Ooooh ... you're a handsome devil. What's your name?

The Pjammer Chronicles

I have more hit points than you could possibly imagine.

Tuesday, December 17th, 2002
(reposted at the request of somebody whose name I could not remember at Vienna's concert Saturday)

Did anyone notice that, according to Yahoo! directions, if you take a wrong turn from Blue Ball to Intercourse, PA, you end up at a place called "Muddy Run?" *Ew*.

And of course, we also have driving directions from Intercourse, PA to Climax MI, a trip which takes ... 11 HOURS AND 20 MINUTES!?!

Damn, and here I was all proud of myself for lasting over half an hour ...

Which reminds me of a story, because, of course, everything reminds me of a story. During my time as professional slacker in college I was taking random graduate courses (because graduate-school grades were curved around a "B/B+," instead of the more treacherous "C+/B-" waters of undergraduate curriculum). One of the most unintentionally memorable moments in college occured during a class in Marine Biology I took at the Scripps Institute of Oceanography. In an otherwise unremarkable quarter focused on building artificial environments for marine life, one incident stood out that branded a nickname that I am still referred to by former classmates.

The topic of the day was mussel farms. The professor explained that over 60% of the net weight of mussels for human consumption consists of their gonads (which probably explains their reputation for being aphrodisiacs). Consequently, they must be harvested right before mating season - because after mating, their gonads shrivel and, he explained, mussels "take approximately six to seven months to recover."

Interesting trivia.

In a voice (I swear) intended for my friend sitting one row in front of me (but, alas, resonant enough to carry through the entire classroom in a freakish coincidental drop in the ambient volume of in-class chatter), I said:

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Mood: amused

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