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 the character himself isn't too likable, typically French, withdrawn and speculative to the precipice of cynicism...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.