Guess who's baaaaaaaack!
Ok, it's me. I'm back. That probably was a pretty easy guess. But hey, it's been a while, I almost forgot how to post things. and I realize that I don't have an excuse for not updating the blog. So I won't give one. There! Problem solved. And now, to dive back in.
One of my favorite new shows is Ugly Americans, and one of my favorite gags is the show's Immigration Support Group. If you haven't seen the show, the basic premise is that New York City has become ground zero (oooh, that's a bad phrase to use) for a wave of supernatural immigration. Vampires run pizza joints, land whales block traffic, and bird men crap on passing cars. Its up to Mark Lily, Department of Integration employee and main character, to make sure that all imigrants, human and inhuman, are properly adjusting to life in the Big Apple. To do this, he has to meet with his charges once a week for an Immigration Support Group. Its a fantastic comic idea, and highlights the show's character creativity. There's a stone tiki man who criticizes Mark's parenting advice ("What are you, like 5 years old?"). There's a middle age Jamacian woman who wants to "make anger at de robots" for stealing all the jobs. There's a morose koala man, who passes the time by nervously chewing eucalyptes and crying. But the best one is the Great Brain, a floating, one eyed, extrememly vulgar...brain. Seriously, when you have a floating brain saying things like "Oh, and how exactly would I knock on the door? With my spongy epidermis?", you know you've got yourself a winning formula.
Huh. That wasn't so hard. Its nice to know I'm not as rusty as I thought. I'm not well-oiled mind you, just...not rusty.
More to come.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Shoutout
My friend Kelly has asked me to write a blog entry about her. This is an interesting proposition in two respects; one, I've never been asked to write a blog about someone before, and two, I didn't really realize anyone actually read it. Apparently, the Facebook link isn't just for show. And to think, I'd been close to just letting this whole thing stagnate. Hell, I think I had to blow dust off the URL just to get it started.
But-here's the thing-I'm not really sure what to write about Kelly. Sure, I could just mash out a list extolling her praises, but that would sound too much like an eHarmony application ("Kelly enjoys musicals and long afternoons on the beach. Her smile can light up a room like a spotlight (which is all true, except for maybe the beach part. that's a college educated guess.)). I could put her into a fictional story, but that might not come out right ("Kelly stopped next to the fire-escape and leaned against the wall, her chest heaving. She had lost the killer...for now, at least."). So, instead what I think I'm going to do is use Kelly's request as a starting point, a place to dive into the sea dark water.
Basically, I'm going to write a blog about writing a blog about Kelly, and whatever else comes to my mind.
I had a miniature pecan pie today. It was really quite adorable, actually; it was covered with little tiny crushed pecans, little dollops of filling, a delicate flaky crust. It even came with a little mini pie pan. This pie would not look out of place on the minuscule dinner table of a family of talking mice, all coming together after a long day to bask in the familial warmth of the dinner table, their whiskers all a-quiver as the stern yet loving father mouse begins to cut the pie with a Lilliputian dessert knife and slowly lower a slice onto each and every plate. And maybe they could be immigrant mice. Yeah, that'd be cool too. Of course, the downside was that I had to spend 10 minutes eating something that wouldn't look out of place at a 5 year old's tea party. But still, it was totally worth it.
Could I put Kelly into a screenplay? No, no, that wouldn't work. Too many camera angles, and we'd NEVER have anytime to shoot it.
What we lack in this country is an acceptance of inevitability. That is, we don't realize that there are paths and branches to goals that we don't want to consider. We want to eat all we want and not get fat; we want to fight a war and have nobody die; we want to prolong the extinguishment of our lives for as long as we possibly can. Inevitability is an overarching motif in the universe; it is as natural as the grass we walk on or the water we drink. We must learn to accept it again, that we must exercise and eat right to avoid the chains of flesh, that people will die in wars and yes, some of them will be our boys, that no matter how long we try and prevent it, death finally unites us all. If we don't, we'll find ourselves all sitting in chairs ad infinitum, waiting for things we never started to miraculously happen. That's not something I want. That's not something anyone wants.
My dad is exasperating me. I don't think he understands my needs for nice razors. There are a few things in life that I believe in investing in. Razors are one (pretty high up there, really. Above the stock market, but below fancy dark-washed jeans). If I'm going to be dragging a sharp piece of metal across my face, I want to be damn sure that it's made by people who know what there doing, and not assembled in some back-asswards factory out of scrap metal and used sporks. My dad does not share this view. He is a student of the "Go to a large chain department store and by the cheapest knock-off brand name I-can't-believe-it's-not-banned-by-the-FDA shit in as large amounts as you can." This applies to razors. I have a drawer full of them from Kmart in my bathroom that, when I shave, literally feel like having the rusty end pieces of an Erector set dragged across my chin. Luckily, though, I convinced him to buy two nice reusable razors when we went to the store today (he almost sprung for the two-blade matte black plastic 70's holdover, but I talked him into a nice Gillete). And there was much rejoicing amongst the skin of my face.
I know! I'll write her a poem. Nothing too long, just something short and unedited. Here's a poem for you Kelly. If you don't like it, you can disown it, and if you do, you can keep it.
I walked into a spider web
Today, full of dew like crystal chain-mail strung
Between dusk-orange leaves, and watched as it settled lazily across
My shoulder.
I wanted to stay there, to let my feet take root and
Burrow deep into the mouth of the earth, to stretch my arms
Wide enough to string the web between them in cloud-lengths,
To catch in the spaces whispered smiles and brushed-off tears and
Two hands, each one running fingers through the creases
In the other's palm.
I can weave it again, spider.
Just give me a point to grasp on to; just give me something
As beautiful as your thread wet with blinking ice in the morning
And I will weave you something to catch the whole world in.
Congratulations, Kelly. You've just been involved in a metanarrative, and you've gotten me to start writing again. Preeeetty good job :)
I just want to dance in your tangles
To give me some reason to move
But-here's the thing-I'm not really sure what to write about Kelly. Sure, I could just mash out a list extolling her praises, but that would sound too much like an eHarmony application ("Kelly enjoys musicals and long afternoons on the beach. Her smile can light up a room like a spotlight (which is all true, except for maybe the beach part. that's a college educated guess.)). I could put her into a fictional story, but that might not come out right ("Kelly stopped next to the fire-escape and leaned against the wall, her chest heaving. She had lost the killer...for now, at least."). So, instead what I think I'm going to do is use Kelly's request as a starting point, a place to dive into the sea dark water.
Basically, I'm going to write a blog about writing a blog about Kelly, and whatever else comes to my mind.
I had a miniature pecan pie today. It was really quite adorable, actually; it was covered with little tiny crushed pecans, little dollops of filling, a delicate flaky crust. It even came with a little mini pie pan. This pie would not look out of place on the minuscule dinner table of a family of talking mice, all coming together after a long day to bask in the familial warmth of the dinner table, their whiskers all a-quiver as the stern yet loving father mouse begins to cut the pie with a Lilliputian dessert knife and slowly lower a slice onto each and every plate. And maybe they could be immigrant mice. Yeah, that'd be cool too. Of course, the downside was that I had to spend 10 minutes eating something that wouldn't look out of place at a 5 year old's tea party. But still, it was totally worth it.
Could I put Kelly into a screenplay? No, no, that wouldn't work. Too many camera angles, and we'd NEVER have anytime to shoot it.
What we lack in this country is an acceptance of inevitability. That is, we don't realize that there are paths and branches to goals that we don't want to consider. We want to eat all we want and not get fat; we want to fight a war and have nobody die; we want to prolong the extinguishment of our lives for as long as we possibly can. Inevitability is an overarching motif in the universe; it is as natural as the grass we walk on or the water we drink. We must learn to accept it again, that we must exercise and eat right to avoid the chains of flesh, that people will die in wars and yes, some of them will be our boys, that no matter how long we try and prevent it, death finally unites us all. If we don't, we'll find ourselves all sitting in chairs ad infinitum, waiting for things we never started to miraculously happen. That's not something I want. That's not something anyone wants.
My dad is exasperating me. I don't think he understands my needs for nice razors. There are a few things in life that I believe in investing in. Razors are one (pretty high up there, really. Above the stock market, but below fancy dark-washed jeans). If I'm going to be dragging a sharp piece of metal across my face, I want to be damn sure that it's made by people who know what there doing, and not assembled in some back-asswards factory out of scrap metal and used sporks. My dad does not share this view. He is a student of the "Go to a large chain department store and by the cheapest knock-off brand name I-can't-believe-it's-not-banned-by-the-FDA shit in as large amounts as you can." This applies to razors. I have a drawer full of them from Kmart in my bathroom that, when I shave, literally feel like having the rusty end pieces of an Erector set dragged across my chin. Luckily, though, I convinced him to buy two nice reusable razors when we went to the store today (he almost sprung for the two-blade matte black plastic 70's holdover, but I talked him into a nice Gillete). And there was much rejoicing amongst the skin of my face.
I know! I'll write her a poem. Nothing too long, just something short and unedited. Here's a poem for you Kelly. If you don't like it, you can disown it, and if you do, you can keep it.
I walked into a spider web
Today, full of dew like crystal chain-mail strung
Between dusk-orange leaves, and watched as it settled lazily across
My shoulder.
I wanted to stay there, to let my feet take root and
Burrow deep into the mouth of the earth, to stretch my arms
Wide enough to string the web between them in cloud-lengths,
To catch in the spaces whispered smiles and brushed-off tears and
Two hands, each one running fingers through the creases
In the other's palm.
I can weave it again, spider.
Just give me a point to grasp on to; just give me something
As beautiful as your thread wet with blinking ice in the morning
And I will weave you something to catch the whole world in.
Congratulations, Kelly. You've just been involved in a metanarrative, and you've gotten me to start writing again. Preeeetty good job :)
I just want to dance in your tangles
To give me some reason to move
Monday, September 21, 2009
Keep on Keepin' On
This blog isn't becoming a load of narcissistic self-indulgence, is it? I don't know. I feel like its starting to be.
I've come to the conclusion that the best way to get to know someone is by carpooling with them. It's a relatively simple concept; carpooling with someone means that you are traveling with them, in a confined space, usually for long periods of time, to the same place. So, you can either A.) be quiet for the entire ride, never talking to the other person and never interacting except for brief, awkward glances at their shoes and mangled goodbyes as they hurriedly exit the car, or B.) talk to them. Come to think of it, you're going to have to talk to the person you carpool with at some point, so I lied, and there's only option B. The conversation usually centers on the thing/event/person you're carpooling to, and then branches out nicely from there. This means that I got in the car of a girl I was barely an acquaintance with to ride to swim practice and had, about two hours later, found out that she'd almost been hit by a car the day before, was desperately trying to find someone fluent in Spanish for a foreign literature class, and had a father who, during his midlife crisis, bought 7 grills and created his own competitive barbecuing team.
So yeah, I know a little bit more about her now.
There is a pair of shoes in my room that I absolutely love. They are lace up hemp shoes, and every time I wear them, I feel like the coolest indie ecowarrior on the planet. Seriously, these shoes make me want to cradle an oil-soaked penguin in my arms while I gently wash its delicate feathers clean with a toothbrush. But one of my friends pointed out something the other day; "What happens when they start to decompose?". That's a very good question. Hopefully, they won't; I feel like the company that makes them would have the foresight to make sure their shoes didn't turn into compost after a few months. But hey, if they did, it would make for an interesting icebreaker.
Person: Hey Andrew, what happened to that pair of shoes you used to have? You just kind of stopped wearing them.
Me: Oh, those. They were made of hemp, so they just rotted off my feet. I gave them back to mother nature. You know, the circle of life.
Person: Hemp shoes, huh? Did those come with a free satchel and Phish CD?
Me: Woah man, I don't really appreciate that.
Person: Yeah, well I really don't appreciate pretentious hippies stinking up the air with their holier-than-thou attitudes.
Me: How bout I stick my holier-than-thou foot up your ass?
Person: Shit, I'll take on all you Sierra Club mothafuckahs!
On second thought, maybe not so much with the icebreaker.
I've come to the realization that I love swimming for one reason: it focuses me. Oh sure, the exercise is great, and the skintight suits are a plus too (laaaaaadies), but the joy of swimming is its paring down of my many thoughts into a single overwhelming one. When I first dive into the pool, I'm not thinking about how I'm going to pass my precal test tomorrow, or dwelling on a failed joke that led to a moment of tense silence earlier that day, or wondering when I'm going to get a girlfriend and what exactly I'm going to do for that to happen. I'm thinking "Holy fuck, this water is cold as shit." That's really it. That, and variations of the same ("Agh, I think I pulled something in my foot, why is this interval so fast, ect.") Maybe some aquatic literary references. Moby-Dick is one that keeps coming up ("From hell's heart I stab at thee! For hatred's sake I spit my last breath at thee!"). Swimming is for me what meditation is for Buddhists, or what nicotine is for chain-smokers: the ultimate mind-clearer, the great unifier, my life's universal relaxant. When I come out of the pool, I shed away the day's doubts and anxieties with the chlorine, and thank God for that.
Reading that last paragraph just reminded me of how neurotic I am. Geez, I could totally be Jewish. Woody Allen would be so proud.
Come down from the mountain, you have been gone too long
I've come to the conclusion that the best way to get to know someone is by carpooling with them. It's a relatively simple concept; carpooling with someone means that you are traveling with them, in a confined space, usually for long periods of time, to the same place. So, you can either A.) be quiet for the entire ride, never talking to the other person and never interacting except for brief, awkward glances at their shoes and mangled goodbyes as they hurriedly exit the car, or B.) talk to them. Come to think of it, you're going to have to talk to the person you carpool with at some point, so I lied, and there's only option B. The conversation usually centers on the thing/event/person you're carpooling to, and then branches out nicely from there. This means that I got in the car of a girl I was barely an acquaintance with to ride to swim practice and had, about two hours later, found out that she'd almost been hit by a car the day before, was desperately trying to find someone fluent in Spanish for a foreign literature class, and had a father who, during his midlife crisis, bought 7 grills and created his own competitive barbecuing team.
So yeah, I know a little bit more about her now.
There is a pair of shoes in my room that I absolutely love. They are lace up hemp shoes, and every time I wear them, I feel like the coolest indie ecowarrior on the planet. Seriously, these shoes make me want to cradle an oil-soaked penguin in my arms while I gently wash its delicate feathers clean with a toothbrush. But one of my friends pointed out something the other day; "What happens when they start to decompose?". That's a very good question. Hopefully, they won't; I feel like the company that makes them would have the foresight to make sure their shoes didn't turn into compost after a few months. But hey, if they did, it would make for an interesting icebreaker.
Person: Hey Andrew, what happened to that pair of shoes you used to have? You just kind of stopped wearing them.
Me: Oh, those. They were made of hemp, so they just rotted off my feet. I gave them back to mother nature. You know, the circle of life.
Person: Hemp shoes, huh? Did those come with a free satchel and Phish CD?
Me: Woah man, I don't really appreciate that.
Person: Yeah, well I really don't appreciate pretentious hippies stinking up the air with their holier-than-thou attitudes.
Me: How bout I stick my holier-than-thou foot up your ass?
Person: Shit, I'll take on all you Sierra Club mothafuckahs!
On second thought, maybe not so much with the icebreaker.
I've come to the realization that I love swimming for one reason: it focuses me. Oh sure, the exercise is great, and the skintight suits are a plus too (laaaaaadies), but the joy of swimming is its paring down of my many thoughts into a single overwhelming one. When I first dive into the pool, I'm not thinking about how I'm going to pass my precal test tomorrow, or dwelling on a failed joke that led to a moment of tense silence earlier that day, or wondering when I'm going to get a girlfriend and what exactly I'm going to do for that to happen. I'm thinking "Holy fuck, this water is cold as shit." That's really it. That, and variations of the same ("Agh, I think I pulled something in my foot, why is this interval so fast, ect.") Maybe some aquatic literary references. Moby-Dick is one that keeps coming up ("From hell's heart I stab at thee! For hatred's sake I spit my last breath at thee!"). Swimming is for me what meditation is for Buddhists, or what nicotine is for chain-smokers: the ultimate mind-clearer, the great unifier, my life's universal relaxant. When I come out of the pool, I shed away the day's doubts and anxieties with the chlorine, and thank God for that.
Reading that last paragraph just reminded me of how neurotic I am. Geez, I could totally be Jewish. Woody Allen would be so proud.
Come down from the mountain, you have been gone too long
Monday, August 3, 2009
Kabbalish
There's an old saying, that "truth is stranger than fiction". Some people find this untrue, that the ideas and situations the mind of man creates are infinitely more weird and wonderful than those things that occur in the natural world. Some people mistrust things taken from life, feeling that such art is inherently narcissistic and overly-confessionalist. A couple of people are wondering why I'm talking about that Will Ferrel movie where that British chick narrates his life.
Something happened a little bit ago that, I think, supports the saying. About a week ago, the FBI arrested dozens of prominent citizens in New Jersey in a massive corruption sting. Now I know, I know, "Boy, people getting arrested in New Jersey for corruption? In the great state of New Jersey? Nawh! Get outta here! *sarcastic eye-roll*" But its not really the situation that's so delightful, its the players and merchandise. When the news broke, the FBI stated that they'd arrested state legislators, numerous lawyers, three current town mayors... and rabbis. The Jewish kinds. Having rabbis arrested in a New Jersey corruption sting is kind of like arresting a half dozen imams in Salt Lake City for running a prostitution ring; unexpected, and a little bit confusing. If any religious figures were to be involved in shady dealings in the Garden State, you'd expect a couple of priests, a bishop or two, maybe a cardinal. But nope, instead it was 7 Syrian Jewish rabbis. Shabbat Shalom, indeed.
Wait wait wait. It gets better.
Apparently, these were no minor corruption charges. Not measely bribery for the great state of New Jersey, no! The accused politicians had been using the rabbis to launder money through various religious charity organizations. Alright, your standard cash moving with a Hasidic twist. Not bad, not bad. The mayors also accepted money from private interest groups to let fake developers gain access to expensive property rights. Ok, land ownership crimes are on the more intellectual bent, but they make sense, given the state of the economy and all. I'm still with you. The rabbis were also accused of generating illegal income by trafficking in black market kidneys stolen from Israeli donors, as well as selling large quantities of fake Gucci and Prada bags.
And with that, organized crime in New Jersey hits lightspeed and leaves the galaxy.
This is why the truth is stranger than fiction. This is why real life creates things a thousand times more interesting than the shit we come up with in our brains. I don't think anyone could have thought up a situation involving New Jersey rabbis laundering money, selling organs, and dealing in faux designer purses, all the while in cahoots with a group of corrupt, probably Italian political officials. Its ludicrous. Its hilarious. Its terrifying.
And its all real.
Lets move to Paris, shoot some heroin and fuck with the stars
Something happened a little bit ago that, I think, supports the saying. About a week ago, the FBI arrested dozens of prominent citizens in New Jersey in a massive corruption sting. Now I know, I know, "Boy, people getting arrested in New Jersey for corruption? In the great state of New Jersey? Nawh! Get outta here! *sarcastic eye-roll*" But its not really the situation that's so delightful, its the players and merchandise. When the news broke, the FBI stated that they'd arrested state legislators, numerous lawyers, three current town mayors... and rabbis. The Jewish kinds. Having rabbis arrested in a New Jersey corruption sting is kind of like arresting a half dozen imams in Salt Lake City for running a prostitution ring; unexpected, and a little bit confusing. If any religious figures were to be involved in shady dealings in the Garden State, you'd expect a couple of priests, a bishop or two, maybe a cardinal. But nope, instead it was 7 Syrian Jewish rabbis. Shabbat Shalom, indeed.
Wait wait wait. It gets better.
Apparently, these were no minor corruption charges. Not measely bribery for the great state of New Jersey, no! The accused politicians had been using the rabbis to launder money through various religious charity organizations. Alright, your standard cash moving with a Hasidic twist. Not bad, not bad. The mayors also accepted money from private interest groups to let fake developers gain access to expensive property rights. Ok, land ownership crimes are on the more intellectual bent, but they make sense, given the state of the economy and all. I'm still with you. The rabbis were also accused of generating illegal income by trafficking in black market kidneys stolen from Israeli donors, as well as selling large quantities of fake Gucci and Prada bags.
And with that, organized crime in New Jersey hits lightspeed and leaves the galaxy.
This is why the truth is stranger than fiction. This is why real life creates things a thousand times more interesting than the shit we come up with in our brains. I don't think anyone could have thought up a situation involving New Jersey rabbis laundering money, selling organs, and dealing in faux designer purses, all the while in cahoots with a group of corrupt, probably Italian political officials. Its ludicrous. Its hilarious. Its terrifying.
And its all real.
Lets move to Paris, shoot some heroin and fuck with the stars
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
I Don't Know What the Date Is
I seriously don't.
I think its around the 15th or so, but I can't be sure.
Let's see, I know that the Transfomers movie comes out next Wednesday, and next Wednesday is the 26th, so that means today is actually the 19th.
Well, I wasn't off by that much. 4 days never hurt anyone.
It's been like this for a few days now, ever since last weekend. You see, last week was the first week of summer, and, as such, was filled with graduation parties, graduation cookouts, large groups of people invading various houses to watch Bret Micheals have a close encounter with a falling stage prop on the Tonys, ect. But, of course, this frenzied energy burns out quickly, as people begin waking up at 12 and realizing they have absolutely zilch to do. This begins what I like to call the Bataan Death March Phase of Summer, that period where most of your friends are either off traveling with their family in East Jerusalem, U.S.A, out of the country in, oh, I don't know, friggin China, or off at various camps for cyclopean lengths of time.
Now, in this situation, a person can do one of two things:
A) Get a job, make some dinero, and spend said dinero on assorted items (movie tickets, clothes, blocks of hashish. you know, the usual)
B) Get in your car, rassle up some amigos, and have fun doing jack shit together
This is a bit of a problem for me. You see, being 15, there aren't really a lot of job openings, and what jobs there are are usually for volunteers. Now look, I like doing my civic duty as much as anyone else, but in the summer, I kinda want to get paid. Y dos, I can't actually drive. Due to a series of unfortunate events, I haven't even taken drivers ed either. Sooo, I happen to be duly fucked.
Fun for me.
So basically, all I have to do at the moment is work in my drivers ed manual, go to the gym, and watch Star Trek reruns until my eyes bleed. Seriously, yesterday I spent 45 minutes rewatching that scene in Good Will Hunting where Robin Williams is all like, "It's not your fault Will, it's not your fault", and Matt Damon breaks down and starts sobbing like a hormonal mother.
Not the most productive 45 minutes of my life.
Hopefully things will get better. I'm looking into working the ticket booth at the Carolina Theater, and by next Sunday I'll have completed all my prerequisites for drivers ed. And people will start filtering back to Durham in the coming weeks, which is also a plus.
Now if you'll excuse me, Aliens is just starting on AMC, and if theres one thing that's not boring, its watching Sigourney Weaver kick a 20 foot tall alien's ass in a robo-forklift. Now that's entertainment.
(oh, p.s., I started reading a two dollar copy of The Glass Menagerie I got at Nice Price Books. Just a little fyi; I don't want to start Andrew's Book and Recipe Sharing Club or anything. Or maybe I do. I'll have to sleep on it.)
Just strap on my ear goggles and I'm ready to go
I think its around the 15th or so, but I can't be sure.
Let's see, I know that the Transfomers movie comes out next Wednesday, and next Wednesday is the 26th, so that means today is actually the 19th.
Well, I wasn't off by that much. 4 days never hurt anyone.
It's been like this for a few days now, ever since last weekend. You see, last week was the first week of summer, and, as such, was filled with graduation parties, graduation cookouts, large groups of people invading various houses to watch Bret Micheals have a close encounter with a falling stage prop on the Tonys, ect. But, of course, this frenzied energy burns out quickly, as people begin waking up at 12 and realizing they have absolutely zilch to do. This begins what I like to call the Bataan Death March Phase of Summer, that period where most of your friends are either off traveling with their family in East Jerusalem, U.S.A, out of the country in, oh, I don't know, friggin China, or off at various camps for cyclopean lengths of time.
Now, in this situation, a person can do one of two things:
A) Get a job, make some dinero, and spend said dinero on assorted items (movie tickets, clothes, blocks of hashish. you know, the usual)
B) Get in your car, rassle up some amigos, and have fun doing jack shit together
This is a bit of a problem for me. You see, being 15, there aren't really a lot of job openings, and what jobs there are are usually for volunteers. Now look, I like doing my civic duty as much as anyone else, but in the summer, I kinda want to get paid. Y dos, I can't actually drive. Due to a series of unfortunate events, I haven't even taken drivers ed either. Sooo, I happen to be duly fucked.
Fun for me.
So basically, all I have to do at the moment is work in my drivers ed manual, go to the gym, and watch Star Trek reruns until my eyes bleed. Seriously, yesterday I spent 45 minutes rewatching that scene in Good Will Hunting where Robin Williams is all like, "It's not your fault Will, it's not your fault", and Matt Damon breaks down and starts sobbing like a hormonal mother.
Not the most productive 45 minutes of my life.
Hopefully things will get better. I'm looking into working the ticket booth at the Carolina Theater, and by next Sunday I'll have completed all my prerequisites for drivers ed. And people will start filtering back to Durham in the coming weeks, which is also a plus.
Now if you'll excuse me, Aliens is just starting on AMC, and if theres one thing that's not boring, its watching Sigourney Weaver kick a 20 foot tall alien's ass in a robo-forklift. Now that's entertainment.
(oh, p.s., I started reading a two dollar copy of The Glass Menagerie I got at Nice Price Books. Just a little fyi; I don't want to start Andrew's Book and Recipe Sharing Club or anything. Or maybe I do. I'll have to sleep on it.)
Just strap on my ear goggles and I'm ready to go
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Back for a Moment
I wish I could tell the people I love how much I love them.
Ok, yeah, I know I haven't written anything in like, a month, and that's kind of an abrupt note to start back on. But its late, my sisters just thrown an honest to God psychotic fit about our broken washing machine (she won't take her clothes to the laundromat because "thats what poor people do"), and I've spent the last 3 hours transposing music into the key of B by hand. So really, I just wanted to get that little tid bit out there.
Its not that I'm reluctant to say it to them; I just can't really find the words. Which is odd, considering I'm a writer. Its harder than that, though. Expressing honest love through words is one of the hardest things you can do. Trust me. I've tried.
I'm going to sleep now. I'm going to be writing more; summer's coming up in a few days, which means endless sun-spattered days in the living room writing whatever I damn well please. And then theres writing camp in July, two weeks that are literally my writing Nirvana. Needless to say, I'm looking forward to it.
I'll be writing more. I promise.
I don't want to live in my father's house no more
Ok, yeah, I know I haven't written anything in like, a month, and that's kind of an abrupt note to start back on. But its late, my sisters just thrown an honest to God psychotic fit about our broken washing machine (she won't take her clothes to the laundromat because "thats what poor people do"), and I've spent the last 3 hours transposing music into the key of B by hand. So really, I just wanted to get that little tid bit out there.
Its not that I'm reluctant to say it to them; I just can't really find the words. Which is odd, considering I'm a writer. Its harder than that, though. Expressing honest love through words is one of the hardest things you can do. Trust me. I've tried.
I'm going to sleep now. I'm going to be writing more; summer's coming up in a few days, which means endless sun-spattered days in the living room writing whatever I damn well please. And then theres writing camp in July, two weeks that are literally my writing Nirvana. Needless to say, I'm looking forward to it.
I'll be writing more. I promise.
I don't want to live in my father's house no more
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Things That Are Annoying Me Today
- the fact that I can't import my "Born to Run" album to my iTunes without getting a dozen glitched out Springsteen songs
- my school's yearbook staff, who apparently just make up about 90% of the quotes in the yearbook
- the entire Republican Party
- that I haven't finished writing a poem in about a month, and a short story in God knows how long
- the Spanish verbs ser and ir, whose preterit tenses are EXACTLY THE SAME. I would really like to meet the genius who came up with that idea. "Hey, lets make two of the most used verbs in our language have the same past tense form, just to fuck with the gringos!" Jackass.
- Newsweek magazine, for saying that swine flu is "worse than SARS", and should be labeled a pandemic, a suggestion that insults actual pandemics like AIDS and the bubonic plague. So, over 2 million Africans are killed by malaria each year, but swine flu kills 13 people and its suddenly a threat to humanity?
- the awful suspicion that swine flu is actually going to become a full blown pandemic
- my sister's bitching
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