They were the most exciting 16 days of my life. That may sound unnecessarily superlative, but when I look back on them, they warrant the title.
Being back in the comforts of my cubicle-sized dorm room, it's good to see that things haven't changed too much. The sun still sets in the west. The Dodgers are still a few games out of the postseason. And Edgar Stiles is still dead.
And another fact that remains ever true is that "Dan" from cafeabroad.com (Keep up the boycott, loyal fans) continues to win gold medals at the Special Olympics. In response to my article on caving and skiing (as seen below), he busted out the old compliment sandwich. And I quote:
You have a really quirky style that makes for good 1st person narratives. Our travel journalists do a lot more 3rd person stuff and has more of a polished feel. I offered you the representative position because you have talent but it needs work. For example the lede in your story you buried, it's actually:
"I went from the bowels of the earth to the top of the world in the short period of a day and a half."
In exchange for your work I would match your work in effort to improve your writing.
He's done it folks! "Dan" has reached a level of idiocy that I only thought Paul DePodesta was capable of. I mean, what the hell is a "lede?" If he's criticizing me for having an "unpolished" writing style, he can at least spellcheck his damn e-mail. "Lede." Sounds like some kind of pain medication that Rush Limbaugh would get addicted to. "The conservative pundit was arrested in LAX this morning for possession of nearly two kilograms of ledes."
So this final e-mail proves it: "Dan" is never going to budge from his stance. In his perfect world, I'll continue to submit articles and try to prove my worth to him...like one of the minor Baldwin brothers trying to get Alec's approval. So Congrats, "Dan" (who I'm oddly picturing as the Del Taco spokesman). But at least I have the moral high ground of knowing that a) this blog alone gets more laughs than his entire website and b) I can spell the word "lead" correctly. Even my 6 year old cousin can do that. And he eats his own boogers.
I'd be tempted to respond to him, telling him that he's picking Darko over Wade in this situation...but it would be no use. And I'd probably just get frustrated and end up writing a two word e-mail where the second one would be "you."
So that's the last time that cafeabroad.com will be mentioned here. "Dan" can might as well go fishing with Fredo since he's dead to me. My enemies list is pretty short. Actually, it's just Richard Nixon's with his name crossed out and mine written in his place. But now it has one more name.
Part of me is glad that this whole ordeal is closed. On my trip, I bought a jade necklace in the shape of a spiral. It symbolizes new beginnings and harmony. Getting past this is just another step towards my inner, Kiwi peace.
So for the next few days I'll be recounting everything that occurred over the past two and a half weeks. It's a long list (but distinguished) that includes jet boating, hiking on glaciers, jumping off really tall buildings, getting stuck in tunnels, and strange kayaking guides. Most importantly, it's the story of personal growth and the realization that it takes exactly 13.5 days for people to understand my sense of humor.
By the end, I felt as though it was (in fact) time to go back home. But I'm still not sure if "home" means Auckland or Los Angeles.
-MGD
In honor of the Niners being on Monday Night Football and beginning their run towards the Super Bowl, I'll replace the "That's what she said" with the
Vernon Davis fun fact of the day:
Vernon can clean and jerk a Honda Civic, then jump over it and then outrun it in a 40 yard dash.
But I can't deprive you of this great "That's what she said," overheard on day 4 of my trip.
(Re: a parking spot)
"I didn't think you'd pull out that much!"
Thursday, August 23, 2007
24 August 2007 - A (Fort)night to remember
Well, in less than twelve hours, I'm heading off to the south island for 16 days of fun and excitement. I'd reveal more details, except that I know that my mother reads this blog and any mention of "danger" or "peril" or "girls with low self esteem" would reinforce her hypochondria. So instead, I'll just say that I look forward to proving that I'm not a chicken during these next two weeks.
Sadly, this means that I'll be taking a 16 day break from the 'Stravaganza. Have no fear, I'll be back in no time with plenty more stories to tell. In the meanwhile, I offer you this piece that I just wrote for "Dan" at cafeabroad.com.
So back on the Cafe Abroad front, my protestacular has progressed nicely. I wrote the following article in hopes that "Dan" will reconsider hiring me for the position of travel journalist. Well, if I don't get this job, Peter Gammons will look back on "Dan's" decision and compare it to when the Yankees could have signed Big Papi back in '02.
And yes, I know that I repeat a couple of my classic Max-isms (Max-ims, maybe?). You know, Manet/Monet and Paxton/Pullman. But "Dan" from Cafe Abroad hasn't heard them yet. And if NBC Must See Thursday has taught us anything, it's that if you haven't seen it, it's new to you.
Caves, Skis and Glow Worms (Oh My)
By Max Davison
My philosophy for study abroad was quite simple: Do what I can’t normally do at home. For a sheltered Los Angeles boy now residing in Auckland, this shouldn’t prove too difficult. I mean, in Auckland there’s no smog, no sales tax and no foolish lawsuits. Although neither city has a baseball team that can manage to make the playoffs, so it feels like home in that regard. Last weekend, I took a trip that demonstrated the full range of what New Zealand has to offer. In a period of a day and a half, I went from the bowels of the earth to the top of the world, literally.
The trip started down in Waitomo, a town on the west coast of New Zealand’s north island. It is best known for the glowworm caves, and that’s exactly what I went for. I got into my wet suit and harness and strapped on a miner’s helmet (complete with light) and marched down 90 meters into the earth. It had been raining heavily that day, so the water level inside the caves was four times higher than it normally was. Lucky me.
The first step is to repel down a steep waterfall, made extra slippery by the increased rain. Getting blasted in the face with water while jumping down a rock wall perfectly set the tone for the rest of the excursion. Walking through the caves, we had to squeeze our bodies through tiny crevices. I imagine that’s what being born must have felt like. Our group only had four people in it, so it felt like a personal, guided tour of the Waitomo Caves. I also finally learned the difference between stalactites and stalagmites; something that I think 75% of the population gets wrong (similar to Manet and Monet or Bill Paxton and Bill Pullman). So to clear it up, stalactites go down while stalagmites go up. Turning the lights out, we saw the glow worms on the walls of the caves. They looked like a glow in the dark constellations. Sadly, flash photography was prohibited, but that makes the memory that much more powerful.
The rock climbing was exhausting, the heights were terrifying and the darkness was enough to make a man go crazy. It was probably one of the best experiences of my life. In the end, I stared claustrophobia in the eye. And he blinked first.
After staying the night in a hostel (Note: recently hostels have gotten a bad name. But so far, I haven’t encountered any gory underground violence rings) we set out in the morning for Mt. Ruapehu. This goes down as one of the key moments in my life, since for the first time ever, the Southern California boy finally saw snow. I snow suited up and after a two hour lesson on the basic points of skiing, I was ready to hit the slopes. Heading down the first hill I felt fantastic. But then I started to move faster than an overeager teenager on a third date. I was picking up speed at an alarmingly fast rate. I started going faster and faster and faster still.
Perhaps it’s because I was so disoriented by the snow or maybe it had something to do with my short, MTV-generation attention span, but for the life of me I couldn’t remember how to stop. I tried to think back to the instructor’s lesson, but all that I could come up with was an image of Ned Flanders in a revealing body suit. Luckily, there was an unsuspecting eight year old that I was able to turn into a makeshift anchor and I avoided Sonny Bono-ing into the oncoming mountain. So I picked myself up and made sure that none of my friends saw that tumble. I apologized to the kid, took a deep breath, and got on the lift to head back down the hill, which I did four more times (each more skillfully than the next, I must add).
There aren’t many places in the world where one day you can be under the earth’s surface and skiing in the mountains the next. In the course of a single weekend, I faced my fears of enclosed spaces, heights, drowning, and abominable snowmen and I’m a stronger person for it. And people say that going abroad is going to be scary.
Oh, I've also found a new nickname that could potentially catch on: Maxcalibur. Thoughts?
See you in 16. And when I come back, I want to see the Dodgers in first place, the A's in the Wild Card hunt, and maybe the last two episodes of "Entourage" will be awesome.
-MGD
That's what she said of the day:
(A classic from Michael Scott)
Jim: Does that mean no more "that's what she said?"
Michael: Yes.
Jim: Wow, that is really hard. Do you really think you can go all day long? Well, you always left me satisfied and smiling.
Michael: THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID!
Sadly, this means that I'll be taking a 16 day break from the 'Stravaganza. Have no fear, I'll be back in no time with plenty more stories to tell. In the meanwhile, I offer you this piece that I just wrote for "Dan" at cafeabroad.com.
So back on the Cafe Abroad front, my protestacular has progressed nicely. I wrote the following article in hopes that "Dan" will reconsider hiring me for the position of travel journalist. Well, if I don't get this job, Peter Gammons will look back on "Dan's" decision and compare it to when the Yankees could have signed Big Papi back in '02.
And yes, I know that I repeat a couple of my classic Max-isms (Max-ims, maybe?). You know, Manet/Monet and Paxton/Pullman. But "Dan" from Cafe Abroad hasn't heard them yet. And if NBC Must See Thursday has taught us anything, it's that if you haven't seen it, it's new to you.
Caves, Skis and Glow Worms (Oh My)
By Max Davison
My philosophy for study abroad was quite simple: Do what I can’t normally do at home. For a sheltered Los Angeles boy now residing in Auckland, this shouldn’t prove too difficult. I mean, in Auckland there’s no smog, no sales tax and no foolish lawsuits. Although neither city has a baseball team that can manage to make the playoffs, so it feels like home in that regard. Last weekend, I took a trip that demonstrated the full range of what New Zealand has to offer. In a period of a day and a half, I went from the bowels of the earth to the top of the world, literally.
The trip started down in Waitomo, a town on the west coast of New Zealand’s north island. It is best known for the glowworm caves, and that’s exactly what I went for. I got into my wet suit and harness and strapped on a miner’s helmet (complete with light) and marched down 90 meters into the earth. It had been raining heavily that day, so the water level inside the caves was four times higher than it normally was. Lucky me.
The first step is to repel down a steep waterfall, made extra slippery by the increased rain. Getting blasted in the face with water while jumping down a rock wall perfectly set the tone for the rest of the excursion. Walking through the caves, we had to squeeze our bodies through tiny crevices. I imagine that’s what being born must have felt like. Our group only had four people in it, so it felt like a personal, guided tour of the Waitomo Caves. I also finally learned the difference between stalactites and stalagmites; something that I think 75% of the population gets wrong (similar to Manet and Monet or Bill Paxton and Bill Pullman). So to clear it up, stalactites go down while stalagmites go up. Turning the lights out, we saw the glow worms on the walls of the caves. They looked like a glow in the dark constellations. Sadly, flash photography was prohibited, but that makes the memory that much more powerful.
The rock climbing was exhausting, the heights were terrifying and the darkness was enough to make a man go crazy. It was probably one of the best experiences of my life. In the end, I stared claustrophobia in the eye. And he blinked first.
After staying the night in a hostel (Note: recently hostels have gotten a bad name. But so far, I haven’t encountered any gory underground violence rings) we set out in the morning for Mt. Ruapehu. This goes down as one of the key moments in my life, since for the first time ever, the Southern California boy finally saw snow. I snow suited up and after a two hour lesson on the basic points of skiing, I was ready to hit the slopes. Heading down the first hill I felt fantastic. But then I started to move faster than an overeager teenager on a third date. I was picking up speed at an alarmingly fast rate. I started going faster and faster and faster still.
Perhaps it’s because I was so disoriented by the snow or maybe it had something to do with my short, MTV-generation attention span, but for the life of me I couldn’t remember how to stop. I tried to think back to the instructor’s lesson, but all that I could come up with was an image of Ned Flanders in a revealing body suit. Luckily, there was an unsuspecting eight year old that I was able to turn into a makeshift anchor and I avoided Sonny Bono-ing into the oncoming mountain. So I picked myself up and made sure that none of my friends saw that tumble. I apologized to the kid, took a deep breath, and got on the lift to head back down the hill, which I did four more times (each more skillfully than the next, I must add).
There aren’t many places in the world where one day you can be under the earth’s surface and skiing in the mountains the next. In the course of a single weekend, I faced my fears of enclosed spaces, heights, drowning, and abominable snowmen and I’m a stronger person for it. And people say that going abroad is going to be scary.
Oh, I've also found a new nickname that could potentially catch on: Maxcalibur. Thoughts?
See you in 16. And when I come back, I want to see the Dodgers in first place, the A's in the Wild Card hunt, and maybe the last two episodes of "Entourage" will be awesome.
-MGD
That's what she said of the day:
(A classic from Michael Scott)
Jim: Does that mean no more "that's what she said?"
Michael: Yes.
Jim: Wow, that is really hard. Do you really think you can go all day long? Well, you always left me satisfied and smiling.
Michael: THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID!
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
23 August 2007 - Running on Faith (or Empty. We'll see.)
Say what you will about the Grease Soundtrack, but Olivia Newton-John really sings her heart out in "Hopelessly Devoted to You." Moving on...
It's a beautiful day in Auckland. Sunny in the morning, rainy at night. Sky of blue and sea of green. It's such a great city that I'd love to see more of it. And what better way than to run 24 miles around downtown?
The Auckland Marathon is coming up on the 28th of October. This gives me 66 days to train. The first guy who ran a marathon passed out and died. That being said, I should probably start practicing.
I'm considering using the Barney Stinson guide to running a marathon. Step One: You start running. There is no step two.
I come from a family of chronic knee pain. Mom had knee surgery. Dad recently had knee surgery. One more knee surgery and we get a free small drink with any combo meal. So if I wreck mine in the process, at least I know of a capable surgeon that takes our insurance. It's also a way for me to prove that the two summers of physical therapy paid off. And going along with my logic behind everything I'm doing while abroad, it makes a fun story to tell back at home.
Yet I must admit that right now, at 12:09am, just thinking about running makes my knees hurt a bit. I haven't felt this week in the knees since I first saw Rose Byrne in 'Wicker Park.' Another downside is that Men's Health always says that distance running breaks down muscle tissue. And if there's one thing that I'm all about it's looking as studly as possible. Or maybe I'll lose weight and look like a swimmer? Still up in the air.
But then again, the entry fee is $99NZ (roughly $68 American). If I wanted to pay money to exert myself to near exhaustion and wreck my knees, I know a dominatrix on Fairfax with competitive prices. I could always go for the cheaper, half-marathon option. But that's just a cop out. Who ever got away with only doing half of a job? And if there's one thing that I don't support is pulling out before the Mission is Accomplished. Otherwise civil war will reign and a capitalist economy will never flourish. So for the sake of global democracy, I won't be running a weak-ass half marathon. They should probably just change the name. You can either run a "Full Marathon" or you can "Admit you were castrated at a young age."
So it's 24 miles (I refuse to convert to kilometers) or bust. I'll keep you posted.
And on the civil disobedience front, Dan from CafeAbroad.com (STILL, don't visit) has finally responded to my strongly worded reply to his offer of $0. He has suggested that I send in a 600-800 word submission with a "clear theme." Worst case scenario, I get published on their web site. Best case, I'll get hired. So I'm currently working on a piece about my weekend of caving and skiing. I may have to tone down the Simpsons references and sexual innuendo, but I'll be sure to post my article first on my blog and I'll let you know if "Dan" comes to his senses and decides to compensate me for my candor.
-MGD
That's what she said of the day:
(In the kitchen)
I think it's time you pulled that sausage out.
It's a beautiful day in Auckland. Sunny in the morning, rainy at night. Sky of blue and sea of green. It's such a great city that I'd love to see more of it. And what better way than to run 24 miles around downtown?
The Auckland Marathon is coming up on the 28th of October. This gives me 66 days to train. The first guy who ran a marathon passed out and died. That being said, I should probably start practicing.
I'm considering using the Barney Stinson guide to running a marathon. Step One: You start running. There is no step two.
I come from a family of chronic knee pain. Mom had knee surgery. Dad recently had knee surgery. One more knee surgery and we get a free small drink with any combo meal. So if I wreck mine in the process, at least I know of a capable surgeon that takes our insurance. It's also a way for me to prove that the two summers of physical therapy paid off. And going along with my logic behind everything I'm doing while abroad, it makes a fun story to tell back at home.
Yet I must admit that right now, at 12:09am, just thinking about running makes my knees hurt a bit. I haven't felt this week in the knees since I first saw Rose Byrne in 'Wicker Park.' Another downside is that Men's Health always says that distance running breaks down muscle tissue. And if there's one thing that I'm all about it's looking as studly as possible. Or maybe I'll lose weight and look like a swimmer? Still up in the air.
But then again, the entry fee is $99NZ (roughly $68 American). If I wanted to pay money to exert myself to near exhaustion and wreck my knees, I know a dominatrix on Fairfax with competitive prices. I could always go for the cheaper, half-marathon option. But that's just a cop out. Who ever got away with only doing half of a job? And if there's one thing that I don't support is pulling out before the Mission is Accomplished. Otherwise civil war will reign and a capitalist economy will never flourish. So for the sake of global democracy, I won't be running a weak-ass half marathon. They should probably just change the name. You can either run a "Full Marathon" or you can "Admit you were castrated at a young age."
So it's 24 miles (I refuse to convert to kilometers) or bust. I'll keep you posted.
And on the civil disobedience front, Dan from CafeAbroad.com (STILL, don't visit) has finally responded to my strongly worded reply to his offer of $0. He has suggested that I send in a 600-800 word submission with a "clear theme." Worst case scenario, I get published on their web site. Best case, I'll get hired. So I'm currently working on a piece about my weekend of caving and skiing. I may have to tone down the Simpsons references and sexual innuendo, but I'll be sure to post my article first on my blog and I'll let you know if "Dan" comes to his senses and decides to compensate me for my candor.
-MGD
That's what she said of the day:
(In the kitchen)
I think it's time you pulled that sausage out.
20 August 2007 - The Classes
That whole "Study" part of the study abroad experience gets overlooked like the ugly friend at a bachelorette party. I'm taking four classes right now, none of which really match up to what CMC would offer. And for the past few weeks I haven't given that much thought to them...except now I've got three projects due next week. So you know what that means: procrastinate with the blog.
First off, we've got the Language of Film.
This is one of the largest classes that the university offers...since there are tons of incoming students who have been deluded into believing that they're going to be the next Peter Jackson and win multiple Oscars. I'd make fun of them more if I weren't one of them myself.
There are about 350 students in this lecture hall and there are three different rotating lecturers. The first is a skinny American woman, whose only credential (it seems) is that she's American. She gives you your bare bones, definition lectures about "This is a dolly shot" or "The first feature film released was D.W. Griffith's..."
The second professor is...well...how do I put this nicely? If Dos Equis found the Most Interesting Man in the World, then this woman is his Bizarro opposite. Half of her talks are apologies for not knowing how to use PowerPoint or a DVD player. And when she does talk, it's word-for-word off of the projected notes.
The third prof is pretty damn interesting. Well spoken, good points, good demeanor. But of course there's a problem.
Last week during the lecture, he went on about how he's positive that Tom Cruise is gay. He insisted that Tom's got an entire armada of lawyers getting rid of any attempts to get him out of the closet.
I have never been so tempted to walk out of a class since Bob Faggen went on a 15 rant about how I should never use the phrase "incredibly unique." (I'm pretty sure that this is yet another reference that Noah will get and Fawkes won't).
Despite his blasphemy, I think that I can continue on with this class. After seeing that Eric Murphy can make it as a Hollywood Producer, I'm more motivated to do something, and this course is giving me the basic knowledge to do so. What does this mean for the masses? I'm one step closer to having my own Entourage. I've already got my own Ari, E and Lloyd, so if you think that you'd make a good Drama (over-inflated ego) or Turtle (lazy XBox addict), send your resume and cover sheet to mdavison09@cmc.edu.
Art History - Renaissance
This class is boring the hell out of me. Renaissance art is meant to be appreciated, not studied. It's a subject more suited for discussion by women as they come and go.
The course could easily go as follows:
"Here's a Da Vinci."
"Ooooooh."
*Change slide*
"This was painted by Giotto."
"Ooooooh."
*Change slide*
But what makes it interesting is the prof. It's taught by an American woman who, by her accent, grew up in the south. But she then presumably studied for a while in Italy, since she has that horrible Giada De Laurentiis affected manner of over pronouncing any Italian name. Sadly, without the Giada De Laurentiis boob job that just screams "Put me in Maxim."
But I can forgive her. She studied Art History in college. And we know that art history is a major that should be renamed "I Really Hope I Marry Wealthy."
Art History - Impressionism
Absolutely loving this one. We have two rotating lecturers. The first is a short New Zealand woman who despite her no-nonsense, bastard coated bastard exterior has a soft, funny nougaty center. And she's managed to teach me the difference between Manet and Monet. Next step: Michelle Branch and Vanessa Carlton.
The other prof has the Art history trifecta going for him: 1) Knowledgable 2) Old 3) Flamingly Gay. If you had to pick an ideal art history professor, this is your guy.
Tragedy in the Age of Shakespeare
Appropriately enough, I've got a British prof with a deep voice that was made for the Shakespearean stage. He resembles Derek Jacobi a good deal, but I don't think that means much to anyone. While I like the subject matter, the class seems to be moving at a remedial pace. Two weeks ago we spent an entire hour on "What is iambic pentameter?" And I never thought I'd say this, but Prof. Tobias Gregory taught the lecture better.
John Lennon said that life is what happens while you're busy making other plans. Well, for me just replace with word "life" with "class." While I'm not in New Zealand specifically for the University of Auckland, it's not a bad place to spend a few hours a week.
Oh, and before I get any crap about this, I slept through my fantasy football draft today. It was scheduled for 8:30am my time, and somehow or another my alarm got turned off and I woke up at 10. No worries. All that means is that I drafted 6 running backs and 7 wide receivers. Depth, baby. I've got depth. And a lot of trade bait, so let's talk.
-MGD
That's what she said of the day:
(While skiing)
Does this poll look too long to you?
First off, we've got the Language of Film.
This is one of the largest classes that the university offers...since there are tons of incoming students who have been deluded into believing that they're going to be the next Peter Jackson and win multiple Oscars. I'd make fun of them more if I weren't one of them myself.
There are about 350 students in this lecture hall and there are three different rotating lecturers. The first is a skinny American woman, whose only credential (it seems) is that she's American. She gives you your bare bones, definition lectures about "This is a dolly shot" or "The first feature film released was D.W. Griffith's..."
The second professor is...well...how do I put this nicely? If Dos Equis found the Most Interesting Man in the World, then this woman is his Bizarro opposite. Half of her talks are apologies for not knowing how to use PowerPoint or a DVD player. And when she does talk, it's word-for-word off of the projected notes.
The third prof is pretty damn interesting. Well spoken, good points, good demeanor. But of course there's a problem.
Last week during the lecture, he went on about how he's positive that Tom Cruise is gay. He insisted that Tom's got an entire armada of lawyers getting rid of any attempts to get him out of the closet.
I have never been so tempted to walk out of a class since Bob Faggen went on a 15 rant about how I should never use the phrase "incredibly unique." (I'm pretty sure that this is yet another reference that Noah will get and Fawkes won't).
Despite his blasphemy, I think that I can continue on with this class. After seeing that Eric Murphy can make it as a Hollywood Producer, I'm more motivated to do something, and this course is giving me the basic knowledge to do so. What does this mean for the masses? I'm one step closer to having my own Entourage. I've already got my own Ari, E and Lloyd, so if you think that you'd make a good Drama (over-inflated ego) or Turtle (lazy XBox addict), send your resume and cover sheet to mdavison09@cmc.edu.
Art History - Renaissance
This class is boring the hell out of me. Renaissance art is meant to be appreciated, not studied. It's a subject more suited for discussion by women as they come and go.
The course could easily go as follows:
"Here's a Da Vinci."
"Ooooooh."
*Change slide*
"This was painted by Giotto."
"Ooooooh."
*Change slide*
But what makes it interesting is the prof. It's taught by an American woman who, by her accent, grew up in the south. But she then presumably studied for a while in Italy, since she has that horrible Giada De Laurentiis affected manner of over pronouncing any Italian name. Sadly, without the Giada De Laurentiis boob job that just screams "Put me in Maxim."
But I can forgive her. She studied Art History in college. And we know that art history is a major that should be renamed "I Really Hope I Marry Wealthy."
Art History - Impressionism
Absolutely loving this one. We have two rotating lecturers. The first is a short New Zealand woman who despite her no-nonsense, bastard coated bastard exterior has a soft, funny nougaty center. And she's managed to teach me the difference between Manet and Monet. Next step: Michelle Branch and Vanessa Carlton.
The other prof has the Art history trifecta going for him: 1) Knowledgable 2) Old 3) Flamingly Gay. If you had to pick an ideal art history professor, this is your guy.
Tragedy in the Age of Shakespeare
Appropriately enough, I've got a British prof with a deep voice that was made for the Shakespearean stage. He resembles Derek Jacobi a good deal, but I don't think that means much to anyone. While I like the subject matter, the class seems to be moving at a remedial pace. Two weeks ago we spent an entire hour on "What is iambic pentameter?" And I never thought I'd say this, but Prof. Tobias Gregory taught the lecture better.
John Lennon said that life is what happens while you're busy making other plans. Well, for me just replace with word "life" with "class." While I'm not in New Zealand specifically for the University of Auckland, it's not a bad place to spend a few hours a week.
Oh, and before I get any crap about this, I slept through my fantasy football draft today. It was scheduled for 8:30am my time, and somehow or another my alarm got turned off and I woke up at 10. No worries. All that means is that I drafted 6 running backs and 7 wide receivers. Depth, baby. I've got depth. And a lot of trade bait, so let's talk.
-MGD
That's what she said of the day:
(While skiing)
Does this poll look too long to you?
18 August 2007 - There Can Only Be One
I think there's a woodpecker loose in the dorms. Either that, or the girl who lives next door has a new boyfriend. Whatever the cause, I keep hearing "thud thud thud" when I go to bed.
I've found that a lot of people in my dorm have the name "Max." I suppose that twenty some odd years ago, a whole bunch of mothers independently thought that "Max" would be a kick-ass name. Either that, or the people who write baby naming books decided to play a trick on everyone, since it's also the most popular name for dogs in the USA.
It's a good, solid name. Short and to the point. And unlike other tough, monosyllabic names like Bruce and Lance, the gay community hasn't corrupted "Max." The name is part of a brotherhood with such prestigious members as Planck, Factor, Hodge, Schmeling, and Payne. And if used correctly, it can get you into exclusive parties at Ed Begley Jr's house.
But if people are going to start differentiating us by using adjectives (e.g. "Cool Max," "Blonde Max," "Fat Max," "Girl Max")*, I'm going to have to find a new nickname. Some may think that I'm waving the white flag, surrendering my god given name. Rather, I see it as an opportunity. I know a few people who gave themselves a new nickname before going abroad. As long as you're in a foreign country, you might as well embrace change.
So this is my chance to adopt a new nickname for myself. I like Maximus well enough, but there's always room for personal growth. What follows is a preliminary list of names that I'm considering. Feel free to let me know which ones ring true.
1) Ace
2) The Commodore
3) Tony Stark
4) T-Bone
5) Reginald von Hoogstratten
6) Black Pete
7) Liquid Cool
8) Thunder Dan
9) Chevy - 'Cause I'm like a rock.
10) Ford - Because quality is job #1.
and finally,
11) White Power Bill
Damnit. I totally should have told everyone that my nickname was "Ace" when I got here. But now it's too late, and I doubt that CMC will accept me as an "Ace" when I return in January. So I guess this means that I'll have to wait until I get a job to rechristen myself.
That is, unless, any of you would feel comfortable calling me "Ace?" It could be fun! Come on! Come on! No? Fine. I'll start waiting until I join the labor force.
-MGD
*And I promise you, I'm not Girl Max.
That's what she said of the day:
(Re: an art history exam)
I think it'll be a lot harder than the textbook makes it look.
I've found that a lot of people in my dorm have the name "Max." I suppose that twenty some odd years ago, a whole bunch of mothers independently thought that "Max" would be a kick-ass name. Either that, or the people who write baby naming books decided to play a trick on everyone, since it's also the most popular name for dogs in the USA.
It's a good, solid name. Short and to the point. And unlike other tough, monosyllabic names like Bruce and Lance, the gay community hasn't corrupted "Max." The name is part of a brotherhood with such prestigious members as Planck, Factor, Hodge, Schmeling, and Payne. And if used correctly, it can get you into exclusive parties at Ed Begley Jr's house.
But if people are going to start differentiating us by using adjectives (e.g. "Cool Max," "Blonde Max," "Fat Max," "Girl Max")*, I'm going to have to find a new nickname. Some may think that I'm waving the white flag, surrendering my god given name. Rather, I see it as an opportunity. I know a few people who gave themselves a new nickname before going abroad. As long as you're in a foreign country, you might as well embrace change.
So this is my chance to adopt a new nickname for myself. I like Maximus well enough, but there's always room for personal growth. What follows is a preliminary list of names that I'm considering. Feel free to let me know which ones ring true.
1) Ace
2) The Commodore
3) Tony Stark
4) T-Bone
5) Reginald von Hoogstratten
6) Black Pete
7) Liquid Cool
8) Thunder Dan
9) Chevy - 'Cause I'm like a rock.
10) Ford - Because quality is job #1.
and finally,
11) White Power Bill
Damnit. I totally should have told everyone that my nickname was "Ace" when I got here. But now it's too late, and I doubt that CMC will accept me as an "Ace" when I return in January. So I guess this means that I'll have to wait until I get a job to rechristen myself.
That is, unless, any of you would feel comfortable calling me "Ace?" It could be fun! Come on! Come on! No? Fine. I'll start waiting until I join the labor force.
-MGD
*And I promise you, I'm not Girl Max.
That's what she said of the day:
(Re: an art history exam)
I think it'll be a lot harder than the textbook makes it look.
17 August 2007 - The Room Mate
So I've got this roommate. Although technically, we're more like flatmates. We both have single rooms, connected by a kitchenette. For the first time in college, I have my own room. But this isn't to say that
His name is Suffain. Or Suffein. Or possibly Snuffleupagus. Whatever his name is, I just call him "Buddy." This may be why he's constantly rolling his eyes and saying "It's pronounced ---" But I just stop listening at this point and start humming the new Keith Urban single to myself (Can't get enough of "I Told You So." Classic Urban). He's a 5'7" Malaysian with a receding hairline and is currently studying English. Not the literature. More like "how to speak it." He's also a Muslim, which scared me at first. Not because I thought he was going to poison me with Anthrax or something like that. I know that not all Muslims are terrorists (just most of them). I was just worried that we'd get into some kind of philosophical debate which would hurt our living arrangement.
Well, since he can't speak English very well, we've avoided that one. The only way in which his religion gets in the way is that he has to was his hands and feet before each prayer. This means that around 1am, I'll be awakened by the sound of the shower head.
This isn't to say that we have an unhealthy thing going. Not at all. It doesn't make me want to go back to the wonderful days of Matt Harmon. We don't have any problems, nor do we have any great times. No running gags, no practical jokes. We've never winged each other at the bars, nor will we ever.
But we're currently engaged in a series of passive agressive battles that neither of us has acknowledged yet (which is another battle in itself).
First off, we've been out of toilet paper for the past two weeks. Normally, I'd man up and buy new rolls, but this is different. When I left for my caving/skiing weekend, there were 4 rolls left. When I came back, there were three sheets left. That loses you about a dozen man points. If you lose control, you replace the roll. That ain't new!
So that's why I refuse to buy anymore until he does. And I promise you that I can hold out longer. How? I'm resourceful. I'm like MacGuyver in the bathroom. Give me a tube of toothpaste, a shower curtain and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and I can survive for weeks.
Secondly, the trash can in the kitchenette hasn't been emptied since I arrived. I've taken my room trash out a couple times, but I'm not touching the gigantic garbage heap. This one isn't an act of protest. This has nothing to do with anything that old Snuffy has done. I'm just lazy. This one is a little bit easier to live with than no toilet paper. But when the sun hits diaper mountain, I get the hell out of the kitchen. I've been in this dorm for going on six weeks. We'll see who cracks first.
Overall, I've got no real serious qualms with Buddy. But the semester is young...
-MGD
That's what she said of the day:
(While fishing a friend's hat out of a puddle)
Everytime I do someone a favor I end up soaked!
His name is Suffain. Or Suffein. Or possibly Snuffleupagus. Whatever his name is, I just call him "Buddy." This may be why he's constantly rolling his eyes and saying "It's pronounced ---" But I just stop listening at this point and start humming the new Keith Urban single to myself (Can't get enough of "I Told You So." Classic Urban). He's a 5'7" Malaysian with a receding hairline and is currently studying English. Not the literature. More like "how to speak it." He's also a Muslim, which scared me at first. Not because I thought he was going to poison me with Anthrax or something like that. I know that not all Muslims are terrorists (just most of them). I was just worried that we'd get into some kind of philosophical debate which would hurt our living arrangement.
Well, since he can't speak English very well, we've avoided that one. The only way in which his religion gets in the way is that he has to was his hands and feet before each prayer. This means that around 1am, I'll be awakened by the sound of the shower head.
This isn't to say that we have an unhealthy thing going. Not at all. It doesn't make me want to go back to the wonderful days of Matt Harmon. We don't have any problems, nor do we have any great times. No running gags, no practical jokes. We've never winged each other at the bars, nor will we ever.
But we're currently engaged in a series of passive agressive battles that neither of us has acknowledged yet (which is another battle in itself).
First off, we've been out of toilet paper for the past two weeks. Normally, I'd man up and buy new rolls, but this is different. When I left for my caving/skiing weekend, there were 4 rolls left. When I came back, there were three sheets left. That loses you about a dozen man points. If you lose control, you replace the roll. That ain't new!
So that's why I refuse to buy anymore until he does. And I promise you that I can hold out longer. How? I'm resourceful. I'm like MacGuyver in the bathroom. Give me a tube of toothpaste, a shower curtain and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and I can survive for weeks.
Secondly, the trash can in the kitchenette hasn't been emptied since I arrived. I've taken my room trash out a couple times, but I'm not touching the gigantic garbage heap. This one isn't an act of protest. This has nothing to do with anything that old Snuffy has done. I'm just lazy. This one is a little bit easier to live with than no toilet paper. But when the sun hits diaper mountain, I get the hell out of the kitchen. I've been in this dorm for going on six weeks. We'll see who cracks first.
Overall, I've got no real serious qualms with Buddy. But the semester is young...
-MGD
That's what she said of the day:
(While fishing a friend's hat out of a puddle)
Everytime I do someone a favor I end up soaked!
Sunday, August 12, 2007
16 August 2007 - The little differences
When I decided to study abroad in an English speaking country, some people looked at it as the cheap way out of the country. It wasn't so much a semester in another country, more like Road Rules: New Zealand. Well, after more than 5 weeks here, I've come to the conclusion that New Zealand is the Bill Paxton to America's Bill Pullman. On the exterior they may look incredibly alike, but when you look closelier, you find that they're as different as Independence Day and U-571.
Firstly, New Zealand is a lot more laid back than the hustle (e.g. bustle) of the USA. People walk a little bit slower and take their time to get to work. Classes normally start 5 minutes after the posted time. Downtown Auckland is comparable to Old Town Pasadena. It's the nice, relaxed ambiance you'd find in small town America...or a medicinal marijuana clinic.
They drive on the wrong side of the road down here. I really have no idea what the benefit is to having the driver's seat on the right. You figure that the majority of people in the world are right handed, so most cars should have the gear switch on the right hand side. Doesn't make sense. But I'm sure that when I get back home, I'm going to get into the passenger seat at least 10 times before I remember that the steering wheel's on the other side. I probably won't be the safest driver during those first couple of weeks. Then again, I'm pretty dangerous behind the wheel after playing Grant Theft Auto. So maybe I'll take a T.O. on driving a car until a month has passed.
AXE brand deodorant is called LYNX down here. I've yet to make up my mind about the name change. Lynx sounds fierce and primal. But the mention of a cat in the name is enough to bring back memories of Sex Panther.
And people also speak a little softer and slower than I'm used to. Or it could be that I'm slowly going deaf from blasting the Stereophonics on my in-ear iPod headphones. Either way, I occasionally need a translator for the dialect that they speak down here.
There's that awesome (and quite frankly, dead sexy) Kiwi accent that'll throw you off. Mainly, it's because the vowel sound "eh" is replaced with "ee." For example, the sentence "Next semester I will text message you about your perspective" reads in Kiwi as such:
Nee-xt sem-ee-ster, I will tee-xt mee-sage you about your per-speec-tive.
Yep. Totally hot.
They've also got some interesting vocabulary down here. Flip flops are "jandals," swim trunks are "togs," elevators are "lifts," and imported beer is "nine dollars."
While we may be separated by that thick accent, it has oddly given me higher self esteem.
Let's backtrack: I'm not a big fan of my voice. You know how the voice that comes out of your mouth never sounds the same as it does in your head? When I realized that I nearly iced myself. I hear voice as having a suave, George Clooney TV-voice over kind of quality to it. You know, one of those voices that could make penguin migration sound cool. But I can't. That's why I try to say as little as possible and hope that telepathy will make a come back.
When compared to the sweet Kiwi accent, my voice sounds even more like Woody Allen. Even the kids have that awesome speech pattern.
But when I spoke up the first day in my Shakespeare class, every single head in the room turned around. Every time I said a word, people started looking at me. Part of it is because I'm so damn pretty. That's a given. But soon, I realized what had just happened: Now, I'M the one with the accent: the elusive "Yankee Accent." I'm finally the exotic one about whom the girls giggle. It's pretty damn fun being the only guy in your class without an accent...or with one if you want to be all relativistic about it. Every day in class is like when Charlton Heston was being examined by Dr. Zaius and those other damn dirty apes. And it's always cool to be Chuck Heston. Being the Omega Man never goes out of style.
So for those of you who didn't think that I'd be getting a cultural education in New Zealand, I'm waiting for your apologies. Because it's a lot easier to get to the core of your society when you share a common language. And when you're in a foreign speaking country, it's always easy to blame the guy who doesn't speak English. Oh, Tibor. How many times you've saved my butt!
-MGD
That's what she said of the day:
(re: my backpack)
Allow me to unzip that for you.
Firstly, New Zealand is a lot more laid back than the hustle (e.g. bustle) of the USA. People walk a little bit slower and take their time to get to work. Classes normally start 5 minutes after the posted time. Downtown Auckland is comparable to Old Town Pasadena. It's the nice, relaxed ambiance you'd find in small town America...or a medicinal marijuana clinic.
They drive on the wrong side of the road down here. I really have no idea what the benefit is to having the driver's seat on the right. You figure that the majority of people in the world are right handed, so most cars should have the gear switch on the right hand side. Doesn't make sense. But I'm sure that when I get back home, I'm going to get into the passenger seat at least 10 times before I remember that the steering wheel's on the other side. I probably won't be the safest driver during those first couple of weeks. Then again, I'm pretty dangerous behind the wheel after playing Grant Theft Auto. So maybe I'll take a T.O. on driving a car until a month has passed.
AXE brand deodorant is called LYNX down here. I've yet to make up my mind about the name change. Lynx sounds fierce and primal. But the mention of a cat in the name is enough to bring back memories of Sex Panther.
And people also speak a little softer and slower than I'm used to. Or it could be that I'm slowly going deaf from blasting the Stereophonics on my in-ear iPod headphones. Either way, I occasionally need a translator for the dialect that they speak down here.
There's that awesome (and quite frankly, dead sexy) Kiwi accent that'll throw you off. Mainly, it's because the vowel sound "eh" is replaced with "ee." For example, the sentence "Next semester I will text message you about your perspective" reads in Kiwi as such:
Nee-xt sem-ee-ster, I will tee-xt mee-sage you about your per-speec-tive.
Yep. Totally hot.
They've also got some interesting vocabulary down here. Flip flops are "jandals," swim trunks are "togs," elevators are "lifts," and imported beer is "nine dollars."
While we may be separated by that thick accent, it has oddly given me higher self esteem.
Let's backtrack: I'm not a big fan of my voice. You know how the voice that comes out of your mouth never sounds the same as it does in your head? When I realized that I nearly iced myself. I hear voice as having a suave, George Clooney TV-voice over kind of quality to it. You know, one of those voices that could make penguin migration sound cool. But I can't. That's why I try to say as little as possible and hope that telepathy will make a come back.
When compared to the sweet Kiwi accent, my voice sounds even more like Woody Allen. Even the kids have that awesome speech pattern.
But when I spoke up the first day in my Shakespeare class, every single head in the room turned around. Every time I said a word, people started looking at me. Part of it is because I'm so damn pretty. That's a given. But soon, I realized what had just happened: Now, I'M the one with the accent: the elusive "Yankee Accent." I'm finally the exotic one about whom the girls giggle. It's pretty damn fun being the only guy in your class without an accent...or with one if you want to be all relativistic about it. Every day in class is like when Charlton Heston was being examined by Dr. Zaius and those other damn dirty apes. And it's always cool to be Chuck Heston. Being the Omega Man never goes out of style.
So for those of you who didn't think that I'd be getting a cultural education in New Zealand, I'm waiting for your apologies. Because it's a lot easier to get to the core of your society when you share a common language. And when you're in a foreign speaking country, it's always easy to blame the guy who doesn't speak English. Oh, Tibor. How many times you've saved my butt!
-MGD
That's what she said of the day:
(re: my backpack)
Allow me to unzip that for you.
15 August 2007 - November Rain (in July)
esIt's been raining a lot in Auckland recently, not that I mind. When I talk to people back home and hear that it's 100 degrees outside and the air conditioner is working harder than the pixilation artist on Girls Gone Wild, it doesn't bother me as much. Winter in the Southern Hemisphere ends mid-September. So I'll have two months of glorious Spring before I come back home to find...Winter. So I suppose I successfully ditched Summer and its god awful, scorching Carrie Underwood-levels of hotness. But then again, I'm still pretty pasty and haven't gotten my classic July farmer's tan.
It's actually quite pleasant when you break it down. It rain starts at night, right before I go to bed so the raindrops sing me to sleep. And when I wake up, the world is sunny and dewey, like Malcolm's kid brother. It's the best of both worlds, sleeping through the bad parts. Kind of like falling asleep at a U2 concert when Bono starts sermonizing about Africa and waking up as he hits the high note in "One." Or watching Howie Mandel ask "Deal or No Deal," skipping the annoying delibreation with idiot relatives, and then waking up in time for the models opening the briefcase. Or watching the first five minutes of "House," skipping the pointless half hour in the middle, and then waking up for the dramatic diagnostic reveal. (A lot of references, I know. But I came up with so many good ones that I didn't want to play favorites and deprive you of any).
Clouds and I have had a rocky, Ross and Rachel sort of relationship. I first learned to be wary of them when I saw Winnie the Pooh masquerade as a little black rain cloud in some sort of black-ops mission to siphon off honey from the bees' reserve. Then I became deathly afraid when I realized that aliens could invade earth by coming down in chubby raindrops. And most recently, Mr. Eko got mauled to death by a giant black smoke cloud.
But in New Zealand, I've come to appreciate rain a bit more.
Earlier this semester, I went to Eden Park to see the All Blacks play the Wallabies in a test rugby match. Yes, that was the Facebook photo that many of you mistook for my membership in the Raider Nation. The game wasn't much to write home about (whole lot of running, not a lot of scoring...kind of like a classic Ben Fawkes Saturday night. ZING!). But the atmosphere was insane. You've got a packed stadium in the pouring rain. And I mean driving, gale force, hypothermia-inducing rain that would have caused Steve Carell to start building an ark.
And it seems that everything is a bit more exciting in the rain. Walking home becomes an exercise in not slipping on your ass. Watching a movie inside feels more cozy when you're waiting out a storm. And it simply feels more alive than 24/7 sunshine like in Los Angeles.
Well, every cloud has a silver lining, I suppose.
-MGD
That's what she said of the day:
(After swimming in the ocean)
I need to get this salty taste out of my mouth!
It's actually quite pleasant when you break it down. It rain starts at night, right before I go to bed so the raindrops sing me to sleep. And when I wake up, the world is sunny and dewey, like Malcolm's kid brother. It's the best of both worlds, sleeping through the bad parts. Kind of like falling asleep at a U2 concert when Bono starts sermonizing about Africa and waking up as he hits the high note in "One." Or watching Howie Mandel ask "Deal or No Deal," skipping the annoying delibreation with idiot relatives, and then waking up in time for the models opening the briefcase. Or watching the first five minutes of "House," skipping the pointless half hour in the middle, and then waking up for the dramatic diagnostic reveal. (A lot of references, I know. But I came up with so many good ones that I didn't want to play favorites and deprive you of any).
Clouds and I have had a rocky, Ross and Rachel sort of relationship. I first learned to be wary of them when I saw Winnie the Pooh masquerade as a little black rain cloud in some sort of black-ops mission to siphon off honey from the bees' reserve. Then I became deathly afraid when I realized that aliens could invade earth by coming down in chubby raindrops. And most recently, Mr. Eko got mauled to death by a giant black smoke cloud.
But in New Zealand, I've come to appreciate rain a bit more.
Earlier this semester, I went to Eden Park to see the All Blacks play the Wallabies in a test rugby match. Yes, that was the Facebook photo that many of you mistook for my membership in the Raider Nation. The game wasn't much to write home about (whole lot of running, not a lot of scoring...kind of like a classic Ben Fawkes Saturday night. ZING!). But the atmosphere was insane. You've got a packed stadium in the pouring rain. And I mean driving, gale force, hypothermia-inducing rain that would have caused Steve Carell to start building an ark.
And it seems that everything is a bit more exciting in the rain. Walking home becomes an exercise in not slipping on your ass. Watching a movie inside feels more cozy when you're waiting out a storm. And it simply feels more alive than 24/7 sunshine like in Los Angeles.
Well, every cloud has a silver lining, I suppose.
-MGD
That's what she said of the day:
(After swimming in the ocean)
I need to get this salty taste out of my mouth!
14 August 2007 - Flashback to arrival
I left for New Zealand on July 3, and arrived on the 5th. First off, the time difference is slightly strange. I lost an entire day in the flight over the Pacific. This means that I am currently 19 hours ahead of Pacific Standard Time. This makes for interesting iChat conversations, since people are always incredibly amused when they find out that I've torn an extra page off of my daily Far Side calendar.
My journey into the future has served me well on several occasions. I got the last Harry Potter book before everyone else at home, and was able to spoil the living hell out of it. Dumbledore died again on page 762. Who would have thunk it?
I have also been able to warn my friends against unwise action. Oh, if Darren is reading this, don't ask out the Red headed chick at work today. She's going to insist that she's not ready for an office romance and values your friendship too much to ruin it.
But I have also learned about the hazards of time travel. No, this isn't the paradox about crushing a butterfly in the past and changing history. Nor is it like when Marty McFly nearly made out with his own mother at a 1950s prom. Nor is it an ontological paradox like when Marty McFly inspired Chuck Berry with a song that Berry had already recorded (still can't get my head around that one).
In leaving on the 3rd and getting in on the 5th, I entirely missed Independence Day. No fireworks. No Twilight Zone marathon. No overwhelming feeling of patriotism akin to October, 2001. I couldn't celebrate with a fresh batch of America balls (First person to tell me the ingredients gets a Schrute Buck).
When my US-timed watch hit midnight on the fourth, I blasted Toby Keith on my iPod, cursed the Dixie Chicks and built a wall between the Mexican guy sitting next to me, but it wasn't the same*.
-MGD
That's what she said of the day:
(re: My well timed pop culture reference)
You really know when to whip it out.
*So this has brought us up to July 5th. I'll be trying my hardest to catch up to the present...another strange time travel situation.
My journey into the future has served me well on several occasions. I got the last Harry Potter book before everyone else at home, and was able to spoil the living hell out of it. Dumbledore died again on page 762. Who would have thunk it?
I have also been able to warn my friends against unwise action. Oh, if Darren is reading this, don't ask out the Red headed chick at work today. She's going to insist that she's not ready for an office romance and values your friendship too much to ruin it.
But I have also learned about the hazards of time travel. No, this isn't the paradox about crushing a butterfly in the past and changing history. Nor is it like when Marty McFly nearly made out with his own mother at a 1950s prom. Nor is it an ontological paradox like when Marty McFly inspired Chuck Berry with a song that Berry had already recorded (still can't get my head around that one).
In leaving on the 3rd and getting in on the 5th, I entirely missed Independence Day. No fireworks. No Twilight Zone marathon. No overwhelming feeling of patriotism akin to October, 2001. I couldn't celebrate with a fresh batch of America balls (First person to tell me the ingredients gets a Schrute Buck).
When my US-timed watch hit midnight on the fourth, I blasted Toby Keith on my iPod, cursed the Dixie Chicks and built a wall between the Mexican guy sitting next to me, but it wasn't the same*.
-MGD
That's what she said of the day:
(re: My well timed pop culture reference)
You really know when to whip it out.
*So this has brought us up to July 5th. I'll be trying my hardest to catch up to the present...another strange time travel situation.
13 August 2007 - Break up before going Abroad
Okay, there are plenty of things that women can improve upon. I won't get into a long, rambling list (as I normally would) since I'm cramped for time. Instead, I'll just get to the point:
All girls who are going abroad should break up with their boyfriends beforehand.
Too many times (8) have I found an attractive and approachable girl, only to be immediatley crushed by a sentence beginning with the words "My boyfriend."
Girl A: Wow, it looks like your steak is a little rare.
Me: Yeah, real men eat their meat as red as possible,
Girl A: My boyfriend once got food poisoning from eating an undercooked burger.
Or
Girl B: Yeah, Bobby Orr was one hell of a forward.
Me: That's really cool that you know so much about hockey.
Girl B: My boyfriend is our goalie.
Nothing good can ever come from "My boyfriend..." sentences. It's like going up to Superman and saying "I've got this hunk of kryptonite..." Actually, "My boyfriend got trampled in the Running of the Bulls" would work, but I've yet to encounter this one. Pretty much, everything's going well and you feel like you've just been injected with a powerful aphrodesiac made from the pockets of a pocket fox. And then "My boyfriend" hits you like the equivalent of a cold shower and thoughts of Great Aunt Judy's arm fat. It's a cruel illusion to play on a guy. If I listened to Jewel, I might even call it a foolish game (But I have a pair of testicles, so I won't). So now I've got to find a way to filter out the single girls from my radar screen. It's like skipping through all the Christmas music on your iPod when you set it to shuffle.
You see, I was considerate enough to make myself available before heading off to a foreign land. I only expect that girls have the same level of courtesy. You're in a distant country. You shouldn't have a 170lb anchor holding you down back home (Sidebar: if your boyfriend does happen to weight more or less 175lbs, I assure you that I can totally beat his probably-unfaithful ass down). By holding on to this loser, not only are you wasting a fortune in phone bills, but you're depriving yourself of other awesome guys that may come around while abroad. You know, maybe a dry-witted English major with great hair and an appreciation for rare red meat and the old school Boston Bruins?
Dump him right now. Because let's face it: I'm better looking and he's without a doubt cheating on you as we speak.
-MGD
Tobias: You know, Lindsay, as a therapist, I have advised a number of couples to explore an open relationship where the couple remains emotionally committed, but free to explore extra-marital encounters.
Lindsay: Well, did it work for those people?
Tobias: No, it never does. I mean, these people somehow delude themselves into thinking it might, but...it might work for us.
That's what she said of the day:
(Referring to the American flag)
He's been trying to get it up for about two hours now.
All girls who are going abroad should break up with their boyfriends beforehand.
Too many times (8) have I found an attractive and approachable girl, only to be immediatley crushed by a sentence beginning with the words "My boyfriend."
Girl A: Wow, it looks like your steak is a little rare.
Me: Yeah, real men eat their meat as red as possible,
Girl A: My boyfriend once got food poisoning from eating an undercooked burger.
Or
Girl B: Yeah, Bobby Orr was one hell of a forward.
Me: That's really cool that you know so much about hockey.
Girl B: My boyfriend is our goalie.
Nothing good can ever come from "My boyfriend..." sentences. It's like going up to Superman and saying "I've got this hunk of kryptonite..." Actually, "My boyfriend got trampled in the Running of the Bulls" would work, but I've yet to encounter this one. Pretty much, everything's going well and you feel like you've just been injected with a powerful aphrodesiac made from the pockets of a pocket fox. And then "My boyfriend" hits you like the equivalent of a cold shower and thoughts of Great Aunt Judy's arm fat. It's a cruel illusion to play on a guy. If I listened to Jewel, I might even call it a foolish game (But I have a pair of testicles, so I won't). So now I've got to find a way to filter out the single girls from my radar screen. It's like skipping through all the Christmas music on your iPod when you set it to shuffle.
You see, I was considerate enough to make myself available before heading off to a foreign land. I only expect that girls have the same level of courtesy. You're in a distant country. You shouldn't have a 170lb anchor holding you down back home (Sidebar: if your boyfriend does happen to weight more or less 175lbs, I assure you that I can totally beat his probably-unfaithful ass down). By holding on to this loser, not only are you wasting a fortune in phone bills, but you're depriving yourself of other awesome guys that may come around while abroad. You know, maybe a dry-witted English major with great hair and an appreciation for rare red meat and the old school Boston Bruins?
Dump him right now. Because let's face it: I'm better looking and he's without a doubt cheating on you as we speak.
-MGD
Tobias: You know, Lindsay, as a therapist, I have advised a number of couples to explore an open relationship where the couple remains emotionally committed, but free to explore extra-marital encounters.
Lindsay: Well, did it work for those people?
Tobias: No, it never does. I mean, these people somehow delude themselves into thinking it might, but...it might work for us.
That's what she said of the day:
(Referring to the American flag)
He's been trying to get it up for about two hours now.
12 August 2007 - A New Beginning
Holy crap, it's been forever since I've updated this thing! But I've finally decided to follow in the footsteps of my literary heroes, Creed Bratton, Katherine Spada, and Bob Loblaw, and go back to my blogging ways.
My last post was back during finals week and apparently I was overwhelmed by stress since I was trying to find patterns in Ace of Base songs. Well, May 2007 was a long time ago. I was still living in the United States. The Dodgers were in first place. And Lindsay Lohan was simply just a party girl slut...not a felon.
So why have I decided to start blogging again? I realized that I'm depriving the masses of all of my assorted witicisms and Simpsons references that only myself and Noah will get.
Also, a big change has occurred recently. I'm studying abroad in Auckland, New Zealand. To many, New Zealand only represents Hobbits and those crappy purple countries in "Risk" that only get you 2 extra armies at the beginning of each turn. So I thought that it would be a good idea to share all of my Kiwi-speriences.
I THOUGHT that I had found the perfect outlet for this in CAFEABROAD.COM (NOTE: DO NOT VISIT THIS PATHETIC EXCUSE OF A WEBSITE. HONESTLY, DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT. YOU WILL UNDERSTAND MY REASONS FOR BOYCOTT LATER ON). I would have the position of a "Travel Journalist." I would write two articles a week about what I'm doing in Auckland. Essentially, I'd be getting paid to blog. But life is never that easy. I sent in two of my best writing samples from my days at the ASCMC Forum. My references were stellar (Big shout out to Assistant Regional Manager Andrew Carrillo). And thanks to the good people at the Career Services center, my resume was awesome.
Nearly a month after I sent in my application, I got a response. "Dan Schwartzman" from Cafe Abroad (now #78 in my Enemies List) told me that "we have determined not to hire a travel journalist in your city." But he DID, however, offer me the position of regional representative! I would sell advertising space, write a travel guide, and contribute articles to the website. All for an unpaid internship. Yup. Same job, no pay.
Dan Schwartzman is trying to get something for nothing. Apparently he was never instructed that there's no such thing as a free lunch. Time to teach him that he needs to swipe his card at the dining hall of life.
Due to his incompetance, I will launch my campaign to crush his puny website as well as positing all of my Study Abroad articles on my blog. For free. While I'm not going to compare my protest to the civil rights movement, I won't argue if anyone else does.
So stay tuned for a semester's worth of intrigue. Spoiler alert, it will include bungy jumping, zorbing, skiing, clubbing, swimming with dolphins, glacier hiking, kayaking, and spreading my unique brand of awesomeness to another country or two.
-MGD
That's what she said of the day:
(At yoga class, referring to a pose)
I know that this is a hard one, but just hold it a little longer and you'll be plesantly surprised with how comfortable it feels.
My last post was back during finals week and apparently I was overwhelmed by stress since I was trying to find patterns in Ace of Base songs. Well, May 2007 was a long time ago. I was still living in the United States. The Dodgers were in first place. And Lindsay Lohan was simply just a party girl slut...not a felon.
So why have I decided to start blogging again? I realized that I'm depriving the masses of all of my assorted witicisms and Simpsons references that only myself and Noah will get.
Also, a big change has occurred recently. I'm studying abroad in Auckland, New Zealand. To many, New Zealand only represents Hobbits and those crappy purple countries in "Risk" that only get you 2 extra armies at the beginning of each turn. So I thought that it would be a good idea to share all of my Kiwi-speriences.
I THOUGHT that I had found the perfect outlet for this in CAFEABROAD.COM (NOTE: DO NOT VISIT THIS PATHETIC EXCUSE OF A WEBSITE. HONESTLY, DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT. YOU WILL UNDERSTAND MY REASONS FOR BOYCOTT LATER ON). I would have the position of a "Travel Journalist." I would write two articles a week about what I'm doing in Auckland. Essentially, I'd be getting paid to blog. But life is never that easy. I sent in two of my best writing samples from my days at the ASCMC Forum. My references were stellar (Big shout out to Assistant Regional Manager Andrew Carrillo). And thanks to the good people at the Career Services center, my resume was awesome.
Nearly a month after I sent in my application, I got a response. "Dan Schwartzman" from Cafe Abroad (now #78 in my Enemies List) told me that "we have determined not to hire a travel journalist in your city." But he DID, however, offer me the position of regional representative! I would sell advertising space, write a travel guide, and contribute articles to the website. All for an unpaid internship. Yup. Same job, no pay.
Dan Schwartzman is trying to get something for nothing. Apparently he was never instructed that there's no such thing as a free lunch. Time to teach him that he needs to swipe his card at the dining hall of life.
Due to his incompetance, I will launch my campaign to crush his puny website as well as positing all of my Study Abroad articles on my blog. For free. While I'm not going to compare my protest to the civil rights movement, I won't argue if anyone else does.
So stay tuned for a semester's worth of intrigue. Spoiler alert, it will include bungy jumping, zorbing, skiing, clubbing, swimming with dolphins, glacier hiking, kayaking, and spreading my unique brand of awesomeness to another country or two.
-MGD
That's what she said of the day:
(At yoga class, referring to a pose)
I know that this is a hard one, but just hold it a little longer and you'll be plesantly surprised with how comfortable it feels.
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