The Landfill

Samsara

2009-08-23T21:50:00.000-07:00

It really is a cycle, isn't it? Ass-breaking semester, three months of ennui, then a rude awakening, punctuated by disastrous eating spells, hours playing Halo 3, and feverish reading. This is also the time of the year when I get sick, and not just like common cold-sick, but clinics-telling-me-I-have-meningitis-sick. I feel this, I feel it all-the cycle- and I'm just playing my part.

Well, to bring this up to speed, I guess I should offer a little precis of this month. I'll start with trips, you know, the big stuff. Um, well, At the beginning of the month, Susan and I went camping with Franz and his girlfriend, Yezi. My best friend Danny was supposed to come with his girlfriend, but he got held up. Danny had about as shitty of a month as a 20-year-old can have. It all started when his girlfriend's grandmother died. Danny said he and she were close, even closer than he is with his own grandmother, so the loss struck him pretty hard. Naturally, Danny had to go to the visitation and the funeral. Here's the kicker: His five-year anniversary fell on one of her visitation days. SO, Danny and Emilee postpone all romantic plans a couple days (Remember this). SO, after this catastrophe, Danny gets into a series of fights with his dad over bills. They must have been bad because you won't believe what happened next. Due to intense stress, Danny actually came down with SHINGLES! Super rare for a young person to experience, shingles is actually a pissed off, resurrected chicken pox virus. Danny described the rashes as ten times worse than the worst sunburns he'd ever gotten. He couldn't even wear a shirt. Well, of course, Danny couldn't work. When he told his boss he had shingles, she was amazed, mostly because she has the IQ of a goldfish. From what Danny said, Danny had to painstakingly explain his condition, only reaching an understanding after having to arduously lift his shirt and expose his seething rashes. Even after vouchsafing Danny a day off work for obvious medical reasons, she was still a little peeved, and she stayed on his ass for the rest of the summer. This was when I stopped over to bring Danny a shipment of hope: four tacos and a couple Arnold Palmers. His sister ate everything I brought later upon opening the fridge while Danny was downstairs. Next in the catalogue of misery, Danny's girlfriend's cousin dies. So, Danny once again donned the black garb and hit the pews. At the mass, another cousin gave his girlfriend a hug, bruising her ribs so badly, Danny had to take her to the hospital right after the service.

This is where I thought God was done with Danny, where I thought he'd tell Satan that the bet was off, Danny showed faith, and the game was over. I told Danny he just had to make it to the weekend, when we'd all be up North tubing down the Au Sable River, forgetting the world. Wednesday, Danny's girlfriend's friend's Grandfather dies, a man neither Danny or-I'm assuming- Emilee had ever met, but because Kendra, Emilee's friend, had attended Emilee's Grandmother's funeral, Emilee felt obligated to go to Kendra's Grandfather's. The funeral was to be on Saturday, smack-dab in the middle of our planned camping trip. "FUCK, MAN! Now I have to miss a day! Well, I guess Emilee and I will just have to head up there later and just have about a day-and-a-half with everyone."

Saturday rolls around. I'm on the Au Sable River, several miles from Glennie, just chillin'. Rain forced us to abandon our makeshift grill and head towards a fast-food alley. As soon as I get reception, Danny calls me, "Bro, I have all my camping stuff packed and ready to go. It's sitting in a giant heap. I have lanterns, marshmellows, fishing poles, tackle, baseballs, bug spray, clothes, snacks, matches, rope, and bed spreads-I just can't find my fucking TENT! I think it's at my dad's, so I called him. He said it wasn't there. Emilee isn't back from the Goddamn funeral yet. Apparently, 500+ people showed up, and they all want to pay their respects. So...yeah...I guess we're not coming..."

I took a deep breath, looked over at Susan, then answered him: "Jesus, man...Yeah, do what you gotta do, I guess. I'm sorry."

As for the rest of the trip, it went pretty well. It rained hard, but we made the best of it. We each had a tornado of insects around our heads, just no-see-um's and midges, but the mosquitoes weren't too bad. It was actually kind of nice hearing the pitter-patter of the rain while Susan and I were happy and warm in the tent. For food, the women tried their best at grilling; my hamburger looked and tasted like it had just been lopped off the ass of the cow. My dad would have licked his lips had it been on his plate, winking at the waiter who just lowered his food, "Now this is rare!" We spent most of our time tubing or fishing. We caught nothing, despite my dad's auction-won trout spoons. It was like we were fishing with dog turds. I saw one kid floating down in his tube with a pile of rainbow trout in his lap. "They keep hittin' me in the nuts, ma!" he said, grinning and wincing at the same time.

Our second tube ride was three hours, and Susan kind of ruined it for me. She'd been in a grouchy mood since we got there (maybe because she had to do all the driving?), and by the third day, her patience with bugs, weather, and, above all, me, was wearing thin. We were about a quarter-mile ahead of Franz and Yezi when I turned to her and said, "Aren't you kind of jealous of them?"

"What?" she said, voice low, eyes glowering.

A little taken aback, I proceeded cautiously, "Oh you know, it's just that they like get to have all the firsts, you know? First kisses, hand-holds, all-night talks, naps in each other's arms, that sort of thing."

The sun glistened a bit from the corners of her eyes. Already wet, I thought. Shit. "We have firsts left to have, too!"

"Of course, of course, honey! I know! It's just that...never mind."

The next half-hour was silent. Susan stared blindly ahead looking like the water just turned to ammonia, nose and eyes drawn up like someone trying desperately hard not to cry. You've all seen that face. Ever watched someone chop onions?

Things between us stayed tense until she dropped me off at home. I forced myself to nap rather than get embroiled in a highway fight with her. Susan hates my car-talk. Hm, I guess I would, too. Something about the open road gives my mind wanderlust, though. One time, I asked her why farmers had horses. After all, we don't need them to pull plows anymore, and they don't offer meat, wool, or milk. The only two benefits horses offered that I could rationalize were their droppings for fertilizer and the boarding business, when rich people keep their horses on another's property.

"Maybe they just like them," she said.

"Hm, I don't think so. There must be something more. I has to make sense, or cents, for these farmers."

I spent the next thirty minutes apologizing for being arrogant.

Things got better between us until early last week. She came down for the weekend to celebrate our six-month anniversary. Again, she was mopey. Nevertheless, I tried to make the best of it. We went to all our favorite restaurants (She has a Del Taco fetish. She munched on Churros the whole time), but still she moped. Like fifteen minutes before she had to leave, she said something that hurt me personally, BUT, giving her a pass for being hormonal and unusually mopey, I ignored it, let it fall off my shoulders like rain. I went to my counter, ate some cereal, and hummed to myself, while she walked around my house gathering her things, face stony and dour.

"Bye, love you!" I said, waving her off. No response.

Ten hours passes, then I get a text asking me whether my dog misses her. That pissed me off. I texted back, saying something like, "I don't think we should speak for a few days." That upset her, understandably so. A day passes. Then another. I was eating with friends when I got a text from her asking me whether it'd be all right for her to come down after work. "Sure," I answered. Whatever ridiculous point I was trying to make, it had been made, I thought. She came, we talked, and I blamed it on the cycle.

It IS the cycle. I'm behind a veil of ignorance, waiting to see what I'll be in another new world. Will there be equity and mercy? Will I finally get my car hitched to the train? Or will another fuse blow? Will another light flicker and die? Will doors open? Close? Slam on my neck? William James distinguishes two different types of people: the healthy-minded, like Walt Whitman, and the sick souls, a la me. Whitman was one of those rare humans who could enjoy and feel God/a higher power in everything. To him, the world was whole, pure, and good. His friends commented on how he could sit for hours admiring rocks, offering benedictions to the trees, rejoicing for the birds. Whitman simply ignored evil. It was left out of the equation, it had no place in his world. Sick souls are different. We've tasted evil. We can't be ignorant, even if we try. We've been tainted, touched by the black hand. We need to be, as James explains, "twice born." This is what most of the current creeds aim to teach or accomplish. Christians, Muslims, and Jews pine for heaven, a second, perfect life they earn through defeating evil in this flawed world. Eastern religions try to equip adherents for a detachment, a release, from this evil-filled world.

Susan always tells me that I see the worst in everything. "I try only to see things as they are," I always say.

Should we just jump ship? Is this sinking man-ruined leviathan a hell, an illusion, a test?

The abstractions jostling each other for supremacy in my brain are growing tired. I can't keep defending both sides of everything, saving myself for some kind of ultimate enlightenment, when I'll just smirk at all the "growing up" I'd suffered through to get there. This cocoon is bursting at the seams, even if it hangs above an abyss. I think I'd rather sink than cling any longer. It's time to pick a road and go. Nothing is worse than inaction. It's inert and fearful- a static, somnolent hell.

When I look back at college, will I have the photo albums of smiling people with red cups? Will there be me cradling some third-world baby with a guiltless smile? Will I have T-shirts with slogans and '10's and '11's on them? Will I have the stories to go along with them, the ones about people falling off fire escapes, pissing off balconies, getting punched, getting laid, getting stoned?

Will I be touched? Will someone drop a line in my brain and hook the big one. Will I even ever have an interesting conversation again? What if it's off to a desk after this?

The last last conversation I had was last fall. I was on a park bench reading "Absolam, Absolam!" by William Faulkner, when a pair of Mormons sat next to me. We talked about predestination, the Golden Tablets, ecumencial councils, redemption, Hell, sin, Young, Smith, eschatology, evolution. I can't get people to remember my name anymore.

And as I sit, as I type, I'm just swept up in cycle. Just flowing with the cycle. Spinning in the cycle. Packing like last year. Reading like last year. Scared like last year. Heart-pounding like last year. Fighting like last year. Walking around like last year. Starting conversations that die like a cough in the winter cold like last year. Bored like last year. Stalling like last year. Hating and loving the same people for the same reasons like last year.

I told Susan that I want to start over in Oxford. She told me to go for it. I laughed at her and at myself.

So here's to the cycle! Here's to not moving, but getting moved! Here's to not learning, but to learning how to do something for someone! Here's to the toilet swirl.

Sunny Weather

2009-07-29T21:21:00.000-07:00

I've been in a pretty good mood lately. Oddly enough, it sprung out of a terrible mood. Monday, I was in a deep, deep funk. I tried dispelling the depression every way I knew how: I read, I wrote, I moped, I exercised, but nothing worked. There's only one fail-safe, sure-fire way to chase away bouts like this, and that's to read Marcus Aurelius' Meditations. So, I whisked it off the shelf and started rifling through it, waiting for Marcus to tell me about how reality was just a sheath, waiting to slip away off my immortal soul or how my when and where is one pointless, listless locus on an infinite plane of existence. I wanted to feel minute, transient, silly, and distracted. Marcus had saved my life once before. In high school, paranoia gripped me pretty bad. I couldn't stand the people, their drugs, their fashion, their jibes, their fads, their insecurities. I asked Marcus, who was writing to me from the Danube River while holding off hordes of Macromanni and Quadi barbarians, whether I should even give a fuck about life. I mean, if my time here is to be spent among people, and I hate people, what was to stop me from hating my time left here? Marcus shook his head. Always dignified, always resigned, Marcus was. He told me people usually aren't worth it. They can be cruel, worthless, vile, destructive. But, we still have a soul, we still have a holy code to be good people. We are patient parents ignoring the stings of stupid children, we are rivers running against boulders and dams. We have to be stolid, steadfast, and strong. Whether or not there's worth in people, there's worth in being a person, a good person.

As a philosopher, Marcus presents some glaring holes. He posits the existence of a soul...I think that's ridiculous, at least for now. Anyway, anyway, who cares, though. Marcus was a man, and once again, he showed me how to let all the people I know and all their hurt, their small-minded assaults, their suffocating expectations, their self-serving small-talk, their jealous psychological war just wash away.

If there's a God, I'll finish the fucking Golden Bough tomorrow. I've been working on it for like four weeks now. It's embarrassing and time-consuming. It's not even really that good. I just...well, I wanted to both challenge myself and cross off another monumental work of literature.

Got clotheslined in the balls today. Some kid took a twenty-foot acceleration, then flipped his hand up and into my nads, not even stopping to see me wince. It's a good thing he didn't, too, else I'd a seen the bastard who belted my boys.

Today, I set a kid up to hit a wiffle ball off the tee. He took a few practice swings, his face the picture of concentration, then stepped forward with all his might. Unfortunately, he not only missed the ball, but toppled the tee. "FUCK!" he said. Did he just say "fuck"? I started laughing uncontrollably. I couldn't believe it. Five-years-old and he's saying "fuck" and saying it correctly? I couldn't keep from envisioning the same kid in a business suit realizing traffic will make him late to some big meeting: "Fuck!" I asked him what he said, and, clear as a bell, he answered me, "Fuck...," with a slightly confused look on his face. Aren't I supposed to say "fuck" when I fuck up? "Well, don't say that," I said.

I went to Susan's family cottage last weekend. It was pretty fun. It rained the whole time, but we made the best of it and squeezed in tubing where we could. A friend of the family, Chad, brought the Manta Ray tube, the one that lifts out of the water, pulling you behind the boat like a kite. I only got a couple feet of air on it, but one little girl must have been ten or fifteen feet out of the water. Susan herself got pretty high! After the Manta, Susan wanted me to do a double tube with her, saying it was "more fun." To Susan, fun must involve equal parts fear and pain. Needless to say, I agreed with a very reluctant "yes". The water was like a fucking washing board-choppy as hell. the compartment in which I was to sit was about the size of a hamster cage, and the 60 or so pounds I have on Susan tilted our tube in my direction. I was crusing for a bruising. "Don't be scared," someone called out from the dock. "Oh, I think you should be," said Chad, my driver, once again. Flooring it to 55, Chad shot out of the dock like a cheetah, leaving me and Susan eating wake-She was laughing, I was screaming. After three or four white-knuckled turns, I noticed a pain spreading through my balls as if they were being lowered into a blender. Keep it together, man; Don't show Susan how big of a baby you are, I thought. So, I tried to smile, but even through the spittle flying from our mouthes, the water drenching us from the wake, and the noise from the boat and all the cheering occupants, Susan could tell that I was scared out of my mind. "Cut the boat, Alex is in pain," she said. Shit, not only did you just get a tubing-neutering, but your girlfriend noticed what a big sissy you are! Oh well, knowing Susan, she probably thought it was more cute than anything else.

During the rainy bouts, I colored with Chad's son, Colin, a cute little kid absolutely obsessed with Nascar and, lately, "Born in the U.S.A." by Bruce Springsteen (The Boss! Hell yeah!). My poem for Susan was passed around most of the family while I was there. I was cool about it, though. I like having them read. Her cottage was four hours away from my house, and Susan and I spent a lot of time on the road together. We kept fighting about why farmers have horses. I maintained that there's no reason for them to have them: they don't serve any purpose; they're not used for food, fuel, fur, muscle, or milk. Susan thought there was no such mystery, and that farmers kept them sheerely for companionship. I think it's a good question, anyway. There must be some use... Glue?

I'm planning a camping trip with Franz, his girlfriend (AKA "the prospect"), Susan, my friend Danny, and Emilee, Danny's girlfriend. We're going to the Au Sable River next week, a really charming, clean river-I've been there once before. I'm really looking forward to it. I'm stockpiling jerkey and trail mix already.

As far as music goes, the only new stuff I like is the EP from Delorean, some Spanish electronica group that Pitchfork likes, and the latest album from A very U2-esque Australian band, the Temper Trap. They use a lot of good guitar delay and choir boy vocals.

I got my driver's license about two weeks ago. It's been all right. Of course, I'm now the family mule, meaning I'm the errand boy for everything- food, people-pick up, lottery tickets, movies, recycling, etc.

Susan has been great, but I'm still worried about my pessimism and the way I slowly but surely slouch away from people-all people. I'm confident she'll be the difference, though, i.e. the reason I won't retreat this time.

School starts up again September 8, and I would say I'm really, really, really upset by this and the notion of a return, but I'm trying to be optimistic (REALLY trying), so I'll just say that I'm nervous. A lot has to happen for me in a very little time.

Things used to just fall together, like a Jackson Pollock painting-random drips forming something beautiful and complete. I used to have epiphanies, where the light would just shine on my face and I just knew, I just knew I was doing the right thing. Now, to make my decisions, I have to buy a new bulb, screw it on myself, angle the lamp at my face, and decide whether it's bright enough to show me the way. Is this using my head vs. using my gut? Am I just to a point where I have to let myself make myself? Does it even matter what I make myself into? Can't I just adapt?

I noticed something about myself this week. One of the main grounds for my instability and my depression is my need to try and embrace two opposite or conflicting ideas at the same time. I ALWAYS try to hold two antagonistic opinions or philosophies in my head at the same time. I'm always trying to exist at both ends of the spectrum. I want to be social, loved, but cenobitic, isolated. I want to be successful, but unknown, small-time, local. I want to dissappear, but I want to reach people. I want to be happy and content, but I love to wallow, to drink in sadness. Am I trying to prove something to myself? Is it the challenge I like? Is it just scoffing in the face of the ever-changingb ever more pointless vicissitudes of human life? Do I just try to amuse myself?

Tell me, Marcus!

Late night blues

2009-07-27T22:52:00.000-07:00

I wrote one cheerful poem for Susan last week, delivering it with a very apropos first bouquet of flowers, and also two really gloomy poems tonight. I might give a nice summary of my last couple weeks tomorrow, but I just had to add these now.

First Flowers

I think I know you best,
Still, the florist was a test.
Your hues blend and match-
Colorful, the perfect catch.

The clerk said, “May I propose
A bright, red, rose?”
Why not, I thought.
They’re lush, layered, and deep.
They drape the tombs of kings.
They line the halls of lovers.
Wherever the heart swells, plummets, or dies,
There, soon, a rose will rise.
But for all its passion and austerity,
Even your thorns would not
Suggest parity.

What about an Iris?
Sad, in my hands it seems to tire,
This purple, fleshy, fire.
But, though draped,
Its petals are so strong-
A stalwart, marching song-
Like you’ve been all along.

The tulip looked delightful.
It’s crisp, parabolic petals-
Walls of wonder.
It carves its place above the ground
Stem, protruding; flower, intruding.
But Holland’s prize cultivar
Wilts in the shadow of what
you are.

A daisy might do nicely,
A simple, honest flower-
White knives rim the golden sun.
They shake when I breathe;
Their needle-stems bending to and fro
As obeisance to nature and
to the girl I know.
Yet, for all its humility and charm,
I can find so much more with you in arm.

Carnations!
Now there’s a great find.
I see their lacey folds crowd, converge, caress
Between their red-rimmed reaches
A secret.
What makes the petals so beautiful and keeps
Them riding the same wave,
Rippling in the same current, like
Shivers of the ocean
Obfuscating sunken treasure?
But whatever answer I’d find
Could never surpass my joy
In seeing the layers of
your mind.

How could I forget the forget-me-nots
And their soft, Vermeer blue!
Beautiful, yes,
But where grows the flower that captures your
Thick, flowing sepia hair
Or your rich, loess eyes-
So healthy, so lovely-
Artifacts from a life we no longer lead:
When corn grew without the farmer’s hand,
When men could run without getting tired
Or losing the vault of the sky;
When music trickled from the trees,
Like rich sap, drawn from the calls of birds
The sigh of the wind, the moaning of boughs,
And time sat in the shade
To watch the grass grow tall.

Flowers can say a lot of things.
Send them to a funeral
Lay them on a wall.
Pin them to a girl.
Throw them down the aisle.
But what petals can I pick,
What bulbs can I buy
Worthy of the girl
For whom I would die?

I’ve grown from a seed,
Nurtured and watered by
your gentle hand,
Into a dazzling new flower-
A happy, young man.
Stunted, I’d sat-
Alone, cold, so dark-
‘till you cracked the window
And offered your spark.

The heart is born on a breaking wheel.
Lash yourself to the spoke and be torn.
But you and I can say one thing to
Spite the darkness that everywhere falls:
“Good things do happen to good people.
Love brings them together and
Gives them a joy above all.”

You can't follow me

I’m meant for something else.
I march to fate’s flute.
You have to let me go.
You have to let me go.

You weren’t meant,
To walk these roads,
Fall on these rocks,
Bleed on these bones

I’m drifting up
And you can’t hold on.
Gravity pulls you down
Slipping, you’re gone.

I’m alone-
Alone again-
Because I’ve been branded
Culled, chosen
To know no fear
And to have no friends-
To follow the light
And leave everyone in the dark.

Weltschmerz

What ideas have you been feeding on
That your mind has ballooned to
Fill the universe?
Where can you put your ego?
Are you glad that you can’t fit anymore,
That there’s nothing here for you now?
What will you do and where will you go?
Can you ever find a country, a home, a woman?
Will you ever attach yourself to the ephemeral?
You must, for how will your name be remembered
And sung, and quoted, and anthologized.
You want to be remembered
But the world doesn’t want to remember you.

Does it frighten you how you can’t project
A future, a life onto yourself?
That you’re a shade, watching it all through the glass?
You’ve been disengaged and set into orbit.
You tried to rise above, only to disappear.
You can’t even taste anymore.

Was it all worth it?
This divorce, this schism, excommunication?
Who can you tell your tale of heartbreak to?
Can you even speak?
Do we envy or pity you?
Are you a hero or a waste?

They happen around you, the things,
I know.
They swirl, condense, dissolve,
And you grin and observe
Cool and collected,
Free to opine and analyze to your heart’s content.

But you can’t get it back.
You lost it at the quickening.
You’ve been released and you’re bobbing on a new horizon.

Keep crying
Keep lying
Keep sighing
Keep dying.

I feel a melt down coming on

2009-07-01T17:49:00.000-07:00

I've had a cold for a couple of days now. Seems to be a pattern- I like to write when I'm sick. Must be the down-time. I'm gulping sudafeds like air, and they're making my nose green and crusty, but at least I can breathe. My eyes feel like they are slowly poked out of my skull, as if by the handle of a hyperdermic needle. I kept waiting for them to pop today. My co-workers caught me blinking and swallowing, bull-frog-like, in a desperate- and stupid- attempt to keep them attached to my optic nerve. Is this what they call sinus pressure? I wouldn't know. Some people really take an interest in their illness, scouring WebMD for mutual symptoms or greedily feeding their paranoia to watch the rest of us squirm or to satisfy their hypochondria ("I have an itchy nose, too! It's polio!").

It really slowed me down at work today. I work for my city's Parks and Rec. Department, doing whatever they need- coaching, score-keeping, chaperoning, etc. Our boss summoned us a whole hour early to give us donuts and orange juice in exchange for forcing us to listen to her rant and rave- really the only thing she can hold on to, the real foundation of her authority, the sole claimant to her boss throne. The silver lining: we WERE paid. Oh yippy... After that, I dragged ass for six hours, letting kids hit me with baseball bats, hi-five me in the nuts, pelt me with mitts and hats, and try to "pants" me during our morning run. Any other day, I'd be grinning while recounting all the mischevious pranks and adorable quirks of the kids, but when I'm sick, I really start to feel like a punching bag. To make matters worse, my co-workers, who are already kind of annoying, kept pushing my buttons, asking me where my "sunshine" went and why I wasn't being my usual "Winnie the Pooh" self. Fucking gag me. I kept trying to work up a sneeze to blast them with when they made that caricatured droopy frown face, asking me questions in baby-talk, "Are you gunna be okeayayyyyyy?"

How's summer been? I really can't say. Too complicated an answer... My first inclination is to say "fucking terrible," but I really can't find the reasons, you know, except for the same bull shit things I usually bitch about in here- no ambition, no plan, no friends, no feeling of home, no good jobs. I've had plent of time to read. I finally finished the Dark Tower, and I got around to capping the two epochal dystopian novels that everyone who's ever been to a bonfire has had to listen to some asshole sermonize about- 1984 and Brave New World. After that, I read Portnoy's Complaint and A Passage to India. I'm working on Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer right now. It seems pretty dense and experimental, which worries me. Nothing makes me more insecure than when I feel I'm missing the subtlety in something.

I've spent a lot of time in Flint with my girlfriend. We have fun because we love being together, even if our love affair is split between the two most miserable metropolitan areas in the country. Sometimes, though, being with her saddens me further. "You have to love yourself before you can love someone else." The insecurities and shortcomings I can ignore with a book, a song, a day in the sun, reappear when she's around. Questions like "why do you love me?" or "but I'm a loser, aren't I?" or "do you know I'm not an adult, not even a little bit?" throb in my brain like a migraine, and they taint some of the good times I know we'd be having. Added to these are the fatal uncertainty and pernicious financial situation I've been grappling with lately. But, summer is warm, forgiving, lazy, listless, balmy, drowzy, smiley, sunny. . . I can be the grinning idiot, the prepubescent pococurante, for another two months.

J.J. , my brother, is making me download him music all the time now. I've always resented those people who say they have a "music guru" or someone who showed them "good music" and, thus, "saved" them. It's too personal, music, that is, to be picked out by someone like a store clerk. It's not like fashion. We don't asked to be dressed by someone with good sense. Whatever, it doesn't matter. Word of mouth is important to music, anyways. I guess I'm not sure whether that's separable from musical tutelage. Either way, I've showed some stuff I really like, and, much to my delight, he's liked it all. This summer hasn't been a complete bust. I've found some stuff I like: New albums from The Dirty Projectors, Phoenix, The Dear Hunter, Dream Theater (of course), and The Mars Volta have all been pleasant, nothing that's really knocked me off my ass, though, though Orca Bitte, from the Dirty Projectors, was exceptional. When he's not soliciting me for new music, J.J. can be found baking underneath a blue canopy, hugging his personal flotation device, laughing at his ironic smear of nose sun tan lotion- absolutely revelling in the thrill of his new job, a life guard for our local pool. Sarah, my sister, joins him there. It's pretty cute, actually, watching them strut off together, twirling their whistles, feeding off each other's egos, trying to out hard-ass the other with their morning threats, "Well, today, I'm not going to let anyone so much as SKIP on the deck. If they do, their ass is grass!" To this, the other will reply, "OH YEAH? Well I'm going to tell ______ that I'm sick of their @#$% and that she/he can go to a different pool if they touch pool rope one more time." "Whoa, that's awesome!" Power-tripping in the red suit!

My dad, I think, is starting to feel old, and it's absolutely awful to watch. He sleeps like a lion. In fact, he lives like one outright. He'll wake up, roar, scaring rivals away from his section of the wildebeest, gorge, then sleep and sleep and sleep until he's hungry again. Anyways, back to his nigh-silent senescence, he's been quieter, more irritable, less good-natured about his failing body, more defensive. I probably wouldn't notice his lonely descent if it weren't for his occasional bacardi marathons, when the graying layers of his mind are peeled back and he's jolly again, telling me, "It'll all work out," "Just keep doing what you're doing," "You'll find it," "Something's out there," making me engraged. Of COURSE, drunkeness would elicit that kind of shit. How nauseating is it that this "hope in the bottle" crap has to be spread before me, this bottle-tipping despair. But I don't hold my dad at fault. He's just feeling old; accepting age means accepting death, and there would be nothing to learn if we didn't have to accept death. It's the supreme challenge, and, frankly, the only thing worth LIVING for, as far as I can tell.

My mom is going through menopause, which means the water works are being flipped on and off haphazardly. She'll cry if a hug is too short or if a memorial is broadcast on T.V. (for MJ, for a veteran, for ANYONE). She's been irritable, too.

My friends? I really have nothing to write about here . If I haven't succeeded in isolating myself from all of them by now, I'll be truly surprised for the first time in a long time. My one good friend left in this city is pissing me off. I work with him, actually, and lately his butt-kisser laugh has become insufferable, both because it's insincere and because it's fucking working. My friend in Ann Arbor truly got lucky: three semesters spent conducting a booze and drug experiment, wondering whether he will remember the name written on his diploma when it's handed to him, landed him an awesome research job for the summer and tons of connections. Great, good for you, I say. And what does he do? Throws it back in my face, usually with my girlfriend standing right next to me (inadvertently stirring the self-pitying questions I just wrote about): "So, are you even doing anything?", "Aren't you going back home to the same job?", "Isn't that type of degree worthless? Unless, of course, you want to be a barrista?". I'm not charitable enough to try being happy for someone when that's my return back-clap.

Todash

2009-05-13T10:55:00.000-07:00

I just got back from a 5-day trip to Chicago with Susan. I got back on Saturday, and I'm still exhausted. All we did was walk and eat Subway sandwiches. It was kind of hybrid trip: we did some touristy stuff, but we also just chilled. We figured that between the two of us we'd dumped our money on pretty much everything you can- museums, tours, pizza, hot dogs, the works. Really, it was just somewhere for us to get away. Helluva city, though, as I'm sure I don't need to tell you. Here's a couple pictures. Actually, outside the Field Museum, we decided to take a picture. We were both kind of drained from five hours of cadavers and cutting implements, and as I hoisted the camera, my fingers slipped. Susan's 8 mega-pixel camera skipped down like ten stone steps before it halted. I raced down to see it, not sure what I'd find- memory card mangled, battery ooze eating away at the stone, lens fluttering frenetically- but it was miraculously unscathed. Our masterstroke was our trip to the Lincoln Park Zoo. If you're ever in Chicago, you need to go, especially if you're a penny-pincher like me. It's a free zoo, but it's fantastic, definitely on par with our zoo here in Detroit. We used my parents' Hilton points to stay three nights in the Chicago Hilton, which is right on Michigan Avenue. It was a lovely hotel, and I felt like a huge brat for being there, but it was free, and my parents seemed excited to do this for me. After that, we stayed a night with Susan's cousin, also named Susan. She and her husband were really sweet for putting us up. I wouldn't mind living in their neighborhood some day. They had a nice apartment and were only a ten minute red-line trip away from downtown Chicago. Then, Saturday morning, we left for home.

I missed my friend Billy's baby's baptism (quite the tongue-twister. Susan and I enjoyed it immensely as we threw an annoying, robot-voiced GPS back and forth like a hot potato in the car ride back from Chicago). My best bud Danny tells me to expect a tidal wave of opprobrium. My friend Rob, who was dubbed "Strafe" back in high school, has already been giving me mountains of shit, telling me that "we're not friends anymore", that I've "failed as a friend". Things like this are typical from him, though, so I have to add a grain of salt to all of his abuse. Still, I don't think I should have to put up with all of this. I'm a good friend to my good friends. Some people just need to learn that I'm not that close to them. What can be more constantly heart-breaking than to see your best friend behave like a mere acquaintance? Well, before you line yourself up for that kind of disappointment, you should ask yourself whether or not this person IS just an acquaintance. People grow apart, and there's absolutely nothing wrong with that. It's natural, it's necessary, even. I just simply don't have the same investment in certain people, and I do NOT expect them to retain theirs in me. If this sounds cold, I don't want it to. It's just an unemotional account of the degeneration of friendship, something as natural and inevitable as the formation itself.

Coming home has always been a blessing in disguise. This one's been different, though. It's clear I need a break, but I still can't stand slowing down. This economy though has been one hell of a speed bump. I'm job hunting these minimum-wage, burger flipping, piece-of-shit, seasonal employments to extinction, but my prey is elusive. I've done the walk of shame down Gratiot Avenue like twice now, with no luck. One of the most poisonous consequences of this recession is this feeling of defectiveness. This economy already commodifies every aspect of our life, including ourselves. We're tools to be used. When there's no "use" for us, we lose our purpose. This is why people are jumping off of overpasses. This is why forty-year-old fathers of three are robbing convenience stores. I'm feeling it myself :/

That feeling of uselessness really kills me, and, the way I see it, there's only two ways to beat it: 1.) I can keep trying. I can persevere, find a job, make money, and just keep truckin' until things (if things) get better.

2.) I can dig deep into some philosophical mumbo jumbo and dissolve this whole concept of uselessness. Who says I'm useless? What is 'useless'? Is it even so bad to be useless?

Right now, I'm trying to run both at the same time, but it's a crap shoot, really. They're not very complementary, and by trying to reconcile them with each other, I might be losing any and all advantages each would give me by itself, without interference.

Pop/punk, sort of the guilty pleasure for all guys my age, speaks to me the most right now (Secret #34235 for you, blog). I've been listening to two bands a lot, lately: The Dangerous Summer and Valencia. First off, I fucking hate that name, "The Dangerous Summer." Why are bands doing this? Every name is like a phrase or sentence now or, even worse, a sentence that leaves out the object- e.g. The Academy Is... . Wow, what interesting syntax. I bet that would piss off my parents, to know that I listen to bands who are very playful with their names and run counter to the normative grammar of older generations. I'm calm now. The Dangerous Summer have some really good songs. "Northern Lights" is very powerful, with heart-rending narration and powerful vocals. On Valencia's latest LP, every track is strong. "Where Did You Go" might be the most catchy, with a super fun drum beat and cheery lyrics, delivered with a emo flourish, which makes it something of a happy curio, a true little gem of my summer. "Free" and "Carry On" are outstanding, too.

As far as new music goes, Camera Obscura's new album was okay, a bit formulaic and prosaic. I love their singer's soft, lilting voice. What else...Oh, Dredg's album was, hm, something of a disappointment for me. I don't THINK they're selling out, but this album seems like a ploy to get some much-needed fans and some mainstream notice. Known for their proggy forays with strange instruments and rad lap-steel humming, as well as some very recondite, but fascinating lyrics, Dredg have always stood out to me as a band that was breathing new life into a scene that seems a little too afraid to experiment. Yet, this new album sort of shed's their roots. The band even acknowledged that it was going to be "just a rock record". There's a couple funk songs on it, and they were about as misplaced as "Stand Up Comedy" on the recent "No Line on the Horizon" (I actually liked U2's attempt, though, even if it was a little out of place). Most of the songs obey the same-ole, same-ole verse-chorus structure that we like to chime with in the car, but hope bands like Dredg replace with something more creative. The two singles are freaking awful. "Information" and "I Don't Know" suck. If anything saves them at all, it's some funky breaks and the beautiful vocals. "Cartoon Showroom", "Quotes", and "Down to the Cellar" are my three favorites so far.

Dream Theater's two early releases from their new album impressed me. "A Rite of Passage" has one of the best guitar solos I've ever heard. "A Nightmare to Remember" is just the kind of winding, epic that we love from Dream Theater, one of the only bands who can make 16-minute songs that hold our full attention throughout.

I'm trying to get into Manchester Orchestra, but I just can't. They seem like they're going to be a huge force in punk for awhile, and I want to get on the bandwagon early. I hate how the vocalist winces out every other note. I like their slow songs, like "I Can Feel a Hot One", a surprisingly thoughtful and emotional song. Maybe it's because I heard this album described as "Pinkerton on steroids"?

Explosions in the Sky are sort of a one-trick pony, but incredible.

This last week, I've started listening to the Allman Brothers Band like mad. "Blue Sky" has one of the coolest solos I've ever heard. Yesterday, I had a religious experience listening to them outside on my trampoline, me bouncing up and down to the music, listening to Duane Allman melodiously dance up and down for like three minutes straight on "Blue Sky".

I haven't seen a good movie in awhile. I need to see Star Trek soon. Susan and I watched Apocalypse Now, and I loved it.

My Red Wings lost to the Ducks last night. If you can ignore the sexual innuendos, I'll talk about what I think we've been sucking at. We can't penetrate like Anaheim. We're not big enough (giggle). That team is HUGE; they're like all power forwards who can muscle themselves in front of our net, park it, and then score. We have a couple players like that- Hossa, Franzen, Holmstrom, to name a few. We still have three times more grace, skill, and finesse than Anaheim will ever have, but play-off hockey is a grind, and a strong, physically imposing team like Anaheim is well-suited to that kind of hockey, which is why they always enter the play-offs as a pretty low seed but turn it around. The wings WILL win this series (it concludes Thursday) because we're better. We just need to keep getting the obscene number of take-aways, face-offs, and shots-on-goal that we have been all along. I just know that Thursday night, with the Joe packed with fans chanting Osgood's name and beating on the glass, will have the Wings jacked up and hungry. Also, they have a poise Anaheim will never know. I mean, they just freaking won. Even the young kids are veterans.

The other match-ups have been fun. The Washington-Pittsburgh series has been interesting, filled with plenty of twists and turns. Carolina-Boston has been even better. The titan that is Boston was on thin ice with Carolina up 3-1, but they staved off elimination twice, despite my hysterical cries of anguish whenever they scored (I'm rooting for Boston now, ironically).

Calm

2009-04-22T22:58:00.000-07:00

A lot has happened

I didn't get the Wolverine Summer Camps job that I wanted. Oh, well. I hope some suit-wearing prick got it instead, and I hope he's playing on his Iphone when some kid breaks a leg on the volleyball court.

This is finals time. They (I'm still saying "they"?) have a study week. It's pretty neat. At State, you had a weekend, and then finals week. So, since my classes are jokes, I'm just kind of chilling. I have a paper to write tomorrow, but I'm not that worried about it. I can do no wrong in that class. Anyone with a grasp of punctuation and command over a couple transitions (WHOA! TRANSITIONS, HOLY SHIT!) can ace the papers. If I'm feeling sprightly, I might conjure up a couple more tricks for this one. You know, it being the final paper and all. I might use a colon or two, maybe a parenthesis.

Spanish has kind of been pissing me off. We just had an oral exam. My partner got a 94% and I got an 89%. I guess she showed me up. It should be okay, I have great grades on the written exams. I don't know, there's just something about speaking Spanish. My mind is like a whiteboard. I see the phrases in-print, and I just sort of read them off. I'm like the Spanish Forrest Gump. I speak SO slow and SO deliberately.

There's this really cool song by Metric that I've been listening to non-stop. It's called "Help, I'm alive". Neat beat, very danceable. Great production (some have actually criticized it for this) Awesome vocals.

My friend, Franz, has a new "prospect" (his word. I call it a "cute girl"). Susan and I met her today. I want to give him a high-five right now.

Joe has been sick. Susan and I dragged him to a party last night. He was fine. He really hit it off with this one guy by the entrance. Then, as we're leaving, it looks like Joe is having his testicles chewed by a crocodile. By the time we get back to the dorm, he's popping pills and cancelling study sessions. Today, it was all sweat pants and day-time T.V. It's funny. He has like a sick suit. When he's REALLY hung over or otherwise ill, he puts on these grey sweatpants and matching sweater.

Over the last month, I've been calling in to this on-campus sex-themed talk show "Turned On." They actually have a blog on blogspot. I just prank them stupid with the most lewd shit you can imagine. Whenever I do it, I channel the voice of Carl Brutanandilewski from Aqua Team Hunger Force, which I don't even like that much. At any rate, he has a great voice for vile calls.

Susan is a dream come true. I'm madly in love with her. I brought her home for Greek Orthodox mass. Any shiksa who goes to that service deserves their own holiday. She said she had fun, though.

Here's a really good picture of us. It was taken yesterday.

Well, I'm a philosophy major now-on paper, at least.

My Red Wings have been destroying the Columbus Blue Jackets. They're primed for another parade. The Shark Tank has been punctured, and they're choking on cold, hard, air and their own suck. Funny, I had them going further. Boston swept, like I predicted. The Rangers are winning in the Capitals series, which is an ENORMOUS shocker to me. Sorry, Ovie :/ However, Ovie's attitute has been a little vociferous, a little too confrontational lately. Usually, he's content to just chest-bump the boards whenever he displays some on-ice bravura, but lately, he's been showing up to early morning practice sessions for the opposition. He got kicked out of one. When asked why, he said, "Because they're afraid of me." I really hope Datsyuk beats out his countryment for the Hart. He might be the best player in the NHL. Though his numbers aren't as great as Malkin's or Ovechkin's, bear in mind, Pavel skates against the top lines of the enemy, like on the penalty kill, and he skates far less than Malkin and Ovechkin. So, for what quality point-earning time he gets, I feel he makes the most out of it, more than Malkin or Ovechkin.

Susan's birthday was monday. I took her to the Macaroni Grille, and it was fantastic. Like an Olive Garden, only a bit nicer (almost identical, actually). I got her a Wolverine Ice Hockey jersey. It's a small, and she's swimming in it. She loved it, though, and, I have to admit, she's dashing in it. Yellow really complements her dark hair and eyes. Before I gave it to her, I dragged her in front of my mirror and made her shut her eyes. Then, I browsed through my closet for about ten minutes, just to build the anticipation. When it looked like she couldn't take it anymore, I grabbed the jersey and slipped it over her.

We've grown since my last post

I won't mince words: Susan is the best thing to ever happen to me.

Well, that's all for now.

2009-04-22T21:59:00.000-07:00

I build it up to get it knocked down. I'm treading water. Not drowning, not swimming. Watching everyone else disappear on the horizon like freighters on Lake Huron while I fight the weeds around my legs. And I know, I know, that the slightest look from her can make it all go away. That the cloud can disperse, that I can be rooted, anchored to this world I'm spinning off of at terminal velocity.

Is that bad? That someone has this control. That I'm owned. That I can't make things better for myself. That I need someone to flick the switch, to tell me I exist "for a reason", that there's a place for me, that I'm great, that the world is lucky to have me.

And how much worse is it that I can't believe her? That I have to watch her say the most beautiful things and still take them with a grain of salt? I hate this filter everything has to slide through to get in my brain. The truth is putty. It's taffy. I love playing with it.

And, still, I'm getting ready to go drift through the same summer air currents, press my tired legs against cold porch concrete, nylon hammock, cotton blanket. Cushioning, stifling, stultifying.

There's a bunch of paradoxes I can't understand about myself. Knots that keep me so constricted, but can't be untied. I want to be a part of something, but I simultaneously despise any kind of organization, with their fucking name-tags, people saying, "resume builder!", and hours sheets. I want to be something great, but I can give it all up.

I need to decide for what and why I want to live.

My girlfriend is going away for awhile. But it's okay, we'll talk once a week, and I'll bum a ride off my parents to drive me half-way to some fucking diner to meet her for coffee.

I couldn't be more miserable.

Back to the same god damn, mother fucking, sorry-assed, piece-of-shit job. I'm the only person who can't make things better for himself. Everyone else can FIND things. People, scholarships, money, jobs. I sit with my thumb up my ass, blind to the world, groping my way through life.

Just when I think I could fade out, cease to exist, I find that I suddenly love life, more than anyone else. I'm an accordion, I'm a jump-rope, I'm a roller coaster, I'm a wave, I'm a string vibration, I'm a yo-yo, I'm a ship hull, I'm the sun, I'm a thermometer, I'm a volcano.

I'd rather be blind, deaf, and dumb than mediocre. I'd rather just succumb, just beat my brains out with alcohol and drugs, than spend my life like a dog trying to walk on two legs.

I need to leave and be alone. I need 5000 dollars to fall into my lap, and then I need to get out of here.

I have done nothing. I've met no one. I've written nothing. I've created nothing. I've said nothing. I'm treading water.

I fucking hate this school, too. I hate them all. They're a scam, a callous business, a piece of this world.

I hate this fucking post. It's terrible. Anyone could have written it. It's self-indulgent, it's angsty. It's seventeen-years-old. It's juvenile, it's puerile, it's pointless, it's selfish, it's ignorant, it's whiny, it's lazy, it's disgusting.

I think I've been depressed for awhile. I ignored it. I just thought I was weak (not saying I'm not). But I've been crushed like this before.

I'm at the bottom of a valley and the sky is black. The mountains are infinite and the land is barren. Guess I'll just stay for three more fucking years.

Coming here was a mistake. I lost a year. Even more, I lost a degree. I'm repeating things, I'm learning NOTHING. I'm learning not to think for myself, not to make decisions, because I'm always so fucking wrong.

I'm looking at a picture of me right now. I'm smiling. I want to vomit. As if the party could coax some happiness out of me? As if that was "what I needed"? I could sit here in this room for the rest of my life.

Something is wired wrong. Which wire can I cut?

And all this sadness, it's just not productive. It'll wrench my mind away from the things that could save it, it will keep it hopelessly dithering in my fear. I'll just keep sitting here, shaking at myself, trembling out of fear and rage.

Can I just have my fucking office job now? Can I just start dressing business-casual? Can I just start living for the water cooler chats? Can I just stare at a screen, make enough money to live, and then go home and be away from everyone and everything? Can I just be separate, at last?

Every time I laugh, I want to cut my vocal cords out. I would laugh. I have nothing to lose, I'm fucking daft. Those are the people who laugh like I do. The one's who are just too depressed to stop. Because what happens then? Well, it's not very funny.

How much money do I have to waste on myself? Enough to get professional help? Enough to go do something? To get an exciting internship? I'd burn it. I'll starve. I don't care.

How far can I go? Tell me, I'll go.

The more people I bring in, the more people I hurt. They're cockle burs. They cling to me, only to be deposited in a big pile of shit. Oh, I'm real good at latching them. I'm so fucking funny, and charming, and playful, and fun. You should see them fall. They jump right on to my sleeve.

I can't talk to anyone. They all remind me of things I hate to much. Home, this school, my past self, my future self. Being human has been hard.

Fuck this record. I knew "The Bends" would make me do this.

The Turn of the Tide?

2009-03-25T12:34:00.000-07:00

Class was cancelled today, so I get an hour to doof around. I thought I should spend it on here. I have not been fair, my dear friend. We have grown apart, and I fear it's my fault.

Things have been good. Spanish is manageable. The key to college is figuring out what you can ignore. In my case, there are two classes I can virtually ignore: American Cultures 201 and English 124. I still go to them-skipping has always seemed too intoxicating to try- but I put virtually no effort into them. By sticking my head in the sand once in awhile, I've been able to free up a lot of time for myself, time to watch viral videos and read magazines. Today, I watched four face plants in succession and read about the fog forests of Chile. It was cool: as I read about the fog forests, my pages started to get soggy (the humidity is over 100% today. This asshole needs an umbrella). It seemed staged almost.

As the campus warms up, all the hibernating hippies start to bloom. One has to edge around the drum circles to resist the pull of peace. I've seen some other stuff, too. I watched a scrawny little dude climb an oak, all while his friends pelted him with Frisbees. I saw a massive Nerf gun war. Man have Nerf guns changed. They have loadable clips now. You should have seen the murderous smirk on this one kid's face when he popped out his clip like some kind of action hero. Before he could launch a Nerf grenade or grunt a one-liner ("I'm sending you foam" would have done nicely), his friend began batting him with an open umbrella, Nerf dart shrapnel ricocheting in every direction. Freaks, I tell you. In addition to the freaks, there has been a huge explosion in food vendors. This is a good thing. There's a tamale lady on my way to class. Once I make it to the ATM, she's going to need a separate cart just for me. Spring is doing a lot for us, melting our icy exteriors, clearing the haze, even if we are getting a little congested from the new allergens floating around. It's doing wonders for me, at the very least. Two days ago, the sun was dipping over a really pretty arch I walk under, and I was listening to some song. I think it was "Idioteque" by Radiohead. Awesome. Moments like that keep me around. Should I be inured by a constant, pleasant climate, I think I'd miss times like that. You need the bad to appreciate the good sometimes. I'll be down to my standard T-shirt and cargo shorts soon, and I'll settle into what I am yet again. I do change quite a bit after the school year is over. But I'll save a later post for an ode to summer. There are other things to discuss.

I am falling in love. Is it ever expected? Don't we all think it will never happen? Should we nourish it? Do we let it grow on its own? Isn't that the only way to prove it's real? How do I know I'm there in the first place? Susan has slid into my life like an arm into a sleeve after dropping into it like a meteor. It was almost like I didn't have time to be wary or uncomfortable around her. It was like fate said,"It's going to happen, so why not just skip all the pointless awkwardness?" But now that she's here, she's like a natural, organic part. She's the only person I can't seem to get sick of. I've mentioned it before: I get really weary of company, everyone, my best friends and family. I kept waiting for her to touch a nerve, get too close, hang around too long, but it never happened. I take her with me everywhere- the gym, the library, the cafeteria, the town, the laundry rooms, the computer labs. She's omnipresent. She's an enhancement, like music or food; she just makes everything better, every setting. EVERYONE loves her, in fact, including ex-boyfriends. One sent her a three-page, handwritten letter, another calls her up regularly and tells her they're going to get married. It's like a personality cult or something. I couldn't be happier about her.

But I'm not fixed, far from it. And it's heartbreaking to admit because I thought the problem was a problem of a "someone" that wasn't there. While I've told Susan that she keeps me connected to the world, a sort of liaison between myself and the stuff I all to easily drift away from, there's still something keeping me from being happy. John Muir once said, "I was on the the world, but was I in it?" I think about that quote almost every day. I don't know enough about him to call him my personal hero, but the more I learn the more I think I might start. We're both avid wilderness trekkers, and it seems like he and I have a mutual problem. Sometimes, when I'm really, really, bone crushingly, rocking back and forth sad, I say to myself, "There's nothing here for me." What if that's true? What if this store just doesn't have what I need in stock? Ever look at those giant lists of occupations or hobbies? Ever take the bull by the horns and just systematically build your life? I do it all the time, and my hand hurts from all the slashes I've made. And when I've scratched off nearly every profession, I'm left with the same dismal prospects: writer, historian, classicist, journalist, columnist, conservationist, environmental lawyer, professor. I haven't lived enough to really know, but nothing on this list really grabs me. These decisions are supposed to be so magical, so powerful, almost like you're getting claimed, like it's not even you that's making the decision (Think Sorting Hat or Excalibur). And yet, here I sit, making pros and cons tables, looking at salary charts, markets, brass tacks, bare facts, nuts and bolts, practical, pragmatic, rational BULL SHIT. Nothing in me leaps when I think about the future. Nothing lights up. God, what I wouldn't give to just know something for once, deep down in my gut, with intuition and certainty. My decision needs to come soon. There's no more excuses. I'm not new here anymore, and I'm certainly not young, not really. And then there's the question of whether or not this is even that important. Is a job just a job? Well, I guess it is for some people. Maybe I'm going at this the wrong way? Maybe I should find something safe, secure, and lucrative so I can enjoy my life in the spaces between.

This library is freaking raucous as hell. There's a black dude with a tie-dye knit cap singing and dancing at his work station like he's from an iPod commercial. There's frenetic, hysterical freshmen wringing each other out for forgetting their part of the project, saying things like, "We're fucked, man. WE'RE FUCKED." I see people on facebook, espn.com, yahoo, and wikipedia. There's mugs, thermoses, cups, and bowls. I need to leave, probably. I can't focus.

All in all, though, there's pretty much no drama in my life. That would be a good thing if it didn't mean there's also a dearth of stories. Those are my favorite things to write about. Hmmm, well there are some, but don't know how I could put them here... Maybe I should have kept this private...Well, if they get better, I'll consider taking this underground. I could devote this whole thing to stories.

Oh, I interviewed for a Wolverine summer camp job last weekend. I kicked ass, I think. It's a great job: Free room and board, decent weekly stipend, easy and fun work. I showed up in a T-shirt with a nominal collar and some jeans. The fuckers on my right and left looked like they were about to complain about the 90% tax on their bonuses. The women were sharp, too. Skirts and blouses.

I've been listening to different music this year. January was Radiohead month. February was kind of different. I tried listening to some blues, like the Black Keys, Elmore James, Muddy Waters, John Lee Hooker, Ry Cooder. March has been REALLY scrambled. I went to a Wynton Marsalis concert with Franz, which made me delve into my jazz stuff for a week. I have a lot of Charlie Parker, Miles Davis, and John Coltrane on here, as far as bebop goes, but I also have a bunch of other saxophonists that I'm just now remembering. After that, I found this album from Britain by a group called Grammatics (their album is self-titled). It's fucking awesome, every track. Try to steal it. Yesterday, new albums from The Decemberists and Mastodon came out. I've listened to the former, and I can't get my hands on the latter yet. More stuff is on the way, though.

Things are getting better, but I don't know for how long or for what reason, actually. I'm nervous, but I don't think I'm going to think about all this anymore. There's enough here for me to enjoy right now, and I'm going to do just that.

Plot Dump

2009-02-21T13:30:00.000-08:00

I'm sick as hell. I think my body caught a bug, but fought it until I could let it consume me in peace, alone in my room. Kind of considerate of the bug to cooperate, I guess. I took a shower yesterday, laid down, and then didn't get up for five hours. When I did finally rise, Frankenstein-like, off my bed, I blindly groped my way downstairs and ate everything on the counter. After the feast, I found my glasses and saw about six people, slack jawed, watching my pizza-stained ass (I'm -7.0 in each eye, which is like in between a bat and a mole). I feel better today, but my throat is still a bit puffy. Lucky for me, I have a freaking Vernors vault in my garage, so if nothing else, my sickness gives me carte blanche with the ginger ale.

I'm home now. I haven't been in this room since January 6. It's no Panama City, but I should be looking at a pretty decent week. My magazines have been nicely stockpiled on my floor, and there's tons of beef jerky and hummus sequestered in my part of the fridge.

But this is all pretty boring.

Classes are all right. I'm getting pretty good at Spanish. I'm keeping up. Nothing else to say about them really, except that they're boring, for the most part, and tedious. They're not killing me anymore, though, which is good.

My life has taken some pretty interesting and unexpected turns this year. I feel bad about not writing in here more often. So, now I have to give a giant plot dump.

It's probably easier to do this by categories. Maybe I'll talk about people, one-by-one first? I even ripped some pictures off facebook.

Joe: My 22-year-old roommate. Eats whole pizzas by himself while playing old PS2 games. Breathes heavy, farts when girls are in the room. Also, happiest person on planet. Laughs at UPN sitcoms and apoplectic Japanese cartoon characters. Asked me, "Hey, do you want to live with me next year?" like the second week of school. Not wanting to sound like a dick, I said, "yes." He has made me sign up for a room very far from my classes but very close to his. Says "it kind of sucks for me." Want to hit him a bit right now. Still, very nice person.

Franz- My buddy. Comes over quite a bit. He's a man of very particular tastes, a collage of different brands and people- AW, Blues music, Mitt Romney, Schwepps ginger ale, Arizona Tea, barbecue sauce, Batman, Drudge Report, Detroit Tigers. Self-described "50-year-old" man. Reads the Wall Street Journal while we play Rock Band. Very fun, though. We piss our pants while swapping youtube clips. Does a decent Sandler, good Clint Eastwood, and phenomenal Joe (from Family Guy). Works his ass off. Gives private tours of his chic business school. Only person I know who writes more memos than essays. Helping to get my life together. Taught me about commodities, securities, futures contracts, and the Federal Reserve. Massages girls a LOT (more on that later). Darkest eyes you've ever seen, vampire-like, almost. Thinks cake is a main course, and eats pizza out of sheer boredom. Skinny as a fucking rail.

Zack- New friend. Lives down the hall. Has seen EVERY movie from Birth of a Nation to the fucking Watchmen, which comes out next month. Very funny. Full of movie quotes. Worked at Paramount over the summer. Has a film Credit on Friday the 13th, I think. Big guy. Gained a lot of weight after football, not uncommon. Can still run faster and longer than me, I think, based on what I saw when we worked out. Sprinted to his class in the Diag in two minutes because he woke up a half hour late. It takes me about twelve minutes to get there. Doesn't do homework, ever. Sits in my room all day and watches me do it, instead, or plays Rock Band 2, working both the guitar and the vocals at the same time. Brought me Challah bread for my birthday. Really nice, very friendly. Joined a fraternity. Stumbled into my room after they abducted and inebriated him for his initiation. Sang like a fucking beast when we played Rock Band. It brought a tear to my eye. Wanted to get an apartment together, spend a weekend at his house in Bloomfield Hills, and join him in California for Spring Break. Very friendly. Perhaps a little too much so?

That rounds out the guys I see on a daily basis.

Now for a story.

Romance has been a pretty bleak prospect for me these last two years. As I've complained about before, I just could not find a girl I liked. There were more pretty girls at State than grains of sand in the Sahara, but I wasn't attracted to any of them at all. Everything was a "hi, bye" type of relationship. I had absolutely no drive to pursue them or date them.

I moved into East Quandrangle on January 7th and was immediately impressed. My room was an island in a sea of cute girls. I was truly excited. But, in typical Alex fashion, I lost interest in all of them within a few days. I don't even know what part of my brain or heart caused this. They didn't do anything wrong. It could have been the school work. I was angry at the way classes ripped my life away, and I was even angrier at the possibility of someone ripping any more of it away. So, I guarded myself. I was cavalier. I "played it cool." This is about the time when I pledged to my guy friends that I would never stand between them and a girl that they liked. You know, the old "Bros before hoes" credo. Sure enough, within a couple of weeks, Joe developed a crush on a girl named Susan, who hung out with us a lot. "I won't fight you, man. Go for it," I said. And "go for it" he did, but he failed miserably. She came and watched him play video games. He invited her to watch movies with us. By the looks of it, she seemed to have an interest in him. However, when I asked her if she did, she denied any and all feelings. And yet, she still kept coming to the room. Flash forward to about two weeks later. There are a lot of people in my room, maybe seven? We hang out late. Susan looks really sleepy and curls up on my bed. We all sort of stare in wonder, thinking about whether she meant to stay there or not. My mind was doing somersaults. Do I take the floor? A chair? The hallway? Do I wake her ass up and boot her? She looked too peaceful for that. So, I voice my dilemma to the gentlemen, and we decide to wake her up together. Susan begrudgingly leaves. About a week later, the exact same thing happens, and this time, Susan looks dead asleep. None of us could summon the cruelty to jerk her out of it and send her packing, so we let her stay. After everyone leaves, I go brush my teeth, hoping maybe that she left with everyone else. I open a door to find the lights off and a girl asleep in my bed. By this time, I was tired as hell, and far from surrendering my comfy foam-layered mattress for some shitty steel-frame desk chair. So, I took a deep breath and crawled in next to her. What followed was a sleepless night, punctuated by an eight-hour, raging erection. These sleepovers soon became weekly because Susan liked sleeping in our room more (she said it was warmer than her room), and we quickly gained a reputation for having the weirdest relationship ever. Now, you may think I'd have gotten a clue by now, but I hadn't. Truth is, I really didn't know what to make of Susan. Sure, she would sleep with me, but she'd also give my friends sensuous back rubs. Here's where my friend Franz entered the mix. Though I can't remember if he ever explicitly stated it, I'm sure he had some feelings for Susan. He would tease her until her face was red from laughing, which I had remembered as a signature part of Franz's courtship method- small, gentle put-downs really do drive a woman's passions wild. Like a mosquito, he'd be on her the second she'd walk into our room, sucking the stress out of her with his fingers and then getting her to do the same. I watched all of these in utter confusion. Just what kind of game was this girl playing? God, I hate flirts, I thought. No, this girl isn't for me. Friends started pestering me about Susan after I told them I'd been "sleeping with her" (Don't worry, I explained the joke. I'm not a pig :D), and I told them she just wasn't my type. Besides, there was the credo. So, yet again, I told Franz to "go for it." And, for awhile, it looked like he was killing it. She would hang out with him, one-on-one, in his single until the wee hours. They had their own little private jokes and nicknames. One night, when, to escape the fracas that is my room, I was reading at a table in the hallway, the two walked by me, obviously on their way to Franz's room. "I'm stealing her from you!" Franz said with a smirk, and Susan smiled. I was getting pretty excited for Franz. So, I decided to feel her out, see if I could russle up some encouragement for my friend. I started teasing her about Franz, poking at the long, sexual massages they administered to each other behind closed doors her little nicknames for him- "Franzy-wanzy" being the most nauseating. I mean "yeesh"! And, to my surprise, this made her upset. Soon after, the massages stopped. Hmmmmmmm, curious, I thought. Next up was Zach. He seemed to have a little thing for Susan. So, for the third and final time, I told one of my friends to "go for it." So, he did. However, returning from her room one night, he came to me with a kind of resigned look on his face. "Congratulations," he said, "she likes you." I don't know what it is about revelations of this sort, but they seem to place you on a play clock. Action was needed, whether it be rejection or something else. I was shocked, but not really. I was embarrassed, but not so much. I was worried, but also suddenly confident. First things first, I had to sit down and see if I had any feelings for this girl, now that my friends were no longer in the picture (I don't know who taught me that there is virtue in forbearance, anyway. Maybe it's a Puritan thing). So I thought it over for the rest of the day. I thought about her. Then I thought about what an "us" would be like. Then, I knew. She came over that night, and I revealed my feelings for her. She then revealed hers. I interrogated her a bit, asked her about her little dallies with my friends. She explained that she was, in fact, trying to make me jealous. We shared some more stuff, and then she left. The next four or five days were a bit awkward. We spent a little time trying to describe it. We toyed around with "it's complicated" and "it's a thing". Finally, on my birthday, we agreed to date (this totally made my 20th birthday, by the way, a day I'd been dreading for months.).

So, without further ado, here's Susan.

Susan- Susan is my girlfriend. Beautiful, about 5'2, stunning, wavy, dark hair. Gorgeous, brown eyes. She's one of the sweetest people I've ever met. When I was sick, she made me green tea. When my clothes weren't fitting in my drawers, she folded them with me. When I'm about to grind my teeth into powder in frustration with my Spanish homework, she'll come work on it with me. She's fun. We're learning Merengue dancing and Salsa dancing via youtube. She can play most of the songs on Rockband on medium, and she can sing the shit out of Alanis Morissete's song, which might be the only one I can't make heads or tails of. She eats like a hyena, and I love it. Most important, she has a heart of gold. While she'll indulge in a cruel joke with me and Franz every now and then, Susan is just a really good girl. She practically raised her sister. Susan and her talk all the time, usually with her sister sobbing in the background because she misses Susan so much. She's a genius, and she's diligent. She's semi-fluent ("proficient" she says) in Spanish, which is also the world's sexiest language to be conversational in, I must say. In addition to Spanish, she's studying biochemistry and math. Also, she works two jobs: A research position and a hospital job. She wants to be a surgeon. She's what I've wasted two years looking for: A girl I truly admire.

I'm almost uncomfortable speaking like this/feeling like this. This girl has turned my world upside down. Once, we were talking, about this blog, I think. I told her I had a little depression gnawing at me, and she asked me why. I started to answer her question, but I lost myself in her eyes, and after awhile, it seemed like I was addressing myself, not her. I sort of split in half. It was the strangest thing. I was looking inward with full force. It was like seeing myself in the proverbial mirror for the first time. I was facing the beast, and it felt like finishing a blog post, only ten times sharper. It was almost too much, and I started to tear up, both out of gratitude for the honesty I found and out of sheer joy at having found someone I was truly comfortable around. I know she reads this now, and I don't want her to get freaked out by all this, so I'll just say that I'm very glad I met her and she's done more for me already than she knows.

I was trying to think up choruses for a song yesterday. I'm pretty sure I'll never write one since I don't have any musical ability. But I hear Zach is working on one, so I'm thinking about loaning him this. All I know is he's writing it for some girl.

I'm taking a leap.
Throw me out the window
for a trampoline
or the cold concrete
because you've won me,
you own me,
and when I close my eyes,
I see yours.

I thought I'd end with some more pictures.

These are from the day that Joe, Zack, Zack's cousin, Franz, and I went to the shooting range.

Here's some of me and Joe on a cold day.

And here's some of me with my brother and sister.

Here's a picture my friend Theresa drew of me! It has to be one of the coolest things anyone has ever done for me, and it made me smile more than once during my first trying weeks at my new school. It hangs proudly on my desk.

Here's an old one I found of me and my friend Shane, who I've mentioned in here before. I miss him a lot. I like our matching sweaters.

Anomie

2009-01-24T17:35:00.000-08:00

I might post later again tonight since this isn't new material and because I want to try writing something happy. I like challenges. However, I was browsing through some old files and I came across this, and I was shocked to see how nicely it complements my current mood. This is something I wrote last year (two semesters ago) right before summer break. I had a rough school year- the roughest yet, to be sure- and I just couldn't wait to get home. If I would have kept a blog that year, it would have been TWICE as self-indulgent and pathetic as this one. So, here's the story of my year in a composition. I wrote it for a creative writing class. The assignment was something like, "Write about an object that triggered a change in you." I chose my Alexander statue. It might be a little confusing. The original paper helped establish time and perspective with italics. It's also a little TOO sacharine, a little corny at parts, too, but it's got that same rawness I've unleashed in a couple of these posts- always liberating. Oh, some background- Alexander the Great is my personal hero, always has been. I tried to represent my internal grievances and disappointment through an imagined dispute between myself and Alexander, who speaks through the statue. It's really a clash between the new and the old, the boy and the man.

The Statue and the Man

It’s time to go back to Fraser, time to spend hours, days, months getting sunburned with a good book in my hands, my hands growing black against the bleached pages. It’s time to see old high school friends, to pledge to jog every morning with them until fifteen pounds are gone, to pretend I haven’t changed. I’ll be back in my room soon to play my keyboard, resurrect my stereo, and fall asleep underneath dinosaur-themed curtains that should have been removed and replaced when I was at college, if not when I learned how to walk. I expect some awkwardness. That much is sure. My family will have to accommodate a new me, my friends will have to accept my changes, but they’ll learn, and we’ll make out all right.

But what of Alexander?

A statue sits in my room, a bust, to be precise, of Alexander the Great. It’s milky white, like a boiled oyster shell or like one buffed by eons of sandy undertows. I missed it while I was gone. At first, I could still feel its steely stare, calling me to greatness, asking me to pick up a sword and shield, showing me the glow of the unconquered, unseen horizon, just like I always had. I could feel it in everything I did. Certainty and resolve were my aegis. Ambition was my torch. I was going to be a scientist, a physicist, and I was going to find worlds within worlds.
Summer starts this Wednesday when I toss my computer and bike into my father’s van to again find Fraser and lemonade, and ice cream, and thunderstorms, and pools, and Frisbees. Friends, family, jobs, habits- all waiting for me to pick up where I left off, to jump back in.

But what of Alexander?

He’ll know. The man who sleeps beneath his gaze is a strange one. The person who dusts his shoulders is different, is foreign. The new man will avoid phone calls and family dinners; he’ll listen to his music louder than the boy of last summer did. He’ll dread tomorrow and his next two hour car ride upstate.

Slowly, things began to shrink- my ego, my ambition, my congeniality, my certainty, and my view of the ends of the earth. College showed me limits, college showed me reality. It took the spear out of my hand and replaced it with a job application. It removed my brothers-in-arms and substituted them for fat, droopy sacks- inhaling smoke and vodka and expelling puke and piss. The statue that I envisioned to be seated on my desk seemed smaller than the one I had at home, less detailed, less powerful, less magnificent. Shrunk.

Spring seemed to help a lot. In a last-ditch effort to fix my life at college, I obliterated my schedule. I could again feel the pricks of independence, and the short, excited, pulsating breaths they fostered. I started acing my classes and showing interest. No conqueror on my desk yet. I planned next year, science-free, tried making friends, consulted advisors, and applied for scholarships. Not even a helmet. Some wounds need more than a quick bandage.

I’ll be in the Upper Peninsula in June to paddle down crystal rivers, duel voracious salmon, and feel the tops of mountains under my toes. The jerky will be a salty delight; my flashlight, a scalpel to slice away the thick dark that hides most interesting creatures. I’ll breathe the same air, memorize the same tracks, and visit the same bait shops.

But what of Alexander?

He knows it’s no salvation or escape, only diversion. He’ll notice how the vistas produce shorter gasps; the sunsets, less sighs. The ghosts of the year will remain. Without wonder, all things, even nature, lose their luster.

Poker pots, used car lots, chocolate, and Slurpees.
Blockbusters, gut-busters, pool tables, “hello cable!”
Head pressed against the seat, I dream of heat, of barbequed meat,
Sand beneath my pale and shivering feet.
My computer and bike thump against the van walls.
They’re just as elated to escape Holmes Hall.
The frost of February, the dark of December,
These are the only things I remember.
With nothing to do, there was nothing to say.
So, I sat, silent, and wasted my life away.

Books and magazines! I’ll have time for the multitude. My library card is going to be scanned more than Paris Hilton’s American Express. There’s a fantastic, old swing that hides behind the building. If you can stand a splinter, you can find heaven. There, I’ll forget, delete, and dream.

But what of Alexander?

Books are great, but they can stifle life. They can leave you content with inaction, speculation, and indolence. Over the last eight months, they softened him with the brush of every page. Life shouldn’t be paper, but marble, white marble!

Curiously, I began to cherish the exams and the papers. Homework and studying were celebrations. They were privileges, divine invitations to do something.

There will be yelling and hugs and stories and shrugs. I can’t wait to see my family. We’ve been close all my life, confiding in one another, drawing strength from each other’s uncompromising individuality- our identity had always depended on how un-identical we were. Once again, I’ll have to sweep my sister’s teeny-bopper magazines out of my room and pry her cosmetics out of drawers. J.J., my brother will be gripping his football, clenching its laces, before I even set down my dirty clothes, and, of course, I’ll oblige him. My father will have a fruity, alcoholic beverage with three ice cubes bobbing in it, to raise at my return, and my mother will probably have too many bags, keys, coupons, papers, and order forms to really give me the over-solicitous pokes, prods, and embraces that all mothers are prone to.

But what of Alexander?

“Stand down, stand down, men! A welcome? Bah! Seize the interloper!”

Summer always fixes things, the student’s sanity-saver. Everyone fantasizes about chucking their back-pack into a cobwebbed corner. The crash of pool-side cannonballs is deafening before exams are even mentioned. No one can fight the call of summer. It’s when the sun and the earth finally see each other through the clear blue glass of warm skies and suddenly rejoice. Moreover, it’s that time of year when accomplishment and ambition, after building and developing all year, are finally bolted onto their final pedestal for all to see and marvel at. Diplomas and report cards last the whole summer, their radiance sufficient to condone all types of sloth and joy.

I scoffed at the honors college. Would a GPA reduction really keep this caboose on track? Harder classes and the challenges they brought were welcome to the intellect, but a deeper, more fundamental, side of my mind knew that I needed something else: renewed purpose, a jolt of ambition, a fire to set my spirits ablaze. No gold-leafed borders will encircle my name on the mantle this year.

I’m no Alexander.

He’s no conqueror, not anymore. Will he ever know marble, what it’s like to set enemies on fire with a stare or to launch thousands of men into oblivion and eternity with but a word? Summer offers him sleep, not success. The fire is on his skin, not in his heart. Let’s hope next summer, I find him more familiar.

Alterity

2009-01-18T12:47:00.000-08:00

Week Two was a grind. I'm kind of comatose right now from all the Spanish. This post may or may not make sense.

Well, I fought it, and I fought it hard, but it's back. This disconnectedness, this black cloud that follows me. Things started getting overcast at about 11:00 PM, but I ignored it, showed some faith. But it's here, and it's a doozy, a downpour. This disconnectedness I feel, like there's no gravity, like I'm sliding off the world. And through it all, there's this sickening feeling, something akin to silent dread, disgusted shock at myself: if I woke up tomorrow with no one, in another country, I wouldn't care. I know it's just a feeling, and, therefore, something too fleeting to bring me to my knees, but it's getting close to crippling, and it's only been here for two days or so. Sometimes I feel like things just happen near me. The grades I get, the people I meet, the games I play, the things I say-they all just swirl around me, like an atmosphere of personality, one that could be dissipated by a cold front or a storm, a clean slate, a rejection of everything and everyone. They cling so tenuously.

I'd like to see all the big questions answered, especially "what are we supposed to live for?". Lately, people seem to be embracing an sort of eudaimonism, a "live for happiness. Live for yourself." I can't agree. I can't see the point of such a life, just like I can't see the point of having a point. My eyes are glazing here. Is this growing up? It feels like being mummified.

There are some pretty girls on this floor. I was trying to smile more, to take extra long to open my door in hopes of an impromptu run-in with one, and now I don't care to remember their names. Just. Like. That.

I have this friend. He's been here for two years. I've known him a long time. I see him quite a bunch. Last year, some girl really fucked him up. Dumped him for one of his friends he'd known since high school, and then came back to him, vacillating between the two at least three times. Before I came here, I told a mutual friend of ours that I'd help this guy "rejoin the world." Pretty words from an idiot with no sense of irony.

My roommate is a good guy. Guys are so leery of showing any kind of encouragement or praise for one another. I think it's because society has hunted the ego to extinction. One is embarrassed just to use the word "I". We're snorted at for talking about ourselves, praising ourselves, being excited for ourselves. Could it be traceable to the American Way- the competition, the pressure, the stress, the feelings of inadequacy? Maybe. Or maybe it's something more current, more concrete. Americans used to be renowned for their manliness, their swagger, their confidence, their long-striding, coon-cap wearing pioneers. Now, we're plagued by a sheepishness stemming from all the international animosity we've incurred. We're shaken. Our men wear girl pants now. David Bowie penned the writing on the wall. I'm sure the concurrent gender confusion is pertinent to this debate, as well. Gender is as much a choice for today's man as what type of car he wants to drive. Anyways, Joe seems to have that confidence that so many have lost. He'll tell guys to relax, to take a break, that they're working too hard, instead of hurling epithets or doubts regarding the guy's penis length. He doesn't strike when a flaw is betrayed. Take my other friend. He's been hounding me with texts lately to hang out. I've known him for awhile. He came over yesterday with some of his girl friends. Nervous and surprised, my tongue got wound in knot of Gordian proportions, and instead of bailing me out, switching the topic, defusing the awkwardness, my friend moves in for the kill, socially slaying me in front of the ladies. Maybe this is an analogue to the time-honoured cock fight. Now that assault is a fine, men fight over women with sharp tongues, not blades. Joe wouldn't do that. I like that.

"Just do, Alex. Don't think. Run in, guns a'blazing, and DO." I was doing that at first. It was working, even with everyone pegging me with questions of how I was liking my new school. "It's different," was all I said (lame answer, I know.). But I can't poke a hole in this cloud with insouciance, with living-in-the moment. It's only a strategy that works for those who have something to enjoy, who already have a clear mind. It's preventive, not restorative. It's an anti-fogger, not a window scraper.

Sartre talked about 'beings-in-themselves' and how humans naturally want to become one. An example of someone acting on that urge is a waiter who impersonates the ideal waiter. He bows like a waiter should, smiles like a waiter should, looks like a waiter should. He's no longer Joe Schmo, he's a waiter. These 'things-in-themselves' are like rocks. We long to be rocks. No needs, wants, motives, thoughts, just a pure ontological satisfaction. Maybe this is the horror that marshals the dark clouds. Maybe this is what I hate, why I can't tell counselors one career option. I don't want to be a 'being-in-itself'. Not a waiter, or a writer, or a lawyer, or a philosopher. I want to be a 'being-for-itself'. Haha, or maybe this is just a very eloquent excuse from a lazy asshole.

Keeping up with this Gloomsday Report, Sharks beat the Wings yesterday in a 6-5 victory. BUT, most of my favorite Wings picked up a point, which is always the consolation prize in a high-scoring defeat.

I can't talk about classes right now. I'll go into cardiac arrest.

Winter is like solitary confinement. Not only does it actually confine you to your room with the extreme temperatures, but it also denudes your senses. It's a room with white-padded walls. There's no smells, sights, tastes, feelings, or sounds. The cold and the snow mask, cover, dull, numb, and dampen each one respectively. My robust winter jacket is even starting to feel more like a straight jacket. My mind is rotting.

Browsing through my memories, I can't think of one person I'd like to be talking to right now. Ever get mad hunger, but you just don't know for what? Shit, I could extend this to just about anything.

I love people until I get to know them, like books- I won't read them twice. Once I know what some one's about, what makes them click, I move on. Could I be the most fucked up person on earth? Possibly. Other interpretations of this phenomenon: I get so fucking angry to see someone with a personality, a good grasp of who they are, a mission, opinions they believe wholeheartedly, and I get jealous. Yep.

Bildungsroman

2009-01-10T11:50:00.001-08:00

Happy New Year!

Well, I think I've waited long enough, so I'll just dive right into this. I wanted to give myself a full week here before an entry, so now that I have, here it is. This entry might seem routine, but I guess it should. I have a lot to cover.

I'm here in Ann Arbor. There's about four inches of snow on the ground, and they're calling for up to ten more. My room is cluttered, cozy, and sandwiched between at least three girl rooms on each side. Our room overlooks a frat house and some other equally raucous buildings. People watching has never been so easy. Our Xbox Live is up and running. My roommate and I played for about six hours yesterday. Though I promised myself not to play it the first week, I let it slide on account of the male bonding it facilitated. I know the system. I've got a good feel for the place. It's not too tricky of a campus. Smaller than state, getting to class isn't really a problem. Finding them is. The buildings seem tossed around this campus like a bunch of toy soldiers spilled onto the floor. Sometimes I feel more like an archaeologist amongst ruins than a student. This hall really sucks. Location-wise, it's just about perfect. I'm close to everything I need to be close to. It's the people. My building is actually a residential college. I've been in these before, but none as quiet and dead as this one. The RA's are Nazis. They all patrol en masse,like a pack of junkyard dogs, probably to keep their courage up, seeking and destroying anything above 80 decibels. I couldn't even play video games last night past eleven with the door open. They told me it was "quiet hours" and that I had to stop. There's a lot of building going on around here. Every other plot is a construction site. Yesterday, there were two men goofing around. One was up on the scaffolding, and one was below, dodging back and forth while his friend above threatened to drop a wrench on his head. "Oh shit!" the guy said when his wrench slipped out of his fingers. I quickly turned to watch the hapless ground crew guy get impaled, but he was fine and evidently as surprised as me. He looked up with a confused look, laughter booming from the jackass on the scaffolding. "Hur hur, you won't believe this, but it went right down the stink hole!" Three seconds later, an absolutely LIVID construction worker erupts from the adjacent outhouse, nursing his arm. Tee hee.

Classes are awful. I tested into fourth semester Spanish here, as I'm sure I've said, and I'm starting to have some serious doubts. If my instructor wasn't so damn nice, I'd have dropped before we exchanged "Holas". On the plus side, I think we're all equally confused. It's not us who are driving this train, though. I have an American Cultures class, too, that I couldn't escape due to this stupidfuckingdamn "Race and Ethnicity" requirement this institution is so proud of. On thursdays, I have to sit through a two hour discussion. It's led by this Peruvian Martha Stewart who drones on and on, spit-balling with us like it's fucking talk radio. Typically, she'll just look around, nod, and then introduce some broad, controversial concept like capitalism. She'll say, "Capitalism...," then pause, waiting for some irrational tirade from her circle of victims. I can't stand classes like that. Make a lesson plan, don't waste my money. You provide the fucking service for me. After that, there's a freshmen writing class, which is going to be the most banal bullshit imaginable, and an English course on the coming of age novel, probably the only class I like. There's a really cute girl in there who claims to be a master of Taekwondo. I'd probably let her roundhouse kick me. I kind of destroyed any hopes of making friends in that class, though, when the instructor asked me to explain the plot of "Dune," which might be the nerdiest work of fiction ever. My explanation went something like this, "Well, the Atreides clan recieves dominion over the desert planet Arrakis from the Padishah emperor of the Corrino line. However, the prievious hosts, the Harkonnen clan, were really colluding with the emperor to trap the Atreides there and murder them. When the duke is murdered, his son, Paul Atreides, must assume leadership over the native people, the Fremen, and fulfil his destiny as the Kwisatz Haderach, a sort of messiah foretold by the Bene Gesserit order, to conquer the universe." And her answer,"....Well, yeah, sure. That sounds like a coming of age novel to me..." After that, we started talking about Charles Dickens and Jane Austen. So, there ya go, Frank Herbert. You write classics in my book!

I haven't been eating much. Most people pile it on when they're stressed. I'd say I do the exact opposite. This week, it's been pills for breakfast (Supplements, people! Don't worry!), oranges to keep from fainting, and then dinner at like 7:30.

My roommate is a really nice guy. His name's Joe. He's a Jew from St. Louis. A jolly fellow, he's usually sitting at his desk watching anime or playing Xbox with me. I accidentally told him that the cafeteria really "Jewed me on the piece of salmon they put on my plate," but he just laughed. He's not really the type to jump on the defensive when the opportunity presents itself. He's easy going. Yesterday, he joined me and my friend Alex on a tour of Ann Arbor, the second of many I'll probably take. Ever wonder how a city can have so many restraunts? Like, how can all of them profit? From the little chicken shacks, to the plush cafes, there's at least ten of every kind of restaurant here. It must have something to do with where they're located. They all must be perfectly spread out for each one to own all the business in its little hungry ward. However, I've seen pizza places not fifty feet apart, as well. Hmmmmm.

Another good thing about Joe, he likes metal. My first roommate was more into banjos and thugs; my second, whatever Billboard told him to be into. Yesterday, Joe was listening to Steve Vai, which was duly noted by me.

The shower heads here come up to about my nipple. So, fetus-like, I'm forced to double over to wash anything above my stomach. I know this hall is really old, and 6'0 men were a little less common back in the FDR administration. Hm, either way, I think I'm going to look for a YMCA when it comes time for my conditioner (I really have to rub this one in under a constant stream of hot water.)

This Ipod is excellent. After a week of stealing software, I finally threw up my hands and bought a reputable program to convert my music files. Once it was over, my regret was extinguished. I feel like I'm in a movie where all the long walking scenes have the perfect companion from the soundtrack. That's what Ipods do! They give your life a soundtrack! Pretty awesome. This one also has Wi-Fi capablities, which I originally scoffed at as just one other stupid gimmick feature that all the techies would marvel at, but it has been useful and fun! Yesterday, when I was lost, I accessed my school's website for a map. While waiting for class, I scour youtube for funny videos. I like having strangers hear me laugh. I think it's the perfect introduction. I've tried to laugh before every class I have because it can say so much so well, "I'm cheerful. I have a sense of humor. I'm a little goofy. I'm not quiet. I don't really care what people think. I enjoy the little things." You know, all the basic steps in the small talk dance.

Am I adjusting well? As well as I can. Do I like it more here? Not yet, but I think I will. Confident? No. Happy? No. Optimistic? For the first time in a long time, yes.

Post-Op

2008-12-28T23:05:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-20T21:24:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-14T23:21:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-04T22:20:00.000-08:00

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,

2008-11-28T20:12:00.000-08:00

[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

2008-11-22T12:32:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-13T21:44:00.000-08:00

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!

2008-11-07T19:14:00.000-08:00

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

2008-10-26T21:56:00.000-07:00

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?

2008-10-19T21:15:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-14T21:59:00.001-07:00

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

2008-10-11T15:17:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-09T19:51:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-27T22:30:00.000-07:00

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.

Phase Two

2008-09-22T19:10:00.000-07:00

A terrible mood overtook me today, but terrible moods are often good moods for writing, so I'm going to get something out of the storm clouds in my head.

I don't understand the people who can stand fall, the season, that is. It is crunchy, russet-colored death. I don't exaggerate here at all. Fall is when everything dies! I mean, look around you next time someone makes you throw on your favorite hoodie (The hoodie being just one of fall's evil brood) to go outside and admire the leaves. Above you will stretch barren tree trunks like pieces of dead hair. "But oh that autumn smell!" you might say. Yeah, that's called decay, the very same process by which bodies become dirt. I know this is all kind of macabre, but I couldn't get these thoughts out of my head when I realized what day it was, the autumnal equinox. I even hate that word, "autumn." It has that strong "a" sound at the front, the same pretentious syllable that British school masters chide their students with, "You aught not to do that!" There's even a conceited branch of music that labels itself as "autumnal sounding," i.e. Death Cab for Cutie, one of the few bands that I just can't stand. Each member has the charisma of a rusty nail and a permanent frown. Stevie Wonder cuts their hair, and their "artsy" horn-rimmed glasses, which by now are so ridiculously popular that their existence has become foul irony -something that was supposed to mark individualism now made by the truckload and shipped to every reality starved, self-professed world weary "dreamer," who immerses himself in what he can only guess to be art- bug the hell out of me. And their music is so boring, so boring, so boring, so boring. But that's why it's so good for autumn. That's why it's "autumnal." That's why people are supposed to download it to their ipod and go walk amongst the dead things. It's fall's soundtrack. Well, fuck that.

Something else about autumn. There is NOTHING to look forward to. Every bright day in June holds the door for another . Autumn days only bring you closer to winter, to cold and darkness, while the sun rises later and later and sets sooner and sooner. When I hear people shout, "Oh what an awesome day!" in October, I'm reminded of this fact and become angry. It's like remarking, "Oh what a beautiful house," on the way to the guillotine. Those last couple of decent days are anomalies, tragically confused mixtures of climate and cloud cover that serve only to bring us pain as we zip up our jackets in anticipation for the end of the year.

I know I've said some awful, not to mention overly grotesque, things about what might be people's favorite season, band, and fashion article, and if I offend anyone for this, I'm sorry. I would say that it's just the way I feel if I were even certain of that. It's this mood that's pressing these keys, and since it's so intent on getting all this down, I'm allowing it to. I have a Death Cab album on my computer, I think.

And that brings me to my next point. I'm just a stupid mess. What I like, what I don't-things that are supposed to matter to me- just don't seem to count for anything anymore. Truth is, I've spent so much time with school and learning, that I've forgotten what I want out of the sixty or so years I have left here. Is it possible to lose yourself? I mean PHYSICALLY lose yourself? To have your soul just run away without looking back, leaving only what you SHOULD like, SHOULD do, SHOULD care about to serve as the glue holding you together? I've tried to sacrifice myself to grow up, like I thought all people must do to fully belong to a world so much larger than themselves, but it ended up being a very childish mistake, and maybe one that could keep my life mired in depression for awhile. I MADE myself like science, which I've always thought and might always think to be the world's only salvation, thoroughly drowning everything I thought to be selfish inside of me. What difference did it make if couldn't stand writing lab reports? The world is always one lab report away from feeding ten million starving people. But now, gradually, the wraith of personality left in me is drifting towards the surface and causing a lot of mental hell in the process.

I'm more alone than ever here. Maybe it's just a guy thing, but there seems to be an invisible wall around us all. The wall has one hole for a cord to run between two phones on each side of the wall. Through the wire race snippets of laughter, questions, exclamations, compliments, and stories, but the sender and reciever of them could be as far away as the North and South poles. To quote Patrick Bateman, I'm just simply "not there." When I think about it, I've never really had anyone that could just clap me on the shoulder and tell me exactly what I was thinking, what my face looked like on the other side of the wall while I chortled, shouted, and sighed with deceit. I've had good friends, great friends, sure, but they were all great without really breaking the glass wall, and I've never been upset about that until now. In fact, I always kind of liked the isolation I kept myself hidden in, a sort of cloud to float me above the others so that I could view them, objectively and truthfully, while at the same time generating the same sort of trepidation that said clouds do. No one ever knew if I was going to burst with lightning or life giving water, whether I'd just pass or hover a bit over them, as if interested. I liked being a little mysterious, maybe because it fueled my imagination, as might be evident frome this cloud metaphor (haha, who do I think I am!? Next I'll be a burning bush!).

Phase two starts the day I feel goose bumps on my leg, September 22. From here until March, I'll be relatively moody, petulant, illogical, paranoid, self-righteous, lonely, judgemental, suspicious, and, of course, cold as hell. Lucky you.

Life Contd.

2008-09-20T22:34:00.000-07:00

I had a weird day on Friday. This whole week was confusing, actually. Whenever I wasn't half asleep in one of my classes, I was on the phone with my mother holding a miniature libra with guilt on one side and my brain supplying the counter-weight on the other. You see, I just had the whole family over at MSU last week because I got them, through my scholarship, tickets to a football game. Damn good tickets, too. Needless to say, that kind of flushed my saturday down the john. Shred my man card if you have to, but I just can't stand football. There's more camera shots of fat dudes with headphones than of tackles and passes. Also, the zebras launch those yellow flags almost automatically, as if actual action on the field triggered the response: A much needed delay for the referee to karate chop the air and earn death threats or hallelujahs from the mob in the stands. Not my kind of game at all. Anyways, I thought I sort of paid my dues by hooking them up with tickets and wrongly believed that I was free of them for at least another three weeks (I mean "free" here in the best possible way), but, as my mother pointed out during every couple hours over this week, so frequently that there are cancerous moles all over the burned, cell phone-side of my face, my siblings wanted me to see their complete marching band half-time show. Come on in, Mr. Guilt. So, I ended up letting my dad pick me up at 2 o'clock last Friday, seeing their show at 7 o'clock, and watching tv back in my dorm room at 11 o'clock. I don't think a cheese head would have driven that much to see Brett Favre immolate himself on a 50-yard line pyre. I wonder how long I can show this kind of football devotion and still rather eat the lumps of charcoal from every tailgate ever than watch a football game.

I love how classes are sort of structured, divided into zones and circles, regions, if you will, of kids. In the front, of course, sit what I like to call the hand-hefters. You know, the kids that salute the teacher with a crisp swish of the hand whenever a question mark escapes the speaker's lips, their flourishes sounding like a fleet of arrows zooming through a grass hut. Despite their enthusiasm, I can't really tell what it is they seek. They could just sit there, still, saving the burnt calories and ligament pain of their little charade, and ace the class. Correct answers are marked with a pencil, not a salute. But no, they seek something else. Maybe the speed of the gesture is just a point of pride, you know, like how it was for the gunslingers of old. Maybe they see themselves striking down queries like John Wayne striking down bandits- an epic showdown following every amnesiac, pedantic tangent of their instructors. Well, after the vigilantes in the front are the normal kids- taking notes, showing up 80% of the time, daydreaming through the fluff. After them come the solitaire players, and after them, the facebookers. I consider the facebookers a little more impudent. Solitaire is mindless, just something for the body to do to keep the pen away from the jugular, while the mind actually tries to learn, much like toe tapping or head scratching, just a tick. Facebooking, though, is an activity, and for some, a hobby. After them come the sleepers, the people who prefer a ninety-degree slump on a folded out wafer of stone to a warm bed and pillow. Last of the zones contains the crowd of true imps. The newspaper readers, the bearers of the ultimate "fuck you". The paper is like a wall that halts all of the bull shit from the podium, sound-proof, opaque, and littered with sports stats. As in the case of the sleepers, this class of student could get the same effect of their chosen behavior in the classroom by staying at home. But NO! "Fuck you"'s must be made in person. Reading a newspaper in class is saying, "I came here to show you how boring and useless your ranting is. I am consciously and deliberately ignoring you. Now stare at the front page and feel around in your pocket for booze and kleenex money for later."

When I went home to see the game, my dad said his new electric tooth brush "made his balls jiggle." I laughed pretty hard at that.

As far as the life development department, I've tried to get serious about narrowing my interests and program of study, but I just can't. The kids who have a goal, a distinct path, a ladder to adulthood, they're climbing towards a light, bright and constant, sitting calmly atop their assigned ladder. Then, there's the kids who have NOTHING to climb towards, who have consigned themselves to drudgery, crime, or laziness and dependency. They see only darkness. Then there's me. The light I see is blistering, coruscating from all directions, blinding me to the ladder and all it's rungs, as well as everything else. It's beautiful, but so bright that I'm scared to even begin on ANY ladder. I'm blinded to the rungs, making me indecisive, overly cautious, and alone, for no one else is visible above, below, or alongside me. There is only the light. Climbing towards anything is feckless. I think this metaphor fits the dilemmas of a lot of kids (Plato would agree with me). What I, what everyone in this situation, needs is someone. Someone wise, older, seasoned, pragmatic, sensible, and maybe even a little cold and calculating. We need someone who's already surmounted his ladder, someone who can throw some shades down to those of us at the bottom to help us find what truly shines, which ladder belongs to us.

Exit Deluge

2008-09-15T13:40:00.000-07:00

It's rained for three days here, three days straight. The Red Cedar River is a bog, creeping dangerously close to the bike path alongside it. It's not that I'm afraid of getting wet, it's just that the small river, now bloated and still, is doing nothing but hoisting nasty shit next to the bike path. Instead of ducks to look at, I have chip bags and water bottles. The grayness is kind of taxing on my soul, too. I know this entry is dry and boring, but after being stuck inside all day with nothing to do but zone out to the staccato of a three-day downpour, I'm just a little reluctant to sit here and think, but I'm determined to write as much as I can. In his guide to writing, Stephen King recommends that all young writers dedicate five to six hours every day to reading and/or writing, and I think his advice is well grounded. Writing is a skill that needs to be practiced in any way possible, whether it's a blog about stupid shit or a formal paper. I don't care if this is good, it's something.

I saw a shirt today that read, "I love boobs!" It had to be the best "support breast cancer research" shirt ever. I think it has fad potential. They probably have a "I love penises!" shirt in some liberal European country already. Other than that, my day has been restless, desultory, and quiet. My focus washed away, I've been drifting between the internet and my book constantly. There's even a pace-path between my bed, where the book is, and the computer. We have a couple of highways already embedded in this damn fine rug. There's the one already mentioned as well as one from my roommate's desk to his banana cache, which he guards like a Doberman. I think he's losing his prehensile thumbs.

I guess I should talk about him since he's really the only person I see on a daily basis, but I don't think I can do his character justice so offhand like this. Suffice it to say that I like him and our arrangement seems to be working. He hasn't whipped any vodka bottles at me or spat any sunflower seeds on the carpet like my last roommate. Really, if he walked around stark naked all the time and drew pentagrams on all my posters, he'd still be an improvement.

I've seen almost as many Obama tables as hoodies on this campus. Politics... It seems to be the most popular topic on these blogs. Politics, though, seems to be more of a grim reality than a freaking hobby, and I wish that kids, especially, would agree with me. My generation has all their lives to worry about what happens to their taxes. I'm not saying we shouldn't care or remain ignorant of politics, just that we should have an educated opinion without the avid attentiveness of a columnist for the Wall Street Journal. There's so many things that we and only we can really appreciate, for ours is such an awesome time to be alive! Movies are better, music is louder, people are friendlier when you're in college. Cynicism, which I think is inherent in all things political, should be years away, and welcoming it in early is both a shame and a burden. Even if the kids at the tables are on a fast track to responsibility and adult sensibility and financial stability, God help them.

But what am I saying? Being insecure, confused, and naive is no picnic either, but I'd take it before being a slogan-quoting, convention-taping, zombie, or, even worse, a smug asshole who hates both candidates, but backs the candidate who he believes will be more influenced by congress or his party and, thus, who will be more in line with the asshole's wants, as if the kid himself were manipulating the Big Cheese.

First Post

2008-09-14T14:53:00.000-07:00

Like a lot of first posts, I have to fit "I stayed away from this for so long" somewhere, so I might as well stick it here in the first sentence. So, there it is. I watched everyone else pull everyone else's hair over livejournal and get love from their blogger buddies in pick-me-up comments , but I somehow stayed away from it all. I thought I caved when I got a facebook account. Even now, I wish I hadn't. Facebook, to me, has completely spun the life cycle around. You see, after high school is over, as your walking off the podium with your diploma, everyone is implicitly required to think or say, "I'M NEVER SEEING YOU GUYS AGAIN! HELL YES!" but facebook, has, if nothing else, controverted all that is meant and implied by this declaration. EVERYONE you've ever met is suddenly a click away, sending you bumper stickers and poking you like some inquisitive kid pokes a dead bird, making sure you're there, that you're well, that you're pursuing the same major, that you hate "the new facebook" as well, and much else besides. Facebook is having all aquaintances on speed dial, and, more horribly, it let's everyone know that you remember them. So, every day that goes by that you don't drop Mike Smith a line is a day spent consciously ignoring them. Time and space can't offer any cop-outs anymore.

I was thinking today about the music I listen to. I took a long, tortuous path to all the acts I have tucked away illegally on my computer. I never liked Rock in the first place. I was a teenage jazz cat. Yeah, I know...Only two musicians have changed my life- Frank Sinatra, and Coheed and Cambria. Before Frank, I hated most all music, or, rather, what I liked I didn't like enough to remember who wrote and performed it. I heard Frank's "I've Got the World on a String" when I was about 14, and laughed when I found out whose jazzy, nuanced voice I was hearing. "The Crooner?" I said. "The skinny ass-dude that had all the bobbysoxers cooing and swaying and shit? Music was the last thing on his mind." There's this popular misconception that the popular is a vulgar contamination of the good, something watered down, slid down the assembly line to be packaged and shipped to the masses, and, just maybe, it holds true in most cases. Music can be overly slick and commercial. But, I think Frank is one of those rare cases that just made the whole world fall in love with him. His songs had a goodness that didn't have to be analyzed on Pitchfork blogs. It was earthly and common, sure, but isn't that what music is all about? Art is usually prized on how well it "connects" with the perceiver. Anyone who has ever had a bad day, a girlfriend, or a lonely night can rightfully sign their names underneath the song listings for Sinatra's albums. He sings the human story, if I can let myself get a little lofty here.

Alas, it didn't take too long for me to understand how fucking lame I was. Rock was here and now (since 1950-something, I think), but I just couldn't really get into it. That's what I get for letting my sister work the radio, I guess. That all changed one fateful day at a Guitar Center. I remember going in with my dad and brother, looking for a new bass pedal or something for my brother's set, but being too distracted by all the posters to really help. Man, was I behind, I thought. Every square inch of that warehouse had a album cover glued to it, and some were really impressive. The art was epic and sort of morbid, a far cry from Frank's tipping of his fedora-the iconic, omnipresent photo on each record and poster. Intrigued, I worked my way to the center of the store, my journey sort of adopting a chronological progression, a walk through time to the present. I passed British Invasion bands, then punk pants, then glam bands, then emo bands, until I arrived at the center where a tower of brand new albums waited to be bought. "Coheed and Cambria: Good Apollo, I'm Burning Star IV," they said, and I remember being instantly annoyed. Bands only make up bizarre, quirky names like that to get attention, I thought. Music should speak for itself. I had a feeling that Coheed and Cambria just wanted me to check out their myspace and buy their shit. Well, that feeling became doing. The first four songs I heard in order were, "Once Upon Your Dead Body," "Wake Up," "In Keeping Secrets of Silent Earth," and, last, "Welcome Home." The first was funky and strange, the second was touching and catchy, the third was haunting and heavy, and the last was a bombastic metal explosion. Coheed, then, was really the beach head for my later forays into good rock. I started listening to prog, progressive metal, post-hardcore, electronica, and indie stuff.

I don't know what brought all that on, but I'm glad I found something to write about. Stay tuned?