This slays me. Apparently, there are English lit instructors out there who still believe that students will read the notes version, write their term paper and still expect to pass the class. Okay, maybe there are students who will attempt it. I guess what I find really astonishing is that the profs think that if the campus bookstore doesn't sell them, then the plagiarism issue will magically go away. (I assume that they are worried more about plagiarism than sheer laziness, because it is the job of the instructor to stave off the yawns when discussing the "classics." And no amount of cribbing, cheating, or calculating is going earn a below average student an A on a term paper.) Are the instructors even remotely aware of google? Or the fact that this information is one mouse click away anyhow? When did instructors re-enter the paleolithic era, communicating in grunts and cave paintings. Make your damn classes more challenging! Do not tolerate the surface level exploration of these texts. Plot summaries only tell the plot! The true study of literature is the discussion what these ideas mean in relation to the historical moment, the cultural zeitgeist, the Freudian ramifications, the Marxist nuances, the reader's own interaction with the text, the deconstruction of the plot's elements. If you are simply quizzing where Robin bought the red hat in chapter 22, then you are doing more of a disservice to the work of art than a measly $4.95 synopsis ever will.

I hate when you have to download a video. I mean it is so much more convenient when it just opens in a new window and plays. This goes for everything from porn to white trash blowing things up. But this one is definitely worth the time to download, even if you have never played World of Warcraft (and by the way, why don't you?)

Two hits from Narnia.

Ah, Jedi Love. Or where Little Jedis come from. Or, why I quit playing this game and moved on with my life.

Wow. Just simply. Wow.

There is hope and a kind of beauty in there somewhere, if you look for it.
H. R. Giger

New addition to the extended klown family. My sister just had a baby today (it is her birthday as well, if that is any indication of how organized her life is). Mother and baby are doing just fine. The new one's name is Greer.

Crows get a bad rap throughout mythological history, but look what they have to deal with. 

Man, I love the old school games. I just got Zoo Keeper in a collection of games for the Xbox, a steal at $19.99. Zoo Keeper was the one game that I remember drawing the largest crowd at the neighborhood 7-11. I dumped countless quarters into that damn thing trying to beat my brother's high score, Bob Scrignoli's and Wayne Zacher's. While I excelled at Mr. Do!, I never quite got the top spot on Zoo Keeper (which had "rest:" levels reminiscent of Mario--notice the resemblance?). Anyhow, back in the day when high scores mattered and you identified yourself with three simple initials, I was known as BOO. Anyone who entered ASS guaranteed that the game would be reset, and a the race for number one would begin anew. Sometimes I think that Tom, the night manager was the one who would enter ASS, as it assured that there would be a ton of us hanging around at night keeping him company and bolstering profits as we struggled to re-achieve those multi-million point high scores. 

What the hell is it with ninjas anyhow? Can they cook? Nooo. 

If you're happy and you know it...

then you aren't medicated enough. Or, if your names doesn't begin with C check this website out. If your name is Christopher, however, then you are probably already aware of this blog. If you are Christopher and you are not aware of this blog, then you drink too much (if not more than I do).

Pay particular attention to the January 8th entries. Notice, no Elvis. That's right kiddies, January 8th is now Klown DAY! Whoooohooo!

A little update on the post B-day blitz. The Hockey game was a bit of a letdown. The new NHL is kind of, well, soft. Kind of a lackluster game. The Wild lost, but that's not what made it so miserable. Even the fans sat on their hands. This is MINNESOTA! Hockey games and church should not be interchangeable on the decible meter.

I was drunk under the table by 10:30. Granted, I was out with a bunch of military boyz (read: professional alcoholics) but still....I used to be able to go all night long, puke and still make it to work on time. SheeSh!

Ice, beer, and my brother. Tonight we rekindle an old tradition of taking in a hockey game in celebration of another trip around the sun. When I was growing up, my mother would always plan a birthday party around a UMD Bulldogs' game.

I have been away from hockey for a number of years, living out west (No, I really don't think hockey belongs in Phoenix, LA, San Jose, etc.). So, with the move back to the tundra, I can once again, paint my face, get drunk on $7 dollar beer, and cheer the home team on toward victory.

What a strange, tribal thing it is to engage in.

The sound of bones creaking

Well, I awoke today undeniably on the other side of the hill. The peak is somewhere in my rearview mirror, and I am beginning to make my descent. You know what? Never felt better and more at peace. My twenties, well, what I remember of them were about getting drunk, chasing the idea of love, getting drunk, and maybe eventually getting a degree. But mostly about getting drunk. My thirties were all about catching up for the time lost. The super competitive go, go, go of what? Who was I really succeeding for? Sure, I helped myself out, but at what expense? I lost time with my family that I will never recover, and I helped make money for ungrateful suits without a hint of genuine thanks.

Forty. All that is gone. I am near home. I am at peace with the universe. Well, okay, I have been forty for a little over an hour now. We'll see what tomorrow brings. The other side of the hill brings a much, much better view of what lies ahead.

A little bit older; a whole lot scarier. 

Wow, has it been that long~?

Nearly two months away from the keyboard. But the klown, like the phoenix, has risen from the...whatever.

Just got bored with the same old. Not a lot happens here in the heartland. Not a lot to report. And with the gray winter days, not a lot of things even seem funny enough to send your way.

But lo and behold, something to report. Fortieth birthday just around the bend.

Apparently, I have just a scant 7 years left. Which is nearly 2600 blogging days until they find me in the bathroom, boxers around ankles, dead on the toilet. Elvis and I share more than just a birthday.