givethaaanks

Happy Thaaanksgivings!

I give thanks for puppies.

Mist-ical SF

Pretty GG Park in the fog, last Saturday:

Paperclip Patent

What did they do before 1927?

Lookup other fun patents here.

So much Yay!

Yays all around today.
Not least of all the fucking-fantastic Red Sox SWEEEEEEPING the Rockies to Win the World Series!!!!
Fuuuuuuck Yeah.

As a person, he gets it.

Thanks to Jennifer for posting this. I wanted to re-post here.

At first I didn't understand his emotion, but it became clear at the end. Equality should be so simple, shouldn't it?

San Diego Mayor Jerry Sanders:

Borges on Lucid Dreaming

Since I was a little kid, I have been enthralled with dreams. I started my first dream journal when I was 10, not because I was interested so much in their content (as I now am), but because I was excited by having a separate, private life that was all mine.

Jorge Luis Borges wrote on dreams, and in particular lucid dreaming. His excitement mirrored my own, but his dreams became a source of dissapointment. I wonder if its more dissapointing to live a life that doesn't match one's expectations, or if its far worse for one's dreamlife to fall short of hopes, presumptions and possibilities.

Dreamtigers, by Borges

In my childhood I was a fervent worshiper of the tiger - not the jaguar, that spotted 'tiger' that inhabits the floating islands of water hyacinths along the Parana and the tangled wilderness of the Amazon, but the true tiger, the striped Asian breed that can be faced only by men of war, in a castle atop an elephant. I would stand for hours on end before one of the cages at the zoo; I would rank vast encyclopedias and natural history books by the splendor of their tigers. (I still remember those pictures, I who cannot recall without error a woman's brow or smile.) My childhood outgrown, the tigers and my passion for them faded, but they are still in my dreams. In that underground sea or chaos, they still endure. As I sleep I am drawn into some dream or other, and suddenly I realize that it's a dream. At those moments, I often think: This is a dream, a pure diversion of my will, and since I have unlimited power, I am going to bring forth a tiger.
Oh, incompetence! My dreams never seen to engender the creature I so hunger for. The tiger does appear, but it is dried up, or it's flimsy-looking, or it has impure vagaries of shape or an unacceptable size, or it's altogether too epemeral, or it looks more like a dog or a bird than like a tiger.

The Maker, 1960.

Perpetual Movement

I feel like I'm searching for everything right now. I'm searching for a possible new place to live. I'm searching for the right words to write for my statement of purpose on my doctorate school applications. I'm searching for a wonderful person to be with (always). I'm searching for my past. I'm in a perpetual state of movement, not always forward. I sway side to side some days. It's like a dance I can't yet stop. I need more things in my life that slow me down. One thing that always does is when I see views like this.



My heart catches and my lungs expand and my mind finds a cozy corner to rest.

Zoom in on Mars

Did you know you can look at Mars through google now? I feel a little sick in my stomach that I'm plugging a google feature on a different google feature, but they can't help it that they're so cool.

Mars Infared or Acid Trip?

Stranger Speak

What two strangers said to me today:

"You're so receptive to nurturing."

"Are you here to save me today?"

Throwback

I'm going to go out on a limb here and state with perfect conviction that the Harvey Birdman intro is one of the two best cartoon intros of all time.



2nd best, as you were already thinking, is clearly the "Bobby's World" intro:



When I watch the Bobby's World intro, I get the taste of Frosted Flakes in my mouth and the feeling of a perfect fall saturday morning, circa 1990.

mmmm. cartoons.

Brown Duct Tape

When I saw the brown duct tape, I actually audibly squealed. I've worked with white and red and blue and yellow and pink, but NEVER before have I seen brown.

So I went a little crazy this weekend. Apart from two wallets, three lighter holders and a small box, I actually duct-taped my cat. But only for a minute.

O.M.G.

Leave Britney Spears alone!

Obsession anew

You know when you REALLY, REALLY like this new band, and you're obsessed and you listen on your ipod on the way to work, and then at work, and then on the way home from work and then at home. And you youtube and google and you're just like, wow, how was this band not in my life before. And then a little while later, you're kinda at that "meh" stage, where it's still a great album and everything, but you're like,.... yeah.... and then a little while later you're like at that stage that's like akward laughter. You're like "heh.. uhh.." when it comes on, almost like embarassed, you know? And you're just sick of it.

Well, with The Blow and myself, there is, apparently, another stage even after that last stage. I may not be checking their myspace tour list everyday, but it's almost everyday. And I keep finding cute new videos from the lucky-luckies who got to see her show recently.

And then, I was watching the adorable video for Parentheses again when I noticed,
a vagina tree.



ha!

The day that she lists San Francisco on her tour dates, I will call in sick to work, and stay inside screaming and making happy jumps all day long.

Watch her live:


cuuuuteness monsters.

The benefits of living on Oak

When I first moved into my apartment, I could not believe the noise decible coming from the street at night. I could hear everyone's conversations clearly, and a car with a broken muffler would easily wake me up at 2am. Like most things, I grew used to it and now I love it. I found it hard to sleep in the safe, quiet, lulled-to-sleep suburbs where my sister lives.

And I get to hear this, at 11:15 at night:

Girl#1: "I'd suck pussy!"
Girl#2: "You'd suck pussy?"
Girl#1: "Yeah, no really, I would."
Girl#2: "You'd suck pussy... you don't suck pussy, you eat pussy.

Also, at about the same time each month, I'll return home, drop my shit in my room, and glance out my window to see 2 porn actors in mid-fuck. The large balding man across the street watching porn doesn't think to close his curtains to block the 52" plasma screen image coming into his living room, and, as it happens, my bedroom. Or maybe he does think to close the curtains and chooses not to because that's his thing. Either way, the shock of the mute porno jars me awake from my work-day cooldown and never ceases to make me burst out laughing.

I heart this crazy motherfucking city.

Boston Cupcakes

Going home is always crazy-making, isn't it? With therapy and psychology and childhood and attachment theory at the beginning and ending of every thought, I did go crazy. It's just so amazing to me how my relationships with my family members can stay the same for so long and suddenly it's like I got prescription glasses and can see the fuzzy lines for what they really are.

With every trip home there are high points and low points. One of the high points was walking down Newbury street early Monday afternoon before my flight. Boston really is adorable. It's quaint without being old and musty. In fact, it's really hip. Walking past euro-style "brasseries," I noted a store called "Johnny Cupcakes." "Don't be fooled," my sister replied. "It's not really a cupcake store." Well, any store that ISN'T a cupcake store and yet uses this word in their name had to be even cooler than if they actually sold them.

Johnny Cupcakes is a t-shirt store. It is set up like a bakery, with their t-shirts displayed in large glass cases and in restaurant-style coolers lining the walls.

All of their designs are, as you probably expected, ridiculously adorable. I scanned them, and then my eyes fell on this.



Ohmygodohmygod. CUTENESS.

And, instead of a bag, they put your adorable tee in a pastry box. Can if get any better? Yes. The tag design is a closeup of rainbow sprinkles and inlaid on the tag is the Johnny Cupcakes logo that becomes a stencil when you poke them out.



Can it get any better? Yes. On the inside of each t-shirt is a 'secret print' that the awesome dude behind the counter told me about as I skipped out the door, unabashedly squealing "ohmygodcuuuuuuuuuute" over and over. I told him to come to San Francisco. I hope he listens. In the meantime, check out their stuff at Johnny Cupcakes.

And, of course, being away gives me that warm-fuzzy-perspective feeling of life here. Driving in from South San Francisco, I felt a perfect calm once I saw the city. Seeing the fluffball of fog sitting wispy-like on the hills reminded me, as it always does, how to breathe.

The song "Happy Together" entered my mind and I sang to myself,

"I can't see me lovin' nobody but you
For all my liiiiiiiiife"

Me and you and you and me
No matter how they toss the dice, it has to be
The only one for me is you, and you for me
So happy togetherrrrrrr!"

heh.

Attachment Theory

As I finish my lifespan and human development course, I now realize how infinitly important it is to understand one's own childhood. While this is true for those who choose to have children, it is also true for those of us who plan not to. To understand attachment styles, that is how my primary caregiver responded to my needs as an infant, is to understand how and why I behave and think the way I do today. But it doesn't stop there, fortunately. We all have hundreds of thousands of unconscious processes as all other animals have. That is, we don't have to think in order for our heart to beat, for our lungs to take in air. However, we also have consciousness. And because of this, we are able to become free from these neuronal pathways that have been laid down in our infancy and trodded over and over and over again in our lifetime. This is why and how therapy works. If we establish a secure attachment with our therapist, we are then able to gain consciousness into the previously unconscious loss, rejection, shame and humiliation most of us experienced as an infant. It is through this attachment and consciousness that we can "become free" and lay down *new* neuronal pathways, new ways of thinking and behaving so that we don't continue to transfer these deep losses in our infancy onto our children and onto our friends, co-workers, lovers, and partners. And perhaps more importantly, this empowering freedom allows us to behave and think in more helpful and positive ways for ourselves.

In other words, read this book:

The early bird beats the system

He looked like a really nice grandfather. I imagine he had a son and a daughter, both grown. He probably has a modest home just outside of Sausalito, so he gets to say he lives there. His dog, Rusty, brings him his grandpa slippers though a little slobbery every evening when he gets home. He chuckles at the slobber and sits in his high-back Queen Anne leather chair. "Oh, Rusty" he always says, smiling. His wife, a reformed crack-addict, heats up his whiskey glass just as he likes and pours him a tallish glass. She sneaks a sip before entering into the great room where he sits. Pictures of fishing lures line the walls - he doesn't fish but finds beauty in the lures.

Today, he sat at his judgement stand in room "A" of the traffic court. He smiles at the defendants as they walk up one by one to the podium. A lawyer rushes in, his pant leg stuck in his right boot, holding several tattered file folders. The judge even smiles at him.

He then calls my name. "Oh, you're scheduled for 10:30. You're an hour early." "Yes sir" I reply. I wished I had said "Your Honor." I've always wanted to say that. As in, "Your Honor, I plead not-guilty to this retarded ticket I got from this asshole cop who pulled me over for taking a god-damned left turn on a yellow light." "Hey Marybelle - she's an hour early" he says to his file clerk. She shrugs. "Well, there is no police reporting, so you're free to go."

Balloons in tasteful gold and blue colors fall from the ceiling. The officer sitting in the back jumps on his desk and starts dancing, surprisingly well. A marching band consisting only of trumpeteers busts into the traffic court room playing "I love a parade." Everyone stands up and cheers. I wave at my fans as I leave the room, a slip in my hand that used to say I owed $380.00 now says 'dismissed.' "Don't worry" I assure them. "You'll all be dismissed as well." I say this even though I know it's not true. It's about being there for your fans.

I leave San Francisco County Court house smiling. The early bird beats the system!

Read This Book.

We're taught in our first writing classes in high school and college how to describe things. We're taught that a precise and precocious use of adjectives gets an "A" on the story/poem/whatever. This book, "Story of O" is not only exciting all by itself, it reminds me that sometimes, rather than an onslaught of information, too little information is much much more enticing.

Read it.

Feet piles

Feet piles always make me feel better.

Fear monsters

I mean fear mongers. It's funny when I remind myself sometimes that the same company (Hearst) who owns the Chronicle also owns Cosmopolitan magazine.

July 21st.

This week, even the silhouetted sunsets comforted me for only moments.
Disembodied easily thanks to perforated edges, I took no time at all, didn't I?
My eyes came out first but you broke me apart with such suave and skill, I wish I could have watched.
At least I got to hear the gloriously melodic ripping sounds you composed for me.
And it's okay, I didn't need to see you to know you were smiling as you left. That's why I smiled back.
Now, I saunter around hazily, numb except for sometimes. My guts hanging, they drag behind like a friend.

Slowing it down

Today was I'm a Passenger day for me. I left the scoot at home and bussed to and from work. I jumped off the 21 right after sunset at Alamo Square Park because the sunlight had this weird completely idyllic golden hue to it. Fuck. Yeah.

The Recent Past

I've always sort of thought that I was supposed to grow up in the 40s and 50s. And when I see these performances of Ella Fitzgerald, Perry Como, Nat King Cole and Rosemary Clooney, I get that weird chill you get when something hits you just right (like Bi-Rite's salted caramel ice cream).



As one of the comments says: Some people should live forever -Ella - One Note Samba (Scat Singing)






Perry Como, Nat King Cole, Rosemary Clooney

Perry Como & Rosemary Clooney: medley

Victor Borge

One of my favorite memories from my childhood is rushing home from school every day to claim the tv in the name of Victor Borge. If I got home before my sister, I got to control what we watched (until she made enough of a fuss and/or otherwise convinced me to give up my hold). My choice everyday was my Victor Borge VHS tape. every. single. day. I would pour a bowl of froot loops and sit no less than 4 inches from the screen, completely entranced by his magical hilarity.

One of the most under-known comedians of our time, Watch Him Here:
Phonetic Punctuation

and here, adapting the above skit with Dean Martin:

Laying down the law

Daaaaa da da da DAAAAAAAA!



I'm toying with the idea of filling out the back in crayon, so as to ever so slightly nudge them into rejecting me.

Celebrity Sightings

I have a new celebrity to add to my sightings list!

Yesterday, while enjoying a break at work, we were sitting outside on NewMo street when my co-worker stopped mid-sentence to do a double take of a dude walking by. "I think that was Dave Chappelle..." she said quietly. WHAT!? He turned the corner onto Minna. "Was that really him!?" Stranger guy walks by me - "That was Dave Chappelle." "OH MY GOD." Star-struck, all I could think of to yell down Minna was "YOU ROCK!" Another co-worker screams "DAVE!" Head slightly turned back, he raised his hand to wave hello. "YOU KICK ASS!" she screamed after him.

WEE! Celebrity Sighting List:

Sean Penn - Standing directly behind me, Jello Biafra Show, 2006
James Spader - In my Alacatraz tour group, 2006
RuPaul - Castro and Market, Pride, 2007
Dave Chappelle - Walking by my work, 2007

still no Robin Williams, but I'm being patient.

Critical Mass, Road Rash and Crafts

They sort of rhyme.

View of Critical Mass from New Montgomery Street:



And my road rash from later that night...



...that led to me having a quiet crafting day:

Felt Sushi!



and a felt fortune cookie (WITH felt fortune!):

Holy crap, I crashed.

I know I broke too hard, but I can't believe what just happened. Riding down Geary Blvd at about 40 mph, I hit the brakes too hard coming up to a red light. I guess the roads were a little slick from the dense fog that night. But suddenly my heart expanded in fear, and I saw the road upside down and then right side up as I felt myself tumble over and over, landing in a sitting position. My scooter had flailed out and slid about 30 feet away from me into the intersection. I sat with my hands on my helmet, knowing how bad it was, but knowing within 5 seconds that I was okay. Then realizing that my friend Abby was driving in a car right behind me and that she would be there soon. I heard a man's voice and a hand on my shoulder. "Are you okay??" I stood up, knowing I had to. Someone else standing at the bus stop went into the road to direct traffic around me. Another guy, who rode motorcycles, went for my bike. I felt my arms burning from road rash and my back hurting from the twisting, but most of all I felt my knees shaking violently as the adrenaline pulsed into every crevice of my being as I walked my bike to the side of the road. "What happened!?!? All of a sudden you flew off the bike. You looked like a stunt double, you took the fall perfectly." Thanks motorcycle man. "What happened!? It looked like a bolt of lightening hit your bike! I've never seen anything like it!" Thanks old lady. "I know a lot of people asked you if you're okay, but are you ok?" Yes, I'm okay, nice woman. "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god." I'm okay Abby. It's okay.

I'm going to wake up tomorrow with a bruise the size of texas on my thigh and my arms and knees are bloody and covered in road rash. But, if it had to happen, it all happened so perfectly.

Buddy Modifications

All i wanna do is spend moneys on mah scoot.

before: (stock colors)




after:

fuckin' proud

I've come to realize that holidays here in San Francisco are quite simple. Those dressed in costumes parade down the streets, those not dressed up cheer them on. Because of this, pride was absolutely fucking cool. Since I didn't participate in the dyke march last year, I made a point of doing it this year. Just like bay to breakers (gay to breakers), the parade route was lined with people holding signs and cheering. Yes, actually CHEERING for dykes. Celebrating us. Supporting us. I can't really find the right words to describe the feeling of perfect strangers and neighbors supporting an intrinsic part of me which has been full of shame in the past. But it's an experience and a feeling that I know makes me a better person.



And then RuPaul walked by!!

Connect Four!

The longest possible game of Connect Four. Won by yours truly. Sweeeeeeeeeeeet.

Warm Shadows

Beautiful night-time.

Dear Food Network:

Dear Food Network:

I see where you're coming from. Creating a home-cooked meal used to look difficult, inaccessible. And you were an important ingredient in making cooking easy to approach. But you've gone beyond the tasteful. Now, you're beginning to cheapen the culinary arts. Instead of watching re-runs of Julia's Kitchen, The Galloping Gourmet, or Jacque Pepin, I watch Giada deLaurentis's boobs assemble cod and lima beans cooked in a piece of tinfoil. I mean, I like a low-cut dress as much as the next girl (well, lesbian anyway), but come the fuck on. And what's with Sandra Lee? "Semi-homemade?" Really? Here's a recipe of hers from a recent show:



6 ears corn
1 stick butter, softened
1 teaspoon chili powder
1/2 packet creamy cheese sauce mix (or powdered cheese packet from boxed macaroni and cheese)

Preheat outdoor grill or preheat oven to 400 degrees F.
Shuck corn. If desired, leave husks attached to cob to use as holders.
In a small bowl, combine softened butter, chili powder, and cheese sauce mix or powdered cheese packet.
Spread butter on corn and wrap each ear individually in foil.
Place on grill and close lid or place in the oven. Cook 25 to 30 minutes, turning every 5 minutes, or until corn is tender. Remove foil and serve.



Gross, Food Network. Gross.

Or at least keep the good that you have. More Barefoot Contessa. More Michael Chiarello. Less Texas BBQ cookoffs, with "Food Network Star" blue ribbons and large checks. Cooking isn't about winning. Cooking is about culture and expression and creativity and love. These things are built on history and technique done over and over and over again until perfected.

I don't want to stop watching, but it's getting disappointing. I'm not even going to talk about Wolfgang Puck or Emeril. But just know that you are on the verge of losing a long-time viewer because you are beginning to love money more than you love food.

Most Sincerely,
Robin

I'm it.

First, I have to thank JJ for this article and I wanted to re-post it here. This iswhy I heart Khaela Maricich.

ANNND I'm It. I've been tagged and must list 7 random things about myself that most people don't know:

-I used to take flying lessons.
-I won 3rd place in my school's spelling bee in 5th grade.
-I haven't worn my hair tied back since I was 11.
-One of my favorite things to do is to re-arrange furniture and think of floorplans.
-I tried to play rugby for some reason when I was 19. 2 weeks in, a woman hoisted me above her shoulder and tossed me over. I quit.
-When I was little I couldn't pronounce my rs and ls. I was "wobbin" until about 6 years old.
-Over the course of growing up I have 12 goldfish - 9 of them were named 'Honey.' Those not named Honey were named 'Fred.'

annnd, I don't know anyone else with a blog, so I tag your mom.

12 step?

If you're a repeat reader, you may remember my foreboding warning about listening to Paper Television, the addictive techno-pop creation of The Blow. Well, the addiction set in so fast, and I've already given in to it, so I thought it was only ethical of me to share my experience with you.

Series of events:

Log on to myspace
search for The Blow
Find new songs
Listen to new songs
Freak out about new songs
Dance around to new songs
Take a break to smoke with the new songs
Decide I must find lyrics
Mussst. Fiiiiind. Lyyyyricssss!
google The Blow lyrics (no, this isn't going where you think, although that's probably funnier)
Click on lyrics website
loading...
....loading....
Computer Screen goes white
A voice comes on my computer and, all hollywood styley, says "Thank you for reading... in 3, 2, 1..." Just then command prompts pop up on my screen, norton anti-virus opens and warns me that "WARNING YOUR COMPUTER IS BEING HACKED." I quickly jump on the power button, but alas it was too late. I was, and still am, infested. One of many funny, hilarious things it has done to my computer was to use Norton Antivirus to spam people. I watched, horrified, as 5 pop-ups a second flashed on my screen with email addresses and horrible subject headings like "stylish mom at home for hard c0ck." I'm crawling with Trojan viruses. At first, after trying and failing to delete it all, I decided to name the quarantine files mean things like "FUCK YOU HACKERS" "FUCK OFF" and, "YOU HAVE A SMALL PENIS" in case the hacks installed a keyboard spyware to watch my typing.

Like it's white powdery namesake, The Blow's new album has me wanting just one more. Last night, at the ballgame, it took all I had not to sneak into the bathroom with my ipod, cloister myself in a stall and listen to a song or two. Just one more song... oneeee moreee...

Oh my god, so many puns so little time.

Because of sex, South African workers striking for better pay and benefits finally are getting what they want. Their position is that they are too tired at the end of the difficult working day to pro-create, so their families aren't growing. And now for the first time since 2004, the government is no longer saying it has a headache and is negotiating with the workers.

This, of course, leads me to think again of the brilliant Lysistrata. Seriously, if Laura Bush would just give the prez an ultimatum - No Sex Until No More War - we'd be pulling out of iraq before Ann Coulter had the chance to eat another baby.

It's becoming a problem

The other day I bought "Paper Television" by The Blow. The second track made me a better AND more musically knowledgeable person. And maybe even that's an understatement. I put it on and listened while I cooked my fake hippie chicken. What an excellent companion! I liked it, but then I listened to it again later and THAT's when I was drawn into this hypnotized state that I am currently still in. Khaela Maricich's vocals are extremely addictive. And the beats are seemingly discordant at first, but they actually weave together so well it's frightening. So buy this album, but beware!

Democranet?

Youtube is seriously fucking awesome.

Read this.

I really really can't wait to see it's impact on the presidential race.

Weeeeee democracy!

3 Reasons why I am an environmental activist

Point Reyes/Tomales Bay daytrip


1)


2)


3)

If need be give up all else...

To a Pupil

by Walt Whitman
(1819-1892)

---

Is reform needed? is it through you?
The greater the reform needed, the greater the Personality you need
to accomplish it.
You! do you not see how it would serve to have eyes, blood,
complexion, clean and sweet?
Do you not see how it would serve to have such a body and soul that
when you enter the crowd an atmosphere of desire and command
enters with you, and every one is impress'd with your Personality?
O the magnet! the flesh over and over!
Go, dear friend, if need be give up all else, and commence to-day to
inure yourself to pluck, reality, self-esteem, definiteness,
elevatedness,
Rest not till you rivet and publish yourself of your own Personality.

Sooooo Gay for the Bay.

12, 13, 14, 15... oh, there's 16. Ten minutes into watching the Bay to Breakers 'race' cruise by off Laguna Street, I had already counted 16 naked people. So I stopped counting. I can't really think of any other city where an event like this could possibly take place. The serious runners finished the 12k run in under an hour. The rest of us made it an all day party. Besides the 'dick in a box' contingents (there were 3 that I saw), my favorite events of the day are as follows:

-Some house on Fell street playing "A pirate's life for me!" on their stereo set to full-blast. Not only because it made me feel like I was in Disneyworld, but because shortly thereafter, one member of my team, who was clearly motivated by the "ARRRGGHs," agreed to do her first (street) beer bong. She chugged with flying colors. Providers of the beer bong still unknown.

-The tortoise and the hare. So fucking adorable I couldn't stand it. Throughout the race, they would separate - the hare would jog up several yards, leaving the tortoise to run screaming to catch up. "Waaaaiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!" So cute, I could puke.

-After the race. Walking through these magical woods in Golden Gate park dimpled in sunspecks with 2 mustaches, 2 cows and 3 brazilians.


Seriously, only in San Francisco.

Serious Cuteness

Gina and Snippet = cuteness monsters

My buddy and me.

On top of the world, today.

Scootin' Shoes

If you know much about me, you probably know that I collect sneakers. And you may also know that I absolutely hate giving up on said sneakers. Even when the laces are broken and the heel is duct-taped leaving my left sock perpetually squishy when it rains, I insist I still have another good month with my sneaks.


But now I'm a scooterist. Now I can't mess around. Riding wear is serious business, so unfortunately I just HAD to buy these sweet new 80s-looking sauconys.



and they say addiction is never pretty.

He did the reading.

He was breathing heavily out of his nose. Partly because of allergies, and partly, I'm sure, due to excitement - like a small pug puppy. The first thing he said to me was "I did the reading!" "Very cool." I replied. I didn't mean it.

It was the first day of my third semester as a graduate student, and I was not impressed. While I didn't do the reading -in fact, I hadn't yet even thought about buying the $84 book and therefore was technically unprepared for the first class - "Tommy" was not impressing me with his chair-nervously-scooting-up-hands-folded-but-still-fidgety demeanor. I'm not exactly sure what's wrong with Tommy, but I do know that he's Canadian. Not that that explains everything, but it helps.

I first met him when we did a presentation together last semester. The thing about Tommy is that he is very, very sweet. And by that I mean he likes to get me things. It's still unclear how, but he is somehow able to procure - at a moment's notice - a seemingly endless stream of carted TVs and DVD players for the classroom, as well as control things like lighting and temperature. "Is it hot in here or is it just me?" He literally asked me as we sat waiting for the professor to arrive. "I'm temperate." I responded. "Because I can lower the temperature in here" he said with big sweeping hand motions. "I'm okay." I responded again. "Thanks though." He can also acquire cups of coffee (or tea), paper, pens, flipcharts, books and printouts of any syllabus or class description I make the slightest mention of.

I imagine a small dark room tucked under the leaky part of the emergency staircase as Tommy's home. Inside, a tangle of wires leads to half a dozen computer monitors, all set up to watch for permutations in lighting, acoustics and temperature. Tommy sits fidgeting in a black plether armchair, petting his 4 gerbils, reading, highlighting and tabbing his book for next week's class so that once again he can squirrel his seat up next to mine, and, breathing heavily, exclaim in a sing-songy voice"I did the reaaaadddding!"

It's going to be a long semester.