kevisannasdad's Journal

Let's Go Bay Sox.
Because everything has to do with Metallica, I felt like pointing out that Jason Bay is the Jason Newsted of the Red Sox. But more than that, my wife was almost in tears when Manny left town. I need some natty dreds man.

Whatever happend to...
Yahoo Serious? I hear he changed his name to Google Small. But honestly, I had a nightmare about CarrotTop and at the end, my brain said to me,"Who was that Australian guy you used to confuse with CarrotTop?" The answer was: Yahoo Serious.

There must be a reason.
When I thought about George Carlin, I thought about fun with words. Now I suppose what words he had fun with meant a lot to some people, particularly at the peak of Bonanza's popularity. But as Bonanza faded into Starsky and Hutch and Magnum PI made early retirement seem like a good idea, the fun he had was still there, even as people completely embraced some of those revolutionary ideas and rejected, modified and distorted others. Of course the one thing they had definitely become was no longer revolutionary. Case in point, I think I heard Dora the Explorer say at least five of those words. They were in Spainish and yes I don't speak Spainish but there was something in her eyes that betrayed her motives.

I remember watching a lot of George Carlin's stand up, especially his HBO specials. I was a kid and even though he spoke colorfully off-color what drew me to him was his lyrics. Yeah, he made jokes about underwear and testicles and the lamination thereof, but did you see his face when he did it? Beautifully contorted as his voice ranged from radio barritone to irate screach with his pleasant tenor coming in to reassure that you didn't have to think too much, even if you should have, because 15 seconds later he would made a joke for everyone.

(I can't quite think of why he chose to call baseball a nancy game and football a man's game. It seemed like a real hippy would have detested them both and a genuine jock would have sung all their praises. Because of the way he lilted the word "home" and grunted "touch down," I didn't stop to think of that paradox until now.)

He was always observing those little things that made the backbone of 10-minute, late 80's stand up sets for a slew of forgotten perfomers and maybe one guy everybody remembers from the 90's. But it was the little things of language that made it fun. When he talked about "stuff" did you really listen because you wanted somebody to express your outrage about rampant materialism or was it because he shot that word out in the right register?

But among his resounding observations that on its own is rather pithy was one statement that hung around my neck because I thought we all should have thought of it sooner. So in brief, George Carlin was funny because we are stupid. Seriously.

(Check this out. I am totally stealing style from edgy columns in tourism mags)

Oh, and that quote that made me realize my own shortcomings as a human being: "Why are there no B batteries?" Think about it; I am sure he did.

I'd streak an NBA game, even if the Knicks were playing.
I was reading this kind of ok confessional that is online and published where everyone wants to be online and published when I became so annoyed I had to stop reading. Here, have a sample of something not titled "Why I blog and so should you":
"Of course, some people have always been more naturally inclined toward oversharing than others. Technology just enables us to overshare on a different scale. Long before I had a blog, I found ways to broadcast my thoughts — to gossip about myself, tell my own secrets, tell myself and others the ongoing story of my life. As soon as I could write notes, I passed them incorrigibly. In high school, I encouraged my friends to circulate a notebook in which we shared our candid thoughts about teachers, and when we got caught, I was the one who wanted to argue about the First Amendment rather than gracefully accept punishment. I walked down the hall of my high school passing out copies of a comic-book zine I drew, featuring a mock superhero called SuperEmily, who battled thinly veiled versions of my grade’s reigning mean girls. In college, I sent out an all-student e-mail message revealing that an ex-boyfriend shaved his chest hair. The big difference between these youthful indiscretions and my more recent ones is that you can Google my more recent ones."

When I read about the burn book I immediately thought of "Mean Girls." Then I read about her zine called SuperEmily and I thought of this teeny movie my wife was watching "Read and Weep". Then I read her phrase, "reigning mean girls" which confirmed for me that she must have plagiarized from "Mean Girls". So I am wondering if anyone really did overshare about how an ex-b/f shaved his chest hair or if I missed that movie. Sounds like an urban legend. But what really made me wonder was that it is to be published in the NY Times magazine.

I was kind of amazed at my degree of annoyance. I would have read the whole thing and thought,"Yeah people do blog." and actually been content with that but now...I guess its betrayal. Here was she was boasting about boastful boastfulness and it turns out she was braggin' on other people's imaginary adventures. It's like, I mean really, C'mon, what won't people do to get into NYTimes.com.

Sandles aren't just for the beach.
There was a dusty, orange tinge to the air in my dream. I was in a desert. We, a large group of men, were on a bus. We disembarked suddenly and entered an earthen hut. The material was not so primitive to be just mud but less advanced then cinderblock. There was a front room that I quickly went through. The back was where we gathered. It seemed as if everyone who was there was content to stay back there. I caught the feeling that I should try to go, maybe the bus was leaving. When I entered the front room again, I realized it was sort of like a pool, a dull grey pool. In various corners, men I took to be either Indian or Middle Eastern were gathered talking together in low tones, very calmy but yet with an intensity.

Apparently, I had a companion that decided to go forward with me into this room. I made a joke about walking in on a terrorist plotting session. We both made our way to the front of the room where I was sure we had entered before only now there was a wall. I wanted this wall to be only an illusion and that if we looked more closely we could see that there were three short walls, with them lined closely together so that it appeared there were one wall. If we could just squeeze through where the walls overlapped, we could exit. The men sitting in the pool in their separate groups noticed our consideration of the wall but continued their serious considerations in low tones. My companion said that he had to meditate to be able to exit.

I was amused, not because of his desire to meditate, but that he couldn’t meditate at will. I made for him several low guttural sounds for him to imitate so that he too could meditate. He was not convinced this was the right way to do the right thing. Instead, he drew on a napkin in pencil what looked like an Arab male praying. I took this of course to the Prophet and was worried about what people would do if they saw the drawing. But there was no face, just a pencil out line of a man with a turban praying in a specific pose.

When my companion was able to capture the spirit of the drawing in his own manner (It took a while. He was under a lot of mental stress to achieve this feat.), a noise came from the back of the room. A group of three men dressed in robes and turbans rushed forward and handed my friend a key. He opened a door that was hidden in the wall. Predictably, a rush of white light came into the room. The man who had handed out the key said something about giving a certain number of these out lately. But I can’t remember the number.

I left the front room to return to the back of the room. I realized that men of all nations were gathered here, although the vast majority was European looking. This gave me some comfort because I was worried about what might happen to me surrounded by so many people that did not look like me. I had to urinate. But all the toilets were overflowing and jammed with feces. As I looked around the damp dark room, there were piles of it. And under some type of ledge, there was a dead woman’s body covered in foul refuse. I suddenly realized that my daughter was somewhere with all these men and I tried to find her.

Dear Jesus, make me a vessel of your peace.
Ok, normally I wouldn't beseech ye, but ye know? I just saw this post about how today was the 50th anniversary of the death of Rosalind Franklin and it appeared like the author wanted us to post how much we admired her. But what I really wanted to write was, "In her memory, I will overlook one of the most significant findings of the past century." But some people would think that was in poor taste as this is the anniversary of her passing. And I would agree. So, that restrained me somewhat. But if it had been just an open discussion about her life, I would have said this: Although her contributions were significant to other areas of structural biology, she was not an uncredited discoverer of the structure of DNA but an uncredited collaborator. By way of analogy to her relationship with W/C, I know that if I do an experiment and I think it concludes one thing that is of minor significance, but another person could look at the results and point out a conclusion of greater significance, I wouldn't expect to become the martyr of bearded, lazy scientists. (Maybe the bitch slapping I'll get for writing this will, but not that.)

Really, I'm not that sexist. My science hero as a high school science nerd was Barbara McClintock . She said this: "Over the many years, I truly enjoyed not being required to defend my interpretations. I could just work with the greatest of pleasure. I never felt the need nor the desire to defend my views. If I turned out to be wrong, I just forgot that I ever held such a view. It didn't matter." That's pretty fat ass, I think. I love the nihilism of her narcissistic psychosocial bubble.

Viral ecology
I was thinking a bit about flu vaccines and the emergence of unusual flu-like viruses. My thought was that in recent years people have been getting vaccinated more and more. I wonder if that is true. I was also under the impression that several unusual strains of flu-like viruses, in terms of symptoms, have arisen. I am talking about adenoviruses and I think actually there might have a coronavirus that popped out somewhere. There were definitely some major landlocked Norwalk viruses too. If all these guesses and impressions were right, I think it might be reasonable to think about how eliminating the major influenza virus strains form circulating would effect the occurence of other viral infections.

So let's go to the parables. If we eliminated all the mosquitos, in Massachusetts, we would not be surprised if there occured an invasion of mosquitos from all the surrounding states, even if these mosquitos were of a different species. Mosquitos, more than likely, occupy similar niches wherever they are. They need warm blood. They need maybe some shallow puddles to breed. I am not an expert in this field, but eliminating the organism doesn't eliminate the niche.

For viruses, the niche is you. Your warm, wet lungs. Your dry, cracked nasal mucosa. Its all very tempting, isn't it? The test of the hypothesis is that people sick with one strain of influenze aren't going to contract another strain or another virus all together. This might be true for two reasons that I can think of. The first is that a sick person stays home, away from others and is less likely to come into contact with the guy with the weird flu. The idea in general would be that flu outbreaks limit total interpersonal contact. The second idea is one that is almost certainly be true. The flu-infected person rather than the flu-immunized person should generate a stronger, more broad reaching immune response. That is, the adaptive immune response would be generated to a wider spectrum of viral antigens so that this flu-infected person would be somewhat immune to other strains of the flu. It is very likely that the innate immune response would also be much higher in the flu-infected person, such that, if they encounter another virus, of an extremely broad array, they may be able to limit its infectivity until an appropriate adaptive immune response could be generated.

So, vaccinating against only a few strains of influenza may invite the spread of other strains of influenza not in the vaccine. Also, removing influenza from the circulation may leave the human population more vulnerable to infection by other viruses that have similar routes of infection.
MAYBE.

Demagoguery now!! (Skip to the last line) ((Rewriteme now!!)
So I thought that the great thing about Barack Obama was his speeches. That turns out to be what MSNBCNN told me that I should think so I was relieved. But then I thought, how do people who give speeches their whole lives suck at it so badly? Do you really think that when they do the pretend excitement thing that anybody who is pretending to be excited thinks that they should actually be excited? I never thought so. I always thought we were just supposed to pretend to be excited and that was good enough because building bridges and bombs isn't as much fun as making fun of the guy who wants to build more bridges and less bombs or less bridges and more bombs. But then I thought that maybe its ok to expect someone to motivate people. You know, its not so bad to make people get excited about their own ideas. That's not really cult-like. But then I went further into agreeing with myself and thought that all those times that somebody stood in front of flag and pretended yell out from the podium and everybody pretended they did a good job that they should have actually done a good job and that they people listening to them should have said, yo that stank, or clapped. I like polite clapfter but if you pat them on the back when they stink at speaking and its what they are supposed to do then they are just going to assume that they are not really sucking it up when they do some other half-assed thing. Not that slacking is bad but slacking should be done in full appreciation of itself. Somewhere in this ramble, I am supposed to point out that Obama may strive to be more democratic because he listens to an audience.

A little part of the long walk.
My favorite view of the Frank Gehry builind at MIT is from between the parking lots of Shire pharmaceutical and the abandoned Kodak parking lot where the engineering students built their house of the future and pulled it away to DC. From here, his silver and slanted creation as it hangs off a tan brick façade points its way between the bright orange pipes of what may be a HVAC facility but because of the nature of its ownership, it may be an educational HAVC facility. Whoever designed this building probably had the intention of exposing what it was that powers buildings by building glass walls around these massive orange pipes. I doubt they ever thought that people would think how it would offset the doodles of Guggenheim royalty.

When my wife saw the Gehry building up close, she claimed it most have leaks all over the place. I laughed and informed her that he was a famous architect and must have paid his underlings to pay someone else to make sure that it was sound. She said architects are dreamers. The next day, MIT announced a lawsuit with Gehry’s design firm over "the leaks".

It was from this spot where I helped push a fellow's car out of the snow in the middle of the street in what was the worst snowstorm in several years. He spoke little English and a lot of something that I assumed was Spanish. After we had toiled long enough to push his stalled vehicle out of the traffic jam and into a spot that would normally have been metered parking and not stopping at the spot several yards in front with the no parking sign, I said to him Feliz Navidad. He stared. It was definitely after Thanksgiving. Maybe he spoke a lot of something else all together.

I have a fondness for that road between the two parking lots. When I am on it, I can see the 7-11 where I often buy an orange juice and a bag of smoked almonds. Then walk out the entrance and stare at the seemingly large selection of laundry detergents for such a small store. Two minutes to get Anna from there. 8 minutes to home. The border between the real Kendall Square and East Cambridge. Lots of Haitians, lots of students. The Portuguese (ahhh!) and the Brazilians seem to stop one block north leaving the presence of their rows of amazing restaurant serving amazing food at amazingly low low prices undiscovered to the Engineers of tomorrow.

Restored post, no idea what I was thinking
Grifters often tried to maker her acquaintance. Her fashion sense which was always a bit off was their signal. A 10,000$ scarf around a JC Penny blouse would have aroused anyone's curiousity. In her world of dog eat dog, fight to the death warring over what shade of brown really was last season and which was next season, her frugality and

This August, I had the unfortunate opportunity to witness the aftermath of a slightly violent domestic incident. I was waiting for the bus on my least favorite street corner when a white Honda came zigging down the street. The zigging stopped abruptly when the car pulled into the exit of the bank nearby. But not just into the exit, across it, sidways, blocking it.

Out of the passenger side lept a woman with her pants rolled up to her knee. She started to cry out for help and I turned towards to see what this woman was carrying on about. She saw me looking her way and begged me through, what appeared to be fake tears, to call the police. Almost simutaneously, the driver came across the front of the car and approached the woman. He saw me coming. When she begged again for me to call the police, he took off running.

After that, my courage swelled and I walked towards the scene and offered her a cell phone to let her call. She had a think accent and couldn't quite communicate well with the 911 operator, so she handed me the phone. I retold the above facts to the operator. She transferred me to the local police but it was the wrong local police. So the wrong local police transferred me to the right local police. Each transfer meant a new retelling of the little incident I saw.

Then came the police which lead to two more retellings and a third later that afternoon over the phone when I retold my story to the

Just as the sun was rising.

hump back sunrise 012.jpg
Originally uploaded by kevoli

I climbed up here one morning in the dark before sunrise only to find a Christian children's group camping.

Quicker to walk sometimes.
#1
Snow blowing off the water.
Ice and rain hitting my face.
Dread and worry, lost in the low,grey clouds.
Horns blaring and traffic has been, is, will be stalled.
Footfalls and heavy breath, one by one across the bridge.
The body of water is gone, its skin is flakes of ice.
Its fur is mist and wind.

#2
Grey grey grey.
Otherwords just there to play.
No blue sky.
No warm sun.
Grey bridges, grey air, grey river.
Grey grey grey gun.

#3
Pushing into road, my foot finds soft then hard.
Slipping at hard touches, holding onto balance with the soft.
I am alone out here.
People trapped in their cars. They could get out and walk.
With bright days in the fall, the blue sky and orange leaves distract me from the water beneath.
Today, I look down and it is gone, covered in a gray wrinkled skin.
I feel lucky to be moving but wet feet, face half frozen, nervously hoping straight as an arrow is straight...prices.
Christmas time and looking for a discount, wonderment leads to a quick end.

#4
I began to hustle. "It's snowing."
Arms swinging and pulling me forward.
Sharp sharp sting of ocean breeze driven needles.
That silence, that silence still rings.
In cities, in forests,
snow falls on silence.
A horn screaming. Who is afraid of a silent horn?
They all sit there. Fear can't make the impossible.
I can see their faces. They pretend they are above the road; they are in the road.
I go by. Silently, they still sit.

Christmas Cheeseballs for breakfast.
I was walking after one of our many snow storms from the train to work. I saw a guy, a fellow if you will, wrapped in a scarf. It made a little cave around his head with a droopy, grey entrance.

I really wanted to say to him,"Are you in there?"

And I thought he might say back, "Who's asking?"

And, channeling the Christmas Carol spirit, I would say,"Your friend and neighbor."

"You don't seem familiar," I was certain his reply would be.

"Well we should be familiar to each other," I wanted to stop and say and make his reply come straight to my face.

"Why familiar? I am sure I don't know you. Why don't you mind your own business, eh?"

To that I am certain to have said,"Mankind should be our business" and then vanished.

It gets a little preachy.
It is the habit and perhaps policy of the Harvard Medical School Office of Public Affairs to lower their flag to half mast when a professor passes away. It seems that they wait until about a month after the funeral to do so. I am not sure why. Perhaps it gives time to the family to grieve in their own time and then maybe they would be more appreciative of the gesture.

I only became aware of this because of mass emails I get every now and again. I like to read them. Besides showing my appreciation to someone who worked hard for the betterment of human health and understanding, I like to see the story of their life. Since most of the honored were professors at a nationally reknowned institution, their lives are usually full of accomplishments and awards. It is like skipping around the obituaries to read only the really interesting descriptions.

The latest notification of this kind was in memory of Dr. Chester Rosoff. He was an accomplished surgeon and educator. He had served in the military immediately after medical school in 1947 at a base in Munich. But the notice claimed that he served during World War II. I was annoyed. Since World War II ended in 1945, he either served earlier and more than likely not at Munich or he served in 1947 but not during World War II.

I was mostly upset that the person who wrote this email didn't notice such an error. I am not a history buff or anything like that. But I know that World War II went from Pearl Harbor in Decemeber something-th, 1941 to V-J Day in 1945. See I don't even know the days. But it was four years. Four years to win a war. A war with a purpose, I suppose, as much as any war could, to depose and eliminate fascist war mongering regimes.

It seems that with our current endless war, I had hoped people would be thinking about what a great effort went into previous wars and how in 4 years it was over.

Alf and his life long influence
I did have the opportunity to attend a gala festival event to celebrate the beginning of the holiday season. In attendance were the glitterati of the local, interstate and international moving businesses. Don't worry, I had a new shiny red shirt on, so I blended in. Mostly with the Christmas ornaments. Ka-pow!

This, of course, was my wife's holiday party and it really was nice to see her co-workers all dressed up. There was even a fellow from Dublin in a tuxedo. You don't get that everywhere. Because the party was on the first of the month and that is a busy day for this industry, several guys showed up in the best outfit they could muster together out of the back of a moving truck without resorting to thievery. As they passed by a guy I have seen normally wearing a t-shirt and shorts but tonight looked like a banker, a successfully updated 1980s banker, the gracefully adorned said, in an IRISH accent, " You two shop at the same place?" It's hard for me to type in any accent but this one played.

Speaking of things that played: Among the party's other guest was a former employee, current significant other of an employee and, wait for it, a reality TV star. She was very pretty, tall, and, busty. So obviously, I completely ignored her. And while I was completely ignoring her, I had to point out to my wife that I was completely ignoring this person who may have actually met Ashton Kutcher. I did so by making light and pointing out the the top of her dress looked like "two bald men wrestling." Of course I said it loud enough for others at the table to hear, including Trisha and her cousin the Black Irish Rose, so called by me because she has black hair, is Irish and her name is Rosie. Trisha laughed and the normally somber Rosie almost smiled. And it was then that the pangs of guilt started to settle in.

I was too ashamed to admit that it was not an original. I am sure it is an abused, over-used line, but I remembered it from an episode of Alf where the mom said it about herself when she was wearing a particularly revealing party dress. Yep, I've maintained a pretty mature perspective on sexuality.

Later in the evening, a woman who was not at the table when my utterance was heard was talking with my wife and laughed about what I had said. Then the real guilt started to kick in. Firstly, it wasn't that funny of a thing and I was ashamed I was going to be associated with it, probably from now on. But also, it really isn't nice to make comments like that even about people that could have been near someone that took the "e" out of punked.

More than that I should also be concerned because this woman of whom I spoke was really muscular and her beau was much more muscular than she. But at least I got to feel like Kathy Griffin/Perez Hilton/Maureen Dowd all rolled up into one which is probably the position THEY will find me in floating down the Charles or the Mystic Rivers. I can't really decide because the office is between the two.

Three views of gore
I had the strangest dream. There were three overlapping stories going on but each had to do with how frightening it is to see your innards outwards or to know that that is coming. It also had a lot to do with three types of loss of power. There was a willing loss. There was trickery/domination. Finally, there was defeat in honest competition.

So in the first segment, I was a patient about to undergo some type of radical gooey surgery. Right. So the gore I was fearing was that someone, even though I needed them to, was about to tear into my flesh. While, I was aware I would not be in excruciating pain during the procedure, the loss of my physical completeness contained within my skin was frightening. You know, I just didn't want to see my intestines on a stainless steel table. But the horror of future gore was intensified by the knowledge that I would have to consent to lose consciousness by allowing the anesthesiologist to anesthetize me. Fear and the desire to have the procedure to be healthy were competing.

In the second segment, an old friend was kidnapped by a madman, a real loony. He wanted to perform the same surgery on him as I had had done to me, But this time, without anesthesia. The madman did not speak but I knew his intentions and I was terrified. Somehow, he captured my friend and administered a paralyzing agent not one that reduces pain. (I think they used to castrate horses this way.) He wrapped him up in a real surgical looking white cloth but somehow the friend could not move. To make it all the more insidious, he broadcast his future torture over the internet. If it were a movie, maybe the website would have been called theanatomylesson, but that wasn't part of the dream.

After my friends painful execution, I flashed to ancient Rome. Two warriors met on a dusty field of battle. One was clearly a more successful soldier, visibly stronger, bearded, able to make a scary yell while holding his sword with two hands out in front of him while while while dust and other people fighting swirled around him. I could not see his opponent well. He was helmeted and wore silvers and blues. Our bearded friend had reddish hair and wore golds and reds. He wore no helmet and had small blue eyes. As they fought, the red beard forced the sliver fox to the ground and slit his side so that his intestines spilled out onto the dry earth. Blood and dust to mud. But the shape of the intestines as they lay on the ground looked the same as they had when removed by the surgeon and the murderer.

Karmic Face Slap
At that time of evening, it is always odd for me to drive. The total darkness is surprising. A few hours later, the black sky would be a customary view but now my eyes had just stopped squinting from the even'time drive. In other words, I was driving when "Wheel" was on. My wife was sitting in the passenger seat up front and Anna was in the second row, calmly sucking her thumb. Vera was about to end her cell phone call and gave me this thumbs up. In that instance, I became ill.

She had been on the phone with an ex-coworker. They needed some part-time help and she thought about getting extra dough by working a second job. But this particular job was awful for her and she hated it. The worst kind of over-working, underpaying, commission denying experience for her and me too. And now she was ready to fall back into that hole.

As it may have happened, I took a sort of wrong turn. It was an unintentional reorientation of our domestic progress. Meanin': I took the longer, more crowded way home. As I took a right turn, crossing over a cross walk with no pedestrians inside the white stripes or even really about to step into them, I pulled through. As I did so, a brawny lad who was jogging with two amigos felt the need to exert TOTAL DOMINANCE muttered loudly "Dickhead." So, in a fit of not quite sure why I am angry yet anger, I jammed on the brakes and yelled back at him, quite cleverly, "Fuckyouyoufuckindihed" and then he yelled back which kind of surprised me, but, really, I wasn't about to pull the car over and chase someone down to have my ass kicked, so we drove on.

And as we were crossing over Beacon, we hit a pot hole. Rattle rattle, wtf?

"Vera, I can't get the car into 4th."

"Do we need it?"

"Yeah, well, kind of. We can get home without it." We drove on in third gear and when I tried to go into 4th, it slid into gear. But I felt the shifter was at an odd angle. We got home fine and I tried to slide the car into each gear. As it turns out, 1 through 4 were fine but 5 and Reverse, were a no go. So this morning, I had to push the Jeep out onto the street so I could drive it forward and forward only to the garage.

Lesson learned. God punishes those who punish cross crosswalkers with mumbled curses on Tuesday October 13ths of 2007 in the Boston Cambridge area, as we were on the bridge between the two. So beware.

Edited free verse reveals Kevin really cares about your diet
carrot top lunch.
under the railroad tracks, left of the highway entrance, dragged across.
coyote steals the rabbits from the cage.
teeth bore into little guy. feeling bad now.
shouldn't have seen it. wanted to drive on.
his fur raised on his back.
hamburger guilt now. rabbits cuter than cows but milking cows is probably bad too.

vegetables really don't feel the same type of pain.
they're just a little more afraid of death than you are; that's why they never move. sald bowl of skulls dripping in fermented baby's bottle so much healthier than powerful free legs that was shot by them there fellas.
wish i had a dime for everytime i felt bad about those sandwhiches, lettuce and meat and all those grains.
where will i fit in if they all live anyways.

when i become just solar powered i will pity the crushed hydrogen and wish that the helium would just split back in half. something is lost anyways, right? E=delta MC(squared)
energy doesn't come from nowhere, so:
even if i was at the center of it all, the unvierse would be falling apart.

Remember the 90's?
Apparently my 15 year old nephew does.

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