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<title>SagaByte / superD / All</title>
<link>http://www.sagabyte.com</link>
<description>SagaByte rss feeds</description>
<pubDate>Sat, 12 Jul 2008 21:20:42 -0400</pubDate>
<language>en</language>
<item>
<title><![CDATA[Cockatiel Life]]></title>
<link>http://www.sagabyte.com/SagaByte/cockatiel-life/</link>
<comments>http://www.sagabyte.com/SagaByte/cockatiel-life/</comments>
<pubDate>Sat, 12 Jul 2008 21:20:42 -0400</pubDate>
<dc:creator>superD</dc:creator>
<category>SagaByte</category>
<guid>http://www.sagabyte.com/SagaByte/cockatiel-life/</guid>
<description><![CDATA[Until my father died last year from cancer, the worst thing that had ever happened to me was the loss of my cockatiel, Andre, when I was 15. I had always refused to clip his wings, and he took the opportunity to fly out an open door into mid-December weather.  He was probably killed within a few minutes by a hawk.  That, or he froze to death in the sub-zero temperatures we experienced that night.  I was devastated and for years would think of that goddamn bird every time I saw a cockatiel at a pet store.  I'd had a few other cockatiels since Andre, but none of them quite measured up to his standard.About 20 years later, I was living in a large city in the Midwest and finishing my graduate work.  It was late summer, and my girlfriend and I were invited to a party at our friend Tony's house.  When we arrived on his street, we saw a small crowd gathered under a large tree.  One fellow was holding a garden hose, and everyone was looking into the tree.  It turns out that a kid who lived across the street from our friend had left his front door open, and Larry the cockatiel had taken off.  He was now perched at the top of this enormous tree, squalking and whistling and shouting &quot;pretty bird&quot; every so often.  The poor kid was crying, and the entire family was unable to figure out how to get the bird down.  The garden hose was apparently part of the effort, but aside from that the family seemed stumped.There was nothing we could do to help.  We walked over to our friend's house and camped out in the backyard.  We drank a few beers and grilled burgers, but I could not stop looking across the street at the family as they continued to call for their bird.  I was getting increasingly agitated and was not having a single moment of fun.  After about half an hour, Larry flew from the tree, darted over our friend's house, and landed in a tree just over the fence.  He was at least 30 feet from the ground, but this tree -- unlike the other one -- had a good lattice of branches, and I was pretty sure I could get to him if I tried.  Of course, I hadn't climbed a tree in at least 15 years, but I really wanted to rescue that bird.When my wife returned from a quick trip to Tony's kitchen, I was halfway up the tree.  A small crowd of buzzed party-goers joined the bird's family underneath me.  Larry continued twittering nervously, but I somehow managed to get within six feet of him before I ran out of branches to step on.  After five minutes of patient coaxing, though, I persuaded Larry to hop down to me.  He looked a bit confused and surprised to see someone there with him, but I grabbed him and wrapped him up in a light sweatshirt while someone retrieved a ladder.Back on the ground, I made the kid promise to keep a better eye on his bird.  I told the story about Andre, and I told him about how I'd never forgiven myself for losing him.  The kid was only nine or ten years old, though, and he was more relieved than anything to have his own bird back.  He seemed not to appreciate the significance of the advice I was offering him. A few months later, I heard that Larry had escaped again, this time for good.<br/><br/>6 Vote(s) ]]></description>
</item>

<item>
<title><![CDATA[Halloween Costume Ideas For College]]></title>
<link>http://www.sagabyte.com/SagaByte/halloween-costume-ideas-for-college-1/</link>
<comments>http://www.sagabyte.com/SagaByte/halloween-costume-ideas-for-college-1/</comments>
<pubDate>Mon, 09 Jun 2008 19:37:32 -0400</pubDate>
<dc:creator>superD</dc:creator>
<category>SagaByte</category>
<guid>http://www.sagabyte.com/SagaByte/halloween-costume-ideas-for-college-1/</guid>
<description><![CDATA[My second year of college, I dressed as a pagan god for Halloween.  The outfit consisted of a green cow's mask, a pair of blue sweatpants, a tie-dyed nightgown borrowed from a woman who lived in my dorm, neon yellow running shoes, some sheepskin leggings, and an Indian blanket draped around my neck as some sort of cape.  It was an absurd costume, to say the least. After some preliminary drinks with friends on my floor, I headed out solo to a party being held at a friend's nearby apartment.  I continued to drink for several hours there, and the only thing I recall precisely about the party is that at some point I was dancing on a couch.At some point late in the night, I decided it was time to walk back to campus.  I had a 9:00 a.m. Intro to Logic class, and I was determined not finish the semester without having missed a single class.  On my way home, I realized that I was staggering and weaving along the sidewalk; this being a small town with a large university campus nestled in its center, the local police were constantly looking for loaded students to charge with public drunkenness and various related offenses.  In a burst of ingenuity, I decided that if I could find a straight line to follow, the odds of making it home in my own custody would be pretty good.  I found a straight line, but it happened to be in the middle of the road.  After a minute or so of following the double yellow line, I watched a police car pass by; fifty yards or so later, it abruptly swung around and headed back toward me.  Still wearing the cow's mask and all the rest of it, I took off running and ducked into a neighborhood adjoining my campus.  I hopped at least two fences and ran as fast as I could manage, not even bothering to look behind to see if the police were still on my tail.  At last, I reached a parking lot, where I figured I'd be able to snag a ride back to my dorm.  Still drunk and breathing heavily, I approached a group of people who were just about to get into a truck.&quot;Please,&quot; I gasped.  &quot;If you guys could give me a ride to Hoffman Hall, that would be so cool.  The cops are chasing me.&quot;Someone in the group asked me to repeat the question.&quot;Hoffman Hall,&quot; I said.  &quot;I gotta get home.&quot;&quot;Dude,&quot; the same person responded.  &quot;You're at Hoffman Hall.&quot;I turned around, and sure enough, I was right behind my own dorm.  I could see my own window, in fact.&quot;Shit!&quot;  I was relieved but humiliated.  But I was also drunk, so I stopped caring in the five seconds it took me to lurch toward the back door.  Safely inside, I passed out on the floor of my room.  I woke up at 8:30, grabbed a package of cheese crackers and a Diet Coke, and somehow found my way to class on time.<br/><br/>4 Vote(s) ]]></description>
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<item>
<title><![CDATA[Car Alarm Going Off]]></title>
<link>http://www.sagabyte.com/SagaByte/car-alarm-going-off/</link>
<comments>http://www.sagabyte.com/SagaByte/car-alarm-going-off/</comments>
<pubDate>Fri, 06 Jun 2008 19:17:54 -0400</pubDate>
<dc:creator>superD</dc:creator>
<category>SagaByte</category>
<guid>http://www.sagabyte.com/SagaByte/car-alarm-going-off/</guid>
<description><![CDATA[About ten years back, I was attending graduate school in a large Midwestern city.  An ex-girlfriend of mine -- a law student -- lived about a block from my house, and since we had remained on good terms after the breakup, we frequently hung out together.  One afternoon, Meg called me up and asked if I wanted to wander down the street to get coffee.  I had been looking for an excuse to take a break from the paper I was writing, so I agreed to meet her.  As it turned out, she needed to get out of the house because a car alarm was going off outside her apartment, and she couldn't concentrate.  Exams were coming up, and she was pretty stressed out.As I walked down the street toward the coffee shop, I passed by the offending vehicle.  It was one of those alarms without an automatic shut-off, and it had probably been howling and blinking for at least 45 minutes by the time I saw it.  I have a thing about car alarms; I detest them.  Of course, I've never owned anything worth protecting, but stillI don't enjoy car alarms.I met Meg outside her apartment and walked to the coffee shop, where we were protected from the noise and were able to catch up and commiserate about all the work we were putting off.  After a couple of hours, we decided it was time to head home.  As we approached her apartment, the familiar sound of the alarm greeted us.  Meg was really agitated.  It was still mid-afternoon, so the city's noise ordinances were useless.  In any event, the police were unlikely to care about something so apparently trivial as a renegade car alarm.  So we were on our own.  We stood for a few minutes in front of her apartment building.  Meg smoked another cigarette and complained to several other neighbors who had congregated on the sidewalk.  No one seemed to have any good ideas about how to deal with the problem, until Meg abruptly turned and walked into her building.  &quot;Hold on a minute,&quot; she called back. Two minutes later, she reappeared with a giant white bag of garbage, which she quickly ripped open and dumped onto the hood of the car.  Her neighbors, impressed by the gesture, joined her.  Within about ten minutes, five bags of garbage had been emptied.  Someone else appeared with a carton of cottage cheese and a bottle of maple syrup from his fridge.  After the damage was done, everyone left quickly.  When I spoke with Meg a couple of days later, she told me that on the evening after the community garbage dump, she had overheard a woman in her apartment building complaining to a friend about her car, which had been vandalized.  Apparently, someone had poured their garbage all over it.<br/><br/>6 Vote(s) ]]></description>
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<item>
<title><![CDATA[Got The Wrong Number]]></title>
<link>http://www.sagabyte.com/SagaByte/got-the-wrong-number/</link>
<comments>http://www.sagabyte.com/SagaByte/got-the-wrong-number/</comments>
<pubDate>Wed, 04 Jun 2008 22:06:01 -0400</pubDate>
<dc:creator>superD</dc:creator>
<category>SagaByte</category>
<guid>http://www.sagabyte.com/SagaByte/got-the-wrong-number/</guid>
<description><![CDATA[I was fast asleep when the phone rang.  I stumbled into the living room and picked up my phone, which is cracked and makes a hideous, piercing noise that always sets the cats on edge (I had thrown it against a wall a few weeks back for reasons that aren't entirely relevant to the story).  When I answered, a young (and, I think, completely drunk) woman on the other end asked to speak with Flora.  When I told her there was no one here by that name, she started yelling.&quot;Goddammit, Major, lemme talk to my sister!&quot;  She was slurring in away that was, well, kind of cute.&quot;There is no one here named Flora -- sorry, but you've got the wrong number.&quot;&quot;Fuck you, Major -- I know she's there.  Let me talk to my sister, or I'll come over there and fuck you up!&quot;  Apparently, she was mistaking me for someone named &quot;Major.&quot;  This was really funny for all sorts of reasons that I can't quite articulate.&quot;Sorry,&quot; I told her, &quot;but you've absolutely gotten the wrong number.  I don't know anyone named 'Flora.'&quot;&quot;PUT MY FUCKING SISTER ON THE PHONE RIGHT FUCKING NOW!&quot;&quot;Now listen here, you idiot -- I'm the only person who lives here, my name is not 'Major,' you just woke me up, and you've got the wrong number, so I want you to hang up the phone and not call back.&quot;&quot;Look,&quot; the woman sighed.  &quot;I just wanna talk to my sister.  Put her on, asshole.&quot;&quot;She's not here, you retarded twat -- you...have...the...wrong...number.&quot;We continued arguing.  Honestly, I don't know why I stayed on the phone with this person -- but I was groggy with fatigue, and she sounded groggy with drink.  Something in the conversation was obviously amusing me, but my unwillingness to simply hang up merely confirmed her suspicions that I was, indeed, hiding her sister from her.  So we continued, and the mysterious caller soon mumbled something incoherent and vaguely intimidating.&quot;What did you say&quot; I asked.  I was pretty sure she had threatened me with fire of some kind.  I needed clarification.&quot;You fucking heard me, Major.&quot;&quot;No, I didn't.  What the fuck did you just say&quot;&quot;Yes you did, you stupid shithead -- let me talk to Flora!  Please, just let me talk to her, it's important!  Stop fucking with me, you asshole!&quot;&quot;Look, if Flora were here, I'd let you talk to her -- but she's not, BECAUSE I DON'T KNOW ANYONE NAMED FLORA!&quot;&quot;Fucking liar.  Fuck you, Major.&quot;&quot;No, fuck you.  Look, I'm going to hang up this phone now, you dim-witted fuck.  And if you call back . . . there's gonna be trouble.&quot;I have absolutely no idea what I meant by that.  What kind of &quot;trouble&quot; could I possibly bring to this anonymous and confused caller  It felt good to say it, though, to engage in a volley of shrouded threats as I stood, half-blind and barefoot in the dim light of my apartment, my hair matted like a crushed squirrel, wearing an old Whitesnake t-shirt, bilious and drooling with the promise of harm.  I imagined the two of us, loping towards each other in the night -- a can of kerosene in her sausage-like fingers, and a baseball bat dragging the ground behind me.  There are probably worse ways to start a relationship.<br/><br/>1 Vote(s) ]]></description>
</item>

<item>
<title><![CDATA[Drunk Roommate]]></title>
<link>http://www.sagabyte.com/SagaByte/drunk-roommate/</link>
<comments>http://www.sagabyte.com/SagaByte/drunk-roommate/</comments>
<pubDate>Tue, 03 Jun 2008 13:37:19 -0400</pubDate>
<dc:creator>superD</dc:creator>
<category>SagaByte</category>
<guid>http://www.sagabyte.com/SagaByte/drunk-roommate/</guid>
<description><![CDATA[During my first year in college, I shared a floor with some of the most unsavory people I'd ever meet.  One of them -- we'll call him &quot;Ben&quot; since that was, in fact, his name -- stopped showering at a certain point during the spring semester and took to wearing spandex bicycle shorts wherever he went.  Being shaped like a pear, Ben did not quite possess the physical qualifications to actually wear bike shorts on a daily basis, and his new wardrobe became something of a running joke on our floor.  Remarkably, he somehow managed to find a girlfriend and wound up spending most nights at her place, so we rarely saw the fellow.  This was fine, since seeing him also meant smelling him, which was much worse.One night, Ben actually came home to his own room.  He was hopelessly loaded and quickly passed out on the bed.  Within minutes, he began to snore loudly.  His roommate, being unable to wake him up, came out into the TV lounge and asked a few of us for help.  Four or five of us returned to Ben's room and tried for about ten minutes to rouse him.  We shook him, yelled at him, poked him with an umbrella, turned on bad music, and dripped water on his face.  Nothing worked.  Meantime, the stench from his feet and the offensive sight of the biker shorts drove his roommate to violence.  Grabbing a pair of gloves, he took one of Ben's bare, moldy feet and twisted it.  Several of us thought we heard something snap, but no one was sure -- least of all Ben, who remained unmoved.  In the end, we banded together and shoved the drunk on his side to stop the snoring.The next morning, Ben woke up and took a single step out of bed before crashing to the floor in a heap.  His ankle was so badly sprained that he remained on crutches for well over a week.  Asked about the injury later on, Ben's only guess was that &quot;I really must have been drunk last night, because I have no idea what happened.&quot;<br/><br/>5 Vote(s) ]]></description>
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<item>
<title><![CDATA[Random Acts of Violence]]></title>
<link>http://www.sagabyte.com/SagaByte/random-acts-of-violence/</link>
<comments>http://www.sagabyte.com/SagaByte/random-acts-of-violence/</comments>
<pubDate>Sun, 01 Jun 2008 13:17:10 -0400</pubDate>
<dc:creator>superD</dc:creator>
<category>SagaByte</category>
<guid>http://www.sagabyte.com/SagaByte/random-acts-of-violence/</guid>
<description><![CDATA[Between college and graduate school, I worked a variety of terrible jobs for little more than minimum wage.  During that long summer of 1993, I spent my mornings making calls for a telephone survey company; in the afternoons, I punched in commercials at a conservative talk radio station; and at night, I worked the closing shift at a local sub shop.  By the time I arrived at the restaurant for the evening shift, I was usually in a foul mood.  One of the features of the sub shop job, though, was that I was able to work by myself; since business was usually slow after 7:00, I was able to sit and read -- or at least not have to speak with co-workers with whom I shared almost nothing in common.  The drawback, however, was that I was responsible for cleaning the entire store and making sure it was in decent shape for the morning crew.  If the kids working the afternoon shift didn't clean up before I came in, I would have an especially long night of washing dishes, cleaning plastic ingredient trays, and scrubbing floors.One evening, I arrived at work to find near-tornado conditions in the back of the store.  The place was an utter wreck -- garbage and dirty dishes everywhere.  The two kids who preceded me quickly punched out and scrambled away, while the afternoon manager explained that they'd had an unexpectedly busy afternoon and hadn't been able to tidy the place up.  Then he left, muttering something about having to pick his kid up from baseball practice.After my colleagues had all left -- and thinking the shop was empty -- I freaked out.  I tossed a garbage can across the back room and kicked a cardboard box.&quot;Fuck!&quot; I screamed.  &quot;Motherfucking fucking fuck!  Jesus goddamn Christ!&quot;I kicked another box and threw a pile of kitchen utensils against the back of the filthy sink.&quot;Fucking idiots!  Fuck!&quot;  I was not feeling especially creative with my anger.More clattering as I shoved a stool against the walk-in freezer on my way toward the front counter.  Turning the corner, I found an angry-looking father and his wide-eyed daughter, who appeared to be about eight or nine years old.  He glared at me as I slapped on a pair of disposable gloves and asked for his order.  I was surprised to see them, but I was too angry to care about the impression I had just made.Grabbing a couple loaves of sub bread, I feverishly sawed them in half, then proceeded to slap piles of turkey or ham or whatever it was they wanted onto the sandwich.  After about ten seconds of this, the father leaned toward me and spoke in a slow, surly voice.&quot;I don't care what kind of a day you're having,' he said.  &quot;I don't appreciate you throwing my food around.&quot; At this point, his face was about two feet from mine.  I held a small, sharp knife in my right hand, and with a little bit of effort I could have gouged out his eyes while explaining that the sandwich was not, in fact, his yet.  I wanted to do this very badly.  I was tired of working shitty jobs for shitty wages, and I was tired of catering to people like this.  I was sorry for my outburst, but his attitude toward me cleansed me of any guilt I felt for exposing his daughter to a stream of profanity.  I was not, in other words, a model of customer servitude at that exact moment.It all happened so quickly, though.  If I had been a little more exhausted, or slightly less concerned about my future, or a little less eager to avoid a messy cleanup, I would have stabbed him in the face.  I always wondered how it was that a person might suddenly snap and attack a total stranger.Now I knew.  But I kept my composure, grunted out an apology, and finished making the two sandwiches without incident.  I took his money, wished him a nice evening, and gave his sandwich a hard, punishing squeeze as I gently placed it in the bag.<br/><br/>2 Vote(s) ]]></description>
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<item>
<title><![CDATA[Car Egging]]></title>
<link>http://www.sagabyte.com/SagaByte/car-egging/</link>
<comments>http://www.sagabyte.com/SagaByte/car-egging/</comments>
<pubDate>Fri, 30 May 2008 22:42:30 -0400</pubDate>
<dc:creator>superD</dc:creator>
<category>SagaByte</category>
<guid>http://www.sagabyte.com/SagaByte/car-egging/</guid>
<description><![CDATA[I was driving up my street one night about ten years ago, looking for a decent parking spot, when I found one about 75 yards from my apartment -- a rare opportunity on a Friday night. Just as I was about to back in, however, a guy in a new SUV quickly pulled right in behind me and took the space.  I sat there for a moment, hoping perhaps that he'd realize the enormity of his crime.  Instead, he hopped out of his car and strolled into another building.  I'd been having a rotten week already, and this little indignity sent me over the edge.   I turned around immediately, double-parked in front of my building, and ran inside.  I grabbed a half-dozen eggs from the fridge.For the next five minutes I drove up and down the street, pelting the SUV relentlessly and accurately.  Whack!  Thump!  Smack!  By the time I finished, the driver's side door was a bloody, snotty stew of yolk and shells.  Satisfied with my work and practically bursting with self-righteous glee, I parked farther up the street and headed home. As I passed by the egg-splattered car, its owner was walking up the street toward me.  My man was quite angry and quite a bit larger than I had initially perceived him to be.  I tried to appear less nervous than I actually was.  The performance must not have been convincing, because he followed me down the street and stopped me right in front of my building.&quot;Hey!&quot; he barked.  &quot;You're the guy who was just looking for a parking spot, weren't you&quot;&quot;Well, yes, I was looking for a spot.....&quot;&quot;Then you're the guy who just egged my car.&quot;&quot;What&quot;&quot;Yeah, you just egged my car.&quot;&quot;I have no idea what you're talking about,&quot; I lied.&quot;Don't fucking lie to me -- you were driving around looking for a spot, I beat you to it, and you egged my car.&quot;&quot;No, I didn't.  I just parked up the street.&quot;&quot;And you didn't egg my car&quot;&quot;Of course not.&quot;&quot;You're lying.  I saw your face when I cut you off and took that spot.  You egged my car.  Don't lie to me.&quot;&quot;I wish I knew what to tell you.  I didn't egg your car.&quot;It went on like this for about two or three minutes.  I was pretty sure I was not going to make it through the conversation with all my teeth in tact.&quot;I'll tell you what,&quot; he finally said, &quot;I could kick your ass right now, but I'm not going to because you might have AIDS and I don't want your blood on me.  But I know what you car looks like, and I'm going to be a man and let you know ahead of time that I'm gonna do something to it.  You egged my car, and I'm just letting you know that I'm gonna to take care of things.&quot;&quot;Again, I wish I knew what to tell you, but----&quot;&quot;I'm just telling you, ok, for your own benefit, that I know what your car looks like, and I'm going to do something to it.&quot;&quot;OK, you do that.&quot;He was bluffing as much as I was, but I was quite terrified anyway. When I went out to my car the next morning it was untouched.  Fortunately, my new friend didn't make an earnest effort to find it, because I had left the empty egg carton in the front seat of my car.<br/><br/>6 Vote(s) ]]></description>
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<item>
<title><![CDATA[First Day of Class University]]></title>
<link>http://www.sagabyte.com/SagaByte/first-day-of-class-university/</link>
<comments>http://www.sagabyte.com/SagaByte/first-day-of-class-university/</comments>
<pubDate>Thu, 29 May 2008 22:28:21 -0400</pubDate>
<dc:creator>superD</dc:creator>
<category>SagaByte</category>
<guid>http://www.sagabyte.com/SagaByte/first-day-of-class-university/</guid>
<description><![CDATA[It was my first year of graduate school, and I was supposed to give a lecture to a history class for which I was serving as a teaching assistant.  I had, of course, given many presentations as an undergraduate, but this would be the first lecture I would be delivering as a &quot;teacher,&quot; and I was understandably nervous about the whole affair.  The night before the lecture, I spent my time over-preparing -- looking at my notes, re-writing my notes, imagining how I might succeed, imagining how I might fail, practicing my introductory remarks, and so on and so forth.  I did not sleep much.  The next day, I continued pretty much along those same lines until about an hour before the class was to begin.  Jittery with nerves, I headed over to campus and arrived just in time to realize that I hadn't eaten all day long.  Class would last 90 minutes, and I knew I would need to put something into my stomach or else I might pass out halfway through the session.I was short on time, and my options were limited.  I made the fateful decision to hit the cheap taco place just off campus, where I could purchase two bean burritos for a couple of bucks and eat them on my way to class.  The first burrito presented no difficulty; halfway through the second, however, I took a large bite that managed to spew a wad of refried beans out the front of the burrito.  It was like a small cannon that fired warm, brown paste.  I dodged the beans as they flew toward the sidewalk, and I finished my short dash to class.The lecture began uneventfully.  I spoke for a few moments, then dimmed the lights to show a brief video clip that would serve as the basis for much of the rest of the lecture.  As the film rolled, I looked around the room to gauge student reactions.  Some appeared interested, others not so much.  This was typical.What was not typical, however, was the large mound of refried beans that I noticed on my knee when I glanced briefly toward the floor.  I must not have noticed that I'd been hit when the second burrito exploded in my hand.  Regardless, I was horrified.  What could I do  The tape was coming to an end, and soon the eyes of the students would be back on me -- and on the shit-like lump of goo oozing down my leg. In an act of desperation, I reached down and scooped the beans off my knee with my bare hand, then wiped the mess inside the podium.  When the tape ended and the lights came back on, I continued the lecture.  A little while later, I was finished.  Relieved to have avoided humiliation, I gathered my things and left.On the way back to my office, I stopped in a restroom, where I noticed the small blob of a familiar brown substance perched conspicuously on my shoulder.<br/><br/>1 Vote(s) ]]></description>
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