Author: Sam

The Quinnipiac cafeteria (known henceforth as the “QuinnCafe”) ran out of fair trade coffee… during mid pour! What to do, what to do? I glanced briefly at the other selections that were available. My gaze passed from one to the next, with an equally jaded look of disapproval. Dark Roast, Hazelnut, Winter Blend… each more uninspiring than their predecessor. But at the end, all the way to the left, past the plastic lid dispenser, sat a lonely machine with the words, “hot cocoa” emblazoned on its facade.

Do I dare? Should I attempt the unthinkable? Once I venture down this road, will I be able to find my way home. Will I want to?

With an apparent hesitancy, my half full cup of fair trade brew found its way to the hot cocoa machine. My index finger, hovering over the button labeled “Push and Wait,” trembled slightly. And then it was done. I had mashed the button and hot cocoa was spewing into my coffee! The machine gurgled and vibrated as the cocoa poured into my cup. “No,” I thought, “I’ve erred in a tremendous way.” And then it was done. My cup steamed and frothed. The mix of aromas was different, yet not altogether unpleasant. But the taste – the explosive flavor – was nothing I could have prepared myself for. There was coffee. There was chocolate. There was coffee and chocolate. Together (at long last!). It was a beautiful thing.

Now, I realize that I am not the first to discover the inherent majesty derived from the marriage of coffee and chocolate. But, this is a first for me. No… to be fair, I’ve consumed beverages of this sort before. I feel, however, that it did not really count until now. This semester has instilled within me, an appreciation… nay, a sustained and unwavering admiration for the good bean, all it does, and the very little it asks in return. Coffee, up until the commencement of this semester, has been an important, but secondary component in my life. Now, at the conclusion of my first semester as a graduate student, I realize that coffee is the primary staple of my livelihood.

I feel that my apprehension of coffee has ascended to a level of understanding that not many are even aware exists. I no longer drink coffee… I live coffee, I breathe coffee, I am one with coffee. I know, instinctually, what, where, and when, a particular strain of coffee is appropriate. And thus, today’s amalgam of coffee and chocolate was not merely a happy accident (although it seemed so at first). No, it was an appropriate and necessary end to a semester’s bitter toil. The sweet chocolate was a symbolic addition to the daily fuel… a celebratory addition. The semester has (mostly) concluded, and now it is time to revel in the sweetness that I so aptly deserve, channeled, of course, through that holy conduit of which I passionately know.

When the Up Arrow is depressed in a text box, the cursor moves to the foremost position in the text field. When the Down Arrow is depressed… yep, you guessed it: the cursor moves to the last position in the text field.

This is one of those undocumented, completely intuitive, moronically simple, yet timesaving doodads that the Mac OS has built in (nope, not available in Windows… in case you were wondering). This hooha alone is not worth much discussion, but couple that with the boatload of similarly uncomplicated usability enhancing thingys and, throughout the course of a day, the user can save a ton of time… time that can be spent blogging about all the time he’s saving. Time well spent. Ummm… yeah.

As an afterthought, I’m really feelin’ for those poor Up and Down arrows… They seem to be gettin’ depressed a lot lately. Maybe it’s time to start them off on the ol’ Prozac. (Har dee har har)

Ummm… is anyone else a little creeped out by the fact that the iTunes Music Store is peddling episodes of the entire first season of Night Rider? I don’t know. Maybe it’s just too early in the day for the infamous Hasselhoff crotch shot (see accompanying photo). Is there a right time of the day for the Hasselhoff crotch shot? Instinctually, I’d say no. But for some reason, I’m drawn to the witching hour as the most appropriate time for a Hasselhofffing. Evil and the Hasselhoff crotch go together like rice and beans. Mmm… Hasselhoff burrito. Throw a little guac on that… maybe some sour cream… delectable!

has*sel*hoff [has’l’hof] verb
1. To show off one’s crotch, esp. on the hood of a talking, mid-eighties muscle car.
derivitives hasselhoffed, hasselhoffing

I have one week left of my first semester as a graduate student. I cannot believe that it went by this quickly. And what do I have to show for my semester of hard work and toil? Bags under my eyes the size of Texas… oh, and of course, an unwavering addiction dedication to coffee.

Actually, that’s not true. While I do have huge bags under my eyes, and my devotion to the Good Bean has never been this acute, I have much to show for my first semester’s work… much writing, much learning, and one suicide. Fortunately, the suicide is of the fictional variety… although lately, napping for the rest of eternity does sound appealing… Kidding. Just kidding.

The suicide takes the form of an audio project for a Media, Imaging, and Sound Design class that I am taking. If you have one minute and fifty-four seconds to kill, you can give it a listen. The project is in a handy, iPod ready, .mp3 format. And if you can, listen on headphones. There are some slight nuances that certain ‘puter speakers won’t produce well. So, without any further banter, I give you:

Portrait of a Suicide

I’m fine. Really.

Oh my god! (*squeaks with joy*) Today is like Battle of the Adorable Robots over at engadget… and I simply don’t know who to root for. There’s SORA the Receptionist (shown) versus the Bandai BN-17 Floor Swiffer. So cute! I wanna hug ’em till their glowing anthropomorphic eyes explode in a delightful little cloud of gears, springs, and other assorted robot innards.

As a teenager, I always assumed that I’d spend at least one night in jail before I hit 30. I don’t really know why I thought this. It’s like the assumption that I’ll have kids one day. It’s ambiguous enough that any combination of variables could lead, perhaps accidentally, to that end. Hopefully, not accidentally in the latter scenario, but I think my point is clear.

I knew that violence wasn’t going to land me in jail (pacifism is an understatement when describing my demeanor). I wasn’t going to steal anything either. That’s just not my modus operandi. Secretly, my hope was that I’d be doing something revolutionary… like standing up to the man, or breaking down the walls of social injustice, or proudly wearing a Dead Kennedys’ “Nazi Punks Fuck Off” t-shirt (fond memories of high school… I miss you, Walsh). More realistically, it’s likely to be something totally stupid and harmless that gets me thrown in the slammer. Oh, I don’t know… breaking into some abandoned mental institution, or possibly trespassing through the inner bowels of a prodigious ivy league campus come to mind. Let’s hope it’s not a charge of “drunk and disorderly” though. That would be… um, embarrassing? Or would it be cool? No no… embarrassing. Although…

Now, at this point, I’m sure you’re expecting me to write something like, “Well, I finally did it. I spent the night in jail!” No such luck. I wish that I had a story that exciting to share. I did however, come very close. How close? Ummm… not that close.

I got my name taken down by campus security for stealing cups from the beloved campus Starbucks and busting into the faculty cafeteria thingy to make some coffee.

It was last Sunday. The campus was just starting to wake from the holiday break, yet the cafeteria and the Starbucks and the other mini-cafe were all still slumbering peacefully. And… well… I needed some coffee. Big time. I knew that the faculty cafeteria has this magical, single-serving, coffee dispenser machine of magnificence. I sort of jimmied open the door, and there it was: my dark-roasted destiny. As I approached, I found that there was a severe lack of cupage. No cups were to be found anywhere. And that’s when I was hit with the brilliant scheme of hopping the Starbucks counter and yoinking a cup or two.

I recognized a slight hesitation before I vaulted the counter (more like walked casually around the counter… but where’s the drama in that?). It was my conscience… and it was soon silenced by the pangs of caffeine withdrawal. I got my cups without incident and moseyed on to the faculty cafe. Humming pleasantly to myself as the coffee machine did its thing, I hardly heard the door open behind me. There was nowhere to run. There was nowhere to hide. In no time flat, I found myself face to face with the most gosh-darn nicest security guard that I’ve ever encountered. In fact, he felt so bad about having to take my name down that he let me keep the coffee. He even asked if I needed any sugar.

And there you have it. My run-in with the law. That’s the closest I’ve been (since Jagermeister Night ’01 (Berkeley, CA)) to spending the night in jail. I’ve still got a few more years to meet my night-in-jail-before-I’m-30 deadline though. Wish me luck… I guess.

Fine fine fine. I’ll blog about Thanksgiving. Every blogger this side of the Grand Wallingford Galactic Tool Emporium has something to say about Thanksgiving. So… me too!

As stated one year prior, turkey doesn’t do it for me. I just can’t get excited about a giant bloated bird carcass steaming patiently on the Thanksgiving table. I know, I know… that contradicts everything you know about me thus far. Typically, my fondness for the carcass has no peer. But… well, birds are icky! Gross! Blech! Anyway, what did do it for me this year was a goopy mound of sugary bliss disguised as a side dish. It was made with love by my amazing pal, former housemate, and comrade in the war on romance: Sarah. It was called sweet potato souffle. I have no idea what a souffle is. Nor do I care. What I do know is that it was smothered in butter, sugar, marshmallow, and yes, love (in the purely non-tangible sense, of course). The souffle was overflowing with pure melted liquid awesome (no, not Jagermeister). Mmm… marshmallow… I could eat sweet potato souffle every day for the rest of my life… which, if I did, would probably only amount to a couple of days… a couple of sugar-coated, euphoria-filled days. But alas, only a couple of them. Honestly though, it might be worth it.

I dreamt that I gave my little sister a Polaroid camera as a wedding gift. She responded politely, but it was obvious that she was disappointed.

It was snowing (just a wee bit) on the way to work today! Yea! I heart snow!

I can’t wait till it’s cold enough to freeze my beard. I love that.

Slowly, over the past three workdays, I’ve been creating my very own army of little paper monsters… whom I’ve dubbed “friends.” My co-workers think I’m insane. They don’t know the half of it.

I’ve started a flickr photo group entitled, Orange is the fastest color… To quote myself: “This group is devoted to the proliferation of the color orange (the fastest color) in its purest form: the bicycle. Please consider contributing a photograph of your homebrew orange bicycle to this flickr group. It’s time we, as a community, band together and unite! Lovers of the orange bicycle need no longer lurk in the shadows. Our time has come! Our day is now! Our bicycles are orange!” Membership is burgeoning. Who knew the orange bicycle would have such a devoted following?

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. I’m thankful for the Autobots and their undying commitment to the obliteration of evil and the protection of mankind… no matter what the cost. Those Decepticons sure are a sour lot… aren’t they? I just hate them so much! Maybe not Soundwave though… I have a feeling that he’s just misunderstood.

No, art isn’t dead. I’m just old.

Firstly, thanks to all who commented, emailed, and offered their support through this trying and troubling time. The way the blogosphere came together on this one was really heartwarming. This calls for a group hug. Ummm… I don’t know… hug your computer or something.

The legacy of the elusive Gwar post (the story thus far):

Let me see if I can paint an accurate picture of the world during the time of this tragedy. The year was 2005. It was a cold and blustery November, as I recall. I had just finished a monstrous post about tagging and categories that, I’m sure, bored the living bejesus out of my three regular readers (hi mom!). I had been putting it off for as long as possible, but it was inevitable… I had to write a follow-up post at some point. But how could I gracefully bring the quality of posts back down to the regular sam bot dot com standards? I had outdone myself… or so I had thought.

And then the solution hit me… like an epiphany… of pain. In fact, the sensation was not unlike a good-morning-kick-to-the-groin; sharp and jarring, yet eye-opening and spiritual. I would bring the quality back down by introducing a Gwar analogy. Perfect!

And so it was done. And there was much rejoicing.

And then it disappeared off of Bloggers server. And there was probably much more rejoicing… but none by me.

And so it was reposted. Yea!

And then it disappeared. Boo!

And so it was reposted. Yea!

And then it disappeared. Boo!

And then there was bean dip (for some reason). Yea! Which brings us to now… where we stand on the cusp of a momentous event. Here, for the fourth and final time, I am going to post the notorious Gwar post. Read it while you can, because ten minutes from now, it is likely to disappear into the void.

So, without further adieu, I give you the Gwar post:

Bringing the Bar Back Down. Way Down.
(originally posted on Tuesday, November 15, 2005 at 12:36 a.m.)

I’d hate to be the band scheduled to play following Gwar’s set. It’s not that Gwar is an amazing pack of musicians… no, quite the contrary. It’s more the question of how one could possibly follow an act like theirs? I mean Oderus Urungus, Gwar’s frontman, comes on stage looking like Conan the Barbarian dipped in acid, vomited on by satan, and then treated to a shopping spree at the local Hot Topic. The band, during their set, spews gallons of (presumably fake) blood onto the audience, sends fans through the “meat grinder,” and lights stuff on fire! Honestly… how do you follow that!?

Similarly, how do I follow a post like the last one? It was like a zillion words long, full of academic splendor, and included the perfect accompanying photo! I suppose, I’ll have to be content with a post such as this. Instead of writing Pulitzer Prize winning phases like, “the current state of excitement amongst information organizationophiles,” I’ll have to be satisfied with intellectually devoid articulations such as, “dipped in acid, vomited on by satan, and then treated to a shopping spree at the local Hot Topic.”

It’s comforting to know that here, at sam bot dot com, raising the bar only leads to a temporary predicament. Just give it some time and I’ll bring that bar back down… way down.

An important and relevant addition to the above post: Gwar blogs! Each member (in character) maintains a blog on their site. Click to read:
Oderus Urungus’s blog
Balsac’s blog
Flattus Maximus’s blog
Beefcake the Mighty’s blog
JiZMak’s blog
slaves’s blog