Are Apples the New Pistachios?

Something strange is brewing in the wind.

So I was in the midst of a last-minute panic session regarding my phone interview tomorrow (gulp!) when I decided that I simply MUST have apples. Yes, at midnight. And no, I’m not pregnant or anything -- just prone to panic binges. Fortunately, a community car was available and I trekked down to Woodman’s with the other strange and scraggly men of the night.

The oddities, though, began on my walk back down State Street, apples in hand. As usual, I was quickly approached by a homeless-looking man.

“Hey, my man.”

“Yes.”

“My man. You got two papers?”

“Huh?”

“Two papers? You got them?”

“No.”

What in the world was he talking about? Two papers? Did he have an insatiable desire to read the latest Maureen Dowd column without paying the ridiculous TimesSelect fee? Was he asking for money? In paper form? Was it about… drugs? I must be really naïve because I have NO idea.

Then, still scratching my head after that encounter, a guy in a nearby car called me over and gestured directly at my bag of apples.

“[Indecipherable]?”

“Huh?”

“You got a couple beers in there for me?”

“No.”

What is going on? Random people driving cars and asking me for beer? Other strangers desperately in need of two papers? Is this a good or bad omen for tomorrow’s interview?

I’m going to go eat a few apples.

The Hauntening

I think I may have attracted a poltergeist.

My working theory is that one (or more) of my non-existent neighbors died and turned to haunting me in a fit of other-worldly boredom. This theory is supported by the strange “bodies dropping on the floor” sounds I keep hearing from the apartments above me. Hours of silence are typically followed by an enormous and deadened (and ominous) THUMP.

The haunting itself has taken many forms.

For instance, I absolutely cannot find my TV remote control. It’s not in the sock drawer. It’s not underneath the couch. It didn’t fall behind the dresser. I’m at a loss. I mean my apartment is NOT very big. The only logical explanation left is ghost pilfering.

And then there are the appliances. First my refrigerator freezes everything into a solid block of ice when the dial is set a single millimeter above off. Then the next day, all of my frozen peas and tater tots melt in a freezer that has suddenly decided to stop with the freezing. Again, supernatural-ism seems to be the most reasonable explanation.

Of course, the good news is that the poltergeists are not solely driven at torturing me. They have also brought back my cable TV! That’s right, cable miraculously re-appeared yesterday – perfectly timed to allow me to view the first episode of The Colbert Report on Comedy Central.

The bad news, though, is that the Polters (my pet name) may now be following me to campus. My jacket disappeared yesterday. During the entire day, I was in a total of three rooms. My jacket is not in any of these three rooms. Barring a more corporeal pilfering by Spice or J-Bro, I suspect that the ghosts are now styling in my water-proof black jacket. Stupid ghosts.

It’s Not Dangerous, It’s Multitasking

Initially, I thought the new video iPod was simply too fabulous for words. What better way to deal with a 10 hour bus ride next to a smelly man obsessed with gun magazines than to simply download a few episodes of Lost ahead of time? How splendid to be able to amuse myself with actual video of Tom Cruise jumping up and down on Oprah’s couch any old time I want.

But when walking home from the library this evening, I realized the fatal flaw in this new iPod. Well, the fatal flaw for me at least.

You see, I was walking home at midnight. It was dark. The sidewalk was FULL of drunken undergrads. I was listening to “Gold Digger” quite loudly on my virtually-antiqued audio iPod. And all the while I was trying to read by streetlight an Isthmus review of The Ghost Whisperer [hee].

Unsurprisingly, I almost crashed into at least three different frat boys. Can you imagine the carnage if I were watching Survivor on my iPod while walking down State Street and trying to read? Probably not a good idea for me.

To Burn or Not To Burn

Note to the Feds: This post is purely in the realm of the hypothetical. Please don’t arrest me.

So… where do we now stand on the issue of music sharing? I know that downloading song upon song for free is bad. I know that looting CD shops and directly stealing music is bad. And I know that listening to street musicians in Madison is bad – but that last one is probably a whole other debate.

What about the occasional music swap among friends, though? On the one hand, it’s kinda stealing and probably kinda illegal. On the other hand, however, we have the following points (not all of which are my own – thanks, moxie!):

1. Musicians apparently make most of their money off touring, not album sales. Sharing music encourages more people to see the shows of these musicians and thus actually means more money for the poor, beleaguered independent musicians.

2. CDs are too damn expensive.

3. Engaging in music swapping means creating a general music buzz. Said buzz then increases album sales. Everyone is better off.

4. Swapping is considerably better than looting.

5. Music swapping is very entrepreneurial. Entrepreneurialism is very American. Americanism is very good.

Is Tom Cruise an Adult?

Goodness, I’ve been bad about blogging lately. This is not, however, because I have stopped obsessing about blog-able issues. Harriet Miers intrigue? Obsessed. Possible Karl Rove indictment? Obsessed. TomKat spawnage? Obsessed. Lindsay Lohan car crash? Obsessed.

I guess I’m just not finding an angle to offer on any of these delicious stories. And at the same time I’m too busy obsessing about them to do anything interesting myself. A conundrum indeed.

I have had a few interesting conversations, though, about when one can really be considered an “adult.” Being a perpetual student myself, I do occasionally wonder whether it is possible to be both “student” and “adult” at the same moment. But if I’m not an “adult” at 29 years of age, what in the world am I?

Anyway, three hypotheses have been offered in these conversations regarding the achievement of adulthood.

1. American males are adults when they hang guest towels of their own accord.
2. American males are adults when they successfully learn to RSVP to weddings and other formal occasions.
3. One is an adult when one really accepts oneself for who one is.

Despite the smurfiness of number three, I kind of like it. Although I guess an entire other question would be whether I can be an adult and still obsess about the hilarity of Tom Cruise’s unborn child with Katie Holmes. God, I hope so.

What? HUH? I CAN'T HEAR YOU!!!

Well, that was a disaster.

Teaching sections to sleepy undergrads at 8:50 a.m. is always a… challenge. Invariably, I walk into the room, exuding fake perkiness, only to discover that the lights are out and the students’ eyes are giving off either severe resentment or complete detachment.

Occasionally, there is also a slight aroma of left-over-bar hangover-ness. Some of you will know what I mean.

Today, though, we can add to the fun (a) hot, muggy weather and (b) a construction crew tearing out the sidewalk three feet away from the building. Make that LOUDLY tearing out the sidewalk three feet away from the building. If the class hadn’t had a midterm coming up on Monday, I would have just walked in the room and instantly dismissed everyone. As it is, I attempted to persevere.

I tried shutting the window, but all that did was slightly muffle the sound and create a sauna in the classroom. I tried dividing them into small groups, but even when they were two feet away from each other, they couldn’t hear what anyone was saying. I eventually just gave up after twenty minutes and told them to leave. The saddest part is that they couldn’t even hear me try to excuse them. I had to write the exit instructions on the board.

The only thing that has saved me from a terrible mood this morning is reading that Nic Cage has named his son Kal-El. Thank God ridiculous celebrities never fail to disappoint.

Splitting of the Parii

Yes, it’s true. Our dreams of a fabulously terrible wedding and even more fabulously terrible baby naming are gone. Paris Hilton and Paris Greek-Shipping-Heir have called off their engagement. We are left only to wonder what her next publicity stunt will be. I mean she’s already had a sex video, done a reality TV series, announced a foray into the music industry, lost her precious purse dog, and “accidentally” become the victim of a cell phone-ish thingy stealing. I think the next step must be some personal tragedy (greater than losing her Man Paris) that will result in a tear-fest on Oprah. Prescription drug rehab? Strange liver disease? Conversion to Scientology? As always, whatever it is, I only ask that it be SUPREMELY terrible.

In other strange news, Bush’s newest Supreme Court nominee is a woman who (a) has never been a judge and (b) has never argued a case before the Supreme Court. I’m still trying to find the angle on this one. Appealing to his base? No. Sticking to his guns on the [alleged] issue of qualifications vs. diversity? No. Digging himself further into the ground on matters of cronyism? Yes.

All of this, of course, borders on the surreal -- which plays nicely into the account of my weekend in Vegas.

I’ve decided, that the thing with Vegas is that they’ve built up this mystique of Vegas being all CRAY-ZEE!!! and WOO!!! all the time. But in actuality, the craziness disappoints. From what I saw, it was a lot of people who think they are crazy, much in the same way that reality TV contestants often think they are strategic and subtle. Actual craziness, though, demands far more doing of crazy things and far less vague discussion of the possibility of crazy things. And it’s hard to be too crazy when you are in a city bombarded with both buffet dinners and posters featuring Celine Dion.

More on Vegas later…