Too Sexy for Homework

I'm too sexy for homework,
Too sexy for homework,
So sexy I'll shirk.

There is nothing worse for my study ethic than having a good hair day. As I've mentioned before, I have all the hair-styling skills of a sixth-grade boy, so when that rare day comes when my hair doesn't look like I dried it by putting my head out the sunroof at 70 mph, I like to make the best of it. Eat dinner out, go dancing, do a few shots at LiT. I do NOT like to be stuck at home working chemistry problems and writing trig proofs.

Unfortunately, yesterday I jerked off the entire night avoiding my studies, so enjoying my rare good-hair day is not an option. Or is it? Somehow, I have managed to rationalize eating out, shopping, and generally doing nothing all day except tossing my hair. Now, after I finish this post, I am supposedly going to hit the books. Will I find an excuse to instead hit the bars?

Well, don't be surprised if you see a short grrl in Bricktown tonight with incredibly good hair.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Go visit my fellow Cubs fan Tony Pierce, who, in addition to having one of my very favorite blogs ever, will in a few short hours help launch lickmagazine.com, where female bloggers can anonymously post the deep, dark secrets they'd never put up on their own sites.

Terrible, Horrible, Very Bad ...

Sometimes you can just tell it's going to be a bad day. Today is one of those days.

My day started off at 6 a.m., and instead of the requisite 5 hours of sleep I had only gotten 4. The water in the shower didn't get quite as warm as it should have. And when I got outside, it was 17 degrees, which is a lot colder when you factor in the Oklahoma wind.

I had been expecting a math test next Tuesday, and since I'm at work or school from 7:30 a.m. to 10:30 p.m. on Mondays, I was going to spend part of the weekend writing proofs and memorizing formulas, along with the usual chemistry homework. But apparently I had forgotten that I have a chem test first thing Monday morning. As I sat in class, barely awake, I realized that my entire weekend was shot. And then came the quiz from hell.

Normally I enjoy quizzes. I've never had test anxiety in my life, even before tests I should have been anxious about. But today when my chemistry professor handed out our weeky quizzes, it all looked foreign to me -- even though I had studied the night before and had Mr. WYD quiz me before class, just to make sure I knew everything. For whatever reason, I drew a blank when I looked at some of the simplest questions. Even as I type this, I'm realizing that I overthought at least one of the problems. But really, the first part of my morning should have been the least of my worries.

When I got to work, what I needed more than anything in the world was a steaming, caffeine-laden cup of Stash green & white tea (that way, I get antioxidants with my stimulants). I filled my mug to the brim with steaming water and traversed the network of hallways toward my desk. As I turned to enter my office, I thought happily about the delicious and invigorating beverage I was about to consume, and I put just a little too much bounce in my step.

Alas, prancing merrily through the door with scalding liquids in hand is never a good idea. Blazing hot water poured over one unsuspecting hand as I tried to open the door with my other. Unable to get the door open while my hand was flirting with first-degree burns, I jumped around in a circle yelling "Ow, ow, ow!", which of course resulted in yet more scalding water spilling onto my injured hand. Finally I mustered up the presence of mind to open the door and put down the mug. By that time, of course, everyone on my hallway was looking at the office lunatic with a mixture of pity and amusement.

I was hoping things would look up when we did lunch at Golden Palace, where the woman who fries up the Mongolian barbecue knows us and always hooks us up with extra spices. And indeed, today was no exception. She must have put half a ginger root in my dish, because I left the restaurant feeling as if my entire GI tract was afire.

Three hours after the tea incident and half an hour after eating my last blazing-hot pineapple chunk, my hand still feels a bit burnt and my stomach feels like the stage of a KISS concert. Either there's nowhere to go but up, or I'm going to have a really shitty afternoon.

Dirty Tricks

I hate to blog about politics two days running, but it's an election year. I'll make it short and sweet. In yet another parallel to the Nixon administration, Bush's GOP has been exploiting a computer glitch to spy on the Democratic party and leak their strategies to right-leaning media organizations.

Equally disturbing, but in a much more lighthearted way, is this article describing women (and apparently men, too) who circumvent anti-pandering laws by auctioning themselves off on e-Bay as imaginary temporary girlfriends. They get a hundred bucks or so, and all they have to do is send off a few naughty letters, a photo, and maybe some brand-new panties from Wal-Mart.

Naturally, after seeing the article, I decided I needed to find an imaginary girlfriend. First I came across Sexy Jenny, who needs to thin the eyebrows but is willing to "meet" me via her webcam. Whatever it is that means. Then there was this unnamed woman, who seemed promising at first, but didn't really seem like she was into me. As an example of her callousness toward my imaginary feelings, I give you this quote from her e-Bay auction: "After the 60 days all communications are broken, no more chatting, e-mails, letters or phone calls..etc, etc. In other words no we can't be friends after this. After 60 days, IF the buyer wants another 30, 60, days ie: letters, chatting etc. Price can be discussed over e-mail." Talk about harsh!

I think I'm going to stick with Kelly, who says she is stripping to earn money for school and offers quite the comprehensive imaginary girlfriend package. In addition to frequent emails and IMs, weekly letters, and cards on special occasions, she will send me a photo of a "unique part of her body" and one personal item. The clincher, however, is that she promises her emails will show a genuine interest in my life. I also get to decide how our relationship ends, which happens so rarely. I think this is the best relationship-that's-only-in-my-head deal for the dollars.

The media-fueled rise and fall of Howard Dean was predictable. All the early hype just set the poor guy up for a fall. It happens so often it's practically a cliche, so no one should be surprised. I have to admit, however, that I'm a little disappointed, because I liked Dean. Even more, actually, after he went insane from the pressure.

However, the Democratic party already has the ideal candidate: NotBush. Unlike President Dubya, Candidate NotBush has the distinction of not having turned a $334 billion surplus into a $477 billion deficit. Candidate NotBush hasn't benefited in any way from money his family made cutting deals with the Nazis. There is no evidence that Candidate NotBush lied to the American people in order to drag our nation and its allies into a war. Furthermore, Candidate NotBush, whoever he may be, is more articulate than our current president and is 10 times more diplomatic. (Yes, I do realize that Al Sharpton and Dennis Kucinich are among the options. What's your point?) In addition to not blatantly picking sides in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, Candidate NotBush also has not managed within a few years' span to alienate the bulk of the civilized world, despite the initial outpouring of sympathy and aid after 9/11.

Furthermore, Candidate NotBush has a longer record of public service than did Bush, whose only prior experience was serving for six years in the largely ceremonial position of Texas governor. In addition to his lack of shady financial dealings, Candidate NotBush faces absolutely no scandalous accusations of profiting from awarding lucrative government contracts to business associates.

Even if Howard Dean is dead in the water, the Democrats still have a viable candidate. It's obvious that whoever he may be, when compared to President Dubya, Candidate NotBush has been a public servant for a long time and has an outstanding record of competence, forthrightness, diplomacy and general lack of shadiness.

Most importantly, Candidate NotBush can pronounce the word "nuclear." Say it with me, folks: "New-clee-ehr." Won't it be nice to be able to listen to the State of the Union without having an aneurysm? For the love of the English language, vote NotBush in 2004.

Extreme Makeover

After the 105th question about the disembodied head of Martha Stewart on my site (because apparently I look so much like a 60-year-old businesswoman), I decided to take matters into my own hands by putting up a nice, simple pair of disembodied eyes. Oh, and switching from Blogger to Movable Type. A new gallery is also in the works sometime later this week. More importantly to my male readers, notice how the site is no longer the color of Barbie's dream house. This means you can now visit my blog publicly without feelings of shame and gender confusion.

For all you Mr. WYD fans out there, he's got his own blog now. (I say it's about friggin' time, considering he's a programmer. Now if only I can get our friend Eric to update his to the point of linkworthiness ... maybe a few well-placed comments would change his mind.) Check out Mr. WYD's musings at backpedal.whatsyourdamage.com. Big thanks to Mr. WYD, Eric and Sean for the software recommendations, tech support and design feedback. And of course big thanks to the people at Movable Type, whose product is a million-bajillion times better than Blogger.

I have nothing of value to post today, so you can stop reading now. Really, folks, it's just stream-of-consciousness logorrhea today. Basically, I just don't feel like doing my chemistry homework right now.

You know you've had a good workout when you black out in the shower after doing your Steven Tyler impression. It's "amazing" I didn't drown.

In other news, I had sworn off the mall for awhile after last week's shopping trip. That lasted six days. There were even better sales this time, and goddamn if I didn't go spend another $80 while "just looking" at The Limited. There needs to be a 12-step program for people who are addicted to new corduroys.

So amid my chemistry-slacking efforts, I took this picture, and fuck if I don't look like George W. when I'm pretending to look deep in thought.

Studiously Avoiding Homework

My Date April 3

We're approaching that time of the year again -- the time when Mazda lets a bunch of crazy people race its shiny, brand-new cars around an obstacle course.
Last year, Mr. WYD and I, along with our friend Eric, got to try out the Mazda6. Yours truly, having the kind of luck that results in never winning anything but always being chosen for exercises in public humiliation, ended up being the showcase driver in her particular speed trial. Did I mention that, at the time, I hadn't driven in months? That was not a shining moment in What's Your Damage history, my friends. But it was still lots of fun, and the performance driving school taught me how to take curves and corners like a pro. (OK, a rather slow pro.)
This year, Mazda's Rev It Up event will feature the sexy new Mazda3, and for the first time ever, the driving of Eric's fiancee Stacia, who was only there to hang out last year.
More exciting, the RX-8 will be available for test drives around a cone course this year. This is the automotive equivalent of Gael Garcia Bernal, folks -- so sexy that for one ride, I would learn to speak Spanish (or in the RX-8's case, learn to drive a standard). However, fortunately for the RX-8's transmission, I don't have to learn to drive a stick, thanks to Mazda's cool SportShift gearbox, which allows the car to be driven either as a standard or as an automatic.
Between the performance driving school, the competition, the long-anticipated RX-8 test drive, and the opportunity to torment the denizens of the Dallas metro with my attempts at dancing the night before, the first weekend in April is promising to be a fun one. Even if I have to be the showcase driver again.

It's been a long time, but I am pleased to announce that I have a new TV crush. Folks, meet Digger's Apartment.

My third-favorite TV show (after "Alias" and "Scrubs") is "Gilmore Girls", and for awhile the writers have been toying with a storyline linking Lorelai romantically to "Digger," the son of her father's former boss. At first I resisted, annoyed by his dorky smugness and ridiculous facial hair. In fact, I still find him abrasively eager. But now I'm rooting for them to stay together.

What has changed? Well, they finally did the horizontal tango, but that's not it. If anything, I find him more disgusting than ever in a satin robe. No, my friends, I'm in love with his living quarters. His home is like mine, only with everything done 10 times better. Mine has modern furniture; his has modern architecture. I've got a cool white vase that I adore; he's got a white vase that's almost identical, only even cuter. I've been shopping for wall art and recently found some that I love; he's got the same print, but bigger. I'm contemplating redecorating my bedroom; he's got a gorgeous built-in headboard I'd never have the balls to make.

In short, his apartment is where I was meant to live. I realize that it is just a set, but as long as "Gilmore Girls" keeps Digger and Lorelai together, I can bask vicariously in the comforts of his fabulously spare apartment. Ignore the tickly Satan goatee, Lorelai! Overlook his insistence that you sleep in separate (deliciously decorated) bedrooms. Turn a blind eye on the fact that he gives off a sleazy used-car salesman vibe. I am in love, and no one had better come between me and my dream apartment!

I am only five-eighths as smart and creative as I could be, according to some German scientists and my own simple and rather unscientific formula.

Apparently, if I got eight hours of sleep nightly, it would optimize my intelligence and creativity. Who knows what I could do if I had those three extra hours? With my extra creativity, perhaps I could get rid of the disembodied head and make a really cool blog template. With all my extra brains, perhaps I could just take the MCAT without studying. Hell, with all my extra brains, I could have challenged a few math courses and been in my second semester of physics by now.

On the other hand, if I got eight hours' sleep every night, that would mean three fewer hours every weekday to work, attend classes, study and do homework. Since I have to work, and attending class is recommended, that means I wouldn't have time to study or do homework.

Suddenly, sleeping a full eight hours doesn't seem so smart anymore...

* * * * * * * *

And now for a random pic that I don't remember taking. Judging from the clothes, however, it was taken the Night of the Killer Long Island Iced Tea.

All you need to know about Bush's State of the Union address: Check out MoveOn.org's State of the Union in 30 Seconds.

Edited so you don't get my personal account info. Thanks to James and Jack for pointing that out! This obviously is karmic retribution for my plans to entertain the Internet at large with tales of idiocy from the bright ones in my trig class. Pride cometh before risk of stalking and identity theft.

Want to hit the January sales, but you're overwhelmed by all the options? Let your intrepid friend, Heather, lead the way to sale-shopping bliss. I selflessly yielded my weekend in order to further the research of winter sales, braving hordes of mallgoers in my quest to bring to you the very best deals of the winter-sale blitz. After an intensive two-day study at Quail Springs Mall in Edmond and Penn Square Mall in northwest OKC, I proudly present the lowdown on the best deals in retail.

Store With Most Deals: Express and Express for Men

These two stores are having a huge sale right now, with insane markdowns. As Madpony Kristin can attest, any guy looks smokin' hot in pants from Express for Men (formerly Structure). Usually, a pair of these pants will run you somewhere in the area of $50, depending on the style. But currently, you can buy a pair of corduroys (formerly $60) for $15. Other delights included $6 sweaters for men, $14.99 dress shirts, and $10 clubbing tops for me.

Store With the Best Steal: The Gap

There were lots of mediocre deals at Gap this year, but one that stood out. Gap's very cute "The Warmest Jacket," usually $100, can be purchased for a mere $25. This was by far my favorite deal this winter. The only color on The Gap's website is a weird color of orange, but trust me, the brick-and-mortar stores offer more. Mine is winter white with baby-blue lining.

Other notable mentions include:

Ann Taylor, where one can purchase an $80 sweater for $30. Not a lot of savings compared with other stores, but every top at Ann Taylor fits like it was made for me. If you like their clothes, check out the deals on the sweaters.

The Limited, which is also having a storewide sale. The discounts aren't as dramatic, but I took the opportunity to grab a cute shirt and an extra pair of my favorite khaki pants. Look for good deals on their Sexy Sweaters collection, which I highly recommend.

Charlotte Russe, home of cheap, cute going-out clothes, is offering many items at 80 percent off, as well as a buy-one-get-two-free deal. Most of the stuff was too last-season trendy to be worth even the astonishingly low asking prices, but if you shop carefully, there are quite a few great deals to be found there.

Wet Seal, while the quality of many of their clothes is sketchy, has decent prices on Chloe jeans right now, and many sweaters are 50 percent off. Did I mention the jeans? These alone are worth the trip, as Mr. WYD will tell you, as soon as I can get him to snap out of his butt-gazing stupor.

Enjoy your winter-sale shopping!

The so-called "liberal" media won't allow MoveOn to air the winning "Bush in 30 Seconds" ad during the Super Bowl. That's all right. It was far too levelheaded and civil, anyway.

In order to beat Bush in 2004, most Democratic leaders seem to think they need to be just like Republicans. That's why they backed the Iraq war. That's why they're bashing Dean for his harsh criticisms of Bush. And that's why the jingoistic vitriol of this spoof is, I think, the future of campaign advertising.

Far more effective than pathetic tots slaving in menial jobs, don't you think?

A Tale of Two Campuses
A True Story of Collegiate Tragedy and Redemption

I knew this was not going to be my semester when I checked the UCO course catalog last fall, only to discover that plane trig was not offered at any semblance of a convenient time in the spring. Not desirous of spending additional time filling requirements for medical school, I decided to take that particular course at an even shittier college a few minutes' drive from where I work.

The institution will remain unnamed so that I may call it shitty to my heart's content without being sued. But those of you from Oklahoma know which one I'm talking about. It's the one whose campus reminds you of a run-down high school and whose students remind you of run-down high school students (or, quite often, the parents of high school students). In fact, the local community college looks pretty tony next to this dump. However, being a state college, its courses are supposedly equivalent to those one might find at any other institution of higher learning, and it's only one class.

Anyway, I wasn't really looking forward to taking courses at two different places. But I dutifully began my week with the very best outlook possible for someone who is enrolled in two math-heavy classes and whose strong point isn't math (OK, so I made an A in college algebra, but it was far from sewn up when I took the final!).

My chemistry class and lab at UCO went fine the first day. Tuesday I had a break because courses at the shitty college didn't start until midweek. My troubles began yesterday, when I drove to UCO.

I should never have tried to park in the math and science parking lot. Even at 7:40 p.m. it's hard to find a spot; you can just forget about 7:40 a.m. After driving around for 15 minutes, competing with novice drivers for spots, I called it quits and moved down the street. One lot was full. Another had meters, and I was cash-free. Finally, 5 minutes after the bell must have rung, I pulled into an empty spot in front of the library, which, for your information, is three-quarters of a mile away from my classroom. I jumped out of my car and started making my way toward the science building, only to be stopped by a large man who proclaimed sternly, "Miss, this is faculty/staff only."

Of course it was.

Thanks to my expert debate skills, or possibly because the large man suspected I was going to cry like a baby, I finagled an hour's unticketed parking after explaining my fruitless hunt and dire roll-sheet situation.

Thanking fate that I happened to be wearing my Onitsuka Tigers rather than my usual four-inch heels, I sprinted across the campus.

Well, that was for the first half of my journey, anyway. I was barely within sight of my building when the asthma kicked in and I had to walk briskly, wheezing loudly like a spaz princess while digging in my satchel for my seldom-used albuterol.

Luckily, I found my inhaler before I died in a most undignified manner in the quad. Unluckily, its cap had at some point gotten lost, and I was too panicked to pre-pump it. I greedily sucked approximately 5 ounces of dustbunny into my aching lungs. Did I mention I am allergic to dust? I will now live in ignominy until the end of all time as That Girl Who Came Into Class 10 Minutes Late and Wheezed and Coughed The Entire Period.

Tonight, airway still raw and drippy from the asthma attack and subsequent bronchial dust-bath, I went to my trig class expecting the worst. A pitiless, capricious professor, embittered by years of teaching D-students and 45-year-old nontrads. A class inexplicably filled with foreign students whose degrees in particle physics were deemed worthless in the U.S. The dreaded words, "Let's start out with Chapter 5."

Fortunately, none of this was to be.

The professor is a softhearted older guy who assigns loads of homework, but doesn't grade it as long as it's turned in, and who gives an ungodly amount of tests, but is known for adding bonus points BEYOND the bonus points he claims to allot ... just because. My fellow students have trouble subtracting any given number from 360 and haven't yet figured out what exactly an angle is. And during lecture, we didn't make it past the first unit. Ordinarily I would demand my money back, but for one thing this college is insanely cheap to begin with, and for another, when the hell else am I ever going to be at the dead top of a math class? So what if I'll have to play catch-up in physics ... today, I rejoice!

Thus, despite the tragic blow to my dignity in Wednesday's chemistry class, perhaps this semester won't be so bad after all.

Then again, there's always tomorrow's parking situation ...

Only in Bush's Amerika could a calculated, pre-911 plan to draw the country into war be exposed, only to have the scrutiny focused on whether confidential documents were leaked. As with the Nixon administration and the Pentagon Papers, the focus should not be on how the information was obtained, but what the information means for Americans.

Bush has consistently misrepresented his agenda for this nation, and still insists that he had no plans to invade Iraq before Sept. 11, 2001, when 15 Saudis, an Egyptian, a Lebanese, and two men from the United Arab Emirates -- none with links to Hussein -- launched the terrorist attacks. Meanwhile, Osama bin Laden remains on the lam. Makes you wonder whether he ever was a priority for the Bush administration.

Dubious justification aside, the point of these revelations is that rather than just naively pursuing the wrong party, Bush, et al willfully and consistently misled the American people regarding their suspicions, their expectations, and their intentions. This is more than just a blowjob in the Oval Office and guilty lies to cover it up. This is more than just "dirty tricks" to help the GOP in a presidential election (although if anyone bothered to look, I'm sure the results of an investigation would rival Watergate). This is a pervasive policy of deceit toward and disrespect for the American people. This is a policy of callous disregard for the lives of American soldiers, and indifference to the suffering of those who lost loved ones on 9/11, all to cover up the ignoble desire to settle an old score.

Impeachment is too good for Bush. He needs to be put in the stocks on the White House lawn and pelted with rotting fruit for what he's done to our country, our armed forces, and anyone who, like Paul O'Neill, has dared to call him on his bullshit.

* * * * * * * * *

On a lighter note, an Indian town is offering its police officers extra pay to grow mustaches, which officials say adds "to their overall look of authority." Law enforcement agencies in the U.S. have been known for their mustache-friendliness for years. The burning question is, do cops in India wear those snazzy aviator glasses too?

Inspired by my accidental 8-pound weight loss, accomplished over the holidays by substituting legitimate foodstuffs for my semesterlong diet of vending-machine fare and McDonald's double cheeseburger combos, I have decided to continue eating like a normal person rather than a junk-food-crazed gremlin. I'm still consuming as much food -- just cutting back on empty calories. This, of course, entails giving up the two staples of my existence: Crunchy things that come in brightly-colored bags, and sugary soft drinks.

It's pretty easy to avoid chips and cookies, since they're not really my thing anyway.

In a perfect world, I'd be able to kick my Coke addiction too. However, since I get very little sleep, it's hard to function without that one-two-punch of caffeine and sugar every few hours. And the taste of a nice, fresh Coca-Cola is something bordering on magical. Having run out of herbal tea but still in desperate need of caffeine, I recently did something hitherto unheard of: I started drinking diet cola.

Let me just say this: Diet drinks are nasty. In fact, they are almost enough to put me off carbonated beverages. Almost. Unfortunately, seeing as how I'm at work for eight hours a day and in class or lab for another one to five hours, there are precious few places I can find something healthy yet caffeinated to swig. So it's either aspartame with my caffeine, or no caffeine at all. Luckily for my kidneys, I find NutraSweet extremely difficult to consume, which means I spend a lot longer on one drink than I would if I were enjoying something sugary. In fact, I am still choking down the Diet Dr Pepper I purchased three and a half hours ago.

Speaking of Diet Dr Pepper, why is it that Coke is so glorious and its sugarfree counterpart so foul? One would assume that, Coke being the most tasty of soft drinks, Diet Coke would be the least offensive of the diet drinks. But if Coke is like a wild party for your tongue, Diet Coke is a weeklong gospel meeting. Your mouth has been baptized by fire, and you'll never be the same again. Thanks, but no thanks. I want to lose that last 7 pounds that will put me at my ideal weight, but not if I have to drink what tastes like the urine of giant purple cartoon bunnies. I want to have my Coke and taste it too.

So tonight Mr. WYD, Eric, Stacia and I traveled about the northside on a drinking tour. OK, so it was the same damn drinking tour we always make, for the most part. Anyway. So we go to Electro Lounge, but by some accident of fate, we made it there before 10. The place was fucking dead. The bartender made special drinks for Stacia and me, which tasted great and may or may not have contained alcohol. Okay, they definitely contained Malibu rum, because I saw him pour it in. But I wasn't convinced it was enough alcohol to put me down for the count (never mind that my limit is two drinks). So, later, I asked the bartender for a Long Island Iced Tea, and told him if I didn't choke on every sip, it wasn't strong enough.

Unlike every other night, the bartender actually listened to me and made the most potent drink imaginable. Merely sniffing the fumes rising from my drink was enough to render small animals unconscious. After half a drink, I was tipsy. After a whole drink, I wasn't sure where I was, or how to walk.

We may or may not have tried to enter Groovy's. I'm pretty sure we went there for three seconds. Perhaps Mr. WYD was not allowed in because of his supercool, nonyuppified Brak T-shirt, which violated the lameass dress code. I cannot be certain. Anyway, I do know that after drinks at Friday's, Electro Lounge, and quite possibly a visit to Groovy's, we headed for Angles, where we girls can dance without being groped by scary guys, and the guys can drink beverages mixed strongly by people who assume they are together.

At Angles, where Eric foolishly tried to trick a very drunken me into thinking a straight Red Bull was a Jaeger blaster, we all sat back in the couch on the top floor and watched people dance downstairs for awhile.

That is what this post is about. The dancers. One in particular. There was this skinny guy with longish wavy hair. Nobody was near him. He was off in his own little world, dancing his heart out. Stacia and I were immediately drawn to him, because he was so enthusiastic about his dancing. We decided he belonged in a cool '80s hair band, like Poison. Except he was cooler. Out on the dance floor, he was a rock star in his own music video.

He danced as if no one existed in the world except him. Unlike me, he did not kill anyone with his flailing arms nor did he fall down on the floor. He moved with grace and beauty, alone but yet one with the entire universe. His rhythm gracefully matching that of the music, his eyes closed as if composing music of his own, he lost himself in the beat, our beloved lone dancer. Other dancers mobbed the floor, yet he did not notice them. Mr. Rockstar was alone on the floor, at least in his mind.

We watched him for about an hour while I sobered up enough to stop knocking half-empty drinks onto the floor with my wildly gesturing arms. Then the boys left to close out the tabs and get the cars, as Stacia and I headed onto the dance floor. Unlike Mr. Rockstar, we kept our eyes open and remained outside of the music, looking with some bit of paranoia at the upstairs window, where only minutes before we had watched the dancers below. Mr. Rockstar continued, one with the music, as Stacia and I danced around like (comparatively) self-conscious dorks.

As we left, Mr. Rockstar was right where we left him, dancing as if he were the only person in the universe. Dance on, Mr. Rockstar. You're an inspiration to everyone who's ever forgotten themselves for a moment on the dance floor.

If you like art, math, or both, check out this slideshow on the sculptures of Kenneth Snelson, who is credited with creating the first structures to demonstrate tensegrity. As did Piet Mondrian and Leonardo da Vinci before him, Snelson created elegant work that relied heavily on mathematical principles (in Snelson's case, some so arcane that art critics just didn't "get" it). Mathematical art such as this sculptor's explores the beauty of patterns found in nature and math, while at the same time inspiring additional scientific discovery -- providing an excellent illustration of John Keats' statement that "Beauty is truth, truth beauty."

(By the way, if you click on one link other than the slideshow, let it be the Mondrian Machine! That's a good way to kill an hour or five.)

Despite my drawing up and "publishing" an inventive (if hilariously inaccurate) atlas of the human body at age 4, and founding my own hospital a year later, some of my relatives seem to think I'm getting into medicine for the money.

Just because I was seduced as a high-school senior by the adrenaline rush of journalism doesn't mean I didn't still want to be a doctor, as I'd planned for 13 years. I simply took the path of least resistance, to my undying regret. If I wanted to make big bucks right now, I certainly wouldn't be taking mathematics courses. I'd again be taking the path of least resistance: Publishing college textbooks.

I picked up my chemistry books at the UCO bookstore yesterday. Would you care to venture a guess as to how much they cost? I dare you. $80? $100? $150? Try again. For three chemistry textbooks, I paid more than $200. One of those books alone cost $119. Used.

Yep, the real money is in textbooks. Think about it: They're printed on cheap paper, made with cheap bindings, and they're almost guaranteed to be bought. The writers of these textbooks make pennies on the dollar, and the editors are paid more than journalists but less than, say, a programmer.

When you consider that one copy of the main textbook runs about $170 brand-new, that's quite a tidy profit. The best part is, you don't have to present altruistic reasons in your application letter to whoever hires evil textbook overlords. The words that will get you in the door? "I want to get rich screwing impoverished college students out of their ramen money by selling them, at exorbitant prices, cheaply-made, poorly-written books that they will never actually read."

At least that's the scenario that ran through my mind when the bookstore clerk calmly took my entire January/February entertainment budget.

Anyway, anyone who saw my first attempt at publishing knows I put out some darn entertaining stuff. The inaccuracies were more glaring than anything ever published for collegiate consumption, unless you can name an anatomy book in which the human skull contains a big, jagged preying mantis jaw and the ulna -- no radius to be found -- is connected to the humerus with a big screw. Yeah. I thought not. The entertainment value alone from my line of textbooks would bring in the big bucks.

However strong the lure of quick and easy cash, I'm spending $200 per class on books alone so that I may one day spend hundreds of thousands of dollars to go to medical school. Yeah. I'm so in it for the money.

So I went to the dentist today for my very first filling. Instead of using a drill, my dentist uses air abrasion, or for medium-size cavities, a Waterlase. Since mine was small, I got the "sandblaster." Just as he promised, it was completely painless. I'd compare the sensation to eating Pop Rocks or CO2 Carbonated Hard Candy. But I doubt my dentist would approve of either.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

In other news, while teachers often encourage parents to lend a hand in the classroom, apparently it's a bad thing to take that too literally.

So you've probably seen the previews for "Cold Mountain." As I was, you're probably curious to see how a Brit and an Australian pull off North Carolina accents. And you probably want to know whether the movie's any good, and more importantly, whether viewers will get an eyeful of Jude Law's and/or Nicole Kidman's backside.

If you want to find out the answers to these questions on your own, skip this post. If you are offended by the objectification of men in Hollywood, click the back button on your browser now. If you want a spoiler-free idea of what "Cold Mountain" is like, read on.

The film begins with a monologue by Nicole Kidman. After two seconds of hearing the most ridiculous impression of a Southern accent that has ever crossed my ears, I was just about ready to walk out. (Lucky for you, I repeated what was to become my "Cold Mountain"-viewing mantra over and over in my head: "Jude Law, Jude Law, Jude Law.")

Mercifully, Law sounded only mildly ridiculous -- at times even semi-believable -- as the taciturn woodworker cum Confederate soldier Inman. And as he is not a bad-looking guy, it was possible (if barely) to overlook the fact that the almost-equally-hot Kidman sounded like the Australian bastard child of Scarlett O'Hara and Forrest Gump. In my favorite Jude Law flick, "Enemy at the Gates," the Russians speak with British accents while the Nazis talk like Americans. This would have been a great idea in "Cold Mountain." Inaccurate, mind you, but no less inaccurate and far less torturous than listening to Kidman butcher a Southern drawl.

As to whether the movie is any good, well, that depends on whether you enjoy formulaic, predictable Civil War movies that last three hours, are sympathetic to the Confederacy (or the Confedera-sah, as I like to say), and feature lots of great actors from both sides of the pond chewing scenery. If you do, this is the movie for you. If not, rent it on DVD and skip to Renee Zellweger's scenes (which are the movie's one redeeming grace) and the part I'll get to next.

The burning issue in any movie featuring Jude Law is this: Exactly how much Jude Law is there in this movie? The answer here is: About the same as "Enemy at the Gates." That is to say, there's more of him than there is in "AI" and less of him than there is in my hard drive "The Talented Mr. Ripley." As for Nicole Kidman, well, we always see more of the female stars than we do of the male. "Cold Mountain" is no exception. In fact, those of us in the Sunday night movie club are still wondering if we really did see what we thought we saw. So fans of both should be satisfied (although please, not on the plush seats. No matter what you saw onscreen, it's not that kind of movie theater).

But overall, seeing Jude Law in his birthday suit just wasn't enough to redeem "Cold Mountain" in my book. While it was prettily shot and featured a few good performances, Nicole Kidman's horrid approximation of a Southern accent, along with the cloying sentimentality, prosaic plot and obscene length, made it about as viewable as your average John Travolta vehicle.

Comparisons to the Odyssey, talk of humankind's innate inhumanity, and other such film-geek nonsense be damned. If you want a good war film, watch "Saving Private Ryan." If you want a good Southern film, watch "O Brother, Where Art Thou?". This stinker was as long as the friggin' Civil War itself, and about as fresh as a Rebel deserter who's been hiding out in the woodshed for two months.

I have a confession to make that is both shocking and intriguing. There is another besides Mr. WYD.

Would that the affair were only physical, but that is not the case. The new object of my affection occupies my mind day and night. I took but one taste, and was forever changed. From the first moment, I couldn't get enough. Somehow, all at once, it felt both exotic and familiar. This new figure in my life reminded me of something I experienced once, long, long ago.

After savoring my new love for an incredible five hours, while poor Mr. WYD looked on in horror, I was intoxicated with the idea of reliving the experience that had added such spice to my life. Despite Mr. WYD's deep loathing for the object of my obsessions and his refusal to take part in the lovefest, I sought my paramour day and night, looking for satisfaction even in tawdry places such as airport convenience stores.

Alas, many obstacles came between me and satisfaction. It has been several weeks since the last rendezvous with my new love, and I was growing restless this afternoon. Thus did Mr. WYD reluctantly bring me to the Cao Nguyen supermarket on Military Drive.

I am preparing to lustily devour the object of my adoration as I write this very post. Wasabi rice crackers, it has been too damn long, baby.

Thank you, Mr. WYD!

The sexy stunt savvy stars are trying

Forget about girl-on-girl kissing. That's so '90s. The latest celebrity trend is child endangerment. Started by comedienne Paula Poundstone, perfected by pop singer and weirdo extraordinaire Michael Jackson, and now riffed on by "Crocodile Hunter" Steve Irwin, look for stars everywhere to latch onto this uber-risqué fad that's sure to land them on the pages of People.

Cosmo says: To snag your own superstar style, minus the arrest factor, try taking your baby to the zoo, or dangling it out a first-floor window.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

In other news, a quiz with cool Betty Page pics, found by Anne at Muddyblog. As it's just a short online quiz, you have to take the results with a grain of salt. For one thing, while I may wear a lot of black, I don't own a riding crop.

You have strong domme tendencies. You are or could
be the prime orchestrator in the bedroom. You
are in control; consistent, straightforward and
respectful. I pity the worthless Miss Nobodys
who dare disobey your direct orders.


Are you Dominant or Submissive?
brought to you by Quizilla

Few things frighten me away from my favorite foods. High fat content? There's always the gym. Rare steak? I've got a few sick days. Raw eggs in the cookie dough? Chocolate chips neutralize salmonella. Skittles on the floor of the auditorium? No problem. Tangy candy is immune from the 30-second rule.

But recently I decided to stop eating beef. I vowed that right after Christmas, as soon as I had a farewell dinner of my mom's incomparable Swedish meatballs, I would swear off cow forevermore. Incurable brain-wasting sends a chill of panic through my spine that the specter of beef tapeworm just never managed to conjure.

Alas, I am a weak, weak human! In fact, I may already have variant Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease. If not, how could I forget about my self-imposed beef moratorium and enjoy a tasty double cheeseburger along with with my delicious McDonald's fries, and not think twice about it until seven hours later?

Obviously, mad-cow prions have already made my brain their new home, carving out spongy pockets of dementia. This would explain a lot of things -- the winter-break lethargy, the forgetfulness, the bizarre behavior. As a matter of fact, I used to drive past the mad cow's very farm each month on my way to the orthodontist. It's in the beef industry's best interest to quickly spin this as a Canada thing, but I've been to Sunnyside. You can't fool me. I was probably eating mad-cow burgers 10 years ago, which would put me right on track to be showing symptoms now.

So the real question is, should I assume that I'm already doomed, and continue eating delicious cows? Or should I continue trying to avoid beef, on the assumption that the forgetfulness is just the ADD and the crazy is just from recently seeing my mom?

For now, my game plan is to continue trying to avoid beef. If I should forget again, despite my clammy panic over losing any more of my precious brain cells than are allotted in my weekly drinking allowance, then a little BSE burger is the least of my worries.