72 people attended today's family picnic, which was the 61st consecutive annual one. It's been about 20 years since I've attended one; that one had nearly 200 attendees.

I got to see my great-grandma's house again. She was 96 when she died, perhaps 10 years ago -- the youngest female death on my mom's side was at 88 years old, and that was due to car crash. Hmm.. too many numbers. My great-grandma's house taught me my love of sidewalked blocks and nerdlish girls with brown hair and glasses.

I got to see my great-aunt Terry's blue house, which I'd forgotten was blue, and it was important that I remembered. That house taught me about collectible spoons and kuchen coffee cake. Terry taught me how to crochet.

Aunt Terry and my Grandpa Jim once spent a summer looking after my brother and me while my mom was on-duty with the Navy. They're brother-and-sister-in-law, and today I pondered the (platonic, mind you) dynamic of that relationship.

Hanging out with my mom and brother has been really great. We've all missed the family trips -- as error-prone as they inevitably were -- from two decades ago, and it's the first time since then that we've all been mentally and emotionally capable of enjoying one. I've been hiding from both sides of my family for so long, but I've been finding myself to be a mighty functional human being ... or, at least, highly capable of faking it. It's nice to experience some normalcy, even if it's this late. I'll be at picnic #62.

Jeff: "Hey, Jim, one time I was visiting grandma with dad, and I pooped my pants."
Me: "That makes three of you."

A day and a half after getting back from a Nashville business trip, I found myself once again on a plane, next to my brother, chasing the sunset toward North Dakota. Pleasant enough, despite my brother's loud declarations of support for Pres. Bush, and suspicions of Obama, garnering looks of enmity from 72% of the passengers within earshot.

We're here for a family picnic on my mom's side, and to see my ever-aging grandpa, my nakesake. Some of my last lingering nostalgia issues have been lifting away, as we revisit and I reintegrate some childhood locations.

Yesterday, as we were trying to get to the fabled KFC in town, I pointed out the "Menards" sign and chuckled like the immature ass hole I am. But then mom, misunderstanding and thinking I wanted to go there, started rapid-firing: "I didn't know you liked Menards." "Where's Menards?" "I can't see Menards." "Oh no, Jim, Menards is way over there!" I refused to explain why I was laughing so hard, but I'm pretty sure she eventually figured it out on her own; later, at a small family gathering, a friend of the family commented that she didn't "have the balls" to confront the town hussy (yay for there being one!), and my mom immediately jumped in, "You should try Menards."

I adored this movie.

I can't find this cheaper than $18. Unfortunately for my savings, it's worth it.

"Fabio ... stumbles through breathy soliloquies on romance, over an über-schmaltzy soft-porn beat that does not change throughout the entire CD."

"I lahk to take a special lady to de cinema, where we can hold hands in the dark, and whisper very quietly about what we see. I wonder, would she kiss me like that? Will I always be the hero of her life? I wish there were more romantic films, because romantic films can lead to beautiful adventures ahfter we leef de theatre."

I just barely survived the cold directed rampage of a radioactive psychopath who'd killed every other human in the city, my only ally being my cat, who was actually the ghost of a young fashionable Jewish woman.

Or as I like to call it: TGIF!

Right now, my plan for the fall:

• Continue full-time work (hopefully under 50 hours a week)
• 8 credits at U of Mich
  • Adv. Database Systems with a prof. I may want to do research with
  • Comp. Organization with Prof. Brehob, one of my favorites as an undergrad
• 6 credits at WCC Two Linux classes with the wonderrific Phil Geyer

That's my best guess. Timespan: 2:29 - 2:36

Why couldn't she have kept her mouth shut?

Jim: "I gave you a big hint, so you fail. You're not listening to me."
Kyle: "I heard what you were saying but you were talking about 'Waldo With Beer' and 'Evil Waldo', and none of that nonsense helps me figure out the five-letter nickname starting with 'W' that you've been calling me behind my back."
Jim: "..."

Demons like to wear hoodies. They like to catch the air in their hoodies and fly around and solve crimes. Some of the crimes they like to solve involve lanterns and basements. There are often lanterns in the basement. The lanterns light the basement and the demons can find their way, which is why the cases of the missing lanterns are very important to solve.

When demons do not wish to look like demons -- which is rare, because they so like looking fearsome that they are more than willing to tolerate that the tips of their tails are on fire -- they like to wear hoodies. Such a hoodie is never fully black, because that is cliche. No, they are a mix of gray and black, or blue and grey. And they are thin hoodies -- never thick cotton, because the skin of a demon needs to breathe.

Once upon a time, one such demon, whose true name was Prissandra but who preferred "Ronaldo" when in human form, entered a coffee shop. It was important to Ronaldo to pretentiously discuss the tastes of various coffees while looking around at the other coffee shop patrons with an inordinately-intense glare. Little did he know that he was being monitored by Barista the Wizard, a lanky fellow with glasses as black as his hair. Barista knew that Ronaldo was going to eat the faces of the other patrons, because most human faces taste bland and uninspired, tastes which are sugary joys to the palette of a demon.

Ronaldo acted koi (like the fish) but finally could not help but pounce. Jumping up on the table, glowering lasciviously at a patron who was dressed poorly and sporting an awkward hairstyle, Ronaldo lowered his hood, revealing a mushroom haircut which is the second mark of a demon in human form.

"You, moderately young one, are remarkably dull and boring, and I will have your face to eat," Ronaldo bellowed.

Barista quickly hopped up on the counter. "I know such a twitter anywhere! It can only be Prissandra, not a girl, not yet a woman, and currently a lame hipster human male!"

Ronaldo rolled his eyes over to Barista. "How quaint, a Wizard. Look who's talking -- you make lattes to wonder at the shapes of the patterns in the foam, and you are lanky and probably have an ironic tattoo."

Barista angrily sent a poof of AngerDust at Ronaldo, who easily countered with a schmear of HostilityCream.

"ENOUGH!"

Ronaldo and Barista turned to the frumpy patron, who was attempting to get up from his seat. This took some extra time, for the patron had injured the tendons in his knees playing soccer, and there was also pain when getting up.

"I am the Bipsterite. I am dressed poorly, my weight is as awkward as my social skills, I am grieving the loss of a beautiful hypothetical life that would not have been my own, and my patience ebbs."

Ronaldo and Barista could not resist the raw might of this bared truth, and so they left the coffee shop in peace, hand in hand, leaving the Bipsterite to get back to work.

Technically accurate quote from President Bush's Mother's Day statement: "[Those who lost their lives ... because of the tornadoes] are wondering whether or not tomorrow will be a bright and hopeful day."


In other news, I was in line at Primo Coffee last night when I suddenly decided my work-night would be much better spent at Biggby's. I waited until all the baristas were turned around (don't want to hurt any feelings), and then I rushed to the door, murmuring "crap crap crap crap crap" to myself.

As I popped outside, a police-car was just then pulling up alongside the curb. I stopped, amused at the coincidence and how it may have looked. I turned and looked back in, but the coffee shop was relatively empty because it's summer vacation for most of the students. There was one girl, however, curled up with a book, her feet up, who was watching me. We held eye contact for a moment, and then her eyes flicked to the cop car for another pregnant moment, and then back to me.

I didn't have enough time yet to be properly amused, so my look was still sober and serious. And then ......

She did the up-nod. i.e. darting your head up, and not back down. IRL this is the gan'sta way of saying "waddup?" (I'm an expert on gan'sta), but in the movies this is the signal for, "Go. I got this. Go now."

I gave her an appreciative nod in return (the movies insist on this), and took off running.

"Andi's like, the coolest guy I've ever known, in a body I want to make out with."

I'm going to enter the bizarre here and claim that Josh Trager on Kyle XY is one of the better-written characters on TV right now. The show is so weird ... and now with Ally Sheedy.

At least this isn't really awkwardly edited, because that would, perhaps, make it even more ridiculous that Sen. McCain is trying to alleviate concerns that he would be the oldest president ever elected by bringing out his (necessarily older) mother. Seriously, this is the sort of doddering chit-chat that I have to sit through every Thanksgiving, the challenge being to intuitively know when the right times to fake-laugh or smile-and-nod are, given that I'm not at all listening to the actual words.

Oh, but the Leave it to Beaver music totally makes him seem young and hip. Almost as much as his quoteable, "traditional .. it was a happy hour .. I .. thought was .. the .. uh .. okay .. I see." And his response to his mom talking about the Scotch? They clearly filmed that weird guttural fake-amused thing later and spliced it in .. I just feel uncomfortable.

"Due to a clerical error we sent you the incorrect information before. The correct information is below.


Dear Mr. ____:


It gives me great pleasure to inform you that we have recommended you for admission to the Computer Science and Engineering Graduate Program at the University of Michigan for the term and degree level listed below. Your application has been forwarded with or recommendation to the Horace H. Rackham School of Graduate Studies, they will advise you officially regarding your admission status (in a few weeks when processing is complete).

...
"

Hahaha, I knew it. Second time this year I was told I had something and was later told there'd been a mistake. I'm amused. I'll call in later and ask them why people lie.


Dear Mr. ____:

Your application for admission to graduate studies in the Computer Science and Engineering Program in the Department of Electrical Engineering and Computer Science has been carefully reviewed and ranked in relation to other applicants. Due to the large number of highly qualified applicants, we regret to inform you that we are unable to offer you admission to the graduate program in the Department.

We thank you for your interest, and wish you every success in your future endeavors.

Sincerely,
Professor Quentin F. Stout
Graduate Admissions Chair

I still haven't received e-mail/snail-mail regarding my U of M Masters application. The deadline for accepting an offer of admission is May 15th.

Bad signs.

I called the admissions office, and asked if I could check on my application. The incredibly nice-sounding woman intentionally kept me in suspense before telling me I'd been admitted and the official notification should come later this week.

That's a good sign, right?

I feel entirely neutral, though. I think, though, that .. I'm so used to rejection at this point that I'm half-convinced that the number I called was a prank number that was set up specifically for me, and that the woman had been waiting for my call for months. I'm honestly skeptical. So ... I'm taking this as a good /alleged/ sign, until I get something official. I'll also miss Washtenaw Community College ... though, on the other hand, I'm tempted to see if I can juggle a full-time job, graduate school, and CC classes.

I'm soiling my iMac a little, but c'mon ... this is still cool.

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