Remaindered Links

The P-Mate. If you thought women's suffrage was a big deal, you're gonna shit your pants when you get a load of this thing.

The Hiptop/Sidekick II should be in my grasp soon. Until I can wag it in front of your silly faces, you'll have to enjoy the FCC filing.

The, "Innovative and sensual..." Float bed design. The sound of wood and steel slamming together makes for the ultimate coital soundtrack.

Like I told Eli yesterday, Japan is technologically a decade ahead of the United States. Educationally however, they're probably only a couple years ahead.

Now instead of being a target of airport portable theft, I can look like an international pizza delivery boy.

The NailJet Pro. Looks like receptionists everywhere will feel the joy of the girl at Mr. Zorg's office sooner than I thought.

We're all pretty excited about the new Michael Moore movie. All of us except Christopher Hitchens anyway.

The Burrito Bol Experiment (BBE)

Alex and I met last night for dinner at Chipotle. Food there is so utterly flaverful, I have had to order a second bowl to quench my taste buds. I don't feel particularly hungry upon arriving, but the flavor is so incredible that I find myself plunking down another seven bucks and picking up another fork. I finished eating at around 2200 and I still haven't become hungry, almost 15 hours later.

When I went there for the first time last summer it was apparent to me very quickly their brilliant recipe for success. These folks had decoded the In-N-Out genome, offer a few menu items and prepare them perfectly, and reapplied it to Mexican food.

Alex and I discussed this issue of mine while we ate, and we concluded that we must hold back on how often I eat there. As of last night the agreement is twice a month, though I feel I may pull back to once a month.

More interesting than the frequency restriction however, is my decision to pose the ultimate American question, "How much?"

Every month, I will sit down at Chipotle, and every month I will attempt to eat one more burrito bol than the month before. July will call for three rounds, August will present a formidible challenge with four, and September looms with five.

It's going to be quite a summer.

Last Friday

I regret not sharing this with you earlier, my loyal audience, however I don't believe anything I write here is truly useful information, nor have I made the time to tell this story with the nauseating length it deserves until now.

This past Friday started as quite an excellent one. Having dispatched math class, I got my free beer/pampering while shopping with Jenny at TBL and scored a free sandwich courtesy of Jenny's oversized mealplan. After picking up my steamed and tailored clothes, I proceeded towards an evening of work.

Selling iPods went well, and the afternoon turned quickly into evening. Promptly at nine, I slipped into the restroom and did a bit of Clark Kent in the phonebooth. I emerged dressed to devistate, tie knotted and hair arranged to the oohs of my coworkers.

Bang into the car I went, warming up Georgia's V8 on the surface streets and letting her loose off Sand Hill onto 280 north, flirting with the ton before settling back at ripe old 80 miles per. I clipped off the miles and turned onto 92 smack into 50 people who had apparently never driven this route before, as a brisk jogging pace was all they would allow themselves. North on the PCH and at Allie's beach house by 2300, I had finally arrived to join Sara's birthday celebration.

The party had obviously started long before I arrived, so I made quick work of my sobriety and hunger. The dancing was anemic at best, and though the crooners on the boombox limited the mood, it fit the dresscode rather well. Swimsuits appeared and the jacuzzi was enjoyed by many. The walk to the beach was pediaclly painful, my solo sojourn into the Pacific was chilling, and the cheering chorus of Latino kids who applauded my swimming was uplifting.

Soon after my return to warmer, more chlorinated waters, Dolores made her exit, punctuated by hugs and, "happy birthdays." Let's mark this point in time as 0200 Saturday morning. Normally I would have made my own exit soon after and be fast asleep by 0300, but normal was not the order of the evening.

Allie picked up the phone at 0325 and sent me into what Dolores would later dub 'Adult' mode: "Dolores has a shredded tire at 280 and 92." I rallied a drunkcoma Nicole and a coherent Dan out the door, took a blanket and a flashlight from Allie, and kicked Georgia to life. Nicole asked from the back seat as I pulled onto PCH, "Are you ok to drive?" God bless Dan, my faithful wingman for so many years who has been witness to me in 'Adult' mode, answered without hesitation, "Yea, he's fine."

Pulling off the road at the scene of the crime as it were, I slid in behind Dolores' off-balance SLK. She took a seat in the back of my car as Stapleton and I went to work on the Merc's spare tire. Ten minutes later, we had Dolores' car rolling again, though a little off-balance (I would later learn that her spare needed to be inflated, though this oversight proved to be inconsequential). With everyone back behind their respective wheels, we limped onto 280 with the idea of monitoring Dolores' 40mph progress for the next 40miles.

This black, german convoy was cut short however, when not a quarter-mile onto 280 the Merc's rear right tire rolled gracefully off. Dolores smartly pulled to the shoulder, I followed and began dialing AAA as soon as I stepped out of the car. Some verbal juggling on the side of the road had a tow truck directed to our location on what was theoretically a 0400 estimated time of arrival. I stood outside between the Merc and Georgia for a while, mentally preparing myself for what was becoming an exceedingly long evening.

I set myself back down behind Georgia's wheel and dialed Dire Straits into the stereo. There we sat, my history professor, my closest friend, a fellow student, and Mark Knophler for what seemed an eternity. At some point I called Eli and left a message explaining my predicament in the most positive terms possible. She called back a while later, having awoken from a sound sleep at 0400. I stepped outside and meditated to the sound of her voice for fifteen minutes before letting her get back to sleep.

Bill, the mutton-chopped, tattooed captain of midnight towing arrived and got straight to work with the jovial urgency I've come to expect and appreciate in tow truck drivers. Bill had us on the road again and en route to Autobahn Motors in Redwood City by 0445. Pulling into the service center and tipping Bill for putting up with our snobby-overdressed selves, I snapped some quick photos of Dolores' car for insurance and got on 101 with a determination to beat the sun to bed.

Alas, I put Georgia to sleep in her space at 0545, just as the first rays of morning crept across the rooftops. I myself spent the next thirty minutes unwinding by watching the beginning of one of De Niro's finest films and then blacking out my bedroom.

Head-to-pillow was approximately 0615, and loss-of-conciousness was approximately 0618. In short, last Friday was a very long night.

The End of Math

Not much posting over the past weekend. Eli was in town for memorial weekend, so my idle hands were occupied with something other than this thumbpad.

I was sitting in math class just a little while ago learning about the sum/difference of perfect cubes. Everyone knows this argument (because I think everyone has used it at some point), but I feel like restating it: Where in life will I use this shit?! If anyone can point me to a real world application that requires me to execute the formula: A cubed + B cubed = (A+B)(A squared - AB + B squared) then please show it to me. Otherwise we should dial down the egos of Mathematicians and get on with our lives. Wouldn't the young adults of America be better served learning to manage their bank accounts, taxes, and investment portfolios?

Then instead of each generation going through a period of loathing their educational workload, we could have some fiscially-knowledgable young people putting more money into their savings and the markets, and less into hideous Louis Vuitton handbags, which mind you won't hold the smallest textbook. There must be a motive behind continuing the tradition of Americans spending money and not accounting for it.

As Bob Pierce says, when you want to understand why something is, figure out who profits. In my current example, those profiting are math professors and VISA/AMEX, whose cards we use to purchase our stupid designer purses. Well factor out the professors, because they're driven by a need to survive and a need to justify all the time they spent learning to teach this non-applicable shit. This leaves us with the credit card companies, who need to perpetuate a lack of fiscal responsiblity, as it continues their very healthy revenue stream.

I think the conclusion I've reached is that if Tyler Durden had his way, I wouldn't have to sit through that class.

Remaindered Links

I've been on a New York City kick recently, mostly the effect of daydreaming about surprising Eli with a visit had she gone there this summer. While waiting to start work today, I found this site dedicated to the different maps of Manhattan island throughout its development. Also a series of photos of the sunset on Manhattan, which was lined up perfectly with the city grid. Next I came across a rough chapter of Edward Tufte's upcoming book Beautiful Evidence. Then reading about Matt Webb's project to push the DaVinci notebooks via RSS sounded like a great way to digest my current bedside reading. Finally, this fake snow is the best way to decorate a room, and will be intricate to my replica of the patio from the end of Kill Bill.