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So apparently, at CTB they are trying out a new way of serving your food. You go and order like always at the front of the line, but you get a plastic card instead of waiting at the counter at the end for them to yell out your food. Instead, you bring the card to your table, and a bagel(wo)man will bring your order right to your table.

I blame Starbucks. I found it quite entertaining where everyone waved crayoned slips of paper in the air when they brought out the orders. It had the feel like you were on the floor of a stock exchange, except you were getting bagels (valuable commodities in their own right).

So today was the first day from hell. I have Bio at 9:05, DiffEq at 10:10, What is Science? at 11:15, then Debate from 1:25-4:25, then bowling somewhere in between there for the Cornell Men’s League, then LA 140 from 7:30-10:30. Yeah, you can’t bitch about how much your days suck anymore.

So I’m taking LA 140 (that cultural New York yadda bullshit) to fulfill one of those aforementioned CALS requirements. The first thing we did in lecture was sing a couple songs with this old professor– has a doctorate in music history or something like that. Can play like ten different instruments. Well anyways, he put up lyrics and sheet music on the projector for songs like the alma-mater song, and “Give our Regards to Davy,” some Cornell stalwarts. And the first time through, he sings, while everyone else mumbles (except myself a few others). Not pleased with this, he figures asking everyone to stand up and sing together might help. So I get up– along with like 1/4 of the fucking class. 1/4. Some kids who go here are just assholes. Here’s an old guy, trying to lead a group of kids in a song representing their fucking university, trying to be excited about it. And how does everyone else respond? By sitting on their asses– moping, rolling their eyes, and snickering. I don’t understand. I take pride in going here, especially when it comes to accepting the quirky traditions. I mean, kids here will thump their chests because they can get shitfaced every night from Tuesday through Sunday, but apparently, joining in one communal school song in a large class instead of listening to a mindless drone of powerpoint slides (even if it’s merely to appease an older faculty member) is apparently above them.

Oh well. Guess some people just have more growing up to do than others.

Some brief bulletpoints…

3:58:38.6. That’s how long it took from Torrington driveway to Eddygate parking lot. No stoppages or stoplights and a sizable amount of traffic included. Mapquest tells me it should take like 5 hours and 13 minutes or something retarded like that.

There are some hotties workin’ the toll booths on the Mass Pike/NY Thruway. One was wearing a USC sweatshirt. I originally figured she was on winter break– then I decided that didn’t make sense… No, she probably definitely slept with Matt Leinart.

Bowled at the Hawk Invitational in Utica this weekend. Continued to bowl decent– ever since the start of December. Started off with a 138 because I kept sliding too much at the line– once I realized it was because of the fucking salt they used to cover the parking lot and started wiping my sole off every frame, I ended up averaging like 221 and finishing 7th in singles. The team as a whole did nothing to write home about.

Classes started today. Nothing exciting– another intro biology class to finish my CALS requirements, differential equations, a sociology seminar (another requirement), synoptic meteorology– and on Wednesday, some class on the cultural landscape of New York (yet ANOTHER inane requirement). I haven’t decided whether or not to take a debate class (you guessed it– to knock off the last one) or take “Advanced Atmospheric Dynamics.” I mean, the class only has one undergrad, and two grad students, one who is auditing– so I’d easily be the dumbest one there…

I thoroughly enjoy how Cornell offers a class on e-mail etiquette– one that condemns typing in caps and excessive use of exclamation points/question marks, yet they still send me e-mails with the title, “IMPORTANT SEMESTER START-UP INFORMATION!”

It’s 4:04 and I have been trying to sleep since a little after 1.

Not sleeping is quite possibly the worst thing in the entire world. I’m tired. I’m yawning every forty-five seconds. I even exerted myself in a physical manner earlier. I should be falling asleep on command.

The last time I had this much trouble sleeping was…

… Aw crap. I hate when my insomnia is caused by boobies.

Must. Think. About. Chillin’. With. Chuck. Norris. Instead… No– wait– too much of an adreneline rush.  Hangin’ with Margaret Thatcher.

Is it bad that I love “Breaking News” on television?

I can’t be the only one that gets all worked up when I’m in the middle of watching some fabulously boring drivel on CNN and then I hear “Ding ding DING!” and then all the anchors start talking in panicked, quick voices and they try to elaborate on the situation at hand. Hopefully followed sketchy helicopter shots, while you wonder what everyone on the ground is actually trying to do at any given moment. Then you get the “experts” on the phone, whether that be an authority, a family member, or some guy who claims he knows how to fly a 747 since he crop dusted once “back in ‘76.”

I mean, I feel this doesn’t make me a horrible person, I don’t enjoy death and destruction. I guess breaking stories are just captivating. Some of them are like “sit the fuck down, you’re watching a piece of history, dumbass.” (If I was ever an anchor, I’d definitely tell my viewers this too).

So if you are in New York, feel free to strip down and climb to the top of the Empire State building. It’d not only be breaking news, but it’d be the first time networks would have to censor the skyline shot. And of course, you’ll get your very own Wikipedia article. Hell yeah.

The following concerns a question in a physics exam at the University of Copenhagen in Denmark several decades ago…

The simple question was: “Describe how to determine the height of a skyscraper with a barometer.” To which one student replied: “You tie a long piece of string to the neck of the barometer, then lower the barometer from the roof of the skyscraper to the ground. The length of the string plus the length of the barometer will equal the height of the building.”

This highly original answer so incensed the examiner that the student was failed. The student then appealed on the grounds that his answer was indisputably correct, and the University appointed an independent arbiter to decide the case. The arbiter judged that the answer was indeed correct, but did not display any noticeable knowledge of physics. To resolve the problem it was decided to call the student in and allow him six minutes in which to provide a verbal answer, which showed at least a minimal familiarity with the basic principles of physics.

For five minutes the student sat in silence, forehead creased in thought. The arbiter reminded him that time was running out, to which the student replied that he had several extremely relevant answers, but couldn’t make up his mind which to use. On being advised to hurry up the student replied as follows:

• “Firstly, you could take the barometer up to the roof of the skyscraper, drop it over the edge, and measure the time it takes to reach the ground. The height of the building can then be worked out from the formula H = 0.5g x t squared. But bad luck on the barometer.”
• “Or if the sun is shining you could measure the height of the barometer, then set it on end and measure the length of its shadow. Then you measure the length of the skyscraper’s shadow, and thereafter it is a simple matter of proportional arithmetic to work out the height of the skyscraper.”
• “But if you wanted to be highly scientific about it, you could tie a short piece of string to the barometer and swing it like a pendulum, first at ground level and then on the roof of the skyscraper. The height is worked out by the difference in the gravitational restoring force T = 2 pi square root (l / g).”
• “Or if the skyscraper has an outside emergency staircase, it would be easier to walk up it and mark off the height of the skyscraper in barometer lengths, then add them up.”
• “If you merely wanted to be boring and orthodox about it, of course, you could use the barometer to measure the air pressure on the roof of the skyscraper and on the ground, and convert the difference in millibars into feet to give the height of the building.”
• “But since we are constantly being exhorted to exercise independence of mind and apply scientific methods, undoubtedly the best way would be to knock on the janitor’s door and say to him ‘If you would like a nice new barometer, I will give you this one if you tell me the height of this skyscraper’.”

A lot of people keep inquiring as to what exactly the Gregori Letter is (that or whether or not I still have it).

On April 1st, 2003, we decided to play a prank on our AP Chemistry teacher, Ms. Gregori. This was by no means a random selection, this was probably the most gullible, wide-eyed, aloof teacher I had ever known (Frageau being a close second, but we know that was on account of the drugs).

The story begins with us (Tres, Omi, Jeff, Kris) in either study hall or microcomputing class, I can’t remember which. I personally guess the latter, since we were likely typing form letters (I had long since turned off/disconnected/killed/deleted the paper clip). Either way, I have no clue who came up with the brilliant idea, but somehow, somewhere, someone decided it would be an interesting hoax if we tried to “sue” Gregori. The basis for the suit would be the remarks she had made a few weeks earlier regarding Omi (of Middle Eastern descent) receiving his driver’s license.

Class: Omi, did you get your license?
Omi: (pauses for effect). Yeah!
Gregori: (laughs her Marge Simpson-esque, deep inhaling laugh) Oh good, now you can drive a taxi!

So we wrote the letter, signed it using a fictitious lawyer, and even wrote down Jeff’s cell phone number as the contact, in case she actually wanted to call. Somewhere along the lines we acquired an envelope, and sealed/signed it, addressing it to Gregori. We were planning on leaving it on her desk during lunch (which was right before AP Chemistry). Again, our best laid plans got even better, when RJ (security guard) crossed our paths. As always, my memory is sketchy, but we managed to convince him to come up during our lab and hand the letter to her personally. No questions could be answered, and he had to have no knowledge of the content of the envelope. He complied– either because he was excited and had nothing better to do, or there was no crossword that day. We were doing a thin-layer chromatography lab that day, so class was in session, but as with all AP Chem labs, terribly informal. About twenty minutes in, R.J. shows up in the open doorway, holding the letter.

Gregori: What’s this?
R.J.: I don’t know, someone in a suit gave it to me at the front door.
Gregori: Where was he from?
R.J.: I don– I have to go.

R.J. disappeared. Quickly. Like in the dead sprint kind of way. Gregori seemed some combination puzzled and amused by the letter and originally laid it down on the desk to help curtail an experiment gone very awry. After all was as well as could be, she returned to the front of the room, and her desk. Someone elbowed me and muttered, “Look, she’s opening it.” Sure enough, she had broken the seal, and taken out the single piece of laser-printed copy paper. She began to read it, and to everyone’s shock (and amusement) she grew progressively more worried as the color actually drained from her face. Upon finishing the letter, she threw it into the top drawer of her desk, and took a lap around the front lab counter. As we tried not to laugh, she retreated to her stool, opened her desk, and re-read the letter a second time– as if hoping it changed in the last thirty seconds.

Gregori: Oh– Om– Omi… I need to see you outside for a moment.

Her voice shook with every syllable. Omi complied, and Jeff hurried into the back corner to serve as M.A. Shamarr if a phone call ever came through. The rest of us huddled behind the back lab table. Why we did so, I’m still not one hundred percent sure, though we likely were worried that the small Italian woman was packing heat.

Gregori: (in hallway) OH MY GOD!

Shit. We’re in trouble. They return to find us getting ready to duck and/or jump out the 2nd story windows. Omi admitted that he had to tell her, fearful that she would suffer some form of actual serious breakdown in the middle of the hallway. That or she actually was packing heat. The surrounding teachers by now had strolled over to hear what all the commotion was about. When we fully explained the story, it was unanimously lauded as a great joke; by staff and students alike (and eventually, was honored in the yearbook). Now about twenty minutes after the fact, Gregori, still breathing heavily, began to make feeble attempts to laugh it off– though I feel she feared us from then on, until our very last day.

I ran into my old basketball coach the other day. I hadn’t seen him in a long time. Well, by long I mean I don’t think I’ve seen him since 11th grade. And as with all people who I haven’t seen in at least two years, conversation followed protocol. Those chats that go, “How’s school?” “Good.” “How’s work?” “It’s alright?” “How’s your father?” “He’s cool.” “How’s your son doing?” “Eh, he’s surviving.” And then the talk devolves into a particular subject that you and the conversee have in common. In this case, it was my brilliantly short, and largely unspectacular basketball career. I say largely unspectacular, because he goes, “Hey, remember that three you hit at the buzzer that one time?” Of course I did; it was one of the not shitty moments involving me and an activity that required moving for more than 30 seconds at a time. Back during sophomore year, in our first game of the season, we were playing a team that was going to be no better than a .500 squad. And that’s giving them a lot of credit. For some reason, we were missing our leading scorer too, I don’t really remember why. So anyways, we ran with these guys all game, and I was the leading scorer– somehow. Key point being, we were down by three, I set a pick at the top of the arc, and when I left, he followed the ball, leaving me wide fucking open up top. Me being my natural clutch self I hit a high-arcing three just as time expired to send the game into overtime. It was pretty cool and I was understandably excited. Putting a damper on the night though (and there always is something) was the fact that we lost by 5 in overtime. I never took another shot again, finishing with a game-high 28 points. So the meaning of “the shot” was dulled significantly. If only they had a 4 point shot… well anyway, this encounter got me thinking… what was the highlight of my widely unsuccessful kinda-sorta-maybe athletic career?

There was that playoff game where I struck out 14 guys in 6 innings. But we lost 1-0 on an unearned run; a Bill Buckner-esque flashback that afflicted my 3rd baseman. That’s out.

There once was this game where I hit a game winning single in the bottom of the 8th of a 6-6 game to drive in a guy on third and win the game. Sadly, we were only at best 5-15 on the season– so– meaningless.

Way back in the day, I scored 8 out of our team’s 11 goals in a hockey game. But hockey? Yeah, that about does it.

I suppose the 300 was pretty impressive. But other than that, I can’t think of any big-big time clutch bowling I’ve had to deal with. I mean there are the weeks where I need to strike out to get a point, but it’s only one point. I guess I did throw five in a row to win the IM championships freshman year, but eh–

No, no– I know exactly my crowning achievement. It came way before any of the above. It wasn’t one of the many Wiffle Ball walkoffs or kickball grand slams either. Fifth grade. Torringford Elementary School. Mr. John Morris’ class. We were inside for recess that day, likely due to a foot of snow covering the parking lot we referred to as our playground. I remember we had this Nerf basketball hoop set up, dead center, right above the chalkboard at the front of the room. You know the hoops, the one with the balls that are like the size of croquet balls (yes, I know– fucking croquet– that’s why you get a picture). I remember we pushed all the desks aside to form an aisle in the middle of the room. We also put a piece of masking tape on the floor– somewhere in the range of 15-20 feet away from the hoop. Now I’m not sure how it got started, but I do remember Mr. Morris used to give out “prizes” via a raffle to students who did well (or more accurately, managed to not stab anyone) during the prior week. He decided that rather than do a raffle for this week’s prize, we’d play a game of ball for it (seeing as it was Friday). Now this wasn’t your game of 5 on 5 where I would have merely elevated, dunked, and hung on the rim above all those other wusses– this is like free throw shooting for a prize. And I remember the prize was a sleeve of Chips Deluxe cookies. The ones with the ripoff M&M’s on ‘em. Deliciousness. I remember I was quite excited about them, not merely because I loved cookies (which I did, and still do), but because my parents used to be big sticklers for the “no more than three cookies” rule. And here, I’m playing for a whole sleeve, all to myself! So we lined up. I distinctly remember that it was very difficult to make it in the hoop, what with the not being supported by more than a couple thin plastic tubes and whatnot, so we got X number of shots to make a basket to move on to the next round, where X ~= 5. I had been slightly above average at this game, so I moved swiftly on through the rounds. But that day, it was on (like the proverbial Donkey Kong you could say). I was nasty, I remember I wasn’t even putting pressure on myself, I was nailing the first shot, and sitting off to the side waiting for the next round. And pretty soon, it came down to two; me and this other kid, who I guess you could say was the biggest jock you could be if you were a 5th grader (ironically, plunked me on the elbow junior year with like a 90mph fastball). First basket won. So we matched each other, shot for shot. Well, miss for miss that is. I don’t know if it was that damn chocolatey pressure, or we just sucked. But for the next 5 minutes, neither of us drained one. On and on the Shaq free-throw-fest went until Mr. J-Mo (not to be confused with this J-Mo) told us we were going to have to split the sleeve, it was time for geography or math or whatever the fuck we had to learn in 5th grade. “One more shot!” my opponent pleaded. I was perfectly willing to split the prize. After all, with 26 cookies, I could do a lot. But he got his wish– one more shot. Of course, in painfully pathetic fashion he missed his left. So left it hit that little rectangle on the top corner of the board where the teacher writes the date every morning so us dumb little children can’t fuck it up. Now I was up– one more shot, with my little class of 30 kids all watching anxiously, happy that Nerf basketball was delaying fractions. I toed the makeshift line, bent my knees, raised up, and followed through. Straight and pure did she go, just a tad short though. But damned if I don’t love those Nerf rims, as it bent down with the weight of the ball, and flung it back into the air. It came straight back down, first off the back support, and then trickled through the net. Huzzah for Colin! Cookies! All the fifth graders high-fived me– likely due to the fact that this was the biggest sporting accomplishment they would see until the fake paper mache jousting match at the Medieval festival in middle school. I remember sharing the cookies that day. I was gracious, even in my most impressive triumph. I remember mainly because this one fat kid took like five. Oh well, c’est la vie.

And that was my greatest sporting accomplishment ever.