dear readers, are probably familiar with the phenomenon that is college campus squirrels. They are generally the size of small cats, mean as angry badgers, and completely unafraid of humans. PCU's campus squirrels are no exception, so when I saw a squirrel, I paid slightly more attention to it than I might have walking around just about anywhere else.

As I looked at this particular squirrel, the only thing I could think was, "That squirrel is BLUE."

Maybe it's a trick of the light, I thought. I looked again: still blue. I pondered this for a moment, then turned to Fizzgig. "Hey, check out that squirrel."

He paused, looked, looked again, and then said, "That squirrel... is BLUE."

Dear readers. Somewhere out there, perhaps at this very moment, is a blue squirrel.

Bob

Many moons ago, my friend Merlin and I were up in a tree having an argument. The argument went something like this:

Me: Fred!
Merlin: Derf!

After a few minutes without any sort of accord seeming possible, we began to ask passersby who came under the tree. Fred, or Derf? Mostly, we got the, 'Okay there are crazy people up in the tree, but this is a college campus, so they probably won't follow us if we look polite and walk away' shimmy.

At last, one young man looked up and said, "I don't know, but I'm Bob!"

It was summarily decided a) that Bob had won the argument, and b) that we should befriend this person immediately. So we did.

I later learned Bob's real name, which was neither Bob nor Robert.

Story the First: Taking the Bucket

Before we begin, allow me to introduce myself. I am Walrus, and Walrus is me. Along with my below-posted co-conspiritor in blog-authorship, I attended a well known liberal arts university. The story I am about to relate concerns one of my associates during Sophomore year. In accord with our stated policy of thinly disguised names for the protection of the innocent, the guilty, the insane, and likely-to-threaten-with-legal-action, this bastion of learning shall be known as PCU, and he shall be known as Gabriel.
At PCU, the Residential Life office in general, and the housing selection process in particular are irritating monstrosities. The vagaries thereof, and travails of myself and mine as a result will likely be the subject of many stories yet to come. For the moment, suffice to say that four of us ended up in two double rooms at either end of the hall in an aging and poorly maintained house.
Following some heavy snowfall, Gabriel returned to his room to find that his roof had sprung a leak, and water was dripping onto his desk. Since said desk held his computer, his papers, his books, and all manner of other possessions subject to water-damage, he was understandably perturbed. Once he got over being perturbed, he decided that something had to be done. He went forth into the hallway and procured a bucket. You know the sort - large, gray, and made of a rubbery plastic. Also did he obtain duct tape, and several black plastic garbage bags. Of these, he fashioned a chute to convey the water from the leak in the ceiling unto the bucket. The immediate issue (water falling on desk) being dealt with, he called PCU Physical Plant department. These folks might reasonably be expected to repair damaged buildings, he supposed.
As it turns out, PCU Physical Plant is some combination of lazy, incompetent and/or inefficient, and for several weeks their response is easily summarized as 'none whatsoever'. It was a wet season, and the snow and rain continued to fall every few days. The leak continued to do its thing, and the bucket-and-chute contraption likewise continued its function. Finally, when we'd given up on any official reaction to the issue, an agent of Physical Plant arrived at Gabriel's room. This gentleman, by sight, differed from the standard janitor in one important particular - he was the proud owner of a bulky walkie-talkie.
Upon entering Gabriel's room, said communication device is immediately in his hand, and into it he says, "Yep, I'm here. Shouldn't take long."
He surveys the bucket contraption and opines to Gabriel thusly: "Pretty nice setup you got here."
Gabriel responds that yes, it probably is, and is there anything he, the janitorial sort, could do about it?
The fellow contemplates the bucket a bit longer, and then responds in the affirmative. Out comes the walkie-talkie (clearly this man's most prized possession). He says this into it: "Yep. I'm taking the bucket. All right."
Gabriel is probably convinced he misheard, but the man goes to the bucket, carefully peels off the tape holding it to the chute, and begins to lug it out the door. About halfway through the door, he turns back and, in the spirit of one who has had an epiphany, says "You know, when it rains next, that's probably going to leak again." And then he leaves.
Ever afterward, among those of us who know this tale (yourself now among them, esteemed blog-reader!), the phrase 'taking the bucket' has meant "'Solving' a problem by making it worse, in the most bizzare manner possible". We encourage you to use it when you think it is needed.