Sam sent this to me and I think it is the funniest thing i've read
all week.
enjoy

Penelope. By Anon

I wish I could write of fantastic exploits and accomplishments, of
mountains climbed and foes vanquished. However, I have merely been
picking up dog shit and wearing a butt-grove into chairs at the
Library of Congress and my local coffee shop. Fun? Perhaps, but my
lack-of-calorie-induced dizziness, when combined with caffeine and
the normal additional irritants, makes the experience especially
memorable.

But wait, did I forget a memorable chapter in the grey overcast of my
life's work, a chapter which appears in its endless renditions,
slightly altered in its specifics, yet persistent in retaining a
certain set of constants whose analysis I have acquired considerable
expertise in spite of my own desires and sordid efforts? Would the
"normal irritants" stalking my life truly be complete in the absence
of some stunning example of instrumental-irrationality spurned by
emotional outbursts and encountered in such excess among the feminine
sex? Would my coffee haunt truly be my haunt, claimed in my name and
subject to seemingly endless retention, in the absence of some such
example? Would my haunt truly be complete if there were no bun of
luxurious hair constantly twitching past my table, crisp as a
metronome and keeping perfect quarter-note time for a perfectly
formed set of bouncing buttocks? Would I submit to such a thing?
Would I frequent such a place in the absence of breasts repetitively
drawing the thin material of a distressed tank-top taunt with each
exiting inhalation? A tank-top adorning a feminine carriage
seemingly designed to ingest fetid air unworthy of retention in such
a perfected form, air which enters as a dank coffee stench yet
emerges as a scintillating stream of perfumed musk seemingly found
only among women in their sexual prime?

As I writhed across the floor, in those few moments not spent
assessing my adversary, attempting to alter my center of gravity in
order to draw my weapons closer to its dark and elusive heart, I
watched as that scent slowly spread among the men wrestling in line,
pretending to merely be interested in purchasing a cup of shade-grown-
fair-trade-Honduras-Sumatra, yet whose intentions we all know are
hardly honorable. Those coarse oxen, straining past one another,
necks craning, nostrils flaring in the vain hope of passing some
small sentence, some small note of conversation, some hint of
intimacy beyond the brushing of fingertips distributed as they accept
their drinks. "Why yes, it quite striking, this mocha is comprised
of the perfect ratio of cappuccino and milk foam…." "yes I would like
that small coffee for here, please, yes, of course..." "And how…
(with a sharp glance bounced off the taunt tank-top)… are you doing
tonight..." “And do you know if the half and half is frothy
tonight?...”

Indeed it would be wholly inconsistent with my curriculum vitae for
this vessel of perfection, this mass of smooth planes and clear
pores, of slender limb and intoxicating scent, to be without escort.
Yet would not it be odd, perhaps even unsettling, if this archetype
exhibited cold precision in her judgments regarding the more
accomplished sex? Would it not be entirely inappropriate if she had
cast her perfectly symmetrical gaze across the plane littered with
available mates, straining, craning, and flexing for attention, while
she flawlessly contemplated a stream of statistical probabilities and
infinitesimal qualities in a moment of evolutionarily-perfected
calculation, and not chosen a compete fuck-up to fuck?

Hardly, for history in its seemingly endless repetition, repeats
itself only as farce. And as I strained and struggled alone, as my
exertions were expended, as my youth expired on the floor in front of
my very eyes, as my duel with untruth unfurled in the absence of my
second, as I wrestled with the daemon of falsehood, viciously slit
its throat, and watched its venomous fluids spray across the stained
wooden floor, our Penelope began with pure voice and harmonious
timbre to sing of her Odysseus. For he was expected shortly to dash
the hopes of the putrid mass of suitors, those mediocrity, who could
do little other than accept the yoke of recognition that their best
paled in comparison, that their best was a cheap second-hand
imitation of the god shortly expected, the god delayed only by the
burdensome responsibilities assumed from "teaching his class."

Fine, I think, envisioning the powerful figure shortly to sweep into
her place of employ, well-formed and adorned with the signifiers of
academic accomplishment. A cocky, measured grin sprayed across a
well-tanned face recently awarded for a revolutionary monograph
adorned with footnotes and insight forthcoming in a respected volume
of peer-reviewed notation. Yet as I reflected mid-struggle, between
my gasps for breath and barely stifled curses, I realized it was
unlikely that this god, this epic of masculinity, would be anything
less than a fully robed and matured professor, who would enter,
barely noticing my writhing death-embrace with the foul daemon with
which I struggled, that the god soon to enter wrapped in the garb of
his doctorate-granting institution, flowing robes, winding hood and
velvet splendor, fresh from the lectern his brow-aglow with the sweet
nostrums known to those few, those lucky few, who labor in the charge
of exposing youth to the sinuous growth of human knowledge and
wisdom. Not a big deal, I think, at least she values the appropriate
ends.

Yet there among the coffee grounds littering the floor, sweat
streaming from my exertions and dripping with the acidic fluids
pulsating from my dispatched nemesis, amid the defeated death-throes
and twitching tentacles of untruth, Penelope, in perfect hectometer,
revealed Odysseus’s vocational calling. And would you believe it.
Instead of arriving accompanied by the faint scent of sherry, instead
of departing from some dimly lit oak-paneled auditorium, instead of
instructing youth in some specialized branch of the cultural
sciences, Odysseus instructs a class on glass-blowing, with an
explicit focus on fashioning pipes subsequently marketed to head-
shops. Nar!!! Bro!!! Dude!!! Can you hook a bro up with the dank
glass-gnar???

Before moving on to tales of adventure on the high Kazakh steppe, or intrigue in the environs of Kashgaria, I thought it appropriate to upload some photos from my iPhoto collection. To your right you will see a picture of Pat, Chris Fieldmouse's friend. We were all together in Rome to visit Matthew while he was acting in a movie. We quickly noticed that a vast majority of Italian women have died blonde hair. this is their story.

Also, before going to China, I took same to Santa Barbara to drop off some stuff of his. We went to LA to visit Matthew and Chris.

This was the first time the four of us had been together at once since June 2000. Too much of the time was spent convincing Chris to go to a bona fide hollywood homosexual party thrown by the director (or producer?) of such greats as Independence Day and the Day After Tomorrow and The Day I see another one of his movies...Anyway, LA pictures are found here

In other news (I write on in hopes of filling the space caused by posting two pictures), tomorrow I will see an infectious disease specialist at Stanford Hospital. Since returning to the US, I have been exhibiting symptoms of uncomplicated malaria and/or menopause. Waking up in the middle of the night with the chills, or drenched in sweat, or randomly having hot flashes. and a fever. At first i didn't notice the symptoms, which began the day I returned, because they happened periodically. Of course, the student health clinic is clueless, but the health practicioner did say "Well, if you don't have malaria I have no idea what you have." I have taken one blood test and will take another. My condition has improved, though. But I haven't had symptoms in a few days, which concerns me. I don't like the idea of this magically going away without being properly diagnosed. Yes, I was in a malaria infected area. According to my Uncle, who works at the Mayo Clinic, it can incubate for as long as 80 days. Anyway, I'm hoping the specialist will do more for me than a once over.

Most men go through a midlife crisis.

Take my father, who in 1989 and again in 2002 purchased a red convertible. I was pretty annoyed at his purchase of a Ford Mustang in 2002 (where is my mother's new car?). But it is the Chrysler Le Baron that continues to annoy me to this day. Why? I suffered hearing loss--permanent hearing loss--from sitting in its "back seat" due to the wind. Does it really get that windy sitting in the back? Well, yes. That is if you're forced to go on long distance trips to the Ozarks, etc. on the highway. The only saving grace was being spared from hearing my dad sing duets with Linda Rondstat or Aaron Neville tapes. My poor mother indeed.

So why am I bringing out all of this familial dirty laundry? Well, I am sad and happy to report that the apple does not fall from the tree. I have rationalized to myself a purchase of a convertible. Yep. Unless my mechanico, Melinko, finds anything wrong with the car on your right, I will be the proud owner of this 1996 BMW 328i convertible for $13,800. Want to see more pictures, etc.? Click here. I really like the 328i because it is sporty, but not a "cock rocket." It is not flashy. Instead, it is graceful and opulent.

If I move to HI, i think I'm required to have a convertible anyway. At any rate, I'd much rather have a elegant used car than a new Hyundai. I was actually thinking of getting a classic 1970s era Mercedes, but my car loan officer insisted that I get something made no earlier than 1996. Fascists. Anyway, Wes, my well informed aerospace engineer brother-in-law convinced me it's okay to be a little risky and not by a Toyota camry. Or some other Japanese box. If I have his support, then I feel okay about it. And you should to, because homeboy used to work for NASA.

Some will say I am compensating for the break up with Mei. Of course I am.