i dont understand why more guys dont take advantage of the larger handicapped stalls

are my posts too long?

im beginning to view my life as a novel. trust me, its not worth a read, but anyhow ive been doing some literary analysis on me lately and this is what ive discovered. theres a parallel between my experience as a student and that of the students i teach this term. it is my job to (of course) teach but also to encourage. well, grading their midterms absolutely killed my own self-esteem. and its not because ive been deficient in my job (after all im only a ta) or the exam was too hard. and no they arent stupid. these are high school ap and honors students. but ive made some realisations about their learning patterns.

they dont assimilate knowledge. they learn the formulas practice the problems they are shown. some spend plenty of extra hours in my office seeking assistance. but when a challenging midterm comes around its apparent that theyre missing a key element. ive decided that its a matter of preparation and understanding. yeah, not too novel, i know. by preparation i mean time spent, mainly. in some cases i know mass hours were spent readying selves for the exam, yet the knowledge wasnt there.

well, the same blasted thing is true in my case. i had my midterm this evening. ive spent lotso time studying and in general studying all term, more than i ever have before, thats for sure. but i suck. you see, i left four questions just about blank out of six. and i know i didnt get the other ones completely right. the preparation isnt tip top, but it aint bad, but the knowledge i have not. i dont know how to get it. i want to shove sharp sticks in my eyeballs.

my only consolation is that the school cannot kick me out cus they really need the tas. thats teaching assistants (i could have capitalized it to make it clear, but i said no)

someone once said: it takes a real butthole (minor edit) to find humor in the calamity of others.

that said, check out this beautiful piece of journalism printed on the front page of this weeks ucsds own grey lady:

headline: STUDENT THREATENS TO JUMP
subhead: Woman stabbed herself on overpass above I-5

by ???
Senior Staff Writer

San Diego police thwarted an apparent suicide attempt by a UCSD student on the evening of Oct. 24. The 20-year-old female threatened to jump from the Nobel Drive overpass onto Interstate 5.

The ordeal halted traffic for hours.

The woman stabbed herself in the abdomen with a knife, said San Diego police spokesman Bill Robinson.

She was wearing a UCSD T-shirt.

The woman lost consciousness around 9 p.m. and police were able to remove her from the overpass.

Paramedics took her off the catwalk of a sign attached to the bridge using a ladder truck parked on the freeway.

She was then reportedly taken to Scripps Memorial Hospital La Jolla for psychological evaluation.

According to Robinson, the woman had "mental problems" and has not been charged.

Northbound I-5 was closed for three-and-a-half hours, and reopened around 10:30 p.m. Officers blocked traffic on Nobel Drive, and the California Highway Patrol diverted traffic from northbound I-5 onto Highway 52.

Traffic backed up as far south as Mission Bay.

need I say more?

ive been beswindled again! alright, alright, i promise that this is the last mocha related entry. i dont know whats with this strange fixation of mine. but anyways, this is what happened. i visited my local coffee stand near my building. apparently Espressoppresusnesimus, the cunning and wiley god of all things percolating, has been reading my blog. and hes back with a vengeance. i say this cus i walked up to the bar and ordered in a distinct tone of clarity a blended mocha in order to avoid a previous mishap. it was of course the morning shift lady who feigns interest in her customers while scheming under a deceitful cloak of beneficence and philanthropy. i had previously midjudged her counterfeit kindnesses but i can see now the the emissaries of evil often parade themselves about as angels of light.

she began to make my beverage. i could sense that something was amiss, yet i was powerless to pinpoint it. before i had an opportunity to make further inquiries she distracted my attentions be asking about my weekend. these clever demons with their wiles. i was certainly not about to proffer to much explicit information for her to catalog in the annals of treachery. i gave an evasive reply and turned the tables about. but alas, i was outwitted, for in the very asking i stepped right into the clutches of her evil devices. she began speaking of a garage sale anticipated five years whence. she referred to the garage sale as a "cathartic". yes, i too thought it strange. how, i ask myself, could i have been so blind? how could i have not seen the clear manifestations of the workings of pure evil incarnate? for no mere mortal would ever ascribe such a state to a garage sale.

a buck fitty. thats the price of a blended mocha. as i placed my order i put six quarters, some reflecting the charactersistics of various states in our union, others of the ordinary sort, on the bar. making a point, i thought to myself, thats what im doing. she finished the drink and interrupted her own story of finding self through one dollar blender only long enough to mention that the charge is two dollars and a half. well, i was aghast. dumbstruck. who could have predicted these events. my detest was apparent i dare say and she quickly mentioned that the buck fitty price was a promotion which had ended (immediately precedent one wouldnt be hasty in supposing). i wanted to throw my beverage at her in disdain. i later wished i had. she continued to speak of closets and cabinets full or excess pillows, table cloths and parlor games. i was being lulled, consciously, yet without the will to resist. i was being attacked by the tranquilizing darts of malice and though the mind was strong to recognize the offense, the body played its usual dichotomous role and rested in its state of inactivity. it was as though i were slowly pining after that carrot on a string, the mere illusion of want. when my captor had realised that i was vanquished she quickly released me. in a whirlwind i was cast aside, plummeted by an invisible force away from the bar where i might make attempts at recompense. as i walked off i noticed the sign, the bright yellow sign advertising the buck fitty price. but much to my chagrin, the sign had been replaced by a pale green one. its brilliance once so resplendent was no more. one could hardly look upon this sign, its tones so drab, impaling the senses. with just a glimpse i did see the words, presently echoing like violent screams in my mind, sun god special $2.50.

at this moment i took my first sip. unadulterated putrefaction. the product was undrinkable. i cursed the forces of social restraint that kept me from hurling the sour libation at this most clever adversary. i licked the whipped cream off the top and thrust the remainder into a waste receptacle placed in close proximity.

yes, i was defeated on the knoll this morning, but i too had a catharsis. i shall never again patronize that coffee stand. in this resolution i stand.

now i confess that there is a lot of feigned agitation in these chronicles of mine, but this one is real. im feeling sick to my stomach right now after reading an article in the school newspaper. the headline reads: christianity misunderstood by detractors and faithful alike. whod deny that? so i began to read. first few paragraphs i was like yeah yeah. and then the ratbag revealed himself through what he said as a liberal. i apologize for the harsh language. but the rubbish he put across as the truth behind christianity and the message of "jesus of nazareth" is truly sickening. its clear i wont be able to keep reading this paper as it seems to be impeding positive health, both mental and physical.

i think however, encourage me folks or else this will die after 36 hours like everything else, that i will write a rebuttal for submission to the paper.

curses! curses, i say! i have been duped again. well, its been nearly a week and i have forgiven Espressoppresusnesimus, the god of fury, brimstone, and foul mochas. if that accursed wretch shows up in that pantheon, i will personally send out the dogs. so homework kept up into the wee hours of the evening again yester and i decided that upon reaching school i would stop by the aforementioned coffee bar (coincidentally named Sun God Cafe, hmm...) for a spot of buckfitty blended mocha action. after all the 48-year old lady who works the morning shifts makes a far less ice-infiltrated mocha than the minion spoken of in an earlier post. btw, how, you ask, do i know that this particular lady is 48 and why do i mention it? well, lets say that ive visited her shift with enough frequency that she recognizes me and weve shared a spattering of smalltalk upon occasion. confound it! i should say, rather, that she has shown herself, despite our many business interactions, to be a louse. she is nothing more than a used bean salesman.

allow me to explain: i always order the same thing. moreover i first decided to patronize this quasi-establishment when they boasted the Sun God Special, hailed by one as the "best blended mocha on campus". as is my custom i approached the bar ordering the "best blended mocha on campus". in fact on other occasions i have approached the register ordering "the best blended mocha on campus". this morning in a haze of post-waking sleep syndrome and distracted by the subtle tones of a new cd playing wispfully into my aural canals i watched her lips form the bisyllabic question, "mocha?" assured that we had established rapport, i nodded yes. at which point she began to froth up a hot bevarage. blast of blasts, confoundation of confundities! i had to pay two and seventy five for a beverage i did not want. and to boot, i had to listen to her tell the same story as last week about the bob dylan concert at which she happened to make a showing. im beginning to think she views me simply as a sale.

well, to be sure, ill certainly not go there again....today. perhaps tomorrow ill subject myself to further oppresions at the hand of this deity of malice and java.

im a patient man and i let some things slide, however, repetition of certain acts demands response. this is such a case:

i have a pal in my program, lets just call him Les C. a week or so ago (it was about 3 in the pm, i recall) Les C mentioned in passing that he needed to have some breakfast. sure, i thought it was curious, but i let it pass. lets say that it humored me but i had no reason to make an issue out of it. (heaven forbid i should ask and then be disappointed by his answer.) yesterday it happened again. the obscure reference, begging for an inquisition. this exchange took place and delighted me ever so:

(its approximately 6:04:17 one crisp monday evening)
Les C: Man, I need to have some breakfast.
me: do you always refer to the first meal you eat as breakfast?
Les C: Yeah, well, I haven't eaten anything yet today.
me: you have a lot of days where you just eat breakfast dont you?
Les C: Yeah, cus I'll wake up and come here and work all day without stopping to eat.
me: but why at this late hour of the day do you call it breakfast?
Les C: I gotta have breakfast. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. There's no way I'm gonna have lunch and skip breakfast. Breakfast is way to important.

i went to a show last night. travis with remy zero. the show was awesome. im already a huge travis fan but i didnt know what to expect in terms of showmanship, after all its been quite some time since i went to a show where my ticket actually had a seat number rather than being general admission.

the venue was the spreckles theatre in downtown sd. nice place. the deepest seat in the whole joint was probably no more than 40 feet back from the stage. however if you were unfortunate enough to have seats in the upper balcony then you were about 60 feet over head. we had tickets in the upper balcony. when remy zero came on i found my attention drifting to receding hairlines and strange hair parts. this is what invariable happens so high above stage. who can blame me? im sure it had something to do with the thinness of the air at that altitude.

ive heard a couple of remy zero songs and liked them, but boy were they good live. not like entertaining per se, but solid musicly. the singers voice sounds better live than on record. imagine that. remy zero is a five piece band. two guitar players banging away on rickenbacker guitars, bass player, singer with occasional guitar playing prowess, and drummer. the drummer was fab. he hit those heads so hard: i laughed, i cried.

the spreckles theatre has a four foot wide stage long pit. we decided to make the descent and try to get into the pit for travis cus its no good watching a show from so far up. when we got to the main floor or the theatre, the usher lady was looking at some guys ticket so we thought we were gonna have trouble. but she started showing him to his seat and we sort of just followed like we knew where we were going. we got up to the front and found that a rail was separating the pit from the seats. we climbed over the rail discretely and were promplty halted by a security official who didnt appreciate our fancy. we climbed back over and thought we were defeated. as we began to make our way back up the aisle i saw a row of seats contemporaneously unoccupied. we jumped into the row and managed to watch the whole set of nearly two hours from about twenty five feet off stage. YES!

travis played most songs off of both albums. i couldnt help but notice that lead singer fran sporting a nice little mohawk looked a lot like my pal ty watkins minus goatee and glasses. i kept thinking this all night. if youve heard travis they demonstrate the principle that accents are virutally indistinguishable when singing. the first time fran opened his mouth to speak (in his unadulterated scottish accent) he commented that he had just been handed "a damp towel that smells of pess" you would have thought it was mike meyers on the stage. wonderful. upon occasion fran would tell a story, usually something of a more serious nature leading to the next song. there was a heckler there and thrice fran stopped mid sentence asking the fellow to "shet up" the first time was a simple shut up but as the show progressed fran began to insult the fellow calling much attention to him. i imagined during these outbursts that that poor fellow would be "crying himself to sleep on his huge pillow tonight". but to make amends fran gave this young man his playlist at the end of the show. three songs comprised the encore performance, none of which are tracks from the albums. the first was delivered by fran alone and was called twenty which he wrote when he was. the second song was a joint performance of travis and remy zero of david bowies heroes. it was beautiful. nine guys on stage banging away at their instruments. the crowd was wild. travis closed the evening with a song called happy. i was overcome with glee.

the evening was amazing. travis puts on a spectacular show and i highly recommend them to anyone.

two things i dont think:

(1) i dont think blended mochas should be made so as to flow over the side of the cup.
(2) i dont think blended mochas should be made so as not to flow over the side of the cup.

ive decided to add a new feature to my blog. lets call it, um, a spot of poetry. upon occasion ill throw a poem i like up here. todays contribution is called

A PASSING GLIMPSE
by robert frost

I often see flowers from a passing car
That are gone before I can tell what they are.

I want to get out of the train and go back
To see what they were beside the track.

I name all the flowers I am sure they weren't:
Not fireweed loving where woods have burnt--

Not bluebells gracing a tunnel mouth--
Not lupine living on sand and drouth.

Was something brushed across my mind
That no one on earth will ever find?

Heaven gives its glimpses only to those
Not in position to look too close.

yesterday i was listening to spiritualized on my cd player while riding on the bus. if you dont know who spiritualized is my friend refers to them as symphonic rock. if you do know who they are then you prolly would describe them differently. they have some of that post radiohead brit pop thing going on. theyre distinct and otherwise totally cool. anyways, the track i was listening to at the time has a section where there are a lot of strings yearning slowly, the way strings can do that really gets you in the deeper parts. meanwhile, a mother had come on the bus with her infant in arms. the child began crying: not the kind of crying that is loud piercing annoying in toddlers, rather the sort of crying that infants do--gently, mildly, even endearingly. the crying was a perfect complement to the induced moods of the string section on this particular spiritualized track. the whole event was quite moving. so much so, one might could argue, that i was influenced to donate a dollar to the cause at the supermarket check out last evening.

i wont say more than this: it must be midterm time cus the bus was so packed that the bus driver wouldnt let everyone on at the stop after mine. i was disconcerted (again) to find that a host of youthful men jumped on and left a pack of girls at the stop to wait another half hour.

i stopped at the grocery store before heading to the bus stop this morning. picked up a twelver of coke since im the cat with the fridge in his office. after exiting the bus i walked along my usual route towards the old student center. well, sure enough there was a coca cola delivery truck parked adjacent to the center. i looked down and saw the twelve pack of refreshing coca cola beverages i was carrying and immediately imagined i was in a commercial. so i held the bag up as i passed the driver and gave him a thumbs up. he in turn replied with a single digit gesture, only it wasnt his thumb. im sure thats not how it happens in the commercials.

im here to publicly state my detest of a crime to humanity. this is nearly as much an affront to our modern society as old ladies harming fit young men:
"what is it they want, these senile delinquents, these layabouts in lace?"
"the prestige, mainly. we like pulling the heads off sheep, and tea cakes."

no, i speak of youthful man types not yielding their seats to women, elderly and the like. i say no more, but im devising schemes. schemes, i tell you.

so theres this coffee bar that boasts the best blended mocha on campus. being a fan of blended coffee bevarages that taste more like chocolate shakes than coffee, i gave it a try a few weeks ago. they arent bad. (you can argue with me on this one) its not coffee bean, but its better than starbucks. but the taste of these beverages isnt what makes them interesting. rather its the artistry with which they are made.

what i mean by this is the following: generally a blended beverage comes with a dome shaped lid for the purpose of storing whipped cream. the cup is filled with frosty concoction up to the lid line, the dome lid is put into place and whipped cream is fired in through the opening. youve seen pictures, im sure. well lets say that a certain amount of artistic liberty is taken in these pouring these drinks. at this stand the blended mocha is poured far above the lid line. what you get is a cup with a pile of mocha resting atop. this is quite tricky as you might well imagine. generally speaking (depending on the viscosity of the mocha) there is some measure of overflow. the courteous baristas clean up the exterior of the cup using a rag, the rest hand you a mess to reckon with. todays experience was entirely fresh.

the chap behind the bar made a perfect mound with absolutely no spillage. not to mention that his mound was the tallest mound i have seen: at least 2.5 inches above the lid line. i was dually impressed. so much so that out of my mouth popped, "good show!" he was proud, to say the least. i reached into my pocket to get a dollar to put in his tip jar. this man is true entertainer i was thinking. but then it occured to me. this skill of his is only good in show. but not practical from a consumers standpoint. why, you ask? well, he commented quite rightly that if there isnt enough ice then the beverage is too runny and flows down the sides of the cup. he has figuered out just how much ice to keep this from happening. i dare say, that in adding convenience to his life and a dazzling feat to his repertoire, he has only watered down the taste of my mocha. promptly i released the dollar bill from my grip and let it rest comfortably in my pocket.

and to think i almost fell victim to this grave injustice.

id like to take this opportunity to say boo on jordan canonical forms.

September 14, 2001


I am seated in the fourth seat of a six seat bus stop. The seats are constructed in two benches of three and each seat individually provides room for any one of 98 percent of the worlds butts. I chose the fourth seat upon my arrival as the second and sixth seats were already occupied, filled, incidentally, by women. Another, an older asian woman with visible streaks of gray in her hair and eyes approaches. She sits in the first seat.

As i sit here, feeling isolated, alienated, not simply from my bus stop companions (if I dare call them that), but stripped, as it were, of an element of my very humanity, indescribable, two coughs are heard simultaneously. Not the choking wheezing emphysmatic sort of barking that makes one feel somewhat awkward to remain idle, but crisp singular coughs, emanating from seats one and six. The spontaneous uniformity of these respiratory ejaculations assures me of an inherent order among the spheres. Furthermore, I am now confident--something is amiss.

Abruptly the bus comes into vision turning the corner toward the stop. Everyone shifts restlessly in anticipation. As the bus pulls up curbside, the small crowd fights for position. This stop rests roughly 90 percent along the route, ten minutes at most from my destination at the university. A convenience in being picked up at this late stop is obviously the brevity of the ride. An even greater convenience is that the bus is always full, leaving me to stand clinging to the overhead handrail.


On the ride home seats abound. I find myself sitting near the rear of the bus. I am expended having just played a most rousing game of ultimate frisbee with several of my colleagues and newfound friends. You know that guy on the bus? The one that always reeks a most wretched stench. His appearance is one of filth. In fact, no distinction can be made between the dirt and scum that covers the members of his body and the members themselves. The seat adjacent to his is always empty. He draws scowls from the faces of those unprivileged to encounter his presence on the bus. Today, I am that man.

At the next stop, two women get on the boat and squeeze into the two remaining seats staggered in adjacent rows behind me. The one more loud and somewhat annoying of the two bursts out with, "And what's with that stuff--okay, there's mayo and there's that imitation stuff. Yeah, Miracle Whip." I am presently overwhelmed with delight to be engaged in the ordinary practice commonly known as public transit.