Yes, but is it just like a mini-mall?

"Don't stop. Let's make this . . . a dance!"

Commence transmission of horrible, internet-borne brain-worm. Now uploading to host . . .

I'm a hallucinating wimp.

Here's an excerpt from yesterday's journal entry:

I have a terrible headache right now and it’s all because of an fMRI scanning session this evening. It was supposed to last an hour and a half, but I was in there for close to two and a half hours. I’m not the best fMRI subject, I’ve decided. My butt invariably goes numb, I get this pathological swallowing reflex going (it feels like I’m going to choke if I don’t swallow—the same thing always happens at the dentist), the small of my back starts to throb, and I get a migraine. So, naturally, my mind is a bit preoccupied while I’m trying to maintain my attention on the task at hand. Also, something new happened tonight. When we were closing in on the two-hour mark, my headache started morphing into a freaky kinesthetic illusion. Every time I closed my eyes it felt like my head was being shoved down and toward my right shoulder, and the rest of my body felt like it was being bent sideways at my waist. The sensation went away somewhat when I opened my eyes and saw that my body was perfectly straight, but there were times when I would be looking at my body—knowing that I was looking at a perfectly straight body—and yet my body still felt like it was bending in half, and that an immense pressure was pushing on my head. This is the condition I’m in when the experimenter tells me that the scanner is giving him a warning message, and that I’ll have to wait in the scanner—without moving—while he talks to a technician on the phone. I’ve already been in the scanner for about two hours.
“Want to listen to some music?” he asks me.
“Got any Ryan Adams?”
“Sure,” he says. Ten seconds later, the Bryan Adams song “Summer of 69” comes blaring through the headphones. I try to be still while I laugh—I thought it was a joke. It repeats 5 or 6 times before it is stopped, an apology is given, forgiveness is extended, and an actual Ryan Adams song (“Oh My Sweet Carolina”) starts playing. I must be in a pretty delicate emotional state because the song is so beautiful that it puts me on the verge of tears.
The wages for this existential roller-coaster: $50

Genetic engineering projects

Before I forget, I'm making a list of all the genetic engineering projects I want to complete. I'm a bit busy lately, so these are on the back burner for the time being.

* Monkeys that naturally grow mullets.

* A skunk that sprays Febreeze out of its . . . you know. These would sell like hotcakes at Bed, Bath, and Beyond.

* A blowfish that could be trained to blow up your air-mattress, car tires, or party balloons without popping them. (This one was Kristen's idea.)

* Peacocks that display custom-designed images when their tail-feathers fan out. For example: "Kristen, will you marry me?" Or maybe a portrait of your favorite Backstreet Boy.

* A huge praying mantis the size of a woolly mammoth. Just to humble the human race. Plus, it would put world events into a nice perspective. We'd be like, "Terrorists? Economic woes? Who cares? I've got this huge insect the size of a bus that stalks me in my back yard."

* Remote controlled cheetahs!

* A breed of gorilla that innately knows how to give a great massage.

* A spitting cobra that sprays Visine (instead of poison) into your eyes.

* Mosquitoes that eat only sugar and honey, and then instinctively fly into your mouth. Like flying candy.

* Miniature elephants. Less shedding than dogs, and if your shower head breaks, you're covered.

* A hybrid animal that has the strength of a bear, ears of a wolf, eyes of a hawk, and speed of a puma. Hold it . . . nevermind. That's Bravestarr.



Please share any ideas you have. I'll give you credit (and a small percentage of the sales) if I use it.

Do not call

I'm working from home today, and I've already received 3 phone calls from telemarketers. I'm tempted to put my name on Canada's new Do Not Call List.

I have a dream of staging an elaborate drama the next time a telemarketer calls. Something like the following:

Them: "Hello, is Mr. Daniel Wood there?"
Me: "Mr. Wood is here, but do you really want to speak with him?"
T: "Yes, if that's okay."
M: "Alright, but I think this is a bad idea."
T: "Uhh, what . . ."
M: "Mr. Wood! The phone's for you! (under my breath) This is gonna get ugly."
(This is where I stomp my feet, bang around, and make other angry noises.)
M: "Uh oh."
Mr. Wood (it's really me pretending to be Mr. Wood): "Come here you little . . ."
(I fumble with the phone while pretending to run.)
Me: "Let me go!"
(More scuffle noises.)
Me: "The pho . . . (grunt) . . . It's the phone! Just calm down. The phone's for you!"
(The sound of a drawer opening and rattling metal.)
Me: "Sweet meats he's got a knife."
(More running. The door opening and slamming. Heavy breathing for a few seconds.)
Me: "You still there?"
Them: "Yeah, are you okay?"
Me: "I don't think you should call back here ever again."

Kristen just read this and said it wasn't funny. :(

She's probably right, but I'm posting it anyways. I think it's a good use of "sweet meats" -- my new favorite exclamation.