Soodhalter’s Informagoriam

Snow

I have now lived in Philadelphia for seven months and change. I am finally starting to get a better idea of what this place is all about. First of all, there appears to be quite a bit of corruption going on in the city government. The mayor is in all sorts of trouble, and I think his brother is running in the next election while under indictment. City services seem to be somewhat dysfunctional. When it snowed hard a few weeks ago, the streets did not get plowed until around 1:00 PM. Since it has been too cold and icy to bike, I have been using the mass transit system to get to school, and my route takes me on two of the main streets of the city. They were a mess on that day. Living in Texas and New Orleans, I had never had experiences with heavy snow days, but in television and cinema, cities are always portrayed as having their street plowed by municipal plow trucks on snow days such as the one I have described. As I rode the bus to school and saw the reality of people navigating the snow filled streets, I thought perhaps it was naive of me to think that the city would plow its own streets every day. Then I got to class and chatted with Johnny Porn. He was just as shocked as I was because in New York City, they bust out the plows early in the morning so that traffic is not impeded. There are also laws in New York City compelling a person to shovel the public sidewalk in front of their home or business for face the ticketing wrath of the sidewalk patrol. Thus, the lack of street plowing reflects some deficiency in Philadelphia’s ability to keep its streets clear.

After this snow day, the city did try to get its act together, but then it seemed to try a little too hard to earn back my trust. My apartment complex is this big gated set of buildings with four streets forming a rectangle inside. These streets apparently are still considered city streets, and they are plowed like all others (when plowing does occur). The second big snow day began one evening and persisted into the night. At about 4:00 AM, I was awakened by the sound of something big dragging across the asphalt. I looked outside and there was a mister-plow-like truck moving snow off the complex’s internal streets. All seemed in order, and the plow left. I went back to sleep. Twenty minutes later, though, the plow returned and proceeded to drag its rubber plowing fixture across our bare asphalt, making a horrible noise. I really needed to sleep, so this was quite irritating, but the truck left once again. I settled back into my slumbering state. Unfortunately, this event repeated itself twice more at thirty-minute intervals. Philadelphia was really trying hard to regain my trust by showing me that it could be diligent in its street cleaning duties. However, the situation bore a great resemblance to a relationship in which one party cheats on the other then tries to rectify the situation by making too many peanut butter and jelly sandwiches while spilling jelly on the walls and floor. Philadelphia was spilling all sorts of auditory “jelly” into my space.

Just so nobody gets the wrong idea, despite Philadelphia’s snow displacement deficiencies, I have quite liked the snow and cold weather thus far. I actually threw my first ever snowball. The only really unpleasant aspect of this whole cold snowy thing is when the snow melts a bit then refreezes. I have learned the correct methods for scraping my car to remove the ice from my windshield. On one particularly lovely morning, I had to remove a two -inch thick sheet of snow/ice from my entire car. It turned out to be a nontrivial exercise. I then got to apply something I learned in driver’s ed ten years ago. Mr. Melton, by balding, country, classroom instructor explained the principle of rocking the car to get unstuck from snow or mud by shifting from drive to reverse over and over to build momentum and rock out of the stuckness. I finally got to apply this concept to get out of the deep snow that had been plowed and blown around my car. It should be noted that this was a relatively mild winter. We shall see how I handle a much more intense one in the future.

Disdain Towards New Jersey

Being from Texas, I did not know much about what goes on up here. The concept of driving to another state and back in the span of a couple of hours was quite foreign to me. However, I was quite familiar with the disdain shown towards New Jersey and its peoples by New Yorkers and others around this neck of the woods. I have only begun to figure out some of the reasons behind these feelings. Let me start out by saying that I know New Jersey has many beautiful areas and attractions to see, but I have not had a chance to see these things quite yet. Therefore, my only experiences with New Jersey have been incidental and, unfortunately, negative. First, I live fairly close to the Ben Franklin Bridge, which crosses the Delaware River (much like Washington did on his way to kill drunk Germans celebrating Christmas) between Philadelphia and Camden, New Jersey. The entrance to this bridge is in a busy intersection involving a few other freeways and streets. The signage is confusing and perhaps even misleading, especially to a newcomer. I accidentally entered the onramp to Camden at least five times in the first month or so after I moved into my current apartment. This was quite upsetting for two reasons. First, Camden is not exactly the safest place. It consistently ranks as one of the more violent metropolitan locations in the country. I do not like having to drive around there, especially since it is not all that obvious at first how to get back to the Ben Franklin bridge and thus to Philadelphia. Secondly, it costs nothing to drive to Camden, but it costs three dollars to get back to Philadelphia. Twice when I have driven to Camden, I did not have cash necessitating me to find a bank, park, and retrieve money from a foreign ATM with the related fees. There are two possible reasons for the one-way fee. Either Philadelphia is trying to force people to leave (free to leave, pay to get back in) or they know they can extort money from people who are trying to bust a move out of Camden. This second option might make the most sense, especially if the signs around the entrance ramp are intentionally deceptive in order to lure people to the Camden onramp. Either way, it is not a pleasant mistake to make.

Thus, my initial experiences in New Jersey were quite unpleasant, but what about the times I have meant to go there? I’ll put it to you this way; I have yet to travel to New Jersey intentionally and not get lost. Philadelphia has this weird taxation system that allegedly operate on the premise that it is a privilege to run a business within the city limits, a privilege for which one must pay a hefty price. Thus many businesses I am used to patronizing have their closest locations across the river in New Jersey. The best part is, they are not located in big cities. The stores always end up being located within a network of small townships such as Cherry Hill or Oak Point. To get there involves traveling on New Jersey’s archaic state highway system, which makes no sense to outsiders. The signs are confusing or nonexistent and assume the driver possesses the esoteric road knowledge of someone who has lived there for forty years. Therefore, every time I have attempted to make a trip to the Office Depot, which should be a ten-minute drive, I end up spending two hours visiting random small towns all over the state. The best part is, sometimes I never find the store I am trying to patronize.

The point was further driven home when I attempted to visit my friends Marissa and Landon in New York City. Landon said the best way to get to where they live, Brooklyn Heights, was to take the New Jersey turnpike north and cross some bridges and pass through Staten Island. What he did not tell me, nor did his MapQuest link, was that I-95 North from Philadelphia merges to the New Jersey Turnpike. So, instead of simply heading north, I drove over the bridge to New Jersey to look for the turnpike. Basically to make a long story short, the way the signs for the New Jersey Turnpike work is that they will inform the driver of the existence of the turnpike but will not give any information about the distance to an onramp or mark where an onramp actually is. I spent about an hour making my way north on backloads and state highways until I finally found a sign directing me straight to an onramp. To answer anyone who might wonder, yes I did stop to ask for directions three times at gas stations. The attendants persisted to tell me where it was as if I was from the state, even after I made the point of telling them I live in Philly and have not even been there that long. This didn’t just happen to me, either. My neighbor went to New York City to meet some friends, and when he drove back down the turnpike, he somehow ended up across from Delaware because of lack of proper signs. The point is, I can understand why some people have great disdain for the state of New Jersey. Perhaps it is misplaced; nonetheless, it is out there.

New Jersey Smoked Turkey

In all of my wasted time in New Jersey, I have become familiar with a few quirky aspects of the state. I have certainly gone on at length about its confusing highway system. Another thing I discovered was a fascinating chain of restaurants with a most bizarre history, located solely within the New Jersey borders. The chain is called New Jersey Smoke Turkey. It is one of the last remnants of the Great Interstate Meat Wars that took place in the late 1800s (along with others such as KFC and Duke Guapo’s Spicy Meat Hut). There are over 2500 locations in New Jersey and no locations in any other state. As I understand it, the state heavily subsidizes this restaurant chain. New Jersey Smoked Turkey serves most the dishes one would expect to find at a fried chicken place, except everything is smoked and is turkey. They even have perfected extra crispy versions of their smoked turkey dishes with the crispiness being imparted by a secret blend of 26 known carcinogens. They have perfected it so the crunch is extremely satisfying. Unlike some other meaty restaurant chains, New Jersey Smoked Turkey does not shy away from the controversies surrounding its treatment of animals. Rather, the mistreatment of the turkeys is presented as being beneficial to the final product in their promotional literature. According to the pamphlets, New Jersey Smoked Turkey food scientists work around the clock to find new ways to cause turkeys additional pain and distress. The reasoning is that all the extra adrenaline and fear makes the turkey meat juicier and more flavorful. With this in mind, the turkeys are shocked with electricity and jabbed with prodding mechanisms attached to a machine rotor. They are placed one a conveyer belt and wheeled through a miniature haunted house where scientists dress up in scary costumes to frighten the turkeys. Finally, the turkeys are forced to watch movies like Saving Private Ryan. The turkeys are also injected with all sorts of hormones to promote growth, vigor, and muscle development. They are mainly injected with steroids then forced to eat too much and lift weights. There is reportedly a problem with turkey roid rages, but that just translates to better taste in the meat.

No restaurant such as this would be complete without its own vaguely avuncular authority figure (preferably military) mascot (KFC has the colonel, Duke Guapo’s has the Duke himself). New Jersey Smoked Turkey is no different. The venerable Rear Admiral Horatio Mortenson has been the official face of New Jersey Smoked Turkey for over eighty years. Mortenson lived in the early to mid 20th century. He did not start New Jersey Smoked Turkey, but he was the one who turned them into a big-time regional chain. Mortenson had a simple dream; produce the best smoked turkey products, serve in a fast casual environment, and then only serve that turkey to good Christian folk. In particular, Mortenson had a particularly strong, unhealthy dislike of Jewish people.

This attitude was certainly quite prevalent in the first half of the 20th century, but like he did with many things, Mortenson simply took it to painful extremes. Most of the early New Jersey Smoked Turkey jingles and ads were blatantly anti-Semitic in nature. In the early thirties, Mortenson, by then one of the few people prospering during the Great Depression, made five trips to visit Germany and meet none other than Adolph Hitler. The two men were said to be great admirers of one another. The state of New Jersey, and to a lesser extent, the entire nation was scandalized by a photograph of the Rear Admiral sitting with Hitler, in which Mortenson was licking Hitler’s cheek while running his fingers through Hitler’s mustache. Mortenson, however, was proud of this picture, and kept it framed in his office. The openness with which he shared his bigotry and his full embrace of Hitler turned out to be his downfall. During World War II, it was discovered that a subsidiary of New Jersey Smoked Turkey was selling turkey capsules to the Vichy French occupation regime. By the end of the war, Mortenson’s views were quite unpopular. New Jersey state government forced him to divest completely from the restaurant chain. He retired to his estate in rural New Jersey where he died six months after the war ended. By 1981, New Jersey Smoked Turkey had managed to remove all of its bigoted promotional literature and advertisements from its restaurants and corporate offices. A caricature of Mortenson remains the company’s public face to this day; however, he has long since been rebranded as a lovable rube that is trying to steal children’s smoked turkey. He can never obtain it, though. All I can say is that I find it hard to believe that this bizarre chain of eateries still exists.

I have much more to say, but I figure this is enough information for one post. Stay tuned because I have information about some strange characters I have encountered as well as my first trip to the fabulous North East Philadelphia, specifically a place called Kazzableton. Until then…

Right now it is snowing outside, and it is eighteen degrees Fahrenheit. A few days ago, it was fifty-seven degrees, and it was looking like spring was officially under way. This was as it should have been. Two weeks ago, they brought out that groundhog and asked if he saw his shadow. According to the press release, no shadow was seen meaning that spring was officially under way. So, why is it snowing and eighteen degrees Fahrenheit outside?

Here’s what I think. That whole Groundhog Day thing is a sham. Normally, something like this would not have taken me twenty-six (nay, almost twenty-seven) years to figure out; but once again, growing up in the Southwest has clouded my judgment. Because south Texas does not have real seasons, Groundhog Day had always been one of those holidays that did not seem to matter too much. Every year, they would bring that animal out and interrogate him about the weather. Then they would announce that winter was over, and I would just think to myself, “that’s great, but its already in the seventies here.” It never had any effect on my life; however, I always assumed that the announcement had some sort of significance for people in places like Philadelphia.

I was under the impression that the way this thing went down was that a group of the country’s top meteorologist would meet every year. They would run various climate models in order to project what date the changeover to spring was going to occur. Once the meteorologists had come to a consensus, they went to the groundhog and explained everything to him, and the groundhog would then see or not see his shadow based on those explanations. Well, apparently, I was operating under false pretenses. That animal did not see his shadow this year, and thus winter had supposedly ended. Yet, yesterday it was twenty-five degrees Fahrenheit and today it is snowing with a temperature of eighteen degrees Fahrenheit. What a crock! I am beginning to think that the groundhog’s handlers just let this animal make predictions willy-nilly. It’s all just a big show, a tradition with no real meaning. I just wish somebody had let me in one the secret. I don’t mind the cold weather, but I like to be properly prepared when I step outside. I need the consistency that groundhog sanctioned seasonal announcement should bring to the table. Apparently, I will have to look elsewhere. I guess this is yet another instance of me being disillusioned by a mammal.

The other day I was socializing with one of my new friends up here in Philadelphia named Meridyth (a.k.a. Mer-woo, a.k.a. Wing-wa, a.k.a…it’s a long story). She’s from Northeast Philadelphia, specifically an area called Kazzableton. I made an offhand reference to the Jesus fish emblem, and she had no idea what that was. I was shocked. For years in Texas, and to a lesser extent New Orleans, I had become quite used to seeing that metal emblem emblazoned on the backs of people’s automobiles. I just figured that it was everywhere. Apparently, it is not up here or at least it is not in Kazzableton. I began to try to explain to her what the Jesus fish is and what it means, but it turns out that I did not know much about it myself. I decided for the sake of Mer-woo and the countless others like her to undertake a research project to discover more about this mysterious character.

There is a wealth of information on the internet about this topic. The first thing I discovered is that fish have religions. That’s right; you heard it here first. Some brilliant research done at a The University of the Cantrell Islands revealed the existence of fish religions in the late 1940s. In particular, there are many fish scattered across the world’s bodies of water that believe there was a certain half fish/half fish deity who was their savior and died for their fish sins. Human scientists refer to this fish as the fish Jesus.

The fish Jesus was known to perform many miracles during his time. He did not walk on water, but he did once swim in the air for a few minutes. There is also a story about how he turned water into wine. Unfortunately, many of his early followers died during this miracle because they were swimming in that water. Worship of fish Jesus is prevalent in both fresh and salt water locations, and his strongest believers are located in estuaries. Since stories of fish Jesus have him visiting both fresh and salt water bodies, scientists theorize that fish Jesus was probably a shark, since sharks have the efficient kidneys necessary to be so widely traveled. Fundamentalist fish Jesus worshipers, however, consider this to be heresy since oral tradition dictates that fish Jesus was an angel fish. The canonical stories describe some conflict and persecution of fish Jesus, followed by the betrayal of fish Jesus by a lamprey and a hag fish working in cahoots. Then fish Jesus ascended into fish heaven. Scientists speculate that he may have simply been caught by a fisherman. Of course, fundamentalists consider this to be blasphemy . The point is, tradition states that fish Jesus rose to fish heaven.

This brings up an interesting question. Where is fish heaven? At first glance, one might assume it is in the same place as human heaven. It seems to make sense that, for the sake of efficiency, all the heavens for animals and humans would be together or at least in close proximity. There’s a small snag in this hypothesis, though. There are people in heaven that like to go fishing. Just the other day, I was listening to my transistor radio, and a lady was reading the news. She made a reference to a Philadelphia celebrity who had been laid to rest (local raconteur Ham Jam Johnson). A relative of Mr. Johnson was speaking to reporters and commented that “ol’ Ham Jam” was an avid fisherman and that he was likely in heaven, fishing with his buddies. I thought that perhaps this speculation was premature since Ham Jam probably had not even finished attending his orientation sessions yet. However, the point is that for some people, fishing in heaven would be ideal.

So, how do they stock the fishing location in heaven? The administrators could probably just conjure up some fish for the fishermen to catch. However, given an eternity to fish, true fishermen likely would realize that these fish were nothing more than mystical automatons instead of the real thing. This is the crux of the issue. Fish heaven cannot be in human heaven because the fishermen in heaven need real fish to catch. Since this is human heaven, the fishermen are going to be catching the fish. This cannot be pleasant for the fish, getting caught over and over again. Fortunately, this conundrum was solved when a deal was struck. A body of water would be placed in people heaven which would serve as fish hell; a place where evil fish could be sent. This way, fishermen in heaven can spend their time catching the evil fish from fish hell. Also, the fish in fish hell are always on fire while under water. Fish heaven, by the same logic, was contracted to be built in human hell. There are certainly a fair number of evil fishermen, as illustrated by the documentary movie series, I Know What You Did Last Summer I-X. The eternal punishment for such people is to cast their lines into waters teeming with an assortment of wonderful fish, none of which can be caught. Also, these fishermen are always on fire. So, this is good arrangement from which everyone benefits.

This lays the groundwork for understanding the Jesus fish. The emblem is, in fact, a representation of fish Jesus. But how did such a thing become so common among human car owners? We must look back to the sixties and the social revolutions taking place in the United States. A reformed hobo turned hippie known as Gunny Sack Henderson read an article about fish Jesus while riding on a bus traveling from Mobile to Little Rock. In his autobiography, My Journey Finding the Scaly Savior, he describes how, that night, he had visions of fish Jesus swimming over him, commanding that he spread the good word. The next morning, Henderson converted to worship fish Jesus and set out to spread that word. Henderson’s fish church grew to have direct or indirect influence over approximately 3 million followers. However, in 1969, scandal erupted when not only was Henderson caught pilfering millions from his church’s coffers, but it was also discovered that he had no less than five fish mistresses. Henderson was jailed and the fish church lost most of its influence. By the seventies, the public had almost forgotten that fish even had religions. However, the metallic fish Jesus emblems that the church had been selling to followers at a premium had proliferated rapidly, spawning many cheap knockoffs; and by the end of the seventies, nobody even remembered why they were being attached to automobiles. It had entered into the Southern cultural consciousness.

So there you have it, Wing-wa. Now you know about the Jesus fish. Are you happy? Are you? ARE YOU?

I got into a small dispute at the grocery store a few weeks back that highlights one of the regional dialect differences between up here and down there where I grew up. It was a weekend and I needed two rolls of quarters. The reason I needed them is neither important nor is it in any way scandalous. I just needed them. Since the bank I use in my neighborhood is closed all weekend, I figured I would just get them at the grocery store before shopping. I went to the Super Fresh on Columbus Ave. and walked over to the customer service counter. I asked the man in charge if he could provide rolls of quarters. he asked how many I wanted. I told him I wanted “a couple” of rolls. He pursed his lips, and his tone became more terse. He asked again how many rolls of quarters I wanted. Incredulous, I took a firmer, darker tone and repeated myself, telling him I wanted “a couple” of rolls. He gritted his teeth a bit, and he asked me a third time, with a completely monotone voice while also shaking a bit, how many rolls I wanted. This time I furrowed my brow, held up two fingers, and said “two!” Then he got friendly and told me he certainly could provided them. I gave him a crisp twenty dollar bill, and he gave me my rolls.

After shopping, I was driving home trying to interpret what had happened. Apparently, that little misunderstanding hinged on the meaning of the word ‘couple.’ In my mind, that word means ‘two’ or ‘a pair.’ To him it must have simply meant ‘an indeterminate amount greater than one but less than…say…ten or so depending on the situation.’ I was not quite sure though. I needed to gather more data, so I filed it away in my head for further investigation in the future. A few days later, Johnny Porn and I were driving back to Philadelphia on the 76 after studying late at Harry McBurlison’s in Conshohocken. I decided to investigate how Johnny, a Staten Island native, would interpret that phrase. I did not want to pollute the data by telling him what had happened at the grocery mart, so I contrived a hypothetical situation on the fly to elicit a reaction.

I laid out a situation in which I was over at his house studying. I posed the question that if I were to ask him to make me a couple of pieces of toast, how many pieces of toast would he think I wanted. Unfortunately, Johnny Porn misinterpreted my intentions. He thought this was a question relating to my toast consumption habits. At first, he thought about how much toast I might want. He did not want to give me too much because he needed that bread to make toast for himself and to make other bread related dishes. Then, he started to get internally upset. He wondered who I thought I was coming to his house and asking to eat all this toast. Johnny figured he really needed that bread for other things, so there had to be limits on the amount I could have. I mean, how much toast can one man eat?! finally after what appeared to me to be silent deliberations, Johnny responded with, “a few.” I followed up by trying to get him to elaborate about how many that was. He repeated his previous answer. I then asked for a particular number. Johnny demurred with an irritated “I don’t know!” Finally, I came out and asked if he had in any way interpreted my question as me wanting two pieces of toast exactly. He realized there had been a misunderstanding. He told me what was going through his mind, and I told him about my altercation at the supermarket. He told me that, no, he did not think I had meant two pieces of toast. He said that, to him, a couple always means a few (i.e. an indefinite amount greater than one but less that say ten or so, depending on the situation). We argued back and fort until finally agreeing this must be a dialect thing. he had run into similar troubles when he lived in Houston a couple of summers ago.

After I dropped him off at his house, I thought to myself that this is crazy. How can a couple be more than two? I need to ask another Texan for an outside opinion. Fortunately, when I got home, there was a Texan online for me to interrogate. Sara and I were again on speaking terms after I forgave her for the derogatory remarks about my facial hair. We chatted online for a few minutes before I presented her with a question. I decided that perhaps toast was too polarizing and might cloud the issue in a number of ways, especially since most United Statesian toasters have only two slots (Canadian toasters have three slots while German ones have seven). I decided that a plate of brownies might be a better example. So I presented her with a hypothetical situation more amenable to getting some good data. I proposed that she had a plate of brownies and was offering them up to me, asking how many I wanted (the assumption being the plate has about ten brownies on it). I asked her what she would think I wanted if I asked her for “a couple” of brownies. Sara responded that she would give me “a couple.” I further prompted her by asking, “yes, but how many?” She again told me “a couple.” Finally, I asked for a number and she told me “two.” I was relieved. I explained what had happened in the past few days, and she agreed with me. A couple is a pair is two of something. When one says that Sally Jane Kaplan and Bertie O’Hanlon are a couple, it means that those two kids are in a relationship with each other. It should not matter if she is twenty years his senior. They are perfect for each other. My theory about this being a regional dialect issue was gathering momentum.

The next day in between Algebra and Complex Analysis, a few of us were shooting the breeze. I had told Johnny Porn about my conversation with Sara while traveling to the pretzel stand. He said that the plate of brownies was also a bad example. I proffered that maybe the question should be asked about a bag of candy bars. He said that still would not work. He suggested I use a bag of M&Ms. I wondered if he meant plain or the ones with peanuts, but I eventually settled on plain. I proposed the same question to Harry McBurlison (a native of the mountainous regions of Pennsylvania), but substituted plain M&Ms for the other examples. He told me that he would give me a handful. That pretty much confirmed the regional nature of the meaning of this phrase. I presented my argument that a couple is two, and they questioned what I would do in the M&M situation. I stated that I would only give the requested two M&Ms, and the honest truth is, if I had a bag of M&Ms, and somebody asked me for a couple, I would only give that person two individual units of candy. Then, Jeff from Ohio chimed in, stating that he also thought a couple was two. Apparently, Ohio shares the correct language usage practices with Texas on this one.

About a week later, Johnny and I went out to eat Pho with our English grad student friend, Juliette. She’s also from New York state, and when we presented her with the hypothetical situation, she agreed that a couple would be a handful (i.e. more than two). She then lectured me on how language is not rigid and is growing and changing constantly.

I suppose I should not be surprised. I heard on the Fox News that the North was a haven of liberal elitists, and now I have confirmed it. If we cannot define a couple as two, then anything is possible. When we say Sally Jane and Bertie O’Hanlon are a couple, it might be an orgy. Who knows whose involved. People can date trees and cows. A man might marry a whole forest. Think of the saplings people! Think of the saplings! I’m writing a letter to Webster telling them they need to firm these things up before the ivory tower elites start sullying our American English words, given to us as a gift from God along with democracy and chocolate pudding (too good to be a product of man’s ingenuity alone). I’m taking a stand. It’s time to draw a line in the sand, or better yet, a couple of lines. In between the lines will be some sort of neutral, demilitarized zone. Then we’ll see where the chips fall when the cookie crumbles.

Addendum: this phrase confusion continues to haunt me and cause problems. Last Friday, Harry McBurlison agreed to come pick me up and take me to campus so that we could drop of homework assignments due that day. He called me and told me he was “a couple” of minutes from my apartment. I went ahead and left the safe confines of my domicile and walked across the complex and out the gate, onto the city sidewalk. I waited a good ten minutes completely unprotected from any ne’er-do-wells who might have wanted to do me harm. This confusion is not only upsetting to me, it has also become quite dangerous.

China is a rising power, both economically and militarily. In the news, I keep hearing about how they will become a big threat to us and our prosperity at some point. Likely, the threat is more along the lines of economic rather than militarian, but still, something must be done to protect our position. At the very least, we need to have a plan in place as a backup, just in case. I think I may have stumbled upon just such a plan the other day.

Johnny Porn’s girlfriend (for anonymity purposes, we will simply call her V.V.N) is Chinese. Johnny does not speak Chinese, but he has picked up a few things by hanging around her family long enough. He explained to me how the Chinese language does not have an alphabet, it has a character system, with each character representing a word. One has to memorize a minimum of five thousand characters just to be able to conduct themselves in daily business, and the characters can be combined to form new words (i.e. man + house = husband). Apparently, there are many words and symbols that have taken on multiple meanings as time has passed and technology has advanced, and the actual meaning is gleaned from context. For example, the symbol for car is the same as the one for horse, chariot, etc.

This fact is the basis for my plan. If China starts to threaten our position, what we need to do is get a whole bunch of horses (we’ll probably need to have massive breeding facilities) and a bunch of cars (again, we need a big, high volume production facility). Then what we do is use duct tape to fasten one horse to each car and the strap a parachute on the whole thing. Then we load everything into those big cargo jets and drop them all over China. We need to really saturate the whole land mass with these horse/car chimeras. Then when our creations start landing, no one will know how to communicate what they are seeing. Since horse and car are the same word except for context, contexts will collide causing chaos. This will cause a country wide communications break down and a total systems overload. That should just about set everything back a good one hundred years or so while they figure out how to deal with the horse-cars.

Of course, this plan is not without its stumbling blocks. In preparation for this operation, we will need to increase production of duct tape dramatically. Since our duct tape factories are in China, we probably should not tell them why we have increased production. We should make something up, like that the president needs the tape to fix some things in the White House. Our car and horse factories will probably be outsourced to China as well, so we will need excuses for the increased production in those areas. We could say the horses are for the Kentucky Derby, and the cars are for accommodating our huge surplus of circus clowns. This subterfuge should be adequate. I think that about solves the China situation for a while. No need to think me, US citizens.

Every day we hear about how Britain, and specifically Tony Blair, is our staunchest, most important ally in the war on terror. However, I was browsing Wikipedia the other day, and I happened upon Tony Blair’s entry. I then followed a link to his wife’s entry. It was then that I discovered some shocking news. According to Wikipedia, Tony Blair’s wife, Cherie Booth Blair, is the first cousin four times removed of none other than John Wilkes Booth, the guy who killed Abraham Lincoln in 1865 at the Ford Theater. Can we really trust a Prime Minister who is the first cousin four times removed in-law of the guy who assassinated one of our presidents? Some might call it a complete coincidence. Others might say Wikipedia cannot be trusted. Well I say pish tosh! I think it is a conspiracy. And, of course, the mainstream media has completely ignored this story for years. All the while, our presidents have been sitting down and eating with this guy, letting their guard down. We need to keep an eye on this Blair character. What do we really know about him anyway other than that he has charming, almost boyish good looks and that his wife has been known to wear powdered wigs on occasion, which I think is totally hot.

Two days a week, I have two classes in a row, in the same classroom. This this all takes place around lunch time, and I usually need a little pick-me-up after the first hour and a half of class. The first floor of the math building has a coffee and pretzel stand. Sometimes, we trek down there to get a snack. I usually get a pretzel and a bottled drink (i.e. a cold frappuccino or an iced tea). Then, I munch on the pretzel while harassing and interrogating our professor, Boris, before he starts lecturing at us. After class, I throw the napkin and pretzel-related paper waste in the garbage can, but I always make a special trip to the elevator recycling cans to drop my bottle into the container for glass. Harry McBurlison and Johnny Porn always give me a hard time and ask me why I make a point of recycling that bottle every time. Well, the answer I give them, and will always give is the same. It is the least I can do. You would not believe how much mercury I have been dumping in the river on a weekly basis. It turns out to be quite a bit, I must say. This usually elicits the follow up question inquiring as to why I have been dumping mercury in the river. Again, I have a consistent response to that question. What’s with the third degree, ass face? Stay out of my business and go back to trimming your shoulder hair!

Here are some pictures of the recent snow events, my trip to NorthEAST Philly and random pictures I have taken with my cell phone over the last year or so. Nothing too spectacular, but I hope you nonetheless enjoy!

Cell Phone Pics

Northeast Philly is a Wonderful Magical Place

Our First Big Snow Day