Our Dumb Blog

I made my way casually to the fountain today (still empty as Christ’s tomb),
and looked around. The thing where they had to replace the bricks looked
promising, but when I got closer, I noticed that it was clamped down and
screwed in. I didn’t want to fool with anything that required hardware, so I
moseyed on over to the place where they are constantly digging up and peered
at the lids protruding from the ground. After scouring the area for
maintenance workers, I stooped down and lifted the one marked “Irrigation
Valve” up. Inside, ants scurried around and something that looked like it
required a lug wrench poked out from the bottom. It had a couple of things
that looked like electrical wires emanating from it, however, so I’m not
really sure what it is for. Everything was covered in mud, which made
identification difficult. The other lid was marked “WATER METER” or
something, and all I could see inside was blackness. I gave up.

Ah, yes, the socialist award. Last Thursday my History and Politics of
Modern Russia class had a end of course party. People brought snacks, our
instructor (who is a lady from Russia) made tea, and we watched Russian
singing and dancing on a video while munching on Russian Tea Cakes. Then our
instructor (I never use her real name because I can’t pronounce it, let alone
spell it) reminded us about how when Stalin was bringing about rapid
industrialization, people would be awarded medals and stuff for hard work.
So she said that it was fitting that we recognize the person with the best
attendance (the guy on my right piped up, “That’d be Joanna,”) and the person
with the highest grade on the midterm (a girl over to my left added,
“Joanna.”). “So I think we can agree that Joanna (she pronounces my name as
one syllable. You know, Russians are used to shortages) should get this.”
Our personal minister of propaganda came over and handed me a cheap medal
that said something in Russian and bore the date 1977. I stood up, shook her
hand, and put it on proudly. Then I wore it for the rest of the day. I
asked her what it meant, and she said it was for the best socialist. So…

I had fun last night. Jobie Watson spent the night too. She’s a freak, but I
like her. Her father’s a pastor and her mom’s a school teacher. She changes
the color of her hair every so often. She wears weird clothes. She swears
and is trying to quit smoking. She just graduated with a theater degree and
is going to graduate school in Hattisburg.

First we went to the mall and ate at Ruby Tuesdays. I had this fetticinie
thing that had vegetables but it was greasy. Then they dragged me shopping.
I got this neat light over sweater jacket thing that they said I needed at the
Express. It was on sale for 6 bucks.

Next we went to B&N. I put on the jacket thing because all I was wearing was
a stained t-shirt. We perused the books and then met Matt Humphrey in the
cafe and drank coffee. The fall is probably going to be his last semester.
I’m going to miss him.

After that we all returned to the apartment and flipped through the channels. Jobie started playing her guitar but didn’t have pick so she found a hair pick lying around and played with that. After Matt left, we made our way over to Sting’s place, but no one would answer the door. We returned and played around on the modem some and even called up DS9, but only Beren and Ocean were there, and I still haven’t been validated. We went back over to Scott’s after calling them onthe phone because Jobie wanted to meet this guy who could play the guitar awesomely since she plays too.

I played on the NZ while Elizabeth talked to Sting about CD’s and he played the guitar. Then we went out and watched Army of Darkness with Ron and Jonathan. I’d heard so many lines from Eric that I could predict what Ash was going to say before he said it. “Good, Bad… I’m the guy with the gun.” Sting had to go take some girl home but told me to stay until he got back. This was because he wanted to show me his car. Very nice.
Elizabeth, Jobie, and I went back to the apartment and played on the modem some more. Jobie thinks it’s the neatest thing.

04/29/95

TVI and I were looking at B&N at the men are from mars women are from venus interactive CD rom for Macintoshes. We also saw men are from mars women are from venus In the Bedroom. We each picked up a copy commenting about how he had a new book out and stuff. Then we put them quickly down. I guess the title didn’t really strike us to begin with.

Barney was there with Parker Lewis. We were talking about Slim, and Boogie
Man suggested we each take a quadrant of the store and go around asking
people, “Are you Slim?” Somebody commented that some women would find that
offensive, when Barney piped up, “But Slim’s a guy…” Can we say blonde?

I flunked my chem lab final and made a C on my last chemistry test. Sigh.
Right now I’m trying hard to get a B in that class…

Well, darn. I can’t believe they drained the fountain the day we were
planning to jump in. I was looking forward to taking a running start and
doing a cannonball, but I probably would have slipped and cracked my head
open instead. Give the nursing students some practical experience. I
learned the hard way why you don’t run at the swimming pool a couple of years
ago. My brother was chasing me, and as I rounded a corner, my feet slipped
on the stone like concrete (you know, like they have everywhere at UM, those
little rock things that get really slippery on the side walk?) and I fell
down, ripping part of my thigh off and feeling a chunk off the side of my
foot get peeled off by the pavement. It was not a pleasant memory, and the
wounds took the dickens of a time to heal. And then my grandmother died, but
I got her car, so I guess there was a happy ending after all. Even though
the Braves lost the World Series for the first time.

Anyway, Nathan waited for me outside once 2 pm rolled around. I joined him
and sat forlornly waiting till Cris Hyatt and Chad Sides got out of class.
Then I made a mad dash for the edge and jumped in, my shoes making a pitiful
splash from the remains of the water. We climbed on the figure, and then
Cris got the bright idea of sticking the orange cone (that once failed to
serve the bricks from being stepped on) on top of the statue (or whatever it
is). Neither one of us was tall enough to reach that high, but Nathan came
to our rescue and tossed it up top. It fell down, so he tried repeatedly but
without success to get the cone back up. About then we heard someone honking
and yelling. “Maintenance man approaching,” I alerted Cris, who had picked
up where Nathan abruptly left off. Across the quad came a black man with the
sleeves rolled up on his uniform walking casually but purposeful
toward us. We all sat down on the edge of the fountain. I got up and put
the cone back where it was before.

“Uh, what cone?” said Cris, laughingly rehearsing what she’d say. “Haven’t
seen a bright orange cone,” added Nathan. The man reached us. “So you’re
the ones who put soap in my fountain!” he said. “No sir, not us.” He picked
up the cone and started to leave. “Oh, come on,” pleaded Cris, “We want to
put it on top.” “I’ll just have to go up there and get it after you do,”
he pointed out. “Will you fill the fountain back up before school is out?” I
asked. “Probably,” he shrugged, “We we’re just gonna clean it out.” After
he left, Nathan amused himself by throwing coins up into the “collection
plate.”

If what he says comes true and there is water in the fountain next Friday,
I’m going to jump in after my Russian History final to celebrate my
transition into upperclassmanship. My test is at one, so I don’t know how
late it will be.