Rage, Rage Against the Dying of the Blog

Apparently my blog sucks now.

Apparently I've lost that je-ne-sais-quoi that kept millions from doing their homework in its prime.

Apparently I should just relegate myself to the more mundane rambling, summary, trivial, faux-important, pretenses to a diary that pollute this wonderful space of cyberity.

Well, I was never one for appearances, so suck on this:

Last week's frivolity accelerated to unheard of levels, and by "unheard of" I mean about half the level of a down week at Penn. Nonetheless, it actually made headlines in Greece. Well, the murder scandal that I don't give two baklavas about did. So listen up!

Tuesday night: typical darts night at the "English pub." Typical, that is, until DSka challenged me to a late night. I responded as only a brotha can. 30 minutes, one gay club, and an 8 euro cover later I was rotating on the female version of Danish school. Before I could finish my rounds, this thin blonde starts dancing with me, givin' all the scandals....long story short, I'm about to make my move, then she puts on the 180 so I query: You gots a BF? "I'm married and have a 2 year old daughter. Plus I'm probably too--" But I had already stopped listening, forcing all my friends to pull one HARD. See Figure 1.

Friday night: So Saturday is a big Carnival party, which means we're gonna take it easy, for sure. Except that we're awesome. So after some vino, DSka and I head out to find the best Margaritas in Athens. Once supplied with mirth, we set out to find the amateur Portuguese water polo team. But first, I thought I'd practice my Greek with a giant group of darkness-enhanced shorties.

Me: Do you like Americans?
Female Chorus: Yes, they are very nice!
Me: Well, my friend over there is American, you should come talk to us (DSka was skulking sto bar)
Female Chorus: We must never part from each other! Together we are strong!
Me: Gotcha [runs to bar] Dude, you must come, these girls like Americans!
DSka: BrrbblllleImdrunkbbbttty

But just as I was about to sputter a reply, our quest was at an end: Portuguese amateur water polot team! And yeah, nothing else really interesting happened after that.

Saturday Night: The Big Dance. And by big dance I mean Tzos at his midwestern raving best. Look for the video on YouTube in the near fyutch. Anyways, I summon the pictostory!

Sannan is creative. Sannan made herself into a robot. Sannan doesn't appreciate her creativity. Sannan discarded her robot hat and I had to bring it back for her. But Sannan loves my Pampered Chef citrus peeler. Plus she just got a package with Reese's Pieces.







This gloomy picture captures the genious of Classic Andy. I mean, who else could make a hat of such beauty. Katie's laughter is that of appreciation. Unlike the laughter later when she showed some randoms how she had lost the middle star of Orion's belt but thrusting her hips like an empowered 50 year old menopause warrior.







Oh yeah, I went as the In the Year 2000 sketch from Conan O'Brian. It was amazing how all the foreigners knew what it was instantly. And by instantly, I mean not without explanation and a smirk that says "Good one."

Anyhoo, I've included what I thought were the best ones for a general audience below. If you haven't seen the bit on Conan, seriously don't even read it, and consider yourself lucky I don't hate you.


In the Year 2000.......In the Year 2000!
Katerina will be the first classicist suspended by the APA for using performance enhancing drugs. When asked why she did it, she will say, "My talk was a little over, and I thought some cocaine would help speed things up.
In the Year 2000.......In the Year 2000!
Nick and Joanie will still be the most photogenic couple ever. Target will sign them to model for its photo frames, making them also the most thrown-out-after-purchase couple.
In the Year 2000.......In the Year 2000!
Greg and Meg will name their son Deg to keep the rhyme thing going, only to realize too late that this doesn't work so well with their nicknames: Greg-O and Meg-O.
In the Year 2000.......In the Year 2000!
Sara will meet Al Gore and ask him why he didn't give more specific solutions in his movie. Gore will chuckle and say he just wanted to be famous again, causing Sara to put him in a sleeper hold and knit a cute little sweater out of his beard. Gore keeps the beard.
In the Year 2000.......In the Year 2000!

Now if only I could replicate the Walker, Texas Ranger lever...

La Dee Frickin Da

[Editor's Note: For those of you who have never been to a poetry slam, not only are you going to be even more lost than normal with what follows, but you have not lived the life of a baller. How do I know? I'll let you ponder that one for a while...]

I'm on a bus.
But not just any bus,
the kind that makes your head spin in blissful nausea as you run your hands through your eyes
The dizzyness will go away...but it doesn't.
It doesn't!
IT DOESN'T!!

Unable to escape relentless tremors, engines roaring, murmers poaring thoughts about who gives a crap.
And then.
Impossibly I'm back in the soothing net of serenity, caught up, willing prey, why can't it be like this every day, what's for dinner, who's to say, and all I want to do is breathe.





A night unerring in its purpose...can this be true?
The ouzo in my veins says aye.
But who nowadays says aye? Maybe an old-time codger with a bone to pick.
Makes me sick, to think of what life has become in the grand scheme of what will it all amount to.

Why am I still up at 5 in the morning?
A little something called loyalty in case you haven't heard.
Times like these make me realize the path I've chosen ain't so rosy as I'd hoped.
Just the thorns.
Does watching sports make me a conformist cuz if it does I'd rather be "in the ranks" than feeling "independent" as I use other people's cliche's to criticize the Man.
Speaking of which: does Manning have the manliness to manhandle what unmans?
I couldn't resist.

People need to see what's got me all giddy inside I just can't hide the feeling of a thousand yays-goin' insane-gotta tell someone-don't matter if I act the fool-it just feels right.
Say we're going to a WHAT kind of a bar?
Oh no, not me. I don't DO country western, see?
But again I relearn Dr. Seuss, the lesson of green eggs & ham, and I don't even know someone named Sam I Am!
Shoot, that ain't country!
Not the kind that makes my skin crawl under the bed in the hopes that the monsters will put it out of its misery.
And so I go under. Under under under, until I sink into the depths of late night lascivity, licking last leavings from liquor-laced liquid, leaping lowly to latent melodies, laughing lordly at luckily unfamiliar ladies lusting after locales I know better than to love.
You wanna go to Nashville?
And now come questions streaming forth, ants sent by their mistress to retrieve their dutied burden.
But I in turn but one must ask, and of one heard correctly, not believed.
So I felt just, and do not even now shrink from the confession of my query.
And here it is
To end this rant
Your name is Iota, like the letter?



*Blurriness simulates actual conditions of bar