Subterranean Beefworks

Lots of walking. Lots of pictures.

I went on a long-ass walk today. I took a bunch of pictures, some of which are kinda cool. There was such a volume of them that I'm just posting links with some indicative captions.

Looking down from up the street.
Walking up towards the tower. Drops of sweat so far: 2
A knee at work. Drops of sweat so far: 4
I got lost looking for the tower, since I took a different route. This is where I was.
Finally I found the big star tower that is apparently used for UHF broadcast. It's got an unmistakably phallic theme to it.
Razor wire. Wilkommen in Dachau?
Here is the view from the tower. There's not a whole lot to say that the picture doesn't already.
Similar view.
Such views can make a person vain. Here's me being heroic like flying free eagle.
And some fowdiez.
Blurry woods!!!
Squirrels own this campus.
More of the little bastards.
Maybe you could write an a short, humerous essay about this picture.
Heights. Let us micturate.
There's a steel mill in this picture.
There is a drainage conduit in this one.
This is the flower machine, in case you need flowers.
These shins belong to my friend Jamie, one of two Jamies in fact.
Can you find the gang imagery?
Some dudes at dinner. I've never met them, but they seemed alright with me taking a picture.

That was today's walk. I'm tired from it.

Fall Lake George

Moderate Hypothermia - core temperature 95 - 93 degrees F
• Dazed consciousness


• Loss of fine motor coordination - particularly in hands - can't zip up parka, due to restricted peripheral blood flow


• Slurred speech


• Violent shivering


• "I don't care attitude" - flattened affect

The above snippet of info equates to, "hell yes."

I spent the weekend at this outing club event called "Fall Lake George" which was a camping trip hosted by RPI. Now, before I get into the cool stuff, let me just say that I retract any comparison I ever made to RIT and RPI. If you represented them both by bananas, you'd have the RPI banana in one hand. It's big, fresh, chocked full of potassium and a nice sunny shade of yellow. Then you'd have the RIT banana, a shrunken brown arc which you won't even pick up because it's got green fur growing on the rot patches. RPI people are A-OK in my book.

So this Lake George place is by Troy, NY which is by Albany, NY. The RPI Outing Club (ROC) rented this island about 1.5 miles from shore and had a bunch of other outing clubs come and just have a weekend together, ours included. We got to the launch point in the dead of night and my two new friends (Olga and Garrick) and I boarded our over-loaded two-man canoes and headed into the inky waters.

It was a good hour of canoeing in the general direction of this beacon light which never seemed to get any larger. As we closed in on it, the letters ROC emerged from what was nothing but a golden pimple for the last hour. Camp was set up and particulars organized. Some sandwiches were eaten and then we slept.

The next day was filled with canoeing our shoulders to arthritis, hiking up a mountain side, learning how to whistle with acorn hats, square-dancing, and cliff jumping a nice 20 foot drop. Up to that point, the milage was about 6.5 miles on our canoes. I suppose that's not a whole lot, but then, there's still some canoeing I didn't yet talk about.

That took place Sunday morning. About 7am, I awoke to a voice. "Time to get up! You in there, son?" It belonged to of Kevin (another LehighOutingClub member) shaking my dilapidated tent and thus my head, which was pinned against the wall.

The sour weather we expected every day of the weekend was finally there, making up for all the time it lost the other days by being especially rainy and cold. I was friggin' soaked from packing up my shit and cleaning up garbage, but the worst was yet to come.

With rain and wind come waves; they were great and threatening. Whitecaps tossed our over-loaded canoe like assholes toss around people who aren't assholes, but are too small to fight back. It felt like something out of a sailor novel or something, with grey washing everything in sight, water splashing into the boat, and the crew realizing for the first time that they just might be fucked.

We navigated our boat to the other side of the island, managing to get our belongings on a motor boat so we wouldn't sink on the way back. At that point, the t-shirt came off and I was ready for battle.

We fucking sailed back to the landing 1.5 miles away. Using the act of canoeing to basically save my life through cellular resperation, I chugged my ass off to get back, with my esteemed crewmates doing the same. In the driving rain, we fired across the lake, passing lesser boaters who had left in excess of 10 minutes before us.

We finally made it back. My speech at that point was slurred and my ideas brief and disorganized. I dried myself for a while using the air dryer in the bathroom at the suggestion of one of the RPI girls. But I made it. And we made it. And everything worked out. And I am a warrior.

After I got home, I did a little research about hypothermia out of curiosity, to see how close I got, and I pretty much hit moderate right on the money.

That was my weekend. I love camping.

Where to start

I know there's a lot I want to say in this entry, but I haven't really figured it all out yet. Maybe I will once my room has gone dark.

Stay tuned?

Update:

As it turns out, I have less to say in this entry than I thought I did. Little has changed, I am still amazed by the same things, and still lose my audience when I try to explain the things that amaze me.

I am very comfortable here at Lehigh. I was afraid to leave RIT because of how much of a groove I was in. I knew all the buildings, I knew how the place worked and what I could get away with. I also had a very steady job and great living conditions. It was a lot to sacrifice, but each day, at least once, I have enough silence to myself to affirm that I made the right choice. If it isn't the beauty of campus, be it in pouring rain or pouring sunshine, it is the scent of the air or the comfort of my bed. If it's none of those, it's the joy of spotting the extraordinary cars people drive around this place, or it's looking forward to hanging out with people who I really care about. I wouldn't go so far as to say things have completely settled, because firstly, I don't have a girlfriend and I can't say I've had a real blast at a party yet. Still uncomposed too is my group of friends, which shuffles among new climbing aquaintences, new faces at lunch with Jamie, and the people I meet with my housemates. That's not a time-critical thing though, especially having found someone who is shaping up to be at very least a best friend.

What might be more interesting for readers is some good old fashioned roommate drama:

A huge reason I am so happy here is that I can return home to someone I consider a friend. Pat is as close to a perfect roommate as I could ever ask, as someone who doesn't snore, who is consistently respectful of my things, who is reasonable and sociable, and who lives very unobtrusively along side me.

Regardless, tonight we had a little flare up. It was long ago established that he and I are to be the guard dogs of eachother's belongings in the presence of outsiders. We made a pact that what's his is mine and what's mine is his (in terms of what's in the fridge) and that we were to make sure our shit didn't get fucked with by anyone. I trust this kid completely and I am of the strong opinion that he will never violate my belongings.

But tonight it had to be explained that I am frankly just not comfortable with people on my computer, him included. He needed to use MS Access on my comp because it wouldn't work on his. I felt that I should keep him from using it for a couple of reasons.

1) My computer is my sanctuary. I have poured money, time, frustration, and effort into getting this thing in the state it's in. It's untainted by others and I will do everything I can to keep it that way. That's why I lock it every time I leave it, without fail. It's like locking your car that holds your $2000 sound system and 365 CD Album full of your best disks. I somehow get a sense of comfort and security knowing that only I have control over my box.

For him to get any use out of it (since I am often not in the room), I would have to keep it unlocked, and thus sacrifice that comfort.

2) I make the assumption that his use wouldn't end at one session, and I just wouldn't want this to be a recurring thing (since I'm compulsively/unhealthily protective of my box). I see it progressing from Access, to other things like entertainment (when a movie doesn't play on his old IBM Thinkpad or whatever). Maybe I'm wrong in assuming that, but it's not something I want to have to put my foot down about later.

3) He is computer literate, but not computer savvy. Seeing what I see in my job every day, I can imagine any number of rookie mistakes that he could make that would upset the balance I have on "Lichen." It's something I want to avoid.

I know there are those out there that understand my whole 'sanctuary' thing perfectly, but there are also others who look upon it as completely ridiculous. I guess it's just the rift between different cultures. I feel like a pilot when I use my computer. I know where everything is, I know all the shortcuts, I've defined my own. I know how long things take to load and how to recover from fuckups. It's like an extension of myself.

With that in mind, sorry dude. You can't borrow my hands to open a softdrink, nor to scratch your balls.

Just to prove that I can

I want to try writing simpler. I read some entries from over the summer, and I didn't like how my sentences sound. It makes me not want to read anything by Dan Greuter.

And it turns out I do a lot of cussin'.

Ya know, I really have nothing to say to this thing tonight. Have a nice night.

Quadruple Dose

Where's the fuckin' money, shithead!?

Triple Dose

It is agreed that urine is bubbly.

When one urinates, the turbulence of the fluid hitting whatever surface it hits creates sustaining bubbles, a foam if you will, wherever the it comes to rest. So riddle me this, readers: If urine is a bubbleous fluid, then why is it that there is never a noticable escape of gas as it leaves the body? If you ever have air in your pluming, you notice it when you go to turn on the faucet. It hisses, coughs, and spatters as the air escapes. Why does this never happen in the case of mictoration? You could do 50 jumping jacks before evacuating your bladder, but there would be no evidence of gas in your expectorant.

One reason I suppose is that while the fluid is confined to the body, the gas is never given the opportunity to accumulate, in the way that it does in faucet pluming. The gas remains in small disorganized pockets that never merge.

I could say so much right now. Go ahead. Ask me a question if you read this while I am still reasonably buzzed. Questions about life, love, sex, anything. I will tell you my honest answer without reservation. Why the fuck is everyone asleep or away right now? Scarecly do I ever feel this fantastically inclined to have an in-depth conversation about anything.

Maybe I should take some inititive and go find one myself.

Peace and love, mai neegaz. Press the robot button if you need any service.

SHIT HEADS

Double dose

Good things:

Shaving a 3-day-unshorn face with a freshly charged electric razor
Röyksopp, an actively contemplative mood in music.
Harp Lager
Using my Swiss Army knife to pop the lids off Harp Lager bottles
Female fingers on the back of my neck
Lehigh Pizza with blue cheese
The wily energy and enthusiasm of my competant boss
Screaming chastisement at people who deserve it
The dry tightness of forearms after the first climb of the day
The Grand Vitara
Memories of 100mbit ethernet
The view of Bethlehem from my window
Being 21, single, without braces, and happy with my body
Walking up hundreds of stairs every day and noticing that it has become very effortless
Freshly laundered clothes
Pantera, Dream Theater, hide, Siam Shade, Audioslave, Opeth, Tool, The White Srtipes
Jamie
Not owning a single silk garment
The second floor showers and the startlingly powerful toilet in the first stall
My top bunk
The economic benefits of low tolerance and moderation
Not knowing where my education is taking me
My sister and how cool it is to have her as a sister
The Big Lebowski
The Big Balbowski
My hovel in the basement of the library
My 'corrective rods' and the conversations they suppliment
The box that I keep my guitar picks in
The lovely sounds of my neck pickup
The evil sounds of my bridge pickup
The jokes about my defunct middle pickup
Colin McRae Rally III
2004 Subaru WRX STi
My shoes that don't need to be tied all the time
The texture of your skin

VACATION IN BLASTONBURTBURNVILLE!@!!*&@!%^#*@%#

CAKE FUCK

My retainer makes me drool during sleep. Usually I'll be having a cool, mildly vivid dream a few minutes before my alarm clock goes off and my body will wake me up to day "yo, the alarm is going to go off soon." So I do, and then notice that my cheek has been sitting in an oval of spit for at least an hour. I'm pretty sure this doesnt happen when I don't wear the retainer.

There was a story not long ago about how some brits noticed a correlation between sleeping position and personality. Using what seemed like blatantly unscientific methods, they made the observation that people who sleep on their back with their arms at their sides are "quiet and reserved" (this is a favorite position of mine). They also mentioned the position of flat on the stomache with hands at the side of of the head (my prefered position of late) which suggests a brash and gregarious person.

I was pissed for most of the day. Of course the humidity plays a huge role, but it doesn't help to have frat brother assholes living on your floor who pump low-fidelity rap through an inferior subwoofer all day. I have to say though, in terms of staying sane in lieu of living in close proximity with others, I have done extremely well compared to the past. Not a single homicidal inclination!

Tonight I am expecting to drink and be merry. The past few weekends have been pretty domestic (no regret implied), and I'd like to get myself into some trouble somehow.

It's all relative to the size of your steeple.

Let me begin first by saying Fuck You, Fugimax, you self-absorbed high-riding gold-bricking little twit! You completely ruined the celebratory 100th comment with your ever-predicable sarchasm.

I hope that was sufficiently over-the-top.

As much as the media enjoyed devouring Marilyn Manson with their acidic criticism, they did a wonderful job of filtering out only his best songs for mainstream air-play. After my recent aquisition of MM's discography, I have come to realize that there are very few songs besides his 'debut' hit "The Beautiful People" and that other song from Mechanical Animals (both of which are the only ones I can think of that ever achieved even moderate air-time) that are even worth listening to. Granted, any given Manson song makes for great listening after messy breakups or before street brawls, but their utility and virtue doesn't go a great deal further than that.

It bears mentioning however, that even just listening to his music is kind of a rush. Not because it has any specific musicallity, but rather because it almost feels like you're breaking the law. His threat to civilization has been trumped up almost as much as the threat of marijuana. I mean, watching the television I see Bush asking God to bless the country, I see that those who mint our money trust in God, I read about how the middle east hates us because of how they worship the wrong god, and then there's Manson up on stage flinging feces and pig blood at all accepted Dogmas. You've got to respect that.

I have oustanding respect for Marilyn Manson. The few times I have heard him speak have shown me that he is a highly intelligent man. He shocks for the sake of shock, but carries with him a philosophy that gives a point to all of it. Beneath the makeup is a man of conviction who has his finger on the pulse of society. He also just happens to be dragging a razor blade across the pulse as well.

He was also cool with hide, and any friend of hide is okay in my book.

College though. Fucking A. The workload isn't even that bad yet, but because much of the material has been presented in such uninteresting ways, I find myself oppressed and nearly slacking off in silent protest (Don't worry, Mom, I am still going to get my 5th year free). What I believe is that I am still adhering to the habits I had in highschool and during my stint at RIT. I am a B slacker. The difference in effort required to get B's compared to A's is astronomical, and so far I just haven't been convinced that B's are unacceptable. I am on the verge of another self-improvement kick though, and so I hope to soon turn my mediocrity around. It will be far more rewarding to work hard and then play hard, as opposed to work barely, and play somewhat hard.

Lots to sort out in my head. On that note, I am going to return this borrowed laptop and try to convey to the girl at the returns desk that I think she's particularly cool.

We gonna get fuuucked UP, Smokey!

I'm writing this as I roll on 500MG of lovely cephalexin. In case you're rusty on your greek, 'ceph' refers to 'head' and OG MY GHISDH i am totally out of it. this stuff makes you feel like your head is filled with sticky sticky snakes and they're all knotted up and are trying to get out and stuff. IUGHRL

Actually, it's an antibiotic.

I had some thing on my lip that appeared after I drank from someone else's Sprite bottle, and I guess I had some cut or something that decided to get mildly infected. 2 days of treatment and it's gone.

And no it wasn't herpetic.

And yes, I am made of ice cream.