The Rasp

Just When You Thought It Was Safe To Click On The Rasp

2006-08-07T23:47:00.000-05:00

Or perhaps this title is better dubbed, "Just When You Thought It Was Pointless To Click On The Rasp." No matter! In my usual creative fit I return with renewed vigor. Summer has proved a temptress and has coaxed The Wife and I from our Chicago home weekend after weekend through June and July until the weekend past. For on weekend past came the jam called Lollapalooza. And jam we did. And it was good. For fans of Death Cab, Manu, Mute Math, Andrew Bird, and Common alike--and for those of us fans of all--The Rasp opines on band names. Specifically,

Band Names Derived From My Immediate Field Of Vision

* Two Parallel Shoe
* Pillowstack
* Thumbtack Corkboard
* Square Check Chair
* The Insides of Eyeglasses
* Otto-MAN!
* Unappreciating Art
* Tool Bag Atop Power Drill Case
* Wiggletoe Dirtynails
* White Wall Dry Wall
* The Hey Hey Green Duvets
* Create Post

Take one and run with it. Now go.

The Paper Doll

2006-05-13T21:45:00.000-05:00

Stop fantasizing about The Rasp and start sleeping like him:

Find your own pose!

Women Who Make My Breakfast All The Sweeter While Making Their Group's Plight All The Plightier

2006-05-12T08:33:00.000-05:00

Aunt Jemima, whose eager to please smile, handsome kerchief, and big white pearls for teeth not so much suggest the slavery of yore, but drip of it as syrup might onto a warm toaster waffle.

Mrs. Butterworth, whose husband I have never met and whose sensual sugary sap hints at a hidden ardor under that billowing gown. Might I remove the whale bone ribbing of her dress?

Land O Lakes Indian Squaw, who kneels expectantly with a pat of buttery spread in her hands and from her dark-haired head extends a single, erect feather.

"Better Late Than Never": Really?

2006-05-06T08:31:00.000-05:00

"Honey, that nine-month weight gain followed by sudden slimming that had you all worried and signing me up for Curves? And the babysitting I've been doing? Let's just say the babysitting's full-time."

"Daddy's sorry, but Daddy can't come to your piano recital this weekend. Daddy's serving 10 to 15."

"What a beautiful wedding we had! It reminded me of my first--when my child was the flower girl, her brother the ringbearer, and my wife living on that same sunny street we're moving to. At least THIS wedding I haven't had sex with ALL of the bridesmaids."

"That wasn't sour cream."

"Sure hard to say if these vaccines actually protect you from anything, sometimes they just give you the flu. Or autism. Just keep applying pressure."

"The final exam was three days ago."

So we're clear ...

2006-03-18T19:38:00.000-06:00

You know the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean? You know, that barren and lightless place under a mile of saltwater.

Well. Are you sitting?

There's a moving body of water underneath that ocean floor. The sound you just heard was merely your mind being blown.

Sequence Of Thoughts While Sitting In An Empty Classroom Ten Minutes Before Class Is Set To Begin

2006-03-01T14:49:00.000-06:00

What day is it?
What month is it?
What semester is it?
What year is it?
What place will the White Sox take this fall?
Where did that crossword go?
When did my life become an endless series of classes and classrooms, one after the other, reaching towards an infinite point?
Will the milk last another night?

At Last! My Super Bowl Prediction!

2006-02-07T20:09:00.000-06:00

Building on my success at predicting the AFC and NFC Championship Games, I will predict this year's Super Bowl victor, the margin of that victory, the MVP, and the best commercial. Observe:

Steelers over Seahawks
21 - 10
Hines Ward
Magic Fridge

Is it bright in here or is it simply the brilliance of my predictive ability?

P.S. Ms. The Jones noted accurately that, when it comes to three-letter, score box abbreviations, SEA beats PIT every time.

Discovered! More Early Scratchings Scribed On That Cave Wall In The South Of France!

2006-01-27T12:37:00.000-06:00

POST TO THE ROCK AT NO MOON

Best Meal Grok Eat This Moon

Thorg

Joint Ventures With Limited Use As Case Studies At Business School

2006-01-27T12:34:00.000-06:00

Potassium and Chloride
Sonny and Cher
Milk and Tabasco
Hammacher and Schlemmer
You and that sweater. Horrendous!
Trinidad and Tobago
Mork and Mindy
Oil and water
Rain and sunshine
Time Life and Warner Bros.

Redemption!

2006-01-23T14:32:00.000-06:00

Redemption! Sweet redemption! Though the games were not nearly as close as I expected, I stand today unmatched in my ability to pick Conference Championships. 2-0!

U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!

The Weight Of Wrong, Or, Take My Picks, Please!

2006-01-21T16:45:00.000-06:00

Too long now have I delayed this post. In the wake of the devastating, soul-squishing, epilepsy-triggering Colts-Steelers game I could not blog. Blog I could not. So great were the feelings of sorrow (and to that mix add vials of poison three--local Steelers fans, idiot kicker, inept prediction) that I downloaded depressing serenades steeped in harmonica. Pathetic. Don't remind me of those dark days. Don't. And then, stuffing snow down my jacket, the Bears lost to Steve Smith, who shelled "Peanut" Tillman.

After my masterful post and predictions I felt myself on the verge of the outrageously colored suits and in-studio play demonstrations of ESPN's NFL Sunday guys. After a weekend record of 1-3 I revised that fantasy. Instead, I will remain your tireless law student, who blogs infrequently. And so, forward we stride, you and I. Shortly after the weekend of disappointment, I considered blogging my picks for Sunday's games as if my predictions had all come true. The first step is denial, I suppose. Then, I thought I would pick apart my pithicisms and demonstrate a record that represents not the outcomes of the games, but the outcome of my statements. And now I think that predict again I will, if only because we must stand again after we fall.

Seahawks over Panthers, 28-24.

Steelers over Broncos, 17-14.

Forgive me Colts, for embracing the enemy. Give me a few days, fans, and I will return to my regular, perky blogging self.

No Need To Watch The Games!

2006-01-09T19:48:00.000-06:00

Instead of my predictable pledge to redouble my blogging efforts in this, the Year of Possibility, I give you my NFL predictions for this next weekend of playoff football. In the spirit of full disclosure, I count myself a Chicagoan though I cheer most fervently for the Colts.

Steelers at Colts

Let me save you four hours of your life and four hundred beer calories by pre-capping the game. The Colts storm down the field on their first possession, busting a twenty-yard run with the Edge and two long passes to Marvin, who ought to be wreathed with a ring of roses and can be covered only by the U.S. Cellular Nationwide Network. Manning strikes to Clark on a seven-yard hook and the RCA Dome, nee Hoosier Dome, blows its top. 7-0.

The crowd noise is deafening. Fire is curling from Dwight Freeney's nostrils. The Indy defense is hungry and Montae Reagor eats steel for breakfast. Rothlisthqurburgherder calls a play from scrimmage, but his receivers think he's calling for more consonants added to his jersey. The offense is rattled. Big Ben's head is spinning so quick that it drills down into his chest cavity. Three and out.

The Colts move methodically down the field. Disguising its defense yields a single incompletion. Reggie Wayne responds to double-coverage on Harrison by playing pitch and catch with Manning for a 40 yard TD on a slant. They have to cover him TOO? Cowher spits and then cowers. 14-0.

Pittsburgh does something inconsequential on offense.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Ultimately, Pittsburgh learns sign language during halftime to deal with the noise and manages surprising success in the second half: a less-embarrassing loss. 24-10. Colts win.

Patriots at Broncos

What's it like to play playoff football at altitude? The Patriots learn the first half. Big. Even so, the reigning Super Bowl Champions of the Universe manage to be down only 14-10 at halftime. Oxygen tanks in the second half. Tom Brady trips the O2 fantastic to tie the game at 21-21 with just two minutes remaining. Somewhere John Madden coughs up an onion ring: is this a scenario in his video game? Plummer proves himself a Mario of video game plumbers (see, that's funny because of the play on his name) and hits receivers X, Y, and B before handing the controller to the unnamed kicker, who wins the game with a field goal. Denver is at zero gravity: how does ANY field goal miss? Denver knocks off the Patriots. 24-21. Colts salivate.

Panthers at Bears

Honestly, which animal would win this fight? I give the bear the edge, but only if it's a grizzly or Kodiak and not a wimpy black bear. The Panthers, hailing from the great city of Carolina, shed their parkas when they find Chicago an unseasonable 50 degrees. No matter. It's clobbering time for a Bears team that rarely is asked to the playoff prom (and in fact, was once not asked to play in the regular season). Rex Grossman looks spooked in the first half ("Boy this was sure easier against Homestead High School in 1998ish"), but manages an adequate quarter. And that's the Bears formula: adequacy at QB, bruising running game, stellar defense. Brian Urlacher actually has that nailbox on his head from the Nike commercials and the defense manages two interceptions, one run back for a touchdown, by the game's end. The Panthers are sent on a one-way direct flight to Carolina. Bears, 13-3. Grossman, when hoisted on the team's shoulders for not losing the game, injures his groin. Orton strokes his beard.

Washington at Seahawks

Seattle balks when told that they have to play a real football team. Washington forgets to check its offense at the airport, but doesn't need it. The defense makes a latte plays despite grungy formations. Even though it forfeits every offensive sequence, the Seahawks are stunned 14-10. Shaun Alexander wishes his name had a W. The 'Skins defense celebrates as the rain falls. The offense arrives three days later, duct taped together and bashed in on one side.

After this pigskin wordbath, I need another drink. W2W4 in two weeks? Denver at Indianapolis, Washington at Chicago.

The Rasp out.

Are the White Sox World Champions?

2005-10-27T10:08:00.000-05:00

Yes.

Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes.

Euphoria! Personal White Sox Celebrations That Do Not Involve Air Raid Sirens And Yet Still Sufficiently Affect Daily Life to Constitute a Celebration

2005-10-17T11:00:00.000-05:00

Short-sheeting the bed
Pouring coffee on the heads of coworkers
Referring to yourself as "Captain Chaos"
Wearing no underwear
Spraying Diet Coke during your Federal Income Tax course
Spraying champagne at a restaurant
Spraying champagne at the liquor store
Speaking Spanish
Holding a press conference
Bringing a baseball bat on the L
Deke-ing a move to the dugout and then sprinting to first base
Moving to the South Side
Wearing white sox with sandals
Crank-calling California
Writing a film titled "Being Jon Garland"
Asking a curveball question
Playing hookey
Thanking God for sending his lesser Angels

Metaphor Mania: Other Things That Might "Meet The Road" Should The "Rubber" Fail

2005-09-30T13:25:00.000-05:00

One sock
Taco Bell cup
Fred Flintstone's feet
Hubcap
Your jaw, assuming you are standing on the shoulder and I own a Porsche and I zoom past
Children riding in truck bed
Wal-Mart bag
Mattress, if improperly secured
You, if introduced at a dinner party

Found! Early Scratchings Scribed On A Cave Wall In The South Of France Suggest First Blog!

2005-09-27T15:00:00.000-05:00

POST TO THE ROCK ON SUN DAY NO RAIN

Funny Thing Happen With Spear

Stick in dirt
Stick in girl-man side
Forget to take
Stick in foot
Monkey throw back
Sabertooth tiger eat
Change channel
Stick in tree
Trip Gurk
Break
Lose in river
Suggest divine connection of the horizon, the split between land and sky, between Earth and Heaven

Memorable Poetry From The Rasp: The First Title Attached At Its 2002 Inspiration, The Second A 2005 Revision

2005-09-27T14:42:00.000-05:00

"Goodbye, Regret"

"I Swell With Federalist Pride And Seethe When My State Is Challenged By Outsiders, Especially From Ohio"

you say “hey, well” and “done” one
summery night where lives have been
summarized like onions fried to
caramelize in sticky sweet syrup
that runs
(they are done, I think, but not
neatly, not without
mess) you jest at me and my stubbornness
and suggest with your eyes that I have met you
here by mule and will return
by mule to a town with a one room school
and teeth as straight as the busted fences
that surround our houses—
oh, Indiana has her poets and
you will know it when you look back on us
from the outside, though you may not
show it—so, well,
“goodbye” and ten times goodbye I will
never share with you, your eyes and
voice have told me
friendship falls on the greener side

(where you will live, and regret
this night)

While Admittedly I Prove Difficult To Shop For On The Occasion Of My Birthday, I Am Not More Difficult, Mother, Than These Birthday Celebrants.

2005-09-26T11:43:00.000-05:00

Pol Pot
Tony “The Knuckle” Pataleone
Second Cousin Once Removed Who Is With Child
Boss’s Daughter
Corporate Entity
Johnny Appleseed
Discerning Cat
Maple Tree
NASA
Bono
Hunter-Gatherer
Majority Stockholder
Princess of Monaco
United States of America
Sperm Bank Father
The Guy Who Has Everything

Rules Rejected for Strunk & White's "Elements of Style"

2005-09-21T14:49:00.000-05:00

4. Write circularly, circularly write.
11. Omit interesting words.
18. A comma splice makes a sentence twice as nice.
20. Do not underestimate the value of the adjective "super-deluxe."
22. Write in passive voice when conveying passive thoughts.
25. Activate your adverbs.
26. Thesaurus Rex is neither extinct, nor a verisimilitude, but should thrive alive in your writing.
28. Make your writing a mountain of a molehill.
31. Sprinkle synonyms like cinnamon.
33. Coddle your reader.
40. U.s..e p.eriods..... to. em.pa.t.hize. .your poi.nts.

Cereal About Whose Popularity In Great Britain I Am Most Curious

2005-09-07T10:47:00.000-05:00

Cheerios

(Honestly, do they sell it there? Or does it disguise itself under the name "Hellos"? Or "Howyadoingos"?)

Is Your Social or Physical Life Deteriorating From Necktie Misuse?

2005-08-15T15:05:00.000-05:00

Do you loose your tie only to retie it around your forehead on the dance floor?
Did you name your tie? Does the name change with your mood?
Do you throw it over your shoulder like a Continental Soldier during meals?
Do you apply it as a tourniquet when the injury does not warrant it?
Do you match it to the carpet on the walls of your cubicle?
Does it graze your knees or tickle your chin?
Do you crack it like a wet towel when undressing at the gym?
Do you attempt to stop bus or elevator or train doors from closing by extending it between them?
Does it serve as an extra napkin, ever-present and ever-willing?
Do you use it as a noose?

If you answered in the affirmative to any of these questions, then your social or physical life might be deteriorating from necktie misuse and you should seek professional necktie help immediately.

Creature that would suffer most if one were to "salt its game"

2005-08-11T11:16:00.000-05:00

Slug

Surprising Moments in Daily Life

2005-08-04T11:53:00.000-05:00

Water glass survives four-foot freefall
Last week’s coffee filter remains in the machine
Pigeon looks right at you, requests bread
Sunday Tribune not stolen
Accuracy of home scale independently verified by gym scale
Double coupons
Neighbors do not similarly love the music of Central America
Night owl bus service
Red wine stains genuinely do not come out
Bamboo plants need neither food nor sunlight, simply love
$3 bottles
The month, in fact, is August
Spouse leaps out from behind door

Aftermath: Effect On The American Economy Should We Experience An Uptick In The Demand For Cardboard Boxes Coupled With An Increase In Their Profitabi

2005-07-22T11:46:00.000-05:00

Wal-Box
Azar's Big Box
CVBox
Box Foods
American Exbox
Boxgreens
Microbox
BoxP
Abercrombie & Box
McBoxald’s
Expedia.box
Sam’s Box
Office Debox
L.L. Box
Best Box
New Box City
Boxocrats
Boxboxlicans
Kohl’s

Where Else “You” Might Be If Phil Collins’ Title Song To Tarzan Is Disproved

2005-07-22T11:39:00.000-05:00

Grocery store
Gym
Bank
Local newspaper
Seminary
State of loneliness
Bed
Fort Wayne
Photographs
Work
Pub
Zoo
Pool
In the heart of another

Cell Phone Rings That Have Not Yet Caught On, But Might Still With Proper Product Placement or Celebrity Endorsement

2005-07-22T11:36:00.000-05:00

Snore
Street noise
Laugh track
Alarm clock
Trombone gliss
Deflating balloon
Mime
Reggae-Japo-Folk fusion
Fran Drescher
White noise
Pop pop squeeze

Resume Rasperation

2005-06-14T08:08:00.000-05:00

The fan must be satisfied. I must set the type, restart the presses, and send the copy through the wringer. I must resume Rasperation. If not for me, then for my fan, that one pinprick of light against a dark, summer night. That fan, who is coming to my wedding this weekend.

I only wish I could blame all of my lapses on the onset of this wedding, but I cannot. Certianly I have been buzzing about—to and from my hometown for a shower, to and from my fiancée’s hometown for another shower, a new sister’s graduation party and ceremony, meal tasting, strategic planning sessions with both families. The truth, though, is that my apartment has been way too hot. And that’s “hot” not “hott,” which obviously would be much cooler. Ice cold, maybe. If a bead of sweat rollarcoasters down your nose when you even think of vacuuming, Chicago summer has begun and vacuuming will not occur. Thankfully, I returned to my apartment yesterday to find a service tag hanging on my doorknob. The room, an Asti chilling on ice, froze my sun-tempered face. How nice to be on ice.

Thank you maintenance for installing my air conditioner. Productivity just increased tenfold.

As to the question of my approaching wedding, let me say that the emotions I have felt have been at times wholly undecipherable. Don’t misunderstand: the Rasp is ready to rock the married world with a girl unparalleled, but certain apprehensions about the day and the future have shook my frame like no other. It is as if I glimpse the magnitude of the decision, seeing the Rasp and the Brady at 25, at 48, at 60, at 75, at 100 … That excites me, to think of Brady and Raspanator together at those different points, but it also blows my mind. Woah, dude, have you ever looked--like really looked--at your hand? But honestly, you breathe and you think and you feel.

In any case, get married. Not only are the gifts terrific, the showers well-catered, the cake like a river of wine, but it also presents a remarkable challenge, a proving ground for two hearts, its days before so very real, the days after the adventure to begin

“What’s Up?” Answers Other than “The Sky” that Might Elicit a Smirk and One that Might a Smack, a Slap, or a Lifelong Romance

2005-05-02T11:45:00.000-05:00

The Euro
The surf
The shot clock
The International Space Station. Somewhere.
The value of my Roth IRA
The ground since you are talking to my feet and I am standing on my head
Your time. It’s up.
My golf score, thanks for reminding me.
My cholesterol co—ack—remember me as I—arg—
Your chance of scoring with me. Hello, gorgeous.

Things the Foam at the Bottom of my Cup of Senseo Coffee Told Me, 6:00 A.M.

2005-04-29T09:57:00.000-05:00

Today will be a day of dishwashing.
Two pods is an expensive way to make one mediocre mug of java.
Foam does not have sufficient amounts of caffeine to justify mopping it up with a finger.
Tan clouds this morning, tan clouds moving in this afternoon.
Tea leaves tell the future, not coffee foam. Knucklehead.
Go back to bed.

More Repercussions of a College Cheerleading Past: Skills Acquired While a Cheerleader That Proved Less Beneficial While a Law Student

2005-04-28T09:50:00.000-05:00

Basket toss
Toss hands extension
Chants
Purdue up
Back spot
“Never Have I Ever”
Uniform coordination
Drinking
Megaphone maintenance

Repercussions of a College Cheerleading Past: Parties to Which I am Often Not Invited

2005-04-27T11:06:00.000-05:00

Purity Parties
NASCAR Parties
Bible Study Groups
Regular Study Groups
Foreign Film Viewings
Museum Openings
Pity Parties

Herbs Most Easily Adapted for Use as Human Names

2005-04-26T15:17:00.000-05:00

Basil
Ginger
Alfalfa
Garlic
Aloe Vera
Burdock
Anise
Herb

The Mophead Cutteth

2005-04-25T11:35:00.000-05:00

My hair, a practical mop, moves each minute towards Medusa. Thick and moppy with mopstrands heaped on mopstrands I half expect one to snap at my finger when I attempt to tame it. Pomade, your powers are nothing here. You wild, you unruly hair—meet the scissors.

The plan involves a local barbershop, that bluish combwater, and (invariably) conversations about the Hot (White) Sox and the Bears blues. Granted, this is truly an endgame strategy, but all products have failed. The time has come to look less grizzled law student and more svelte legal eagle. Or if nothing else, at least I can get this mop out of my eyes. Whenever I flop down for bed, my hair likewise flops into my ear, tickling and suggesting something—a nest of some sort? Bedbugs? Crumblings from the ceiling? Pennies hidden there by my uncle?

In the spirit of full disclosure, the cut will likely by subtle and my uncle never hid pennies in my ear. The Rasp has a flair for the dramatic. But in all truth, the haircut represents the theme of the week: Bear Down. Or, as we might say back in Indiana: Getter Done. I’m sizzling with the butter on the skillet here in the last weeks of spring semester. Time to bear down.

Animal Most Likely to Bring a Smile to Your Face Before Mauling You to Death

2005-04-20T11:30:00.000-05:00

Polar Bear.

Brady and I, in an effort at efficiency, cut through the Lincoln Park Zoo this past weekend with frisbees and bottles of water in hand. Our destination? The beach. April, that cruelest month, is smiling sunshine on Chicago this week.

However, our short cut proved more of a detour. First, we watched the pachyderm walk its nose-hand trunk through the hay, pulling to its mouth only the best bushels. Then we paused at the polar bears. Naturally, as polar bears bearing a 70-degree day, they were swimming. The one just went back and forth, pushing off each wall and torpedoing through the water. Adorable. Playful. Irresistible. The other swum down and unwedged a hunk of something from the underwater rocks and pulled it to the surface. The polar bear tore at the meat, holding the bone with its huge claws. Not so cute. In fact, more dangerous than cute. Deadly even.

A Bad Omen Followed by an Even Worse Omen Followed by a Boon for The Rasp Fans

2005-04-15T08:20:00.000-05:00

The other morning, caked with sleep, stumbling about in my boxers, I poured orange juice on my Peanut Butter Toast Crunch.

I still ate it.

Surprisingly, the day progressed without a hitch, however I did suffer the lingering pulpy-sickly-sweety-slimey-peanut-buttery toast crunch taste for much of the morning. PBTCOJ? I would recommend that those doughy chefs pursue other avenues of improving on Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Peanut butter? Awesome. Peanut butter orange juice? Unawesome.

Which naturally reminds me of the death of a voice followed by its resurrection. Talk about awesome. Today’s installment is a comeback, or a comeblog, or a blogback, or a blogblog. Blogapalooza, baby. The guilt of leading my immense readership (read, “Kristin and Charisse”) to the precipice and then swerving wildly away has finally gnawed at me sufficiently to entice my return. I can’t leave you like this! Not with your shufflings, stumblings, that vacant look in your eyes! How can you live without a certain consistency in your diet of blogmeal?

So back I come. And let this short blog be a signpost by which you can set your compass and hike for that next marker, the next blog on the blogscape, to appear—

—speaking of hiking, to my groomsman now on the Appalachian Trail? If you can read this in Hiawassee, GA, please double your granola ration so your tuxedo pants fit come June.

I’m out like the CTA’s coffers.

Erin Go Blog

2005-03-17T21:22:00.000-06:00

Another March 17, another day of explaining that my last name is not Irish. The day started early, green and lucky. By green, I mean snowy and gray. By lucky, I mean that our Contracts professor is in Vienna and class was cancelled. While smarter students would have used the morning to catch up on sleep and more dedicated students would have reworked their outlines, we breakfasted at the bar on green eggs and green beer.

And really, nothing quite ruins your afternoon like drinking in the morning and an unhealthy dose of Green #33.

After sobering a tad during legal writing and more beer over a late lunch, I climbed to the top floor of the law library where, among green birds and against a green sky, I did a Celtic river dance and recited Yeats. No, crazy talk, I took a nap in the comfy chairs. Coming down the stair, computer bag at my side, sleep in my eyes, a librarian complimented my St. Pat’s beads.

“Where’d you get those? Downstairs?”
“No I had to work for these.”

Work for these? I had to work for these? Of course I meant that, to have beads as fabulous as these, one had to wake up, shower, drag oneself to the bar, pay the cover, and drink the beer. Of course it sounded like I flashed a few people on the way to school.

Smooth. Thankfully, Kristin bailed me out like usual and explained their origins.

As for tonight, I’ve had my beer for today. It’ll be a strict diet of hoops (not hops) for me tonight. To the rest of you, an Irish blessing: Erin Go Beer.

The Phoenix

2005-03-14T13:06:00.000-06:00

What’s not to love about that mythical, fire-winged, fiery, flame-feathered fire of a firebird the Phoenix? Like the Phoenix, the Rasp returns from spring break in Phoenix with a fiery intensity to blogulate, blog my collar, blog it like it’s hot, and take it from the windows to the blog. Where my blogs at? Right here, blog with me now. Who let the blogs out? Blog. Blog blog blog blog.

Listen. Or. Read. Apologies for not posting to the Rasp over break or even calling it, but certain things are more important. Certain things include hiking the Cathedral Group in Sedona, highlighting my hair lawyerrific, dining it up with the fam and fiancée, shopping ‘til I’m dropping, and clanking threes off the rim at pool basketball. Pool basketball reminded me of my Y-Ball days: two years, two points. Total. But I was a beast on the boards.

Lucky me, I made it to a Cubs spring training game where I fried in the bleachers under the blistering 85-degree sun, sipping beer like water and water like water and eating soft pretzels like water. Cubbies v. Rangers (Supreme Diamond of Mesa, 2005). It was the game where Kerry Wood went lame in the shoulder and excused himself after two. Also, the Rangers won with a President Bush-like mandate of 6-5. But the most memorable moment happened outside of HoHoKam Park. Ahead of us about ten feet, walking towards the ticket line, a five-year old tottered along holding the hand of his mother. The kid was decked out: ball cap, mini-uniform, pinstripe pants, itsy-bitsy mitt. To which I said to Brady and my parents:

“Awww… Look at the little ballplayer! One day, maybe just maybe, he’ll grow up and use steroids.”

The mother turned around. With a smile that sneered at one edge. “I’m sorry! Oh no. Sorry! So sorry! I didn’t mean! But.”

Whoops.

The only anecdote of note from the yesterday’s travails involves a disgruntled bus driver. Cruising back on the #22 I pulled the cord for my stop. It dinged. The bus didn’t stop, but rather, it sped up. I pulled for the next stop. Again, not stopping but speeding. Two more stops flew by. My first thought as I stood like a goof at the door: am I in the movie Speed? Again? Finally I made my way to the front and asked the driver is my nicest voice, “Would you mind too terribly if I got off at the next stop.” The bus stopped and, five blocks later, I was in my apartment.

The Cristobal List

2005-03-03T22:50:00.000-06:00

Harper’s Magazine loves to claim their Harper’s Index as the primogeniture of all lists in all time and in all space. David Letterman’s Top Ten? Ripoff. AFI’s Top 100 Movies Starring Jude Law In Which He Either Fights or Portrays a Robot? A mere infant to the elder Index. The Ten Commandments? Predated by Harper’s Index by a good one hundred years (that’s 33 biblical chapters, if you’re playing along at home). And to its credit, there’s only one Harper’s Index and only one Harper’s Magazine.

However. That’s not so high a compliment considering that there’s only one US Weekly and that there’s only one Weekly World News in which there’s ONLY ONE Bat Boy. There’s also only one Time Magazine—that is, unless you count Newsweek.

Now that I’ve balanced the compliment with a reckoning of sorts, where are we? Right back where we started. “Harper’s Magazine loves to claim …”

Forget it. I only wish to put the Index in proper perspective so as to not offend the deities of the written word too thoroughly when I introduce Friday’s new feature: The Christobal List. Why Cristobal, you ask? “Christopher” is the only part of my name my Dominican host family recognized as a nombre and hence to them I became Cristobal—como Cristobal Colon. Why a List, you ask? Because I needed a form in which I could make up statistics and force them into close proximity. Why The, you ask? Possibly my fetish for the definite article.

Onward! The Cristobal List, Volume the First.

Number of times I felt myself nodding off in law school classes from the beginning of fall semester to last week: 1
Number of times I felt myself nodding off this week: 2
Minimum number of thoughts about blogging in the first time period: 0
Minimum number this week: 58
Number of miles traveled on a treadmill today and yesterday: 5.5
Number of miles traveled in that period where I actually started somewhere, was in transit, and ended at a different destination: 5
Agonizing days until Easter: 24
Days since the beginning of Lent: 16
Percentage of time spent in contemplation of how little time there is: 27
Minimum number of minutes spent writing this post: 18
Minimum number of minutes spent revising my research memo: 37
Number of times this week I have eaten whipped cream straight from the can: 3
Number of times I have shamed myself for acting so childish: 0
Hours spent in a small, white-walled room with three girls, one named Kristin, one named Charisse, the last named Jackie: 3
Mininum number of times these girls asked for a blog shout-out in the last 55 hours: 38
Spending $260 for Chicago Opera tickets and two nights at a fancy hotel: Priceless.

2005-03-03T13:48:00.000-06:00

Sick with Spring Fever

2005-03-03T10:56:00.000-06:00

Call the doctor. Really. Seriously. I'm breaking out in hot sweats, cold chills, headaches, nausea, and sudden (delightful) bouts of deliria. Grab a pen. Grab my medical chart. Write "Spring Fever."

Outstanding sky today, cloudless and white-blue. The sun streamed onto my bed, no, futon like little rivulets of crushed up daisy petals and Cupids rousing me from my drooly, contorted sleep. A groan here, a creak there (me or my futon frame?). Good morning Chicago!

Of Man and Dogs and goD

2005-03-02T12:44:00.000-06:00

Watch somebody eat. No, watch somebody eat when they’re alone. Did it? Did you watch the careful unwrapping of the sandwich, the pointed and purposed first bite? Did you see the eyes focus up and beyond while chewing?

Okay. Now. Come to Fort Wayne, IN and watch my dog eat. Sadie’s food and water dish sit in front of a window. She will stand there, lower her muzzle to the bowl, take a bite, and then look up. She looks out the window while she chews. Amazing!

I love dogs. I’m allergic to cats. Dog spelled backward is goD, remember.

Speaking in Empty Rooms

2005-03-02T11:01:00.000-06:00

“Speaking in Empty Rooms,” huh? Sounds like a poorly-executed, scarcely-read, barely-published book of poetry. Sound like the kind of book slid neatly between broad-shouldered brutes like David Copperfield and never read.

One thing that fascinates me is what we say to ourselves when all alone. The other morning, boxered and in front of a plate of scrambled eggs, I squeezed honey on a toasted piece of sourdough bread. I bit, chewed, swallowed. Delicious. “Now this is a treat.”

“Now this is a treat”! Had I aged in leaps and bounds over the night? Let it be known that I, at 23, am now the youngest to ever call something a “treat” and also one of the few to do so in complete solitude.

Image: The Rasp patting himself on the back, shaking his own hand, self-high-fiving.

Jibba Jabble

2005-03-02T08:47:00.000-06:00

I have a Jibba Jabba toy in my life. Certainly you’ve either seen it or had the pleasure of holding its plastic head to your heaving chest, matting its fiery shock of hair with your fat tears and feeling those heavy plastic hands heavy and plastic and cold and disengaged at your side. Or perhaps that was just me. Last Wednesday. Four times. Regardless, the doll is a jibba jabble of jinius. Rock its head to one side to produce a “wraaaahhh” and then back for the “reeeahhh.” Swing it forward for the classic “Aah” and then back for the “Uh.” Aah-uh. Aah-uh aah-uh aah-uh aah-uh aah-uh aah-uh aah-uh aah-uh. Enough. Swing his head in a circle and he says “Wake up!” What? Did I hear correctly? Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!

Good morning The Rasp. Wake up! Wake up! I always half-expected to see a Disney stamp on Jibba’s foot. ”Teenagers take off your clothes”? “Sex” blooming and billowing up from the savanna? Jibba aside, this morning’s thought is on investigation.

What really is writing if not investigation? Why do we work our words into sentences, into sensible thoughts, into the stiff suits of paragraphs and grammar? Why do we strive not to dangle our prepositions behind? Oops. Ultimately we write to explain our findings, where our investigations have led. Oral societies codified their language to survive. Imagine ordering at Starbucks with words and sounds more mayhem than mocha to the man behind the counter. Imagine the vegetarian caveman unable to communicate the results of his investigation (a herd of wild carrots, say) to his cave friends. Language binds communities and communities survive wooly mammoth attacks to send forward their genetic material.

But writing is structured to facilitate investigation and explanation. We look and smell and taste and hear and think and breathe on the world everyday. We test it and spin Jibba Jabba’s head in a circle. We cut trees to find rings. Only the formalistic structure of language can begin to capture this experience that speeds infinite to the horizons of our minds. How else can we share it if not through the structured tools of language and in particular, writing?

But perhaps I’ve said too much! Test and communicate today! The Rasp has The Hunger for The Breakfast. The Raspilicious, so nutritious.

Bidding Brilliance

2005-03-01T23:26:00.000-06:00

Enjoy this clip of my nasal voice tinged with slightly drunken exuberance over my bidding victory at the PILS auction.

You Down With OCD?

2005-03-01T19:14:00.000-06:00

Greetings from the Blogosphere! I lasted nearly an hour without making a post. Apparently my latent OCD (inhereted from my father, thanks Pops) is kicking in. I feel this compulsion to post—and then definitely, definitely count the characters in the last post. Definitely 1235 characters. Definitely 21 sentences.

I actually counted. Definitely.

If you need me I'll be at the law library with a protractor and level, aligning the books on the shelves.

It Begins

2005-03-01T17:36:00.000-06:00

Per my theory of bumper stickers, I let "Blogosaurus Rex" and "Blogzilla" sit on the counter of my mind before finally naming my new blog. Not surprisingly, after walking by the mind counter a few times, I realized I wasn't about to stick it on the bumper of my new blog car. Right.

So "The Rasp" it is. And the Rasp I am. I wrote my senior Honor Scholar thesis at DePauw University on literature and the effect medium (especially the digital) plays in its interpretation. My advisor and I kicked around the concept of blog a few times, but never did I think I would keep my own.

But I've always found the freshest writing at the front. The Internet is awash in language and experimentations with its use. Many experiments have gone horribly, horribly wrong. TTYL, BRB, ROTGLMAO, BF4F, WD40, ADIDAS, BYOBASAP. However, as much as I bemoan the shortening of words and the incorporation of language, I know I must fight the urge to be some guy standing besides e. e. cummings at his typewriter telling him his poetry is garbage. Typewriter poetry broke the word into its components and denied the orderly progression down the page. Who's to say that Internet poetry--or writing in general--won't do the same?

Anyway. I am obviously a law student starved for a hot theoretical romp in the literary hay. Holla.

Take care friends of The Rasp and I'll blog you tomorrow!

Next query? Can I replace every verb with "blog" and still make sense? I blog that I blog.