tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50830677335716154532024-03-20T21:26:00.599-07:00life is randomcassihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05268356036174285350noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5083067733571615453.post-64510814804206042302008-08-19T06:13:00.000-07:002008-08-19T07:14:15.249-07:00"Live Unbuttoned"?I got home from work last night, and in typical fashion, I was too tired to immediately walk up the stairs to my room (and also, in my defense, I needed to take my shoes off before trekking around the house), so I sat on the couch and turned on the television to see if any Olympic events were on. After a bit, this new Levi 501 commercial came on. It was one I'd never seen before, although I have seen others from this same ad campaign. While I haven't ever been mortally offended by them or anything, I often don't think they're appropriate. Anyway, this new one...it's something of a different story. Here it is:<br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/-zP0pN-aLcI&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/-zP0pN-aLcI&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object><br /><br />I didn't realize it was a Levi commercial until the very end, and when it started, I thought maybe it was one of those "Hey, get tested for HIV!" commercials. You know, the ones they used to play and put up billboards for and stuff. After he says, "I've been sleeping in my car," I'm thinking she's going to say, "I have HIV. Surprise!," or that after she says, "This isn't my apartment," he's going to say, "I have genital herpes, but don't worry, I'm on Valtrex and haven't had an outbreak, although it's still possible for me to spread the disease," (and then it's a, you know, Valtrex commercial like all those other pharmaceutical commercials, where the lay person who is taking the medication somehow works all the possible side effects/risk factors/reasons someone should not be taking the medication into the conversation, as if they'd really know all that). But no, they just continue on their merry way, busily taking each other's clothes off and eventually throwing their pants into a pile, where the caption pops up, "Levi: Live Unbuttoned."<br /><br />Okay, so I usually don't let myself get that upset or irritated at commercials, cause I'm like, "Hey, it's a commercial, and it sucks, so I'm going to get back at the crappy director and company by never ever ever buying their crap again." Then I often buy their stuff anyway. Aside from finding the whole situation morally reprehensible, this commercial strikes me as blatantly irresponsible.* It's not enough that TV shows are inundated with random hook-ups. Apparently, we also need them in commercials. At least in most TV shows, the people know <span style="font-style: italic;">something </span>about each other. But the whole point of this ad is that they've both been lying to each other about everything! The funny thing is, when I was looking for this ad on YouTube, I came across another one from this campaign where the (rather glowing) description of the ads gives brief summaries of each one. For this particular ad, it says, "T<span>he last TV ad, 'Secrets and Lies' -- features two characters confessing a series of white lies as they unbutton their Levi's® 501® jeans. Their unveilings, along with the physical unbuttoning of their jeans, captures the provoking theme of self-expression and unrestrained behavior central to the "Live Unbuttoned" campaign."** Oh yes, those little "white lies." No, I didn't eat the last piece of chocolate (when really you did). Of course I cleaned my room (by shoving everything in my closet and under the bed). Those are white lies. Saying you work somewhere you don't, or that you're from somewhere you're not, that you live somewhere you don't? Those aren't white lies. Maybe I'm wrong here, but I'm fairly certain that a white lie deviates only partially from a truth. My point is, is this the kind of thing we really want impressionable individuals to watch, whether they're children, teens, or adults? That it's okay to have sexual relationships with people we really know nothing about? If someone has no problem lying about their job or their past, what else do they have no problem lying about? I'm all for free expression, living the way you want to live, etc etc, but can we at least show some maturity?***<br /><br />Maybe by "live unbuttoned," they mean get used to wearing those awesome button-less hospital gowns because you'll be paying a lot of visits to the doctor to be checked for STDs, as that one "white lie" your little hook-up <span style="font-style: italic;">didn't</span> tell you about turned out to be the most important one.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">* I know I really don't like this commercial because I'm still feeling unsettled about it some 18 hours after I saw it...<br />** http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ym_Z9tFv650<br />*** Some people may get after me or think to themselves, "Why are you freaking out about this? It's just a commercial. People aren't going to go have random sex because they saw this, so stop complaining." To them, I say that I don't believe that anyone would go on a wild fling because of one commercial. However, I <span style="font-style: italic;">do</span> believe that everything we see and hear has some influence in shaping how we see and react to our surroundings. Like it or not, we are products of our environment. When we repeatedly see behavior such as is shown in this commercial, we become that much more likely to see that as a viable reaction to any similar situations we may be in. So no, I don't think this ad will make someone suddenly and inexplicably do something they would normally not do. But I do think that, if a similar situation to the one shown here were to arise, they would be less concerned about inherent dangers like diseases and therefore more likely to respond in a manner that would put their own emotional and physical well-being at risk.</span><br /></span>cassihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05268356036174285350noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5083067733571615453.post-29216191132513504642008-08-13T07:49:00.000-07:002008-08-13T09:29:13.298-07:00Loonies at LollieWhat happens when you get 80,000 (often rather peculiar) people crammed together for several days in a relatively small park in high temperatures and high humidity? Hilarity. And many unpleasant odors. Also a clear demonstration that through science and technology, as well as social welfare, mankind has overcome evolution, and survival of the fittest is no longer in play. Ah, Darwinism...may you rest in peace. Anyway, I was up in Chicago a couple of weekends ago to go to the first day of Lollapalooza (which I almost always spell wrong, by the way). As you can imagine, with 80,000 people there, it was easy to pick out the different breeds of lollapaloozites. This is my brief accounting of a few of the more notable ones.<br /><br />1. Crazy hippie-hemp-wearing-pot-smuggling-free-spirited-counterculturists. I know you've all seen them. They wear organic clothing and keep little baggies of pot rolled up in their tops, along with blown-glass pipes. They often have unshaven armpits/legs and deliciously sticky-looking hair. Yes, no soap, razors, or shampoo for them. They're one with nature. And you don't see the majestic beasts of mother earth using those. And honestly, who wouldn't want to be more like a malodorous, flea-ridden, sewage-eating rodent?<br /><br />2. The I-was-alive-during-the-60s-and-70s-and-was-totally-awesome-and-<br />protested-the-Vietnam-War-and-now-even-though-I'm-a-middle-aged-paunchy-man-<br />I'm-still-hip-enough-to-hang-it-with-the-teens-and-20 somethings group. A somewhat ostracized subset of the crazy hippie-hemp-wearing-pot-<br />smuggling-free-spirited-counterculturists. Primarily male, these shirtless, rotund older folk attempt to reconnect with their inner child by attending musical events targeted toward younger groups. They can usually be seen nodding to music created by singers who weren't even born by the time they tapped into their IRAs, their portly bodies vibrating in time with each thump of bass.<br /><br />3. The frat boys who want to impress people by saying, in an off-handed way, "Yeah, I was at Lollapalooza last summer and (insert impressive fact/tale of stupidity)." Their tanned, bare torsos paired with plaid J. Crew style shorts are this group's most distinguishing feature. While they may also be recognized by their trademark beer-in-a-solo-cup, this characteristic can be misleading, as all alcoholic beverages at Lollapalooza are sold in this ubiquitous plastic cup.<br /><br />4. Indie-listening, vintage clothes-wearing, mainstream-eschewing elitists. While many concert-goers drive or take public transport into the city, these individuals (although willing to utilize public transport) favor riding their fixed-gear, pannier-draped bicycles to the concert venue. They typically weave through street and sidewalk traffic with a frightening disregard for their own and other's safety, and avoid wearing helmets as these may upset their carefully styled, side-swept, artistically disheveled-looking hair. They often wear skinny jeans. This is not to say they are all skinny; rather, they have a remarkable ability to avoid the physical conundrums of density and volume, and can somehow (perhaps by increasing density and thereby decreasing volume) condense enough to fit in absurdly small skinny jeans. Additionally, they favor dark clothing and pallid skin. Because of this, they are often confused with those known as "emo." Like indie elitists, emo practitioners favor skinny jeans, side-swept black-dyed hair, and pallid skin. However, they are more likely to be wearing spikes and to sport numerous thin scars on the inside of their arms as a result of their extreme emotional trauma. The definitive method for distinguishing between an emo and an indie elitist is to ask if they prefer Panic! At the Disco or The Arcade Fire.<br /><br />5. The oft-looked for, but rarely found, normal person. Unique by her lack of any characteristic that can be construed as "weird," "strange," or "inane," this exceptional red-headed individual can only be seen at Lollapalooza at an approximate rate of 1 in every 80,000. Articulate, clever, exceedingly intelligent, athletic, technically-savvy, and humble, she is a sought-after commodity in a sea of hippies, old men, frat boys, and indie elitists.cassihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05268356036174285350noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5083067733571615453.post-53173983294343704002008-07-29T06:11:00.000-07:002008-07-29T07:07:14.358-07:00Sad musings on the inherent cruelty of a bike riderLast night, Aaron and I decided to bike to our church activity, some 14 miles away. Unfortunately, Omaha has (I'm convinced) only ONE ~1 mile stretch of bike lane in the entire city (I am so not kidding. And it's not even really a bike lane. It's actually the gutter. They painted a white line next to it and put a picture of a bike on it, and then they left it full of storm debris, like leaves, twigs, and trees. It's actually only there so they can say they're a "bike-friendly" city. Right.). So anyway, due to the lack of anything resembling a bike lane, we had to bike quite a bit on some narrow streets on our way to trails and wider roads. As we were biking up a hill on Western, we apparently greatly inconvenienced a gentleman driving by himself in an enormous white truck (and I'll leave it to you to imagine exactly what he was compensating for), forcing him to drive slightly below the speed limit for the entirety of approximately ten seconds. It was terribly inconsiderate of us, I know, and he was happy to let us know as he drove past ("Use the f---ing sidewalk," he said, clearly demonstrating his superior creativity and grasp of the English language). It was fortuitous that he was able to pass, thereby saving himself several seconds of precious time before he had to come to a halt at the stop sign just ahead. As we biked up, he rolled down the window, gave us his best look of indignant stupidity, and, in yet another feat of superb articulation, said "Seriously? Are you kidding me?" Feeling deeply sorry for the emotional pain we had inflicted on him, I said in a mollifying voice, "We're legally required to ride on the road." In his extreme agony, he was able only to reply, "I don't f---ing care about legal," adding, much as a threatened little bully might say on the playground to the frail menace of the scrawny child in glasses, "Next time I'm going to f---ing hit you." Unable to look any more upon the faces of his tormentors, he fled from our presence. At this point, a tiny tear escaped my eye as I sorrowfully beheld his broken spirit; broken, no doubt, because of the immense suffering he bore as he drove along behind us, going a mere 20 miles per hour in a 25 miles per hour zone for ten seconds/an eternity, thereby costing him a total distance of .01388889 miles. Maybe my tear was actually caused by the cloud of noxious gas his truck spewed out at us as he drove away, but it still reflected the agony of my soul for the permanent damage I'm sure he suffered in his traumatic ordeal.cassihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05268356036174285350noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5083067733571615453.post-6868997010204154352008-07-22T06:40:00.000-07:002008-07-22T09:16:06.794-07:00eMusic PlottingsI have a confession to make. I have taken eMusic's 50 free song downloads introductory deal and shamelessly manipulated it to get more than 50 free downloads. Yes, it's true. See, the deal is, if you sign up, using your email address and your credit card, for a new subscription (I always get the basic plan, which is just around 10 bucks for 30 downloads/month), you get an extra fifty downloads your first month. So the clever scheme I came up with was to use my many email addresses and many credit/debit cards to sign up for new subscriptions and get more free downloads! Work email, gmail, hotmail, BoA credit card, AFCU debit card, MCU debit card, you name it, I used it. HA! I totally beat the system*. And now, they're offering me an extra fifty free downloads to come back to eMusic on my gmail account, which means I'm going to re-join and then cancel after a month! It's so diabolically evil**, and I love it. In fact, as I write this, I have my hands steepled in front of me (which is tricky, since I'm also typing...) and I'm muttering "Excellennnnttttt..." at my brilliant conniving.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">* I really didn't beat the system, because I always forget to cancel the stupid subscription and end up being on the plan for at least half a year. Then I finally do remember, but haven't yet used up all the downloads for the month, so I decide to wait until I've used them. Then I forget again, and the process repeats itself. In fact, I'm almost positive that I'll re-join and forget to cancel after the first month, thus rendering my fantastic scheme useless.<br /><br />** Please note that this is an exaggeration (which, as my illustrious sister Nicole once said in her blog, "is funnier than hell"). I don't really think it's diabolically evil. I mean, it's not as if I'm plotting to take over the world by stealing babies and raising them to be my own private super army augmented by genetic modifications that I'm developing in my top secret underground research facility guarded by laser-guided turrets and bear traps or anything. Wait, that's brilliant. Why didn't I think of this before? Does anyone have any surplus babies or know of anyone with surplus babies? And also nannies? Because there's no way in hell that I could raise an army of babies by myself. If you do know of surplus babies or nannies, just let me know their schedules, addresses, and possible escape routes, and I'll take care of the rest.<br /></span>cassihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05268356036174285350noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5083067733571615453.post-33072655631041150942008-06-26T12:10:00.001-07:002008-07-03T06:24:58.268-07:00A brief taste of freedom for the FooAt the beginning of May, I vacated my old two bedroom apartment with a secured entry as I ventured out into the world of the duplex, that magical place that's not quite an apartment and not quite a house. The beauty of my old place with its secured entry was that if the Foo did manage to make a break for it and escape our modest little place, she found herself trapped in a dingy hallway and was easily corralled and routed back to her captivity. Sadly, the duplex has no such entry, and the Foo was quick to capitalize on this mistake on the architect's part. This is an account of Tofu (who, if you don't know and have been wondering about, is my cat. It's not like I'm one of those creepy people who steal kids and then keep them locked up for years or anything, don't worry) and her brief taste of freedom.<br /><br />This is how I imagine it went. The Foo, being the brilliant and devious tactician that she is, upon our arrival at the new apartment, immediately took note of all the exits, filing away their weaknesses in the case that an opportunity arose. She carefully noted that the storm door doesn't actually latch closed, and with only a slight push, can be opened. She gleefully saw that the screen on the window of the storm door is only connected on the top and one side, leaving the bottom left corner to flap open. She noticed that there isn't room to stand between the closed main door and the storm door, so by necessity there is a window of time in which both doors are invitingly open. She therefore made three assessments: A. perhaps during those days when her captor leaves the main door open with the storm door shut to enjoy the day, she could push it open, B. if the door proves itself too heavy to open, she may be able to use her cat-like (because she is, in fact, a cat) agility to soar through the flapping screen that separates her from joyously frolicking in the foliage, and C. if all else fails, she could take advantage of her captors often distracted thoughts and creep stealthily past her as she or a friend exits the apartment.<br /><br />She sadly found that the door is indeed too heavy, and that she herself is too heavy to soar through the screen door, the fatty, and so she was forced to resort to Plan C. So she waited, patiently biding her time, for the perfect opportunity. And there it was, pulsating with a warm, orange glow, choirs of angels singing, bidding her to make her move: both doors open, distracted people chatting. Her little heart fluttering with a mix of anticipation and fright, she sneaked by, making her way into the dark night. What followed was a glut of rolling in dirt, hunting insects, and exploring the wonders of the neighborhood. Night became day, and finally, around seven in the morning, a great hue and cry was heard when the jailer discovered that there was an escapee. The Foo hid under porches, behind bushes, beneath cars, avoiding detection by the search party who circled the area throughout the day, asking passerby if they'd seen the runaway. Finally, late in the afternoon, driven by hunger and thirst, Foo resigned herself to captivity, if only for food and water, but ever watchful for the next lax moment when she could escape.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Seriously though, I called my mom sobbing early Friday morning, literally taking ten years off her life, convinced that I would never see Foo again and that she was probably dead somewhere. I called in sick to work, spent hours walking/biking through my neighborhood, asked everyone I saw if they'd seen her, posted on craigslist.com's pet section, and spent a whole lot of time crying. It was ridiculous. And then at 4 o'clock, she just walks right up like nothing has even happened. That little shit. And then she did it again. That little shit. No gratitude, that's what. You feed them, pet them, clean up their litterboxes, and what do they do for you? They run away and leave you in tears. Those little shits. I'll tell you what, it's not happening again. No cats are going to sneak by me again. Eagle-eye. That's what they're gonna call me in their little cat-circles. Only they'll whisper it, cause they'll all be in fear of me. FEAR ME! That's right. I hope you're reading this, Foo. If you are, you just remember this. Remember that my wrath is great and my punishment is swift. And don't even THINK about escaping again. Cause I'll find you. </span>cassihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05268356036174285350noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5083067733571615453.post-548220983764551532008-05-10T11:06:00.000-07:002008-05-10T16:02:28.219-07:00My new bike's replacementAfter the bicycle-scapades (see <a href="http://stochasticmetastasis.blogspot.com/2008/05/bicycle-scapades.html">previous post</a>), I have decided to replace my bicycle with a less-expensive*, more environmentally-friendly** mode of transportation: the catbus. Many may have already seen this vehicle, which was posted on craigslist, as I have waged an extensive fund-raising campaign in an attempt to acquire the moneys necessary to purchase it. I will be honest and admit, this post is part of that extensive fund-raising campaign. You will find, below, an image of the catbus and the accompanying description.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpC4PL1H5HSycomQRK4JiAxOONari7dNp8VNxdeh4-67b3WaH25aE6JUWJOrRP3o-T8Q9AqBtw4xJYhWWie7n81i_9eb0XUlOt1SuJULSAnnirChyphenhyphen3dvO42snMwIjSSHBfez_Ws8VU5I6A/s1600-h/catbus.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpC4PL1H5HSycomQRK4JiAxOONari7dNp8VNxdeh4-67b3WaH25aE6JUWJOrRP3o-T8Q9AqBtw4xJYhWWie7n81i_9eb0XUlOt1SuJULSAnnirChyphenhyphen3dvO42snMwIjSSHBfez_Ws8VU5I6A/s320/catbus.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198813602145972274" border="0" /></a>I HAVE A 1995 MO' VAN THAT GOT TRANSFORMED INTO THIS CATBUS. I BROUGHT IT TO A SHOPS AND I WAS LIKE HEY, CAN YOU TURN THIS INTO A CATBUS? SO THEY DID. THEN THAT DAY I DROVE IT HOME. THE CAT BUS ONLY HAS 50K, WHICH ARE ALL HIGHWAY MILES AS I DROVE IT TO WORK 2 DAYS A WEEK AND THAT WAS IT. IT'S IN REALLY GOOD SHAPE AND ALL THE FUR IS STILL ALL THERE. THE STEERING WHEEL HAS A CAT ON IT. IM ONLY ASKING 2900 FOR THE CATBUS BECAUSE ITS REALLY FURRY AND SOMETIMES PEOPLE GET SICK ON IT.<br /><br />(original url: http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/alb/621862265.html)<br /><br />As you can see, the catbus, with its low mileage and silky fur, is relatively inexpensive, ringing in at just $2900. Therefore, even the smallest donations will be helpful and appreciated. If you or someone you know would like to contribute to the Catbus4Cassi fund, please email me at c4c@gmail.com with your credit card number, expiration date, and the amount you'd like to contribute***. All donations are tax-deductible.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">*Projected four year cost for bicycle (factoring in one inner tube plus labor per day): 15486.6 (10.60/inner tube change x 365 days/year x 4 years +1 day for leap year) + 479.95 (original cost of bicycle) + 42.31 (helmet) + 28.76 (locks) + 21.20 (cyclocomputer) + 3.42 (pink plastic tassels for handlebars) = 16062.24 dollars<br />**I am certain that this vehicle should get at least 8/mpg city, 10/mpg freeway due to its aerodynamic fur which drastically decreases**** air resistance by greatly increasing the surface area and thus the amount of friction as determined by the equation Fd= -1/2pv^2ACdv<br />***Really, don't email me your credit card information. The Catbus4Cassi fund is completely fictional. c4c@gmail.com is an email address that is unaffiliated with the fictional Catbus4Cassi fund. Donations are not tax-deductible, because the Catbus4Cassi fund does not exist. If you would still like to just give me money, perhaps out of admiration for my mad blog skillz, or out of pity for my bicycle-scapades, I am more than happy to accept and if you will only let me know, I will send you information on how to deliver said money. Thank you.<br />****I realize that this is completely untrue.<br /></span>cassihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05268356036174285350noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5083067733571615453.post-80996368169336777122008-05-10T09:58:00.000-07:002008-05-10T11:06:19.682-07:00Bicycle-scapadesYes, after a long hiatus, and many heart-felt pleas by my many fans to revisit my exceptional blog, I am, indeed, sitting at my computer to compose yet another of my fabulous blog posts. As you may have guessed by the title of this post (which is, as you can see, a clever play on the fact that "bicycle" ends with "e" while "escapades" begins with an "e"), I will now detail my late adventures with the bicycle I recently acquired.<br /><br />When my sister Nicole purchased an inordinately (for me, anyway) expensive bicycle back in March for her birthday (see <a href="http://railroadties.blogspot.com/2008/04/belated-birthday-post.html">Nik's ridiculously expensive bike post</a>), and in the spirit of our usual sibling rivalry whereby she is always in competition with my vastly superior intellect, prodigious wit, and all-around stupendousness, I decided that I, too, must purchase a relatively expensive bicycle. Well, actually, I was only going to buy a cheap-o one but she kept badgering me to buy a better one. Finally, I gave in when I found out I was going to get some extra money on my paycheck for April, and thought, Why not? Why not take this money that I could use to pay off one of my credit cards or put in savings in case someday I suffer some catastrophe and lose an eye or my pointer finger and thus can no longer pipette things at work, leading to the loss of my job, or worse, lose the ability to left click on my mouse, resulting in the loss of my ability to play first person shooter games, and spend it on a bicycle which will somehow save me money on gas if I ride it for 30 miles a week every week for the next four years? Clearly, it was a hands-down decision in favor of the bicycle.<br /><br />So as I was driving back to Utah, after spending several hours researching bikes on the internet, thus becoming an expert on quality and value in those two-wheeled locomotive units, I decided to purchase a low-end brand name bike, if I could get a good price, or a bike from bikesdirect.com, which, while not name brand, consist of the same components as the name brand bikes but for much cheaper. We happened to stop for the night in Cheyenne, after a tortuous and mind-numbing drive through Wyoming, and while there, visited the Sierra Trading Post outlet store. Anyway, cutting it short cause this is getting way too long, I bought a K2 2006 Mach 2.0 bike (below) there for about 50% off, along with free shipping here to Omaha. I spent a lot of time congratulating myself on my purchase while waiting for it come, which it did, last Monday.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV9lJCtxexrmn3ccFwz0PoPC6EQozZVN9OUyETsPVrlf-a-sPXg2dAIfmUbhwVwSLinfogeF2Kuk2AATPuzMRcEERu2HSJu5Fu0TEOM_I7OBPWJ4-bDQGs9M6Y-rIJK_qQ8gmMon8h7x89/s1600-h/bike.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV9lJCtxexrmn3ccFwz0PoPC6EQozZVN9OUyETsPVrlf-a-sPXg2dAIfmUbhwVwSLinfogeF2Kuk2AATPuzMRcEERu2HSJu5Fu0TEOM_I7OBPWJ4-bDQGs9M6Y-rIJK_qQ8gmMon8h7x89/s320/bike.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5198809247049134114" border="0" /></a><br />Unfortunately for me, it shipped only partially assembled, and I had to put it together myself. Rather than take it to a bike shop and pay 45 dollars for them to do it, I decided to use my vast knowledge of bicycles (which sadly, does NOT extend to mechanical manipulations) to put it together myself. The result: several hours of finger pinching, cursing, and name-calling. Plus one assembled bike. At this point, I'd like to thank Brielyn's (one of my new roomies, more on the move to come in a later post) massive, clunky mountain bike for providing a template of how the gear shift assemblage should look on my sleek, aerodynamic road bike.<br /><br />After spending an increasingly worrisome amount of money on accessories for the bike--you know, locks, helmets, cyclocomputers, little pink plastic tassels to dangle from my handlebars--I put the bike to good use, riding it to work and around town on errands. Then, on Thursday, I got off work and rode the bike up the 35% incline, three block long hill to the Red Cross to donate blood (incidentally, I swear my 84 pulse was because of that hill, not any lack of in-shapeness on my part). After donating, I got back on my bike and started riding home, only to find that the back tire was most definitely flat. So I walked it to the bike shop that's just about a mile from my house, decided to buy both a $2 patch kit and a $5 inner tube, and also decided that it was worth it to save the whole $5 in labor and use my previously-mentioned bike mechanic skills and non-existent bike tools to patch/change the tube myself. After oh, maybe an hour, I had, through the successful wielding of two butter knives, removed the flat inner tube and patched it. Then, once more wielding my trademark butter knives, I reassembled the tire with the tube. Then I pumped it up. And listened as the air went whooshing right back out the new (and apparently massive) hole I'd made when I put it back in. Ah, the pangs of failure! I think at this point I threw something, but that might have been later.<br /><br />I took it in the next morning, paid the 5 bucks, and had them fix it. After riding it around that day for maybe nine miles, I got home to find that it was once again flat. At this point I did throw something. My helmet. And my backpack, too, I think. Then I took it to the shop again. So, my vision of riding my bike to work and around every day, saving money on gas and getting more exercise, has changed to an eternal damnation of going to the shop every freaking day to have a flat repaired. So, borrowing from Nik's bike post, when the nuclear holocaust has hit, and the shit is coming down, and she's gliding along on all her bikes (literally, on all of them; you know, kind of like in those movies where one person is riding two horses with one foot in each stirrup--she'll just have one foot on each pedal), I'll be walking my damn bike with its flat tire.<br /><a href="http://http//railroadties.blogspot.com/2008/04/belated-birthday-post.html"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></a>cassihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05268356036174285350noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5083067733571615453.post-13710275044274952792008-01-29T18:06:00.000-08:002008-02-01T11:51:51.179-08:00I want da goldKyle showed me this hilarious video of a newscast from Mobile, Alabama. He's from the northwest area of Florida, and tells me that occasionally they'll catch segments of the news from Mobile. Seriously, this is an actual newscast. According to Kyle, it's rather characteristic of Mobile, which makes me totally want to move there just so I can live out the rest of my life in a state of constant entertainment.<br /><br /><object height="355" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/nda_OSWeyn8&rel=1"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/nda_OSWeyn8&rel=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" height="355" width="425"></embed></object><br /><br />He also showed me this amazing remix of the newscast. I almost died watching this. Literally. I laughed so hard that I think I nearly suffered an aneurysm. There's really just nothing more I can say about how awesome this is.<br /><br /><object height="355" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/bZfyrIPw3wY&rel=1"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/bZfyrIPw3wY&rel=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" height="355" width="425"></embed></object><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">"It could be a crackhead...."<br />"This suit wards off spells..."<br />"This is a special leprechaun flute that's been passed down from THOUSANDS OF YEARS ago by my GREAT-GREAT-GRANDFATHER"<br />"I wanna know where da gold's at. I want da gold. Gimme da gold."</span>cassihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05268356036174285350noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5083067733571615453.post-1065148274133361642008-01-14T10:00:00.000-08:002008-01-15T08:55:16.528-08:00The Eye TwitchThis is a post about The Eye Twitch. I'm capitalizing it because I've now had it for so long that it's coalesced from a minute annoyance on the fringes of consciousness into its own entity, a living blight that threatens to drive me to insanity. The Eye Twitch took its fledgling breaths early in December, appearing as a brief series of muscle spasms in my left eyelid. Since that time, it's slowly been gathering strength, repeatedly occurring at the most inconvenient times. Indeed, I can only conclude that the people at my workplace consider me to be some sort of pirate, what with my twitchy eye and the fact that often the only thing that makes it bearable is to scrunch it up in an "Arr, matey!" sort of look. That, or perhaps they think I have Tourette's. If so, I may take advantage by yelling profanities and inappropriate comments whenever I feel like it.<br /><br />Regardless, I don't believe I actually have Tourette's, nor am I a pirate (although that would be some swashbuckling fun). I was driven in desperation a few days ago to search for eye twitching on the internet, and found several sites that blame the cause on anxiety, fatigue, and stress. Also, genetics may play a role. And I did find out that my mom has had previous eye twitching episodes, as well. So I could blame her for it. But, I've actually come up with my own theory for the cause behind The Eye Twitch. Here it is: my eyelid is so sick of being attached to my body that it's gradually building up its strength to make its big escape, possibly while I'm asleep to prevent me from forcing it to stay. And to be completely honest, I don't blame it, and I've long suspected some of my limbs of plotting escape. So it comes as no surprise. Unfortunately, I can't just let it go, you know? I mean, where would my eye be if I had no eyelid? All dried up and frankly, kind of freaky looking. Plus, then my eye would probably rebel and make it's own escape, and I'm sure that would just start a chain reaction. First the eyelid, then the eye, then what? Anyway, the point is, I'm actually on the verge of ripping off my eyelid and gouging out my eye.cassihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05268356036174285350noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5083067733571615453.post-20187935235037175842008-01-08T12:14:00.000-08:002008-01-15T08:57:52.720-08:00Life in DundeeSo it's that most glorious time of the year again. You know what time I'm talking about. No, not the holidays, stupid. It's January, for crying out loud. I mean the time of year when my car is constantly covered with the sugar-salt-sand mix they plaster on the roads, when my parking lot turns into a skating rink for automobiles, and when the wind is so cold that I'm in constant danger of losing fingers and toes. Yes, it is that time. And let me tell you, I love it. Please, let me give you just a couple of examples of why it is, indeed, so wonderful.<br /><br />First, freezing rain. Need I say more? Oh yes, yes I do. There's nothing quite like driving with both your windshield wipers on full speed <span style="font-style: italic;">and </span>your defrost on full blast because the rain freezes on the glass if you don't. Unless it's walking out to your car the next morning and discovering that someone has replaced it with a 1997 Honda Civic-shaped ice sculpture. (As a side note, it took me fifteen minutes to chisel off the quarter inch of ice from my driver side window.)<br /><br />Second, the lack of anything resembling a snow plow in the entire city of Omaha. Instead, they use a technique colloquially referred to (by me) as "sprinkling the snow and slush with crap in an effort to permanently disrupt the ecosystem by removing the nation's topsoil and mixing it with salt and sugar, thereby contaminating said topsoil and preventing its further use in agricultural settings, which doesn't matter anyway because it's no longer in an agricultural setting, unless you count the streets of Omaha since they're now covered with a nice, thick layer of sediment." You have to admit it's pretty amazing to come home from your vacation (all the while driving on the sandy morass of the streets) and find that the parking lot behind your apartment building is a solid sheet of 2 inch thick ice. And you thought tire chains were just for driving up canyons to ski resorts.<br /><br />Finally, I'd like to say how much I enjoy the freezing temperatures coupled with gale-force winds, which seem to be concentrated in the fifty feet of space located directly in front of the entry to my work place. It's very invigorating, that life or death challenge of reaching the door. How many people have the good fortune to wake up in the morning, think, "Today I may lose my pinkie on my way to work," then drag themselves out of their warm bed to face the excruciating pain of slowly freezing to death?cassihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05268356036174285350noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5083067733571615453.post-3754549756534392192007-10-29T06:25:00.000-07:002007-10-29T06:34:04.266-07:00Why I need to wash my car...Last night I parked in the stall next to the garbage bin in our parking lot. This morning I began driving to work (yes, I was driving to work, which is about five blocks away, because I was too lazy to walk), wondered why my windshield was so dirty, and realized there were paw prints all over it. Apparently the neighborhood raccoons had a little party last night in the garbage bin and on my car, which makes me slightly worried about what, exactly, those paw prints consist of.cassihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05268356036174285350noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5083067733571615453.post-9798869714201635572007-10-25T13:04:00.000-07:002007-10-26T06:52:44.289-07:00Mmm...concerts...So my friend managed to get some tickets to the Bright Eyes show last night. I'm sure most people haven't heard of Bright Eyes, but it's probably the most successful band on the indie label Saddle Creek Records (in fact, Saddle Creek was created by Bright Eyes), which is based here in Omaha. Anyway, Saddle Creek and 1% Productions team up to bring a lot of small shows here, and it was the 10 year anniversary of 1% Productions, so they thought, let's bring back Bright Eyes! It was a good show, but I feel obliged to make some suggestions to both 1% Productions and to all the people who attend concerts:<br /><br />1. 1% Productions: Don't EVER bring back the band Flowers are Forever as an opener. Seriously. They're awful. No, really. They are. I know. Not only did I have the misfortune of listening to them last night, they also opened for The Faint when they came. I like to say they're an assault on all the senses. In one song, their lyrics for several minutes consisted of "Flowers are forever (creepy Nazi-esque salute arm wave-y thing), flowers are forever (repeat creepy Nazi-esque salute arm wave-y thing), etc." But merely sticking burning pokers into your ears will not save you. Because you would still see the lead singer moving in grotesque gyrations that, without the proper protection--i.e. people blocking him from view--will sear themselves onto your retinas, forever tainting the way you see the world. Hence, I recommend hot pokers to ears <span style="font-style: italic;">and <span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span>eyes. They also burn gross incense on stage. And I'm sure that if one were to accidentally touch them, one's fingers would require amputation after exposure to the rancid sheen of old sweat, various drugs, and who-knows-what-else that makes their skin glisten in such an unnatural way.<br /><br />2. Girls with large purses: Please do not stand behind me anymore. Please do not turn to look at your friends every five seconds for validation of your existence, bowling me over with said large purse every time. Please do not stick your cell phone in front of my face so you can get a better angle of Bright Eyes in your picture. Please do not be so anxious to take the front row spot of the fainting girl directly in front of me that you block the club guy who is trying to help her. After taking her spot in a survival-of-the-fittest fashion, when you stand in front of me, please do not continue to turn to look at your friends every five second for validation of your existence. Also, please do not randomly step back, thereby bringing my face dangerously close to your frizzy ponytail and trapping me in a single square foot of space that is also bordered by random, obnoxious jumping guy and dancing girl. In fact, please never go to a concert again.<br /><br />3. Random, obnoxious jumping guys: Please don't push me over at the very end of the show in your eagerness to get closer to the stage. Please do not have spastic dancing seizures when you are within 300 feet of me. If you must have dancing seizures when you are closer than 300 feet, please try not to land on me each time you jump/convulse. And for heaven's sake, go see a neurologist! I think you might have epilepsy.<br /><br />4. Dancing girls: Really, I don't swing that way. Please don't dance that close to me or bump into me. All it does is knock me off balance and make me very disgruntled.<br /><br />5. People in general: Please don't go into some sort of religious/musical ecstasy/rapture trance over your favorite band. It's creepy. And it reminds me of some sort of cult. You know, the ones where Charles Manson is like, "go kill some people," and you're like, "I love you Charles!" and then you go kill people.<br /><br />By the way, I really did have fun at the concert. I just think that a few simple changes will drastically improve my enjoyment. And after all, isn't everything done specifically for my enjoyment? No? What? The world doesn't revolve around me? Stupid.cassihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05268356036174285350noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5083067733571615453.post-27826773821670226622007-08-15T09:57:00.000-07:002007-08-15T10:30:49.423-07:00Cicadas-not just for annoying you with incessant buzzingThis past week I haven't been sleeping well. At first, it was thanks to random thunderstorms. I'm pretty sure I was woken up at least three times by sudden bursts of thunder. One night I was in that confused state you get in when you're abruptly woken and are still half asleep, and I couldn't figure out why it was so light outside when my clock said it was 3 AM. Then I realized (and in my delirious state, it probably took me several minutes) that it was actually lightning. Anyway, so the storms kept waking me up at all hours of the night. A couple of days ago, when the forecast was thunderstorm-less, I thought I was finally in the clear. Little did I know...(that sounds pretty ominous, right? Cause it's supposed to)<br /><br />Little did I know that somewhere, some cicada had my number. You may know cicadas from their omnipresent, unceasing serenade (by serenade I'm thinking more <span style="font-style: italic;">1812 Overture </span>than <span style="font-style: italic;">Eine Kleine Nachtmusik</span>) of grating buzzing. Well, I have good news for you--cicadas can do more than just buzz obnoxiously! They can also dive-bomb windows! Yes, it's true. Last night I spent about two hours lying awake in bed, listening to one repeatedly collide with the glass of my window. Honestly, I don't know why it didn't die. I mean, that bug must have had an exoskeleton of steel. I should probably check my window for chips today, just to make sure, what with how honkin' huge it was. You may be imagining a small moth-sized bug and thinking that I'm just a big whiner, but in truth, this cicada was roughly the size of a Bolivian fruit bat. At first, I couldn't figure out what I kept hearing, but after perhaps ten minutes of staring out my window, I noticed the humongous insect, crawling along on the sill. Anyway, last night, when I first saw it, I wasn't actually sure what it was, but I had plenty of time while I lay there, unable to sleep, to identify it, and then this morning I verified my identification skills via the internet.<br /><br />I also suspect that I had difficulties falling back to sleep due to an irrational fear of said cicada. Although, it wasn't really irrational. Have you seen a cicada? They're hideous. My niece Abby seems to have this strange fear of flies, and wakes up sometimes from nightmares about them, but I think that maybe she's really having nightmares about cicadas. No, really. Do a google image search for cicadas and tell me they aren't scary. Cause they are.cassihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05268356036174285350noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5083067733571615453.post-3827051214792280912007-08-08T19:52:00.001-07:002007-08-08T20:26:05.502-07:00squirrels, part 2This was too long for one post, so here's the second part. Please read part one first.<br /><br />Wednesday, April 5<sup>th</sup> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Don’t care about classes anymore.<span style=""> </span>Only care about bike seat and squirrels.<span style=""> </span>Saw one through the window, just hanging out on the seat.<span style=""> </span>Got mad.<span style=""> </span>Chased it away again.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Friday, April 7<sup>th</sup></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>In retaliation, squirrel left a disgustingly moldy dinner roll on seat.<span style=""> </span>Soggy.<span style=""> </span>Didn’t want to touch it, but had to in order to throw it into the trash.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Saturday, April 8<sup>th</sup></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Sick of water leaking up through hole and getting on pants.<span style=""> </span>Also, have sneaking suspicion that increase in number of holes in seats of jeans due to rubbing against velvet coating of bike seat.<span style=""> </span>Decided to fix both issues at once by duct-tapping the seat.<span style=""> </span>Bike looks awesome with half-duct taped seat.<span style=""> </span>Duct tape is so silver and shiny, it fits right in with the chrome colored handlebars.<span style=""> </span>Take that, squirrel.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Sunday, April 9<sup>th</sup></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Squirrel felt it had lost control of the situation when I chased it away and then duct-taped the seat.<span style=""> </span>Decided to commit most atrocious act yet.<span style=""> </span>Found relatively large, olive-colored leavings on seat when I got home from church.<span style=""> </span>Had minor apoplectic attack, then went inside, got paper towels, and cleaned it off.<span style=""> </span>Came off easily, at least.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Monday, April 17<sup>th</sup></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Olive-colored leavings on seat again, only more this time.<span style=""> </span>Squirrel is obviously one step ahead.<span style=""> </span>Came up with three phase plan.<span style=""> </span>Completed Phase 1 today:<span style=""> </span>brainstormed anti-squirrel measures, came up with some good ideas.<span style=""> </span>Top ideas:<span style=""> </span>1)<span style=""> </span>removable spikes, kind of like the ones they put on roofs to keep pigeons off, 2)<span style=""> </span>some sort of malodorous (to squirrels) repellent, 3)<span style=""> </span>poisoned apple cores.<span style=""> </span>Will have to think about these more before moving to Phase 2, design, and Phase 3, implementation.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Thursday, April 20<sup>th</sup></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Three phase plan compromised.<span style=""> </span>Possible that squirrel read previous entry and moved up its own plans.<span style=""> </span>Once again, bike seat was too wet to ride to class.<span style=""> </span>After class, walked up to door and noticed strange yellow material all over welcome mat.<span style=""> </span>Realized it was foam.<span style=""> </span>Looked at seat.<span style=""> </span>Titanium-like duct tape chewed through like tissue paper, previous nickel-sized hole now enlarged to something resembling crater.<span style=""> </span>Didn’t know what to do.<span style=""> </span>Tried re-taping with the no-longer impervious-seeming duct tape, but have little hope that it will hold against squirrel’s jaws of steel.<span style=""> </span>Once threatened squirrel with death, now fear for my own life.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Friday, April 21<sup>st</sup></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Rode to class.<span style=""> </span>Bike seat extremely uncomfortable, what with craterous hole.<span style=""> </span>Am still alive, though. <span style=""> </span>Have decided to surrender for safety’s sake.</p>cassihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05268356036174285350noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5083067733571615453.post-82631243577402819052007-08-08T19:50:00.000-07:002007-08-09T07:38:25.418-07:00squirrels, part 1<p class="MsoNormal">So my junior and senior years of college, I had some run-ins with the rabid squirrels that live off the land/garbage on and around Penn’s campus.<span style=""> </span>Several people said I should write about my experiences, so I decided to revisit my old journal and post some abbreviated entries here (ok, so I didn’t really keep a journal about it, but I feel like it’ll sound better in journal entry form).<span style=""> </span>Additionally, in a later post, I’m going to include some squirrel journal entries, you know, just my own conjectures of what the squirrel/squirrels would have written themselves about our encounters.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p>Monday, March 13<sup>th</sup></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Went to class.<span style=""> </span>For some reason, didn’t feel like riding my bike.<span style=""> </span>Walked instead.<span style=""> </span>Class was boring.<span style=""> </span>Came home.<span style=""> </span>Started walking up to my door.<span style=""> </span>Bike was locked up to the rail next to it.<span style=""> </span>Noticed something strange sitting on the seat from the distance.<span style=""> </span>Got closer.<span style=""> </span>Saw that it was a moldy, half-eaten apple core.<span style=""> </span>Stopped/stared in shocked silence.<span style=""> </span>Picked up apple core, threw it into garbage cans right across the driveway, all while cursing idiot who had placed it there when the trash was so close.<span style=""> </span>What kind of sick joke was that?<span style=""> </span>Went inside.<span style=""> </span>Was too irate about it still that night to go to sleep.<span style=""> </span>Stared at ceiling in the dark, thinking about the apple core.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Thursday, March 16<sup>th</sup></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Didn’t ride to class again, for no apparent reason.<span style=""> </span>Boring again.<span style=""> </span>Found another apple core on my bike seat at home.<span style=""> </span>Who is this jerk?<span style=""> </span>I think I might get some sort of security camera and find out, then pelt him or her with apple cores.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Friday, March 24<sup>th</sup></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Was sitting on the loveseat in my teeny living room.<span style=""> </span>Tofu (my cat) was sitting on the windowsill, as she often does, staring through the bars and dreaming of her days of freedom wandering the streets of the Philadelphia Zoo.<span style=""> </span>She started making those weird noises like Boots and Koko used to do when they’d see birds outside.<span style=""> </span>Couldn’t see what she was looking at.<span style=""> </span>She was looking over by my front door, which isn’t easy to do unless your face is smashed up against the glass.<span style=""> </span>Didn’t want to leave a face-print on the window, so got up and looked through the peephole.<span style=""> </span>Didn’t see anyone or anything at first.<span style=""> </span>Looked closer.<span style=""> </span>Saw a squirrel sitting on my bike seat, eating a soggy tortilla chip.<span style=""> </span>Jaw dropped.<span style=""> </span>Wha…?!<span style=""> </span>Opened door, chased squirrel off, stood on porch, shaking fist.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>Monday, March 27<sup>th</sup></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>It rained last night, so couldn’t ride my bike.<span style=""> </span>With its new, plush, velvet coated seat, <span style=""> </span>was tempted, but the extra-comfy foam had soaked up roughly two gallons of water, so <span style=""> </span>had to walk.<span style=""> </span>Got home.<span style=""> </span>Walked up to front door.<span style=""> </span>Something didn’t look right.<span style=""> </span>Realized there was small hole dug into the foam, nickel-sized, about half an inch deep, right in the center of the seat.<span style=""> </span>You’re dead, squirrel!</p>cassihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05268356036174285350noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5083067733571615453.post-92089010061559100372007-08-08T17:21:00.001-07:002007-08-08T20:24:15.200-07:00stochastic metastasisAfter staring at my computer screen and simultaneously flipping through the glossary of my "The Biology of Cancer" textbook, inspiration struck and I completed the arduous task of coming up with a name and address for my new blog. "Stochastic metastasis?" you say. "What can she possibly mean? Random, probabilistic malignant growths forming at one site in the body, the cells of which derive from a malignancy located elsewhere in the body?* That makes absolutely no sense." If that is indeed what you're saying, please, let me end your puzzlement.<br /><br />It occurred to me that the fact that I now live somewhere in middle America (that's Omaha, for those of you who don't listen to Counting Crows) after living first in Utah and then in Philadelphia is quite random, although there was certainly a greater probability of my moving here than, say, Timbuktu, since I have a sister already here. So there's the stochastic part. I, myself, of course, am the metastasis part. That's right, I just called myself a metastasis. Originally from Utah, now forming a growth in Omaha. All that remains to be seen is whether I remain a mere micrometastasis, apparent only through microscopy, or whether I succeed in overcoming my hostile environment and cloning myself to become an all-out, macroscopically-visible neoplasm.<br /><br />*In the tradition of Nikki, I'll be using the good ol' * to denote foot notes. In this case, I'd rather not be a plagiarist, so yes, I'm citing my source. Weinberg, Robert A. <span style="font-style: italic;">The Biology of Cancer</span>. 2007.cassihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05268356036174285350noreply@blogger.com2