Personal life and anecdotes no one can relate to

Attention, geeks: Take my advice. Don’t try to put Windows 98 on a Mac.

I blame Mark. We were having a nice, nostalgic conversation about operating systems, and Windows 98 came up. Suddenly, visions of Windows 98 SE running smoothly and brilliantly flashed into my head. Yeah, those were the days. When real OSes were real OSes. When you could customize your desktop themes and change the backgrounds of your folders. When it didn’t ask you to update every other day. Also, back when you could screw around with system files and all Windows would give you was a stern suggestion not to do so.

Several minutes of stupidity later, I decided to attempt an install of Windows 98 on my Mac. My computer proceeded to tell me that, upon booting from the install disc, it wasn’t entirely sure if I had a disc drive. “Well, where’d you get the disc you booted from then?” I asked it, and it slunk back into the shadows of DOS in embarrassment. Several screens of text later, it clammed up, with only a single, mysterious line visible:



A kamikaze roll. Seriously, you think they'd have a better name for it.

Because I sure as Hell was one of them. And, fellow sushi hunters, I can only say: I empathize.

Once you get past the misconception that all sushi [a correction: all things called ‘sushi’, whether they are technically sushi or not sushi, because Americans love to mix things up like that] is raw fish and have some at a Japanese restaurant, you start to get the feeling that you’ve missed out on an important chunk of life. The chunk of life that revolves around eating things stuffed in algae and rice, specifically. You realize, firstly, that you were foolish not to try it sooner and, secondly, that you want more.

It starts out innocently enough. (more…)

Well, I can’t sleep.

Instead, I’ve decided to replay every addicting Flash game I can think of in one sitting. Or at least, until I got bored enough to make a blog post. Which is what I’m doing. Hey, look, Devil Dogs.

Those were some good Devil Dogs. Heh, I just mistyped “dogs” and it came out “gods”. They’re not exactly the gods of food though. That’s more like sushi. Seriously. I got sushi at the mall the other day, and I said “thank you” to the guy in Chinese. And he was all like “ZOMG”, but he wasn’t “ZOMG” really because I don’t think they have a “ZOMG” in Chinese.

I really want sushi right now.

Except, if I had sushi, I’d try to eat it and fail. On account of it being dark, y’see, and I couldn’t aim for the stuff with chopsticks. I’d probably get that sauce stuff all over my new mac, too, and that would suck because I couldn’t use my computer OR enjoy the full extent of my sushi.

Never mind that though. I had a reason for writing this post, if only I could remember what it was.


The most unintentionally hilarious conversation I’ve overheard takes place in a lawfirm, where I’m sure there are dozens of unintentionally hilarious conversations due to lawyers and legal secretaries being driven completely insane by the sheer tediousness and horrifying monotony of their jobs. Then again, my mother works for a lawfirm and knows I have this blog, so maybe I should just shut the hell up. Alternatively, I could just say: Hi Mom!

The conversation happened next to a copy machine, where two lawyers or other similarly socially doomed law-people stood clutching the fresh copies the machine had so willingly produced for them. Then they proceeded to talk about copying in general, and how much better copying machines were in the old days. Apparently, there was something nostalgic and altogether magical about the use of carbon paper, an experience current generations miss using modern-day copy machines.


The other evening I went to the Cabaret Theatre on Douglass to see the Quaint Little Coffee Shop, a long-form improvisational group that, if you haven’t heard about as a Rutgers student, you’d better click on that link right away. “Hilarious” does not even begin to describe these guys. They act as one giant entity, seamlessly creating and ending scenes, one after another, before the audience. The English language is their plaything; they create solid characters out of lengthy monologues, which in turn spring up from one single word volunteered by the audience.

They’re really good.

At any rate, it was practically one in the morning by the time they finished, and I had neglected to move my car from its parking lot on Busch. Little did I know that the bus system had magically changed during my brief time in the theatre, so that I would have to endure two very long bus rides before I could get to my car. Not that it mattered; the story of the “feux hawk” echoed in my mind, so I continued to be entertained despite the mind-numbingly long journey ahead of me.

Not only had I forgotten to move my car, not only had I forgotten the bus system is near death after midnight, but I had also forgotten that it was Friday night and I was bound to run into partiers.

And so I did – mostly on the H bus, the second half of my trek to the car. The smell of alcohol was so permeating that I thought I might become drunk by osmosis and get pulled over on my way home. Perhaps the most entertaining couple of the night was comprised of these two dudes – and yes, the laws of grammar say that if you’re running into partiers on Friday night, you must refer to them as “dudes” – who clearly had vastly different levels of alcohol tolerance.

“Dude, you gotta be the boss of your girlfriend,” one was saying. “You gotta be the boss of her. Look at me, my girlfriend ain’t the boss of me. She’s the boss of you. You can’t have that. You gotta be the boss of her.” He had these phrases on infinite shuffle for the next fifteen minutes. Unfortunately, his intended audience didn’t seem terribly interested, instead choosing to turn pale and stare at his feet.

Most entertaining solo act of the night, however, certainly goes to this one dude who climbed into the bus and almost immediately asked, “Dude, what bus am I on?”

Now, I know you’re really not supposed to engage drunk people in conversation, but it had been a long bus ride and I was curious. So I responded it was the H bus.

“Aw thanks dude.  Dude!  What’s in the Pepsi bottle?”

I looked at the Pepsi bottle I was holding – something I’d picked up between bus rides to keep some caffeine in my bloodstream. “Pepsi,” I said truthfully.

“Dude, no way!” he exclaimed, as though this were the most unbelievable thing he’d ever heard. “Dude, why aren’t you out partying?”

I explained that I was a commuter and it’s not the most brilliant of ideas to drive home drunk. (Not that I drink in the first place, mind you, but I wasn’t going to go down that road with a drunk person.)

“Aw, wow, you’re a commuter? Well wait a minute, what are you doing on a bus?”

Other queries included: “Woah, where’s Colonia? Were you a football player? Did you ever fuck any teachers? You sure you weren’t a football player?”

This post is a warning to anyone who rides the busses past midnight, especially on Fridays: You might make new friends! Only they might not remember in the morning. And they can only communicate by speaking very, very loudly.

I went to Barnes & Noble with my good buddy Taco the other day. Eventually the computer books section began calling my name. It turned out they were calling for another Chris. How embarrassing. Oh well.

While we were there, I couldn’t resist taking this picture.

(P.S. I’m also submitting this to failblog. Let’s see how it goes.)

Everyone knows that the younger siblings get all the attention. However, few people realize that they get all the luck, too.

Consider my little brother, an adamant Back to the Future viewer. I don’t know if you know or remember the movies, but the time machine’s made out of a De Lorian car. My little brother’s made a De Lorean car out of Legos and all sorts of things. Anyway, a De Lorean car is a relatively rare sort of car, the only car manufactured by the De Lorean company according to Wikipedia. As we were driving home from a family outing at a Japanese restaurant – a really good Japanese restaurant, by the by – we passed by a pizza place.

My little brother starts shouting that there’s a De Lorean parked in front of the pizza place. I start shouting for him to stop shouting. Some shouting ensues, followed by much quieter shouting. We turn the car around, we drive back to the pizza place, and lo and behold, it’s a goddamn De Lorean car.

As we climb out of our car and my little brother starts inspecting the thing, I hear some voices in the background: “That can’t be… nah, it’s gotta be… trust me bro, it is…” Turning around, I see three guys crossing the street, curious as to the car’s identity. “Yes, it’s a De Lorean,” I tell them, confident that if anybody had it right, it was my little brother.

He begins lecturing the small crowd about De Loreans and the history thereof and the use of one in Back to the Future and so on and so forth. Random guys number one, two, and three, along with my little brother, find the car’s owner outside the pizza place and convince him to open the car up. My little brother looks around the interior like it’s some sort of dream come true for him. And it probably is. His fortune cookie said he’d get something like this.

The owner invited us to a car show that Wednesday, which, sadly, got rained out. I actually have some pictures of my little brother and I next to the De Lorean, but the Internet has decided not to cooperate with me tonight. I’ll upload them some other time.

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