A Holiday Wrap-Up

Dearest Journal,

This year has been unforgettable. I have graduated college, lived in Europe, lived in my own little corner, in my own special chair, thanks to Erin, and I have a new roommate. Well, I hope I still have one.

The other night, like clockwork, my roommate, Paul, went out clubbing, which he usually does 7-9 times a week (not to be confused with 79 times a week, which would be a little outrageous!). I had settled myself into my bedpants and was fast asleep by the time he got home around 3a.m. I woke up to hear banging of pots and pans, see the lights turn on in the hallway, and the A/C kick on - it was 37 degrees outside. I shrugged and went to back to bed, only to wake up at 5a.m. to the lights and the A/C still on. Hypothermic with glass-cutting nipples, I went to hall and saw Paul keeled over in front of my door. I turned off the A/C and lights, slammed my door and went back to bed. At 7a.m. I thought a bomb was about to go off, as the fast-paced beeping of Paul's alarm clock blasted through the apartment. Even more annoyed, I opened my door and yelled at Paul to turn it off and get up. He didn't move or respond. After several minutes, I decided to shut it off myself and go back to bed.

Needless to say, I woke up later that morning and went to work. I haven't been home since, and I really hope he's still alive.

In other news, my family has completely lost it. My two aunts who live with my grandmother have been fighting for the past couple of years, and it's gotten incredibly worse. So much so, that one of my aunts has fled to Louisiana to forget her anger in the casinos. In the meantime, my sister has recently acquired a bed, for which she needs a box spring. Well, conniving as always, my other aunt, who will be remaining at home, has offered my sister a box spring for her bed, and my sister took it. Turns out, it was the box spring for my other aunt's bed. As evil as it may be, I still laugh as I imagine the face of my aunt when she returns to find her bed without a box spring.

Anyway, I should best get back to studying, journal. Sorry I wasn't so funny this time around, but I'll be in Texas starting Friday, with 5 weeks off from school. I shall make updates GALORE!

Yours,

Brandon

Bring it, December!

Another Thanksgiving has come and gone, mine possibly faster than everyone else's. I visited my great aunt in Corona for our "dinner" at 2:15 in the afternoon. Afterward, we came back to her house, where we looked through photos she showed me last time (but I had to pretend to be seeing them for the first), and she asked about my trip to Europe. I almost made it through the first sentence when she cut me off and escorted me out the door. "It was nice to see you," she said, as the screen door slammed in my face. I was home by 3:30p.m.

With a little bit of cheer and a lot of wine, I managed to make it through the rest of the night. Besides, I have two thesis papers I should be writing, but instead, I have been doing everything except writing. For instance, I'm updating this journal even though I convinced myself I could write nothing at the moment. By Friday, I was listening to the Carpenters and enjoying the beginning of the holiday season. Saturday, I baked cookies from scratch and had a lovely dinner of Kraft macaroni and cheese with Tyson chicken nuggets and red wine. After dinner, I ended the evening with a lovely night at the theater, enjoying a peaceful tragedy, "Spring Awakening".

For the past month or longer, I have been consistently also going to the gym every night. In comparison, I look a lot better, but I've only been comparing myself to the naked photos of Vanessa Hudgens that have been plaguing the internet for the past few years. Those are really great for your self-esteem, by the by. Anywho, after polishing off another bottle of red wine (it's supposed to be good for you to saturate yourself with red wine every night, according to WebMD!!), I ventured to the gym. Big mistake. My dream of working out came to a sad and sudden end when I found myself crying on the floor in front of an ever-running treadmill. I don't really know how it happened, but I'm almost certain all those slapping of buttons and cursing didn't help any, and the dancers in the other room who did nothing but stare - well, that didn't make matters any better, and I may have said a few things that will eventually air on COPs.

I now find myself lying in bed, after a soothing bath that nearly drowned me, contemplating the two weeks I have left of my first full-time graduate semester and doing anything I can not to write any more papers, though my continuing education depends on them. But really, what can one do?

The moral of this story? I may have bought some more Activia at the grocery store yesterday, and it may be hormonal mood swings brought on by this vagina yoghurt that rendered me an unstable mess, as opposed to the seven, large glasses of red wine I siphoned before heading to the gym. The world may never know.

A Really Lame Joke We All Secretly Love

Maude, an old woman, is watching the evening news when the anchor suddenly announces:

"Breaking news! A car is driving the wrong direction down a major highway!"

Maude grew concerned because she knew her husband was driving home on that particular freeway. She dialed his cell phone and when he answered she burst out with the news

"Harold! Be careful! The anchorman says there is a crazy person driving the wrong way down the freeway!"

Harold replies

"Call the station, honey, cause there's not just one, there are hundreds!!!"



-- 5 cents gets you nuts!

November, What?!

November, where did you come from, and why hasn't this blog updated itself?!

For the past few weeks I have been busy with graduate school (I had two or three two-hour presentations to give) and writing angry letters to just about everyone I could think of. Normally I don't have such rage (you shut your mouth, Erin!), but I was inspired when I was watching a pre-recorded episode of Family Guy on TV about a week or two ago and noticed an Activia commercial in which there was no Jamie Lee Curtis. My mission had been accomplished. Through this triumphant victory I was able to muster the courage to write letters to such companies as Barnes & Noble, regarding an incorrigible salesman who followed me around the music section until I left, and Pottery Barn (they know what they did!).

All this angry letter writing has left me drained and unenthused about creatively writing in this here journal. That is, however, until today. You might wonder, "What will he talk about today?" or "What gems of wisdom does he have for us?" The answer is simple: I have nothing to talk about, so put that in your turkey and stuff it. I do, though, have a new cell phone, with which I plan to take more pictures and upload to this blog, thereby making it more "child friendly". If you don't have children to read this blog to, I suggest volunteering to read aloud to dying children at your local hospital, pound, or dump - or wherever you take/leave them. Or you could just steal a child. I find kindergartens, city parks, or Disneyland provides a nice selection from which to choose.

Until I Write Again,

Brandon

Cat & the Fiddle

Last night I ventured out to the depths of Los Angeles to go to the Cat & the Fiddle restaurant and bar. It was a cozy place, full of life, bad service, drunken frat boys from Florida, darts that weren't quite hitting the dartboards, and an ugly woman.

"Just one ugly woman?" you may ask. Of course not, silly, but this one was special. "How special?" Well, if you quit interrupting with questions, I'll tell you.

There has been many-a-time when I have ventured to public places and spied women with frizzy hair piled up in a bun with huge glasses and a sprouting mustache, but most of those public places was a movie theater and the girl was in the film (except for the one I saw in the Metro, which is a different breed of woman in itself), ending up popular and pretty at the end. This time, that girl walked into the restaurant and sat directly across from my table. Normally I'm not a man of charity, but I've decided I've got to help her.

Sadly, when I realized that my life's mission was to help this girl become beautiful, she had already left the bar. What to do, what to do?! Here is where I leave it to you, faithful audience:

If anyone may know this whereabouts of the following unfortunate woman, please let me know! She is destined to become cool enough to pull off prom with the captain of her high school

football team!

Threatened by Cookie

What a wonderful sight it was to behold in Disney's California Adventure when I discovered they had finally started serving Chinese Food at the Lucky Dragon once more. I was excited. I was courageous. I dished out twelve dollars for a carton of rice and prison-select cuts of chicken, drowned in teriyaki sauce.

It's not that the meal itself was bad, by all means. I've come to expect only half-assed quality from the Walt Disney Company nowadays, and even less from the studios. But what got me bewildered was the fact that my complimentary fortune cookie finally broke the spell I had been having of only getting statements in lieu of fortunes. Things like "You did a good job" and "Your dog is a whore; watch for puppies" were "fortunes" of the past for me, but I was still a little on edge when I read: "Keep being a trusting person, but sleep with your eyes open". Was my fortune cookie threatening me?

Having not received an actual fortune in years, I didn't know whether I should be excited or fear for my life, but needless to say, I lock my bedroom door now when I sleep - if I can fall asleep. So far, things have been O.K., but I constantly find myself glaring at everyone, wondering who will lead to my untimely demise. You may be wise, fortune cookie, but I have learned a lot from you. I will continue to be a trusting person who is driving himself crazy wondering who might to try to kill him and consequently loses sleep.

A Second Draft is Better Than a Backdraft

To One Ms. Jamie Lee Curtis:

Despite your declining career, I wanted to believe you. I trusted you and your high-fallutin yoghurt deliverance, which were nothing more than lies. You lied to me, you lied to my family, and you lied to countless middle-aged women who have nothing better to do than watch television during the middle of the day and view your Activia commercials, which are conveniently interspersed between soap opera segments.

Your empty promises have caused me grief, despair, and diarrhea (well, that may just be my lactose intolerance, but still, I blame you). It was merely last month when I decided to take you up on your "Acitivia challenge" and enter myself in a 5k run, which the yoghurt that pays your salary single-handedly sabotaged by bolstering my immune system and then suddenly dropping my health to below-zero numbers.

I ate and ate and ate and ate and ate your yoghurt, but little did you share with us that suddenly stopping this challenge may, in fact, impede one's health tremendously, and I found myself bed-ridden for two weeks. TWO WEEKS. I did still, however, attempt to run this 5k race but was unable to because I slept through my alarm. How is this related to your fallacy of yoghurt goodness? Simple: You promised me great things, Ms. Curtis, and you failed to deliver.

Certainly I hope the only roles you have coming your way consist of Beverly Hills Chihuahua 2 - 5 and that you are downgraded from yoghurt commercials dealing with irregularity to commercials on incontinence, and you wouldn't want to give those people false promises, now would you?

My only hope is that you may find a way to monetarily rectify this situation before it gets out of hand (I have friends in high places, Ms. Curtis). You can take your vagina yoghurt and stick it.

Incredibly Concerned,

Brandon K. Pfluger

I Need You Now

Here I am, at 4 o'clock in the morning, still thinking about you...

After a long hiatus, I decided it was time for a much due blog entry, but where to begin? Begin with the rest of your yoghurt trials, Brandon! I hear you say. Don't mind if I do.

What could be so mysterious that you left everyone hanging on days 8-14? I'll tell you what: a whole lot of yoghurt withdrawals. You see, the clever people at Activia have packaged their product in cartons of 8, leaving me stranded on day 9. By day 10, I had the shakes. You don't even want to know what it was like on days 11-14. But Brandon, why didn't you just go to the store and pick up another carton? You're just full of questions, aren't you? Had I done so, I would have been taking the 16-day challenge, and not the 14, as the packaging suggests. Why couldn't you just not eat the other two? Shut up.

Had I wanted to run to the store every time I needed yoghurt, I may as well have bought Go-gurt for busy people on the go, but they weren't offering a challenge. So now, here I lay in bed at close to 4a.m., a good almost two weeks since my last update, and I'm sick. Where are you now, yoghurt? Where are you now?!

The 5k is this Saturday, and I swear if I'm not good to go, I'm writing Jamie Lee Curtis a very stern letter, demanding an apology and an ample supply of 14 yoghurts. It's because of you, Activia, that I have had to change my mantra to: I attempted to finish my yoghurt and quite possibly may be too sick to run the race, but I'll definitely give it a shot and hope I don't drop dead!

What will happen this Saturday? Only time will tell...

Get a Grope

And so, after squeezing three people into a one bedroom apartment for the last month, I am free at last to strut in my underwear while drinking from the juice carton.
These simple pleasures, however, have been overshadowed by the news of a serial groper roaming the neighborhood.
Apparently a man has been sneaking into women's bedrooms and fondling them in the night. Eeew.
Often in crime shows they map the locations of previous attacks and form a sort of "triangle of pervertedness" as I like to call it. Well, folks, I'm right there in the perverted triangle and I have never hated triangles so much. Now that I live alone the freedom of partial nudity pales in comparison to the potential of waking up in the middle of the night to find a strange man hovering over me, silently stroking my leg.
While I know some of you are thinking, "This might be the perfect opportunity for you! It's not like anyone else has been fondling you lately," I still feel a surprise midnight game of slap and tickle might be extreme.
But If I were to wake up to a freshly made gourmet dinner on the other hand...let's just say...you scratch my back and I'll...lay there pretending I'm asleep.






Why, come on in!!

Identity Theft

We all know and fear some hacker in a basement somewhere getting ahold of our personal information and using it to open Old Navy accounts or to smuggle endangered species into the US so they can vote Republican, but what about the identity theft that happens everyday as mothers name their children or comedy writers decide on the name of a new character?
When I was 8 years old my sister told me there was a girl named Erin Hannon in her baton twirling class. Being the sad and lonely child I was, I immediately latched on to the idea that this girl, this other Erin Hannon was somehow connected to me. That was my name. When people thought about me, they attached that name to me and now there was this other girl named Erin Hannon with a different face and personality. You know the game where you take your name and assign each letter a numerical value and then add all the numbers together and reduce until you receive a one digit number that is supposed to be an indicator of your personality? Well, our numbers were the same. We were like twins. So, it was with great anticipation that I waited alongside my mother at the next baton lesson trying to figure out which one was the Other Erin. Finally a girl a few years older than me walked up to the sign-in sheet and wrote that intimately familiar name with a strange, flowery hand. I could wait no longer. Our cosmic reconciliation was at hand.
"My name's Erin Hannon too!" I eagerly exclaim.
"Oh," says the girl.
Her mother comes to stand beside her as my mother is standing beside me. The two women chat amicably about the coincidence until practice begins and the Other Erin scampers off to join the others and I am left on the sidelines angry and confused of the Other Erin's outright rejection and abandonment. It must have been because we had different middle names. No one with her middle name could truly understand me.
And so the years went on. I sometimes met another Erin and never met another Hannon I wasn't related to. Then one day, almost two decades since that day in the community center gym, I discover another Erin Hannon, different from the last in a few notable ways.
First off, she is famous. She is on the hit NBC sitcom The Office. She has all the things I ever wanted: a reasonably well paying job, her pick of the men, and the ability to look great on almost anything she wears. Yes, I'll admit I'm jealous. How can you not when someone with your name has all that? It's only pathetic when you factor in that she isn't real. She is a character. I almost wish it was the actress who had my name. At least then I would know she had it first. Somehow realizing that a group of writers were in a room somewhere and thought "What kind of name should we give to this character that really doesn't contribute much to the show other than as the girl who replaces the much more popular, more lovable girl who goes off to scheme in a major sub-plot?" Erin Hannon.
I feel just as strongly affected by this new Erin as I did by the Other Erin. It's just that time has changed the way that I feel about it. Before I was sure that it meant something to have a name twin who turned to look when someone called for you. Now I am horrified that I have to share something as personal as my name with another being I have no control over. What if she does something really awful and becomes a villain? People will always associate Erin Hannon with evil! But if she'd too good and too kind, I won't be able to live up to the expectations of my name! "Well, she certainly isn't anything like the Erin Hannon I know." I have worked long and hard to create an identity for myself that I am proud of and that others can depend on. Suddenly a very public figure comes on the scene and threatens to destroy it all.
Most likely, this fake Erin Hannon will continue to be a part of the scenery on the show and I'll continue to confound and amuse like I always have, but now I am more aware that my name isn't mine alone and though I wish I could copyright it, some other Erin Hannon out there somewhere may be willing to fight to the death to make it her own.

The Erin Hannon

14-Day Challenge: Day Seven

I woke up at the ungodly hour of 6a.m. today, eager to head to school and longing for my yoghurt. Unfortunately, since I am not as pleasant or coherent a person in the morning as I am starting at about noon or so, I made an awful faux pas when I mistook my mantra, "Finish my yoghurt and win the race!" for "Finnish my yoghurt and win the race," and topped off my peach Activia with pickled herring. Needless to say, my day was off to a terrible start.

It wasn't until my second serving of Lihapullat later that afternoon that I had even realized what I was doing. I finished the last of my meatball platter and continued to class. Will this heavy diet of Finnish food slow down my performance in the 5k? I'm afraid only time will tell ...

I will finish my yoghurt and win the race!

14-Day Challenge: Days 5 & 6

Day Five:

I awoke with my legs sore and my heart rearing to go, as I stepped into the kitchen and ate my Activia. Why my legs were exactly worn, I'll never know, but I can only assume it was from my muscles growing, as the yoghurt preps me for my 5K run on October 10th. I will finish my yoghurt and win the race! In any case, I showed off my newly-muscled legs by rocking my skinny jeans on Monday. I could feel people watching in awe as I strutted by.

"That's right, look at my legs. Ooh! Ow! I wish there weren't so sore, but I look good. Man! I look good ..." It's amazing what a pair of skinny jeans and a campus full of stares will do for your self-esteem. The gold medal is practically mine.

I will finish my yoghurt and win the race!

Day Six:

The soreness in my legs are gone. I'll just assume the yoghurt has fully developed all muscles that need developing.

After my breakfast of Activia and chewy granola bars, I went to COSTCO to pick up a few items and a barrel of protein powder, alongside a keg of Centrum vitamins. Like any upstanding citizen, I made my way through the aisles to whet my appetite with the endless, ENDLESS offerings of free samples. Don't mind if I do! However, in my process, I may have cheated on my challenge with a slender, more delicate "Gogurt". I knew I shouldn't have taken one as I reached for it, but the temptation was just too great. Finally, a yoghurt I didn't have to choke down. Filled with shame and great-tasting yoghurt, I immediately checked out and drove home.

How I can stand to face my vagina-loving yoghurt tomorrow, I'll never know. I just have to keep to my mantra: Finish my yoghurt and win the race!

Giving Blood and Getting Nauseous

"Give the Gift of Life" touts the banner splayed along the side of the large, white bus with heavily tinted windows sitting at the entrance to my work. Whilst one doesn't normally associate vehicles of this description with "The Gift of Life," but rather the less desirable "Gift of Abduction, Rape and Death by Strangulation," I nevertheless dutifully marched up to add my name to the donation list. This was, after all, an event sponsored by the Red Cross, an organization that is less interested in using undersized pricks to work out mommy issues and draining the life from you, and rather more in using large needles to work out money issues and drain...well, that part's kind of the same.

Blood drives bring out the best and the worst in people. There is nothing like the dizzying sensation of knowing that your temporary vertigo could help save the life of another human being. Maybe even a baby...or a kitten. Nor is there any greater shame than passing the truck knowing others are giving, but you just don't have the time because you didn't think of it...kitten killer! I, unfortunately, found that giving my best only got me the worst.

I am a bit apprehensive of needles so I was already feeling slightly queasy as I walked up to the tent. After stupidly waving at a group of nurses (?), I was directed to the sign in area where Two women showered me with pins to commemorate the writing of my name and the time on a sheet of paper. I was handed a packet and told to read it all the way through to ensure I was fully qualified to give blood. Who would have thought there would be such a rigorous application process to let myself be robbed of a pint of blood at the beginning of, what I would later realize is, swine flu season! I have knowingly weakened myself risking infection from this mild, flu-like virus and I had to hurl myself into the gauntlet to do it!

I finished the entire booklet (although I felt I got very little from the Spanish language section) and was now ready to board the bus. A tiny room housing an outdated computer and two little chairs set the scene for my next trial. A young man quizzed me on my personal details (including those which one should never ask a lady) and further injured me by stabbing my finger and literally milking out the blood until it was dark enough to satisfy him. After analyzing the choicest sample he declared my iron levels high enough to continue. Continue? After being milked?! No, Sir! I was halfway out the door when he alluded that the next portion of testing would be a questionnaire. Those of you who know me, know that I have a weakness for questionnaires. They ask you all sorts of questions about yourself and they never tease or run away no matter what answers you put. They just keep asking more questions. Sometimes it's nice to feel someone has an interest in your life and that someone is listening. Not judging, just listening. And so I was trapped answering "las preguntas" as outlined in the booklet.

HAVE YOU BEEN OUTSIDE THE UNITED STATES OR CANADA WITHIN THE PAST THREE YEARS?

Yes. Is that a problem?

HAVE YOU RESIDED WITH AN INDIVIDUAL KNOWN TO HAVE HEPATITIS?

No. At least I don't think so. Maybe someone had it and didn't tell me. Could I have caught something just by living with someone?

HAVE YOU HAD SEXUAL CONTACT WITH A MALE WHO HAS HAD SEXUAL
CONTACT WITH A MONKEY THAT WAS BORN IN NIGERIA, BUT IS NOW LIVING IN BELGIUM DUE TO THE WORSENING ECONOMIC SITUATION IN HIS HOME COUNTRY?

Huh? No. What?
Monkey? That's really specific.

Somehow I muddle through the questions and am taken to the main cabin and am instructed to lay on a gym-type mat that is raised to create a bed. I notice the mats don't have adequate sanitary precautions (i.e. - not everything is covered in plastic). I don't have to tell some of you about the troubles I've gotten in to due to just this sort of thing - and for those I do have to tell, too bad ain't gonna happen. I was naturally wary, but by this point I was so traumatized from the milking and so befuddled from the questionnaire that I simply lay down and hoped against hope I wouldn't catch anything. "This is a licensed bloodmobile, right? They probably have pretty strict health checks for these things. I'll be fine. Look, that pillow over there has a paper towel on it. I bet my pillow has a paper towel too. I'll be just fine. The paper towel will protect me.

As my arm is being prepared for the needle, I am given a red, rubber ball to play with - as long as I don't move my arm, that is. Squeeze...Release...Squeeze...Release...Squ...this is boring...NEEDLE!...OWW...OK...Ok...ok...Squeeze...Release...Squeeze... Release...Squeeze... this hurts a lot more when I feel the needle digging in my arm every time I squeeze...Release...or is it squeeze?...oooh...who needs a ball...oooh...the world is kind of fuzzy like Lucille Ball's later movies when the entire thing was shot in soft focus...hmmm...why are there names on the back of those people's jackets?...Why is that man snoring?...Whoa...Why is my arm twitching? I didn't ask it to do that...Why is that person nervously looking at my blood bag and trying to quickly finish up with someone else?...Why am I so thirsty?...Why am I so nauseous?...Oh, no...

Before I know it I am covered in freezing cold paper towels and am coughing into a paper bag. These home remedies seem as silly and antiquated as when they used leeches to cure "unnatural desires" in women. But the bag did it's job and unlike using leeches I didn't have to lose any blo...wait a minute...nevermind.

Almost fainting is embarrassing. But almost fainting, then being watched over like a hawk, then trying to prove you can get up and almost fainting again is more embarrassing.There's nothing like a middle-aged woman who barely speaks English force-feeding you orange juice and cookies to make you feel like a moron. It was almost half an hour before my water, my purple-bandaged arm and my saucy "it's my first time' button shakily made it to a safe, cool place where I could sit and play solitaire on my phone until I had to start my shift.


A Quick Note:
Here's a couple Dos and Don'ts when dealing with the blood deprived
1. DO be aware of weakness/dizziness in someone who has just given up a significant amount of blood. DON'T let everyone else doing a physically demanding job go home early leaving the weakest person behind to clean up all the mess. Think about it this way; if someone cut their arm open and spilled a pint of blood on the ground, would you still ask them to do the job? If not, take it easy on them.
2. DO think about how this person has already had to battle with the nausea and discomfort of seeing a lot of blood. DON'T think it hilariously ironic when this person has to deal with used, yet unflushed tampons or napkin after napkin of blood from a bloody nose. Enough is enough! These people are just flaunting all the blood they can waste by leaving these disgusting, personal mementos where someone else can find them.
3. DO be supportive and happy for a blood donor. DON'T (please, Please. PLEASE don't) feel the need to unburden yourself as to all the various reason why you cannot give blood. Whether innocuous (feeling ill) or disgusting (crazy sexcapades/drug use), no one wants to hear it. Giving blood is not signing up as ambassador to the Red Cross. Nobody is judging you. Whether coworker or guest (yes, that happened) please just keep it to yourselves.

14-Day Challenge: Day Four

I can't say anything too terribly different has come from my vaginal yoghurt diet on this fourth day, but I have been feeling rather sporty.

I got up, lifted my mattress (I've been staying on a pallet on the floor in a comfortable nook of an apartment that is blessed to have no air-conditioning in the upcoming 105˚ F weather) and rolled it to the corner. That wasn't the end of my fitness routine! I carried my three, very heavy suitcases full of clothes and books I'm not reading around the room, made my oatmeal, and ate my fourth Activia. I was late getting up, so what better time to get a full cardio workout than when running to your car with your arms full of textbooks? Well, my legs are beat. BEAT!

All this strenuous activity (is there any correlation between the word "activity" and the yoghurt "Activia"?) left me wanting more ... So I signed up for a 5k run on October 10th. If this yoghurt doesn't fail me now, I should be rearing to go in precisely 10 days before the run takes place.

The new challenge? Finish my yoghurt and win the race. You know, I like that answer so much, I'm going to make it my new mantra: Finish my yoghurt and win the race.

14-Day Challenge: Day Three

Day three began as I awoke at the wee hour of noon on Sunday, September 20. I got up, brushed my teeth and ate my bowl of strawberries-n-cream oatmeal with my container of Activia yoghurt. I was ready to start my day.

Little did I know that although the stomach symptoms I had been experiencing seemed to vanish, they would reincarnate into verbal diarrhea. It is near the end of the day, and I haven't been able to regale anyone without several Freudian-esque bathroom-related word slips. What follows are just a few of the many shameful examples:

Ex 1) "re-crapped" instead of "recapped" : "She re-crapped the entire story to me in 30 minutes!"

Ex 2) "urine" instead of "yoghurt": Don't ask. Please.

I think for my own sanity, I shall end this day early and try once more on my trail to 14 days of yoghurt-eating tomorrow.

14-Day Challenge: Days One and Two

The Introduction:

Sure we have all scoffed at Jamie Lee Curtis as she bragged about how Activia has saved her irregular bowel movements and kept her from having a FUPA (fat upper-pussy area), but just how well does this wonder yoghurt work?

Whilst shopping at my local grocery store the other night, I walked past the dairy section (which I normally try to avoid, due to my recently-acquired intolerance for lactose (which coincidentally came around the same time as my intolerance for people wearing CROCS)), I couldn't help but notice the giant yellow labeling on the Activia yoghurts, daring me to take this so-called "14-Day Challenge". Well, I'm not the kind of guy who walks away from a duel, and I was practically slapped in the face by with a big heaping spoonful of live-culture yoghurt.

Now, the last challenge I have hurdled through would have been when I yelled at the postman for delivering mail to the wrong address. The yoghurt obviously had nothing to do with the United States Postal Service, so yelling at it got me nowhere. I had to think of a way to complete this challenge. I recently watched Julie & Julia, and though I may not have been impressed with the overall bland storyline, I figured I had learned a thing or two about publicly posting a personal challenge and/or goal that no one really cares about on a blog followed mainly by my mother (hi, Mom!).

The Challenge:

According to Mrs. Curtis, all I have to do to is eat one yoghurt a day for 14 days to gain regularity.

The Question(s):

Was I really irregular beforehand? Should I ask my Dr. about going on this crazy yoghurt binge now that my stomach can't handle dairy products? These are all valid points, but seeing as I don't have health insurance at the moment, they are also very expensive points I can't afford to have answered. We'll just see what "regular" is after 14 days. If I incur rectal bleeding, I'll be contacting your people, Jamie Lee (Ed. Note: Jamie Lee is not to be confused with Jamie Lynn, Britney Spears' younger, less crazy, but more sexually active sister.).

Day One:

I began my colloidal diet Friday, September 18. When I first opened the small container of yoghurt, the water had separated out. Not a good first look, if I do say so myself. After a few minutes of stirring with a spoon to see if the two elements would ever conjoin again, I took my first bite. It tasted like shredded, strawberry-flavored Chinese newspaper. After much consideration, I decided that, since this yoghurt was targeted mostly toward women, that they may have a different set of taste buds ... or maybe they just eat it with their vaginas. After many consultations with friends debating how women can stand to ingest such putrid-tasting gobbledy-goo, I continued eating. Nothing happened. What a gyp, I thought. I may as well try a 14-day challenge of prune juice. But no, I'm sticking with my vagina yoghurt.

Day two:

I began my morning with a little oatmeal and a peach Activia. This one seemed a bit more bearable, AND the water hadn't separated out of it. Though the taste was a little different(better?), still no real effects - until everything else I happened to put in my mouth for the day went right through me. Is this how you get rid of puffy stomachs, by not letting anything stay in your large intestine? I certainly hope being regular doesn't mean constant diarrhea.

What will happen on day three? Stay tuned and find out!

Babies and Burritos

Venturing to the Irvine Spectrum should normally be a joyous occasion of eating, blowing all of one's money on specialty stores that cater to people who find $50 bills in their sofa cushions, but this was certainly not the case, as I found out this past Monday, when I ventured to said shopping center in order to enjoy a tasty burrito from Chipotle®™.

It was only after finding a place to sit outside that a small-framed woman in her late-20's and stilettos decided to take the table next to me - and pleasantly scream as her equally-as-young husband approached, carrying their 2 year-old daughter. Correct me if I'm wrong, but shouldn't two year-olds not capable of eating a full meal not have a 12-inch-long lollipop? No matter, amidst the screaming and intermixed off-tune singing of "Lollipop, Lollipop" by Stiletto Mom, the kid didn't touch the damn thing.

I went on to bite my burrito, when suddenly the little girl (as all little kids do) began to scream and cry. Why? Who knows? It's just that simple. Heaven forbid her parents know what to do about it, though. What follows is a recount of the incident in play format (Editor's Note: The Scene is best acted out with three people. Try to mix it up by having actors of the opposite sex portray the father and the mother and with a baby pig as the little girl):

Fade In:

Mother. (Jumps up to reach for the baby) What the hell did you feed her?

Father. (Blank stare) Nothing.

Baby. Waaah!

Mother. I wish you would just be honest and tell me. (Proceeds to run from the table, across the way with the baby in arms, still screaming)

Father. (Follows suit.) She just had a bite of corn.

Mother. (Incredulously) Corn?! How could you? (Runs closer to the table, away from the husband again).

Father. (Catches up with her, takes the baby) Let me get her water.

Mother. (Grabs baby) Her mouth is burning!

Father. From corn?

Mother. (Runs away again). Pour water in her mouth!

Father. (Runs to table, comes back with water cup) Here! (Pours water, but it ends up all over the kid's face. Baby gurgles and chokes)

Mother. Do something!

Father. (Grabs baby). She needs her bottle.

Mother. (takes baby back) Go to the car! (Father runs off to car, mother continues coddling the baby, who is still bawling). There, there. There, there.

Father. (Runs up with bottle) Here! (begins feeding baby milk from her bottle)

Baby. Puke! (she spews all over the mother's face, jacket, and nearby ground. everything is very "Poltergeist")

Father. (Takes baby, runs off a ways)

Mother. (Takes off her jacket, lays it on the puke, runs up to the father and baby) Give her here!

Father. Ok (hands baby back. Mother runs into the parking lot, out of sight. Father follows suit).

Pfluger. (Looks at the left-behind jacket and turns to the table next to him, looks at the bags of brand-new clothes, the uneaten burritos, the child's jacket strewn on top, and the uneaten lollipop. Shrugs.) Huh.

20 minutes later

Pfluger. (Gets up, walks past the items still left behind, throws away his trash. Leaves.)

THE END

To this very day, I believe their left-behind articles still sit on that table at Chipotle®™ with the hope of the owners coming back to claim them.

Regrettable Movie Review - Life Size

We all know and love Tyra Banks for her ability to address problems head on and find real-life solutions for the common man. Nowhere is this more evident than in her 2000 made-for-TV-movie, LIFE SIZE, where Tyra comes to life as the peppy doll "Eve" to help a troubled Lindsay Lohan deal with the death of her mother and the absence of her father.
It seems young Lindsay has always acted out - onscreen and off- with outrageous antics like calling a teammate "wiener" instead of his actual name "Weiner" and leaving only $63 and an IOU for an expensive book of spells. Perhaps constantly taking on roles of rebellious tomboy had as much of an impact on poor Lindsay as that of her actual dead (faced) mother and absent father.
One would hope Tyra's can-do attitude combined with Lindsay's burgeoning lesbianism would create an unstoppable duo set to change (and eventually blow) the world.
Our journey begins when Casey, played by Lohan, decides to resurrect her dead mother (eeew!) and sets out using the new interweb to find a resurrection spell. Three mouse clicks later she has the name of a book and a local store that sells it. Has this ever happened in real life? Try typing "resurrection spell" into google and see how long it takes to find a book and a store nearby. See ya in three years! Even more improbable is the fact that the book clearly outlines RESURRECTION SPELL and offers it in easy to pronounce gibberish. The spell actually works which should make this authentic, user friendly spell book worth millions, even billions! If all the spells work as well as the resurrection spell, imagine the possibilities! The endless magical possibilities!!! (Insert evil laugh here) Anyway, due to a hairbrush mix-up, instead of her mother's reanimated, decaying corpse, Casey wakes up next to Tyra Banks. Enough to make any girl scream.
The new "life size" doll Eve states that it's her mission to set the perfect example for young girls everywhere. So, what is the perfect example? Well let's start by showing up in an adolescent's bed and call her a "special friend" before agreeing to move into the guest house of a widower and letting him buy an expensive new wardrobe for you. Put those womanly secretarial skills to work by dressing nicely and smiling a lot. Don't forget to make special friends with the men of the office so they can invite you to conveniently-timed office parties. Having trouble with that pesky computer thing? Don't know what a fax is or why it screams at you every time you answer the phone? Not to worry! The dowdy head assistant will be on hand to maliciously fire you. But wait, maybe this successful woman is so angry because she is unattractive. One sure fire way to fix that...a makeover. Good thing you always carry an emergency extensive make-up kit with you which you keep god-knows-where. Sure enough, all that crabby lady needed was a little lipstick and a new hairstyle. Now she loves you and has the confidence to talk to the office man-whore. When you're pretty you don't need smarts or a good personality to get a man!
But eventually Eve learns there's more to life than being really, really, ridiculously good looking like when she...how bout that one time...wait, that doesn't ever change. In fact, her big dramatic moment has her wearing a belly-baring shirt with tight pants and a bright pink cardigan. The outfit is toned down from the bright orange mess she first appeared in, but she still believes shopping is "what a girl does best".
So, young girls of America, what have we learned? Simply that makeup and smiles will solve all of life's worries and that the best way to help a young girl deal with the death of her mother is to integrate yourself into her life, seduce her father, get her to trust you and then magically turn back into a doll abandoning them again.
With a ratings system based not on actual movie quality, but on the amusement factor after a beer or two with friends, I'm gonna give this one a three out of five "crazy faces". Even alcohol can't obliterate Tyra's horrible acting, the knowledge that that little girl turns out to be a drugged out mess and the overall weak storyline. One would think the bringing together of two such personalities would be pure ridiculousness, but it ends up just being annoying and sad. For shame!




-- 5 cents gets you nuts!

Zombies On Time-Out

As I sit outside the Coffee Bean in Anaheim at 11:33 on a Friday morning, I am surprised to see the number of zombie-like people shuffling around standing in corners. (indeed, facing said corners as if on time-out) One unshaven gentleman behind creepily grumbles to himself while smoking a cigarette as another (facing an outward pointing corner) buries his face in his hands occasionally looking around to survey the small crowd. A couple with take out food sit in stony silence looking at nothing in particular. They have been like this for almost an hour.
Has the Great Zombie Plague already begun? If so, we really have little to fear except the loss of a good "standing corner".


-- 5 cents gets you nuts!

Schiller Me Timbers!

Dear California State School System,

Thank you very much for your generous furlough days that allowed for my classmates and myself to meet at 50-something-year-old man at a cheap motel for an endless supply of red wine and beer, as we discussed Friedrich Schiller's "Kabale und Liebe" without the direction of a professor.

I remember pulling into the parking lot and feeling like call girl as I entered, stumbling about the hallways looking for the correct room, but I don't remember how many glasses of wine I had. When a British Dr. from Oxford tells you to "drink up!" you don't ask any questions. Instead, you let the wine flow.

Now, I've seen Oprah's Book Club many-o-times on television, so I was prepared on how these gatherings operate, but not even Oprah could prepare me for how much alcohol I'd consume. At first, I thought the wine would make me a little less tense, since I wasn't primed on the topic (I may just have put off reading this play all together), so I had a glass. Then another. Then another. Then another. Then another. Then another. Then another. Then another. Then another. Then another.

It was only the first five minutes, and I was Lucy Ricardo doing the Vitameatavegemin shoot in a room full of Frasier Cranes (only these Frasiers weren't as ironically funny or witty as Kelsey Grammar). It comes as no surprise that German scholars aren't known for their humor (Germans, in general, aren't known for their humor), so hardly anyone was amused at my stumbling about and loud shuffling of papers, or even when I announced to our whole group that I had to use the restroom, but eventually the conference ended, and I was free to drive recklessly home.

Many people may be against these furlough foreclosures, but I say as long as there is free alcohol a-flowin', school's not worth a-goin'! Keep up the good work, California Educational System! Let's beat this budget crisis with a cocktail in both hands.

Yours Truly,

Brandon

Today: limerick style

Thinking I get looks askance
The wind makes my costume skirt dance
Embarrassment keen
Feeling obscene
Regretting forgetting my pants


-- 5 cents gets you nuts!

The Birth of a Blognation

Our first blog entry in our new joint venture. After many failed attempts at naming our blog and choosing a personalized address (we wanted "Ne'er Do Well", but it was taken by a person who "Ne'er Do Writes"), our journal was born. Whew! What a day!

The aim with this blog is to chronicle the zany escapades of Erin and Brandon (for all of you who didn't read our title). Hopefully, we will be able to hear from you with suggestions as to where to go and what to do. We happily accept suggestions like "I'd like you to go to hell!" but they had better be a lot more creative than that because the only real insult would be your lack of effort.

Regardless of whether or not someone asks us to, our lives will go on and we will continue to report the latest happenings.

In the meantime, when we are out of ideas, and you have so kindly decided not to supply us with any of your own, we may just do things, such as review horrible movies and blame you for making us watch them (think "Material Girls") or try our hands in the kitchen (because thus far, we have only tried our feet! Eh? Eh?).(Super sorry about that one, folks!)

So keep a watchful eye out for your two favorite bloggers because we may just pop up in unexpected places (or stay within Orange County - your contributions decide our fate)!

Brandon and Erin