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Its not even 10 am but I have been awake for 2 hours already on this, Tuesday, the day where I can sleep in.

Some odd shit was going on last night. I recall waking up multiple times, before surrendering again to my bed. Once I went to the bathroom, turned on the light, but realized, I didn’t have to pee. Another time I woke up, stood up, which is rather hard considering my bed is on the floor and I am 95% asleep, and then took a drink of water from the gallon jug on the floor. This required me to bend down and get it from the floor before picking it up again and putting it back down and then going back to the bed. The third is the most strange, I got up, removed my suit from where it had been hanging and tucked it back into my closet, for fear that I might spill something on it. Don’t ask.

That is to say nothing of the fact that I woke up with considerable sweat on my neck and collar area and took a stroll to the fan and stood there for a sec before wiping myself off with some laundry, which smelled.

And the night was topped off with dreams about a short-haired Lyndsey Vader who was disguising herself as someone else, no idea who.

I’m gonna be napping hard today at some point. Maybe right now even.

Yesterday, we had our annual alumni match. It was hot. Bloody hot. I think its funny to note that after five years, I still don’t have a decent team photo of the our club, mainly because people can’t use a camera unless its made by Tyco.

I went to Sam’s house at night. One of those parties where you stay for hours but only take three pictures because otherwise it would just be a beer pong highlight reel.

Allow me to sumarize. Denny, et al were playing wiffle ball on what used to be the basketball courts on Drexel’s campus (now just a fenced in penn of blacktop). The ball somehow went into the stormdrain so in an effort to retrieve it, they open the manhole cover and devise a scheme to dip their buddy into the hole head first so he can pluck the wiffle ball from the depths of the sewer and back into eventual play.

The two problems that initially arose were A) who to lower into the hole – considering it smelled like absolute Hell and the manhole was one of those half-sized manholes, more like small child hole. Most university-aged men have wide shoulders, and girls are much to pretty to be dangled over a vat of festering garbage and city run-off. B) There is practically no light in the hole and when a body is being lowered, the street light will be blocked.

Enter me and my camera. I happen to be walking along en route to Kathleen’s house when I came across this whole event and luckily I was strapped with my camera so I touched the shutter button and provided enough orange light in the hole to light the path to victory.

I accidentally took a few shots, but the flash didn’t seem to bother our fearless ball-snatcher friend whose name I didn’t catch.

The odd thing is, that I didn’t take any other photos the whole night at Kathleen’s.

Since 1999 or so, I have been ranting about how much I hate seeing Britney Spears on the covers of magazines and I have made such comments as “Who does she think she is, Grace Kelly?” “Aren’t we at war somewhere?” “Put on some clothes!” and “What ever happened to the Spice Girls?” to name a few. Still, I thought Britney looked pretty attractive on the cover of Marie Claire when I saw the issue at CVS.

I can’t say why, precisely. I think its because she’s actually wearing something borderline-modest and traditional and that Britney somehow is showing us an uncharacteristicly plain look – very girl next door-ish. I like plain-faced girls.

Or maybe its the smirk. I like a bit of mystery as well.

So to Britney, if you’re reading…for some reason, you look very nice on the cover of June’s MC.

So, to Ariel, Davin and the rest of the class of 2004 – adieu, and good luck.

Today we presented our senior design project. It was the most uneventful and unsatisfying of all the uneventful and unsatisfying projects of the past 5 years. Thanks for nothing.

I will write more later today, I have to finish writing the report.

Once that report is handed in, its definitely the 9th inning and hopefully I won’t have to field again.

I didn’t think it was possible, but today I got a paper pop-up. Allow me to explain: Today I checked the mail, as I usually do, and found another annoying bulky AOL disc advertising 3 free months and how version 9 is so great (I haven’t noticed a change since v4). I decided not to throw it away but rather to use the case for something useful. So I took it inside and unwrapped it, and after a small, square piece of paper slipped out onto my lap. I picked it up and guess what it said – Block Pop-Ups!

This has got to be a first. For shame, AOL, for shame.

A few funny quotes that were said this weekend.

Tiny: “I will leave you with the words of a stranger….’if you get the chance, fuck her in the ass’.”

Mum: “That portrait looks like you except for the mouth.”
Scott: “Mum, that’s Derek Jeter.”

Scott: “You apologize too much.”
Kathleen: “I’m Sorry. I mean…Fuck you!”

Apparently, photography is not allowed in the mall (at short hills) because it is an act of copyright infringement. Not selling the photos or manufacturing products based on those photos, but taking them. Now, I can’t think of a biggest case of bullshit relating to this subject. Imagine if photography were forbidden in parks because someone might plant trees in an identical formation, or if cameras were banned in Washington DC because someone might build another Washington Monument or Lincoln Memorial thereby infringing on the design of the architecture. Fucking get over it and let people take photos in the mall.

By the way, this fact came from a grown woman who sells hiking shoes and takes herself way too seriously. I wish I weren’t so nice, I would have told her off.

Coach is a pretty cool store and some of their designs are sharp, but their merchandise is way too expensive – my lord. The worst is that Mischa wants to buy a Coach bag for herself after buying one for mum. I like the lines of the shelving and the black and white elements.

The only thing crazier than rugby players drinking and singing songs is rugby players dancing to 70s music in suits. Actually, no, I take that back.

So that’s rugby for you. These photos do justice to nothing, especially not Mike’s pimp suit or Jake’s guardian angle tux. Man, that was cool.

Thanks Kathleen.