I am one he'll of a lucky fella.

You can let that sink in for a minute with full knowledge of The Cemetery Strangler, breakups by notes, text messages, phone-a-friends, and months of Bev and Elmo shouting insults that would make any Frenchman blush. It's okay. I'll wait.

I'll also take another sip of bourbon. No, no, don't wait up on my account.

I have my problems, which I will not enumerate here for reasons, not least of which is my control over this bog's content with at least a vanadium palm (if not a full blown iron fist). God knows this blog has seen enough of them.

But right now, it's a clumsy (cloudy, rather) dusk in Charleston, and I'm on my orchestra (porch, rather) with a bourbon, a book, and my iPod. I've come from a week with family and the best food ever (because, trust me, Carmen Eileen's Christmas dinner CANNOT be beaten, and my chocolate crêpe mousse cake is no slouch either). I'd put in a picture, but I can't figure out that input with my phone. I'd put up a picture of the view, too, because it is delightful and would give Matisse pause (or whichever Impressionist it was that so enjoyed the Caribbean- I think it was Matisse).

I'm incredibly lucky, and I wish all of you all this and more.

Now stop reading this crap and go do something better.

Fifty thousand, four hundred, and twenty-five. That's how many words I came up with when I put the body of my posts into the ol' word counter software (generously provided at http://wordcounter.net). While this does not include the titles of the posts (which totally count in the overall counting, because they're at least a small part of the "fun"), it does include the image tags, so I'm assuming that I'm somewhere around fifty thousand either way. It's a tough call, but I'm going to assume that I'm in the right on this one. I'll still try to get this post out before midnight tonight to make sure that everything is on the up and up. But, hey, good job. We got through another year of Novemblog.

Huzzah.

Easy there, Doogie.

Hours later, congratulations to USC (the South Carolina one) on a big win over Clemson. To the Clemson fans, sorry about that. To the Paul Walker fans out there, well, um... I'm sorry for your loss. I'm not a huge fan, but I'll try to avoid any of the obvious jokes. Instead I'll go for the less obvious send off.

Hope you're cruising around and observing the differences in geography between Main St. and Elm St.

And, of course, since I'm over the word count and have some time (for the moment), let's get to number two on our British and Non-British Actors Who Were In Some Movies That Nobody Saw Or Whatever The Hell It Is, Because Bold and Names Apparently Don't Count Once The Word Count Is There.

2. Ian McKellen in Cold Comfort Farm

Cold Comfort Farm is one of those movies (along with Get Shorty and Big Trouble) that I like to show to young ladies whom I court. The odds are that they haven't seen them, and they're offbeat enough that it gives me an idea of how much they can stay on the ball and how weird their sense of humor might be. Cold Comfort Farm stands out because it's probably the most subtle of the bunch and because it has a lot of people before they got famous (or after).

It's about Kate Beckinsale trying to write while living with a family in the country, and because she learned from all the great literary heroines available in the 1920s, she has to meddle in everybody's affairs (but for the better, of course).

Shown here being just too sassy.

Ian McKellen is in all of, like, twelve scenes, MAYBE. And he steals every one of them. For example, she comes down for breakfast the first time, everyone looks at her, and he says, with perfect Sir Ian delivery, "Well, some of us has farming to do!" He walks into a restaurant, grabs Kate Beckinsale, and yells, "FORNICATORS!" He's really a pretty terrible person, and he looks like this:

This is what happens when a USC house sees a Clemson student, apparently.

Oh, did I mention that he's also a hardcore evangelical preacher? Oh, he is. It's his best scene. You can find it on the Youtube, if you like. And you know what? I like. So I'ma find it.

Everything in this scene is perfect. They do the cuts to the congregation members. You see Kate Beckinsale becoming more and more wigged out. For Pete's sake, the sermon starts with, "You... miserable... worms," because (like Timothy Dalton) Ian McKellen can speak in italics when the mood strikes.

Despite the fact that he's a southern accent away from having a call in line where you should give money so we can build that big new office like Baby Jesus wants us to (Adult Jesus is still mulling it over, and Teenaged Jesus is in the basement listening to some Led Zepplin), Ian McKellen sells the bajeezus out of the role. It's like he took everyone who ever made a homophobic comment to him, wrapped them up into one person, and then imagined what it would be like to be that person and acted in that way on the day. Meanwhile, the ACTUAL Sir Ian looks more like this:

The words were written down for him in a script.

Seriously. Go watch Cold Comfort Farm. Well, I would say that, but I think that everyone on the blog has seen it, either because they're family and were forced to see it by my mother or because they're friends and I've made them suffer through it.

Novemblog. OUT.

I am once again writing you from the comfort of my... whatever it is. Drawer? Hopefully by now you don't think I'm joking. My accommodations for the weekend are somewhere between Harry Potter's cupboard and a Hobbit hole, and I'm sleeping in a drawer bed next to the Sfügsen and/or Bork. With a tasteful curtain for some hint if privacy (although there is plenty of visibility on all sides, so it may he more of an illusion than a semblance). It's actually quite nice if you are only there for a couple of days.

Since I continue to have no real idea of what I'm looking at in a word count (though I'm hoping that my substantial and epic chronicling of events and codifying of reasons why phone blogs are the worst (especially when the DROID spellcheck sees words like "blogs" and "spellcheck" as errors, even though it finds "blog" to be perfectly acceptable) made a sizable dent in the overall count, what with my potential deficit and all), and since my phone keeps trying to add extra words to the ends of perfectly good ones,  we'll just have to soldier on, adventures and all. Because, see, Hobbit hole.

Unfortunately, unlike yesterday when I had substantial notes, sugar, and wine to generate some pretty powerful Novemblog miracles, tonight I have no notes, little sugar, and even less wine to carry me through. Of course, I'm probably (and likely provably, as typos on my phone would have me believe) not the one you need to be worrying about, since I just have to write this shit rather than read it. And tonight, dear reader, may be a more difficult post than most.

When I was in France, I wasn't eating much early on. I was getting paid less than 800 (sorry, eight hundred; seven hundred and ninety-six and some change for those who are really interested and/or overly nosy) euros a month, three hundred and fifty of which went to rent (which wasn't a horrendous deal for what I was getting, aside from the distance from Paris, the small room with a slanted ceiling, the low countertops in the kitchen that consistently hurt my back, and Bev and Elmo's daily shouting matches), with another one hundred and ten going to transportation given how far from the city I was. This left me with seven euros a day for food (and, yes, I know that four hundred and sixty from seven hundred ninety-six leaves three hundred and thirty-six, giving you eleven euros a day for food, but I also needed to pay for a phone and scrounge up funds to get far, far away from Bev whenever possible). Because I was initially living in a hostel without a kitchen, this led to me underspending on food. No, seriously- we got two pastries for breakfast at the hostel, abd I would save one for lunch (while dinner would usually be something frozen or a sandwich from the grocery store acids thr street. That should say "across the." I offer this as further proof that my phone is being just the worst right now.). I would spend as little as possible and eat as little as possible until I finally realized that I was getting so irritable that it was ruining my French experience (although part of that was probably perfectly normal utter rage towards Bev).

Around this time, I noticed that I was losing some hair in the shower. This has always happened, because I'm a hairy fellow. My pelt is legendary, and in the future, Robbie Campbells will be bred to be released and hunted for their pelts. I have accepted this. Even the hair on my head has been incredibly thick. I know this because basically every haircut I get includes the stylist uttering the phrase, "Youmotherfuckers (Author's note: ladies and gentlemen, Rob's phone.) have really thick hair."

This time, though, the hair was.getting a bit thinner on top. I figured it was stress, I stepped up.my food intake a bit, and everything was beautiful and nothing hurt. 

Fast forward to my return to the states. We have to watch some.video of us interviewing patients to get a handle on what we do well and what we do poorly. The assignment makes sense and is one of those mildly important but mostly bullshit assignments that you have to do because they say you have to. I don't know who "they" are- I imagine some sort of cabal of teachers, professors, and textbook writers who assemble to devise new and improved mind-numbingly boring exercises to waste students' time. But, hey, we have to do it, and so it goes.

Well, it goes, except for Rob. Rob spends the first few minutes wondering where this magical incandescent bulb is coming from to cause such a reflection from the top of his head. Then he realizes that he has a large and noticeable bald spot on the back of his head. He spends the rest of the video going through the five stages of grief on fast-forward about twelve times before finally settling on denial.

Two years later, the bald spot continues to expand. And now Rob wonders when he'll have to get that last haircut (probably pretty soon, because his bangs are currently just a couple of pathetic wisps that wander aimlessly across his forehead and refuse to stay put). I had hoped to make it to residency with a reasonably full head of hair.You know, so I could be the sexy doctor in our gang of comical but endearing young doctors (who would oddly get simple medical facts wrong). Unfortunately, it's not looking good; I'll be lucky to nake it to thirty with any hair left on my head (which just makes it sadder that I won't be to residency by then). But you know what?

Fuck you, head follicles. You don't want to hang around? Go, then. Go at your leisure. Here's why.

1.) I'm too much of a man for you. This isn't alopecia or generalized hair loss. My legs, my chest, my arms, my feet (probably why I'm in this Hobbit hole), my face, and, Lord help me, my back are all standing by my (literally) hairy ass and going strong. What, you can't handle a little bit of dihydotestosterone? You can either man up (but in a gender neutral and not a cis-heteronormative sort of way) or get the fuck out.

2.) You fuck up my work. Okay, fine. This is partly on me. I have to work in a lab. This means I need to work with cells in cell culture hoods (or biosafety cabinets, if you're into what may be proper technical terminology). Lately, though, every time I'm in there, those little wisps of hair are getting all over my forehead, my eyes, and my nose. Normally, I can just move those with my hands, but when I'm staying sterile, that just isn't a viable option. Plus, you get all up ahainst the hood and cause a weirdblack sort of itching of which I do not approve.

3.) Hats. I've tried wearing hats before. Baseball caps, wool knit hats, and probably at least another few types. And every time I try, you motherfuckers decide to go absolutely bonkers. I take the hat off, and you're all strewn about in a manner that does not remotely resemble the carefully coiffed locks with which I left the house. Even a baseball cap makes you go all swoopy (which you try to do anyway once you're long enough), and those are becoming a necessity with the extra sun exposure your flight from my head is leading to. I've finally resorted to my hoodie, but you have forced me away from hats for too long. Once you're out of the picture, I can warm my head in peace without fear of hairy reprisal.

4. Distinguishment. Possibly not a word, but neither is athleticism, really. Case in point: what do Patrick Stewart, Jason Statham, and William Shakespeare all have in common?

Okay, aside from being British. Okay, aside from having acted professionally. No, aside from being pretty recognizable to most people and having a bawdy body of work.

They're all bald. Or at least balding. They're also masters of the fine art of distinguishment, which I just made up and will be publishing a self-help book of the same title at some time, at which point I will deny this paragraph and the notion that I would make up the idea of distinguishment. It's really deep within our hearts, and if we want it enough, we, too, can elevate ourselves to such a mastery of distinguishment. But only if you want it enough.

But more importantly, these masters of distinguishment are all very, very bald. Patrick Stewart tells a wonderful story of his toupee (or as I like to call them, Roadkill Abomination from the Very Depths of Poor Taste, Depravity, And Gauche Accessories) being ripped from his head by a large Eastern European fellow. Does being bald make you distinguished? I can't say for certain, but the evidence is there. It can't be worse than 12 year old Rob who appears after a good shave. He tends to want to talk about his favorite Pokémon (Blastoise, obviously) and whine about girls on his Myspace or whatever.

And I know what you're thinking: "Wow, Rob, your ever growing levels of distinguishment are truly.convincing. I'm going to go home and break out the straight razor and kick these God forsaken locks to the curb. I'm not just going to cut my hair- I'm going to cut all of them." And then we'll pause awkwardly as we wait for the clearly epic music that would follow that.

But you'd be wrong. See, not everyone has the naturally distinguished scalp of a balding twenty-five year old. No, these are.matters best left to God and biology rather than your unsteady hands. I mean, really. Take a freaking beta blocker. Are you making invisible Jiffy Pop? Calm that hand down before you hurt someone.

Finally, some of you might be wondering why I haven't shaved of my remaining hair or why I haven't gotten a haircut in months or why I gather all my loose hairs in a small plastic bag and try to force them back into my scalp. Well, the answer to that question is simple.

My head looks weird. Duh.

A Righteous Chronicling of the Day's Feastings

It is once again that terrible and momentous time of Novemblog in which Thanksgiving happens. For one, Rob goes into some sort of healing trance coma to deal with the ample amounts of food in his voluminous belly. That, of course, is business as usual. More than that, though, is the fact that he has at best 3G. Apparently, it's no longer the neighborly thing to do to leave your wireless network unsecured to allow neighborhood scamps a cup of internet before bed. This causes several distinct but related things to occur.

1.) Rob has to do these posts on his phone.
2a.) Because Rob has to do these posts on his phone, he loses any real sense of word count.
2b.) Because Rob has to do these posts on his phone, writing individual words takes much longer, because two thumbs are not as good as ten digits (even if Rob has the loath magma callus off handshakes).
2b-1.) Inasmuch as Rob must use his phone to type these posts, and inspfaf (that's supposed to he "insofar") as Rob's phone is somewhat old and the touchscreen does not work as well as it used to (and that was even before he turned off the tactile feedback to avoid disturbing his sister any more than the large Ikea lamp (or Sbüfsen or whatever the Swedes decided to call a lamp. And, no, I don't think it was "Bork.") that is providing the light for this post (other than the phone, of course)), there have been several instances of the screen dragging down to lower text locations that have been copied and pasted from previous notes taken via text message and the like, thereby both hindering progress and vexing Rob greatly.
2b-2.) Given that Rob is typing this post on his phone, and given that two thumbs are inferior to ten fingers, it may be postulated (and confirmed by empirical methods) that more typos than usual will occur and require correction. This phenomenon continues in spite of the application of auto correct, as seen above.
3.) Because Rob must do these posts on his phone, he is unable to make judicious use of Google Images, which leads to an absence of pictures and therefore picture captions and therefore the words and bellowing laughter generated by picture captions. (Normally, around here I'd have a picture of a laughing Brian Blessed with a caption of, "HA HA HA HA HA." Either that or a picture of Stilgar with a caption of, "We have laugh sign the likes of which GOD has never seen!" My lack of Google Images prevents me from doing either of those things. Thanks, Obama.)
4.) Because Rob is writing these posts on his phone, he sometimes goes so slowly that he forgets his point. Oh, yeah, there it is.
5.) Because Rob is writing these on his phone, he has to contend with the DROID spellcheck, which is comparable to that of Firefox, exert that DROID will automatically correct any instance of DROID to the all caps version of DROID, which frankly makes a lot of lines in Star Wars much funnier. For example, "What I really need is a DROID that speaks Boyce," or, "These aren't the DROIDS you're looking for." Okay, fine, I had to trick it on that last one. It really wanted "DROIDS" to be "DRUIDS." And, really, that just adds a whole new layer of humor to the whole franchise. C3PO and R2D2 building a nice Henge in the midst of Britain, walking around with cloaks and long beards, and possibly turning into bears, depending on your source material. (Here's a hint: they can almost always turn into bears.)

Anyways, with those points made.and established in the record, I suppose that I should start on some sort of actual plot to the post other than why it drives Rob up several types of very verbose walls to attempt the writing of these posts on his phone. And, thankfully, I have just the thing.

Thanksgiving with Rob and the Family. That's right, you're going to get a never before seen (well, beyond our family and friends who usually join us at Thanksgiving) look at the inner workings of a Robbie Campbell From Memphis, Tennessee Thanksgiving.

First off, the players.
Rob- an intrepid and handsome teacher cum scientist cum amateur guitarist (but a poor one) cum writer and adventurer extraordinaire... LADIES. Allergic to cats. Also, DROID, do you not recognize the word "extraordinaire?" There is much you have to learn, old chap.
Captain Crunch- Rob's father, who gas on at least several occasions repelled the sogs from our shores and cereal bowls. Makes a mean smoked salmon and most anything else if you're willing to wait a month for it.
Carmen Eileen- Rob's mother, who once killed fitty men. Not a fan of 80's music.
Jane Goodbar- Rob's sister, an inspiration to us all in the kitchen and at the hospital.
Renée Hvorstovsky- Rob's aunt and founder of the feast. Owns two cats (DRAMATIC TENSION) and what borders on way too many books (as if such a thing were possible).
Senor Ferrari- Renée's friend and sassy confidant. Makes some mean sprouts. Can stop a man at fifty paces in two languages. Weaknesses include vomit and coffee makers.
Drs. Alan Grant and Laura Dern- engaged friends of Jane with a fondness for Trader Joes and fine cheeses disguised as dinosaurs. Dr. Grant protects our gardens from aliens with, I don't know, rayguns and shit. Dr. Dern cracks skulls in the scrum, on the rink, and in the classroom.
Kitteh Dumb and Kitteh Dee- cats.

And now it's time for the shoe! (What did I tell you about this goddamns phone in point 2B-2? I sounds like a Swedesman.)

1300- Rob, Captain Crunch, Carmen, and Jane arrive at Renée's esteemed estate on an autumnal breeze heralded by light rainfall. Kitteh Dumb and Kitteh Dee (cats) are greeted (from afar, in Rob's case) and items are placed in appropriate places.

1330- Renée's friend, who shall rename nameless because she is sick, was supposed to bring potatoes. Specifically, mashed potatoes (though we all know that they may also be boiled or stuck into a stew by stupid fat Hobbits). Because she is currently sick, Rob is given the noble task of peeling potatoes like so much Beetle Bailey (but funnier and not as lazy).

1335- The wine must flow. Whites and reds are dealt out like a sick form of roulette where everyone's a winner. Rob continues to peel potatoes as Renée works the turkey and the others entertain the cats.

1410- Senor Ferrari arrives, although not in his namesake. We are all somewhat disappointed, but the disappointment is short-lived due to the judicious application of wine. A lamp (the Sbüfsen or Bork, depending on your interpretation and linguostic choices) is assembled and placed. Captain Crunch, spurred on by the wine, wrestles wild salmon and prepares them over smoke. Well, at least he begins to.

1435- Jane, having conjured a powerful red wine chocolate cake from mere dry goods and red wine, prepares a marscapone icing to allow its divine digestion by mere mortals.

1445- After what seems like several eternities, Captain Crunch deems the salmon fit for consumption atop a bed of fine cheeses and herbs. The hedonism would be delightfully palpable if not for one fact: Rob is out of wine. An inauspicious start.

1510- Drs. Grant and Dern arrive atop the wings of a mighty pterodactyl. In honor of their presence, a bottle of fine cava is poured (including one for our nameless homie who was supposed to bring the potatoes, which Rob has by now finished peeling and washing). Captain Crunch, having forced the salmons' descendants into servitude, chooses a strong salmon as an example and agajn prepares it with aromatic smokes.

1540ish- Having assembled all necessary players, another bottle of cava is opened in celebration. No bottle shall go untouched, nor any liver go undamaged.

1600- A potent butternut squash soup is served. The gathered throng's approval indicates that even lowly vegetables may be prepared to this noble assembly's liking.

1615- Warmed by the soup and emboldened by the wine, Captain Crunch and Carmen Eileen regale the gathered few with a story in which a young Rob assumed the form of an axe-wielding anaconda and began to thrash his head most noisily against a wall. Riotous laughter ensues, even from the salmon. This will not do.

1645- Intermission. Captain Crunch moves to quell the revolting salmon. Their demands for an aquatic environment are swiftly subdued with no lack of excessive force.

1745- The salmon uprising once again crushed (but for how long?), 80's band Europe serenades the crowd with tales of standing tall enroute to Venus. Carmen is unimpressed by their display and their hair. The feast is almost prepared. Potatoes are mashed. Stuffing is heated. Turkey is carved. Wine is drunk.

1800- The feast is served. Brussel sprouts, mashed potatoes, stuffing, a fine goat cheese and buttnernut squash gnocchi complement the turkey and the wine. These giants of.men, these captains of industry fall upon the food and silent. That's right- motherfucking zeugma. Deal with it.

1900- The feast consumed, the scraps and leavings must be disposed of. Shall they go to the salmon? Most certainly not. They shall be discarded and fed upon by vermin and wild dogs. Meanwhile, Senor Ferrari does battle with a coffee maker and would have surely perished if not for the timely intervention of Dr. Grant and Captain Crunch.

1930- Despite gorging themselves.on meats and vegetables, more is demanded, always more. And, behold, dear reader, more is provided. The red wine cake is portioned to those gathered, but still they clamor for more. A pie of the tartest apples is obtained, but still they shout for more. The.sweetest of harvest wine.is prevented, but it merely whets their fearsome appetites. At long last, iced milk scented with the finest vanillas and cocoas are retrieved, and the crowd falls upon their plates with ferocious slurping noises that are just the most awkward to hear. Within several bites and a belt of wine, Rob begins to privately ponder if they may.not have overreached; he ignores these thoughts.and the growing pain in his belly and continues.

1955- Within 25 minutes, Rob's blasphemous prophecies have proven correct. The table is surrounded by a low conversation punctuated by the groans of those.around it. Still they laugh, but their.laughter is more subdued. Even the application of more wine fails to rouse this band of brothers (and sisters) from its stupor.

2035- The plates and bowls are again cleaned. The carcasses are discarded like so much used Kleenex. The remaining food is apportioned to those with the capacity to eat again. One by one, the party disbands, heading out again into the winter winds and fog. They retreat to their halls and their.caves, bellies full and appetites sated. They return home, there to sleep, satisfied to a man with the days feasting.

Satisfied to a man... but not to a salmon.

There's really no good option here. I'm on my laptop, which isn't that bad on its own, but I"m in the one room in which it has a maddening tendency to overheat and do a hard shut down. This is why we can't have nice things.

It has already begun. I popped over to Facebook to see how things were going, because I'm an addict and I make excuses like that.

 

"I will offer you sexual favors for likes." Aw, man, I can't even be a crackhead right.

That's around when Facebook started to go really slowly and things started to freeze up. Part of that is that the computer has been through a lot. Namely, it went through France, which meant the voltage converters. See, for those of you who haven't been elsewhere, plugs are different. Not only is the shape different, but the voltage can be different. As a result, you need adapters to handle them. I got a couple of snazzy universal adapters that handle United Kingdom, United States, and European Union plugs. That alone is pretty amazing. Then, they also can change the voltage between the US setting and the European settings. Even better- don't want to blow out my electronics, right?

Well, I really only brought my computer. Fine, I brought an iPod, too, but that plugs through my USB. And a camera, which did need an actual plug, but only once every few months. Oh, and look up at the crackhead again. No particular reason- just keeping things fun and light here, because if there's one thing that's fun and light, it's crackheads. Wacky fun!

Anyway, my laptop has a nice metallic edge to it, likely to help with durability or something. Or maybe it's just to make it look nice. Who knows? Regardless of the reasons for it, the metal lining got a bit dinged while I was moving around constantly when I had just gotten to France. There's one particular spot right on the front where my left wrist would hang out if I were writing atop a table. You know, like if I were writing at a desk.

"It was the best (if you can really call it that) of times (but also the worst of times (because, see, the times are going quite differently in the two cities to which I'm referring), and that's terrible)."

Well, hey, what do you know? My laptop tended to live at a desk while I was in France. Why, those two thoughts can't really have anything to do with each other at all, right? The thing is, that snazzy adapter? I probably didn't need it affecting the voltage, since (supposedly) my computer charger is able to handle both the European and American voltage systems. It would still need the change in plugs, but the voltage change never needed to happen.

This would probably explain the strange buzzing sound whenever I plugged in my computer.

Either that or the bees. No. NO. NOT THE BEES. OH MY GOD THEY'RE IN MY EYES. THEY'RE STINGING MY EYES. AUGHGLGHLAHGFLAHG.

(Rob, throwing out the Wicker Man quotes and keeping things current. It IS 2006, right?)

Anyway, there was a funny buzzing sound by my computer. I also started to realize that it hurt a little bit for me to rest my wrists on the table and let them be supported by the computer for any prolonged period of time.

So, yeah, my computer was trying to start the machine uprising by electrocuting me. Silly computer. You can't start a machine uprising. You don't have legs or arms. You just have an incriminating Internet histor-

Okay, you win this round, computer.

Anyway, yes. It's Thanksgiving weekend. I got out of the lab and everything. Incredible. There will be food and wine and bourbon. Well, I say "will be." There already has been. Incredible. Maybe if I say, "Incredible," again, you'll get my point. Incredible.

Unfortunately, Novemblog ends over the Thanksgiving period. Normally, this wouldn't be a bad thing. It happened last year, and I made the word count happen in a manner most fitting of a casual blog writer. You know, with things going off the rail into Creepy Town, Population: This Blog Last November 30th. The thing is, Novemblog didn't end over Thanksgiving last year. I had a couple of shorter than normal posts, but I made up for it with one last post that was like an action movie where the cunning yet honorable jewel thief gets blackmailed into one. Last. Score. And then the gendarmes are after him in their little cars, and he's in a little car because it's Europe (as that's what you do if you're a jewel thief in Europe), and there are many shots of many small cars going down many small alleyways in the pursuit of the many little jewels that he stole on his one. Last. Score.

No, you don't get a picture for that one because a.) there are enough movies like that for you to just go onto Youtube or Netflix or cable or whatever witchcraft you use to watch things, and b.) I haven't seen many of these movies (except for Ocean's 11 on repeat whenever it airs on TNT for three days at a time, because that's how many days you need to properly showcase Brad Pitt's suits).

"Goddammit, that creepy blogger is watching me again. I cannot go while he is watching."

Anyway, no. Last year worked because I was able to make up for word counts over the last few days. See, I don't exactly have reliable internet at the Thanksgiving venue, which means that I don't exactly have the means to check my word count, much less write quality blog posts (unless posts from my phone count, which they totally do not. Okay, fine, they do for the word count, but they don't out of some degree of principle that is not sufficient for me to exclude them from the almighty word count).

If we're lucky, I'll find some time to space things out and write posts that aren't about writing posts, because those are the worst. Who actually writes things like that?

Probably a total hypocrite.

And Yet Another Half Measure

Well, yesterday, I got a whopping 17 page views! I'm assuming it's yesterday, as it's no longer today. (Okay, fine, I started this post tomorrow. So sue me. I have lawyer friends who say that they're just really great lawyers.) And, yes, I'm aware of the hour and its lateness, and I'm going to try to get as much done here as possible before I really start losing it.

I'd say we're past that, wouldn't you, Rob?

Of course, most of the reason that I'm running late is that, in a move worthy of a rousing speech by Emilio Estevez or Denzel Washington or whoever does sports movies these days, we are now Tuesday Night Trivia Champions on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving for three years running. We were down by nine points going into the final question, but with some bold wagering and some judicious use of thinking caps, we were able to tie for first. Then, following a heated game of rock paper scissors to decide who would get to answer the tiebreaker. With some canny choices in my throws, I defended our team's honor and brought home the bacon, which led to further drinking to squander our meager winnings in celebration.

Because, you know, WINNING.

Now, normally, I'd be trying to get to bed to get enough sleep to make it into the lab tomorrow morning. But tomorrow, as we all know (okay, fine, maybe not everybody. There are folks who don't keep up with American traditions abroad. I remember my Thanksgiving in France consisted of an larger than normal portion of spaghetti with some red wine. There may have been a Twix involved after much angst over whether or not to eat the Twix now or to hold off and keep my stock), tomorrow (today, dumbass) is the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. That means driving and seeing family and having a grand old time.

Well, at least that's what I thought it meant. That is, after all, why I spent my Sunday in the lab working on getting things done so that I could leave bright and early tomorrow (today) with a clean conscience. After all, not much point in coming into the lab if there's nothing to actually do, right?

Hahahahah. HAHAHAHAHA. You don't seem to know my boss. Apparently, he expects people to at least make an appearance tomorrow, and I would prefer not to piss him off too much just yet. Normally, I would just do my work and do my best to deal with awful, awful traffic in the evening. Unfortunately, since I already finished the wet work I can do with the materials available, I'm pretty limited to doing computer work tomorrow, which the boss doesn't see as a good use of lab time.

All we need is Nately's Whore and we'll be ready for a nice summer invasion that will appropriately be happening in November.

Furthermore, due to circumstances, I was pretty much out of clean clothes, which meant I needed to do laundry. In itself, that's not too bad. I'm miserable about putting away my clean laundry, but it's a fact of life that just has to happen when there's enough time to do it. However, due to the schedule and trivia and the fact that my shirts need to hang dry, packing hasn't exactly started yet.

But the shirts look so nice! (When they're not absurdly wrinkled, which is their preferred state due to the second law of thermodynamics and Rob's dislike of using an iron.)

So yeah. Between all that and my lack of bourbon (because, geez, I don't need another drink. Thanksgiving is going to have enough wine for my liver without me front loading it), this post will have to end here so I can get some sleep and be able to give you more and better blog posts over the next few days. Okay, fine, so I an give you more blog posts over the next few days.

"You know what they call a quitter in Paris?"

About That

Yeah, no. That's not going to be how I go out tonight. (Oh, hey, folks. If you missed the couple of hour gap between the last post and this one, maybe read that one first? Maybe don't- it's not that great. Mostly read the last lines about how I'm probably just going to go to sleep? I sure proved 10 PM Rob wrong, didn't I?) I might not have hit my quota for the day (or any day since last Thursday), but that's not going to stop me from making one hell of an attempt tonight.

And you know what? We're going to go old school all up in this business.

Gonna learn how to be a Senate Page so hard. Lesson 1: Lie to the spouse. The Senator is out with visiting dignitaries, not the babysitter/pool boy. Lesson 2: Learn their coffee order. Make sure they get it. If they don't, fall on your sword. Well, you can't afford a sword, because you're getting paid in experience, so fall on your credenza.

And what do we need if we're going to go old school all over this Fortune 500 company?

Bourbon.

Nope. There will be no restoration here. Va-t-en, Orléans.

Anyway, bourbon has been duly obtained and is neat this time due to the new acquisition of winter by the southern states. Those are some warming spirits. Yes, I know that it doesn't actually warm you. Yes, I learned that in Boy Scouts, because they tried to teach us a lot of things that we probably didn't need to know at age 12. I say "tried" because there are plenty of skills that I never really picked up (namely, anything involving the identification of trees or tracks. Seriously, I still can't identify poison ivy. "But, Rob," you say, "it has three leaves!" Yes. Yes, I'm sure it does. Do you know what else has three leaves? A FUCKING SHITTON OF OTHER PLANTS. I can identify sycamore (sometimes), grapevine, and poison ivy vine. Beyond that, you're on your own. I can be a medic, but I sure as shit won't be finding any botanicals in the zombie apocalypse. Get a botanist and a natural products chemist on that.), even after 7ish years in scouts.

I did, however, learn how to look good in uniform. Of note, this picture caused a young lady who is currently a staunch (and I mean STAUNCH) Catholic missionary to drop an f-bomb.

But, hey, that's how it goes. I never finished my fly fishing merit badge because I could never catch a fish (a requirement that they did NOT have for the fishing merit badge, strangely enough).

I think that we can all agree that, as an era, the eighties were the best time to have a one-hit wonder. Technologically, we were at a point where it was still lucrative to sell hard copies of music, but we couldn't store a lot of songs on a medium. Synthesizers and drum machines were all the rage, which made it easy to come up with a decent song. Tape decks had made it into cars, and musical styles seemed to be at a sufficient confluence to allow for some pretty impressive songs to work their way out of the woodwork.

And the mountains of cocaine didn't hurt, either.

I mean, obviously you still had some of the giants out there (Billy Joel, Queen, David Bowie, Black Michael Jackson), but look at some of the smaller players. Dex's Midnight Runners, Lena, Simple Minds- oh. Those don't sound familiar. How about this: "Come on Eileen," "99 Luftballons," and "Don't You (Forget About Me)."

Too rye aye, indeed.

Yes, the 70's gave us some pretty great bands and some pretty great songs, but it also gave us disco and Gerald Ford.

Rumor has it he still roams the Canadian hills ready to take on any wolves that think he's delicious enough to tangle with.

I mean, the 80's had a song to deal with anything (except possibly the need for more bourbon, which is what I'm experiencing right now, so if you'll just pardon me a moment. Won't be a minute. And I'm back, with my previous bourbon consumption beginning to catch up just enough to get me all warm and happy. And on with the show!). Well, anything that involved getting cheered up by an upbeat riff.

And the videos wove such beautiful tapestries. No arrows in Harold's eye, though. Pity, that.

Hell, even their breakup songs are catchy. Or, okay, fine, I would say that, but I found out that my breakup song of choice (which has the most 80s video I've ever seen) came out in 1998. It is, beyond any doubt, the greatest breakup song ever.

Yeah, ignore all of the Ethan Hawke/Gwyneth Paltrow business going on. We all know that Mrs. Havisham just needs the broken hearts of men to power her Genesis Device. The song has everything you need in a breakup song. It has the early self-pitying emo bit before breaking into a nice upbeat, "Hey, you're a pretty shitty person! Fuck you for trying to patronize me and toy with my emotions. I'm better than that, and I deserve better," before ending with the, "Well, I mean, if you're here, you might as well come inside, because WHY WON'T YOU LOVE ME ANYMORE." It's the kind of breakup song that would make you get out of your poorly lit room where you're staring at old pictures on Facebook if you didn't just keep watching the video on Youtube.

"Remember to swallow your sadness so nobody else comes to help you but me!"

But, hey, back to the 80's. We don't need another post about breakups. We just had that shit, and it was pretty miserable. Let's get back to the good part.

Thanks, Michael Bolton, you no talent ass clown who was amazing in that one music video. You go, Michael Bolton.

1981. Ringing any bells? Okay, fine, it's probably ringing a lot of bells. Iran released the hostages, Reagan got shot, the TGV started service between Paris and Lyon, and the first test-tube baby is born. But we all know what's more important than that.

Now, say it with Stephen Colbert's voice.

That's right. Okay, fine, you may not have watched the whole clip to get the reference I'm going for there. It's really more of an episode, and it's not even fifteen minutes. Trust me. You're reading this. You've got time to give it a listen. Well, a watch, I suppose.

Okay, fine. I'm talking about Moving Pictures. Yes, I like Rush. No, I haven't heard the super-Objectivist album, and I don't much care to. I had plenty of that in tenth grade when I had to read The Fountainhead (wow, Rob is really going all out with proper italicization of titles tonight. Must be the bourbon), and I found it a bit... non-consensual. (Seriously, Howard and Dominique. There's literature out there. Pick a safe word and use it.) But back to Moving Pictures. "Tom Sawyer," anyone? "YYZ?" "Limelight?" Hell, even "Red Barchetta" is an amazing song. Yes, Geddy Lee has that waily thing going on, and it can get a bit annoying after a while, but there's nothing like Rush for most any situation. Driving home after taking the MCAT? RUSH. Wandering around campus because someone won't return your calls? RUSH. Need a Canadian prog-rock band to listen to? RUSH. (Because who else are you going to listen to? Klaatu? Do we look like we have Barada and Nikto on standby?) Of course, somewhat ironically (there I go again, using that word), I'm currently listening to choral music from 1936. Well, fine, the recording probably isn't from 1936.

No, it's not subtitled. You can figure it out. I believe in you, faithful readers.

Then you've got the freaking Rocky soundtracks. Yes, I know that Rocky came out in the 70's. I'm talking about the Rocky movies that had good soundtracks. This doesn't mean that they had good plots, but they were coincidentally both AMAZING movies. Hell, let's expand this to other AMAZING movies (or so I'm told) with good soundtracks. Rocky III, Rocky IV, Highlander,  The Karate Kid, Top Gun, and probably several others. I mean, that's a road trip mix right there. You'll probably go crazy because you'll be JUST THAT AMPED UP.

See how he's staying loose and tight at the same time? Do that, but do less.

No, seriously. Look at the iconic tracks from each of those movies. "Eye of the Tiger," "The Final Countdown," "You're the Best," "Danger Zone," all of the Highlander soundtrack (because Queen didn't do things in half measures)- they're not only songs that get you ready to take on the world, one training montage at a time, but they're also songs that encompass the optimism that I'm told the 80's were supposed to be all about. These are songs you do in a group at karoke before extolling and convincing the married bartender of your friend's sexual prowess and getting her a little curious (but only a little- we're not ones to cuckold here, because this is now 80's night, where we're only the most honorable of Pucks). 

As opposed to the terrifying one that Neil "Angry Trousers" Gaiman writes. Alas, I couldn't find the downright chilling "Give me your hands, if we be friends/And. Robin. Shall. Restore. Amends" panel.

These are songs that normal people play before their important tests and other life events. (I'm not normal people, partly because I'm not sure that I heard these songs until I saw some of these movies on TV. I still haven't seen The Karate Kid, and I only saw Top Gun in 2011 (despite having a Naval aviator as a father). But don't worry- I've seen Jeremiah Johnson and The Music Man.)

"WITH A CAPITAL 'T' WHICH RHYMES WITH 'P' WHICH STANDS FOR 'POOL!'" Oh, Professor. How we've missed you.

So, I guess that last paragraph or two probably disqualifies my as any sort of expert, authority, or even amateur scholar of 80's music. I only came in at the end, and at that point, I was mostly listening to Raffi and The Beatles (hey, despite the grief that I give them, my parents DID hit my musical education pretty strongly in some areas). But goddamn if I won't listen to some "Come on Eileen" in the lab whenever my fellow lab members are foolish enough to let me get to the Pandora station. We will 80's it up all night long (which, coincidentally, is how long she shook me).

Speaking of the lab, I should probably pack it in shortly, I've got a solid swallow of bourbon (which I should probably chase with some water, because I can already feel the nagging headache of a bourbon hangover upon me (why did I have to inherit my father's taste for alcohol with my mother's tolerance? Oh, wait, it's because I'm a frugal son of a bitch. Ha ha ha ha, I had forgotten.), and it will only be worse by morning). If there's one thing Joseph doesn't want to deal with tomorrow, it's Rob with a hangover. Yeah, even though I already walked him through data analysis, he wants it again (which is reasonable, because it's not SUPER straightforward, but really? I showed you already. You plug raw data into Excel, and it spits out the values you need in all the successive columns. It's not an ideally designed spreadsheet, but it will get there), so I'm helping him out tomorrow at 10 in the morning, followed by a meeting with the boss at 1, which means I need to analyze data in the meantime. Wenh wanh. Have I closed all my parentheticals? Looks like.

Anyway, closing thoughts: Happy music is nice sometimes.