Saturday morning in the madhouse is a special thing. Rolling off of the cot in the hall, I can hear Friday night's party winding down on the second floor. Uppers are a crazy thing. Living in six square meters at the end of a hall on the third floor of a stupidly crowded semi-Victorian near campus has both its benefits and its problems. It's just after the end of daylight savings time so the sun is up an hour earlier. Waking with the sun, I get to the shower on the third floor first, for once. It's a Saturday, so no banana breakfasts for anyone. Saturday tends to be a recovery day: Friday's partiers are too worn out for anything, and it's too early to get tonight's party started. Hence, it is project day at Chateau Shit-show. So I head downstairs to find out what there is to eat today.
I'm greeted by the smell of hot plastic when I reach the first floor (The less said about the smells on the second floor, the better). Eric appears to be injection-molding something from yellow plastic on (gasp) the dinner table. JD must not be here, or he must have given up on the clear-surface rule. I heat up some beans and find some cheez-its, and begin to eat the former using the latter as scoops. Shawn, twin to Kevin, appears with a camera and sets up a white backdrop a few places down from Eric's workstation. I abandon my beany delight to the tender mercies of the first floor and head upstairs to retrieve my instrument case.
When I get back down, sticker-encrusted case in hand, the Three Stooges are cavorting on the TV and Eric and Shawn are cracking up at the table. "What's so funny?" I ask, and Eric just points. I lean in to look at the little photo studio, and am floored. "How did you make 'anatomically correct' ", here deploying finger quotes "LEGO minifigs?" Shawn's face falls, disappointed that I haven't asked the obvious question. "Custom molds, made with a CAD/CAM program." Eric elucidates. These guys.