Communique

Dear Erik,

You're smart—we like you. Here's $1000.

Sincerely,
College

An open memo, the trifecta

Dear smelly Frenchman talking on his cell phone while stinking up the hallway,

Stop being smelly—you're stinking up the hallway with your ripeness.

Cleared my sinuses, though...

Sincerely,
Erik "The Cajun Croissant" Axdahl

My antiperspirant

I wear cologne. It's a domestic product that goes by the name Speed Stick 24-Hour Protection Antiperspirant. Cool Fusion scent.

I ran across this Boon From Heaven™ in High School after a lifetime of transient relationships with different deoderants. Sure they would do the job, but there was always something wrong. Too musky. Wouldn't last long enough. Poor taste when grated onto spaghetti. There was always somthing, and so my eye would wander.

One day when I least expected it (as is usually the case) I came across this new (read: New!) stick in Walgreens. It's scent was unlike anything that I have ever experienced. Distinct, yet not overpowering. It did indeed smell as how I had always dreamed cold fusion would smell like. It was something you could bring home to the family, and so I did.

And we've been together ever since.

On distinct and numerous enclosed-space occurances, I've been the subject of a "what smells so good?" uttered by another person (usually female). Never have I encountered an antiperspirant that actually strokes my ego, and therefore Mennen has a lifetime customer.

And they lived happily ever after

It's 7:38--time to listen to the ol' phonograph

It's snowing in Minneapolis but not in Duluth. In conclusion, the Qiyamah is upon us (as soon as the blood of the innocent gets spilled on the blah blah blah and so forth).

For you musical appreciatory types, be sure to check out the aurally and visually ravishing JAYMAY, right outta New Yaark! I have my reasons for linking to her ;)

29 shopping days

What's Mrs. Claus's first name?

On the TV news, they interviewed her and subtitled her name as Mrs. Santa Claus, which is technically correct if the news were a preacher introducting the new couple to a congregation just after they got married.

I just tried googling how long the two have been married, but instead got a webpage pertaining to Michael Jackson's marriage history. Therefore, I have not dug further into the research in hopes of not stumbling across more disturbing non-Santa related facts.

The point is, I'm sure they've been married for awhile. She should really try to regain some of her identity and tell us her first name.

Unless they're waiting for the last season of Christmas to reveal the fact, kind of like how we didn't learn MacGyver's first name was Angus until the very end.

How it is

Unless you ate so much today that it hurt to breathe and you subsequently worried about possible internal bleeding from the stretching of your stomach, you hate America.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Warren Chesney

Upon arriving back in Duluth, MN, my childhood home was not my first stop. Nay, I immediately descended unto my local Duluth barbershop to recieve a hair(s) cut from my exclusive and bald barber, Warren Chesney. He is trained well in the art of keeping customers, as evidenced by the fact that only a couple people outside of him have molested my hair and also by the fact that I was able to go without a haircut since August.

Also, his is a household name amongst my more knowledgeable friends.

"Erik. Why don't you get a haircut—you need one."
"Because he's waiting to go back to Duluth so Warren Chesney can cut his hair."

Chicago in a nutshell

This weekend I was in ChiTown to present a poster at the American Physical Society's 58th Annual Meeting of the Division of Fluid Dynamics (or, the "Bitter Old Man Conference," as some have referred to it).

Sunday

After six hours and five dollars in tolls, arrive at the Chicago Hilton (paid for in full courtesy of my lab). Check into room and immediately notice cylindrical pillows of nebulous purpose on the 5,000,000 thread-count sheeted beds.

Ritzy!

At about 5 o'clock, decided to check out Michigan Avenue—Millenium Park in particular. Saw a giant, seamless ellipsoid and and a sweet open-air ampitheatre. Took a lot of useless pictures. Looked over a railing to see an flock of circling skaters. Joined them for an hour and a half. Went off to see a benefit concert put on by the Civic Orchestra of Chicago (can't beat $10 floor tickets). Looked for somewhere to eat. Some places looked good, but were expensive. Settled on your classic "Italian" chicago eatery.

Returned to room 1278 of the Chicago Hilton to sleep on what must have been a cloud.

Monday

Wake up and enjoy the use of my own bathroom. Crane my neck to enjoy the view of Lake Michigan.

(insert 8 hours of scientific osmosis here)

High School girls' dance convention somehow ends up in the same hotel as a scientific convention dominated by akward men. God has sense of humor.

Arrive back Minneapolis at 1:55 A.M.

So there.

Gror

It's 1:55. I just got back from the conference in Chicago. More on that later!

A premonition of myself in 30 years

A haggard man in tattered clothes stumbles on the curb of 14th and 4th and falls sideways into the wall of the building on the corner.  He slumps to the ground, back to the brick, and watches as his puffs of breath wisp away into the chill air.  Suddenly, the sensation of bugs crawling under his skin returns and he becomes visibly agitated.
 
One hit too many of the ol’ hallucinogens, he supposes.

Watching the patrons of the restaurant across the street, he smacks his lips and searches for morsels of food that might be in his expansive, yellowing beard.  But even this task proves to be too strenuous, so the man begins to drift into a light sleep.

“Hey!”

He opens his eyes.  A thirty-something gentleman dressed in a silk suit is towering over him with a sneer on his lips.

“Here’s a quarter, buy yourself a shower why don’t you?” the lawyer says, lumbering away with a sickening air of indignation.  

The haggard man’s eye (the one with the cataract, not the glass one) begins to twitch, and he yells after the lawyer:

“You know, I could have been an astronaut!  Yeah!  And I would be too if 30 years ago today my calculator didn’t run out of batteries at the beginning of an important orbital mechanics test!”

Loomsters

I love french fries. Into the ol' gullet they go! There's nothing like the taste of a plump, salty tater yum-yum deep fried in beef tallow to offset the fact that you had to stay very late at the lab.

Except the wizzled, crispy ones. Those ones are rejected by me outright and orphaned at the bottom of the bag/box.

Hey little guys, I'm never going to eat you. Don't beg—have some dignity!

The changing of the season

This is what I saw upon walking out of my apartment building this evening. Sure it was sleet, but it was snow nonetheless.

And today was a great day.

High in calcium (with active yogurt cultures, including L. acidophilus)

After coming home from work and before going symphony orchestra rehearsal on Monday and Wednesday evenings, I like to enjoy a 6OZ(170g) tubette of Yoplait Original yogurt.  Of the myriad flavors available, I must say that White Chocolate Cranberry is king (or “queen,” as I have been informed that indulging in such snacks is womanly).  

That is, however, beside the point.

Semi-consistently (approximately .90 out of 1.00 times), I get some yogurt feedback when I attempt to open the lid via its conveniently placed tab.  As soon as I peel back the foil enough to expose the inner atmosphere of the Yoplait-verse to our world, a yogurt projectile will launch itself from the rim of parcel directly onto my shirt.  My prompt counter attack (read: licking thumb and rubbing spot) always does the trick, but the memory of such incidents usually make me think twice before buying a ticket on the train to Strawberry Cheesecake/French Vanilla/White Chocolate Cranberry/Piña Colada bliss.

I am open to suggestions.

Here we are, born to be kings

Friend: "Someone pulled up next to me and talked to me when I was walking to your place last night."

Me: "Creepy!"

Me: "You need a sword..."

I was only half kidding, because using swords against criminals seems to be the popular thing to do nowadays in Minneapolis. Not long ago, a bandit who was robbing a store got slashed on the bicep by a shortsword-toting customer. Problem solved.

Recently there's been a seperate string of convenience store robberies enacted by one brazen fellow. A store owner was interviewed by the news and he too brandished a sword, talking about how he'd like to use it against the perp. He also had a twinkle in his eye as he said this.

When I get my sword it's going to look really cool, like the Highlander's.

Bigote

I'm blessed with the faculties with which to grow fully-functional facial hair in a short frame of time. And when I say that, I don't mean sporadic hair patterns—nay, every follicle is in its place. Give me a week's notice and I can whip you up a respectable and full beard.

That is, if you like that kind of thing.

Where you = women.

There seems to be some contention among members of the opposite sex as to whether facial hair is desireable. Honestly, I think the real issue is that women don't like bad facial hair (read: any sort of creepy moustache or patchy beard) (read: Johnny Depp). If it works for the guy, then I think he's golden. No use refuting me, because I'm undeniably right.

Personally, I usually won't not shave for more than one or two days at most. If I'm going for the rough-around-the-edges look, I'll skip a day of shaving.

One week last year, however, some guys I know begged (read: pleaded) for me to grow a cool beard. So in a week I put together the style called "The General" (or "The Colonel" in some circles). That's when one has a line of beard going from the sideburns, up the side of the mouth, over the lip, and symmetry on the other side. It was kinda fun. However, my follicles secretly yeared for more of a challenge.

I think I'll stick to the rough-around-the-edges look, however.

"Getting Noticed," or "The Retching Damsel in Distress"

Warning: gross imagery impending!

Walking out of the tucked-away Nolte Center this afternoon with belly full of foodstuffs, I witnessed a young lass vomiting openly and wantonly upon the root of a tree. Honestly, I’ve never seen so much continuous liquid come from anyone’s mouth.  

But that’s beside the point.  

What is the social decorum when it comes to a vomiting member of the opposite sex?  Note how I make the opposite sex distinction.  I know that if I were to become positively and projectiletively ill in public—although I would probably be more discreet than the aforementioned soul—I would not want any girl to notice.  At least I would want to believe that no girl saw me do that.  

Therefore, I looked straight ahead and donned an expression of kind indifference.  I think I made a convincing so-what-I-see-vomiting-all-the-time passerby.  However, I did watch over my shoulder as I walked away to make sure she didn’t pass out or anything.  

An Open Memo, Redux

To the person sitting next to me in lecture while slobbering on a Halls Losenge,

I’ll concede that it’s cold and flu season, but that smacking sound you’re creating is hideously sickening.  There is no need to clack the thing on your teeth and subsequently make gurgling noises as you move it around your cavernous maw.  

Furthermore, I’m getting intoxicated on those crazy menthol fumes.

Cease, desist, and enjoy your Halls Eucalyptus with mouth closed.

Sincerely,
Erik “Red Eye” Axdahl

Turn Off: Cell Phones

I was people watching at the coffee shop last evening and glanced upon a couple who were obviously on a date.  They were smiling and talking when, suddenly, *ring ring!* and the girl picks up her cell phone.  

Of course, awkwardness ensues for the up-to-then engaged male.  Where does he look?  What expression should he have on his face?  Is that a hair in his coffee?  Is it his?  Yeah, it’s his.  Why is his date being so rude?

I could sympathize with the fella.  On two relatively recent dates, my companion has answered her Kanye West-jiving or Mozart-glissandoing cell phone mid-conversation.  Honestly, nothing kills the mood (or the connection) during a date more than a call from roommate Shauna.  Oh wait, I’m wrong—actually engaging in a conversation with her kills it more.  Either that, or farting.  

Now, I’ll admit that I do carry a cell phone when I go on a date.  However, I keep it on silent.  Its sole purpose is to have the capability to call the police in the case of abduction by Chechen rebels.  Chechen rebels who have mistaken Minnesota for Moscow.  

This 'n That

What I need from the sto' (a handwritten list)

• Bread
• Pasta Sides
• Hot Chocolate (Caramel Cream)
• Fresca (Peach)
• Miscellaneous Juice
• Butter (I Can't Believe It Isn't)
• Unicorn Meat (unicorn = chicken) (chicken = turkey)
• Angel Hair (not the noodles)
• Star Crunch

Why do I feel the need to amuse myself in a grocery list?

An Open Memo

To the person sitting next to me in lecture while eating a super crunchy granola bar,

You sound like a squirrel. As much as I love those critters, that noise you're making is intensely irksome.

Cease and desist.

Sincerely,
Erik "Red Eye" Axdahl

Daydreaming. Or, How I Looked Like a Fool In Class.

I'll let sleeping dogs (read: students) lie. I think everyone has a right to sleep without consequence. In that same vein, all I want is to be able to slumber through my [Long Science Class Title Here] class without making a damned fool of myself.

Yesterday I was in this aformentioned class, which I will abbreviate D.B.M., and found the professor's attempt to fill 50-minutes worth of lecture with 10-minutes worth of material disagreeable to my sensibilities. Therefore, I tried out different possible sleeping postures. First, I tried the arms-folded-on-desk-with-head-resting-upons slouch, but my wristwatch jabbed my chin. Next, I experimented with resting my head on the support column located, well, next to my head. Unfortunately, the column was quite square and the only place I could possibly place my melon was on the edge.

Nix that.

I considered the possibility of slumping in my chair and sleeping un-supported. However, I immediately rejected this option as I am a notorious "nodder." For those unsure of this sleep phenomena, that's when you (read: I) begin to doze and slowly fall forward until my biological gyroscope freaks out and snaps me awake once again. This method of un-sleep occurs most frequently on long bus trips when one has Stinky Suzy on one side of one's person and a vibrating window on the other.

Finally, I found the best posture for the situation at hand. The elbow-on-the-desk and head-resting-on-fist combo. It was really working out well until I woke up.

Perhaps "woke up" is an incorrect description. Rather, I started awake, making a half snort sound in the process, and punched the air exaggeratedly with my fist. Right in the middle of the classroom.

I don't know what kind of dream prompted this post-somnambulistic response. All I remember is becoming fully cognizant while my fist was still in the air. So I did what any good cover-upper would do: I pretended that I was checking my watch. Unfortunately, my watch was on the other wrist (d'oh)!

I really hope I didn't talk/mumble madly in my brief slumber, something I'm also prone to. That, however, is for another post.