Stream of Consciousness Post

freshman registration tonight – third night in a row – I am feeling so incredibly tired from having to deal with all these damned frosh and their annoying parents (why on earth do they need to bring their parents with them to registration anyway???) – on top of everything else, my skin has broken out in a strange rash that is making me itch like hell – went to the dermatologist and she said it was bug bites – gave me some foul smelling lotion to put on, but I still keep itching, itching, itching, itching – if I keep itching like this, pretty soon my skin will all fall off and I will be a walking skeleton – there are some advantages to that: at least I will look thin and fashionable – oh, yea, freshman registration – I was thinking about how wonderfully fabulous it is going to be to give up the miserably annoying administrative work and try out the lazy, luscious life of a bloated academic – just teach my classes and spend the rest of my time on a never-ending quest for the meaning of life – what on earth could have convinced me to take on this job in the first place? – I mean, I absolutely hate hearing about people’s problems, which is 90% of the job of a DFYE - when I do get some freshman starting to whine about how hard he has it, I inevitably want to say, “suck it up crybaby…life is hard” – but I know I can’t do that (can I?) – itching, itching, itching – what did I do to deserve this kind of punishment? – maybe this is a flesh-eating parasite and I will wind up looking like some kind of zombie with tattered limbs and entrails dragging along the floor – I don’t mind dying suddenly—like being assassinated, or something like that—but I would really hate to waste away in some kind of god-awful hospital with nurses prodding me every two minutes and smart ass medical students talking to me like I only had a third grade education – god, I hate the whole medical establishment – and the educational establishment – and the political establishment - basically, I hate every f*^#ing kind of establishment – I really just want to be left alone, but everyone keeps wanting a little piece of me – if I could just go off to some little cabin in the wood or a zen monastery where everyone keeps strict vows of silence, I would be so very, very happy – no telephones or email either – these would be strictly banned – I can see myself now: sitting in perfect silence and stillness as the gentle breeze blows gracefully through the maple trees – itching, itching, itching – will this damned rash ever go away?!?

on dullness and its opposite

all work and no play makes jack a dull boy...or so i have been told - actually, there are plenty of deadly dull dudes who play all day long and don't do a damn bit of work (the former president of the united states, for example) - dullness, in fact, comes in all shapes, sizes, and colors...and so does its opposite -

most of the people i interact with every day are actually quite dull: the conversation never seems to get beyond, "how's it goin' man" or "what ya doin' this weekend" - the people at work are slightly better, but just because they have higher degrees doesn't mean you'd ever want to be trapped with them in an elevator for more than a few minutes (a ph.d, i'm afraid, is no guarantee of a sharp wit or a keen intellect) -

i also think that all those people who are supposed to be so damn cool, fascinating, or enthralling are actually the biggest bores of all - let me prove it:

........the real housewives of new york
.....................the donald
............................britney speers
.......................................rush limbaugh
.............................................dr. phil

...all total and complete bores - i would probably have to kill myself if i had to spend more than 10 minutes in the company of any of these drones - sure, they all probably look great and undoubtedly smell terrific (well, maybe not Rush Limbaugh), but what could they possibly say or do that would even remotely interest me? Perhaps if they could all be put into a steel cage and forced to battle to the death, then I might be intrigued - yes, i would definitely commit to watching dr. phil for the first time if i could see him impale the donald with a rusty hook!

here are a few people who actually do intrigue me:

• Bob Dylan: has gone his own way for over 40 years and still refuses to compromise with his art.
• Ralph Nader: the ultimate wacko, super-righteous, 2000 election-spoiling, unrepentant liberal.
• Paul Krugman - egghead New York Times economist who is always f#$%ing right about everything.
• Bill Mahr: my favorite atheist and libertarian.

i know what you are going to say: my favorites are old white dudes with decidedly liberal leanings...so where's the diversity?

i'll admit that I relate to contrarian curmudgeons who don't give a damn what people think about them - so what! - one day i actually hope to be a contrarian curmudgeon myself, so it's not surprising that these dudes are my role models -

invite any one of these people over for dinner, and i bet it would be the best evening of your life - they might not look so hot or have the best table manners, but any one of my favs would light up a room with his wisdom, wit, and wackiness -

Confessions of a Java Junkie

Everyone has their drug of choice. Mine is coffee (otherwise known as java, joe, or the bitter brew). It's a nasty, vile substance that gives me the jitters and turns me into a wild, erratic, totally capricious person. The problem is that when I drink it, I literally drown myself in the stuff: one or two cups is never enough; once I start, I have to consume vast oceans of coffee. In my prime - during college and graduate school - I could easily down eight or nine cups of coffee while I was working on a paper or studying for finals. On those days, friends and loved ones would stay far away from me, because they'd know that the dark demon who usually lies buried within me would emerge, ready to snap off the heads of innocent bystanders.

Like any self-respecting junkie, I would never dream of downing an inferior blend of coffee. Forget Starbucks (too bitter and lacking in subtlety) or Dunkin Donuts (a total waste of the beans picked to make it). If you are not lucky enough to be living in Europe, the only way to get the perfect cup of coffee is to make it yourself. You have to start with the right kinds of whole coffee beans - 100% medium-roasted arabica beans, preferably grown in Columbia. Then you have to grind the beans just before you are planning to use them to get the optimal flavor out of them. Timing is everything when grinding coffee beans: grind the beans for too long and your coffee will be muck, not long enough and you will have coffee-flavored water.

Then comes the really hard part: deciding on the best way to prepare the coffee. In my time, I've tried just about every method conceivable to make coffee, including using fancy french presses, my grandmother's old fashioned Italian percolator, and the standard regulation drip coffee maker. But the method that always works the best is the one that my dear friend, John Steffen, showed me when I was a poor graduate student in Belgium. Here it is: Find a plastic filter drip that fits on top of a thermus (Melita sells them for a few bucks), put a conical filter in it, and fill it with two rounded (not heaping!) tablespoons of coffee per cup that you are planning to make. Meanwhile heat up some water, and, when it comes to a boil, slowly pour the appropriate amount of water you need over the ground coffee beans using a measuring cup. When you are finished, seal the thermus, and enjoy hot, delicious coffee all day long. There are much fancier ways to make coffee, but none has ever worked as well for me as this method.

Now that I am in my mid-forties, the liabilities of coffee have vastly begun to outweigh the benefits. There will come a time in the not-to-distant future when I will have to kick the coffee habit out entirely, if only to preserve what it left of my esophagus. I can assure you that I am definitely not looking forward to this day. For now, however, I will continue to enjoy the occasional cup of finely prepared coffee, treasuring the chemical rush I get as the caffeine in the beans slowly courses through my body.

...and everyone around me will just have to resign themselves to the fact that dealing with nasty, evil, manic, caffeine-addicted Mike is the price they have to pay for the pleasure of my company.
Whatever that's worth.