The Chili Bowl

What a week, what a week.

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I've got a pair of papers due in the next few days. The one due tomorrow morning is clunky. I did good research and picked an appropriate topic, but I just couldn't get my heart into it. It's a page shorter than it ought to be, and it's not smooth. I've had a 4.0 thus far in grad school, but I suspect that'll change this semester.

My other paper, due Tuesday, will be much better. I think it'll be quite good, in fact. We have so much leeway in selecting our topics for big projects and such that I can often take that opportunity to really go out and learn something that interests me. This one's about motivational interviewing, a well-regarded therapeutic technique that originated in the substance abuse recovery field but is now being applied elsewhere (HIV prevention, probation adherence, etc).

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I've got a bitchin' new look over at my Myspace site. Check it out, let me know what you think. I spent 10 whole minutes working on it.

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Heard from Kelli today. She's in Rome for the weekend, alone. Oy. She won't be going out at night though, and frankly, she doesn't have much left that'd be worth a damn to a crook.

She likes Italy, the mugging aside. She's ready to come home though. We're about eight days away from that.

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So what is it with toupees? I'm not making a bald joke here. I just mean that the makers of toupees apparently aren't acquainted with subtlety. I mean, not only does the owner have hair... he has HAIR! BIG hair. Hair hair hair, shooting up unnaturally from above those sideburns. Some of them... do they just go ahead and call that model "the chili bowl"?

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For a while we ate at Luby's every Saturday. There was this elderly threesome we often saw: two women and a man, all with fake hair. They ate their food, and I swear they smiled the whole time like they were ecstatic members of some secret hair club.

(Or maybe they're the founders... bad joke).

Big wigs on the women, big toupee on the man...

And grinning, just a-grinning as they sat there.

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I have a large, veiny cranium. Were I to go bald, I'd probably be first in line when the toupee shop opened it's doors. "C'mon, I look like Michael Stipe out here, open up... gimme that one, yeah... what's it called? The 'Joe Pesci,' eh? I'll take it."

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Got a stripe in Krav Maga yesterday. I'll likely be an orange belt by the time I turn 38 next month.

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Better jet. Be good.