Post-Op

I'm feeling pretty good. The surgery was just magical. I've had nitrous oxide before. I can remember giggling while watching the surgeon pull membranes out from under the base of my tongue. This was different. I had the drip. I didn't even have time to see where they put it in my arm, though. I was out almost instantly. It was like the switch went from "on" to "off" with one little poke. I woke up 20 minutes later feeling like I had been asleep for three seconds. Unbelievable. They did an incredible job, too, or it could be that I'm just a lucky S.O.B. I have had zero swelling and zero pain. I remember my sister had to hold her bloated cheeks up with her hands for an entire week. She was popping vicodins like M&M's, and she kept complaining about how it seemed like she was sucking on a bar of copper. That's not even the worst of it. Within a week, she developed dry socket, which is when the underlying bones and nerves become exposed. She had to go in for a second surgery and everything. I don't know if she ate anything but bloody mashed potatoes this August. I just finished a sandwich :D.

Haven't been up to much. Hung out with my cousins yesterday. My cousin Johnny is 22, so three years older than me. We've always gotten along pretty well. He was telling me about how his university is on strike, leaving all the students in some kind of weird academic purgatory. Two classes shy of graduating and already enjoying a second "victory lap," as he calls it, my cousin seems to have been royally fucked. Although, he didn't seem that crestfallen. I guess there really is no reason for him to be particularly bitter about the whole fiasco. It truly is out of his hands. It's probably just best for him to keep rolling with the punches until it works itself out.

Been watching a lot of movies. I'm imposing some sort of quota on myself for my last week at home because I haven't finished my book yet. I thought I'd be done with the fucking series by now. Saw Memento today. Fantastic movie. I really liked the Non-linear story-telling and all the twists and turns. Terrific climax, as well. The hour-and-a-half of head scratching is worth it. The ending had a unique feeling, as well. Far from hopeful, but not quite bleak, I guess it was just thought-provoking. I also finally bit the bullet and sat through The fucking Godfather. DO NO TAKE THE GODFATHER'S NAME IN VAIN, haha, I know. It's so canonical and sacrosanct, I don't even deserve to watch it. However, I feel that if we all took the time to watch it again, we might want to chip off a couple stars. IT'S SO FUCKING LONG. The whole middle part of the movie is stupid filler. Why does Michael need to start a family in Sicily? I cheered when that car bomb went off. That said, I liked the bravura performances from Marlon Brando and Al Pacino. The rise of Michael Corrleone did not go unappreciated. I really liked the scene in Vegas when Michael straightens Freddy out. There was great tension there as we see Michael put on the Don pants.

My uncle got me an Ipod yesterday, and it's next to useless until I can figure out how to remove these fucking DRM tags. I have about six-thousand legitimately acquired music files that can't be transferred to iTunes for downloading to my Nano until I get rid of the tags. The bitch of it is, there's tons of free software out there to jettison the tags, but I feel like my computer is one piece of shareware away from tripping the smoke alarms. The search continues...

I realized I haven't written about my mental state in awhile, which is a shame because sometimes I think it educes the best writing from myself. Hm, I guess I'm growing more and more indifferent. Living for today? More like ignoring tomorrow. I'm driftwood; I'm dead leaves. Take me where thou wilt! The straps are starting to loosen, the shackles break. There's less and less tying me to anything. Whichever. Whatever. Whenever. A couple weeks ago, I was upset with the classes waiting for me in Ann Arbor. Now, I could really care less. Sometimes I think this could be good for me. Am I learning to relax? Is faith making a resurgence? Funny, I don't feel lazy yet, by any means. Can apathetic people be active? It's weird how horrible a stigma laziness carries in this country. Every new generation is condemned for its laziness. Anyone who doesn't succeed is lazy. But really, what's so bad about it? Aren't robots the only things that work without incentive? Once survival is taken care of, shouldn't we slack off? Isn't it a bit deserved? I used to have such grand hopes for myself. Whatever I was going to do, I was going to be the best at it, I was going to write the book on it; people were going to fly me from half-way around the world to do it, classes would be taught about me doing it. Now, I feel like Lester from American Beauty. I'm like regressing into a sixteen-year-old drive thru attendant, who relishes his responsibility-less job.

This may very well be my last post before 2009, which will probably be one of the most important years of my life. Can't wait to get started.

Greek Chorus

Saw a rusty car laying by the road today- a Detroit memento mori. There's nothing like the season of light to illuminate the gloom floating above everyone's heads. I never realized how brave adults were. Those smiles they wear, the traditions they cling to, the myths they encourage, the troubles they forget- a selfless facade for their kids. How easy it would be to toss the hot chocolate for some scotch and let the weather and the economy ruin everything, but they carol on. It's not scorn I'm showing here, or sarcasm. I'm geniunely moved. But maybe it's the season? Maybe there is such a thing as the magic of Christmas?

Orientation for U of M was on Tuesday. If I was offered a full ride to Harvard tomorrow on the sole condition that I had to go through their orientation, I'd decline without even blinking. I can't stand getting patronized for a whole fucking day. The damn program directors made all of us sing the fight song twice. Now, I know it's kind of exciting for a 17-year-old kid to sing his fight song for the first time, but our group was a bunch of battle-hardened sophomores and juniors. We even had a married lady from Florida. Needless to say, our 10:30 AM rendition of "Hail to the Victors" was not much more than a grumpy whisper, and the one following it, which they made us do because the first wasn't loud enough, was nothing but rhythmic groans and nasty stares. Before all the song and dance, I had to take a language placement test. Mi espanol es muy mal, but by some miracle of God, I got placed into their fourth semester of Spanish. DIOS MIO! I'm totally screwed. The last time I heard a Spanish sentence was when Shakira was on the radio. And there's just no way to "wing" fourth semester Spanish. Can you wing Med. School? This is a REAL class, something I really am not equipped for. Then, they made us go get our pictures taken for our new ID card. I tried to do my patented "gay face," but the lady at the computer told me to knock it off. There goes my easy conversation starter for Ann Arbor chicks, I thought. Next, they marched us out into the penguin-piss cold campus to look at any building with an embarrassing story attached to it. Sometime after the fifth stop, a VERY unsettling thing began to happen to me. All right, so it's ball-negating cold outside, and I'm standing next to some statue listening intently to instructions on how to approach the statue and how to cross its shadow and what to do if I haven't taken my first blue book exam before arriving at the statue nexus, when I started to regret drinking a liter of water during the exam. So, we walked on, ignoring all bathroom stops along the way, for about another twenty minutes, when something incredible happened to me: I could not tell whether or not I was pissing myself. It felt like I was, full-stream, too. I spent the last ten minutes of the tour looking not at the guides but at my crotch with total and utter amazement. When we finally reached the Union, I left the group to their Q and A session while I raced to the bathroom. In there, I tried to see if my reason could cook up any answers. All I could come up with was the numbness sort of played tricks on my hardware, creating the sensation of peeing. It just felt so REAL! Maybe coupled with the nerves of an orientation with a bunch of strangers at a strange new school, it was magnified to the point of feeling real. It's just that I've been numbed by cold hundreds of times, but never have I felt like I was pissing myself. Maybe I should grab a pack of Huggies to see me through Jan. and Feb. just in case. Holy Christ, was I scared!

Ever feel like you're getting only anesthesia when you need the cure? Man, I hope this transfer works. I'm a restless dude. What can I say? I get sick of everything so fast. People, especially. How awful is that? Eh, but such is the price of honesty. You have to face some kind of ugly truths about yourself.

Wings beat the Sharks 6-0. Merry Christmas to you too, God!

I guess one of my friends had been telling people that I was gay. When I asked him why, he said something like, "Can you blame me?" Hmmmm, I chewed that over for awhile. First of all, I'm not gay. What I tried to figure out was what would make me seem gay. I'm not girly, not really, not in tastes or mannerisms. I am sort of chatty, and my voice is high. I never had one of those gruff, half-asleep monotones I hear on most guys. So, next I looked at my behavior, insofar as what I do around girls or to get girls. I looked at my last two years of college and realized I hadn't made any serious advances towards any girls. Yeah, I thought, that might seem gay. Well, there's a perfectly good explanation for all of it, and it doesn't involve me crashing through any closets: I haven't met a single girl I would date. And why is that? Ohhh, there's a number of reasons. I don't know how boring or trite they are, but I'm giving them nonetheless. Well, first off, I guess I am sort of picky. I'm attracted to a strange type. I like loners, people with a very strong sense of independence and identity. Those are the girls that are the same around everyone, never warm and bubbly in large groups, but dismal and quiet one-on-one. I also can't date women that have sun beams streaming off their faces, either. I'd be breaking her heart every day. I like sober, logical girls, girls that my mopey ass has to cheer up. I like when I'm constantly doing the spirit-lifting, not the other way around. Otherwise, I feel like I'm just some chore, some gloomy head-case in need of a shrink-girlfriend. Also, she has to have wide interests. Some people phrase this as a girl "who can have an intelligent conversation," but what the hell does that even mean? "Wide interests" is more clear and way less cliche. I like girls that know a bit about everything, that have a nice smattering of trivia, not some piece meal obssessions. Curiousity is a big one, as well. I like those people that have to run to their computer to look something up on wikipedia before they forget what it is, who call their friends at 2 AM to answer some question that's keeping them awake. It shows a strong tie to this world. There's nothing worse than those apathetic assholes who shrug and sigh their days away. The luckiest person in the world is the one who has the most wonder. At my orientation this week, I remember being jealous of the girl from Florida because she had never seen snow before. You should have seen her face when we told her it was going to snow that night on the way home from Ann Arbor. Quirkiness is a big plus, as is humility. There is nothing more attractive than an eccentric, scatter-brained girl sandbagging you with her smarts. Physical features? Ha, last year, I could have given a laundry list of them. What I really like, though, is dark skin, dark hair, and dark eyes. That would include all Meditteranean and Levantine peoples. But, really, this is secondary.

I've been seeing people do end-of-year lists and stuff, but I'm not sure if I have the energy for those. I guess I'll just go ahead and say 2008 was the worst year of my life, and I'm glad it's in the history books.

Had to go to the mall today. We really need to start thinking about legislation concerning the proximity of pungent candles to one another because when you get three Holiday Huckleberry's on the same shelf, it kicks up something fierce into the face of the passerby. There's not a lot of things that can make me vomit from a single wiff, but the entrance to Bath and Body Works is one. Also, I believe that the government should raise a committee to study Spencer's Gifts. If that place can stay in business, so the fuck can America! I mean, come on! They must have the most narrow demographic in capitalism! No one buys that shit except for frat boys and their begrudged girlfriends. The government should forget about the Big Three and start investing in shirts with dick jokes.



I've been trying to be more creative with this blog. It's been fun for me. So, here's a poem I just wrote on the fly. I don't really like it, but like I've said before, just writing anything helps. It might seem kind of pretentious, but I've had it in my mind ever since someone explained Nietzche's dichotomy to me.




Apollonian Anomaly


String the lyre.
Pluck the strings.
Draw the bow.
Ride the sun.

And how long can you last before your order is gone?
Rejected, replaced, and finally removed
In the face of a world dark, lit by torches,
flames brushing the dancers, their shadows flashing on the walls.
Your music, your chords, your keys, your arpeggios
can't face the drum, the drum, the bang bang of the drum-um.
Grab this krater and take a long drink.
Gift of the Gods it is.
Immerse yourself in the great spirit of this world.
Belong to these lives, young and beautiful.
Dissolve your golden locks, your handsome face, your Arete.
Destroy the difference.

Dawn from my brow.
Poems from my tongue.
Medicine from my hand.
I am the male ideal.

You can't go on, my brother.
You may know the truth, but you can't see the secrets.
Put your light away and sway.
This is the moment you are alive.
Be here, here stay.
Come down, fly down, be here at the center.
Waves, shivers, trembles, shakes, shifts will
change you, make your heart light, your eyes close
your voice loud, your breath fast, your tongue loose.
Silence the genius, awaken the beast.
Dance, animal!

I see wonders.
I make miracles.
I bring you hope.
Ascend, reach my cloud!

You fool, you poor fool. We stay because want to.
The earth is dirty, but it brings pleasure to our feet, and
the satyr hoof grinds it into an intoxicating powder.
Be gone with your ichor and your ambrosia, then.
We'll trip over the roots of the earth, we'll crawl on all fours.
Rocks and fires scratch the skin,
But this ecstasy burns and burns still within.
Your cloud can stay. We may see it in the morning.
But for now, let mist shroud us, darkness envelop.
No more light from you, you have lost.
We dance on, heedless, mindless, deathless!

But death you are.

The Calm after the Storm

Man, it's been awhile since I updated, but I bet most people can guess why. Finals sort of left me incapacitated. Studying left me too drained to do much of anything, really. The farthest I was willing to go was for coffee, which Shaw Hall kept about four hundred feet, as the crow flies, away from my room. You gotta love the stuff. I mean it's awful! AWFUL! Aw shit... I can see this sudden caffeine addiction as a gateway into hard drugs. How easily I'm seduced by a jolt of energy! During finals week, I was chatting with some friends in the cafeteria, and there was a moment where I had to guess what I was saying based on their facial expressions. It was like something hijacked my brain. Speaking of addictions, I could use some will power now while I'm home.. Yesterday, I ate about four chocolate chip cookies in one sitting, and it took me about an hour. What I do is pick the cookie apart, prying chocolate chip after chocolate chip off the body of the cookie until it's gone. I've heard that anorexic people do the same thing, except they stop when they've had just enough to fight their hunger. I don't stop until I'm about to throw up. So, it really doesn't do anything except waste time and piss people off. No one wants to eat a cookie that looks like a piece of Swiss cheese- holes where the chocolate is supposed to be. Speaking of food, since I've been back, I've witnessed an ecosystem out of whack. My vacant role in the food web has really started to wreck havoc on the cubbard. There's piles of dried peas, dried cherries, nutri-grain bars, hummus containers, almonds, and blackberry yogurt laying around, a testament to the extinction of the Alex. But, since I've been reintroduced into the wild, things are starting to look better. I sure as hell have enjoyed making up for lost time. Eating is my favorite.

In addition to taking finals, I spent all of last week finalizing my transfer to U of M. Looks like I'm going! Everyone keeps asking me if I'm excited, and I've tried to be optimistic when answering them, but the truth is I'm nervous and scared as hell. No more restlessness for me, this is it. If I don't like it, I'm stuck. I'm signing in blood this time. In all honesty, I think I'll hate Ann Arbor just as much as East Lansing over time. However, here's how I rationalize it. Instead of staying in one place and letting my hatred fester for four years, isn't it better to start over for my second half of school? That way, your hate intensity never passes the two-year mark! Haha, and to think that's what I've been smiling about these last few weeks. The chance at a brand new hate cycle. Aw well, at least I'm not getting my hopes up. I'm letting realism take the reigns for awhile. I've got orientation tomorrow. This late in the game, I'll be lucky if I get a class with a chair in it for me. I'm taking our lawn seat just in case. I'll be looking pretty fly in the back of the room with my drink holders, smelling like beer and bug spray.

I only asked for one thing for Christmas: The National Genographic Project kit. I've been wanting to get involved with this project for years. I think it's scheduled to conclude in 2010. For those who don't know, it's a massive team of researchers going around the world to collect DNA samples from the most disparate peoples on Earth. I've seen clips of guys in white lab coats swabbing the cheeks of witch doctors. Anyone can contribute, though. All you have to do is order the kit. It comes with a DVD explaining the project and just what it is that your DNA will tell the project. After you send in a cheek swab, which should contain a couple good, DNA-packed cells, your results can be accessed and tracked through their web site. As more people send in information, your results become more comprehensive. I'm not sure about what they tell you EXACTLY, but I know you find out which haplogroup you belong to, and I know you get to see a map of your ancestor's route out of Africa. Men can elect between a mitochondrial DNA test, which traces the DNA passed down from mother to mother, or a Y-Chromosome DNA Test, which traces the DNA handed down from father to father. I asked for the mitochondrial test. My mother's mother's family was Hungarian, and Hungarians have quite the mysterious genetic and historic origin. Maybe this test could shed some light on where the Magyars came from. Some theories posit that the Hungarians came from Central Asia. God, it would be so awesome if that were true! What a surprise! I'd do their testimonial for free: "I look like a normal, white guy, but you'd never guess that I'm Asian! Thanks National Genographic!"

I think within four hours of getting home I was stealing music. Man, how I missed it all these months! MSU's network moderators are very good at catching people. So, all semester long, I kept a list of albums I needed to steal. I'm almost through the list now. Do I ever feel bad about it. Yeah, yeah I do. It's not fair to the artist, but I don't think the future lies in digital sales anyways, at least not for rock bands, so what I'm doing isn't of that much importance either way. Pop and R & B artists can make a killing off their latest iTunes single, but rock bands that focus on the album as a whole are sort of incompatible with this new type of market. Now, it's not that I want to see the album format go away so that I can divest myself of guilt and just buy my band's singles on iTunes. That's probably the furthest thing from what I would want. All I'm saying is that since CD sales are secondary, bands should just give up the fight against pirates. Let us steal your music. Focus on your tours. Put on awesome shows. Tours are the cash cow. We understand if it takes you three years in between albums. Take your time on your tours, and earn some money.

My Red Wings are sort of in a funk right now. Their goaltending is a little shaky, and they seem to be having some trouble when penetrating the neutral zone. A lot of their plays have ended at mid-ice, which is very uncharacteristic of Detroit's powerful, fast, and puck-controlling offense. We play San Jose on Thursday and then the Black Hawks on the 30th and on New Year's, so I should be in for some good hockey throughout my stay at home.

Nick was very friendly towards me during our last week together. I think it was because I told him that I was leaving for good soon. Visions of a double room all his own must have been swirling through his mind all week. All that extra space to buffer him from humans. Ah, I shouldn't be mean. We were very different, Nick. I don't know how we could be matched in the same room, let alone the same planet. I was very relieved that our hand shake last week didn't lead to a matter-on-anti-matter explosion.

My sister had a carolling party yesterday, so I had to move all the stuff I brought home from school plus some other junk into my bedroom for the facade of tidiness. My room looks like a flea market with a bed. There is just so much shit everywhere. Just walking from the light switch to my bed yesterday felt like a game of fucking minesweeper. My feet are bruised from it. One can barely see my Alexander the Great statue through all the dead, rejected plants, and columns of Cosmo Girls. I've put 24 hours on the clock. If my room isn't cleaned by someone, then it's getting cleaned by the blow torch.

That's it, for the most part. I haven't really been up to much- video games, food, and waiting for everyone else to get home. I just had to update since it's been so long. I'll be updating more, though, since I have all the time in the world for the next month. Well, it's getting late. I should go see what long BBC nature specials are on.

More stuff

Just a quick post, I wrote two more poems to submit along with "Dear Atticus" for this contest. I didn't explain "Dear Atticus" in the last post. I just kind of threw it in there. Well, Cicero used to write copious amounts of letters to his best friend, Atticus. He'd sort of fill him in on what was going on in his life, as well as tell him all his personal thoughts. You know, it might have been the first blog. Atticus would then send letters back (Kind of like comments!). I always thought their correspondence was touching. SO, in light of that, I wanted to give it a dark, cynical spin. In my poem, the narrator is sort of this friendless, lonely guy. At the end, there's this biting dramatic irony that seems to say, "Yeah, friends don't exist," because the fact is Cicero WAS executed, alone and confused, the victim of fate. Sorry dead Atticus, I'm sure you were a great friend, but I couldn't resist turning you on your head for the sake of a really depressing poem. You're sort of the non-existent, fantasy wish of someone getting "executed" by crushing loneliness :/. "Always be the best..." was sort of Cicero's life motto. It's a line from the Iliad, actually. That stanza just sort of says that the ambitions and the glory that Cicero realized in his political career meant nothing by themselves. He measured his life by his happiness, something he found with Atticus, his buddy. This stanza-and also the one where the narrator gets a tentative but very wrong feeling that Atticus is actually out there, which shows you just how crazy the narrator has become- sort of sets you up for the crushing irony at the end, where you have to listen to the narrator while knowing he's being duped. Sad. For the new poems, yeah, they're both rough (I think the deadline for the three-poem submission is like January 30), but I wanted to post them anyway. The first one is a fun poem about the loss of innocence, and the second is sort of a humanist manifesto. I tried to draw parallels between Judgement Day, especially its depiction in Yeat's "The Second Coming," and the events in the poem. In my poem, the Day of Reckoning becomes the Day of Awakening- a far more hopeful and redeeming kind of day, don't you think? And that's really the point of the poem and humanism, from what I understand of it: believe in man and his science; they are good things.

“The Last Stick of Gum”

A pack of gum purchased
For less than a dollar
Is all one needs daily
To get through the hours.

Your senses ignite on each
Minty fresh, flatly pressed
Slice of relief-
Tasty, stretchy, bright blue
Cushion for teeth.

All thoughts soon lose shape.
Your words are now muffled in
The pulse of the chewing.
Consciousness, blissfully
Sleeps.

But darkly it clings to the tin foil-wrapped, paper-sheathed
Sliver of transient ecstasy,
Bound for the liver where it will reign hell
With the machinery of madness on
All of your cellular shells-
Alive or dead, ordered or not.
Put down the phone, are no use the pills.

It slips past the microscopes,
Prisms and X-rays,
To invade the chewer,
Who smiles with abandon,
Noting the sweet flavor.
Hey, Is that cinnamon?

Eyes closed
Mouth open
Mouth closed
Then open
Pop!
Suck!
Laugh!
SHOCK!

Rumbling furnace chills
Spread from the gut.
Maybe this gum package
Wasn’t quite shut?

Face pulled tight against the worry of sickness,
No longer adding more sticks just for thickness,
The tongue unfurls, blue as can be,
To let fall from a pale grimace
The gum and its deadly refugee.

But the deed is still done,
The pleasure forgotten.
Even the blue tongue tinge
Seems like it’s rotten.

But, oh, this day had to come.
That gum had been waiting
Lurking, clock ticking,
While you relished and savored
the New Longer Lasting.

One can’t chew forever.

“Novus Homo”

Coruscating brilliance from every direction comes
The thunder of mind-fire from the chorus of one-
Song draped in tragedy, anointed in pain,
But beautiful, touching, and pure as spring rain.

Tears glisten at the corners
Of eyes on old men
As the last missile is incinerated, engineered into pens.
Babel’s languages snake through the currents of foam;
Connected, respected, the world is their home.

Up to the sky rear the heads of the children
To greet a new protecter, a sovereign, a savior.
“At last,” they cry. “The Day of Awakening is at hand!”
His voice carries no harshness or burden or lash.
Instead, his words pour forth like dreamy quicksilver.

“‘Round the Alchemist’s fire the abacus did run,
Leaping and dancing,
Landing on the sun.
A Rosicrucian revelation,
A Renaissance revolution,
The dissemination of knowledge
Will spear every nation.

I give you the secrets these staff serpents have whispered
through centuries of ignorance, piety, and fear.
Hear the music of the spheres,
Oh you glorious apple eaters!
Watch the life force split and swirl,
You valiant pilgrims!
Bend earth's fury to your will,
Oh you beautiful fire stealers!
Plumb the stygian depths
Of this planet so fair.
Note the subtle effects
Butterfly wings have on air.
Build tall and build grand.
What great things for your hand!

Opposites, reflections, complements, patterns-
All weave in and out of the fabric of matter.
Here are the keys to the real and the right.
This is your destiny, the one that’s been formed
From centuries immemorial, from atrocities unmatched.
Blood spilt and tongues slashed and stakes set to burning
Cannot stop this holiness that you have been learning.

Take reason and justice,
Natural extensions of my miracles,
And remold the clay
Of your souls.”

Dear Atticus,

[From the Front- Both sides nervously await the coming weeks. The White House is in talks with an as yet unknown ally to form a mutual defense entente. With luck, this might both provide us with shelter and erect a much needed barrier between the two sides. The remote lays undiscovered, but intelligence reports suggest that forces have been mobilized to seek it out. The first real engagement fought between the two powers was last week. The high handed enemy, always eager to flex its muscles over noise level disagreements, mandated that we abandon our post while we answer our home's calls for aid. Though the enemy had the high ground on Bunk Hill, we bravely met his ultimatum with a clear refusal. Outraged, the enemy retreated, regrouped, and hatched a new strategy, thus beginning a new phase in the war. The conflict now typifies a war of attrition. Trade embargoes and non-negotiation are our new weapons. Border disputes have been aggravated since the skirmish. Disputed territory at Refridgeraton Valley, Closetopolis, the plain of Televisionare, and the mines of Garbagio are the target of frequent aggression. Constant firefights have had an effect on the men, but morale remains high. Everyone, from the most lowly private to the most seasoned general, is awaiting the ratification of our new alliance with the still undisclosed power. The only thing they'll tell us is that its army will fight like wolverines to defend us and keep our location secret. Perhaps, their intercession could mean an armistice or even an end to this pointless war. More developments will follow.


Thanksgiving. Aw, there's really too much to say.

Most of my holiday was spent watching my Grandma henpeck the shit out of my amiable, ex-farmer, Greeklish-speaking Grandpa. Over the years, their relationship has become more and more like the one I share with Biscuit, my border terrier. Instead of words, they use hand signals; my Grandma will execute her commands with her hands now. One finger flick means, "Get the pillow." Two means, "Get the blanket." A "come closer" wag of the index finger is quite the chameleon. I've seen my grandpa respond with a drink refill, the phone, pills, and keys. I'll have to pay closer attention to the number of wags next time.

My grandpa likes four things in this world- professional wrestling, baseball, homegrown vegetables, and his grand kids. When I finally asked him why he likes wrestling so much at Thanksgiving, he said, "It's the only real thing on T.V."

My Aunt Cleo is approaching 90, and she can trace the royal family back to some mammoth hunting bastard from Stone Age London, as well as recall every soul-less clone from every single reality T.V. show. So congrats, reality television; your characters present quite the challenge to the memory, enough, in fact, to keep my ancient aunt's mind sharp.

My Uncle Dean nearly woke the mole people from their thousand year hibernation while playing Wii tennis. Earning his gravy, he put our concrete foundation to the test- delivering bone crushing forehands, punishing backhands, desperate lunges, and lightening volleys like a man possessed, all while hefting his large frame around our family room. Arching his spine like Roger Federer at the serving line, he looks up at our ceiling, Wii remote in hand, then plunges his racket down to deliver a perfect missile. Wiping his brow, he turns to my fifteen-year-old brother and says, "Game. Set. Match."

My Aunt Cindy and Uncle John, close friends of my parents who were given the honorary titles of aunt and uncle, came, too. My aunt won a gold medal at the 1964 Olympics. She set a world record, actually. My uncle has a talk show on WJR. I always like seeing them.

I'm surprised there isn't a mucus stream stretching behind me. Being home has made me a slug. When I need something, I wait for it to be on someone's route as they mill about. My quota for "While you're up"'s and "Since you're over there"'s has been met three times today alone. I've got chocolate chips lodged in the crown of each molar and some leftovers smudged on my shirt as I type this. All I did today was read this month's National Geographic, Scientific American, and National Wildlife. Oh yeah, I'm ready for finals.

Ever feel like you're just a barnacle on life's hull, grabbing feebly at any plankton that drift by? I'm riding a wave towards a rocky shore, and all I can do is keep from falling off my board. Ocean metaphors are easy today, for some reason. I guess I just see so many things that seem out of my control shaping my life like invisible hands, and my Blue Planet marathon from last night is still blowing my mind.

Things got pretty weird this week. I'm trying to get into U of M for the upcoming winter semester now, which would be great. However, it's a long shot. If I don't get in, I'll be stuck at MSU for another semester, earning useless credits while waiting until next fall to transfer: U of M will only let me bring 60. If I come in the fall, I'll have 88. Rather than wasting their money on another term at MSU, my parents wanted to pull me out of college and send me to Europe with the tuition money. The offer still stands if U of M rebuffs me for the winter. However, I don't think I can accept. I don't deserve a fucking vacation for this mess. I should get a swift kick in the ass, a slap in the face, a job application, and a room back at the science college. I should just tow the line, the one all the people tow in order to get a good job. I should just bite the bullet, the one everyone bites in their miserable classes, so they can have it all later. I shouldn't flee to Europe so I can sigh along the Seine and snap pictures of Roman marble. Even if I let them talk me into going, I wouldn't be able to enjoy myself. Guilt would ruin everything.

I told one good story about my dad at Thanksgiving. I drag him up into the U.P. about every summer- he dreads all three months of it, waiting for me to pick a weekend.

"August 14th, Hiawatha National Forest! We're going!" I said.

"I'll start stocking up on aspirin now," was his answer.

So, the date comes, and we're rolling down the highway with a freighter of deet, jerky, and batteries towards the wilderness. Once we get there, it's every bit as magical as we thought it would be. Glistening waterfalls, aromatic pines, scenic vistas, huge fish- everything was perfect. However, after the fifth night, I was offered a glimpse of the very ugly creature that is humanity. We were sitting around the campfire, munching on trail mix, when, all of the sudden, I heard a growl.

Wincing, my dad grabbed his stomach. "Arrrrghh, I can't do this anymore," he groaned. Dropping his bag of trail mix, he shot me a very predatory stare. My dad was going to eat me. "Nothing but trail mix for a WEEK," he said. "This is bull shit, man!"

I was too busy stretching my sprinting muscles, however, to care. "Oh yeah, heh heh, right," I stammered, noting the wet sides of his mouth and the suddenly pointy shape of his teeth.

"Get in the car," he said, firmly.

Oh shit, oh shit, he's going to drive me out, deeper into this back country no man's land, kill me, eat me, and then go home. Oh shit, oh shit! "Heh heh, why don't we stay here? We can see if anyone has any REAL food in the morning?" I said.

"Nope, get in or I'll leave you," he said, trotting over to the van.

Making my peace with God, I dragged my feet all the way to the passenger's seat. We drove for hours. Fall asleep, I told myself. Maybe he'll kill you in your sleep! That wouldn't be so bad, right? So, I drifted off. Dreams of my father hunting me in the U.P. forest gave my neck a seat belt burn. Scrambling up a tree, like a three-legged cat, with my father chomping at my heels, I finally gave up hope and slid down the trunk into his shark-like jaws, leaving me in darkness.

I don't know how long I floated in the darkness after being devoured, but I started to wake up after our van slowed to a stop and my father started talking. "Can I get three Big Mac meals, extra everything. Yes, I want ketchup. Ummm, make those Cokes. Hey, good, you're awake. Alex, you want anything? No? Okay, yeah, just the three Big Mac meals."

Pulling forward, my dad hauled his heap of food into the van, and began the restoration process, like a grizzly emerging from its winter den. I'd never seen anything so incredible. In some emergency instances, the human body can deny itself oxygen for over ten minutes. I saw it: Six meat patties dropped into a stomach without a breath or a bite. After it was done and brown-tinged lettuce and sesame seed litter nearly concealed the gas pedal, he sat back, eyes closed, and smiled. I was happy, too. I had survived.

"You drove two-and-a-half hours for McDonald's?" I asked, smirking.

"Yes, and if you think we're every fucking coming back here, we're keeping cheeseburgers close." I've honored the pact ever since. ]






I wish you were real.
You would hear it all.
Hear just how I feel.
Hear just how I fall.

The wind coughs white cold.
My life, shattered ruins.
I damned near feel old.
It might be your doing.

And yet I believe
that you do sit somewhere
reading my letters.
This helps me feel better.

"Always be the best, my boy,
and hold your head high
above the others"
Is nothing but words
Without you, my brother.

So Give me advice;
Show me solutions,
or trembling I'll wait,
The victim of fate,
Confused and alone,
before execution.

Hearts vs. Minds

We are now entering the second week of the war. Casualties abound on both sides of the conflict. Just last night, in a frantic outbreak of nocturnal hunger, four peanut M & M's were lost, pilfered from the enemy's vulnerable supply depot. We've taken some hits, as well, though. Just yesterday, we were forced to concede five volume bars in order to appease the enemy, on a Friday night, too! The enemy is clever, and it is learning. It realizes that a strangle-hold on the video game volume is certainly the quickest way to extinguish us. However, we will be resolute, we will fight. Viva la resistance! We shall never press that fucking mute button. The line in the sand has been drawn. The chess pieces shuffle. Pawns fall. But the remote will never be discovered. We have found an impregnable fortress for it to be ensconced in. The enemy, given his fashionable ways, would never dig through three pairs of dirty sweat pants to exhume our symbol of freedom. There it shall stay, smelly and safe.

Winter is here, and like an extra back pack, it's really getting me down. The cold and shitty classes are tag-teaming me right now, going through my brain with flame throwers, cauterizing any dopamine recepters they find as they go. This year started out like a freaking vacation. I got to loaf, eat, and sleep almost as much as I wanted. Now, my professors are remembering that they have jobs (i.e., students to flunk) and are really coming down hard. I swear my logic professor wants his grad student dead. Grad students are, after all, the ones we chase, pitch forks in hand, when things take a turn for the worse.

Complicating matters is my transfer process. I have honors options to do for State in order to get the Honors College off my ass, but if I transfer to Michigan next year, honors credits will count for jack shit. So, what do I do? Complete the honors options just to be safe? Save myself the misery? Maybe it's just laziness, but I'm starting to like the latter more. Fuck these honors options. They're a stupid condition for a stupid program at a stupid school. My parents think that I can transfer for 09's spring semester if I just make an earnest plea. They said they'd even go to Ann Arbor on my behalf. Nice, eh? Well, naturally, I said, "Sure," so we'll see how that goes. I'm guessing no where. I mean, come on, it takes months to find out if you got into Michigan. Do I really expect that a visit from my dad will speed things up, especially when I didn't even apply for Spring? No, but I think it's helping them feel like they're helping, which is good, I guess. I assure them that they've done more than enough- and, truly, they have- but if they really want to do this for me, who am I to stop them?

Tuesday (or was it Wednesday?) Shaw Hall put on a casino night. Holmes did the same thing last year, only it was seven times suckier just because it was in Holmes Hall. I got there like ten minutes after it started. The panorama of gamblers was fantastic. First, I only spotted one guy with a cowboy hat. Shame. Next, I noticed that the Yakuzas controlled all the black jack tables. I'd never seen so many Asians in my life. Poker was always my game, anyways. So I sat down at the Hold 'Em table. After losing most of my chips to the Asian racket at our table, I pushed in most of my chips in one final, desperate manuever. That's when I knocked out the only girl at our table. Yeah, fuck me. The rest of the night was pretty boring. I spent most of it feeding this dude with a Fu Manchu mustache my chips and incinerating the roof of my mouth with warheads (Yeah, I know! Takes you back!) and pineapple. Eh, it was still better than the dorm.

Last night, I played Gears of War 2 for like a solid three hours. I hooked up with four of my friends and did Horde Mode, which is FUCKING AWESOME. Basically, your party just has to survive wave after wave of locust soldiers, the bad guys. So fun. Every wave felt like Thermopylae. It was also scary as hell. Like I've said before, it incorporates some elements from survival horror to keep you immersed in the game and with great success: watching your friend get hacked to bits by insectoid minions really gets your blood flowing and your trigger finger sore. And don't think I don't know how nerdy I sound. I'm always conscious of it. It gives my writing an ironic effect sometimes.

OH, at the casino night, I saw something kind of funny. There was this really big guy holding his chip cup and his brownie-laden plate in one hand and his cell phone in the other. Not wanting to set down his phone, he turned his brownie hand upwards to snag a bite, but forgetting about his chips, spilt them all over the ground. It had to be one of the fattest moments I've ever seen. Haha, I'm so glad Europe wasn't there to see it. But I've done shit like that, too. I'm not making fun of the guy. I'm laughing with him.

Fucking Christmas lights are everywhere. It's not Christmas I hate, it's the season. I could go on a Grinch tangent about it. All the freaking movies and songs we have to hear like they're part of some process, part of the rounds we have to make in order to have one awesome day. In my family, I know, we can't get to December 25 without listening to the Mannheim Steamroller album at least three times, seeing "It's a Wonderful Life," "A Christmas Carol," "A Christmas Story," and "Christmas Vacation"-a little more ribald than the others- at least once, rolling through the same palatial subdivisions to see the same professionally-done light jobs, and going to the exact same tree lot to get the exact same tree. Don't get me wrong, tradition is good. It's just that, come Christmas time, a season too long by about a month and a half, there's just too much of it. We sort of go on autopilot, going through the motions, performing the rituals, as if in order to appease some wrathful Christmas diety. I'm going to write a novel in which Thanksgiving supersedes Christmas. In it, we'll start writing songs about turkeys, wrapping pie slice after pie slice as gifts- gifts are the best part of Christmas, anyways, and should be retained- and once and for all redefine "the most wonderful time of the year." Let's give a new holiday with new traditions a shot at the title. Wait, wouldn't this just make me hate Thanksgiving time as much as I hate Christmas time? .... Haha, probably.

I'm listening to Sarah Chang right now. I think she might be the most technically proficient violinist I've ever heard. While Nigel Kennedy and my all-time favorite Itzhak Perlman are no slouches either, I think Chang is non pareil when it comes to the technical side of violin mastery. I know I don't know what the fuck I'm talking about. I quit violin after four painstaking months, but I don't think it takes a lifetime concerto afficionado to hear what I hear. Itzhak is still my favorite, though. He's the best musician of them all, insofar as he understands, interprets, and presents the music the best by playing with originality, passion, and style. It's kind of like how people sort of scoff at the legendary shredders- Batio, Buckethead, Malmsteen- for being too overblown, talented, but not as musical as some.

I saw the Terminal last night. I stayed up until three to finish it. Neat concept. I thought it was awesome. Tom Hanks rules.

All right, as promised - more like "as warned," haha- I'm putting a damn survey in here. Fuck off, I've never done one.

1. Opening Credits: Thus Spoke Zarathustra (Strauss)
2. Waking Up Scene: Wake Up (Coheed and Cambria)
3. Car Driving Scene: Atom (British Sea Power) or Death to Los Campesinos! (Los Campesinos!)
4. High School Flashback Scene: Reunion (Stars)
5. Nostalgic Scene: The Wind (Cat Stevens) or Cinema Paradiso (Ennio Morricone)
6. Bitter, Angry Scene: Guerilla Radio (Rage Against the Machine)
7. Break-Up Scene: Hands Down (Dashboard Confessional)
8. Regret Scene: The moment I said it (Imogen Heap)
9. Nightclub/Bar Scene: Take me to the Riot (Stars)
10. Fight/Action Scene: Duel of the Fates (John Williams)
11. Lawn Mowing Scene: Thrash Unreal (Against Me!)
12. Sad, Breakdown Scene: 2:55 Song for Someone (The Frames) and 3:40 Red Hands (The Dear Hunter)
13. Death Scene: The Final Cut (Coheed and Cambria)
14. Funeral Scene: Schindler's List (John Williams)
15. Mellow/ Pot-Smoking Scene: Lost Message (Air)
16. Dreaming about Someone Scene: Pitter Patter Goes my Heart (Broken Social Scene)
17. Sex Scene:Let's Get it On (Marvin Gaye)
18. Contemplation Scene: Clair De Lune (Debussy)
19. Chase Scene: Smack my Bitch Up (The Prodigy)
20. Happy Love Scene: Digital Love (Daft Punk)
21. Happy Friend Scene: I Walk Beside You (Dream Theater)
22. Closing Credits Scene: Mood for a Day (Yes) or Step-Mom Closing Credits Theme (John Williams) or Cavatina

This one, too. What the hell?

1. Where were you 3 hours ago?
Getting back from Breakfast. It's Saturday, dude!
2. Who are you in love with?
Since yesterday, Zooey Deschanel. Also, Catherine Zeta Jones, as seen in Zorro and Chicago.
3. Have you ever eaten a crayon?
No! Good God, has anyone? Surely not a whole one?
4. Is there anything pink within 10 feet of you?
My roommate's mouisturizer, lol. Ten feet away is where it'll stay.
5. When is the last time you went to the mall?
Last week when my brother visited.
6. Are you wearing socks right now?
Inexplicably, no! I'm wearing sandals?!
7. Do you have a car worth over $2,000?
No.
8. When was the last time you drove out of town?
When my bus entered Okemos.
9. Have you been to the movies in the last 5 days?
Yep, saw Role Models.
10. Are you hot?
Haha, no.
11. What was the last thing you had to drink?
Big glass of coffee and another of skim milk. After I'm done with this, guess what I'm doing.
12. What are you wearing right now?
Sweat pants, sandals, Red Wings T-shirt, headphones.
13. Do you wash your car or let the car wash do it?
No car to speak of.
14. Last food that you ate?
Tuna steak, tater tots, baked oatmeal, carrots and broccoli mix, biscuit.
15. Where were you last week at this time?
Out and about with my brother.
16. Have you bought any clothing items in the last week?
Nope.
17. When is the last time you ran?
Haha, that would be Thursday at 8:25 in the morning. I was running late for Logic.
18. What's the last sporting event you watched?
Wings vs. Edmonton. We destroyed them.
19. What is your favorite animal?
Siberian Tiger. I'm re-igniting the Cold War if they go extinct.
20. Your dream vacation?
Greece, Brazil, Japan, or Kenya.
21. Last person's house you were in?
My own, about two months ago.
22. Worst injury you've ever had?
Tough, seeing how there are so few (knock on wood.) Probably when I came down with nerve damage in my left leg and had to go to physical therapy.
23. Have you been in love?
No.
24. Do you miss anyone right now?
Yes, my family and a couple of my friends.
25. What is your secret weapon to lure in the opposite sex?
Haha. Aloofness ;) I definitely play it cool.

Mood for A Day

Tried arguing with the Logic professor to get a couple points on a homework assignment I more or less boned. Found out they're the last people you're going to win an argument against. I'm lucky he didn't dock me just for trying. So, tail between my legs, I accepted my grade (this all played out in back and forth email, by the way), but I still feel like a pat on the back should come for somewhere. Arguing with logic masters is scary, especially when they bust out the Latin on you.

Well, I made a big decision for the blog last week. I was parcelling out little sections for people that I thought they'd like for quite awhile, and I just sort of said, "Fuck it, blogs are meant to be read, just like books. No one writes JUST for themselves." Hm, maybe some people do, but I think the majority of good writing is useful or significant, and that invariably means it has readerS. I mean, even diaries have SOME use related to others. Most are like little mental sounding boards for big ideas, or they might be cathartic . This blog is sort of like a diary, and as such, it fulfils both functions. I'd say it's mostly cathartic. Well, there's nothing really cathartic about spilling your guts to some dark corner of the internet where NO one can see it, just like there's no release in hitting a punching bag that doesn't make your fist hurt or the chain rattle or the other people in the gym keep their distance. No one punches air. If my writing begins to suffer for this, I'll just destroy this blog and go back to the blogger closet. I suppose the quality of writing matters most because no matter what the reality is, I still write like people do read this. That's why I like the medium of the blog so much. If if it's address isn't on my facebook page, I still feel like this could be snagged by any hapless web drifter. It's a neat feeling, it gives you a neat sort of anonymity and the courage to experiment, try different voices.

Nick and I, what a pair. Geez, now I'm starting to think our impasse is rooted in failed communication, not spite. When I'm breaking balls, he's defending himself. When he's excoriating me, I laugh because I think he's just breaking my balls. When I called him a "sneaky fuck" -while laughing, mind you- and I didn't hear him chuckle, I knew I messed up, crossed a line. He then called me a mama's boy and, also, friendless and fat in the same two minutes. I don't even know HOW you'd ease that into ball-breaking camaraderie. No, he was letting me have it. And I'm not saying he was wrong, though. Haha, he had some pretty compelling arguments for all three parts of his phillipic. Still, not cool. The rules of war demand a response. I think at this stage, something totally juvenile and disgusting is in order. But no, I'll take the high road. If he takes out the garbage before my family gets here like I asked, I'll consider this Cold War resolved and I'll stop eating his M&M's (Yeah, he was definitely right about the fat part). Don't forget, I do like him. I think we have a concept to explain this. "Man law," is it? The unspoken rules that let you fuck with your friends as long as justice is on your side?

I'm almost done with my transfer papers. Off into the unknown again I'll soon be. Isn't life nothing but a shot in the dark, though? Risks and chances? I think I've got the stones to start a new life. Beginnings are the most powerful thing we can do. It takes a lot more effort to erase a word than to write it. There's something beautiful there, as well. I can't help but thinking about planting seeds. Cheesy and trite though it may be, it's still, nevertheless, a perfect metaphor for the power and beauty of starting over. I love starting fresh. I can leave behind MSU and its people, the salt of the earth-one of the biggest reasons why I came here in the first place: good, common, unpretentious people- for something different. The only thing I worry about is the money. MSU was the economical choice, and for that, the one that won out. My parents have two more on the way, I couldn't turn down all the scholarship money MSU was throwing at me. At the time, they were even offering me a paid internship thing (really, a 'professorial assistantship'). "We don't want you to have any regrets," they say. Touching, isn't it? Well, I don't want them to live underneath a bridge. It seems like all family stand-offs turn out this way. Deep, reciprocal care sort of paradoxically creating problems.

Besides, I'm not really a good investment. Funny, I used to be such a go-getter, the extra creditor, the hand raiser. And I don't want to leave my family in a debt I can't pay back. It's wrong for them to foot a bill that lets me sit on my ass and become more and more withdrawn and pathetic. It's just cruel because I know they'll feel terrible when they watch me become a slacker bum with a philosophy degree. They'll think they failed. Sometimes, I wish I didn't happen to such nice people :/ They want to help me do what I want even more than they want me to get a good career, it seems. Jesus, it's almost tragic. They'll watch me be poor and think I'm suffering, and they'll suffer for that, but they won't ever interfere. Though they can't understand my fucked up goals- to live apart, to want nothing- they would never interfere; What I want, though ridiculous, dwarfs what they might secretly, silently, sadly, wish for.

Now, when I think of what I'll become, I find myself far away. Lately, I don't really feel that American. The people here are SO competitive, the rat race is such a grind. This year, I thought about law school. But what and where will that get me? A stress-induced heart attack and a eulogy celebrating all the difficult cases I won, MAYBE a family I would never see and awesome boats, houses, and other toys I'd never use. Maya, maya, maya! I don't want to want anything. I don't want anyone to want me to want anything or to depend on me at all. I want to be a leaf alone on a pond with not a ripple to shake it- detached, untouchable, impregnable, complete. Bleak, eh? And I used to hate Schopenhauer. I'm a square peg in a world of round holes. I can't think about sticking me anywhere. Will I be a city slicker? A country fella? Maybe an ex-pat? Will I be a family man? A loner? A house, apartment, condo, flat? Nothing fits. The only thing I want is freedom and growth and peace. I don't want to be pulled in the million directions of this complicated society, with work and family tearing me asunder, leaving me riven by responsibility. Hm, maybe the struggles, the ripples on the pond, are necessary for growth. I'll have to think about this.

Could this all be whining? Doesn't everyone get scared, especially as their 20th birthday draws near? Will I ever suck it up and just straighten my tie, cuff my sleeves? As I've often said about things, yeah, this could be. Da Vinci thought changing your mind was wonderful, that we should scream our new opinions from the roof tops. Maybe the next place I'll air my gripes will be to the wind from the roof of Shaw as I proclaim my new dream of owning a huge business.

J.J.'s coming tomorrow. He's bringing Gears of War 2. I've been waiting for this game for awhile. The first game in the series was awesome, the stuff of nightmares, even. It's scary, but also a decent shooter. Sometimes survival horror sacrifices gameplay for the visuals and the immersion. Gears is an interesting blend of both elements.

A couple of days ago, someone told me to ease up, that I "hate myself so much." Well, it's complicated. I see it differently. I don't hate myself, really. If anything, I love myself a little too much. I have high hopes for myself, high standards, high discipline- all because I care so much about myself. The individual is a gift, the block of clay we all have to mold and make beautiful. Because of this love, I get upset when I fail, big time upset. I question just about everything I do or say, often to my blog haha, and spend hours rethinking decisions, re-playing things in my mind, trying to forget mistakes. This torture causes me to "hate" myself. It manifests itself in my self-criticisms, low morale, esteem, confidence, but it's not TRUE hate. I guess it's more akin to disappointment, but it's sharper, constant, and more personal.

Almost wasn't able to ship my contacts back to the company for a refund last week. The fuckers made me tape the box itself, which is exactly why I walked across the entire campus. So, the only service they rendered was giving me a big, fucking tape roller thing that looked like something the Whos play with on Christmas. You know the one. It's got like seven slots and rollers and handles. The tape winds through it tortuously, always ending on both the cutter and the hairest place on your arm. Some girl across from me was laughing her ass off watching me give myself a government arm wax. I got a couple cuts, too. After a half hour or so of entertaining all the lucky 2-D letter senders, I was left with a box that looked like it had been tied to a cow and dropped in the raptor pit. Finally presenting it to the incredibly helpful clerk, I laughed with her. I stopped, however, when she pulled out her scissors and touched it up. What the fuck? Why didn't she let me use that to measure the strands in the first place? What was the Rube Goldberg device for?

That's about it.

Winner!

I'ts pretty weird writing from a different place. I'm sitting at MSU's Main Library right now, trying to make some headway on a big research paper I have to write for Monday. I think I'll grow a second row of teeth before I start working on this thing, though. The most I can do is narrow my topic down to three candidates, which I've already sent to the English Professor, who will probably hate all of them. School is like that. We don't really learn from being graded, making the cut, towing the line, obeying the curriculum. Curiosity, our only real instructor, and boredom force us to act on our own, to yank our bootstraps, which is really the only meaningful thing someone can do when trying to learn. For instance, I couldn't find a topic to write about tonight, but, while rifling through the textbook to review all the things we read as a class, I noticed a bunch of poems and authors I'd never heard of. So I learned.

Halloween was eventful, to say the least. One of my best friends from Fraser, who I've known since I was in grade school (he was one of my coaches; there's a ten year difference between us), came up to East Lansing to take me to a hockey game. Monster fun. Then, I played Virgil and showed them around MSU, guiding them through a land filled with all kinds of skankily clad sinners-devils, referees, and nurses. They loved every minute of it.

Also on Halloween, I received a phone call. It was from my friend Shane. Calls from Shane at three in the morning are usually best left unanswered. That way, you can enjoy a six-minute voice mail for as long as you like. So, I let it go. It wasn't until two days or so later that I found out what the call was about. Signing on to facebook, I noticed one of my friends had written a note. "Obituary" was the title. Oh shit. One of my friends had died. We weren't the closest of friends, our circles just didn't overlap, but Shane, my very good friend, was this kid's best friend in the world. After reading the note, I immediately called Shane. He told me that he was in Fraser, so he could help out with family and friends as well as attend the funeral. I told him, "If you need anything, call me," and he said, "Thanks." Justin was 19-years-old. He had cystic fibrosis. I remember how often and how violently he coughed. One time, in photography class, he succumbed to a particularly nasty fit in the dark room. I remember how ominous the darkness seemed, how it complimented the hoarse heaves from my small, frail friend. "Why are you coughing all the time?" asked some kid who, through no fault of his own, knew nothing about Justin or his condition. I remember envisioning the look on Justin's face, something like the look Jesus, from under his enormous cross, might have shot to Simon on his way to the hill. Graciously muffling his anger, Justin replied, "I have cystic fibrosis." "Oh, sorry." He was in the hospital all the time. In seventh grade advanced math, Justin didn't show up until the semester was almost over. I remember thinking that it was the teacher's fault for never marking off his name, you know, like how some teachers keep that kid who transferred, went to jail, or moved during the summer on the class list for the entire year, to everyone's chagrin. But no, Justin was there all along, probably doing his homework in the hospital. He was one of the toughest opponents I'd ever faced in Super Smash Brothers. Usually, I wipe people of the screen like bugs from a wind shield. Justin held on, though, and fought with ferocity. He had some of the best friends I've ever seen, gushing support and cheerfulness when everything seemed grim, visiting him during his long stays, gathering his stuff from school, keeping track of his health. If there was a mutual sense of guilt between the two parties, it never showed. They loved him, and he loved them. It's as simple as that. They never had to make Justin feel like "everybody else" or treat him differently, and Justin, at least I don't think, never felt embarrassed by their compassion and kindness. It's just another tale of friendship and how miraculous and mysterious it is. When people have that bond, their lives are connected. Their lives vibrated in harmony, with every subtle dissonance affecting them all. The friends Justin had, more than anything else, must have made his life meaningful. They were his family. They were the ones he fought for. I've never lost a very close friend, and I hope I never do. Shane must feel like his torso is missing, or his legs are gone. He must be crippled with grief. God bless, Justin. Your friends loved you dearly; anyone would be jealous of you.

As much as I hate to slight my somber epitaph with some abrupt transition, I have to announce that "Our Rivers" won the Red Cedar Review's writing contest! It got third place (better than second place, I always say!), which means it will get published in this year's volume! They asked me for a 250 word bio and everything! It's legit. I'd love to write something like that every day, and I'd REALLY love to find someone who'd pay me to do it.

Barack Obama, no. 44. How do I feel about him? Well, at first, I wasn't sure if he was a torch for America or perhaps the most insidious and exploitative political force I'd ever seen. His promises seemed empty, and his calls to American ideals and pride I found dubious. They were the very things a nation mired in recession, debt, and tragedy would turn to like a dumped girl to chocolate. As I watched his speeches rake in youtube hits and his T-shirts spread like wildfire, I grew more and more nervous. Popularity is a false god. I remember reading about a study done that showed actors have average IQ's and explained people's trust in their endorsments, opinions, quotes, and religions as nothing but a response to their celebrity. McCain shared the same fear, I remember, when he called Barack the "biggest celebrity in the world," implying that there was nothing more behind the pop culture phenomenon than simply that. More and more, though, I started to wonder if perhaps more important than his lack of experience IS his appeal. Having a president you love can sometimes do more for a people than an astute signature on some bill. Unity through a shared adoration is an exceptional bond, one that can protect a nation's future far better than bullets. Also, his speeches couldn't be overlooked. They really reach people. If he couldn't grab the rational part in everyone's mind, what's wrong with grabbing the emotional part? Do we not make decisions with both? Is an order to cut back on carbon emissions based on the deleterious effects that result from its interference with release of solar radiation via the atmosphere necessarily more effective than one based on Barack's serious tone or one found in his interview with Entertainment Weekly? This line of reasoning took me down a pretty dark road, where I began to question the very nature of truth, weighing and considering instrumentalism and its role in politics. So Barack lacks the traditional credentials. He never saved a company of soldiers, and his senate chair hasn't adopted the contours of his body yet. However, His other assets, ones that might, on the surface, seem like they have little to do with a good Commander in Chief, might make up for this. With unconventional means, he may achieve unprecedented ends. Incidentally, I voted for Nader. Nevertheless, I'm optimistic about an Obama presidency. Yes we can? More like, "Yes, we like you!" for now. But it could be a fantastic start.

I finished the Sopranos a little while ago. It is the best series ever. I won't brook any arguments from anyone. It is the best. I'd love to write a whole book about how wonderful it is, but I'd feel like an asshole, especially knowing that I'm not the only person who loves the show and therefore that it's not my job to explain its wonders. Still, it's the best. The last episode... Shit, I liked it. I mean, have some sympathy for the poor writers. How the hell do you END a show like The Sopranos? Some might say they took the easy route, but I, on the other hand, thought it was thoughtful and meaningful. Ending the show with a scene of the dysfunctional Soprano family at one of their notorious shared dinners captured the essence of the show quite nicely. The show was, first and foremost, a look at the American Family. It just happened to feature an unnaturally large family that had an uncommonly dangerous family business. So, now I'm in search of a new show to tear me away from my quotidian existence. I already watch a slew of comedies, but nothing really satisfying in the way a rant from Tony Soprano was. I'm thinking about fixing on Mad Men. I watched the first episode of the first season today. Not bad. Not awesome. But six Emmies says something, at least it does to my pretentious ass. Lost is good, but I treat that more like a science fiction novel, not a drama to watch all the passions and problems of humanity play out.

This should have been my research paper. Aw, fuck it. It's Friday.

Tabula Rasa

I've now reached a pretty scary place in the history of this blog, and it may or may not bear some parallels to the place I'm at in my life right now. I have nothing to write about. Find the Alex of two weeks ago and he would tell you the exact same stories, fears, updates. College is supposed to be a time of growth, a time when your mind opens like a daylilly for the sun. You're supposed to transform, change, invert, shift, reconsider, and explore your life. Yet here I sit after an entire weekend doing nothing but watching two full seasons of "The Sopranos" and just waiting for Monday. And it's not that I don't try! I get spam from every "let's mix it up!", "get involved!", "build your resume!" group on campus. NOTHING seems worth it, though. Tonight, for instance, the Honors College was hosting a Halloween Movie Night, but I'd seen all the movies they were going to show, and I didn't enjoy them the first time anyways. That's not the point, right? It's just an excuse to be social. However, I haven't met anyone here that's interesting enough to waste 90 minutes with while a shitty movie drones on and on in the backround. Besides, it's all the more difficult to get any real conversation going being a loner and all. I mean, you just can't escape the lapses into inside jokes that marginalize the stranger to the snack table. It's just human nature, nothing blameworthy; people want to talk to their friends about what's familiar to them. So, needless to say, I skipped that shit. Am I overly critical? Or worse, just making excuses to hide my shyness or nervousness? More and more, I'm starting to think not. I speak the truth above. I just don't find anything going on interesting at all. As proof, I DO go to some things. I just don't meet any people there.

Nick has been a real shit lately. I'm starting to think he's pissed at me for something. He only responds to direct questions now and only with yes or no. Even his incessant complaining has ceased (I guess they'll need some winter coats in Hell!). OR, maybe he's just quietly, gradually settling into his true self, a self devoid of superficial talkativeness and perfunctory kindness. Now, we're bystanders to eachother's lives- flies on the wall, transparent ghosts in the room. We stroll around in our boxers, scratch our balls, and pick our noses now. I wouldn't say it's comfort really that's allowing this new level of intimacy but rather a new ability to ignore eachother. It's like we're now stage coach horses with blinders on.

I guess I like poetry. I read a lot tonight for class tomorrow. It was all obscure modern poetry, postively loaded with ambiguity. I am a little jealous of the poet in each case. He, at least, never has to hunt for or debate the meanings of his poems. He doesn't have to sift through the socio-economic, historical, biographical, zeitgeist of his time, and it's almost a little rude for him to make us do so. It's like they sat around all day writing new, pointless languages for everyone to learn, just expecting us to throw immense amounts of time and confusion into their projects so they could smile with a knowing, pitying smile, like a kid witholding the name of their crush from an inquistive friend. Then again, that is part of the fun. It's challenging, subjective, and intense. I just get really fucking angry when the asshole who puts the pieces together before I do thinks he's suddenly Shakespeare.

I bought an 84 dollar razor from the mall on Saturday. Excited, I opened as soon as I got to my dorm and sheared myself. I heard somewhere that "you can tell how depressed someone is by how long their beard is and how much of a douche bag someone is by how thin their goatee is." Haha, right on, eh?

Well, I have to be getting to bed soon. I'm going to start thinking about what to write about a little ahead of time since this blog is sort of becoming stagnant. Updates without insight are just about worthless. Maybe I'll adopt a theme for each one? Or just a huge question?

Doth my eyes Deceive?

I had a good weekend. What it lacked in excitement it made up for in reading time and long walks. I've been trying to take an hour long walk every day. I even have a route. Yesterday, I was behind Holmes Hall, the gates of Hell itself, in the Sanford Wilderness Area. I used to go there a lot to follow the river and let my mind wander. I still do, in fact, even if it is sort of far from me now. Anyway, I was walking through it yesterday after the football game when I spotted a hoodie on the other side of the river. Damn, nice hoodie, I thought. Then I noticed that it was standing straight up from the ground! That's pretty weird, I mused. Then, I saw a mortified expression peeking out of the hood. Someone was squatting next to the river and taking a shit. I can't really remember a more awkward exchange of glances. Like, what the hell was I supposed to do? Yell, "Hey, want me to toss ya a roll?" ? So I just kept walking, laughing to myself.

Met a kid I like. The kid is exactly like me, and it's really starting to freak me the fuck out. Same music, movies, books, cities, sports teams-the works. The guy is even HUNGARIAN! I thought I was the last Magyar on this orb. I've only met one other Hungarian person in my LIFE. I watched a Dream Theater Live DVD in his room, which was amazing. Dream Theater is the best.

Walking out of Shaw the other day, I almost bumped into a rather shifty guy talking to two tense college kids about "the lord Jesus Christ" and his infinite acts of mercy and all that. Looking behind me, I saw the kids pull out some money. I've always been divided on things like this. There's a lot of inner turmoil to face when people ask you for a handout. For starters, you wonder if your money will go to anything else besides rum. For guys calling for donations on behalf of a church like the one outside Shaw, you wonder if they're legit. Do they really represent the church? Normally, I might have turned around and gave the guy a five, but my qualms won out and led me past his benedictions and blessings to sit on the dorm's back porch. Thanking the kids, he started walking in my direction, so I lifted my book to cover my face. NO one would pull a guy's book out of the way to ask for money. Three seconds later, "The Wizard and Glass" is wedged between my legs, and I'm face to face with moral, religious, social, philosophical conflict. Well, he was convincing, and that whole business of heaping praises on me just for sitting on my fat ass and hearing him out made me feel terribly guilty, of what I don't know (that's why he was good!). So, I dug in my pocket for some spare change. "This is all I could dig up. I guess I could have searched for more but here...," I said as I handed him 2.50. "Well," the man started, "I wish you WOULD search for more. But God bless." Haha. Was I a bastard for the lousy contribution, or was he an ungrateful jerk? Ah, I can't tell. The blame probably rests mostly on my shoulders. My wallet was submerged in my pocket, and the 2.50 was right at the tips of my fingers; The 2.50 was just an impulse, I guess, since it was so close and ready, but I could have given him more.

I was watching T.V. in the bathroom yesterday when a Charmin commercial came on, you know, the one where the bear poops and then uses the magical toilet paper to floss its ass cheeks. What the hell were those ad guys thinking? There is NOTHING cute about bear shit. A realistic ad would have freaking squirrel femurs and camper genitals pumping out of the bear's ass hole and falling into a knee-high grave yard, not stars and sprinkles. Why not get something else, like a gerbil, to endorse their shit? Their poop is so wonderful, they'll eat those little pellets again and again and again, even over pet food.

I saw Anne-Sophie Mutter at the Wharton Center a couple weeks ago. It was incredible. I don't want to come off as some sort of sophisticated wannabe or anything, but I just have to say that there's nothing like a good violin.

Nick caught me jamming in my underwear today, "Risky Business" style. Instead of surprise, or amusement, or confusion, horror was on his face. I mean, it was like he caught me chanting around a fire, boiling over with frog legs and newt tails. In the words of Ferris Bueller, "if you shoved a lump of coal up his ass, it would come out a diamond." I haven't seen this kid sing, dance, jump, or run. He hasn't high-fived anyone, hugged anyone, called anyone, or ANYTHING. Jokes, sarcasm, exaggeration- these things go over his head like a 747. He does laugh, from time to time and at God knows what, but I'd say that 99% of the things he says start with "this fucking asshole is making us do ____" or "McCain is a fuck." Politics and school -those are the two files that you can store just about everything and anything that passes through my roommate's eyes or ears. Christ, when this election is over, 100% of his vocalizations will be devoted to complaining. I'll be putting these Bose noise-cancelling headphones to the test soon.

Surprisingly, I want to fill out one of those dopey questionnaires that kids used to stick in their live journals. If boring, they are good exercises, at least. Writing about yourself is so useful. After all, what or who do you know better? Also, when looking at yourself from the perspective of objective questions, like what's your favorite band or what are you doing right now, you DO gain a certain knowledge of yourself. It's like when people say that there's things Americans can only learn about their country from foreigners, or Satre's "The Look". If I find a good one, I'm putting it in here.

My mind is pretty placid today, these last three or four days, really. Again, I can't really think of any deeply personal thoughts or feelings to relate to the blog, but I'll keep writing until they come! Something is guaranteed to piss me off soon.

Status Report

Well, I don't really know why I'm writing right now at this very moment. I guess it's because I have about 40 minutes to kill before I go to bed, and I'm actually (HOLY SHIT!) sick of Halo 3 and my book. The fourth book in the Dark Tower series has lost some major steam, and it's going to take some tremendous will power to get to the back cover. I bought the fifth, sixth, and seventh books this weekend. Of course, like all epic stories in installments, each book just gets longer and longer. It's like a constant test for the faithful; only the true believers have the dedication to get to the final page. I feel like the labors ahead of me are as formidable as Roland's as we both approach the Dark Tower. Finding time to read all this shit is getting tougher. Anyways, the last two days have sucked. Monday was hot and muggy. You could fucking smell the malaria in the air. Seriously though, we have a mosquito problem here, which is really the only downside to having a beautiful river running through the heart of campus. I never thought I'd say this, especially being such a fall hater, but I wish it would get a little bit colder. I think my legs can make it the frost, so if it just gets a little colder, I should get about a month and half of mosquito-free, shorts weather. That's all I want in the world right now.

My logic test was this morning at 8:30, and for once, I really can't say how I did. I study incredibly hard, and I have to admit it, I'm a good student. PHL 130 never seemed too difficult. I breezed through the classes, assignments, practice quizzes, blah blah blah, but I might have slipped up on the test. Ever have a class where creativity is your worst enemy? If I ever have, it would be PHL 130. Just like a calc class, the class demands ONE correct answer. However, I think an argument can be interpreted a number of ways, unlike a calc. answer that usually, when explained, justifies its singularity. Logic seems to be horribly trapped, kind of stuck in the worst of both worlds: it's test questions ask for one answer, AND it hardly ever seems like one answer is possible. But this is just me, and, since I'm kind of an irrational person, this argument could really be thinly disguised disappointment and fear. I drank a damn energy drink for that exam. Last night, after following a super muggy, steamy day, turned out to be equally muggy and steamy, and sleeping was about as easy as building an igloo on the sun. My sheets are soaked, EVERYTHING I touched, rolled over, or kicked smells like BO. It's just gross. Added to the shitty conditions were the thoughts of my upcoming exam, which would normally be enough to cut a couple hours off my slumber by themself. So that's why I only got four hours.

I submitted "Our Rivers" yesterday. I really, really, really hope I get published in their periodical. The money I could care less about. I want, I NEED to say I did something this semester. I think that's why dropping that story off felt so good. I DID something. If chosen as a winner, there will be a record of this! Also, I'll get some street cred. PERFECT scenario: they like my story so much, they ask me to contribute again, and again, and again until someone who wants to give me money asks me to contribute, finally concluding in a jay-oe-bee. Is writing it? Don't know. Undecided. ALWAYS undecided, I guess, but I can say this for myself: I would NEVER turn down a job writing right now at this point in my life. I don't think I want to be middle-aged and still writing shit for the East Lansing Herald or whatever the hell they have here, yet that wouldn't be bad for right now.

As you can see, nothing deep or personal to bury in the Landfill tonight. I just wanted to keep the juices flowing (I don't count my last entry as a real entry). This was a great idea. I'm getting a lot better at thinking on the keyboard. I used to have to write everything-everything that required some thought, that is- in a notebook and than transcribe it into Microsoft Word.

Submission for the Red Cedar Review

Damn is it hard to write something 1000 words or less! Well, here's my rough draft. I don't know how much I'm going to mend. I think it's pretty good so far.



Our Rivers

“That’s it!” the boy cried.
“What’s it?” his father asked, suddenly appearing at the back of the boat beside his son.
“The ocean! That’s what I’m seeing!”
“Shouldn’t you be up there at the front with the rest of your class? You know how much I love rivers and how much I’d love to stand here starting at it with you, but as your chaperone, I have to make sure you guys are helping the crew with their readings.”
“All right,” the boy said huffily, but he still couldn’t stop thinking about the river, its secret language, its churning mysteries. The river was just one step on an inscrutable journey to the sea, and it was already bearing the boy’s reflection to the infinite ocean.



“Here you have it, sirs. Ole’ Ernest Hemmingway’s favorite river, the Big Two-Hearted River. Now do you two want da two-hour scenic route or da much longer five-hour route?” the yooper asked.
“We should take the long one, dad,” the boy said, eyes wide.
“You sure?” said the boy’s father.
“Yes! We only have two days left up here!”
“Well, all right.”
The yooper drove the father and his boy another two miles before he braked. He helped the man and boy pull out their kayaks and lower them to the bank, where the two of them promptly plopped themselves into their vessels like the inveterate paddlers they were.
“Now, before I push you two off, do you have any questions for me?”
The duo had already been briefed on the river and its negligible perils, but there was one concern that still weighed in on the boy’s mind.
“What happens when we get to the end where it opens up into Lake Superior? Can we keep paddling out into the lake?”
“Afraid not,” the yooper said, noticing the boy’s frown. “You see, da kayaks just weren’t meant to sail on those big, open waters. Your trip has to end at da mouth.”



“I remember you two from awhile back!” the yooper exclaimed when the pair returned after many years. “Let me ask you two, short or long?”
The young man beheld his father. The virile, Byronic, river junkie was still there, but somewhat smothered by wrinkles, creaking joints, and white-gray hair. His father looked almost artificially old, and both of them knew it. His condition had really set in over the last five years or so.
Never taking his eyes off his father, the young man answered, “We’ll take the scenic route.” His father smiled.
This time they shared a canoe, an old-fashioned birch bark one that his father had been working on since he was forced to slow down. The canoe was a masterpiece -slender and light, yet strong and durable.
The scenic route really was worth it. The young man had never seen such chiascuro riverbanks, regal sand dunes, or beautiful, beautiful, beautiful water. It was clear, cold, brown, and glowing with a deep honey-amber that seemed to emanate from the soul of the world. Both reared their heads at the same time to lose their faces in the shadow of an eagle. Words had been sparse throughout most of the journey. At this point, anything new to add couldn’t possibly compare to letting the wind, water and birds do the talking, the young man thought; there is a lot to be said for silence, he decided.
With the river mouth in sight, his father let an emotional tone slip into his voice, “Doctors are saying six months now.”
The young man had relieved his father of the paddling half way through the trip, leaving him to sit at the prow, legs folded up against his body like a child does when it doesn’t want to leave a friend’s house, yet he seemed perfectly serene.
“Aw dad, don’t listen to them. They don’t know anything,” the young man said, but his cracked words betrayed his calm.
“I’m glad we took the scenic route,” the young man’s father said.
“Me too…me too,” came the answer.





The service was long, and, throughout it, the young man thought he had never known such deep, pure, sublime sadness. Back at school, he felt like an orphan to the world. Everything seemed so alien. Everything reminded him of his father, especially the Red Cedar River that flowed behind his dorm. Often, he’d go there and stare at its middle until the glare hurt his entire body. Today he was doing that very thing.
He took his notebook with him, hoping to get some of his writing homework done, but everything he tried seemed futile and predictable- totally pointless. His paper, he thought, would drift upon a barren wasteland ocean of other papers, his endings and plots would be chosen from among the platitudes and clichés that circled in its calm, lifeless whirlpools. Whether what he did sank or swam, it would still lose its meaning in the vast, ultimate end for which he and all things were designed.
Tears streaming, anger rising, soul burning, he stood up, raised his notebook, and prepared to throw it into the water. He wanted to drown, to drown everything- himself, the notebook, the world- and get it all over with.

But then he started thinking about his notebook in the river. It would float down the tranquil Red Cedar for another couple of miles and then it would join another river. Maybe the notebook would merge into a very large river some day, one that might move fast at times, slow at others. Its waters may swell, only to fall beyond the next turn. There would undoubtedly be rocks in the notebook’s way. Sometimes, the river may seem to stop all together and leave the notebook motionless before countless separate streams. Changed, the young man sat down at his place along the river and opened his notebook. He had a long time before his reflection would reach the sea, and he now had a lot to write about.

Ataraxia

It's been my favorite word for awhile now. It appeals to me in a couple ways. It's old, Greek, and pleasing to the ear, and thoughtful. Ataraxia- state of peaceful detachment and harmony. Also, it was prized by the Stoics, who were hands down the biggest bad asses of the Roman Republic.

A black barber shop has started in our community bathroom. For awhile, it was something of a conspiracy. It was clear that someone was cutting hair, but our worry had to do with WHAT kind of hair it was. To us, short, course, black hairs meant only one thing: fucking pubes. So we kept our eyes open, manning our little see-holes in our doors, keeping an eye out for anyone with a pair of scissors. Days passed, and yet more and more pubes clogged the drain on the floor of the bathroom. But before we made bushes mandatory throughout the building, I walked into the bathroom and happened to catch a black guy with what I thought was a nifty razor applying it to his friend's head. Case closed. I'm thinking about asking him to get rid of my wicked side-burns, but I'm a little scared. There's only a handful of barbers and lumberjacks who can deal with my mop. I have broken razors before. The memory is a little dim, but I remember the sound of hair clogging the razor, kind of like the sound you hear when you're racing down a hill on your bike and your pant leg gets caught in the chain, and the smell of smoke. I felt like fucking Samson. SEND ALL YOUR RAZORS!!!!!

It's been awhile since my last post. School got a little tough over the last seven days. I had a lot of tests and due dates, but I made it out okay, and I'm glad I can do this again. I'm thinking about entering a campus literature contest. Problem is, all submissions have to be under 1000 words. Shit, these posts average about 1500 words! I guess that's the challege of art, though. That's what makes it prize worthy. It has to be fine tuned, hand crafted, revised-every word chosen carefully and for the full effect.

Being a writer, I think, must either be really easy or really hard. To find out, I went to a reading at our main library. I think I was the only person there without either a grand kid or a suit. Normally, I would have felt a little sheepish, but the reading sucked, so I see my comfort as a consolation prize. I mean, really, who ARE the people that review and publish books? I don't think I'm a completely stupid human being, but some books out there are just TERRIBLE. The guy was going for some kind of experimental cred. He wrote an epistolary novel in a unique style and form. The thing was a bunch of like four sentence letters, most from his childhood self, to people on the most inane, boring, maudlin, bleak, crap. I know that meaning and story telling are very subtle, nuanced, and indirect in good literature, and I know how writing is all about breaking conventions, deconstructivism, post-modernism and all that perplexing junk now, but I just can't see how four sentences about a bag of used condoms, an apartment, and sheets over windows is good story telling. Am I supposed to be shocked by the condoms? Is that edgy? Most of the people in the room thought so, judging by their reactions to the author's words. There seems to almost be an elephant in the room with this kind of stuff. Maybe I should ease up. Perhaps the rest of the novel turned it around. Still, 50 minutes of crap?

I've thought about becoming a writer before. I think you have to be kind of arrogant, though. Surely, no one thinks that anyone gives two shits about what they think at age 19!? That must come later. The ego needs to take root first, I bet.

Nick asked me what I'd do if I had 100 billion dollars, and I couldn't answer him. If I could do ANYTHING I want, I really have no idea what it would be. So I passed and let him answer. If I remember correctly, he would drop half of it on Italian clothes and the other on Starbucks stock, just so he could own it and get it free of charge. I guess I'd give a couple million or so to each of my friends and family members so that they never had to worry about money again. As for the rest, I guess I'd throw it at one or several causes. First among them would have to be a wildlife fund like WWF or NWF or even a forest conservation group. I'd probably save some to buy food for starving people, but I think, by fixing one ecological crisis, you begin to fix others. I'm sure the WWF or NWF would use my money to pay farmers subsidies and supply them with the latest technology so that they could produce enough food and leave forests alone. After all the big spending, I'd save just enough to disappear. I'm thinking a Greek island, U.P. cottage, or spacious penthouse, maybe all three. What I do know, privacy would be key. I'd buy all the books, mags, movies, and music I wanted, and probably spend my time browsing through that stuff.

Geez, I wish I had more to write about, yet you can only squeeze a sponge so much until it needs to be replenished, and MSU is Death Valley. I'd do an extra hour of homework every night for an extra story per week or an extra person to talk to. Even I can't stand my rambling musings on life and shit for too long. Maybe when I get a little more arrogant, I'll be able to.

Weekend

So here I am on Saturday night, writing in my blog. This should answer a couple of questions. Do you have any friends? Do you have anything better to do? Do you ever think about suicide?

This weekend was pretty lame, but I get an "A" for effort. Thursday night, after a year's worth of excuses and deliberately missed calls, I finally got back to my friend and told him I wanted to party with him. So, he took me to his girlfriend's apartment for my third party, which could just as well be my first since it was the first party at which I knew most of the people there. No drinking for me, as always. I just sort of tipped up my Ice Mountain more frequently than someone dying of thirst and shook it suspiciously from time to time to mix up the imaginary booze. They might have bought it? Hm, I guess I don't really care. No one seemed to uncomfortable by having a tee-to-taller in their midst; they even let me play beer pong (my friend had to drink all the beer for our team.)

Though I appreciate my friend's charity for taking the social retard out, I can't say I really had any fun. Most of the night was spent squirming in and out of conversations revolving around the best ways to ingest heroin or who was about to make out with who, as if it depended on some kind of schedule. If I got anything out of the night, it was a comment from a girl. She had been filling me in on all the drugs she'd done- which ones were better, which ones were cheaper, which ones won't kill you. She finally got to vikodin, the pain killer. Turns out, she was prescribed it and then became addicted shortly afterwards. "God, that's awful," I said, and I really meant it. Stories like hers are usually the only ones that garner any sympathy for drug addicts from me. You know, the ones about hapless people in worlds of pain who, through their doctor's advice, came into contact with a highly addictive drug and then, overtime, built up a psychological and physiological dependence. Sad. "No, it's okay," she said. "Vikodin has made me a more interesting person." I really didn't know how to understand her. Was she being sarcastic and cynical? Could anyone be that empty and dry? Was she being serious? Did she appreciate her addiction for giving her something to talk about with people like me? Either way, I thought right then and there, this girl has made me sad. I talked to her a lot over the course of the night and got quite the eye opener.

Everyone says social interactions are where real learning is done at college, but I never believed it until Thursday night. It's not what people know or have done or have seen that we remember from nights like the one I had: it's how people view life, how they see themselves, how they see the future- their philosophy. The girl with the vikodin problem saw the world as a chemical playground of different highs and lows- adderall for studying, vikodin for pain and relaxing, meth for energy, cigarettes for the fills in between- and herself as a substrate for all the magic to attach to. She had other things to talk about, sure, but none brought out the same matter-of-factness, enthusiasm, or attentiveness as drugs. But hell, maybe that was booze talking. I'm still new to party conversation, after all. She might have give me a lecture on the politics of the Middle East if she were here next to me right now. Even still, I think I got a taste for something different, perhaps the first time I've done so this year.

Nick really spoiled my fun today. After years searching for the way to get my computer to speak the text I type for it, I found it tonight just as he was returning from his cafeteria job. "How was work, fucker," my HP said, robot-like. "Turn dat sheet ohf!" he barked. "It's annoying!" "Fuck you," my speakers replied. That's when his eyes narrowed. I fucking hate that ferret stare. So, "turn da sheet ohf" I did. I had so many obscene pick-up lines to run through, too! He really needs to start embracing this period in his life, I think. He spends more time asking me not to swear than saying anything of his own, more time making fun of me for my hobbies than pursuing, or creating, his own. I realize that I'm super ripe for all sorts of jibes and jeers, but it would be nice to have someone to laugh with and be complicit in my uncouthness with. My housing contract said nothing about a nanny. That's another thing. Since we have so little common ground, I'm almost forced to be a buffoon. I have to be very dramatic and animated around him, just to release the tension between two such diametrically different people. By knowingly being an idiot, I sort of anticipate the little insults and moralizing reprimands I get, which helps make it harder for me to be offended since I know I deserve them. But I can't keep it up forever. I'd love to tell him he's a philistine, boorish, indolent, spiteful, little fellow sometimes, but I seem to be the more diplomatic and aware of the two of us, which is probably why I'm putting up the facade of the perverted, crass, jejune, dunce to keep us from clashing. Besides, when the dust settles, when we're both quietly reclined with our head phones on, I like the bastard. He's just getting to me right now.

"Lost in Translation" was a terrific movie. I watched it on my computer about a week ago. I think it sums up EXACTLY how I feel when I'm at college. Bill Murray was stuck and lost in Tokyo, a city foreign to him in every way- culture, people, recreation, history, and food. I'm stuck and lost in MSU. But maybe, just maybe, I'd be lost at any university? Maybe I'm just not meant to be 19?

One thing would make this all easier: purpose. My least favorite quotes are the ones that are delivered by successful people and go something like this, "I do this because I just couldn't do anything else, or "I was born to do this." How convenient for you guys. I wish a legit-looking guy with a staff and beard would show up at my dorm room door and charge me with a quest. Purpose found! Dangerous, uncertain, or painful though it may be, I'd still have something to get me to say, "Oh yeah, that's why I'm wasting my time doing things that I can't stand for money I can't do without!" College needs to be a part of my purpose, my quest.

I talked to one of my friends yesterday about religion. I made sure to bring it up and move past it quick, since the subject tends to be sort of explosive, but I think most of the actual argument played out in my head afterwards. We really just listened to each other gloss over the fundamentals of our respective beliefs, nothing too controversial. But inside, I was wrestling with her. She is Catholic, one of the few TRUE catholics. Someone once said, "I'd be a Christian if I ever met one." What a great quote. Hypocrites, all of 'em. But this girl's different. She walks across the campus to church every Sunday. She went to Catholic school and DIDN'T become a mega slut afterwards. She's the genuine article. So, out of respect for her (I find Catholicism's standards pretty hard to abide by in this day and age), I let her speak her mind. Like her, I was raised Catholic, so she really wasn't telling me anything new. Still, it was quite a powerful statement she was making to me. American universities seem to be the place Catholics go to die. Most people here seem to be Protestant- the funloving Christians- agnostic, or atheist, and if they SAY they're Catholic, a quick conversation is usually all that's needed to show they're mistaken. "Wait, I'm not allowed to masturbate?"

After she was done, she politely asked me what I thought. I told her I was currently closest to being a pantheist. I like to think of pantheism as beautiful atheism. My "prophet" would have to be Baruch Spinoza, a philosopher I only stumbled upon last year, thanks to maybe the only truly neat course I've had here. The professor was a world renowned Spinoza scholar, so her bias might have had a hand in selling him. The metaphysical system laid out by Spinoza is so simple, beautiful, and comprehensive. I'm just finding it hard to deny. My roommate, a staunch atheist, says he "believes in nothing." I say, "I believe in this!" To pantheists, God is immanent in the world. He is everything in the universe. Everything is logically contained in him. You, me, everyone is a part of this God, this reality. He exists, we exist because he necessarily exists, like a triangle with three sides. A triangle MUST have three sides because, according to the definition of a triangle, all triangles have three sides. That's why God, or nature, or everything that exists, must exist. It's a little shaky, but it's such a logical solution to a problem that usually draws on some kind of religious or moralistic sensibility (i.e. everything exists because the Bible says God created the world). In this world, everything is determined, for God can't be any different than how it is, and freedom consists in knowing we are so determined and accepting it. Again, the world is simple, beautiful, and logical. The world is also perfect, and things like the problem of evil are only due to man's anthropomorphic errors, like seeing God as possessing the concerns of a human and mistakenly believing reality to be shaped around our existence as a species. In this type of world, science is good because it helps us adapt to nature, and the highest virtue is "an intellectual love of god", which I take to mean an ardent curiosity about how the world works and what it is. It seems like the best system to me right now, but that could change.