In these Troubled Times...

Never mistake pleonasm for pith.
Never mistake an aphorist for an apothecary offering anodyne.

"How to increase your productivity in N easy steps" OR "Too Cliché? I'm Sorry Andy"

So, it's reading days, and instead of studying or writing a paper or working on my mondo problem set, I've decided (after mucking around with my student webpage for about twenty minutes) to write yet another long-overdue room blog post. I feel this post consists mainly of internet potpourri - stuff I've been wasting my time on, which I felt was worth spreading virally, especially among peers avoiding academics even half so successfully as I am.

First order of business: watch this video. When I applied to live in the language house, I swore to propagate the language and culture of Germany, and the below fulfills more than my quota for this term.



Second, get a twitter account. It's like facebook, but better, because nobody invites you to join their facebook-causes, or challenges your movie knowledge, or tries to gift you a hatching egg - there's just statuses.

Third, start reading dinosaur comics. If you're put off at first, push forward - they kind of grow on you, and the consistency is a real comfort in this uncertain economic climate.

Fourth, check Google Trends (bi-)hourly. At its best, it's like having your finger on the pulse of the (english-speaking-internet-accessible) world; at its other best, it's like national, anonymous gossip.

Fifth, when the existing internet seems to dip below its useless-crap equilibrium, do your civic duty and proliferate. Write a student webpage - this is the greatest time-suck I am yet aware of.

Last, start f*ing commenting. And I don't mean "this was a really great post, you guys"-sorts of cop-out commenting. A blog is meant to be an exchange.

PS: http://jhdg.ytmnd.com/

Poll

Please take part in the Vier Teufel in der Schlafhöhle interactive poll, in the right sidebar. Your answer will help us with institutional measurement and improvement. Thank you.

Der Prospy der Hölle

Hello Loyal Readers. Parish 103 would like to issue the following statement:

Parish 103 is honored and flattered at the burgeoning readership of "Vier Teufel in der Schlafhöhle". Parish 103 would like to apologize for the absense of writing over the last two weeks. Please understand that with the harrowing events of October 30th and 31st, the aggregate writership of the weblog has been incapacitated by shock and horror. Thank you.

It is worth noting that our readership has truly burgeoned, as reported by scientific estimates of the "Vier Teufel in der Schlafhöhle" Scientific Polling and Quantified Measurement Acquisitional Method Appropriation Team (VTidSSPQMAMAT) . Reports from said group show readership growth from approximately three people to at least four, including an overseas contingent. Thank you all.

The harrowing events of October 30th and 31st are related to the appearance of Cody, the prospy from Hell, in our gracious household. We magnanimously agreed to host said prospy. According to the email we got, "He is SUPER interested in languages and would really lake to stay in Parish house where he could experience that environment". We politely declined to note that "lake" is not a verb but rather a noun.

Said prospy arrived on Thursday, the day before Halloween. Cody spoke German the whole time, even if you spoke English to him. This was okay, but slightly obnoxious. Cody bragged that he had gotten a bajillion points on his IB exams. Cody was voted "best German speaker" in his grade at his Orange County school. Cody corrected any perceived mistakes in German anyone made. These things could have been written off as trying to be helpful. The worst was yet to come.

When I was in Germany, I had an adorable host brother named Paul who was eight years old. I rarely saw him because of a nasty divorce situation. On the last day I was there, Paul made signs in adorable little kid handwriting and bad grammar that said in German, "stop", "halt", "I don't want you to go. Don't go. You may not go", etc. It was the most heartwarming thing anyone had ever done for me, especially considering I hardly knew him.

I kept those signs and they're on our door now. A few days after Cody left, I noticed something peculiar. Someone had taken a red pen, crossed out the misspelled words on Paul's signs, and corrected their grammar and spelling. Unbelievable. The audacity of it. Somehow, Cody, Prospy from hell, had thought that these signs clearly written by a eight year old on our door were there for him to critique and correct. Now my keepsake of the memory of Paul, cutest eight year old ever, is defiled. I think its fair to say that Cody, who was obnoxious, had raised himself to status of "shitty human being". Congratulations, Cody. May you never come to Carleton. We'll do our part to make sure of that.

-Kevin

pointing the finger

Under pressure from my more loquacious blog-mates, I've "decided" to make my contribution.

My roommates are a suspicious bunch. Just the other week Andy accused us of planting women's clothing in his recently washed laundry. After about forty minutes of deliberation and many attacks on the characters of our mothers, I realized that an email had gone around about laundry stolen from the laundry room - the clothes almost certainly belonged to our RA.

Lessons learned:

1. Since abandoning his laptop, Andy has become significantly more insulated.
2. Before accusation consider situation - the evidence may point to you.
3. Our RA owns a blue striped tank-top.
   

Science writing and Bill Titus have worn away at my means of expression.

Next time on Mountain Man:
BREAKING NEWS: K. P. might buy a cell phone (!)
The fate of Hubert
-plus-
Class of 2010: the GoldenEye rennaissance.

"God, it's so gratifying"
-J. F.

-Andrew

But how will I cope?

After a long silence I finally have the courage to write again. The leafy Hubert, my only confidant in this stink-hole of vice, has suffered greatly from his association with them; its greener parts are now bespeckled with a sickly brown. Soon they'll take it away.

This happens right after Mark fended off the alligator with a large stick. There are three notable things in this strip:

1. I contend that having a giant alligator a few feet from chomping me to bits would be enjoyable under certain circumstances, such as in certain dreams, arcade games, or realities in which the alligator has no teeth or biting power, much like when a fish nibbles your toes sticking in the water. In this case, the alligator would probably make a NOM NOM noise, much like a LOLcat (or LOLLIGATOR in this case). Mark should more carefully define restrictions on his statements rather than recklessly spouting generalities that may not apply to all situations.
   
2. HOLY HELL! GIANT POSSUM ON THE LOOSE IN PANEL TWO!
3. I suggest that wearing a pink pantsuit is rather unsuitable anytime, anywhere, but especially in a wetland, where fashion sense is critical.
4. I would suggest that panel three will lead to romance, but I know better. Mark is never, ever unfaithful to anything.

-Kevin

Meatball Madness

If there's anything that eating at the LDC teaches me, it's just how many people I don't know.

-Kevin

Assorted Reflections

A significant portion of the evening involved moving apples in plastic bags around campus, but now that they are all safely located in Parish 103--and taste-tested by one Andy McMahon--that chapter comes to a close.

In the meantime, things appear to be trucking on, beginning to settle into the rut that is 4th week right before the storm of mid-term. This rut is most aptly demonstrated by the collection of once- (or, occasionally, twice-) used glasses and mugs adorning Andrew's coffeetable in the center of our social space, as well as by the general reluctance to pick up the lawnchair that's been strewn on the floor next to Jon's desk for well over a week.

I can hear Peter elaborate about his Argentine central banking notions from down the hall, and so will retire for the evening. Not because of Argentine anything, but rather that when Peter's returned to Parish, it means that I'm up much too late, as a rule. So, I will heed my better judgment and call this post a raucous success.

Andy asks first, however, what that smell is. I, completely ignorant, am unable to provide a suitable reply.

Bis Morgen,
Parisher Bergmann Einhundertdrei

A Day of Fright

A couple mornings ago I had a harrowing brush with death. I was walking back to Parish while whistling "Banana Phone" when I was horrified to find myself face to face with and less than five feet from the Albino Squirrel. After a moment of sizing each other up, the monstrosity showed its displeasure at my choice of song by baring its fangs and letting out a mighty roar. The wave of sound rustled my hair and the foul smell alone made my whitey tighties turn deep brown. This would have been slightly embarrassing if I wasn't worried that this would be my last moment upon the Earth before being savagely devoured by the most infamous Carleton beast of lore.

I reached into my pocket to call my mother and tell her, "Mom, all of these years, you have been a wonderful provider and excellent resource for a boy often in need of guidance, support, and down-home cooking. You have much more than satisfactorily satisfied the qualities of mother. Gone "above and beyond" even, as they say. Been stern yet lax when needed. Mom, none of that matters, because there is a killer albino squirrel baring its fangs at me, and I have shitted my pants embarrasingly, and I'm only calling to say one thing: Mom, I lov -- AAAUGGGHHH!! OH LORD THE FANGS--". However, I then realized I own no phone, and my mother would have to learn of my death secondhand in the obituaries of the Rochester Post-Bulletin, the "weird news" section of Yahoo.com, or Jay Leno's monologue.

Indeed, the monstrosity belched another poop-inducing roar, clearly becoming hungrier and angrier. I decided to plead. "Please, Mr. Squirrel, I have a wife and kids," I lied. Big mistake. Turns out the albino squirrel is not only a foul carnivorous flesh-eating beast, but also a lady and a vehement feminist. She did not take kindly to my assumption of maleness for every squirrel. It was at that moment that she leaped at my throat. Just before I passed out from fright and poop fumes, I swear I saw a mini Hillary button pinned to the she-squirrel's chest.

When I awoke, I said "Am I in squirrel dungeon? Or heaven?" Rob Oden leaned over me and said, "No, my son, you...are...at...the...wellness...center." Then he told me all about the dramatic rescue that saved my life and finally vanguished the horrible white beast:


Thank heaven for the Carleton Security Squirrel Squad.

-Kevin

P.S. don't you dare think I made that drawing. It's here.

Where is #4?

Last night, in the wee hours, I was rudely woken by two of my chattier roommates. At a quarter to five, an unconscious Kevin, much like Chicken Little, panicked over a collapsing sky, while a consoling voice from above -- Andy, also unconscious -- maintained the bed was, in fact, in no danger of falling. I, doing my best to ignore the event, am unsure whether a resolution was reached, but pray the debate is not continued tonight.

Kevin begrudgingly worked the LDC today, serving "Spinach Florentine Cakes."

Jon, seen for the first time since the incident this morning, just returned to the room with a copy of the 2002 National Intelligence Estimate.

Andy has turned to alcohol abuse to cope with selling out.

I received a Melitta coffee filter in the mail today.

And through all this the ass only brayed: HEE-HAW.

According to a later Roman biographer, the cynical philosopher Diogenes of Sinope once walked the streets of ancient Athens with a lighted lantern attached to his staff, in search of an honest man. He never found one. On another occasion, according to the same source, Diogenes stood in the Athenian agora and shouted "Men of Athens, come to me!" As soon as they drew near, he began striking everyone he could with his staff, shouting "I said men, not scoundrels!"
For the first time in my life, I fully understand Diogenes predicament. Among my cohabitants in Parish 103, you will not find a single honest man. It's much worse than that, I fear: I'm not surrounded by men at all, rather only a group of incorrigible scoundrels: Kevin sleepwalks, Andrew's feet smell, and Jon lacks any recognizable concept of decency.
In this blog, dear reader, you will find the bitter chronicle of my struggles with this pack of mangy dogs. If you find the urge to weep for me, save your tears. The worst is certainly yet to come.
-Andy