[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.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Saturday, November 22, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, November 7, 2008
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
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
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.
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