Per Dave's... uh, idea, I Guess

The Stick On The Left: (A Study in modern domestics)

Scene 1: (Howard is fiddling with the string which controls the horizontal blinds covering the lone window. Karen enters.)

Howard: What's the deal with these blinds?

Karen: You picked the color, I told you I didn't like it.

Howard: No, I mean the string doesn't make them go up and down.

Karen: Yes it does.

Howard: No like I want it to make them all move at the same time, you know, like... like making the window dimmer or whatever.

Karen: Oh no you use the stick on the left for that.

Howard: The stick?

Karen: Yeah, on the left.

(Curtain)

- - - -

Watching Cricket: (A Study in international relations)

Scene 1: (Chris sits in front of his TV. Nick enters.)

Chris: (flipping through channels) Hey I just got this English channel and I think there's a cricket match on.

Nick: Don't watch cricket, cricket sucks.... oh dude, dude, The Matrix, go back.

(Curtain)

- - - -

After A Car Crash: (A gripping tale of marital tension.)

Scene 1: (Kate arrives at the scene of a car wreck. She pulls Gene from the driver's seat. He is bleeding from a cut on his forehead.)

Kate: Jesus Gene, my car what happened?

Gene: I dunno, I didn't take your car. I just got here.

- - - -

Before A Car Crash: (A 'buddy' play)

Scene 1: (Gene and Max are at a bar)

Gene: I could totally do it.

Max: Bullshit.

Gene: I totally could. Here, I have the keys, do you have the mace on you now?

Max: Yeah.

Gene: Alright lets go. This is gonna be so dope.

- - - -

Fantasy Baseball: (The Girlfriend one)

Scene 1: (Steve and Heather are cooking together.)

Steve: Honey, do you know anything about Fantasy baseball?

Heather: No.

Steve: I guess it's an online thing.

Heather: Yeah, I think you're right.

Steve: I'd really rather it be by phone.

Heather: Oh, well yeah.

(curtain)

- - - -

More of this later, I'm sure. Right now it's chip time.

Well Hello Again

Well, it's been ages since I've written anything, but here we are again, in front of our computers, me typing, you reading, perusing the Reuters "Oddly Enough" section, looking for an actual rock from the Agrocrag (GUTS), looking at that You're The Man Now Dog website (ytmnd.com) and being confused, disappointed, and confused again, whatever the hell else there is to do with the internet, porno, etc. etc.

Oh my, I have so much to say and yet I really don't want to get into it. Ever feel that way?

Well here's one thing:

I was thinking about eye contact today. Isn't eye contact bizarre? It makes me want to believe in ESP or something. Maybe I just don't fully understand the physiological nature of the ocular nerves or something, but I mean, when I look at my cat is sitting across the room, playing with some neumenon (sp? Is that even a word? Google is telling me that it isn't a word. I thought it was.) and we make eye contact, the animal responds. I guess all animals (and people) respond to subtle physical cues, but eye movement is so evocative that it's terrifying if you think about it too much.

I saw the following people at the Berklee performance center tonight:

Eugene Mirman, Sarah Vowell, Dave Eggers, Rodney Rothman, Via Audio, Mates Of State, Peter and Davy Rothbart, Kevin Barnes, and Brian Poole (BP Helium)

Eugene Mirman is hilarious. As is Flight of The Conchords (HBO), a show he is on. Sarah Vowell's book I have read (The Partly Cloudy Patriot) was also very funny. Dave Eggers was funnier this time. The last time I saw him, he was talking about Sudan, and it wasn't funny at all. Rodney Rothman invented Fresh Step, not the cat litter, the fake boy band, and I strongly suggest you find them on YouTube. Via Audio wasn't that good. Mates of State were fun, and the girl is pregnant, which was sweet, then I started thinking about the possible effects of being in the uterus of a touring rock musician. I suspect they're all awesome. Davy Rothbart edits Found Magazine, which is brilliant because he just publishes notes, funny grocery lists, postcards, receipts, and the like that people find on the street. His brother Peter plays songs about some of the things they find (one classic is about a letter from The King Of Midwestern Nissan Racing to his long lost love). Kevin Barnes and Brian Poole are in Of Montreal.

Funny story about Kevin Barnes burning the bitch three rows in front of me:

As KB and BP are tuning their guitars, Eugene Mirman (EM) comes out to stall a bit. This is what ensued:

EM: So let's have a quiz while I stall... um... Anyone know how you survive a bear attack?
(Crowd Member 1): You play dead.
EM: Actually no, the bear will just eat you.
Bitch Crowd Member: You run into an Outback Steakhouse!
KB: (deathstare)
EM: (oblivious to the reference) Well, I guess maybe if you're counting on doors confusing the animal...

Now, the Outback reference I'm sure wasn't intended as an insult, but it was really insulting. For those of you who are unaware, about a year ago Of Montreal sold a song to be used in an Outback commercial ("Let's pretend we don't exist/ Let's pretend we're in Antarctica" became "Let's get Outback tonight/ something something something something something something), and KB actually wrote a letter and put it online promising to use the money from the commercial to stage an elaborate tour. I saw this tour, and it was ridiculous. At one point, Barnes climbed a ten foot ladder covered in a massive dress and sang a song. More bells and whistles than you can imagine. It was like Queen and David Bowie and Parliament Funkadelic playing for two hours and every single person on stage is on ten drugs you've never heard of. (NB: I actually made that joke when I was at the show, and I think my buddy Dave at uhaulit.blogspot.com may have already credited me with it. It was funny though, and I will milk it for all it's worth.)

Anyway, KB must have been a little bothered by the whole thing. Even if you put the cash you make into your artwork, you've got to feel like you've compromised yourself a little bit, anyone would feel that way. But no one can hold it against the guy, we've all got to make money somehow. In all honesty, my only reaction to it was "Shit, someone at Outback PR is pretty hip."

So this girl makes the comment, Mirman doesn't know what the hell is going on, Barnes is pissed. Everything gets set up, and Of Montreal gets set to play their first song:

KB: Who said that about Outback?
Bitch: (raises hand)
KB: How old are you?
Bitch: Twenty six.
KB: What do you do for a living?
Bitch: (inaudible)
KB: Oh, well good for you.

DAAAAAAAAMMMMMMMMNNNNN. Someone just got BURNED. I have to find a funny picture of a cat online and write something like "I'm in ur audience calling u out as an artist who compromises his principles and ur all making me look like the bitch I am."

I mean, the girl probably just wanted to be that person in the crowd who references some obscure thing the band did, making sure everyone can hear so that everyone, including the band can say "Oh, who was that, she's a real fan. I will applaud her, she is the greatest fan ever."

Didn't work out that way.

So let that be a lesson. Don't yell things at the band. God, I know, you're thinking, "But this will be so FUNNY!" It won't, man. It really won't.

That's the end of me, I'm going to bed, but it feels good to be writing here again. I hope you've enjoyed reading it.

Rough Day

I'm not going to get into the hairy details of my bad day because I wouldn't be able to live with myself knowing that I'd complained about administrative paperwork and Mass Ave traffic and creative quandries. I might as well be a sixth grade girl bitching about the price of Mudd Jeans. Or whatever it is they care about.

For once, I do have to say something relatively serious, and it kind of sucks, but here it is.

I won't be putting anything that I write seriously on here anymore. I have a couple of stories that I've finished up, a lot of poems, and honestly, I like tossing those sorts of things around, and I think my friends enjoy reading them, but the bottom line is that you can't put anything on the internet that you don't want to be ripped off or stolen, and for the second time, that's happened to me.

It's a really weird feeling, I must say, regardless of the context and the details, I always just feel hurt. I'd like to try and tell myself that imitation is the highest form of flattery, but I can't escape the notion that someone just wants to have a laugh at me for whatever reason.

I dunno, if anyone has ever stolen something from you and taken credit in any sense, you know it's really enraging. It's like whispering an answer in class only to have the girl in front of you shout it out. Petty, yeah, and we need to let these things go, but nonetheless, you feel nothing but malice towards that person.

It could be worse. Some asshole stole Dave's entire computer last year and the poor guy lost a novel. I guess that's kind of different though.

Anyway, I'm no longer giving anyone the chance to steal my stuff. I do have a portfolio of a lot of things I have written that is accessible via the Lesley College System, so if you want to look at my serious stuff, just let me know and I'll give you access. Somehow. There will be an intense screening process.

But all that's here from now on is Red Sox banter, funny stories, dreams, and lame jokes.

That's really all anyone likes anyway, so it's not a huge loss.

Cheers.

This Is Useless

Well, the semester is winding to a close and I'm running around like a crazy person.

Good news is I finished my psychology paper earlier today and I just finished a draft of a story about two friends and a cat called "Exposing Animals." That means all that's left is the poetry portfolio, the Literature paper, and a couple of finals.

And registration, which is kind of like an internet/paperwork version of the final round of Legends Of The Hidden Temple. I've been fumbling with that metaphoric monkey shrine bullshit for like three weeks now.

And I'm not going to even get into the issues I have with Residence Life.

Residence Life calls my house. My mother's house. Looking for me. The people in charge of the place I live in are calling my mother's house looking for me. I mean...

You know that old dating cliche, like, "He/She has to have a sense of humor?" I just realized today that it's like saying, "He/She has to have the body of a model."

There are a LOT of people with TERRIBLE senses of humor out there. And a lot of them seem to go to my college.

Alright, I'm getting snippy. I didn't have my nap today. Wait, yeah I did. Nathan bought me a burrito too. Things are looking up.

This Is Hilarious With Or Without A Context

From The Boston Globe... or maybe the A.P.:

In that probe, police seized 1,653 pounds of marijuana, 128 pounds of cocaine bricks and a 2004 Cadillac XLT with "PAC-MAN" embroidered in the front seats. The car was not registered to Jones, who then bought the car at a police auction late last year.

Two Alphabet Poems

I.

A Bentley carries daughters
elegantly, forever
gregarious home-bodies
in Japanese Kimonos, laughing
maniacally, nonchalant,
over perennial quamash.

Recently, Sarah (the unrivaled virgin,
wanton
xenophobe) yawned
zealously.

- - - -

II.

Another boy can dance electric
Faraway guns have imposed justly,
kindly,
lasting months, never
offering Pax
(Qua?) Romana

Stitches too use violent ways
Xylodian yen-- zen.

Sunday, Sunday, Sunday

Every Sunday I wake up to some kind of Asian church service at the Episcopal Parish right next to my dorm. It's the most confusing thing you can possibly imagine. Hordes of asian people ( I think they're Chinese) shuffling into the church, back to their cars, speaking in a language that consists, I've come to believe, completely of vowel sounds. I drag myself out of bed and look out the window at them, past the empty wine bottles and the succulent cactus Rachael got me on my windowsill, and there they are. Bowing and muttering and carrying on. Do the Chinese bow? Maybe they're not Chinese. Or maybe they're just super polite Chinese. I don't know, my only point is that it's really weird and I'd like to find a way to make it stop.

Looking at the empty bottles of alcohol on my windowsill now, I'm realizing that as a drinker, I'm kind of bipolar. I mean, there's Domaine des Blagoeurs 2004 Syrah (whatever the hell that means) and then a $14 liter of Viking Fjord vodka. I should note that Dave bought that, I guess, but there's a pattern, and I can't blame him for the Seagrams 7 next to the Salmon Creek Chardonnay...

Wait, yeah I can.

Actually, Rachael and Dave account for like ninety percent of the booze on that windowsill. The only thing I can really claim as my own is the liter of Wild Turkey (delicious, by the way.)

I've got this bump on the inside of my middle finger that feels like an extra bit of bone, and sometimes it itches like hell. If it just hurt, I wouldn't be worried, but why would it itch? What is my body trying to tell me about that thing by making it itchy? It can't be anything good.

But there's no way I'm getting it checked out. I spent a couple of hours in the Emergency Room at Mt. Auburn yesterday with Rachael (she's fine, she just pulled a muscle in her foot or something) and I've had my fill of those places for a long time. I had to fight the urge, several times, to just say matter-of-factly, "She's late." Whenever someone asked "What seems to be the problem." It would have been hilariously inappropriate.

I don't even have a cohesive story here. I had three dreams last night:

In one, I was at my mother's house, and all of our neighbors had rented their houses out to be used to tape porno films.

In another, I was stationed on a river somewhere in the deep south with some kind of turn of the century military regiment. The porno bit kind of bled into that one... then there was a corpse floating down the river and a scorpion kept stinging the dead toe. I thought of the word "Omen."

In another I shot my brother in the face with a bow & arrow. The arrow was yellow. He didn't seem to get hurt, as I shot him several times, and he kept coming at me (there was some kind of battle involved) but I had the sense that I was hurting him.

There was that.

You know, I've been separating my recyclable bottles from my trash since I've been living here, and I sincerely doubt that the guys who take the trash out have any kind of access to recycling. I'm not going to stop separating though.

Jesus, time to take a shower.

Don't Let A Girl Buy The Body Wash

Last night my girlfriend ended up staying with me in my dorm room because the weather was so bad. I, of course, did not have the following items available:

1) Soap- I ran out a few days ago.
2) Toothpaste- I ran out yesterday.
3) A hairbrush- I haven't owned one in years.

I'm sure that there were more things she would have liked to look "decent," but there were these three key things that needed to be replaced. Even I could admit that.

I'm telling you about this because if you're a man and you live alone and you need to buy body cleaning products, it's imperative that you do it alone. There is no such thing as gender neutral body wash. Bar soap, perhaps, but anyone who's ever lived in a dorm can agree that bar soap is just a terrible idea.

Here's what I have on my hands now:

NEW
Dove
Cream Oil
Body Wash
Ultra Rich
natural oil in
1/4 moisturizing cream
rosewood &
cocoa butter scent

And I'm only on the front of the bottle...

Here's a body wash that moisturizes your skin better than any regular body wash. Dove has embedded skin-loving natural oil in a rich cream- the result is the dreamy-creamy consistency of a cream with the silky-smooth skin feel from an oil.

Intensely moisturizing, but sensationally lathering. Indulging to senses, but nourishing to skin. Rich in oil, but not oily.

What a beautiful contradiction.

I mean, for the love of God. I wish I could find a picture of the bottle because it actually resembles a vagina.

My favorite part of this product: the dreamy-creamy consistency of a cream.

- - - -

Now, Rachael was humoring me a little bit with the first purchase, suggesting that it "smelled" gender neutral (it doesn't) and I just kind of ignored the pink, vaginal bottle.

But let's move on to item number 2:

Aveeno
Baby
PEDIATRICIAN
RECOMMENDED

LAVENDAR & VANILLA
Calming Comfort
Lotion
with Natural Collodial Oatmeal
Dimethicone Skin Protectant
Helps Heal & Protect
Delicate Skin
Moisturizes for 24 Hours
Helps Calm Babies
before Bedtime

I'm not even going to get into what's on the back of this guy.

(NB: I hear that if you shoot Dimethicone , it actually is really relaxing.)

Rachael has, then, effectively moved from women's products to baby products.

I can only find solace in the sleek, masculine form of my INTENSE CREST WHITENING TOOTHPASTE.

We forgot to get the toothbrush, thank God. Just the body wash alone made me want to pull a Buffalo Bill (Silence Of The Lambs) and tuck it in in the shower, and a sparkly hair brush might have sealed the deal.

Did I mention that I carry all of this (along with a bottle of face wash and one of those poofy things) in a purple shower-tote, wrapped in my once white towel that is now a soothing pastel pink because I washed it with a red blanket?

Why does this come to mind:

"I will BEAT the fag out of you, you fairy princess."
-T.D. Sullivan, February, 2000

- - - -

Oh, and a Happy St. Patrick's Day to everyone. If you're ethnically Irish, don't talk about it too much. I mean, I know you think it's cool and everything, you've seen Boondock Saints thirty times, whatever. I'm largely Irish too, you know, so, great, but can we not make a huge deal of it?

Why can't this just be a holiday about hating snakes? I'd rather get drunk and shit talk snakes for a day then listen to someone get drunk and fake an Irish accent in Jamaica Plain.

- - - -

Forget it, Happy Evacuation Day. Everybody hates imperial soldiers, right?

I Am Exhausted

I haven't posted anything significant in awhile because I've been working on this story, plus reading like nine books at once, so I really haven't had time.

Good news is, at 2:02 AM on 2 March, I finished the initial draft of "Save My Soul, Set Me Free," the short story I've been working on.

I think I've got it mapped out pretty well, the characters are developed okay, but at under 3000 words, it definately needs some editing and additions. I have a few scenes in mind that I'm excited to add, once I edit the first draft a little bit and get the pace right. Right now it kind of speeds up and slows down, some parts feel forced, and the flashbacks, the temporality (that's a word, yeah?) in general feels awkward.

All told, I'm looking at 4500 to 5000 words. No more than 5000 though. If I cross that line, I might as well keep going and make it a book.

- - - -

I finished the story and looked out my window at the Longfellow house. It's just starting to snow. No turning back now.

"Art wants to save from death a living image of our passions and our suffering."
-Albert Camus

- - - -

Did you see Pan's Labyrinth yet? It's way more depressing and violent than you think it is. Great movie, but just be aware of the fact that Spanish Fascists kill a peasant in front of his father by beating his face in with a bottle of wine within the first twenty minutes or so, and it just continues on from there. Really graphic at points.

My mother's going to be upset just reading that. Skip this one, Mama, and I'm sorry.

It's a beautifully executed movie, brilliantly acted, brilliantly shot, but even I get tired of all this suffering. Let's all just watch Little Miss Sunshine again and forget that the Spanish Civil War ever happened.

Best Line In The Movie:

"You aren't the first pig I've gutted."
-Mercedes, (just before tearing the captain's face open from the inside of the cheek outward with a kitchen knife)

Funniest Translation Moment:

"My mother is sick with baby."
-Ofelia (almost-too-appropriately named protagonist)

- - - -

Alright, goodnight.

SWEET DREAMS!

Just So We're All Clear:

Kevin Barnes gets naked on stage in Las Vegas for world peace.

Well, not entirely naked. He was wearing leggings and a flashy cummerbund. And makeup. The point is, you could see his penis, and I just spellchecked the word "cummerbund."

Go hunt the whole story down on Pitchfork.

I don't have time to get into it.

Do Something Useful With YouTube For Once

If you're bored sometime and you've watched one too many thirty second videos of tweeners playing with diet pepsi and mentos, search Google Video for a BBC three part documentary called "The Power Of Nightmares."

I just watched the last installment, and it's really interesting and informative.

I did not know, for instance, that Al Qaeda isn't real. Thank you BBC.

I'd put the links here, but you know, I'm tired, so just search yourself.

Goddamn Astronatuts

ORLANDO, Fla. (AP) - - (02/06/07)-- A Space Shuttle astronaut is due in court today to face charges stemming from what police believe is a love triangle involving a fellow astronaut.

(That's right-- space-sex.)

Forty-three-year-old Lisa Nowak is jailed in Orlando, Florida, on charges that include attempted kidnapping and battery after a confrontation with a woman that she considered her romantic rival.

(Think Match-Point, but weightless. The woman, incidentally works at Denny's.)

Nowak is a married mother of three who flew to the international space station last July. According to her official NASA biography, she is a U.S. Naval Academy graduate who has a master's degree in aeronautical engineering.

(And a PhD in "being a psychotic bitch." That was too easy.)

Authorities say the object of her affection is Navy Commander William Oefelein, who piloted space shuttle Discovery in December. Oefelein is not married.

(Equipped with a rotating bed and condom machines next to the vacuum that sucks your waste out of the craft, Discovery has long been regarded as the swinginest bachelor shuttle NASA ever built.)

Police say Nowak drove 900 miles from Houston to Orlando, where she confronted the other woman in an airport parking lot. Police say Nowak was dressed in disguise and armed with a B-B gun and pepper spray.

(Nowak was apprehended on the side of the road, as she was forced to abandon her car because several side tiles had fallen off during her initial take-off)

(... Okay, and seriously, a BB gun and pepper spray? You're an astronaut. You have access to weapons, here.)

- - - -

Astro crime is really becoming a problem.

Too Soon?

I'm going to strap a bunch of Lite-Brite advertisements to my chest and try to rob a bank.

Maybe build an enormous Lite-Brite that looks like a bomb.

BAGHDAD (AP): Insurgents are turning to the home-made, rocket propelled Lite-Brite, which is inaccurate, but powerful.

Roadside Lite-Brites killed three Americans and several civilians yesterday...

Have Some Fun With This

I normally feel really depressed after taking these online quizzes, but this one is somehow life-affirming. It's only twelve questions, and they're all very strange. (Note the question about "equipment." A bit unnerving.)

And I hear The Secret Language Of Sleep makes a pretty hip Valentine's Day Gift. You can find it on McSweeney's or Amazon.

Take The Quiz, son.

"God Started The Civil Rights Movement."

I had this dream late last night that honestly made me laugh when I woke up.

The dream had kind of a nice feel to it in the beginning- I was with a group of my friends and we were all going to the beach. We split up into two cars, and started along our way. Everyone was happy, Nathan bought a bunch of Taquitos and they were delicious, all's right with the world.

After a bit of driving however, Rachael tells me that, "It's Sunday, and we have to go to church."

Now immediately, I'm ready to protest because that doesn't make any sense to me, but everyone else in the car kind of agrees silently, like what she said was totally normal, so we all parade into this small church on the side of the road in our bathing attire.

All the ushers look like Lil John, and they're really friendly.

I sit down at a pew, and everyone else I'm with sits behind me. There are these blankets and pillows on the pews, like they're beds, and everyone kind of wraps themselves up while sitting there, despite the fact that it's hot as hell.

I'm getting anxious, I want to go to the damn beach.

Then, a woman with some kind of physical deformity afflicting one of her arms stands up and says "Now, you know that this month is black history month, and I was wondering if I could as you all some questions about civil rights."

Now, first of all, February is black history month, and it's summer wherever the hell I am.

She asks, "Does anyone know who started the civil rights movement?"

A little girl in the front row says, "Nelson Mandella? Marcus Garvey? Malcom X?" (This is verbatim, seriously.)

Then, I look up at the priest, who's smiling smugly and shaking his head, pointing to the light coming through the window directly above and behind him and he says "God started the civil rights movement."

It's at this point that I said "OK," and got up to leave. Pillows went everywhere, hitting the guy sitting next to me, and I weaved my way between a small band playing some hymn that everyone else was just reciting the lyrics to flatly, then past a table of elderly people in hospital johhnie's with IV things, just going "Wmmaaammamwwwwaaammmaa."

When I get outside everyone's laughing again, and one of the ushers is outside smoking weed and listening to a Lil John song play on his cellphone. Nathan and I eat the last two taquitos, which have melted and subsequently congealed a little strangely in the car.

Before the dream ends I'm terrified that I've forgotten to pick my brother up somewhere.

I'm An Idiot

God, I'm a moron. I'm too stupid for words. But I'll spare you the story, I just wanted you all to know that I'm an idiot, and I deserve to be beaten senseless.

- - - -

So Dave lent me his copy of Michel Houellebecq's Platform, and after a few chapters, I'm not sure how I feel. The writing is pretty egotistical, and by that I mean (NB: The rest of this post is going to be a little disjointed because my train of thought keeps being run right off the fucking tracks by loud sex somewhere nearby. Nothing like a college dorm room. I should've gone to Jesuit school.) the writer keeps popping through the character... the character himself isn't too likable, typically French, withdrawn and speculative to the precipice of cynicism... I can't seem to find a revealing passage at the moment, and I'm not entirely sure that it isn't intentional. The main character shares a name, for instance, with the author, so I suspect that he may be examining the relationship between the author and the character...

Alright, seriously, I can't take this anymore.

I hear the syph is running rampant around here. Henry Miller called it "the syph," and I will do the same. I didn't actually hear that. I guess I'll start telling people that I did though.

Is Bosnia A Balkan Country?

I just got a very unnecessary coffee with Rachael in Harvard Square, and I actually didn't tell her this story, which is bizarre, because it's one of those things you tend to tell people. She asked "How was skating?" and I said, "Ok."

Now, I didn't mention any of this:

I'm sitting on the bench by the small rink of sorts at Harvard Law (NB: The rink is frozen over the volleyball court, and I noticed that they actually have the Harvard emblem painted into the ice in the middle. The only time I think I ever skated somewhere with a painted emblem was at the Boston Garden, as a small child, in an extremely hurried affair after my father played a game there. I think I remember him shouting at the zamboni driver, anyway, back to the actual story:) lacing my skates up, and these two women sit down with a pretty cute little kid, and they're all speaking in what sounds like it might be Russian. I wasn't sure, some Balkan tongue. So they start putting skates on this kid, who looks to be about four or five, and they're laughing, the kids skates are women's skates and they're way too big, and he's probably going to hurt himself, but you know, you've been in this situation before- very heavily and proud ethnic people doing something they clearly do not understand. I know you've all seen the Chinese lady with a million shopping bags (all full of scallions, for some reason) trying to operate the Charlie Ticket machine. There are just certain activities that render certain people generally inept. Generally, I'm saying. And the Charlie Ticket is tough even for me, but I mean, come on, lady, I know you can do better than this.

I pissed off a Spanish guy the other day because I paid for my entire train fare in dimes and nickels.

I'm getting way off topic, but it was important that I establish the scene. Racially.

And I don't want to sound like a racist. Put me in any other country in the world and I guarantee I'd have trouble doing at least a few things that the natives do every day.

So to set the tone, these people were clearly missing some critical element when it came to skating. Everyone else at the little pond looked at these guys as if to say, "I don't know how to say this, but you're going to step onto that ice, and I'm going to step onto that ice, and you're not going to be having as much fun as I am."

There was chaos. The kid's already walking out of these skates, he's uncomfortable, the sister (I'm guessing) is getting a little loud, and the mother has this look on her face like "Why did I think this was going to be a good idea?"

Keep in mind it's like less than twenty degrees out. If there is one universal language, it is the language of mothers. Especially when they realize they have made a mistake like this.

If there is one language that is not universal (and there is actually a few of them, like German, French, Spanish, English, and the like) it is whatever these people were speaking. But apparently no one told them that, because the minute they stepped onto the ice, they started speaking to me. Directly to me. In another language.

Now, of course, I didn't realize this for at least five minutes because they weren't speaking English, so I assumed that they were speaking amongst themselves (the kid's falling all over the place, and I'm waiting for him to break an ankle, by the way. The others take no notice of this), but no, I slowly realize, the "EY! EY! EY!" was directed, was always directed, right at this guy.

I figure this out because the daughter (again, assumed) grabs me from behind. At first I think she's falling so (being a fairly adept skater) I spin around to catch her. At first I'm disappointed, because it probably would have been a pretty impressive catch, but instead I'm just stuck staring blankly into the beaming face of a twelve year old, quickly coming to the realization that the catch-move probably left a somewhat contorted grimace of athletic prowess on my own face that is now laughable, given the fact that the situation didn't call for any real athletic movement whatsoever, and then she starts speaking to me.

And, over the course of maybe twenty minutes, all three of these people start talking to me, in whatever language they speak, with absolutely no regard for the fact that I do not speak the language.

By the end, I was just trying to have fun with it, I mean, what else can you do? And remember, we're going around in circles the whole time. It could have been like any one of these:

- - - -

GIRL: Please, you must help us. My brother and I have been in the care of this woman since the war...

ME: What? I'm sorry, I don't speak... uh...

GIRL: She locked Bishnov, that is my brother's name, in the closet once with the chemicals she makes me clean the floors with...

ME: Listen, listen, I can't-

GIRL: Please call the police-

MOTHER: The police will not help you, whore, nor can this very talented and extremely handsome man who skates in front of us!

GIRL: This is not Bosnia! You cannot commandeer us this way under the American Laws! Your sex favors for the secret police will not have the same effect that they once had! I will run away with Bish, my tiny flower!

BISH: The chemicals from the hell closet have rendered me blind and incapable of skating or judging the size of my shoes!

GIRL: The one who skates very well will be my husband here!

ME: Listen, I really don't want to get involved here, uh, I think you might have the wrong guy...

MOTHER: Let's sing a song!

ALL THREE: Let's go to the college, let's go to the rink, the rink that is frozen behind the college. There we will make someone extremely uncomfortable by speaking to him in a language he does not understand, all hail premier Jagushbig, all hail premier Jagushbig

- - - -

GIRL: I like your face! It reminds me of the face of our leader. He has microphones everywhere, and he kills those who speak ill of him.

ME: What? I'm sorry, I don't speak... uh...

GIRL: I am afraid he has placed a microphone in the body of my brother, so I am praising him.

ME: Listen, listen, I can't-

GIRL: With a face like the Premier, I would like to kill your wife and take you for my own.

MOTHER: You are crazy! The Premier has no spies here, on the frozen rink that I do not understand!

GIRL: This is the logic that killed our father and lost Bish's good fitting skates!

BISH: I will wear my punishment skates even in America.

GIRL: You see! So loyal, the man who skates very well and is attractive can see that Bish is one of Premier's spies!

- - - -

I could go on and on with this, but I think I'll just stop right here, before this just turns into an episode of Borat.

Just An Observation

I live in a dorm, and on my floor there are about thirty rooms, single, double, and triple occupancy. Each of these rooms is pretty spacious, and many are well furnished.

There's also a pretty well stocked lounge downstairs, and a full kitchen.

So what the fuck is everyone doing in the hallway, outside my door, at four in the morning?

Go To School

It's ten minutes to nine in the morning, and I'm not going to discuss the Patriots at all. I'm just going to sit here and drink espresso on an empty stomach so that my gullet rumbles enough to dent the Richter Scale in my poetry class, thus ostracizing me for the semester.

I had one e-mail in my inbox today, and it was this:

Please join other colleagues today from 3:15 to 4:30 pm in Marran Theater for a presentation and discussion with Dr. Jeffrey Kane, a candidate for President of Lesley University. The session is open to all faculty, administrators, staff and students.

Is that not the most boring shit imaginable? I believe that a good number of you reading this actually attend one of these "Colleges" or "Universities," and let me ask you this: Do you have any idea what the President does? Have you ever wondered? Is there a hair on your head that cares?

The only way I'm going is if the candidate is Dr. Darth Vader.

Because that would kick ass.

- - - -

Man, I can't understand what is wrong with the birds around here. Their morning songs are so unpleasant- they sound earnestly shocked. A normal bird wakes up, stretches a little and says "Oh, how nice, morning! We had one of those earlier, before that night thing, and it was wonderful, and look! Look! It's back!"

These birds just scream like they fear morning: "JESUS CHRIST THE SUN, GOD NO!, OH MY GOD WHERE AM I? WHERE ARE THE KIDS? I DON'T KNOW WHERE I AM. WHAT TREE IS THIS?"

Panic birds.

Alright enough Andrew, you're not funny, you're just exhausted. Go to school.

Reason To Call Me A Daisy Fairy Man No. 965

I change the channel every time a trailer for The Messengers interrupts Saturday Night Live.

The Last Word On Winter Break

Taking one last look at my winter break, I try to figure out just what I should do differently next year, which will (hopefully) be the last year that I have a winter break.

1) Get a job.

A job is something that I haven't had since the summer, and I'm beginning to see the benefits. I'll be able to get an apartment, I'll have money to do things that I'd like to do, and I won't spend my days sleeping, picking through the cabinets of my house like a rodent in my underwear, and watching reruns of shows I didn't even know existed on the sci fi channel.

2) Take a class.

Lesley has this mini semseter thing that I feel not enough people take advantage of, and I'm one of them. It's a three credit class I'd be taking (maybe even more than one), I still get a couple of weeks off for the holidays, and I'm guessing that the work isn't that hard. Considering I dropped one of my four classes last semester, it would be a good idea.

3) Join a rec league at Hockeytown.

That's just self-explanatory.

- - - -

I'm sitting at home, on my last Friday night in ye olde Wakefield homestead, watching NESN's college hockey night, and I'm realizing that this is what Wakefield will do to a man. I think I'm pretty much the last of my friends here, and I'm turning, slowly, into a DPW worker. I'm wearing a big flannel shirt, I haven't showered today, I just ate an entire pepperoni pizza out of the box, and I'm fighting an enormous urge to drink beer right now.

At least I'm not at the Dockside. I could be at the dockside. Wearing Timberlands.

- - - -

Rachael comes back from Japan on Monday night, the day that I start classes, so my days of not doing anything are numbered. I should learn to appriciate them.

God DAMMIT am I thirsty. College hockey night and pepperoni pizza makes a man thirsty in a way so few things do.

I think I understand the cat more than I did, after spending a month or two inside with her.

Jesus, I've written enough about this. I'll write when I have something to say.

A Day In The Life

I woke up last night at about 3:30 in the morning in the midst of a nightmare involving my girlfriend and LaDainian Tomlinson.

I couldn't get back to sleep.

I took a shower a little past 6:00, drove my brother to school, drove my mother to work, and went to the RMV to get my license renewed.

I came home, fell asleep watching Naked Science: Super Volcano, woke up at noon to something about Vietnam and the cat scratching my jeans.

I had to pick my brother up a little after noon, earlier than usual because he had a shortened day of school for some kind of test, so I picked him up, came back home, went to sleep watching the thing about Vietnam again.

I had a dentist appointment at 2:00, so I woke up at 1:30, brushed my teeth and flossed, madly trying to cover up the fact that I don't take care of my teeth well enough, because dentists are judgemental people, and I fear them because they're in my mouth.

I hadn't gone to the dentist in a long time either (two and a half years), so the gore was unbelieveable. I still don't know how she pulled that much bloody pulp out of my face, or just what it had to do with getting my teeth clean.

From there, I returned home to nurse my wounds and pick up my mother at work, then I watched something about The SS, ate a steak bomb, and, at the moment, I'm in the middle of an hour and a half block of Seinfeld.

Do you really want to know what I plan to do from here on out? Because I have no idea.

Massachusetts Lampoon's Christmas Vacation

After dealing with a few days of boredom, I borrowed my mother's car the other night and watched Platoon (Oliver Stone, 1986) with Rachael and her brother.

I hadn't seen the movie in awhile, and I'd forgotten how good it is. I strongly recommend you see it.

I mean, look at that picture. How bad-ass is that?

The Holidays are over. I spent New Years in Rhode Island. That was fun.

I'm trying to sum up just what this holiday break has been for me, and I must say that it's mostly been marked by boredom, with a few splashes of something strange (Platoon, Tim's absurd fireworks display on New Years Eve, trying to teach Rachael to throw a hip check, etc.).

I bought Henry Miller's Tropic Of Capricorn because I'm halfway through Dave Eggers' What Is The What, and I don't know how much hip San Francisco writing I can take. No luck locating the Houellebecq book I've been pining for, so Miller will have to do. I've heard this isn't as good as Tropic Of Cancer, but we'll just have to see.

I wish I had a stupid job.

I turn 21 in nine days, and I'm going through the process of renewing my license, which, I am told, cannot be done prior to the exact date that the license expires, on my birthday. I really hope that I get pulled over on my way to the RMV and I get guff for an expired license. It could happen, I know it could, and with my luck, it may very well go down.

Jesus, I never thought I'd say this, but I want to go back to school.

The days of catching up with your friends and feeling good about things in general over the college breaks are kind of over, at least, in terms of this winter break. Summer is an entirely different story, I think, but this season has been a bit of a drag.

I see these people and I no longer know what to think. They're not at all the people they were when I really knew them, and I am no longer the person that they knew, and we try to get around that fact. We talk about what we're doing now. Our boyfriends, our girlfriends, our major, who's going to grad school, what the best plan of action is, the peace corps, who's going to get married- all of it. Why? No one is hanging on to anything any longer. No one is keeping up any kind of an appearance.

I left a friend I hadn't seen in over a year today and said "It was good to see you." She agreed, and I stood on my lawn, fumbling for my keys, overcome with the sort of sadness I feel when I drive past the old toy store my mother and I frequented, the boarded up Purity Supreme supermarket- all those stores are gone- it's an entire place I left behind.

Everything changes, and everything has always changed, but recently, it's changed a lot. Maybe you've felt it, seen it as well.

I sit next to Rachael, in my basement, watching John Cusak do his best Nick Hornby impression, listing off the Top Five Reasons For This Or That, and I think that my eyes are no longer my own. I think of what they've seen in this basement. The other people that have sat in her place, the other things I've seen on this television. I should be able to see the similarities, but I can't. It all feels so new. And it makes me think that maybe all that which happened before was for nothing. It's dead now in a way that only a memory can die- as if it never existed at all.

I know that there is a part of everything that will always stay with me, the part that has shaped me, and that part comes to me in abstract memory; in scents and colors that I've never seem, born on my eyelids when I shut them tight and I'm looking at a certain sky, a certain road, a certain face. I can hear it in a laugh, the cry of a bird in the morning, but I find myself looking away quite often. I don't want to go back there. I know it's waiting to burst forward, to the front of my head, push at my eyes and my mouth and try to free itself

"YOU CANNOT REMEMBER ME, YOU CANNOT REMEMBER I, YOU CANNOT REMEMBER THIS PLACE BECAUSE THERE IS NO NEED. THERE IS NO NEED TO REMEMBER A WORLD YOU NEVER LEFT."

I love my friends, and they transcend this reminiscing. They don't exist in my memories. Memories of them surround me, surround them, tie us together in invisible knots.

It's the pain that really sits in memory, and my memory's good, just as sharp as the sting of it all.

- - - -

I guess I've just got too much idle time. I wish I had a stupid job.