Wherein Rob Has Tawdry Times With Baked Crackers

Once again, I am behind schedule. I even stopped studying early (well, at like 8:30) to come home and start on this so that I could go home, get this done, get some sleep, and then get up tomorrow to make it to the gym. (Before Novemblog, I was making it about 3 times a week (okay, fine, that was for like the month preceding Novemblog), but since it started? I've made it maybe 3 times total. That's even being super generous.) Then, well... I started looking at funny pictures on the Internet. Some of them were quite impressive.

This one, for example. Partly due to puppies.

But, well, then I looked at the time, and I figured that it was time to get down to business. You know, really pound this one out in a hurry so I can get up tomorrow and wander out in the cold to the gym, because who ever heard of locker rooms? Not this guy. This guy can walk. This guy can run. Well, once he gets to the gym. If he's running outside, then people for miles will be wondering, "My god, what is that jiggling mass? Is... is that attached to a man? Someone should warn him that he has some sort of red colored porous tumor coming out of his behind! Oh. It is his behind? Why didn't he make it to the gym? How could he let himself go like that? I would blame his parents, but no parent would want such a fate for their child. My god. It's- it's so hypnotic. I just can't stop staring at it, even though I should be keeping my eyes on the roa-," and that, kids, is why South Carolina doesn't have a problem procuring organ donations.

That ass. Which ass is it? Well, you decide, America.

So, yeah. It's time to write. But Rob is also incredibly hungry. Well, not starvingly so, but just enough to make it quite naggingly inconvenient. As such, siiiigh, I'd better feed that ass, because otherwise I'm going to feel all kinds of weird when I work out tomorrow (since that's totally happening and there's no conceivable way that I might sleep through the alarum bell).

Well, it took some deliberation, some swallowing of guilt, and an all-out brawl between Id and Super-Ego (Super-Id was the referee, and Id came out on top, despite a last minute tag-in of Ego. It was truly a fight for the ages), a decision was reached. And since Rob can be just the worst at pairings, we're looking at a mug of cocoa/hot chocolate (neither one is a particularly appealing name, so take your pick) and a plate of Cheez-Its. Not just any Cheez-Its, though- we're talking Sharp Cheddar AND Parmasean in a mix box, so the little cheese dust starts to intermingle betwixt the two. It's quite delicious. And warm, which is important, given that I'm typing this up from the safety of my own room. I figure I can count on no small animals or snakes trying to live here during the winter. If they did, though, we'd be looking at some straight up Milo and Otis shit. Well, maybe we'd do it without the ambiguously depressing ending.

Thanks for ruining childhood memories, brain.

Well, okay. I take that back. Apparently, because I have not seen Milo and Otis in a very long time, I had forgotten that, no, the ending is apparently not all that depressing and is in fact quite happy (if you ignore the fact that Otis is fighting against BEARS (but he wins, of course, because he's awesome. There's probably some sort of political allegory about Japan and the rest of the world that could ruin things all over again, just like the allegations of animal cruelty in the making of the movie, which is why we're just going to put an end to that train of thought right now with another adorable picture).

I can always feel a "DAWWW" coming on in the eyebrows.

Don't even act like you don't think that's cute. I don't care what your opinion is of pugs or of cats. This picture has an adorably fuzzy dog and an adorably inquisitive cat looking at an egg. An egg! Dogs and cats don't lay eggs. (Then again, this IS a Japanese movie we're talking about. Also, these Cheez-Its are like a more mature version of my old high school's sweet potatoes. If memory serves, the phrase I used was, "It's like Heaven's hot older sister making sweet love to your taste buds." Seriously. Those things and the wings. They were delicious. I never understood what people had against cafeteria food. It was delicious, and if Doctor Who is to be believed, includes oils that will make you much smarter.)

Possibly involving this guy, who can't possibly be evil, because he's Giles. And a headmaster. You know, like Dumbledore, who we all know was just the paragon of goodness and openness and smart decisions.

Seriously, guys. These Cheez Its. I remember a party wherein I was having some beverages with White Cheddar Cheez Its. I enjoyed them SO thoroughly (that's right, stealth pun and/or bilingual bonus) that they were just going all over the place. I think some went on a dear friend of mine and the young man on whom she was hitting. It didn't work out, and I sometimes wonder if the allure of those White Cheddar Cheez Its as they seductively sprayed from my distended mouth (because, see, I was eating so many of them BECAUSE THEY ARE FRIGGIN DELICIOUS GUYS) wasn't to blame for the end of that relationship. Hey, I said I couldn't talk about MY exes. Other people's are fair game.

And now there are no more Cheez Its. I am reminded of what that one guy (it was me, okay, I admit it) said at Epcot upon buying a Guinness. "The only thing that can put a damper on my spirits is that at some point I will no longer have any Guinness." Truer words were never spoken. Thankfully, they also apply to Cheez Its, Americone Dream (the Stephen Colbert flavor from Ben and Jerry's. From Ben and Jerry? I don't know. I DON'T KNOW.), and a Walt Disney World Vacation (FULL CIRCLE).

That fanny pack was extremely useful, I'll have you know. It's hard to carry all those pamphlets in just pockets. Later that day, I would learn the infamous Get Warm Dance, and the dancing world was never safe again.

There's surely a moral in there somewhere, and it's probably not a good one. I mean, I guess, "Enjoy a lot of material things and then be sad that they're gone because you can't have them any more," is a better moral than, "Take candy from strangers in windowless vans. It's even got a sweet painting of a dragon on the side. Who doesn't like dragons? Not you. Besides, candy! Maybe he's even got a Twix. You know how much you love Twix. You couldn't eat them for a long time because of the braces and you wanting to follow the rules so they didn't break, but didn't you just want a Twix so badly? Then remember when you were living on your own and money was super tight, but you bought a box of like 8 of the Twix packages? And then you'd stave off eating one for as long as possible, but when you did, it was just SO GOOD. I think there was even some pelvic thrusting involved, and heaven knows you told that one friend you supposedly met that one time but now only really talk to a little bit on Facebook, anyway you know the one, but you told her about how good it was. You remember all that and how good those Twixes were? And now there's a free one right in front of you! There might even be a whole box of them in it for you!" Well, it's certainly shorter. Still, I don't think it's quite up there with, "Hey, man, you shouldn't call that girl ugly, because she might be really hot later in life, and how could you hope to have a chance with her at that point?" Well, the spirit of that one is what's important, I guess. Maybe not the actual content. Who writes these morals, anyway?

Because that's who you want writing about morals. Also, um, sorry, ladies, for posting this without your express permission. Knowing how pictures have been working on here, this probably won't show up anyway.

Also, if wordcounter.net is to be believed, I have somehow surpassed 2000 words tonight. Now, I can either stop writing like a bum and wash some dishes and crash, or I can give you a satisfying conclusion.

The original Goofus.

Hahaha, just kidding. See, wordcounter.net is in fact to be believed, but what with my loose morals and my astonishingly fatter face (well, maybe it's just the hairstyle), I managed to copy and paste the whole first part of this post over again. I knew there was a reason I didn't trust that 2510 word count. It made no sense. I mean, it's not THAT bad- I'm still in the mid-1400s, so I guess I'll have to meet Joan of Arc, get on the good side of the Inquisition AND the House of Lancaster, and hop on the boat to America so I can wait about 600 years to get back here and CONTINUE THIS VERY POST. Thankfully, I don't have too much to worry about in terms of the plague, so that's a bonus. Plus, Joan of Arc. Me-ow. And of course, everyone knows that nothing important was happening east of France or in the Southern or Western hemispheres until the Europeans civilized those places. It's quite a burden. But you don't have to take my word for it.

"You do, however, have to take mine."

Freud vs. Wells

Hey, gang, take a knee.

I am certain that I will get to a riveting post (or at least the riveting portion of this post) soon enough this evening. However, before I do so, I have some... disturbing news for you. But, hey, I don't want to give it all away right off the bat. Here, just take a look at this picture. WARNING: THIS PICTURE MAY SHOCK YOU.

NOT A GRAPH!

 Now, I'm assuming most of you can handle a line graph like that. For those of you that can't, I will do my best to explain with minimal snark. The y-axis (the line going up and down) indicates page views of my blog (which I assume you are reading right now, given that you're reading this sentence). The x-axis (the one going left to right) indicates the time at which these page views occurred.

Now, clearly there have been a lot of views in November (or, rather, Novemblog), because I've been doing a post a day for the last twenty-five days now. That's as many as five fives! And that's terrible. I've also accumulated a goodly few more readers of this blog, and that's always pretty groovy. But we're not looking at November right now. See, when was my first post? If you're looking at the graph, you might think, well obviously it was late November or early December 2009. You know what I was doing in late November or early December 2009?

Right after I asked a question, too. Skills with a z.

"Well, okay, Rob. You were a terrible student who made terrible decisions. We knew this. Why is this disturbing?"

Wh- Bu- No. No, you are quite incorrect. I was a good student who made well-reasoned decisions. I was doing a chemistry major and a French minor. I wanted to have more time for research in the spring semester, so I took five classes rather than the usual four to finish up my minor and core requirements. Yes, this meant that I pulled a bunch of all-nighters (especially with my attempt to apply to MD/PhD programs then). It was the right decision, and how DARE you judge me for making that choice. I mean, what the fuck? (OH NO ROB MADE A SWEAR. OH LORD HAVE MERCY IT'S A SWEAR. NOBODY HAS TIME FOR THAT.) Here you are, just chilling out in my subconscious, and I give you a chance to make it into the blog. Do you know how many parts of my subconscious don't even get that chance? There's Libido, Teen Angst, Family Issues, and, of course, Super-Id. I gave you a shot to make it onto the page, and you just blew it. What makes you think you're better than Super-Id? Super-Id is a saint and is STILL more fun than you. We went out drinking just the other night. Where were you? "Oh, hurdy gurdy, I'm the dick Neuroses part of your subconscious, and I'm going to stay at home and think of witty retorts to you whenever you leave me an opening to make myself seem better than you." Shut the fuck up. Get out of here, because nobody likes you, and you smell.

Well, um. I wouldn't want to be a part of any club that would have you as a member, Rob, because you have minimal social skills with women. Take that.

 And based on that caption, you also are incapable of ad libbing. Get out of here, because nobody wants you here, and I think it's high time we move on from this argument with you. You're not worth it.

Anyway. Yes. The reason for that information being disturbing. Well, go to the nice little set of options on the right. Yeah, the one with the months in French and the years and the whatnot. Go on ahead and find the earliest post.

Okay, or I can just post it here for you. Ta freaking da. Rackum frackum can't even find the first entry rackum frackum.

Now, take a look at the date of that post. Why, it's around Christmas, so December. Of 2010.

This- I- Wha- ILLOGICAL. IT'S ALL ILLOGICAL.

So, what could be going on here?

Well, the obvious response is time travel (because setting computer calendars to different dates is utterly impossible. Plus, you would think that the servers would have clocks that would have the right year). BUT WHO?

Well, obviously. And no.

Okay, so future people and/or aliens are looking at my blog. But to what purpose? Let's take a peek at some of the potential options out there.

1.) I am William S. Preston, Esq. AND Theodore Logan.

Quiet, Ted half.

For those of you that don't understand this reference, there were some movies (and comics, and a TV show) about Bill and Ted and their various adventures. See, because they formed a band called Wyld Stallyns, they were able to create music that brought a new era of peace and enlightenment to the world. To prevent history from preventing itself from occurring (and now I'm all cross-eyed), the future sends George Carlin to give them a time machine (and seven dirty words, I suppose) so they can do their history homework. It's... surprisingly good.

Anyway, this theory would maintain that I do something SO awesome that time travelers are keeping tabs on me, but not SO awesome that I get a time machine of my own (just yet). But when I do, oh HO, you'd better watch out, Rosalind Franklin, because I'm buying you a few drinks, you underappreciated minx.

You can interpret MY crystal structure utilizing space groups. Rawr.

However, the problem here is that there's really no reason to avoid giving me that time machine right now. Heck, if I know what they need me to do in the future, then I can make plans to make that happen. I have little doubt that I'm better equipped for the task than Alex Winters and Keanu Reeves (with all due respect to Keanu- he seems like he could use a nice break. You seem like a good guy, Keanu, and you've done some pretty good movies. You can come with me on a time traveling adventure).

2.) I am John Connor (or Sarah Connor)

Okay, if you aren't at least passingly familiar with the Terminator franchise, I can't do much to help you here. You're pretty much on your own. Basically, machines go back to kill this one guy at various points (i.e., pre-conception/in utero, as an annoying teenaged skateboarder hacker, and as Nick Stahl).

Robert Patrick is disappointed in your lack of knowledge.

So, apparently, I save the future somehow? Or I'm a direct ancestor to said savior, and taking me out of the picture will cause minimal damage to the likelihood of emergence of the parties that said savior opposes? Well, regardless-in our case, I guess that Skynet really has shoddy access to records? Or that the records can be transported through time? Either way, this means that there's a killer robot on the loose. I guess I'll have to stick around dogs (because they can sense that business, because they're dogs. No word on cats. Cats probably know but want to see you fight it out for their amusement.), and maybe I'll have to find whatever human/android/cyborg they've sent back to protect me. I mean, they WOULD send someone back to protect me, right? Right?

Welp. I'm thoroughly screwed.

Ahem. Well. THANK GOODNESS I TOOK THAT TRIP TO JAPAN AND LEFT ALL THOSE GENETIC SAMPLES NEAR FUKUSHIMA. IT WOULD CERTAINLY BE A SHAME IF ANY TIME-TRAVELING ENTITIES (MECHANICAL OR OTHERWISE) WERE TO SEND WAVE AFTER WAVE OF FORCES IN THERE ON MARCH 11, 2011, TO RETRIEVE AND/OR DESTROY SAID GENETIC MATERIAL. THEN ALL HOPE WOULD BE LOST.

(Let's hope their records are REALLY bad.)

3.) I'm the next Rory Williams/Amy Pond/Donna Noble/Martha Jones/(sigh) Rose Tyler/Sarah Jane Smith/Captain Jack Harkness

Or, you know, save lives. Like I'll be doing. No big deal, though.

Or whatever other Companion you happen to like. And no, I'm not talking about Inara.

Although... On the other hand, let's talk about Inara.

No, we're talking about The Doctor, so you'll just have to wait your turn. I'm not sure if this would mean that The Doctor is coming to find me based on this blog, or if Future-Rob (possibly without facial hair but WITH a badass scar or cybernetic hand) is traveling with The Doctor and mentioned this blog, which in turn tickled The Doctor's fancy. I'm not entirely sure as to why, but hey, who's to argue with the TARDIS?

Yes, this was all just an excuse to post pictures of pretty ladies in nerd culture. Problems?

And, yeah, I suppose you shouldn't argue with The Doctor either. But, again, this only raises the question of why The Doctor would want to read my blog, because I mean, really. There are more important things for The Doctor to do, unless (okay, screw it- there hasn't been a female Doctor yet, so I'm going to start using some gendered pronouns. PROVE ME WRONG, BBC) he decided that it WAS the most important thing for him to do, in which case- why? Fish fingers and custard?

Of course. What's wrong with fish fingers and custard?

Of course, by posting this, any associated parties that ARE watching me from December 2009 will either a.) make their move and we'll figure things out, b.) move to some point of observation after December 23, 2011, or c.) stop observing altogether. Choice c is unlikely for theory 2, and honestly, if 1 and 3 are really in play, they're unlikely to go with c either. As for choice b, the only one where that really makes sense is theory 2, because Skynet doesn't need me to know that they're coming. BECAUSE I TOTALLY DON'T, SKYNET. I WAS JUST NOTING THAT IT IS TRUE THAT THERE ARE NO GIRLS ON THE INTERNET AND IT IS TRUE THAT ALL FAN FICTION WRITERS ARE GIRLS. FAN FICTION IS POSTED ON THE INTERNET.

Meanwhile, choice a makes sense with all three theories, because if Skynet decides to make a move, it will want to do so even more once I've said something about knowledge of its plans. In theory 1, the future guys will want to make sure that I don't screw things up by indicating any more foreknowledge of their society. In theory 3, well, The Doctor does like clever people. Maybe this makes me look clever?

Well, George Carlin. Skynet. Doctor. I'm going to bed now. May the best time traveler win.

He ahlreadeh deed.

My back is itching like so much itching powder has been poured upon it. It is like a thousand mosquitoes have descended upon it, and they are just feasting upon the blood in the vessels on my back. It's like Horace Greeley just mentioned the possibility of heading to the West, and I am feeling young. I almost just broke my poetry vow, but it wouldn't be mine (it's a Housman, and it is gloriously macabre).

Basically, Washington sucks, so go to the West. I suppose Charleston and Charlotte are west of Washington, so advice noted.

Also, it is chilly in Davidson, but I will be returning to my dear most recent home tomorrow, and it shall be wonderful. I am also probably typing quite loudly and annoying my sister who is sleeping in the next room. Revenge, clearly, is mine, and given the temperature of the night, has been served cold. I'm not entirely sure what the revenge is for, but I'm sure there's something. given the usual older sister/younger brother dynamics.

Well, maybe it wasn't that bad after all. Sorry about the loud typing.

Meanwhile, I'm being told to just type and type and hope that I can come up with something, even though last night was an exceptionally rambling post. THESE MESSAGES ARE NOT COMPATIBLE WITH ONE ANOTHER. Meanwhile, I should probably keep writing in the hopes of inspiration striking. Ha HA! I doubt it.

Well, the continuation in writing was ineffective, mostly because I wasn't exactly writing (although I did see several bugs that turned out to be pieces of lint. I do not currently have my contact lenses on. They could actually be pieces of lint, OR they could be Weeping Angels. I prefer my theory.), but hopefully that will be ending presently. I finally received a solid indirect topic suggestion, which is namely, dating.

So, what do I think about dating? It sucks. It has sucked for quite some time. Yes, you have people who somehow do it well. They constantly meet groovy people and then get out of bad relationships before they're actually bad (but with enough reason to avoid looking like an ass).

There are at least 5 signs in this very picture. Try to find them all.

These people have found some sort of Holy Grail, and they are incredible assholes because they are refusing to share any of the Graily goodness that lies within. I mean, good for them, but I will shiv them the first chance I get JUST in case they have that grail on them. Sure, maybe I'm taking this metaphor a little hard, but what if I'm not? What if there IS a sweet dating grail out there? Wouldn't you want a piece of that action? Of course you would. Once again, Rob for Dictator for Life: He'll Find You The Dating Grail.



First stop: All well lit caves.

But okay, let's look at the biggest pet peeve in terms of dating advice. "Blah blah don't come up to women with a line, just introduce yourself and strike up a conversation blah blah." In theory, this makes perfect sense. Most pickup lines are derivative and cliché, and they are certainly immediate red flags. But let's flip this.

You're in a bar. You're out with some friends, just having a nice beer. Suddenly, this person comes up next to you and says, "Hi there. I'm Thus and Such. How are you doing?" What do you do?

We've been over this. Shoot. The. Hostage.

Well, you probably politely say something like, "I'm doing fine. How are you?" and hope the conversation ends. You probably even give terse answers to help it along. Worst case, you ignore the approacher, and you go about your evening.

See, there's the problem. You're out with your friends. Do you really want someone to come up and interrupt you while you're with your friends? You came out with them for a reason. You probably aren't looking to meet anyone. Meanwhile, this person has come up to you, tried to start a conversation, and they get stonewalled.

Named for Thomas "Stonewall" Jackson, who once famously turned down over fifty attempts at flirtation.

Well, let's say that this person brings a drink. That means it's story time. Let's travel back to a while ago, when I was out with two friends (let's say Zelda and Chantal)...



Wrong ones, but I like your style.

Now, we're out at a bar, because Zelda wanted to grab some drinks. Zelda gets approached by a young pup named (I shit you not) Colt. Colt even brought a drink along, and he claimed that it was an extra that the bartender gave him accidentally. Colt offers it to Zelda and strikes up a conversation.

Well, a few minutes later, Zelda is mouthing, "Help." Well, dang. Chantal switches places with Zelda, and we quasi-canoodle for a bit as Chantal (erroneously) claims that Zelda and I are dating. No hard feelings, Colt. That's just the way the cookie crumbles.

Now, where were Colt's problems?

1.) His name is Colt. Not his fault, but he could go by any number of other names. Surely his middle name isn't that bad, and even if it is, other nicknames are available. But Colt? Are you a pistol or a 40? Neither one of these is something that seems like a good thing in a first introduction.

2.) He brought a drink from the bar. Now, Colt didn't seem like a bad guy to me (name aside). He seemed like a nice enough college boy. That said, we don't know where that beer's been. He just approached us. We didn't see the drink get poured. Zelda didn't drink any because she was afraid it had been drugged.

3.) Well, he approached a girl who was in conversation with friends. Didn't he read the first part of this? What is this, amateur hour?

Now, yes, you could buy a young lady/gentleman a drink AT the bar, but that requires starting up enough of a conversation to make it not entirely creepy that you're offering to do so. Even once you've bought the drink, he/she can just as easily make an escape, and then you can feel good about yourself, because you're quite the philanthropist.

Or philcanipist? Don't buy dogs drinks. They shouldn't be driving home anyway.

Sometimes you might luck out and catch someone in line, and a conversation might even develop. I've had one incredibly awkward one, and if she didn't know what arrestin did before, well, boy howdy, she sure does now. It's a shame that she had to go take that call from her dying grandmother (even though I couldn't hear the phone ring)- I was just about to get to the part where they start internalizing guanine nucleotide-binding protein coupled receptors and the potential translational applications that the study thereof may provide. But she promised she'd meet me later and we'd talk about it. I'm not sure where and when we're supposed to meet, but she promised, so it's totally happening. Of course, that assumes that you can find someone who's weak enough in their pack of friends that you can approach them, start a conversation, and garner enough interest to keep them intrigued even if they go sit down with their friends.

HI I'M ROBBIE CAMPBELL I STUDY MEDICINE CAN I BUY YOU A DRINK

"Well, OBVIOUSLY, Rob," you might well say. "Bars are an antiquated and inefficient means of meeting people. They go in friend groups and it can be hard to break into the conversation. Do you take us for buffoons? Everyone knows that to meet people, you go to the ____." Ah. Thank you. I forgot all about the ____. Clearly, I have much to learn from you. I would never have thought to try to approach people in the ____. There is really no doubt that the _____ is the greatest place to meet new people, and I will recommend it to all those what read THIS VERY BLOG.

But while I've got you here, let me ask you a few questions.


This can only end well.

When you go to ____, how do you know that the person wants to be approached? I mean, at a bar, you don't know either, but they're at least putting themselves in a social situation that is commonly accepted as a place in which one might meet like-minded persons of the opposite or same sex in which to engage in certain like-minded activities.

Like sultry card games.

Oh, you're using "signals." Now, I'll be the first to admit that I'm self-deprecating when it comes to signals. I'm downright oblivious in terms of flirtation. But sometimes if he/she is looking at you, they're just wondering why this creepy person is staring at them? Is it a staring contest they want? Well, then a staring contest they shall have.

They are staring contest champions, LADIES.

Well, what about friends? Or friends of friends? Or iterations thereof that I cannot even fathom? Let's say something starts up. Things are great. And then, well, something happens. She clips her nails into your toilet, and you are very particular about what goes into the toilet and by gum, it's your toilet, so it's your rules. Now, amongst all your friends, forever and ever, you are known as the guy who is super anal retentive and creepy about nail clipping. I mean, is this some sort of weird fetish? And then, well, say goodbye to those friends.

Now, don't get me wrong. We seem to be at a point where you have to make your own opportunities as best you can, but do you really want to take that kind of risk? Sometimes, you manage to strike up a conversation with a nice person that you randomly meet, and that develops into a few dates, and suddenly you're deeply, deeply, for reals this time, truly in love (or you would be, if only she didn't trim her nails into the toilet. That is just unsanitary and is asking for a clogged septic tank, which will lead to all sorts of infections in your two boys and a girl. How inconsiderate). Nine times out of ten, you'll probably be left with a feeling of soul-crushing anxiety about what you could have done to screw things up.

Please don't be the nail-clipping again. I just got new friends.

Like I said, dating sucks. That's why you should get out now. I mean, thank heavens you have someone like me to take on this burden and tell you the right way to do things. You're lucky to have me as a friend. I'll keep an eye out for the bad ones, and if they have any nail clippers, I'll be sure to let them know that you were wondering where they clip their nails. I mean, what are true, totally for real, not trying to turn you off of this thing to get rid of competition, friends for?

Annoying the family

Yes, I'm half-heartedly and haphazardly writing this while I sit with my aunt and sister and watch an episode of Buffy. Say hi Martha and Susan! They didn't say anything of course, because we're supposed to be watching Buffy. Yes, it's okay for guys to watch Buffy. It has Alyson Hannigan, and Sarah Michelle Gellar, and Alyson Hannigan, and Anthony Stewart Head, and Alyson Hannigan, and Alyson Hannigan, and also Alyson Hannigan. If not for Alexis Denisof, she would be mine. In fact, if both are okay with it, she still can be. So, Alyson. Alexis. What do you think? I will refrain from further metaphors, because there are ladies reading this (and not the LADIES type to which I constantly refer, although some of them are around reading, and to them, may I say, "Well hello, LADIES."), and I would hate to offend a lady. I also have a text message that is eagerly awaiting my attention. A text message that may possibly be from a lady, so I shall attend to that, and we'll meet back here shortly for a debriefing. Aaaand break.

It was from a lady. I should tell her that she's being discussed AS WE SPEAK (well, as I write and not as you read, because this isn't some sort of live blogcast or some such). Oh, and Xander has the funny syphilis now. And all the other funny STIs, which autocorrects to "Stud." Oh, the delicious wordplay in autocorrect.

Oh Anthony Stewart Head. You are just the dreamiest, what with your library and your other British qualities, like being on that episode of Doctor Who and the whole Merlin thing.

Plus, the episode is topical, except for Riley's hair, because it's a Thanksgiving episode and middle parts are not a valid hairstyle (unless we're talking about preteen Rob, because he could totally ROCK that hairstyle and there's not a damned thing you can do about it).

On a less nineties TV show related note, I stiffed you two hundred words last night. That's ab unfortunate consequence of this whole "hey, Rob is going to be all hip and tends down at the sock hop by clogging on his phone with the tiny keyboard. And with the autocorrect that tried to turn blogging into clogging. Well, either that or he hit a c instead of a b, which is easy given the tiny size of this keyboard and the stubbiness of Rob's thumbs" thing. Clearly I need to use shorter words to up my word count per line. I'll do better next time, or, you know, you can deduct it from one of my previous posts that hit eighteen hundred something words. But hey, we'll see what we can do here. We need like three hundred lines in order to hit this word count. and how many do we have AT THIS VERY MOMENT? SEVENTY NINE, which would almost make for a very funny and juvenile joke.

Well, seventy nine (now eighty-twoish lines of text), and I haven't exactly gotten to any overarching theme or plot or thesis here, now have I? I blame the public school system for making me the successful student and ridiculous writer that I am today. And for the funny ideas about Scientology. (A bit of backstory. See, in my AP US History (APUSH, for short) class, there was the odd chapter on culture and the like in our inimitable textbook, The American Pageant. On the one regarding the denominations that arose in the mid-to-late 1900s, they talked about The Church Of Jesus Christ, Scientist (which is an AWESOME name for a religion. Honestly, a very deceptively awesome name, given their views on medical care). During their brief discussion of Church of Jesus Christ, SCIENTIST, they said that in contemporary times, they became known as the Church of Scientology. It wasn't until sometime in college that I realized that this was not even remotely the case.)

But enough about the whole "Rob's textbooks were of minimal quality and just a riveting experience. Tell me more of these tales of wacky misunderstandings, because they are just cracking me up and are in no way boring" tales. Oh man. There are just so many lines to go, and I have got nothing. There were wonderful sandwiches earlier today (and they proved most of my sandwich theories to be correct to an n of one), and there was walking. Riveting, right? Nothing but the most charmed of lives this Thanksgiving. Heck, I even got to look at pictures of skin diseases and genital warts! Be still my heart! This is just the best vacation ever.

In other news, Rob id eagerly awaiting the end of Step 1 (or at least the dermatology, pediatric, and reproductive block). Yes, that should have been is, and all of that should be in quotes, but we've established my problems with this keyboard and authority.

Also, why was the Initiative in a frat house? Dr. Walsh had to walk through a frat house where one of her teaching assistants lives? That is just in no way sketchy. Of course, I have my doubts that most of this audience gets what even just happened, so we'll move on, shall we? Good. Great. Splendid. Wonderful. They called my wonderful. So I said wonderful- if you insist.

I could accept that I am basically just going to keep typing about random things, but does that seem right to you? I thought it night, which id AT&T I have all these typos. Well, we already know the real reason why. I suppose that I almost made some variety of idle threat, which would be downright unacceptable, just like ny use of these long words that are taking up lines without adding enough words. And I call that sloth. Because there are one, two, three, four, five, six pockets on a table, six pockets on a table that separate a gentleman from a bum! And who wants.to be a bum anyway? I mean, having one seems to work out great for J. Lo and Christina Hendricks. So I guess it's just a great big wash.

Man, it sure would be nice to have some pictures around now. Maybe get some caption action in here, throw in some pictures of maybe cats, and then say something like, "OH HEY THIS ONE TIME, THIS.CAT TODAY, IT LIKE TOTALLY RAN UP TO THE WINDOW AND WAS TRYING TO ATTACK A MOTH. I MEAN, WHAT IS IT THINKING? IT CAN'T PASS THROUGH GLASS. IT'S NOT SHADOWCAT- IT JUST THE REGULAR TYPE! SILLY CAT THAT DOESN'T REALLY LET ME PET IT WHICH IS PROBABLY GOOD SINCE I'M ALLERGIC, BUT I'M STILL A BIT OFFENDED." Yeah. That sounds like something I would say after a picture of a cat with an appropriate caption. I'll bet you can just imagine it now. There would be a cat, and it'd have some sort of funny face or hat, and you would say something about how cats sleep too much to br grumpy and really have no calendar to our knowledge, so how can they hate Mondays? And why is it wearing a lime for a hat? That is not the proper use of a lime, and a cat doesn't even need a hat, when you think about it. There are just some highly problematic themes in these sundry pictures of cats. And that's trouble. Oooh you've got terrible, terrible trouble.

So, yeah. Our cdbytal. No. CENTRAL. Theme for tonight seems to be the shortcomings of this app. (Also cats are now bathing each other and it is just super adorable.) I mean, it is certainly a handy app if you're on the go and find something worthy of a photo and feel an urgently burning need to blog about it (in which case you should probably get that looked at by a medical professional. Or, if you're feeling all active voicey and want your prepositions all in a row, I suppose you would want to have a medical professional take a look at that. We are not savages, after all.)

So it can be a great app for those sorts of, well, applications, but if you're trying to do something with lots of wacky pictures from around the Internet, or if you're trying to write around two thousand words about what really amounts to nothing (like so much Seinfeld), then it can be a bit on the problematic side of things. I mean, isn't blogger somehow affiliated with Google? Couldn't they bundle in a Google Images sort of thing so you could search for and upload a picture without having to go over ti Browser, search the image, find the image, copy the image, come BACK to Blogger, paste the image, find your train of thought again, and then write a witty yet relevant caption and resize the image. That seems like way too many steps, and I take dozens of steps just to.make.my mac and cheese (which is absolutely delicious by the way. I am also convinced that if I die of a heart attack, it will be due to that mac and cheese), so I know a thing or two about excessive numbers of steps. I will also point out for my.own simplification that we're around two hundred and forty five lines, so we are getting closer (but not nearly close enough ahurrrr see what I did there? I used a cliché. This takes training that I don't have. Clearly I am some sort of clogging prodigy here), and it should be much simpler for me to count up the lines and make erroneous claims about the average number of words per line. If only there were some sort of word counter function on this app (or inside the app. IN SIDE THE APP. WHICH IS IN SIDE THE PHONE. Break it open.). Make it happen, you various teams pf smart phone application scientists. Obey my whims as commands from your apparently clogging god. Bwaha. I would add more has, but it would still be just one word. Rest assured, it is a maniacal one word. I wouldn't dream if skimping kn the mania in a laugh like that. You've got to have standards in what you do, see. Well, maybe not in the content if the blog sometimes, but we'll just nod and smile and act like you're enjoying reading this. Hopefully I'll be able to come up with a better topic tomorrow (along with some sweet pictures, because let's face it, looking at my dulcet voice just doesn't cut it on its own. Like so much Will Ferrell, it relies on a strong supporting cast of topics and vaguely amusing pictures to properly weave a Novemblog), because I will once again have wireless, so I'll be able to use my laptop and just crush the posts like... well, some sort of foodstuff that is easily crushed. Potato chips? I prefer to eat those in a manner most sparkle, but I suppose I could.crush one in anger or triumph, just to mix things up. Of course, I could also just have a decent idea of what I wanted to talk about, just for old times' sake.

Anyway, tomorrow we hopefully return to not using the phone to blog, and on Sunday we can move back to the desktop in my dark, cold.little room, far, far away from the judging stares that lie in wait outside the apartment. I mean, once the outside world has easy access to Netflix, maybe we'll be onto something. I am now getting a strange feeling that I underestimated my number of lines, so I am going to assume that I hit 300 and met my quota, so I'ma peace out. Chuck town, fo' life.

Farenheit Four Fifty What?

Ladies and gentlemen, we are in the future, and it is a dark future indeed. Yes, dear readers, we are in a future that is going to cause just SO many typos. I'm afraid it is going to be quite terrifying, and you may believe that I have had some sort of stroke to the language centers of mu brain. See? Tgat's hopefully the first (abc second and now third) of the night. The first (and second and third)of of many, I'm certain.

You see, today, steps have been taken. Several steps, some of which are of minimal importance, but one of which is just so important. I can only speculate as to what the global consequences of such an action might be, but I'm anticipating hurricanes, fire and brimstone coning down from the skies, rivers and seas boiling, forty years of darkness, cats and dogs.lying down together, mass hysteria.

The first of these changes is the I locked my phone the heck DOWN. A year and a half after I got mu phone, I finally threw a password on it beyond "Swipe your finger to the right. Wait, the touchscreen isn't registering it right now. Turn it off and back on. Swipe the finger to the right. Repeat as needed." And no, you can't know what it is. I barely know what it is, because it's just so long. Rest assured, though, it is quite clever.

The other, potentially more important change (and the reason for all these freaking typos) is that I found the Blogger app for my phone and have duly installed it. Now, there are two distinct disadvantages to this course I'd action (that's supposed to be an of, but whatever. Also, we're talking disadvantages to you, my dear audience (all 5 of you, although apparently there are a bunch of you in the UK and Germany now. Fancy that. Also, if you're German and just learning English, please don't take these posts as paragons of proper spelling and vocabulary. But DO take them as the Pinnacle of humor, and apparently my phone spells Pinnacle with a capital P which standard for pool.) and not the disadvantage to me of having no excuse to not post whenever I have any sort of phone signal.). The first is that, due to the fact that I'm writing on a phone with my thumbs while my wrists are in a relatively uncomfortable position, there are typos a-plenty. Well, okay- UNINTENTIONAL typos a-plenty (bur not the lesser known cht unnaturally delicious typos polenta). I have faith in your abilities to read these posts with a mind to what little context I provide and come up with your own unique but invariably correct assessments of the situation at hand (WOCKA WOCKA). Besides, the typos are really my fault, because I'm a.) The one making them with my stubby and clumsy thumbs, and b.) I'm bot going back ti meticulously correct the typos. ALL THE TYPOS. "Well, okay, Rob, you handsome angel-faced devil, you. You've got me convinced of that one. But what could the other disadvantage possibly be?"

Well, that's really more a matter of functionality (which, if I had my way, would really be a matter of FUNKtionality, because who doesn't want a world with a little more funk? Fascists, that's who. We beat them once, and by gar, we'll do it again if we have to. But, oh shoot, I'm rambling again. I suppose you've cone to expect this from my meandering mind/my obsession with hitting the proper number of words. I'm fairly certain that I'm over 250 at this point, but it's hard to say. Heck, that's even one I'd the disadvantages. But I didn't tell you that. Nope. Ain't nobody here but us parentheses.). See, you may have taken note I'd my lack of funny yet cibtextuallu appropriate (that should say cintextyally. Cintextuallu. CONTEXTUALLY. Just look at your keyboard and then look at my  thumbs. All will become clear.) pictures and witty captions. Well, it is very possible to add pictures to these posts with this app. Ir even seems reasonably user-friendly. However, it DOES seek like it would take a fair bit of time to find an image from the internet to add in here. I think I'd have to save it to my phone, then go to add the picture, and then find the file in my phone. Given the massive turkey headache that I'm rocking right now, that is just way too much work.

The other big disadvantage (beyond the time it takes to write it) is that I have no readily available means to get a word count on this business. I could be at 20 words, I could be at 2000, and I have absolutely no idea. As such, the posts for today and tomorrow might be a bit shorter, as I have no Widow, which should say wifi, you stupid autocorrect software. Without this wifi, I can't use my laptop to get on the internet, and that's a but of a hindrance. What, I'm supposed to use this more portable bit of hardware to write this blog? Are toy insane? But seriously, I don't want to spend hours writing an amazing post on my laptop (possibly about sandwiches, because I'm sure you all just loved that one (Author's Note: New readers- take a look at that post to see what I mean. Or don't. It's frankly quite poor, because I really know nothing about sandwiches that don't consist of peanut butter and strawberry preserves. Strawberry jam? I am off my game and out of my element, Donny, if you throw that at me.)) just to have to type it all over again in this phone that jeeps resulting in typos, strange autocorrect results, and the addition of words that I didn't even want to spend hours writing an amazing post on my laptop (possibly about sandwiches that don't and now it's just repeating what I've already typed. What a sassy birch, and sure, I'll close the parentheses for the sake of decorum). At this point, I have about 165 lines of text on my phone. Based on a survey of about 7% of those lines, I'm averaging 7 words per line. That means that (with the five lines that I've added since the 165 count), I should be at somewhere around one thousand one hundred and ninety words. With the extra numbers and time explaining this, I would hope that I've now broken two hindered.  Sorry. One thousand two hundred. That's better in almost every conceivable way. (You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.)

Now, normally I might give a blow by blow on Thanksgiving, or maybe if I'm feeling super sentimental (for I aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaam-ah.... A seen-ti-meeeeen-tal... Mahahaaaaaan) I could talk about the many things I am thankful for (German grammar students: that should be "for which I am thankful," because we don't like ending sentences with prepositions, even though it always makes perfect sense to everybody). But, man, I'm writing this post on a phone (for which I am thankful), and it is just tough to keep up with all the words and the phrases while I get the text messages from the friends asking for trivia team names. Also, this apartment has cats, to which I am allergic. Not terribly allergic, mind you, but I'm getting a bit of that cough and that itchiness in the eyes right now. I also have a crazy headache from the whole dinner and eating too much and drinking too much of too many wines. I know, my life is just so hard right now. Cat allergies with a headache after gluttony and alcoholism.

Also, congratulations to the Davidson Wildcats for beating Vanderbilt in the Old Spice Tournament Quarterfinals. One day, maybe your man can be like the Davidson Basketball Team. Or maybe not. But with Old Spice Shower Gel, your man may be able to smell like them. The ball is now diamonds. I'm on a horse.

Well, it was either that or me pretending to be Bruce Campbell playing piano like a lounge singer and singing "Hungry Like the Wolf." Despite my impressive chin, I fear that I would be unable to live up to the lofty standards of thespianship set by The Right Honorable Bruce Campbell, MP (he'll always be a member of the Parliament of my heart, where Christopher Walken is the leading whatever it is in Parliament. Prime Minister, I suppose). With that, I'm going to guess that I've hit somewhere in the ballpark of one thousand six hundred and sixty-seven words, which means it's time for me to get off if this and try to get some sleep.

Gobble gobble, y'all.

Shubbadah?

Okay, first off. Yes. There are pictures that don't work from yesterday's post. I am aware of this, and I intend to fix it. However, I'm also el tired, and I'm going to try to get through this as quickly as possible so that I can close my eyes and think of England, or better yet, something that's a bit less creepy than Victoria's marital advice.

Saucy minx.

Second off, I finally looked at another person's blog, and boy howdy is mine spartan. Spartan? I don't know if it's a proper adjective anymore. I blame the Athenians. "Derp tiddles, phemales are slaphes, and so are those beaten bu us." I mean, seriously. History's written by the winners and all, and the Spartans certainly weren't the greatest folks ever, but they're far from the backwards soldier boys we tend to think they are. They had to learn how to give awesome retorts! That was part of their training! Who gets to do that anymore?

London calling.

But anyway, having looked at this other blog, I clearly need to add some sparkles to this thing. Well, not literally, because I'm not a vaguely creepy almost 40-something's fantasy. Nor am I MySpace (although it's always a hoot to check out what's still going on over there) or a webdesigner from the 1990s. However, despite this clear need for bedazzlement and glitz and glamour (because apparently it's Brit Time at the Blogpollo), we'll just have to see what happens. I have received suggestions (some involving soup for some as yet unascertained reason that most likely will provide the key to the end of the world in a mere 30 days, so get cracking on those Bucket Lists) that might get put into play once I figure out how I would do such a thing. And also if such a thing is even possible.

Why, I say, old chap, I do believe that it is. Quite right.

Until then, you'll have to content yourself with whatever oddness happens to come out of my little sausagey fingers (not that I have psoriasis or anything along those lines. At least, I hope not.), and just wait for the change to happen. And that's what brings us to the things I already wrote before I decided to move this whole bit into an earlier section of the blog. What will it be, you ask? Well, I really wasn't sure. I didn't have too much in terms of ideas, but we'll see where I ended up. Well, I already know, what with already having written it, but I'm sure that you're just DYING to know what lies beneath whateevr hopefully clever picture -- that hyphen was due to a sneeze but it just works so perfectly well that I'll go back and add a second to make it a full dash before returning to the present and closing this not-actually-a-parenthetical with another dash, thereby closing the circle and restoring balance to the blog-- whatever hopefully clever picture I happen to find on the Bing images to serve my potentially unsavory purposes. Mwaha.

It's Ian McKellen talking about acting. It's pretend, you see. And now, off to the future while you read the past!

Some ideas for tonight have been suggested. One of them was, "Well, gee, Rob, because you're such a great cook and a wonderful person (to say nothing of your innumerable other dashing qualities), what did you do to celebrate Thanksgiving in France two years ago? Surely that was hard for you, being on your own in a new country, but I bet you came up with just the greatest little feast ever, possibly with a young lady named Babette!"

Come on, Rob. Nobody understands that.

Well, let me tell you a tale. What a tale it is! I don't think you can even comprehend the degree to which this is a tale that is about to be told, or rather written, in a manner hardly befitting of such a tale, given its immense complexity and deep characterizations. Truly, it is a tour de force of literature, drama, cinema, and sculpture, ALL AT THE SAME TIME. Description defies the events that transpired on that cold November evening in the dead of night (well, the dead of very dark outside, because it's the north of North Dakota, and we all now how crazy people get in Fargo), but on this one occasion, all will be revealed. You will have the privilege of knowing what transpired that fateful evening, and through knowledge, you may understand the madness that emerged.


This can't possibly be a huge, huge letdown.

I ate some spaghetti. Well, don't go away yet. See, there's more to it than just that.

I ate more spaghetti than I normally would have. I probably also tried to listen to my iPod to tune out Bev's questions and/or (which really should be the logical or, because dude, logical operators or whatever the proper term for those things are I'M TIRED) Bev and Elmo's yelling. And I mean, of COURSE there was more to my day than just eating spaghetti. The very idea of it just being spaghetti is absurd. I mean, I had to work that morning! I don't really remember what work consisted of, but I'm sure it involved saying "Red cat. A red cat. No, not, 'A cat red.' A red cat," and possibly telling the story of The Gingerbread Man about 30 times. It was always funny to watch French kids puzzle over the meaning of "gobble" and try to say "fox." It... well, it tended to sound like something else that would be rather awkward to explain were they ever to travel to the United Kingdom or the United States (and yes, those are blatant attempts to pad this word count. You should get this by now.).

Yes, it was quite a man's life in the Programme des Assistants de Langues Vivantes. Oh, what's this? I'm getting a cease and desist order from the British army from the 1970s. Well, I'll just have to ignore that. I mean, what could possibly go wrong in angering the Brits?

Oh, DO give it a try. Cheerio.

Oh, you finally caught up. I was wondering when you might do that. I hope you enjoyed the references to the Falklands, an obscure and old episode of Monty Python, and the delightful letdown that ensued. Plus, Margaret Thatcher. Mmm. Almost as saucy as Queen Victoria. ALMOST. I mean, it's really a Betty or Veronica sort of thing, except British. And yes, I just checked- it doesn't seem as if there is a British version of Archie out there, but if there were, you can bet that it would be written by Alan Moore and would fully deconstruct the entire love triangle by making Archie into a sociopathic ladykiller who is just waiting to see which one of them provides him with a better incentive. Meanwhile, Betty is obsessed with Archie because she has Munchausen by proxy and compulsively HAS to be a caregiver to fulfill her twisted desires, and Veronica is trying to date Archie in order to get her distant father's attention. Ultimately, the relationship between the three deteriorates and is destroyed. And by whom?



He's been in love with Archie the whole time. Also, he has 2 weeks to live due to the severe atherosclerosis from eating all those cheeseburgers. He... he did the right thing in the end, didn't he?

Well, now I want to see that comic. I would ask Mr. Moore, but he's rather scary himself. Somehow, Neil Gaiman manages to handle that, but I'm not unconvinced that they're a real world Aziraphale and Crowley (except, you know, more competent and effective). Besides, have you seen him? HE'S TERRIFYING. He could crawl into your mind and haunt your dreams, night after night. Just a little bit at first- maybe he's the random fellow who's standing in a doorway in the corner of your eye. Slowly, though, he starts moving from the periphery, encroaching on your hopes and fears and twisting them to his own sinister desires (and also there may be some angry trousers involved).



Whatever holds the image of an Alan Moore ITSELF BECOMES AN ALAN MOORE.

At some point tonight, we entered a very dark place, but we kept calm and carried on.

Oh no. No. That's not supposed to be how it goes. I thought I was in control of the British stuffiness (the aforementioned Brit Time at the Blogpollo). I thought I could handle it. I was wrong. I need an infusion of red, white, and blue, STAT.



GAH!

No, not that. Not that. Um.... beer! What could be more American than- ooooh, no, you're not tricking me like that, Brits. No, no. You'd have to get up pretty early to pull one over Young Master Camer-

Son of a BITCH.

No, this can be done. Okay, American. Not British. Um... Golf? No, that won't work. Scottish is better, but I need American. Mel Gibson? Shit- Australian, so he's like Diet Brit.

KEANU! Keanu freaking Reeves. Physical actor extraordinaire, but master of the dull surprise. I just need to find some Keanu, and it'll be fine. I mean, he was Ted. How much more American can you get than Theodore Logan? Not much, I'll tell you that. He plays guitar, meddles in history, and wins basically through cheating, only to come out as one of the saviors of the world. He was Neo! He was Jack whatshisface in Speed (apparently it's Traven. A good American name if ever I saw one).  If there's any way I can get out of this, it's with a good dose of Keanu. He had his Own Private Idaho! Only an American could get a state to themselves! Well, I suppose it's not HARD with Idaho. I mean, nobody there but those potatoes (well, and some harpies I'm sure). Nothing could go wrong there. Nothing at all. Okay, just need to find some Keanu and

FUUUUUUUU-

God save the Queen.

WEEEE ARE THE CHAAAMPIONS

Okay, this isn't a trivia recap, really, but here's what happened.

See, a year ago, my cousin Bob, who is a wonderfully awesome person, came into town. We grabbed dinner with his mom, and we got to trivia late. Against all odds, we came back from a double digit deficit to tie for first and win it.

Not even re-sizing it.

Tonight, Bob and I grabbed dinner with his mom. We got to trivia absurdly late. Against all odds, we came back from a double digit deficit to straight up win first place. No tie. Just a win. We are champions. Take that, radiologists who were apparently jerks to my team.


And you know what? You can have an extra for good measure, because we're about to talk about me. Some of you have heard this, so you can skip it, if you're into that sort of thing.

I'M A CHAMPION

That's right. We're talking about The Prom Saga.

Some of you may think that I'm exaggerating this. You would be wrong. Prom was a freaking ORDEAL for me.

See, junior year of high school, there were some miscommunications. I asked this cute girl, and she said she'd "think about it." Now, any guy who has seen any sort of pop culture knows to take this as a no. I did not, but after a few weeks of not hearing anything, I assumed it was an understood no. I started asking, word got back to her, miscommunication was elaborated as her having meant to say yes, but whoops, I suck, so there was no prom for me.

This was all in the context of my AP US History class, which, God bless them, was committed to getting me a prom date, SOMEHOW. The problem was that they left it up to me that year. I mean, geez. I can hardly ask a girl on a date as it is. If I'm feeling super bold, I might gaze upon her countenance. The genes I got for romance belong in the freaking Middle Ages, or the Renaissance, or SOMETHING, but not where I am now. Maybe I'll capitalize a few more words while I'm at it. It's LATE, and I'm TIRED, and I need to get this done, so I might just say a few random words now hurdy gurdy blips and bops for a thousand little tears dripping along the course of years. That's good for what, ten words? Okay, it was good for seventeen. DO BETTER, ROB.

Do. Better.

Well, that's Junior year. I ended up not going to prom, and I instead went to a family reunion. I... I stand by that decision. You haven't been around all my family at once. Sure, we have our squabbles and the like, but then we get the folks on the porch, and suddenly it's a party for everyone. You may think your family is cool, but, sorry. You don't understand. We've got 2 Susans, 4 Roberts, a few Bens (I think), a Jaden, AND a Sofia.

We will end you and all you love.

But back to the prom issue. See, this is back before I even had the terrible attempt at the Jesus beard. I didn't have the magnetic facial hair that I have now.

We're trying so hard to break away. It just... can't... be... done.

No, this is me around this time:

The H is for "Hardcore." No, seriously.

If only these pictures counted for words. I just have to keep captioning all of them. Hopefully I'm keeping your interest with this cavalcade of photos of me. I know I usually offer you some hipster Christina Hendricks or some Ancient Aliens Guy, but that just can't be done tonight, because I am very tired, and this is as late as I've been blogging on a school night. It's quite a sacrifice on my part, but that's the price of quality, I'm afraid. That and a firstborn child. Boy or girl. We're not picky.

But anyway, senior year starts, and by God, I am going to get myself a prom date.

Things do not start well. I go to the fall dance with the same girl I went with the year before and briefly dated before realizing that, really, she wasn't for me. Then, I go to the winter dance with another young lady who was quite nice, but we really just needed to be friends. Clearly, I was a ladykiller somewhere deep down, but these two both basically asked me to go.

Things were not shaping up well for Rob's ability to dig deep for his big boy pants and aks a girl to a freaking dance.

Well, while all this is going on, I've stepped away from theater (i.e., I auditioned for shows and had just too much crap to do). Instead, I started doing college applications, 5 AP classes, Knowledge Bowl, Model UN, Wordsmith, some side projects for theater, and probably some other clubs that I was in that didn't really take up that much of my time. Somehow, I wasn't drinking much/any coffee.

Well, Model UN picks up. We go to LA for a competition, where I do poorly. I was Romania on the Security Council. Those of you who have tried to have a political conversation with me are pretty well aware that I have a tenuous grasp of current affairs at best, and at worst I'm woefully uninformed. I bomb it pretty hard. I had initially thought that my coach had a lot of faith in me, and I guess that's not entirely untrue. I did well in his class, I showed I was able to think, and I was usually willing to do the work. Well, when I asked him about it later, his response basically amounted to, "I wanted to put you in a situation where you could not possibly win so that you and I could see what you would do."

Well played, sir.

"But Rob, why are you talking about Model UN? You're just trying to get your word count up!" Well, duh. Why do you think I took that question? But no, there's actually a point to the Model UN stories if you give it a minute.

So, spring comes. For some reason (I guess I passed the test?), I get selected to go to New York for this conference at the UN. The conference itself was pretty terrible, because it was a bunch of high school students (and even some adults) getting up there and talking about how the UN should regulate Wal Mart. One person talked about it in favor of the free market, and honestly? He was the best spoken one of the bunch. Maybe I'm biased because I got SO FREAKING TIRED OF HEARING ABOUT HOW WAL MART IS THE DEVIL. WE GET IT. THEY TREAT THEIR EMPLOYEES LIKE CRAP. LET'S MOVE TO ANOTHER COMPANY. GEEZ.

However, due to the UN voting about something "important" like a "world affair," our first morning session was cancelled. We find this out once we've gotten into New York. So, we spend the night wandering around New York, seeing various things that we were going to do with our morning off.

Like being badasses.

 Well, all these folks know of my problems with prom. It's also March, so there's plenty of time.

Then we pass by Rockefeller Center, and a joke is made. A joke about a show where people have posters and how, haha, wouldn't it be funny if Rob (then Robbie) went on with a poster about a prom date? Well, showman that I am, I take that challenge. My friends help me out with a poster (which was phenomenal), and I commit to getting up at the crack of dawn the next day to make my way over to Rockefeller Center to stand in the long line between me and GLORY.

Well, it was a Friday morning, and it was cold and snowy. There really wasn't much of a line. There were some folks from New Jersey or Wisconsin or some such, and they see my sign and let me go to the front. They think it's hilarious. They tell their parents about the idea, and their parents agree to tape it. (I do NOT tell my parents, because I figure they're going to try to talk me out of it, because let's face it- I'm about to make a royal spectacle of myself on national television).

Well, while I'm doing this, Stephen (the guy in the middle up above) and Coach are going to grab some bagels for breakfast. They come back, look up on the Jumbotron, and see the following.

Pan, pan, pan, pan, Rob, pan, pan, stop. Reverse pan, reverse pan, Rob, stop.

Oh, cool. I just got to be on the Today Show. Let's see where this goes from here.

About 20 minutes later, I'm sitting with my new friends from New Jersey/Wisconsin, when these three folks come outside. There's this short lady between a black guy and a white guy. There's also a camera and microphone. These people are talking to the cameras.

The following may disturb you. Heck, when I watch it (I tried to figure out how to upload the DVD version I have, but I haven't quite figured it out yet), I find it disturbing.

Before I register what's going on, Katie Couric is right next to me saying, "Hi. I like this. What's your name?"

I deftly respond with, "HI I'M ROBBIE CAMPBELL FROM MEMPHIS, TENNESSEE."

Smooooooth.

It continues from there. Some highlights though:

• Katie drops multiple hints that I should ask HER to the prom. I'm not biting, because hindsight is well beyond 20/20 here.
• Al Roker disses my bowtie. That's right. I was wearing a bowtie.
• Matt Lauer insists that the bowtie is cool.

  

  I knew it!

• Al Roker hangs his head in shame and proceeds to ask the crowd if there's anyone who would be my prom date. There's an impressive response.

So where did it go from there? Well, I had to go home at some point. Getting the poster onto the plane was quite a feat, but they let it slide. There were even some folks on the flight back to Memphis talking about "that kid who got on the Today Show looking for a prom date."

Never heard of him.

Of course, there were calls from someone who said they were a producer on the show, and Lord knows if anything was going to come of it, because I lost my phone about a month after that. So, no dice on getting that prom date via the Today Show.

But I have my ways. And a snazzy tuxedo.