Wow . . .

The University of Oregon School of Law recently held an Environment Law Public Interest Conference. People came from all over the world to attend seminars, learn about different environment law movements, and to be around other people with dreadlocks. Seriously, there were a lot of dreadlocks.

Inside there were lots of people and groups with little booths, each one in support of a different forest, creature, or cause. Of all the booths the only one that really stood out was the Voluntary Human Extinction Movement (VHEM). The VHEM is exactly what it sounds like: an organization whose purpose is to promote the dying out of the human race. Their argument is that we as humans have done a lot of damage to the Earth (which is true), and the only way to let Earth fully recover from our abuse is for people to die out. Completely.

The man at the booth was nice, and gave us complementary buttons and stickers that read "Thank You For Not Breeding." Certain people should definitely be encouraged not to breed, and maybe we need to be careful about depleting our natural resources. But there are more effective ways of accomplishing these goals than telling people we need to extinctify ourselves. 

Take a walk around their website and tell me what you think. Should we really die out so that we can secure a happy future for baby condors? 

A Night Out

My Dad and I were lucky enough to get some tickets for last night's Blazer game against the Orlando Magic. I made a really cool "Viva la Rudy-lucion" sign, and my Dad made some turkey sandwiches so we wouldn't have to eat the terrible concession food. When we got to the game we found out that, 1. my sign was too big, and 2. you aren't allowed to bring food into the Rose Garden. This is, of course, all part of an evil conspiracy designed to force people into buying 9 dollar cheese burgers (that have been sitting under a heat lamp for the last 3 hours) and 6 dollar sodas.

My dad couldn't wait to get this shout-out pic up on his facebook.

We decided to eat the sandwiches in the car, and to see if we could get the sign in through a different entrance. So we went back to the parking garage to eat. Now, the handicapped parking is on the lower level of the "Garden Garage," and to park there you either have to be handicapped, or have some sort of special VIP parking pass. Most of the cars down there are pretty fancy, since this is apparently where very important people park. There were some Bentleys, Mercedes, oh, and our 1994 Ford Aerostar with manual locks and windows. People gave some pretty weird looks, but they just don't understand the magic of the Aerostar.(like when me and a couple of buddies drove it down to San Francisco, and the "Check Engine" light was on the whole time but it still miraculously survived)

After finishing our pre-game meal, we went back into the Rose Garden and this time no one said anything about my sign. The temperature in 

there is pretty cool, which is perfect for my Dad

. He has MS and is pretty sensitive to any kind of heat. It was a little too loud for him though, so he decided to go with some ear plugs, thus rendering any kind of verbal communication totally useless. We narrowed our in-game communication down to three basic things:

1. The slow side-to-side head shake. This is used to express disappointment or disgust, usually when something goes wrong.
2. The slow up-and-down head nod. This is used to tell the other person that what just happened was really awesome.
3. The fist pump. Usually reserved for late-in-the-game moments, the fist pump says that you approve of your team's play.

Not only did I get my sign through security, I got it on television. Take that, Rose Garden Security squad.

At halftime I bought a bottle of water for my Dad (3.75, easily 3 dollars more than the going rate for a bottle of water this size) and a diet coke for myself (7.50--yes, you read that correctly). I would have had to take out another student loan to pay for a whole meal.

After a disappointing loss (disappointing even though I got on the jumbo-tron twice, and TV with my awesome sign) we headed home. Eventually my Dad took out his ear plugs (he wore them all the way out to the car, I was starting to wonder if he'd had enough of listening to me). We talked about the game on our way home. My Dad and I could always find something to argue about--politics, religion, whether or not he should wear his dirty old work jeans to a Blazer game, etc. But basketball will always bring us together and give us a common ground to stand on. It sounds like a silly thing, but it means a lot to me.

People Who Steal

My wife and I moved to Eugene Oregon at the beginning of this month. "Eugene is very biker-friendly," people would tell us. I am a sucker for having people be friendly towards me, so I decided I'd be using my bike quite a bit.

One of the first things I noticed was the overall crappy nature of the bikes that people ride here. I thought it was people's way of being unique or ironic . . . kind of like how it's cool to not wear deodorant or wash your hair here. A lot of the bicycles are actually kind of vintage and cool (not wearing deodorant? Still not cool), so I didn't think much of it. 

This morning I woke up and discovered that my bike wasn't in the place where I'd left it. My first reaction was to kick myself for not locking it up correctly, but on closer examination I found that they'd actually cut right through the lock. Now, when I bought my lock I decided spend a few extra bucks and get one of the expensive, thick cables. The ones that are supposed to give you better protection than those thin crappy cables you used when you were 7. So much for that "investment." I might has well been locking up my bike with rope. 

My bike wasn't super nice. Brand new it was 500.00 dollars, a big investment at the time for a poor college student. It was supposed to get me through the next four years, at least. I appreciated my bike, and took care of it. I loved the feeling of riding it to school or work, especially when I first got it, I remember catching myself just smiling as I rode along--I felt like a little kid again. Now it's being disassembled, sold for parts, or being traded for crack or meth, who knows what. Someone will end up with the bike eventually, but they won't appreciate it like I did. 

I learned something today though. I learned that people here aren't making some sort of fashion or political statement when they ride their beat-up, 1955, rusted through beach cruiser around. They just take comfort in knowing there is a very low demand for crappy bikes on the black market. 

Serious Question

How can you call a tea "Vanilla Almond" when it tastes like someone took took a huge dump in your cup? Shouldn't it be called "Huge Dump" tea?

New Blog

Stephen's Designs

I've been doing some more drawing and design work lately, so I decided to start a new blog. Hopefully there are people who like my art, enough to one day maybe pay for it. That's what I'm thinking. But if not, at least post a comment pretending to like some of it.

THE March Madness Preview

It's that time of the year again folks! Time for the greatest single elimination tournament in the history of our solar system, March Madness!

Yesterday I was watching ESPN when the so called "experts" revealed the bracket and gave their experty opinions on the match ups. It basically turned into a giant "who can kiss Bob Knight's butt the most" contest, with Jay Bilas coming in a close second to Hubert Davis. I can't blame them. When I saw Bob Knight at the Portland Airport a few months ago I felt the presence of something that can only be described as pure evil. I can't even imagine having to sit next to him for an extended period of time. Digger Phelps was the only one who seemed to actually challenge Knight from time to time, which only goes to show that Digger Phelps obviously doesn't value his life very much.

That being said, Bob Knight was the only "expert" who had the testicular fortitude to make some daring picks. After the other guys got done earning their six figure incomes by telling us that a bunch of number one and two seeds would make it to the final four, Knight went out on a limb and chose Pitt to make it to the final game. That's got to feel nice if you're Pitt, except when you realize that Knight is in direct legion with the devil himself. Oh well, Satan likes your chances at least.

But let's just forget about the "experts" why don't we. They're always way too safe, and way too wrong. If your looking for truly insightful, and truly true-y picks, then you've come to the right place. Let's get down to some predictions:

EAST
North Carolina is the obvious choice coming out of the East region. They've only lost only two games all season, despite playing a tough schedule. Unfortunately All-American forward Tyler Hansbrough is the recipient of this year's prestigious "Player-I-Most-Want-To-Punch-In-The-Face" award. Hansbrough plays hard. Out of his mind actually. He reminds me of Adam Morrison last year: hyper-competitive, and partially insane (not to mention unathletic and a future NBA bust). Hansbrough's Tar Heels lose in the 2nd round to Indiana, and we get to watch him cry about it on national television. Washington State comes out of the East.

MIDWEST
Kansas squeaks away with a quintuple overtime win vs. Portland State in the first round, and ends up losing to Vanderbilt in the Elite Eight. Vandy to the Final Four!

SOUTH
Memphis proves just how crappy Conference USA is by losing badly to Michigan State in the Sweet 16. Unfortunately, Drew Neitzel finally comes clean about his Nazi ancestry and current ties to the KKK. Bad karma surrounds the team, they lose to Texas who makes it out of the South.

WEST
There are a couple things I don't like to see on basketball players. Headbands normally look goofy, these things, gelled up hair do's, and really bad facial hair.

When I watch UCLA's Kevin Love play, I'm simply cannot get over the fact that he has a really really ridiculous looking chin-strap looking beardy thing.

Just because you can grow facial hair doesn't mean you should. And Kevin Love definitely
shouldn't. They lose in the 2nd round to BYU, who makes it all the way to the Final Four.

I will give my Final Four predictions later in the Tournament, but just remember: BYU, Texas, Vandy, and Washington State. You heard it hear first folks.

And just to sweeten the deal, make sure to sign up for ESPN's Bracket Challenge, and join my group, State of the Stephen Bracket Challenge. If you win I'll send you your very own State of the Stephen T-Shirt, and several strands of my hair so you can clone me and use me as a slave around the house.

Taking Out the Trash--Harder Than it Seems

There's not really an easy way to explain this, so I'll just get right into it: my roommate doesn't flush his toilet paper. In fact, it doesn't even make its way into the toilet. Instead he carefully folds the soiled paper into neat squares and places them in the waste basket NEXT to the toilet. I've heard that this is a common practice in parts of Mexico, or in certain 3rd world countries where the plumbing is, apparently, only capable of flushing the poo. Last I checked though, Utah is not a 3rd world country. I could be wrong.

Now, the waste basket is just one of those tiny bathroom-sized baskets, which are designed to take in the occasional bathroom refuse, because bathrooms only OCCASIONALLY create refuse. An empty shampoo bottle, floss from that one time last year that you decided to floss, etc. They are not designed to hold massive amounts of poopy and bloody/snotty toilet paper. No problem, you say. Certainly your roommate is kind enough to remove his own fecal matter from the bathroom once the garbage is full, right? WRONG.

Instead, he ties off the bag that is full (he uses the plastic bags they put your groceries in, so thumbs up for recycling), and places it next to the waste basket. Pretty soon one tied-off bag became two, two became three, etc. until there were (get this): FIVE FULL BAGS OF POOPY TOILET PAPER SITTING ON THE BATHROOM FLOOR.

Now, I've always had a thing about doing your part when it comes to roommate living situations. Unfortunately my willingness to "do my part" has often been translated by my roommates to mean, "Stephen is our maid." At least in my current living situation, its like I'm playing the part of Mother to a bunch of adolescent douche bags.

So back to the five bags. I had decided that I was going to put my foot down. I wasn't going to just keep doing the chores that clearly did not apply to me. I was going to wait for him to take them out. But when it got to five, I couldn't stand to have them in the bathroom any more, so I stacked them up outside his bedroom door. Yes, I truly am the master of subtle hints.

Later that day I got home from school and found that the bags were gone! He had taken them out to the trashcan! I secretly felt proud that my roommate had actually DONE SOMETHING that wasn't totally self absorbed and lazy. Later I left to go to the gym and decided to go out the back door, only to find that the five bags had been half-heartedly tossed onto the back porch/back yard, which means my roommate took the bags, went up the stairs, and threw them out the back door. I could understand such laziness if, lets say, the garbage can was 2 miles away and getting there meant walking the whole way. But no, the garbage can is probably 20-30 feet from the back porch. The snow has all melted, and it's really quite a pleasant walk.

This was 2 weeks ago. The five bags of poopy garbage still sit on the back porch, now accompanied by other bags of trash that my other roommates have placed there. And why not? They all know that eventually I'll crack and clean up everything for them.

I hate my roommates.

Side Note: The poopy TP roommate has officially decided to get a dog. Because he's proven to be a real responsible individual, he should definitely be caring for animals. HE CAN'T EVEN CLEAN UP HIS OWN POOP, AND NOW HE THINKS HE CAN CLEAN UP FOR SOMEONE ELSES????