I need a new name!
(For those of you less in the know. I'm in Buenos Aires right now. My official trip blog is at https://oranges4oranges.blogspot.com).

All of the Portenos seem baffled by the pronunciation "Nathan" and "Nathaniel" and "Nate" sounds pretty egregious in the Argentine accent. I think the closest Spanish name is "Nacho" (short for Ignacio). This was my father's Spanish name when he was in High School and he has (and probably will) explained to every busboy at every Mexican restaurant that we've ever visited and will possibly ever visit, in broken Spanish, that he was called "Nacho" because there was already another Thomas in his class.

So maybe I need a new name to go by in Argentina? Any ideas? Or perhaps maybe I don't need a new name. Last night it led to my first ever instance of being charming in Spanish. Here it is. In translation.

Beautiful Argentine Woman: (Something.... probably very clever)
Nathan: What?
Woman: (Repeats)
Nathan: ...
Woman: Are you a foreigner?
Nathan: Yes, I am from the United States... Seattle.
Woman: What is your name?
Nathan: Nathaniel.
Woman: Wha..?
Nathan: Nathaniel.
Woman: ????
Nathan: What is your name?
Woman: Eugenia.
(We dance)

The above is how most of my Spanish interactions go. Pretty flavorless. But our dance went really well and after it was finished I jumped back into the conversation with greater aplomb.

Nathan: Perhaps, I need a new name?
Eugenia: Yes, A new Argentine name! (smiles)
(We dance)

Nathan: What is a good Argentine name for me?
Eugenia: Hmmm.... I think "Cesar" like the emperor of the Romans! (big smile)
Nathan: Good! (Beems with feeling of linguistic puissance)

The we danced to Desde el Alma, one of my favorite songs. It was a very beautiful dance and she said so.

Obviously, a very minor conversation victory, but a good feeling nonetheless.

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Prospectus
I am seeking funds to develop a social networking site based on the writings of Franz Kafka. As a user, your friends total will be perpetually zero. You may initiate a "friend" request with another user and this will start an interminable series of verification processes that you will, ultimately after many years of effort, realize is the substance of the friendship itself.

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It's Going to be the Best Halloween Ever
The New York Times reports that, in an effort to fight crime, a Japanese designer has a outfit that can be rapidly unfolded into a vending machine disguise. Those of you that are into things that are awesome, might want to check out the photos and story here.

"Pretty cool" you are probably thinking. What could make this story cooler? A gratuitous ninja reference perhaps?

“It is just easier for Japanese to hide,” Ms. Tsukioka said. “Making a scene would be too embarrassing.” She said her vending machine disguise was inspired by a trick used by the ancient ninja, who cloaked themselves in black blankets at night.

That... was... awesome.

It might appear that this trend is poised for a full fledged take over of the US. But despite the commercial success of the Transformers movie and America's well established love of all things ninja, this will never catch on. There's a simple reason: women in this country won't buy a vending machine costume until they make a sexy vending machine costume.

That's right, foxy costumes (or fox-stumes as i prefer) are continuing their meteoric rise in popularity. Halloween is increasingly becoming a pageant of obvious (and obscure) male fantasy objects. This obviously riles some feminists. "Why?" the dull witted and uninformed amongst you might ask. Let me explain. As we all know feminists secretly belong to a necromantic cabal that is dedicated maintaining the true spirit of the Halloween holiday (specifically the veneration of the undead). If you don't believe me, check Wikipedia.

Casual consultation of my deck of Tarot cards reveals that the world is about to be plunged into reign of utter terror and darkness. Skeletal undead warriors and their feminist overlords will soon roam the street slaying anyone not forward thinking enough to have disguised themselves as a vending machine.

So get ready for the best Halloween ever as the undead battle foxy women battling necro-feminists battling Japanese Coke Ninjas. Remember, you heard it here first.

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The Devil Rides the 44
Let me paint a scene. The bus I'm on is the number 44. The last one of the night. It's full of drunk people. It's Sunday, so it's full of the sort of people that don't have a Monday to wake up to. Don't ask what I was doing there.

It's not important.

A drunk guy behind me is hitting on an obviously inebriated woman. They're both past the prime of their life and the prime of the night. He's in his forties wearing a windbreaker and has a worn face with exaggerated mournful features.

"Heeeey." He drawls.

She's a heavy woman dressed in t shirts with an enormous canvas bag sitting next to her that prevents him from sitting down next to him. He tries to chat her up with a weary desperation. He's humgry, and he knows probably knows he won't be getting anywhere, but this way he won't feel like he left something undone.

I perked up and started listening.

"I can't believe them... let me tell you about Target. They don't care." She rolled her head back and mumbled some more into the seat. I was more interested than ever.

"Target's the greatest lie the Devil ever told" she said suddenly, whirling her head around. This monologue continued after her drunken interlocuter had wandered off in search of god knows what. She told of the devil and her hard times and Target stores.

A long haired old man got on the bus as we cruised through the U-District. He wore glasses and a vacant expression.

"HE'S THE DEVIL" She was screaming passionately. The bus came to a sudden stop. The bus driver was about to get involved.

The bus driver was an enormous black man that had the sleaves of his metro uniform rolled up so that it looked sort of like a muscle shirt. The top three buttons were unbuttoned to show off his herculean pecs and he was wearing tight shorts that were if permissable by the public employee dress code still definitely not in the spirit of it. He looked, in short, like the sort of stripper that would show up if you were having a bachelorette party that, for some obscure reason, was bus themed.

I imagined him walking into an apartment full of drunk young women carrying a boom box.

"Ladies let me know which of you need to get off downtown" he'd say.

"Woooo" they'd say.

He'd pump up the boom box and start dancing.

"Open up the back door" the ladies would scream.

And then he'd rip off his pants.

His underwear would read "exact change only."

But that's not what he did here. Here he asked the woman if there was a problem.

Yes, there was most certainly a problem. "HE'S THE DEVIL." She reiterated.

The bus driver handled it all pretty professionally... considering. I bet he gets that sort of thing a lot. Eventually the woman agreed to move to another part of the bus. "BUT I KNOW WHAT THE TRUTH IS!" She warned us all.

I broke my non involvement in the scene to be sympathetic. I leaned over to the man and said. "Don't worry... a few minutes ago she called Target the devil.

He said that he got that sort of treatment "all the time."

Then he sized me up, his eyes widened and he leaned in. In a breathless rushed continuous stream of chatter he dumped out the following mumbled monologue, speaking directly to my lap the whole time.

"LetMeTellYou... It's the full moon that's bringing them out. Do you know the Exorcist. Do you know the devil in that movie... the director based that on a book... but the book wasn't the end of it. But it was about the devil in a small child. He made a gangster movie. It was about a gangster named Bugsy Malone and it was all with midgets. But he wanted to work like that.... with midgets. He wanted to remake The Exorcist with midgets. But he couldn't get funding. It like this rock opera version of Faust had the devil and couldn't get funding. It was by Jimmy Buffett. I love Jimmy Buffett. But no one wants to take risks like that. Did you know they opened a Native American burial ground in Ohio and found all these advanced artifacts that no one's telling you about? They found all sorts of things that Indians weren't supposed to have...

signets...

and talismans...

and cups...

But history won't admit that sort of thing. They think history began in 1742. I made my own version of Faust that was in the Pacific Northwest. But instead of the characters in Faust I wanted to use characters from here like the CIA. The CIA is the devil... yes the devil. And Faust. Faust is Bill Gates. Clippy... Do you know Clippy, the Microsoft word paper clip.... He was Mephistopheles.

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How I Roll.
So it's been awhile since I've updated this thing and major life events have been cropping up right and left. Trying to place them chronologically would be time consuming and would probably screw up my flow. So I'm just going to start referring to all events in my life as if they happened "last weekend." Those of you interested in a more temporally accurate account of my life are welcome to call me. You've got the number.

To begin:

So I could start my entry about last weekends events by talking about teens covered in blood. But this would cause consternation in at least a few of you. To be specific, judging by the belligerent texts and emails I've been receiving, this digression would be mildly off putting of those of you who are wondering why isn't I'm not telling you about the car I won.

For the rest of you.

That's right.

I won a car.

And not just any car.

An art car.

Allow me to explain. It all starts over year ago in the cabin on a small island in the Puget Sound. I was looking up the word "concupiscence" in the dictionary. A passing cabin co-inhabitant remarked "you read the dictionary too? Cool!" The source was a middle aged glass artist and poet. We talked for awhile which eventually led to him giving me the most brutal Scrabble beat down, I've ever received in my life.

Another, cabin co-inhabitor, the limitlessly Raleigh Watts, was also a Scrabble aficionado. As he and the poet later sat down to their own expert match (the score was like 23809 to 23489... no joke), Raleigh dismissed the family Scrabble I'd played growing up: "If you play Scrabble with more than two people, it's nothing more than a parlor game."

They eventually provided me with Scrabble worksheets and introduced some of the finer points of "serious" Scrabble play. Ultimately, this mild expansion of my conscientiousness as a Scrabble player has proved to be nothing but social liability. Ever since that day when Scrabble comes up and the inevitable "So are you good at Scrabble" is posed, I, over the protests of my better judgment, respond with the conversationally ultra-gauche conversation killer: "Umm... I'm not sure. Compared to what?"

What is the purpose of all this? Simply to establish the cast of characters that I seem to roll with whenever I hit the Seattle philanthropy scene. My Uncles attend a lot of benefit auctions and the like, and they bring along a pretty consistent posse of friends that I've come to know. I was by far the most junior member but we generally all got along okay.

So, I'm rolling with my pentegenarian crew at a fund raiser for a local independent poetry press. The way it works is that 100 people each buy a ticket at $100 a shot and in return they get a number. Everybody sits in a room with balloons, complementary light snacks, a cash bar and 100 works of art. As people's numbers are called, they can get up and select one of the works of art. They may eat the light snacks at any time.

So among, these 100 works of arts was, as you may have already guessed, an art car. It was an '89 Subaru Justy covered in black spikes. As the auction progressed, a mildly intoxicated Raleigh Watts leaned over to me and said "Nathan, do you want me to get you a car?"

Anyway. Since the car was won on princessnarr's birthday I'm name naming the car in her honor. I'm keenly aware that naming a car "Carly" is something they'd do on bad children's programming but since I'm about to drive around an '89 Subaru covered in black spikes, the time for that sort of self consciousness is long past.

Now that I think about it, the "Narr Car" also has a nice ring to it.



Those among you that are more detail oriented or those of you more fascinated by chaos and violence will wonder what the deal with the bloody teen was. All that really needs to be said, is that after dealing with with the hormone charged, accident prone drama that resulted in half of cousin Buckey's finger nail being sliced off, my Uncle Jerry took me out to teach me to drive a manual transmission. And at the moment lurching around in my stalling transmission grinding attention grabbing '89 Justy seemed like comparative paradise to him.

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30 Seconds of Theology
I'm about to change jobs (for the better) and lately have been meditating about what exactly I'm suited for in life.

My thoughts inevitably stray. I notice how people really like to get text messages from their lover. They get sort of squirmy and excited and then go to work on their cell phone keypads with a secretive amorousness that is difficult to disguise, even at a bus stop. I imagine telephone companies promoting this sort of thing with a slogan like

"the thumb is an erogenous zone."
I think these thoughts might be God telling me to go into marketing. Does God tell people that they need to become marketers? I'm not sure the imaginary landscape demarcated by my cosmology provides a horizon for such a happening. I might sit down to rethink my cosmology, but I think I'd just get distracted again.

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Orange Death
Here's a story for y'all. It's 100% true, and it happened just this week. On Monday, I was standing at my bus stop waiting to go home from work. It was getting towards dinner time and I was powerful hungry. Cruel fate had placed my bus stop in Bellevue ten yards from a Dairy Queen. For a hungry hypoglycemic (read: unable to eat ice cream without suffering health consequences) this is a most vexing thing. To distract myself from my ice cream cravings I phoned a friend and we talked about my burning desire to eat ice cream. We also talked about hippies.

The bus took its sweet time.

But eventually it did come, and eventually I did get bused all the way across Seattle over to Market Time Grocery where I stocked up on foods that would be more hypoglycemically correct. I was hungrier than ever, so I headed home ready to whip my purchases into a nutritious meal. I only had a few blocks to go to reach home when a van full of uncles and cousins pulled up.

"We're going to Carkeek Park. Wanna go?"

I work in a cubicle all day, so I am an immense sucker for parks. So against the grumblings of my stomach I decided to hop into the car. As we drove up the long road to the park, I went through my bag looking for anything that wouldn't require preparation to eat. The only thing that fit the bill was a 1 lb bag of baby carrots.

Baby carrots are not a satisfactory meal. But I'd torn through nearly half the bag by the time we got to the park. I said it before, I'll say it again. I was hungry. A sufficiently hungry man thinks nothing of eating a half lb of unadorned baby carrots in one sitting. What needs to be done, needs to be done.

So we got to the park. Before the sun set, we ran on the beach, played zombie tag and wrestled. It was the sort of the carefree, idyllic good time that characterizes the best of family fun.

On the way out we saw a sign warning us not to eat the "toxic shellfish" due to pollution in the area.

"How do you feel about toxic shellfish" my uncle Jerry asked me lackadaisically.

"I'm in favor of them... they combine two of my favorite things: delicious shellfish...

and

danger."

Everyone decided there was only one way to end this perfect family outing: with ice cream. And by everyone, I mean everyone but me.

So, I found myself come full circle. Sitting in a Baskin Robbins, face to face with my old sugary nemesis and only a half lb of baby carrots to fend off the intense hunger that was returning with a vengeance. They ate ice cream while I sat in the corner being mocked by fate.

By the time we'd left I'd finished the entire bag or carrots. Eating the whole pound of carrots had taken me less than 90 minutes. I felt sort of bloated.

Now that's pretty much the end of the story. And you're probably wondering to yourself: "Nathan, what the hell kind of ending is that? How is a story about eating a bag of carrots a story at all." Well the fact is, this story isn't much of anything without a "secret twist up wow finish." So here you go:

The Secret Twist Up Wow Finish

So the morals here are obvious:

1. Eat ice cream. As an additional precaution, never eat anything healthy. Ever.
2. If you make facetious comments about polluted shellfish, God will punish your snarkiness by making a bright orange mixture of fiber, beta carotene, stomach acid and shiga toxin shoot up your esophagus and all over your bathroom sink at four in the morning.

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Old Blind Deaf Arthritic Retarded Epileptic Dog
My sister, currently in the process of getting her teaching certification, is reading a text book on Special Learners. While reading it, she realized that our beloved 19 year old dog, Katie, fits in 11 of the 13 federally recognized categories of disability.

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Coincidence?
I have already come across two improbable references to the caning of Charles Sumner today. The first was a metaphor for the internal conflicts of an autistic child the second was as a facebook group celebrating the event.

It is not yet noon.

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I seem to have acquired a magical neck tie
I wore it for the first time today. It seems to have caused a massive upswing in the willingness of total strangers to talk to me in a friendly and comfortable manner. On buses, in restaurants and on street corners... everywhere. None of these strangers has mentioned the tie explicitly but it's really the only factor that could explain all this anomalous behavior.

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Shrimp Fra Diavolo with Linguine
flaccus and I cooked this last night and it was very tasty.

From The Best Recipe: 2nd Edition

Serves 4 to 6

One teaspoon of red pepper flakes will give the sauce a little kick, but add more to suit your taste.

1 lb large Shrimp (41-40 per lb), Peeled and deveined
1 teaspoon of red pepper flakes
6 Tablespoons of Extra Virgin Olive Oil
Salt
1/4 cup cognac or brandy
12 medium garlic cloves, minced or pressed
1/2 teaspoon sugar
1 (28 oz) can of diced tomatoes, drained
1 cup of medium dry white wine, such as Sauvignon Blanc
1/4 cup minced fresh parsley leaves
1 lb of Linguine or Spaghetti

1. Bring 4 Quarts of Water to a rolling boil in a large pot.

2. Meanwhile, heat a heavy-bottomed 12-inch skillet over high heat until the pan is very hot. Toss the shrimp, 1/2 teaspoon of the red pepper flakes, 2 tablespoons of oil and 3/4 teaspoon salt in a medium bowl. Add the shrimp to the skillet and quickly spread out in a single layer. Cook without stirring until the bottoms of the shrimp turn spotty brown, 30 to 45 seconds. Off the heat, stir to turn the shrimp, then add the cognac. Let stand off heat the heat until the cognac warms slightly, about 5 seconds, then return the pan to high heat. Wave a lit match over the skillet until the cognac ignites. Shake the skillet until flames subside, then transfer the shrimp to a medium bowl and set aside.

3. Off the heat cool the now-empty skillet for 2 minutes. Return the skillet to the burner and reduce heat to low. Add 3 tablespoons of the oil and 3 tablespoons of the garlic. Cook, stirring constantly, until the galic foams and is sticky and straw colored, 7 to 10 minutes. Add the remaining 1/2 teaspoon red pepper flakes , 3/4 teaspoon salt, the sugar, tomatoes and wine. Increase the heat to medium-high and simmer until thickened and fragrant, about 8 minutes.

4. While the sauce simmers, add the linguine and 1 tablespoon of salt to the boiling water and stir to separate the noodles. Cook until al dente. Reserve 1/3 cup of the pasta cooking water and drain the pasta. Return the pasta to the pot add about 1/2 cup of the sauces and 2 to 3 tablespoons of the reserved pasta cooking water and toss to coat.

5. Stir the reserved shrimp and accumulated juices, remaining 1 tablespoon of garlic, and the parsley into the sauce and simmer until the shrimp are heated through, about 1 minute longer. Off the heat, stir in the remaining 1 tablespoon of oil. Divide the pasta among warmed individual bowls, top with a portion of the sauce and shrimp and serve immediately.

Also, I made another pear tart and was able to photograph this one with better lighting:

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Cook Off!
Friday was my much anticipated cook-off with Rosalyn "Rock you like a Hurricane" Rombauer. Here were my entries:

Soup (Consomme Celestine):

From Cook Off with...

Main Course (Sauteed Baby Eggplant):

From Cook Off with...

Dessert (Pear Clafouti):

From Cook Off with...

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From today's Scarlet and Black

Game Feed

by Nathan Smith '05

On the first Saturday of Spring Break, Grandpa drove up to my apartment at 7:50 a.m. to tell me I was already missing the potato peeling. He anxiously rushed me to the car. Today was one of Reinbeck, Iowa's most important social gatherings: The Isaac Walton League's annual "Game Feed." By six p.m. people had converged from all sides of Grundy County for what one person called "the biggest pile of meat I've ever seen."

Grandpa and uncle Jerry were both League Chapter Presidents and Grandpa felt pressure to be at all stages of "feed preparation," so we drove

north on Highway 63 before there were even many other cars on the road. In Tama, Grandpa pointed out a public sculpture by great aunt Duffy. Grandpa doesn't talk about my mother's side of the family since the divorce but everyone likes to talk about Duffy. She recently retired as sculptor of the annual butter cow in the Iowa State Fair. Many others people have created butter cows for many other state fairs, but Duffy has probed the limits of the medium to its limits by creating butter horses, butter pigs, butter goats, a butter Elvis and an original life-size interpretation of the last supper in butter.


Beyond Tama, Grandpa explains the story of the Abraham Lincoln historical site. He tells the story every time we drive between Grinnell and Reinbeck. Prior to his presidency, Lincoln did something that the Governor of Iowa viewed as beneficial to the state. Grandpa doesn't recall what this service was. Lincoln received a tract of land from the Governor of Iowa. The future president never visited the land and allowed it to lapse back into state control to avoid paying property taxes on it. There is a small memorial on the land and several highway signs tell you how to get there.

After Grandpa finishes his memorial story, I tell him I'm applying for a job in Scotland and he launches into an excited recollection of our family's Scotch-Irish heritage. My great-great-grandfather, an immigrant blacksmith, was the leader responsible for bringing over most of the Scots who settled in mostly German Reinbeck. People used to call him "Bull." My grandfather claims "numerous people not in the family" have verified that "Bull was the strongest man in all of Grundy County."

Reinbeck lies forty five minutes north of Grinnell and, in comparison, Grinnell is a sprawling metropolis. We park under the old sign for Your Place or Mine, Reinbeck's only restaurant, a small town family diner confusingly named like a gay singles bar. It's next door neighbor is the Congregational Church and sits across from the American Legion. The name doesn't seem to bother them. Or at least no one's ever brought it up.


The Isaac Walton Leaguers (they call themselves the Ikes) rented out the Legion Hall for the feed. My father and uncle are in the kitchen when we arrive but before I can say hello I'm conscripted to pick up supplies with Tim Middleburger and Jim Parrot. The Ikes are an environmental group distinguishable from Grinnell's environmental clubs by their love of trucks. As middle aged guys in baseball hats go, Tim and Jim pretty much fit the mold. While we pick up various boxes I ask what the case of Baretta Gun Lubricant is for. Tim says "that's a prize for tonight's raffle." On the drive back to the hall, Tim explained how he believes in seat belts. He credits this belief to an event he offhandedly referred to as "the time I killed Blome's cow."

Back in the Legion Hall, I drifted into the kitchen looking for cooking work. My dad had a cigarette clenched between his teeth and a frozen pheasant in each hand. We exchanged greetings and he chucked the pheasants in a roaster. The Julia Child disciple in me shuddered internally. I told my father that he should defrost the pheasant first. He slanted his cigarette upward resentfully and replied that "defrosting and cooking are pretty mush the same thing." Dad's always defended his worst opinions the most aggressively (like the time he bought everyone in the family matching shoes). I decide that 9:30 a.m. isn't the time to start a family argument and silently hoped the pheasant would do better for itself in the next world.


Taking a wider view of the kitchen, I realized my father's judgment wasn't the exception from the rule. A group of men were "sauteing" onions in a quarter inch of lukewarm water in order to "soften" them before they were put in the baked beans. I began a perhaps inappropriately long definition of the word saute and questioned the need to soften something that's going to be put in a pressure cooker. I was regarded with suspicion and distrust.

My rant piqued the interest of the only woman in the kitchen, Mae Jean, a woman in her eighties who was watching from the rear corner. She asked me to sweat the celery and onions for her stuffing. The onions and celery come out sufficiently successful and she conscripted me to help with the rest of the stuffing. Our mutual outcast status solidified into an alliance to defend the stuffing from the incursions of those wishing to "improve" it. At one point I stare down a burly man in camouflage coming at us with a two pound bowl of turkey livers while Mae Jean physically interposes herself and the stuffing.


Soon, a man circled the kitchen yelling, "Deer sticks!" He handed a handful of deer jerky to the Ikes. Deer sticks paradoxically manage to disappoint by tasting exactly like you expect them to. Out of the corner of my eye I saw my father holding a cigarette with his right hand and awkwardly trying to chop onions one-handed with his left. In his mouth, he's had a deer stick and he tried to feed himself more of it by jerking his neck backward to propel the jerky into his throat. This multitasking terminated in a completely predictable catastrophe. Minutes later my father was having his first beer of the day. It was 10:34am.

As noon approached, Mae Jean and I mixed nearly 50 pounds of stuffing. Since we didn't have bowls for the job we mixed everything in three giant military sinks. Shortly after that, grandpa told me we had to get back to their house because grandma had prepared lunch.

The noon meal consisted of loose meat sandwiches, soda and pudding. This meal was the tipping point where the day's narrative gets a bit hazy. I'd been living a near-vegan lifestyle at Grinnell and by this time I became sort of "meat drunk." The remaining hours of the days passed as more of a series heavy impressions viewed through a gauzy veil of cholesterol and protein.

I spent most of the early afternoon face up on my grandparents floor before we ventured back to the Legion Hall for the final game feed preparation. Now describing meat as "a pile" is rather cliche. For instance, one might say a subway sandwich is "piled high" with turkey. This is an exaggeration. But at the game feed dinner, no exaggeration is possible. The meat was piled high, in the sense that it was actually served as a giant pile.

The crown of the evening was the raffle. The prizes were procured by a couple of the Ikes that went on a $2,000 shopping spree at Wal-Mart. Aunt Julie won a beef jerky maker. I won a case of motor oil and a jug of wiper fluid. The available prizes ranged from posters of kittens to shotguns. I was informed that the shotguns were safely hidden under my uncle's bed prior to the auction. Throughout the auction, people kept exclaiming what an "excellent job" my uncle was doing of emceeing the event. This confused me, he was mostly reading off a series of prizes and winners without much comment. Eventually I figured out that "excellent job" was code for "not drunk."

And then it was all over. After the guns and the meat there was nothing to do but sleep. I gave the wiper fluid to my grandpa. He seemed to appreciate the gesture.

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The Nate Smith you never knew
He struck again.

There is another Nathaniel Smith. He is also from Cedar Rapids and he is my age. Though I've never met him, occasionally while growing up I would get his swimming pool pass returned to me or some similar innocent mix up.

Interestingly enough he's turned up during my current visit to Cedar Rapids. This is not me, but my mother will undoubtedly be getting some phone calls.

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Update
In news that may be surprising to some of you:

I'm in Nashville.

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Due to Popular Demand
My sister laurelzs now has a livejournal.

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Annotations to "Drunk Dialed"
This refers to my previous update:

Narrator

This message is from my friend Danielle from the Bioinformatics and Bioengineering Summer Institute (BBSI) in Richmond, Virginia.

Steph/Stephie/Stephanie

Refers to Stephanie Slusher a girl from Rebecca Blanchard's home town of Lynchburg. Not an actual member of the BBSI, she became associated with the BBSI through Mark who she was supposed to be giving dance lessons to.

Mark was one of the most emo guys I know. During the BBSI he had the ghosts from pac man tatooed onto his wrists. After awhile Mark stopped speaking with Stephanie for reasons that were never really clear. As far as I know he never learned to dance properly.

But by this time Stephanie's drunken antics had won the hearts of the rest of the BBSI and she became a fixture. She would eventually become famous for falling of a cliff for no real reason. For halloween she went as "Sexy Hermione Granger."

Matt Berginski one of the more sardonic members of the BBSI summed her up with the following haiku like statement. "I'm Stephanie. I'm gonna drink this. Cause I'm Stephanie."

Ethan

Ethan Thiel was a smart kid that always carried around a carbon steel knife for no real reason. He was the sort of guy that had to keep reassuring people that he didn't hate them which made the knife especially problematic.

saw a bunch of tits

Apparently they were all going to a Suicide Girls show.

Some guy stole Ethan's camera or something

Apparently Ethan tried to take pictures of the Suicide Girls which resulted in the confiscation of the camera. Danielle accosted the bouncer and the camera was returned minus the photographs.

scissored

Thanks to realgrrl

Michael

Lanky indie rocker pharmacologist. A more laid back friend of Mark.

drink a bunch of wine and spit it back up all over ourselves

Refers to a particularly debauched night at the BBSI involving a "Franzia Stand."

Austin

Ambiguous. May refer to either a computer scientist from Virginia Tech or Danielle's son.

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Drunk Dialed
The following is the transcript of a phone message I received at roughly 6 am from a Durham, NC lab assistant and mother of one. It's most enjoyable if you read it aloud with a slight southern accent.

This is the beginning of an extremely detailed message.
So I left my house at roughly 4:30 last night and like the traffic was really bad and it was raining and blah blah blah and it was like
stop go
stop go
stop... oops hit a car.

Totally got accordianed and totaled my car but good luck cause Steph and Ethan picked me up on the way. Then we went to Charlotte, saw a bunch of tits. I wanted to make out with the bartender but I didn't have time. We left, some guy stole Ethan's camera or something.
and like
He was a big douche.

so...

so we left,
We came back to the room we jumped on each other a bunch Steph got in the shower and pulled me in. I think we like scissored.

We scissored

it was pretty much awesome.

We made out a little bit in the car. We definitely did call Michael and I think he was uncomfortable about it.

anyway

And then we came home Then we did all this butt fucking
or whatever it is that we do... when we get together.

We definitely did not drink a bunch of wine and spit it all over ourselves.
We did have good food but
I did smash a ranch packet on the ceiling
and it did get all over Stephie's elbow
which prompted her shower with her clothes on
then she did some sort of strip tease
and her vagina said "rock star."

And then I guess there were a bunch of pile ups
I had a hat on
there was a brush

then

I guess I fell asleep

Then Austin peed at 9 am

roughly

and I woke up
and Stephanie's like "quit being a cunt"
and I was like "don't call me a cunt"
and I hate that word.
Actually none of that happened.

then

Stephanie got in the shower and grabbed some pop rocks, cut it open, poured it on her head and was like "needles and ants!!!"

And I was like Ha... ha

And then we decided we were gonna give blow jobs with pop rocks. Do you want one?

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Zmolek Smith Christmas Letter '06
Written by my sister: Laurel "the funnier one" Zmolek-Smith

Feliz Navidad to our amigos and familia!

I, Laurel, 24, am still in Puerto Rico. I quit my job at AMPI in August and am now finishing my MA in ESL (English as a Second Language). I will complete my degree in July and thanks to my mother’s craftiness in managing to get my boyfriend to move in with her, will moving back to Iowa in the fall. I continue to teach salsa lessons at a local dance studio. This year I have been given a section for 5 year olds called “Baby Salsa.” Somehow, despite the fact that I spend 90% of instructional time trying to get them to stop rolling around on the floor, picking scabs, pulling out their teeth, and crying, they have managed to get down the basic steps.

My boyfriend, Luis, 28, became my dance student in January, started dating me in March, finished his MA in Electrical Engineering in August, and moved in with my mother in October. He is from Colombia and never imagined that he would end up in Iowa, but the job outlook was not good in Puerto Rico and there is a big demand in Iowa. He is working very hard on his English, as well as remodeling mom’s kitchen nook. He got a job working at Clipper Wind, Inc. and started December 18. We’ll keep our fingers crossed that it will go more smoothly than the kitchen nook.

Brother Nathan, 26, is still out in Seattle working at Brain Murmurs, Inc. He continues tango dancing and having strange encounters with folks on the bus. His latest victory in the kitchen was the preparation of a dish called “Toad-like Squab” for Uncle Jerry’s birthday. Your imagination cannot possibly do it justice. This year Nate was diagnosed with hypoglycemia, which has been great because his new diet has given him a lot more energy, but it has been bad because he has had to renounce peanut butter cups, egg nog, and other holiday delights. He is svelte and good-looking.

Cousin Ananda, 29, is still working at Prime Benefits Systems. Ever since she got a $7,000.00 raise, I’ve been trying to trick her into giving me money, but she’s been quite tight fisted and has selfishly decided to spend it on furthering her education. She is taking classes on-line, and is frustrated by the fact that everyone is stupider than her. She is also svelte and good-looking.

The dog Katie, one hundred and twenty-something, is immortal. She is deaf, and part blind, but still keeps constant tabs on Luis via whatever senses she still has in tact, because he is the only one who gives her table scraps. At every meal she stares as him with an intensity not often seen in a blind dog. Luis thinks this means she likes him, but really she’s just using him. Despite her age and eye growth, she is svelte and good-looking.

My mother, Gloria, 55, spent most of the year looking for where she put all the copies of last year’s Christmas letter, and then had the gall to ask me to write another one. She’s been dedicating a lot of time to coaching my boyfriend. “Put on your sweater, Luis. Put on your coat, Luis. Eat, Luis.” In June she went to Mexico, where she quite possibly broke up a marriage in a hotel lobby with her steamy dance moves. She visited me in Puerto Rico in July, where she danced with a sailor, and sweat through several pairs of clothes. She is svelte and good-looking, despite her heavy dependence on peanut butter cups and nog.

May the coming year be wonderful and full of toad-like squab, nog, peanut butter cups, dancing, $7,000 raises, table scraps and freshly painted kitchen nooks.

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What I did at work today
n(<'-'>)n <---- Turtle face view

)@(o <---- Turtle top view

. <----- Turtle very far away

.* <----- Turtle very far away next to giant statue of an asterisk

From Puerto Rico

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