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If you’re planning to imbibe this weekend, here’s a few surefire ways to make sure it’s a night you will never remember.

Jeopardy!
1 Drink every time someone buzzes in
2 Drinks every time someone gets a wrong answer
4 Drinks every Daily Double
5 Drinks for Audio/Video Daily Doubles

Let’s Make a Deal
3 Drinks every time someone makes a deal

Wheel of Fortune
1 Drink every letter that is turned
2 Drinks every spin of the wheel
4 Drinks each time someone buys a vowel

The Dating Game
3 Drinks every time an innocuous comment is turned into a dirty euphemism

The Newlywed Game
3 Drinks every time someone says “Make whoopee”
1 Drink every time wives insult their husbands
4 Drinks every time husbands insult their wives
1 Drink every time couples kiss

Press Your Luck (aka the “Whammy!” show)
1 Drink every time someone gets a Whammy. Last person to shout “Whammy!” has to drink again.

This is the second chapter of the Machinationacy series… For the first installment, click here.

I was not always aware of my stratagem life though I did have a hint that someone was always watching me. When I was a baby, adults would coddle over me, using the excuse of “being so cute” to monitor my well-being and every move.

I knew I was something special early on.

There wasn’t a minute gone by that someone was not watching, listening or supervising my every move in some way. However, being a baby and new to life, I had not known better and did not suspect anything unusual.

It was not until I turned five that I really started to think something was fishy. My parents secretly enrolled me in a program in which they called “Kindergarten.” This German program (translated into English for my own advantage for information processing), taught me all that I really needed to know in life. I was introduced to many young children my age who also were “selected” and objectified to a machinated life.

In Kindergarten, we were exercised regularly through walks, or small games. One game in which I grew to be fond of (and naturally very successful in) was one in which my facilitators secretly disguised one child as a “goose.” It was part of our training to take turns trying to find out which child it was.

We sat in a circle and touched the top of each child’s head, just enough to read his or her aura. It was our job to determine through this mind-reading activity to determine which one of us had been “goosed”.

A lot of the times, I did not know I was the goose. That’s how rigorous the program was.

Single, out-of-college, early-to-mid twenty year olds sit at an awkward crux of the dating world. Having left college, we are no longer surrounded by a cohort of boundless single, like-minded individuals of shared affinities and aspirations. But, we are also not yet at the point of desperation that would necessitate online dating and other “well-intentioned, but thrown in the towel”-type dating services.

Which leaves us in the middle of the two awkwardly treading through the “social scene”.

I use quotation marks, because to be honest, the “social scene” is pretty shitty. Let me expound on its shortcomings, in no particular order.

In actuality, the arenas of the social scene are somewhat limited. You cannot really count plays/concerts/performing as viable places to meet people since the majority of the time is spent in silence. This blows the suck whistle because it is at these venues you are most likely to find people of similar taste and interest. I mean, if they thought enough to come to it, they must have something in common with you.

Rule them out, and the scene, for all intensive purposes, becomes just bars and clubs. Dive bars would be perfect, with their laid back and somewhat personal ambiance, but since you don’t find anyone under 50 or without lyme disease at these bars, you are reduced to clubs and trendy bars, which more fit the mold of club than bar, anyway. Both, atmospherically, are more conducive to having an enjoyable time with people you know than encouraging new-found kinships due to the loud music produced limits on capable conversation. This thereby narrows the courting down to a visual buffet, which, unfortunately, for the majority of people isn’t going to get them far.

The other issue with the “scene” is the people typically encountered. This is a broad generalization, but the people that actively participate in clubs, “ho-ing it up” on a consistent basis, are not the type of person the eager, corporate-ladder climbing, self-advancing type is necessarily going to connect with, that is, of course, if the atmospheric conditions permitted it. The one exception to this is the friend of the wild-childs who you can tell is begrudgingly there only because their friends wanted to go. Per usual, though, supply on these are limited, and even when spotted, it is difficult to avoid being stereotyped yourself as the typical scene-ster by them.

That said…where does it leave the college-educated, twenty something looking for a formidable accompaniment to go? I don’t have that answer.

I recently joined the ranks of the headphone-sporting, music-listening, iPod people. You know the ones. They walk around with those things in their ears, ignoring everything around them, that I’m-way-too-important-to-be-troubled-by-all-you-mortals-with-your-untethered-heads-and-your-unblocked-ears look on their faces.

Well, now that’s me.

The only problem is, I’ve always been very aware of my surroundings, constantly looking around, taking in the sites and sounds and smells (which can be especially fun in LA. Usually the smell is something like alfredo sauce stirred by dirty feet combined with oregano squirted with skunk juice).

Now, though, as I walk around with my jams kicking into my skull, I find something curious happening. First, I start walking to the beat. Pretty soon I’m bouncing down the street almost gangster-like as Grandmaster Flash tells me his “Message” of how the jungle of the city is weighing him down.

Then, almost on cue, the world syncs up to my tunes in an epic feat of harmony. The cars roar by in rhythm, a bus honks to punctuate the lull between the verse and the chorus, a jetliner soars overhead to perfectly complement the syncopated cadence of the music.

I’m practically swimming in my groovitude. I’m making eyes with everyone I come in contact with and we’re all nodding to the melody and to the notion–We’re alive, we’re hip, and we’re all in this together, making beautiful noise, making memories, and making the world a better place.

And just as suddenly, the album ends, and all that joy, that sorrow, that mix of emotion and blend of genius on the edge and artist on the verge, it all shatters and clatters and smashes back together into the dull roar of the city, waiting for something to stir it to life again.

There I am, looking around, thinking that maybe there’s something to these headphone-sporting pod people after all.

In recent days, there had been talks that basketball giant and rap extraordinary, Shaquille “Shaq” O’Neal, was going to be traded by the Miami Heat, for, surely, several henchmen from one of the 29 other NBA teams.

Trades like this happen all the time in professional sports. A star, of varying shimmer, is traded to another team for one or any number of individuals who together have a perceived value, for that particular team, equal to that of the star. In some cases, and typically with lackluster talent, teams will trade a player for a draft pick in an upcoming draft.

This seems like it would hurt the players feelings a bit. In essence, the team would rather try its luck in the draft, than have the traded player on their team. Which is the team basically saying “we don’t know who it will be, but anyone would be better than you”. A bit insulting, yes; poor business, not as much.

And all of this happens without much consideration to the player. They can voice their opinion, but in a legal sense, they are property of the team, able to be wheel-ed and deal-ed as the team pleases.

This thought had myself and some coworkers thinking, what if everyday, “normal” jobs and employees were treated like athletes, free to be traded back and forth between companies like baseball or Magic: The Gathering cards, or worse yet, pogs.

To some extent this might make sense. If a company has a number of, and I am going to use my company’s titles since that is what I know, Project Managers and wants a quality Art Director, it might seem fit for them to trade a couple PMs for an AD from an opposing company.

Or, in a more grievous situation, say the company is low on office supplies, one project coordinator might go a long way in securing a nice new box of 8.5” x 11” paper.

Seems a little unfair and a little atrocious.

We don’t have any issues when our favorite athletes are traded, often times we embrace it, we don’t seem concerned with their feelings. If it happened to us, though, I don’t think we would be as skipper.

Upon seeing me, people’s first reaction isn’t typically “Wow, that is the luckiest guy in the world”. I wouldn’t say I appear down on my luck, either, but of all my physical characteristics, my level of luckiness, one way or the other, is not something that exudes.

If only people knew better.

As a long time browser of the internet, I’ve been around the block (even the dirty, sketchy blocks) a few times (check my cookies), and it seems, no matter where I go, I am always winning stuff.

Just today, I got this here notification from one of the movie sites I frequent:

I didn’t even enter! How lucky is that.

Everywhere I go, sites tell me I won a free ipod, a gift certificate or Blu-ray player. It’s incredible!

More important and encouraging, though, are these sites simply telling me that “You are a winner”. You being me, of course. When I am down on myself, scraping my feet across the asphalt, it is nice to have a little positive reenforcement. It brings sunshine when the forecast of my heart reads overcast.

For that I am thankful.

Thank you, internet.

Now, what to do with all my prizes!

Moving out from the comforts and financial stability of home is quite frightening for someone like myself who has been sheltered, fed, and loved for twenty four and eleven twelfth years of her life.

I have found it a challenge to keep up with daily activities of living having just moved into an apartment by myself. The biggest of which has me dumbfounded in the kitchen arena.

First of all, the starting costs of moving into an apartment are not that easy to “swallow,” if I may be punny. After paying the security deposit, cleaning fees, the first month’s rent, and all the little necessities needed for living (e.g. toilet paper, shampoo, trash cans, plates, utensils, sheets, coffee, etc.), I have found myself in the dry goods section of the grocery store wondering if 12 containers of cup-o-noodles is really worth $2.99.

Due to funding issues, I have limited my cupboard’s contents to bread, coffee, macaroni and cheese, peanut butter, cup-o-noodles (I decided convenience and easy transportation of a hot meal to school and work was worth at least 25 cents a pop), cereal, and Cheetos (I know, a luxury, but they were on sale). My refrigerator consists of milk, string cheese (it was a toss up between string cheese and sandwich cheese and I figured I could cut up my string cheese if I wanted a cheese sandwich sometime during the week), and oranges.

Now, eating cup-o-noodles or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches everyday for all meals of the day may get a little boring. And while these ingredients may seem to have very little intermingling ability, I have created a delectable array of meal combinations to keep my palate entertained.

I usually start my day off with the normal cereal with milk (I use a 1/4 cup of milk for rationing purposes), and a small cup of home brewed coffee. When lunch and dinner time rolls along is when things start to get a little exciting in the pantry…

Stay tuned for recipes from the Apartment Gourmet

This is the second part of a series. To read the previous entry, go here.

As I summed up in the last episode, what we need for this blog to really get its toes a-tappin’ and its wings a-flappin’ is a good scandal. Like Paris Hilton or Mel Gibson, we need to do something incredibly stupid, act completely irrationally, get totally slutted out, or just plain start dropping hate speech. However, Paris, Mel, the Spears girls, they all have one thing in common–they were all relatively well-known before starting their shenanigans.

Which brings us to…

STEP 1: Get Some Exposure

Sure, we could plaster up some doctored photos of Mother Theresa in a three way with Gandhi and Moses, but if nobody knows we exist, there’s nobody to offend and thus, nobody to tell all their friends about “this disgusting site that had incredibly offensive photos called misusingbigwords.blogspot.com.” (Plus, let’s be honest. Nobody would believe those photos were real, anyway–Gandhi was always hunger-striking, there’s no way he’d have the energy for a menage a trois.)

No, what we need is to get our foot in the door. Be friendly, but coy. Nice, but a little dangerous. Maybe show pictures of a cute and cuddly dog, and then say his name is Fang and he just ate the neighbor’s newborn baby kittens. All 8 of them. As appetizers.

That’s just one example of something that’s not too offensive, but still has some edge.

Or perhaps we could tell a story about a child with some sort of terminal illness (cancer? rabies? whatever gets more sympathy), lead our readers through the tragic, day to day grief punctuated by moments of sweetness and joy, and then in the last paragraph, right before her twelfth (and probably last) birthday, she burned down a high school, just to feel the warmth of the fire and the destruction.

Something like that, I think, would go a long way to gaining readership.

Maybe we should just ask our readers.
What would be the best way to get a small amount of exposure in preparation for Step 2?
What kinds of things could we include in this little blog that would make someone pass it on to a friend?
How could we gain enough of a following to offend and instigate when the time comes?

Watch for part 3, coming soon…

You may be thinking, “Hey! If I inhaled my fart, and sniffed up all gases omitted, then no one will be able to smell it.”

But boy are you wrong, buddy.

Your scientific rationale may be that if your lungs are capable for air exchange of oxygen (O2) for the same oxygen molecule plus one carbon atom (to form carbon dioxide, or CO2) while filtering out toxins in the air, then it should be able to filter or neutralize some simple gases that compose a fart.

While this may be somewhat true, as your lungs are a filter of sorts taking in oxygen and exchanging these molecules for carbon dioxide while trapping dirt and some noxious particles in the air, your lungs DO NOT (and I emphasize DO NOT) break down the complex odor molecules that make your “wind” foul in smell.

The following is a hypothesis of why I think our lungs are not capable of such a feat:

Flatulence is composed of Nitrogen, Hydrogen, Carbon Dioxide, Oxygen, Methane, and a variety of sulfides that give your toot that characteristic bite. Many complex olfactory component gases (mostly the sulfides) are composed of a variety of molecules. Our lungs are capable of filtering out and absorbing oxygen from the other component gases that make up the air we breathe and the flatus we pass. While these vile smelling gases may contain an oxygen atom or two, our lungs are not capable of breaking apart molecules in an attempt to consume oxygen.

Therefore, when you breathe in the gases from a flatus event, you are filtering out the oxygen molecules from the remaining gases. In theory, attempting to filter your flatus may work against you. By taking out oxygen molecules, the remaining reservoir of gases is now concentrated. In theory, you would be adding more oomph to your original toot. Really putting the “art” in fart. The “ten” in stench. Carmelizing the onions.*

But, what if your lungs were capable of such a filtration wonder? Would you attempt to hide your smell by sacrificing your olfactory organs?

I know I would.

*The last metaphor is made out of jest and has no known affiliation to flatulence or flatus events as known by the Author.

James / amount of facial hair = how much women find him attractive

Moisturizer + J.C. Penney Underwear Catalog = Quality Time

panda / 2 = dead panda

friend + benefits = hopeful but not likely

(alcohol / time) + (music x loudness) = vigor of pelvic gyrations

“like” x 4 = “love”