Text Books and Disasters

Two things: (Oh, yeah. Hi!)

1. If they were trying to turn our campus into a Houghton-Mifflin Textbook, I think they might have succeeded.

I was in the Ramsey Center today, drying off and dressing after the ars-kicking I had received (useless quote of the day: “Clothes don’t make the man, they make the man less naked). I overheard a conversation between two gentlemen in another part of the locker room. There was nothing else going on, and it’s in pretty good taste for one to make sure he’s not “browsing around” in the locker room… so one’s ears tend to take over.

I wasn’t so much “listening” as “hearing” their banter. I really didn’t care what they were saying, and I don’t know that a lot of “trade secrets” really float around college campuses. In any case, this was apparently a reunion because there appeared to be some catching up going on (I determined this by the use of context clues, such as “Long time, no see!” or “Yeah, it’s been awhile, good to see you again.” Try it. You’ll like it). I was drying between my toes, as they tell us we should, when I heard something awfully strange. At this point in the conversation, we know that Conversationaler A (Thanks, W!) is now working at bum-ba-bah department, and parks in the north deck. We know that Converser B is working at yada-blah department and parks by wherethehellever. Converser B says to Converser A, “Yeah it seems like the last time we interacted you were over at Human Resources.”

Wait a second. Interacted? Really!!?? Who “interacts?” Does any of you use that term when you’re referring to anything having to do with contact with another human being, be that contact talking about vintage automobiles, discussing clothes, or snuggling? Do you say, “I went to my girlfriend’s house. We interacted, caught Spidey 2 on DVD, then had some Bagel Bites?”

I think these people need to hang out, or talk, or speak to each other. But I don’t think people need to be interacting so much. It can’t be any fun.

2. I’m going to warn you that this might offend you. I won’t refuse to post it though, because I’m knot goeeng two edit this blog becuz I’m worryd uhbout uffinding yoo ineemoore.

I think tragedies are awful and that we should have less of them in real life. 9/11 was obviously an unspeakably horrific event that dramatically changed people’s lives in the worst possible way. Multiply that tragedy by some 100 and you get the tsunami which obviously destroyed lives, families, and dreams. I would choose never to make light of such an event. So I’m not.

But it does stun me how we seem to require a disaster to come together and financially assist those who need it. And we can raise a lot of money by putting stars on tv and having them sing and dance and read and make cool faces.

(Editor’s note: The sacrilege begins now. If you don’t know me, I highly recommend that you stop reading now.)

But I’ve got to make some money somehow. And I’m thinking that a disaster might do the trick (Oh, I know what you’re thinking. “Hey, Brett. Doesn’t your love life count as one already?” Ah, touché, Grasshopper. Shutup). So I am planning a very small-scale disaster for early March. My goal is not to make 10 million dollars with this disaster. I was frankly just hoping to get enough for a nice dinner at Mia Madonna and a bottle of Advil.

So I am announcing “Sneezing Fit 2005.” The basic plan is that I will begin sneezing uncontrollably when speaking to a beautiful woman at the Manhattan. Things will have begun going really well, and she will say to her not-quite-as-cute friend, “Wow he seems interesting.” She will just have turned back to me to ask me what I think about country music when I will accidentally plunge into a sneezing fit, scattering mucous and dreams of a meaningful relationship ‘round the bar.

People will look at me with sympathy. And we'll have a tv show about the money I need to make it up to the poor girl. I'll walk away with about 31.00 USD, and you can walk away knowing you did your part.

Jessica Simpson isn’t much better than Ashlee.