Loud Yip

Howdy, friends. I've been too busy living to blog, but ideally you've been a part of the unemployed, malt-liquor-lubed bouncy ball that has been hurtling downhill at blur-like speeds that my parents refer to as my "summer in DC." I still don't have much to say (except, "bomb the blogosphere!"), but I did want to share this ridiculous video my new friend Chris showed me. Hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

Latest Read

I've been posted up at home this past week, doin' my normal thing (reading books and watching movies) and enjoying the solitude of country livin' until I go back to DC (tomorrow). The last book I read had a really notable quote and extract that I wanted to share, and thus hopefully pick up this blog's ashes in time to reincarnate it for the summer.

Dave Eggers, in his first lengthy work of fiction, You Shall Know Our Velocity! (2002) speaks to the scatterbrained nature of this blog:

“Nothing was true. Nothing in the guidebook was true but the maps. Are maps true? Nothing else was true. The word fact could not exist. All facts changed on the way to the printer.” (321)

And now, this incredible paragraph that delves into the atmosphere of a middle school dance, and the psyche that accompanies it:

“This is the way of Champagne Snowball: First, a slow song. “Open Arms,” “(Here I Am) The One That You Love,” anything by Spandau Ballet. You scope, you choose, you find someone, you say these words: “Will you dance?” and then lead them to a spot crowded enough where you won't be easily seen. Put your skinny worthless arms, arms you've vowed you've to work on, around her waist, while she puts her arms around your wet neck. Everyone is already soaked from the fast songs, from Dean and Hand initiating an elaborate group-dance routine to the 5-4-3-2-1 Major Tom song, so expect your partner's back will be moist. She will smell of Sea Breeze. Her temples will drip onto your shoulder. Feel the heat of her chest against yours. Feel the heave. You will never know heaving like that again so soak in that heave. Put that heave into a small velcro pocket in the parachute pants of your soul. If she's as tall as you, and she probably is, move closer and set your face upon her hot cheek. When it gets too hot switch cheeks. Hope she won't ask you if you have a pen in your pocket while knowing it's not a pencil. Hope you don't pee. Why would you pee? You don't know. She will blow her face cool with her lower lip outstretched, her bangs floating briefly upward like banners tied to balconies. Know her hot chin on your hot shoulder, know her chest breathing into your chest. Wonder if she likes you in a making-out way. Wonder if you should (sexy!) or shouldn't (queer!) rub your woody against her inner thigh. Wonder where your friends are. Wonder what time it is. How much time is left—you needed more time! See Jack dancing with Annmarie and roll your eyes. Watch him act offended and start to fake-cry. Laugh and when your partner asks what's funny say, “Oh, the comedy of life.” Feel the cooling of the sweat on your partner's back. Let your hands drop a little. Wonder if she'll be a good kisser.” (305-6)

WHOA

Well, there didn't seem to me any better time to post the quarterly update of a nearly-defunct blog than in the heat of a back-to-back all-nighter during finals week. Studying for my Psychology as a Natural Science gen-ed class, I came across this startling quote:

"Rather than arriving in the world with a fully developed brain that may or may not meet the requirements of its environment, human beings arrive with brains that do much of their developing within the very environments in which they will function. The fact that our underdeveloped brains are specifically shaped by the unique social and physical environment into which we are born allows us to be exceptionally adaptable."®

While I've also learned about the Flynn effect, which highlights generational IQ increase, I'm deeply concerned about the youth of the future. Between video games, increased cell phone technology, digital media and so on, they might just evolve into some real fucking idiots.* This is not to say all hope is lost in my little brother or his generation, but his kids might be a completely separate story.

®I'm not going to bother citing this. For one, I'm still annoyed it was mandatory I had to pay for the online text. Secondly, I need to get back to studying. Lastly, I may or may not be blatantly breaking some copyright law; knowledge is wealth, and I believe in sharing the wealth.

*Unsure if I swore in such a crude fashion on the blog, it's been that long.

Thanks

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Sike my readers suck.

Poppin' Bottles in Prison

Upon reading a wild article about a death-row inmate in Esquire, I came across this wildly inventive technique the inmates use to make booze. If anyone is so brave enough to try it at home, don't bother to tell me about it; I'm assured you will have vomited and brought great disgrace to your family honor.

“Real death-row parties, however, require a batch of pruno, the prison hooch: Take the grapefruit that comes with Saturday breakfast, peel, crush, and place in an empty milk carton. Enzymes remaining inside the carton, combined with natural yeast from the air, trigger fermentation within a few days. Dump into a garbage bag and add a pound of sugar and a pound of canteen-bought prunes per person. Let sick for a sick, occasionally (and when no guards are around) burping out excess gas. Strain pulp through a sock. The alcohol content...is as much as 12 percent, and the taste is about what you'd expect from something filtered through a sock. Still, if you can stomach a couple twenty-ounce cups, pruno provides “a good escape.” (123)

Finkel, Michael. "When Christian Long asked me if I wanted to watch him die, I told him I did." Esquire. January 2010.