Bradezone

First things first. With God’s merciful assistance I was able to pass all my classes this semester (with nary a D, no less) and participate in “The Great Hooding” along with my fellow special achievers. The minor caveat remains of two summer classes, but these predominantly involve writing, so I plan to enjoy them.

I have had the special opportunity of “getting my grub on” recently at two Chinese bistros here in Greenville: Lieu’s and P. F. Chang’s. Aside from honing my chopstick skills to near adequacy, I savored the flavor of each restaurant’s take on the classic Kung Pao chicken. I am pleased to report that both establishments accomplished the taste equivalent of the zapateado inside my mouth. Though I would give Lieu’s the slight advantage, I am actually more pleased that each dish left an impression wholly distinct from the other. A slight “mishap” occurred at Chang’s when I was brought Kung Pao with scallops instead of the desired poultry, a fact not discovered with certainty until half my portion was consumed. Upon allowing my fellow diners to affirm my findings, I requested an exchange and the staff promptly delivered. I should mention this was the opening night for Chang’s here in town, so a few “kinks” were bound to occur, and I was more than willing to help “iron them out” via a second helping. Also I should mention that the decor and ambiance were top notch, and the young ladies who took my name and assisted us to our table were of pleasant countenance. One wore eyelid glitter, which merely emboldens my belief that every living female has at least one piece of glitter on her at all times.

So BJU doled out our midterm grades today, and all seem fine save for my actual major courses. My current computer science classes are borderline torture, but I keep trying to tell myself that these are the last two I will have to take. I can foresee having to speak with both profs in the near future. Why do I frequently so despise my major? I truly enjoy programming for web development at my job, but getting this “general purpose” computer science degree is like being slowly charbroiled over an open flame. Sure, I might make a good burger, but the process hurts like heck.

Despite this, I am actually feeling less pseudo-depressed than I have felt the last couple of weeks. Yayness.

In other news, I have opted to be set up on my first ever blind date. Hey, everyone needs to do it at least once, n’est-ce pas?

Outside the mild afternoon rains continue to fall, while inside the relaxing whir of espresso machines fills Greenville’s latest Barnes & Noble bookstore and adjoining Starbucks coffee shop. I sit alone at a small circular table, burnt orange in hue, while reading Dostoevsky and soon resolving to write my own impressions of my immediate surroundings. My table forms part of a long line situated snugly against an ebony barrier about four feet high that divides the coffee shop from the rest of the store. A couple sits at the table next to mine playing a card and dice game, which the man introduces to his partner as the game of “Cheating.” The man is older, perhaps in his early fifties, clad in a maroon sweater and tan casual slacks, and wearing white Nike sneakers. His hair is dark gray and neatly combed, and his wire-rimmed glasses adorn an inconspicuous face. His voice betrays his refined southern heritage; it is subdued yet subtly animated as he explains the rules of the game. As their contest unfolds, he chuckles intermittently at his ever-changing predicament. The woman, who is overweight but not offensively obese, is discernibly more expressive than the man, at some points laughing mischievously and at others accusing him of bending the rules or at the very least seeming a bit too lucky. Yet her voice is ever coupled with some measure of restraint, politely conscious of the other patrons. Her back is to me the entire time; she has on dark denim jeans, stylish black boots, and a long-sleeved shirt only a shade lighter than our table tops. Her hair is mostly straight and brownish with streaks of blonde here and there. She appears about fifteen years younger than her opponent. Over the course of the game a die rolls off their table three times, and is in each instance accompanied by a brief whispering laugh from one or both of them, a silent acknowledgement of the possible disruption they have caused. At one point the woman insists that the man is cheating, but in a tone that reflects her obvious lack of any real irritation. The man responds with a playfully sinister laugh and exclaims, “I love it!” but only as loudly as the most austere fellow customer would be willing to tolerate. At intervals he tutors her on the rules of the game; likewise she audibly figures out its various aspects, finally giving her stamp of approval to the game of “Cheating.” After an hour or so they leave their table, and soon enough I do the same, hoping to read the rest of Notes from Underground later that evening.