Today, like yesterday, our whiteboard was boldly announcing that "Dan is gay". Unless Graham's anonymous friend is stalking Colman Hall, this is the work of some impetuous vandal.

I suspected Greg or The D.J., but both denied it and Nick-From-Next-Door said that the same thing was happening to their whiteboard. Which leaves only one suspect; the drunk and horny jerks from across the hall.

They're actually picking on us. Good gads, I thought that was past me now. At least now it doesn't bother me, as much.

Lunch was boring; even though The Poet's table waved me over, I for some reason sat with The D.J. and one of his generic straight-edge friends. It must have been residual ditching-him guilt.

As I should have expected, we hardly talked at all. These people must have stuff to talk about when I'm not around, so either:

#1. They're intimidated by Our Bold Hero, Social Juggernaut, or
#2. All they talk about when I'm not around is me.

I suppose they did talk, but it was all social pleasantries and such; they must only be able to form interesting conversations when in very large groups.

I did all my homework today, which filled me with a sensation that I can only assume is called 'accomplishment'. It's gone now, but it was great while it lasted. Maybe I'll do it again sometime.

For some bizarre reason, I went to a meeting for prospective Residence Life Assistants that I'd been invited to. I took a form, but I couldn't do that, really. The spoiling other people's fun part would be easy, but the helping people and organizing social activities part… no thanks. Plus I need a roommate; probably not Greg (no offense to him), but just someone to make me think -I'm definitely not ready to live alone.

The last highlight of my day off was The D.J.'s radio show, a Thursday tradition. The D.J., Nick-From-Next-Door, myself, and that girl The D.J. is apparently still trying to set me up with all went to the station and hung out for "The Best Rock Can Be". I think she's coming to her senses now -I tried to be nice but not gentleman-nice, and she did have to listen to me talk for an hour. I think the danger of me breaking the heart of some strange girl is now gone.

I'm really off in that radio room; either it's cursed or out of my element, I guess. One caller wanted them to, and yes, I quote: "pock cunch" me. Well, so much for the entertainment industry. Radio-Dan is a failure, a gay-sounding failure with nothing to say.

It was in general not a great show; we were all tired and I had a bit of a headache. The D.J.'s girl friend had little to say, though she was amused by everything I did, and Nick-From-Next-Door was sleeping on the couch by the end.

Later.

Read today's earlier entry first; I put some time into that baby, and I thought it was pretty cool.

We're all pretty cruel to The D.J., considering. He comes by the room every night to tell me when he's going to dinner, he invites us to his radio show, and he tries (as both Nick-From-Next-Door and myself can attest) to set his friends up with foolishly chosen women. Yet despite it all, we joke about how much we hate him, to his face.

At the beginning of the year. I observed that we were trying to turn him into the Cartman of our group, which would make the eternally-hatted Greg our Kyle, the straightforward and relatively normal Nick-From-Next-Door our Stan, and myself the ill-fated Kenny. I said it jokingly at the time, but Greg has done some pretty nasty things to The D.J., and I've been telling him that I hated him whenever I didn't know what else to say. For his part, The D.J. has fallen partially into the mold we made for him, resorting to "I hate you guys" more and more each week.

I really don't know what to do; like the reviled Mr. Discretion of Brainerd, The D.J. lacks some common sense when it comes to social situations -I think of him as a teenager trapped eternally in 10th grade- and yet he socializes with large herds of people, often people with the same ill-fated social skills. I like those people; I can see through prettymuch everything they do. And beyond The D.J.'s quirks and obtuseness I see only a good-natured individual. I like The D.J., though he's not the kind of guy I'd spend much time with if he wasn't my neighbor.

We ditched him after dinner today, you see. It was a minor thing, but for some people the little minor things pile up and they just brood on them until something snaps, bends, or dies. I really don't think, in all fairness, that The D.J. considers me thoughtful enough to appreciate how rude it was to slip off while he was getting ice cream, nor am I sure that The D.J. himself cared, but he invited me to dinner in the first place and it was rude, in principle, to ditch him right afterwards.

Dinner was fun though; The Mustache-less Man was there and we talked of The Simpsons and life's other mysteries, completely ignoring The D.J. and his friend The Italian. Ah, The Mustache-less Man; would that he didn't live across campus and that I didn't know him only through The D.J.!

The Italian is the perfect way to explain The D.J. As Nick-From-Next-Door put it during our long walks around campus last weekend, all of The D.J.'s friends are "straight-edge", as is The D.J. himself. No drinking or drugs or such, vows I full-well understand. But there's more to it than just their temperance -The Italian and his fellows have nothing to say. I can sit in a room with them and have a conversation without feeling any emotions at all. At least with Greg I have occasional exasperation. At least with The Vain Man I have disguised loathing. These "straight-edge" types are nearly useless socially, unless they're holding back conversational powers I have yet to see.

So The Italian and The D.J. failed to interest me, and I wasn't about to try and make myself more interesting. The Italian thinks I'm stupid, I think. The D.J., the radio personality that he is, was able to make a conversation, but with The Italian involved it didn't bode will. I left early, and went back to the dorm.

There's not much else to say, at this hour. I did my laundry, had banal conversations with That Fellow while I unloaded the dryer, etc etc etc…

The one benefit of being an amateur writer is that it's ok to write like an amateur writer. Hurrahs for everyone!

One of these day I'm going to have more than one gripe about something; I want multiple gripes. Also, I want to see a vista that isn't scenic. I want to look out from such a vista and say "well, this wasn't worth the hike at all. let's go home."

I think I'll put in some quotes completely out of context. It's funnier that way.

Today, as you can probably tell, was a good day, full of random socialization, which I'm beginning to think is one of the best kinds of socialization in the world. Unpredictable, interesting, and clean-up is a breeze. You just leave the table.

Manney: i don't talk about books. who gives a shit?

Freshman Studies class today, following tediously normal Calc and Qur'an classes, was, dare I say it, delightful.

I got there early, and the Lawrence Illuminati --that is, The Politician, The Feminist, and The Diplomat-- let me sit in their smoke-filled room while they plotted; combined I think they represent half of the political clout of campus. For you non-metric people, one 'clout' is thirty barrels of our 'political influence'.

Dan: whoosh
Graham: the sound of your dignity as it escapes your mortal body?

A gruff Prof. Alger walked into class today and gave us our papers back. There were groans throughout the room. I involuntarily blurted out "what? this grade doesn't make sense, this is one of the worst things I've ever written!" while others in the room expressed similar, that is, the exact opposite, sentiments. It seems that everyone, or at least the vast majority, got a B on the paper.

There is no reason in these grades, and this throws what little grasp I had of Prof. Alger's grading system out the proverbial window.

Later that class period, we were getting uppity and went further off task with every artificial topic Alger produced. The Diplomat took us to Russia, and Alger accidently took us to his crazy Economics-centered world.

Manney: yes. and fat and girly. girls love that, right?

In Alger's world we met Bentham, the philosoper/economist who first conceived utiliatarianism and hedonistic calculus. We quickly started discussing his freaky will, which stipulated that Bentham had to preside over the meetings of his society at Oxford even after he died. He was mummified or something and put in the front of the room.

Apparently The Feminist has something against mummification. Also, she says she used to spell woman 'womyn'.

Anyways, so The Queen of Plantz interjected that someday, if he was lucky, Prof. Alger could be the rotting corpse in charge of some other economics society. She and I bandied back and forth before he could shut us up, noting that nothing shows respect like being stuffed and mounted at the front of the room.

Manney: i like the part where i said, Note to everyone else: i'm serious.

Lunch was also pretty cool; The Queen of Plantz, The Idyllist, another guy from my FS class and I formed a make-shift FS table, and talked about, well, I don't remember. Just imagine something funny. The Idyllist gave The Politician a note today. Could this be love, between these two who I've never seen speaking outside of class? Or is it just meaningless gossip?

Well, I gots to go to supper, The D.J is getting antsy.

Just finished Things Fall Apart for tomorrow, and actually studied for my Calc quiz. I have a lot of aimless energy right now, which I should have expressed by playing basketball with The D.J and Nick-From-Next-Door, but I'll just sit here and twitch, instead.

I feel somehow guilty for writing a long entry earlier today; I know that there are better things to read than my blog, and that I shouldn't waste other people's time with tedious entries.

Should I write a short meaningful entry, or write until I feel like stopping? If Dan blogs in the forest and no one bothers to read it, does he make a sound?

I'm not about to give anything resembling a resolution. No decisions or revelations on that issue, not today. How's that for deliberate?

I suppose I should say something about The Idyllist, an all-around great person as it happens, but beyond her love of English, quality conversation skills, and odd taste in books, there isn't much I know.

Two days ago The D.J. and I talked about the differences between geeks, nerds, and dorks. He sees no difference, not even a connotative one, whereas I see them as very different categories with a small overlap, if any.

This is, of course, a topic I stole from both Graham and Manney, and I'm told that one Randall Kurtz is in possession of a definitive definition.

I was going to write an essay on the differences, as I see them, but a very well-written essay on the subject is already available at what remains of GAZEBO, the Journal of Geek Culture. Maybe I still will, but I don't think I could give the subject a better treatment.

After reading the article, I'm not sure where I fall. Certainly I was a geek, but am I still? Am I devolving into nerd-dom? The only certainty is that I'm a Self-Amused-Personality, which is why this whole blog is going to dwell on an issue that I find interesting. Screw the rest of you. A good joke is still funny if you tell it only to yourself.

Yesterday in class The Diplomat started bashing the speaker in Notes from the Underground, saying that he found him "annoying".

"He's just like the geek who tried too hard in high school," observed The Diplomat. Everyone laughed the confused laugh of a Freshman Studies student, and The Diplomat continued.

"Remember, you'd be standing around and the geek would walk up and be like 'Hay Gu-uys! Whatsss going onn?'."

At this point I was already furrowing my brow mightily in a show of intense disagreement -not only was he wrong about The Underground Man, nay, the Diplomat was obviously a geek-hater, and I, as a geek/nerd/dork, was a bit offended at his portrayal.

As the article I linked to above noted, people like The Diplomat snub such nerds rather than try to help them overcome their social flaws. Back when I was a complete dork (in 6th-9th grade, by my reckoning) Larson was willing to help turn a snot-nosed kid into a princess, and even now my friends are willing to give me much-needed advice about social matters. For gadsakes, I used to wear sweatpants! Sweatpants! But leave it to my true friends to give a geek a second chance at fashion, life, etc…

Not so The Diplomat and his ilk, apparently. No love for the geeks there.

Anyways, at this point, after the laughter had subsided, either The Feminist or The Queen of Plantz noted that The Underground Man definitely had some serious problems. "He's a messed up guy, I think we can all agree he's mentally ill" Or something to that effect.

No, we could not agree, though Bollywood, The Politician, The Queen of Plantz, The Feminist, Dungeon Master, The Diplomat, Prof. Alger, and prettymuch the entire class supported the mentally-ill conception. I refuse to believe it.

The Idyllist, along with all the other scattered would-be English majors in the room (English is the second most popular major at Lawrence), supported our bold hero, me.

No, we cried en masse, he's hypersensitive, not mentally ill. The other characters function in the same rule, the same social rules apply, but The Underground Man magnifies them. Good gads, we shouted.

The correct few held their ground, and the others relented only grudgingly, doubtless noting that we would not back down while still in the right. The confusion on this subject still confuses me. He may be depressed, or have asperger's syndrome, but The Underground Man isn't crazy.

Why then, this near-consensus? Why do The D.J., The Diplomat, and others just dismiss people like The Underground Man (or, going back to a previous entry of mine, Holden Caufield,) as being 'out there' or 'crazy'? These are smart people, after all. Nice people.

Is this the shrill whining of a geek, trying to feel persecuted? Maybe; I wouldn't put it past me. And in person, The D.J. and The Diplomat seem to have no problem with geeks; no one I've actually talked to has, although those that do probably wouldn't talk to me. It may be a sort of literary snobbishness, an English major flaunting his 'superior mind' by pointing out the ignorance of others. Or maybe The Underground Man is really mentally ill and all the English geeks in that classroom were wrong.

Still, it's safe to end this blog with a simple "Why?"

I deleted some stuff I'd written that was pretty important, which I really should have let be, but some things you have to say perfectly, or not at all. I need to be more deliberate, I think.

Aphorisms aren't my thing, really. I need to think for a while about things, and other vague generalities.

Everyone loves puppies.

…everyone likes puppies, especially frantic students searching desperately for an impetus in their Qur'an in-class essay. Puppies, besides being adorable, illustrate one of the main themes of the Qur'an…

Actually, they don't, but whatever.

I got my Qur'an midterm back today, and the introduction was a hit. Mind you, the paper itself was great, albeit wordy, but without the puppies thing to get me writing there would have been no paper. I was really stumped and there was no Sean Connery there to shout "C'mon Dan! Punch those keys!" Nor were there keys, so that too would have been a problem.

Yeah. That boosted my spirits, but I was in a pathetic mood anyways today -spillover from my usual Sunday self-loathing, which came a bit later than usual last night.

An extension on my Freshman Studies rewrite, a good grade on my Qur'an midterm, some quality random socialization, a call from my stoned hetero-life-buddy, ah, what of these many wonders so lifted my spirits? I'd like to say that today was just an all-around good day, but it really wasn't, and I was in a quite horrible mood even after all of this.

No, it was the song "She Likes Me For Me" by Blessed Union of Souls, that I owe my temporary redemption to. It's not that great, either.

Watched The Simpsons last night, with the hilarious Graham Lampa, and got a call from the stoned Larson today. Lots of random socialization, too. I was hilariously annoying today in Freshman Studies, which must have grated on some people, but The Diplomat, The Feminist, and others were amused.

Hopefully they weren't laughing at the sheer idiocy of my comparing the Bush Administration to Santa Claus -Bush can't go everywhere in one night, so he needs helpers, you see.

And another thing, I want to get into a situation where I can say:

"Art is dead, and God is its rotting corpse"

Lastly, from the people who brought you radical feminism comes thinly veiled racism, courtesy of what was supposed to be a bland editorial in USA Today:

Mexican-American. African-American. Japanese-American. Chinese American. American. In all, minorities carried more than a quarter of medals away, even though they made up just over 5% of the American team. It was a radiant -- and refreshing -- reminder that while the USA is indeed a nation of ''different people,'' there is strength, inspiration and even unity in that diversity.

Way to be good at sports, minorities! I don't think I need to say anything else about different people, here. As the article says, Deep down, they're Americans.

Going to sleep with the odd, nagging feeling that I desperately need to be writing something. There is something unwritten right now, and it's right in front of me.

Well, in any case, it's something for later. Dollars to donuts I have really weird dreams tonight. Sorry for sounding pretentious.

I've almost got my WinAmp playlist to the point where I have a song for every possible mood. Soon I will be able to disconnect from reality altogther. Although, I don't want to become one of those guys who walks around campus with headphones on. That's a bit antisocial.

Well, off to my computer games. No update tonight, I've said too much nonsense already today, and in general.

I just finished Notes for the Underground, which did little to change my perception of Russian literature as depressing and dense. Still, it was good. Maybe I'll read The Stranger one of these days; The Queen of Plantz thought it was somewhat similar.

Which reminds me of something else The Queen of Plantz said in class a while ago.

How could you not identify with Dostoevsky's nameless protagonist? For that matter, how could The Queen of Plantz have said that she didn't identify with Holden in Catcher in the Rye, the guy who observed so cannily that the world is 'full of phonies'? I don't have the book, but that's the gist, and it's… well… I can't even comprehend how she's thinking. Everyone complains about phonies, even phonies (such as, most likely, myself).

Those with a sense of irony might like to know that I don't have that book anymore because I gave Catcher in the Rye to the infamous Kirstin Dunham of Brainerd, for her birthday, because I really have nothing against her. She said, by-the-by, that she read the book and really liked it. Anyways.

There was a sushi and italian bread fiesta early last night in the Colman lounge, and I was dispelled of my old notion, gathered no-doubt from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, that sushi is raw fish. It's not, apparently, but it still tastes really bad.

This is when I got the urge to be spiteful towards one of our R.A's. Greg and Nick-From-Next-Door and The D.J. and I were sitting around downstairs eating free food and not talking to the mostly-conceited partygoers. Greg's Girlfriend was somewhere else, I guess. I'd just tried the sushi because it was something new and I'm just that much of a trendsetter, and Greg said he didn't want to have any.

So I said, and this is supposed to be funny:
"So Greg's just going to stay in the same old box with the same old food and the same old girlfriend. Why don't you try new things, Greg?"

And the R.A, who'd overheard the entire conversation, said "Hey, there's nothing wrong with that, I'd do that. Just do whatever makes you happy" in a completely after-school-special way. I just can't be facetious around him, I guess.

So later we're walking outside, and the R.A walked by and said "look at the moon tonight, it's really beautiful" to Nick-From-Next-Door and I. The moon, even for a self-described closet-romantic like our bold hero, was pretty ordinary. It was probably the most mundane celestial object ever observed by man, in fact.

And of course I went off on the R.A, and by the time we'd circled the campus, we'd conceived this image of him as a complete poser who says everything just to get girls. We reduced him to one motivation and made his entire life a lie, and it was really fun, but it was a bit extreme.

Likewise, I was in that kind of destructive mood when I blogged last night, and Greg's Girlfriend quite rightfully bore the brunt (yes, the brunt) of my slobbering rancor. No one contradicts me when it comes to the Shakers.

Ah, and finally I'm to absolute truth. But I gots to go. Later.

It's already Sunday, bloody Sunday, and I'm not only still awake, I'm stuck entertaining myself (with the well-received help of Nick-From-Next-Door) while Greg and Greg's Girlfriend have a romantic dinner for two in our room. I am such a good roomate, really, I am. I've already voluntarily contrived a reason to leave the room yesterday, so Greg and Lacey could have some alone time, and tonight is the coup de grace as they say, or should.

We had some entertainment, as we called it in Berlin, and wandered around the campus for a bit, and of course we're waxing philosophical right now because Nick is getting more reflective as the night progresses. Motor skills aside, I suspect I have a much higher tolerance; I'm still very clear-headed and rational, if a bit less inhibited by my own false, um, inhibitions.

As I've said before, if this is what I have to do in order to do something, I'll do it. But it's not something I'd seek out (which is why, incidentaly, I talked Nick-From-Next-Door out of going to a party at Sage tonight, even after I'd vacated my room until whenever.)

This is my ultimatum, to the world and to my own conscience. Give me a better option and I'll take it.

I had an argument, well, a philosophical discussion, really, with Greg's Girlfriend earlier, and she can't admit when she's wrong. I mean, she's a nice girl, but her self-confidence is unnerving -she didn't buy my quite accurate description of Shakers (I said that they were celebate, and few in number) earlier, and during our discussion she revealed herself to be an Ayn Rand devotee. We talked about many philosophical issues, especially her pet subject, absolute truth.

As I stated above, she can't admit when she's wrong, and thinks herself no-doubt smarter than someone who's lived and breathed philosophical discussions for the past three years of debate (well, my life must have been somewhere, after all), but at the same time she insisted on portraying me rhetorically as someone running in logical circles, which I wasn't, frequently bringing up my supposed incongruities on the subject of absolute truth, which she, as a Plato and Ayn Rand reader (in fact, that's all she's read) thoroughly supported.

I admitted that I was wishy-washy on this issue from the start, and supported her conception of absolute truth, but apparently I contradicted myself. Whatever. I'm just upset that she didn't appreciate my quite lucid arguments, preferring instead the sound of her own voice.

Whatever, once again. I'm being cruel, and I've been cruel since, well, all night I suppose. To our R.A as well. I probably shouldn't be typing, but it's somehow funny that after three entertainments I'm discussing philosophy in such a manner. Ah, but this, you see, isn't Dan, I suspect. More on absolute truth later, but at the moment I'm quite tired.

On a technical note, I finally updated my little-used Thoughts page, adding a story you've all read already. I don't know when I'll ever add anything else, unless I find my long-lost Applejacks rant, but if you haven't read my 'thrilling story' of Hamline, well, now you don't have to scroll halfway down this page to do it.

Just finished watching [Pi] for the… well, I don't know how many times I've seen it. More than Graham has seen Army of Darkness, probably. The important thing is that I finally got Nick-From-Next-Door and Greg to watch it.

Anyways, next door The D.J. has some people over who seem moderately cool, including that girl friend of his who likes me solely on the strength of my witty comments (who doesn't?); unless her bizarre whim is gone. I'm convinced that The D.J. was telling the truth about that oddity, because deception of this sort just isn't in him, but I wonder at the social skills of the people who would confide in him.

Do they just assume that he has no concept of, among other things, tact and discretion? Or do they trust in him because, the trusting souls they are, they don't understand that The D.J. thinks differently than the rest of us? In either case, it's confuses me that The D.J. is the big man on campus when our interactions are so uninteresting, no offense to him.

Greg's Girlfriend was here today; it was shocking to see her because she looks different in person, and Greg acts quite different around her, like a gentleman. So do I, too, for some reason. I think I'm trying to impress upon her the "eccentric roommate" persona of Dan, what with all my crazy comments.

I went to a jazz concert today, among other minor adventures, and it was pretty good, but it didn't wow me. I went to support The Mustache-less Man, who I saw today for the first time in a week. Ah, random socialization.

Otherwise, I've got more to tell but I'm really tired, so, well, later.

For a few weeks, I've been checking on the Op/Ed section of Yahoo! News each day, because the conservative and liberal sections balance out each other nicely and keep me up to date on the current political gossip.

Usually it's The New Yorker's job (at least it was back in the day, before I got sick of The New Yorker) to keep Ann Coulter in check, but as she continues her steady descent into madness, I'd just like to post, as a concerned moderate, a sample of the twisted rhetorical processes currently at work in her diseased brain. She's been good recently, writing Op/Eds about the romantisization of poverty and the suddenly-racially-mixed statue by the WTC ruins. I actually agreed with her.

But sometimes, her rhetoric goes too far:

Taxes are like abortion, and not just because both are grotesque procedures supported by Democrats. You're for them or against them. Taxes go up or down; government raises taxes or lowers them. But Democrats will not let the words "abortion" or "tax hikes" pass their lips. Which one was an "investment in our future" and which one is a "choice"? Was that killing babies or taking our money?

That's from her cleverly-titled article "Put the Tax Cut in A Lockbox".

We won't get into my views on the subject, because I really don't think guys should be messing around with womanly stuff at all, especially since I attended the Vagina Monologues.

The women of the country can have the sensitive, completely definitional issue of abortion to themselves, but to compare taxes to abortion? Gah?? And that makes Ted Kennedy who, Hitler?

Not much happened today, of course. Greg's girlfriend is coming tomorrow, so that'll be interesting; we cleaned the room today to prepare for her. Greg, for all his mellowness, goes out of his way to make her happy; beneath the laconic comments and body-fluid humor, not to mention his Stevie Wonder obsession, my roomate is a romantic at heart.

The problem is that Greg damaged my computer because he didn't, and still doesn't, believe my 'theory' that vacuuming around a television or computer screen will demagnetize it. Or something. Now there are fuzzy little bands on my computer screen, although degaussing has been slowly fixing the damage.

It's Greg's fault, but I'll never prove it, and he doesn't believe me so I hope he doesn't vacuum the room again while I'm not around to shelter my one and only love. Maybe I am wrong, or gullible or superstitious or going blind, but my screen isn't as sharp as it used to be, and I don't know what to blame.

I read too much today, but for some reason I didn't get to my required reading for tomorrow. There's a lecture and we were supposed to have Notes from the Underground read. Well, so much for that. I actually read standing up, because I realized that I spend about 22 hours a day either sitting or lying down, and that can't be good for me. So from now on I'm walking while I read, which I haven't done since the last time I was a Freshman.

I can't wait until winter goes away; there's snow everywhere right now, as if some drug lord went and dumped 10,000 pounds of pure Columbian cocaine on the landscape. I said that earlier today on The D.J's radio show; it was original then. Still, it would be nice to get some fresh air and excercise, theoretically.

Speaking of the radio show, it was just The D.J and I tonight, because Nick-From-Next-Door went to a concert. I was invited actually, and I had no real reason for not going, besides the homework I didn't do and the radio show itself. I just can't express myself publically, I guess, judging from the moronic comments I made when it was time for The D.J and I to 'banter'.

Also, The D.J insinuated that he could fix me up with this one girl he knew who liked me, which was shocking #1. because this rather good-looking girl had admitted to 'liking me' and, more importantly, #2 because I'd never asked him to do anything of the sort -in fact, I've told him and everyone here, quite truthfully, that I'm done with dating. I won't go into my reasons for that decision, but I stand by it. It's just odd to add girls who are actually interested in me into the life-long bachelor plan.

In any case, I really am done, for a while if not forever, and I'm somewhat upset with The D.J. this reminds me, sickenly, of my other experience (my angry December 6th entry) with attempted social engineering here at Lawrence. Why do the clueless ones always seem to hold to muppet rods?

Anyways, later.

There's a 'real' update farther down in this entry.

First MSN, now this. With my ability to post banal comments on his webpage suddenly gone, it's become painfully obvious what my misanthropic friend is up to. Graham has severed his non-email ties with his old friends and joined some sort of Hamline cult. Our only hope lies with Manney.

Fade in.

The distant sound of Weezer. Footsteps. Somewhere, a door opened, or closed.

Manney tensed, a dark figure in a midnight corridor; closing, it must have been. It had to have been. A black leather jumpsuit alone wouldn't protect him this far within Manor Stronghold, and he'd already used his throwing stars on the guards outside. Security doors… guards… this college was hiding something. It was hiding Graham.

Island in the Sun. The eerie melody promised horrible things; Manney shook his head and tried not to listen. He padded down the hallway, almost to the corner now. Graham was around that corner, somewhere. A voice cried out briefly in the night.

Weezer. The smell of pot and old booze. It was easy to see how they'd gotten Graham. The dastards.

"…We'll never feel bad anymore…"

Manney shut the haunting song out, tried to shut it out, and risked looking around the corner. It had been hours, days even, since Graham had stopped using MSN, his only link to the outside world. His webpage had become random and incoherent. Already confined within the compound of his own free will, Graham was slipping away from the real world. To think that Manney had once considered staying here; luckily he could still save his friend and get them both out, if he moved quickly.

No one in the hallway. Manney wiped sweat from his dark bushy brow. This leather was hot, and he didn't feel any sexier. Four doors, one of them was Graham's.

They'd promised Manney women too, Hamlinite women had thrown themselves at his feet, no doubt brainwashed. His bitter personality left little room for such affections in real women. More footsteps, in a different hallway. It had to be on his left.

The first door was marked with the colorful paraphenalia of a Hamline cultist -pictures clipped from The New Republic, soft-core porn, an old Onion article- this could be anyone's room, any poor fool's room. Heavy breathing, quiet and sweaty, came from inside.

There was a moan, and a woman's voice. Sex.

The next room didn't appear to be special; a light was on, shining dimly beneath the door. There was a quiet tapping noise from inside. Manney stood up, took one pointless look around, and entered the room. The Weezer sirensong became a dull murmur as the heavy door swung shut behind him. Manney breathed a sigh and turned around.

It was a regular room, with posters of men in tights on the walls and dead animals everywhere, but it took Manney a second to see Graham, and what could only be his roommate.

Both of them were sitting in front of large computers, motionless except for their fingers, typing furiously. Nasty-looking gizmos were jammed into their bodies at various important places. Both of them were malnourished and weak-looking, sapped of their strength by the machines that would keep them entertained until they died. Graham's hair stuck out haphazardly and he glanced at Manney with tired, dull eyes.

"I was sent to bring you back," declared Manney, stepping forward to remove Graham's equipment.

Graham's roommate cast a viscous, questioning glance at Manney, and typed faster. The Hamlinites lived on their machines; it was rumored that after a time they forgot how to talk altogether, communicating through comment forms and MSN. But Graham had stopped using MSN, that's why Manney was here to rescue him.

He wondered at Graham's angry silence. Had he forgotten how to talk? He walked over to Graham, slowly. The creature sighed.

"This isn't about you" croaked his friend. His very breath stank of beer and bad cafeteria food.

"But I'm here to rescue you!" That was too loud. Security would come soon.

"I… I don't need to be… rescued!" Alarmed voices shouted around the corner. They knew; it was only a matter of time, now.

Quickly, now.

The door opened with a slam, laser-sights hungrily seeking Manney's head. He thought absently about how bright it was in the hallway. He couldn't see. They must have turned the compound lights on.

Graham's roommate struggled to stand up from his chair, and rasped in fury- "Passenger Pigeon!"

It would be nice staying here.

Fade Out.

How's that for Adventure and Excitment? Eh? Eh? Yeah, it's poorly written, I admit, but it's pretty good for something so spontaneous. I can't, sadly, say the same for my Freshman Studies essay, which I'll have to rewrite completely to salvage, once I get back the original paper with an undoubtedly shocking grade. I just couldn't care about schoolwork after I got back, though I did finish all of it. I even managed to study for Calc, which meant I only got a C on the quiz this morning. Procrastination wins again, I guess.

Qur'an class was canceled, and we were going to talk about the satanic verses, which is probably the topic I'm most interested in. Hopefully we'll talk about it Friday, and I'll find out how I'm doing in the class.

Freshman Studies the class was good. I got to read Notes from the Underground for class today, and it reminds me of Catcher in the Rye and The Invisible Man, both of which I didn't completely understand and really liked. I identified completely with the main character, but The Queen of Plantz and The Diplomat didn't at all, for some reason. I guess they're both too popular or something.

After a lunch where we discussed fortune cookies -I believe that it's not right to take more than one, because it messes up your karma or something- I went to the room and tried to read Representative Men. I fell asleep, not because it's boring but because my brain got tired of thinking on Emerson's level. For all it's sweeping generalizations and lack of focus, I really like that book.

Wow, what crazy dreams I had. Anyone who's fallen asleep during heavy reading will understand.

I woke up just in time for the Vagina Monologue, which, besides making me never want to go anywhere near that apparently disgusting organ, confirmed a classic belief of mine -important actors can't act.

John Travolta in Swordfish, a movie he helped ruin, is a good example, but this performance had three kinds of actresses which also go with my theory. First, it had the nameless actresses in small roles who merely went with their monologue. I really liked these actresses, because they did their job well. The second group was there to listen to it's own voices; they got most of the big parts and adopted horrible accents and such to show off their talent. Not only do I not like the girls in this group whom I've met on a personal level, I was shocked by the pretentiousness of their acting.

The third section goes to The Feminist, and The Feminist alone. She was not a nameless actress in a small role, nor was she a pretentious one there for fame and ego. She was there because the issues mean a lot to her, and you could see a lot of the intensity of her purpose in her performance.

The Feminist saved feminism, to an extent. I don't like the fixation on vaginas, because it's p.c and men, meanwhile, are freaks when they fixate on their sex organs. (Really, they are.) A lot of the issues feminism brings up are trivial, and I wish it would decide between total equality and celebrating feminine uniqueness, but I can accept it on it's own terms.

As long as I never have to sit through on of those again. It was o.k., and I didn't find it at all shocking, but it was the same as watching a woman comedian on Comedy Central, as far as I can tell. I almost don't see the difference.

Also, red means "awareness of violence against women" now? Does everyone know this?

Well, later.

Adventure and Excitement, not pithy trip details and petty announcements, will be discussed in today's blog.

I promise.

Reading Larson's log, I see my hetero-life-buddy feels the same way. How about Adam and Dylan? Is Dylan alive?

As for the Jenna issue, it's not an issue with me, despite Manney's very good, if predictably blunt, comments on the subject. It would change the tone of the trip, for better or for worse, but Jenna is our friend, even if she's the only friend we all have in common who happens to be female. It's majority rule as far as I'm concerned on this one, and my vote would have to be, despite the obvious objections, for Jenna.

I wonder, though, if Jenna could actually tolerate a week or so (wherever) with all of us. Half a dozen guys in a cramped space do not become sexier over time, rather, they become sweaty and loud. Furthermore, these are not any ordinary guys, but rather Graham, Larson, Arno, Manney, Dan, Adam and Dylan, at least that's how it looks right now, and the social situation would be the same as it always is when we're all together. I enjoy that social situation, but judging from Jenna's comments on our conversations, which she doesn't particularily enjoy, she often feels left out (which again, is what it looks like we're doing here, I suppose).

If she'd actually be willing to come along given all that, she's more than welcome, and I'm sure we'd try to keep her entertained.

To waffle again, however, if it's a serious issue for some people then I'm not for it at all. We had enough festering hatred last time, and everyone has to get along on this trip. No funny business, and all that jazz.

Gah! Homework!

Screw it all, I don't care this much. Either choice is fine, and either way I still want to go camping with you folks sometime this summer, even if only for a weekend. Figure it out and I'm in.

Back, and essay writing for the rest of the night, as it looks now.

First, of course, I have to take one last foray into the SCT vs SRT debate, having already discussed it with both Manney and Graham, in a sense. The logistics of an SRT are complicated -The Deathtrap might not be reliable enough for another 6,000 miles, although I hope it is, and more importantly, we don't have any vehicle that has room for all the interested parties.

To dismiss how we'd actually do another SRT and jump right to the benefits is easy, and yeah, now that it looks like I'll have the grades to get permission to go on a SRT-2002, it sounds like a cool idea (though the insistence that we can swim in a pool at Graham's gramma's house means nothing to me). But simply deciding that "magic" (Manney) or "weeble wobble" (Graham) will drive all of us out east is something we can't do. Although weeble wobbles are perhaps the most wonderful invention known to man.

Wow, this is preachy and one-sided. I know this approach is unfair, but I wanted to make one last public jab before going to work; I'm really sorry about the tone of my writing here. Pent-up frustration from driving today, I guess. Although the drive wasn't that bad.

In any case, I need to work, and this is just another way of procrastinating. Later.

Blah. Brain is shut down. No thinking, no motivation.

Nevertheless, I will force myself to write; prepare for a labored and excrutiatingly boring entry, or even better, just don't bother reading it, my imaginary visitors.

Today I did nothing, the opposite of homework, and for that I'll pay tomorrow night, while I labor over my Freshman Studies essay, stress out about my Calc quiz the next day, and curse my own calculated stupidity, perhaps simultaneously.

I can't do work here at home. Since middle school I don't think I've done any homework here; I perfected my powers of procrastination, honed my sense of when necessary becomes urgent, and spent the next four or five years rushing to get everything done at the last minute at school, for the most part successfully. All of my diligent non-work was done here, and although I resisted years of ingrained laziness long enough to write my intro, there was no hope of my ever finishing another paragraph of my FS essay, not after all that training.

Instead of work, I watched Will Smith act (in the 'wonderfuly bittersweet' Six Degrees of Seperation), and I enjoyed it. The Fresh Prince has been granted a reprieve from my un-ending hatred, unless he releases another hit single, that is.
'Welcome to Miami' indeed.

Talking with Larson today, he came up with an idea that I'm adding to the Outside the Asylum (Dan's Webpage) official platform:

Spontaneous Camping Trip 2002

This isn't my brainchild, but I fully endorse the idea. As you know, Spontaneous Road Trip 2001 was so successful (despite frequent arguments for which the now-defunct apathetic-and-moody Dan takes partial credit) that Spontaneous Road Trip 2002 was planned almost immediately (and as far as I know, Graham and Larson have done most of the planning since).

The SRT-2002 platform includes:
1. Taking Arno to the east coast (New York region)
2. Tradition
3. Potential for mayhem, women and such
4. Visiting relatives back east

This however, pales before my current favorite, Spontaneous Camping Trip 2002, which seems to be both something I could actually get permission to do and something that requires less work on my part.

The SCT-2002 platform includes:
1. Taking Arno to some camping location
(Larson's northern shack or the Black Hills)
2. A much cheaper alternative to SRT-2002
3. 70% less festering hatred, with the added group work
4. The great outdoors and spacious tent-like quarters.

This is, of course, just a preliminary argument spawned this very night by Larson and myself, but the entire discussion should get out in the open as quickly as possible. All the potential SCT or SRT 2002 members (who is going this year, my fellow SRT-2001 members?), whoever they may be, need to weigh the options here presented, and any better ones they think of.

For now, this website endorses SCT-2002, a clear winner.

Vote SCT-2002! The smart choice!

With that, I end the politics, and bid you goodnight. I've got a big drive tomorrow and a long essay to write. Later all.

Postscript: That last sentence rhymed, which was accidental. I had a sentence loaded with assonance at lunch a few weeks ago, also accidental, but Greg didn't appreciate my boasts.

Talking to Manney at the shiny 371 Diner this morning, I realized that my friends all share one very valuable conversational trait: they know when to ignore me. All my conversations since I�ve left Lawrence, and they�ve been quality conversations, have been nonlinear ramblings compared to the focused discussions I�m used to having with people who don�t know me as well.

Most conversations seem to fixate on the subject at hand, the last thing said has to be responded to with the next thing said �but a really good conversation doesn�t have to work like that; if something stupid or pointless is said, it�s ignored and the conversation just keeps on going.

So many times I�ve worked myself into a conversational rut talking to acquaintances because I worked in. Manney calls it trust, but I think what�s functioning here is something more intuitive; they just understand the workings of the conversational groove.

There's no exact synonym for 'conversation', sadly.

I'd like to write more, but my mom is in the room watching Cops -we just finished watching Blow, sort of, which was o.k- and it's really throwing off my thinking skills. Cops was not designed for the conscious members of our society.

Curse Blogger for its slow performance. My update should have been posted earlier, but I couldn't even load the site. Well, later.

Time to rehash the night's events.

Ah, Brainerd is just as I remember it. To wit:

Tonight, as I noted before, September and I went to a movie. We didn't know which movie to go to, but luckily good old Manney was there, and he despite his purported hatred of all movies, he recommended that we see Black Hawk Down. We missed the first ten minutes, but the movie was really long, so that didn't matter. Why are war movies so long, and all the same? This one was better than most, though.

Naturally, afterwards we went to Perkins, for lack of options, and stayed there for hours and hours talking about nothing in particular. I tried Iced Tea for the first time, and it was kind of good.

On the way home, I stopped by the video store. I rented Children of the Corn just to make myself 'cultured', because people often refer to it (actually, they've been referring to Village of the D***ed, with the oh-so-talented Christopher Reeve). I rented Blow because Amazon.com says I'll like it.

And, well, I rented Six Degrees of Separation, starring Will Smith, because it's been recommended to me by about four different people (starting back in December with The Insurrectionist, I believe). I don't hate Will Smith, but I have to really try to have respect for him. He's amusing, but as a B-movie actor and musician, where's the talent? Apparently Six Degrees of Separation is the movie to see if you're to appreciate Will Smith, so that's the next stop in my mad video-watching spree. Then I can move on to hating John Carpenter (the new John Carpenter, that is).

Plus I seem to recall vowing to not have irrational hatreds towards groups or people I don't understand, like the Beastie Boys or Will Smith or Communists or Nazis. Well, maybe not the last one, but I'm tired at this point and I thought that was funny. The ultimate goal is to never lose an argument to a Beastie Boys fan again… the argumentative powerhouse being The Insurrectionist, not Amelia (another sworn Beastie Boys fan). Know thine enemy!

Wow, Children of the Corn was a really bad movie. Corn isn't scary, even if it waves around in the air and parts before the hero. Children are scary, but not in that way. And the moral? Don't be a born-again Christian? Fight the forces of the devil? I'm very confused, but I'm sure a night of horrible nightmares about corn will solve that problem.

How do you do it, Dan, you might quiset. How do you, Dan, squeeze so many movies into so little time?

It's the miracle of Brainerd. "Doing lunch" with Manney tomorrow and having a belated birthday dinner with my family on Sunday are my only plans, so there's plenty of time. I may just head back to Lawrence early, on President's Day or something. It's amazing how much you forget about your family when you're away. Let the de-romanticisation begin!

The only change I can see in my family, or in Brainerd at all, is this little pamphlet in our bathroom (the same bathroom with a urinal and a monstrous fan). It's the "It Works" 'book', all eight pages of it, and it claims to be "The Famous Little Red Book That Changes The Way You Live", or something to that effect.

I seem to recall another famous little red book. Anyways, it's late and there's only so much.

As Graham might say:

so i just back back from hanging out with graham's hamline crew. yesterday it was little nicky krongard's birthday and i followed graham to a shin-dig at the olive garden with carly, melissa, alyssa, the great john gordon of stillwater, anna, ingrid, monika, monika's friend anne, someone i'm forgetting, and nicky himself. there was hilarity and conversation all around, and by 'all-around' I mean 'confined to specific areas of the table', because we were at a monstrously large table and no one wanted to shout, except carly, who i think was the one calling for pan-table unity. her favorite food, which i will remember until i die, is ice cream, a vague cop-out answer if i've ever heard one.

just kidding carly; you and melissa earned my respect with that "hey good-looking" comment, back before i'd worked my crazy-creepy mojo on y'all, as they say. just wait until you meet manney.

after that excitement, we went to see the brittany spears movie -but not that transvestite brittany spears movie from sundace, no sir, we saw Crossroads. not since graham, manney, erin, and i saw The Skulls have so many laughed so long over so little. of course, the people in front of us were offended, as usual, but graham and i are hilarious and misunderstood. i'm glad everyone there thought that miscarriages were hilarious. also, i believe we laughed at a date-rape related comment, at some point. we're all going to burn for this, you know.

after that, well, those hamline kids, they do so many things they never stop. we sang happy birthday for krongard, and cake was involved. melissa and joel, that guy who tried (unsuccessfully) to steal "as it were" from me, left, and it was down to nick, carly, graham, and myself. we talked about stillwater people, and brainerd people, and hamline people, and either we ran out of people to talk about or we got tired. i forget.

This morning, I woke up, looked through John's stuff, and waited for Graham to wake up while I read The World's 60 Greatest Conspiracies. Apparently they 'sleep in' over at Hamline on weekends, and three hours later we were off to brunch. Now I know all about the Bavarian Illuminati. Thanks, anynomous hack!

I stayed longer than I had planned this morning, in order to have brunch with Graham and Carly, then I was off. I'm home right now, slowly realizing how exciting Brainerd actually is. Although I will see some movie with September tonight, so thats cool. Well, off to call her. Later.

So tired, have to drive tomorrow. Leaving around noon, I believe.

Since I was much younger I've always envisioned myself dying in a tragic auto accident at a young age, so if anything happens let this be proof of my prescient powers. Doubtless, however, The Deathtrap and I will make it home safely.

The D.J still has no social skills, for the record, and I once again told him so after he interupted a phone conversation earlier today. He inconvenienced me later, as well, but I understand his logic, in a twisted way.

I went to the coffeehouse tonight, ran actually, with Project 2501, a compulsive, hyperactive, and very bored gamer from down the hall, to meet Helen, who unlike myself was there on time. We talked for a while, though Project 2501 was really random and sparse with his comments. It was fun, not a whirlwind rollercoaster of excitement, but fun, considering. Any socialization, I'd think we'd all agree, is good socialization.

Also, sorry Stillwater people. You don't get snazzy nicknames because, though you may not read it, you still know about the page. You have paid the ultimate price.

Valentine's Day was meaningless, for the most part. I'm glad they really didn't go all out with the decorations around here.
I really do need my sleep. Later.

It's now and later.

I woke up this morning in the throws of passionate idealism. I was laying in bed and I suddenly started caring about a great many things. With my inveterate foe Apathetic Dan gone, I can now honestly say that, at least for the moment, Dan is back. As one of the greatest bands ever once said, I can feel it coming back again.

The events of yesterday, with their epic-ness, no doubt contributed to this perhaps-imperceptible change.

Anyways, I was freaked out yesterday about a few things- first, my big Qur'an paper, "Gorthrax and The Mole People of Planet X", was due and my printer was messed up, and secondly I had a quiz in Calculus that I knew I was going to fail. It looked like it would be a hectic morning, and I was really stressed.

I didn't sleep well at all and woke up with no printer and no floppy disks and a paper do right after math. I did the only thing that came to mind, and posted my entire Qur'an paper on my website. I got to Calc class late, but there was no quiz; Prof Sanerib had canceled it. After math I managed to print out my paper, and although Prof Chueny wasn't noticeably impressed by the nonsensical title, which has nothing to do with the paper, I'm nevertheless confident that I'll get a decent grade.

In Freshman Studies, since Prof Alger had promised that there would be no midterm, he instead gave us a 40-minute pop quiz with five short essay questions. The dastard. Prettymuch the whole class finished early, and The Politician, Bollywood, and I discussed the seven deadly sins and their relation to Gilligan's Island while Dungeon Master and a scattering of others scrambled to finish.

The Politician, I note, is a political child with political ambitions; at the same time, he appreciates the needs of the community -as noted earlier, he has on a few occasions saved our Freshman Studies class from the dreaded lecture with philosophical questions. I figure I owe my thousands of fans at least a vague description of each character, to prove the accuracy of my ingenious monikers.

Anyways, after classes I had but a few hours until my meeting with Prof Sanerib - he corrected a mistake he made correcting my midterm, gave me the dollar he'd promised to anyone in class who knew Gauss's main mathematical proof, and made me seriously reconsider my choice of college work ethic. Still, just like Prof Dintenfass on Monday, he was really complimentary throughout our whole discussion. I'm wondering if they actually think the best way to handle my ego is flattery… I suppose their approach does work, though.

The appointment with Prof Sanerib ran longer than I'd expected, and I ran back to the dorm room to get my car keys and be off to my dinner engagement with Beth, to which I was already 20 minutes late. Naturally, Greg had accidentally locked me out of the room, and I had to get our hulking R.A to let me in. I found my keys, called Beth to explain, and ran to The Deathtrap.

And I got lost. Beth's college, St. Norbert's, is about twenty minutes from mine, but when I say I got lost I mean it took me an hour and a half. That kind of misdirection is inexcusable, but apparently after getting lost in Appleton I got on the 47 instead of 41, and once I got to Green Bay I found 41 and took it south to St. Norbert's. Needless to say, I was a little frustrated, although not much -mainly I was annoyed at how much time this had eaten up of my already busy day -I left at 4:30 and got there around 6:00.

We ate at some mexican place, and since it was Ash Wednesday and I'm so in love with Catholic ritual, I forwent meat and had the jalapeno tuna, an apparently traditionally mexican dish that was surprisingly good. We made small talk and such and at 7:30 dinner was over and I was on my way home.

And I got lost. An hour later I triumphantly entered my dorm room once more. Apparently Greg thought I'd made amends with my ex-girlfriend, swept the food off the table, and consummated my new-found love right there (a joke of his, but I can never be sure what he really thinks), and I explained my getting-lost.

I was really tired, for some reason, and we (Nick-From-Next-Door, myself, and Greg) just sat around, ate pizza, and watched North By Northwest, which was really good. Hitchcock impresses me every time. Apparently tonight we're going to 'cut loose' because it's reading period and I'm off tomorrow morning sometime.

Well, off to find entertainment.

Quite the odyssey yesterday, more on current events later.

There was an essay on here earlier today, because I had to print from somewhere else on campus and cutting-and-pasting from my webpage is really the easiest way.

I suspect no one read it, but if you did, my apologies.

A usage lesson: My laziness impels me to procrastinate, but my teacher compels me to turn in my work.

Such is the story of my Qur'an paper, which I spent about three or four hours today working on. It's eight pages long with five monstrous paragraphs, and since I've been wondering about paragraphs lately I'm going to turn it in as is. Once I started writing, these wonderfully bloated paragraphs took on a life of their own.

Nothing really went on today, besides the paper writing. Of course, that's never stopped me from blogging before.

It was my birthday today, actually, and tomorrow I'm having an early dinner with Beth to celebrate. Likewise, on Sunday my family will no-doubt take me to the Bonanza Family Steakhouse and embarrass me, an experience I'll idealize or regret later, depending on the outcome. For those unaquainted with Bonanza, I'm going home this weekend for reading period, as it's the last time I'll see home, or my friends at Hamline (who I plan to visit), before May at the earliest.

I have yet to see a moral system that can cope with the issue of lying in human societies.

Back when I was in 6th grade, our church had little pamphlets on white lies, gray ones with puffy white stick figures, unless this was a dream I had. In any case, I read over one of these pamphlets, and it was all about how white lies lead to worse lies and worse things. Which can of course be true, as any sitcom could readily prove.

But it can't be wrong to use white lies all the time, because the people I've met who were totally honest were so vocal about their negative opinions that they came off as jerks. Is it possible to be completely truthful without being pretentious and offensive? I'm just sick of white lies, but then again I think society couldn't handle complete truthfulness without denegrating into name-calling. It just bugs me when I have to use white lies in conversation, really bugs me, but I can't see another way. I wish there was a moral system that could tell me in advance when its going to be ok to use a white lie, and when that white lie will slap me in the face.

I suppose I'm obligated to stick something here about how my birthday was never a big deal. Firstly, I was glad that I escaped any public embarrassment today (last year with my family I was less fortunate and very angry). I guess basically it means something to me, and I don't expect anyone else to care; it's no different, even more me, from any other day of the year. If I was less self-centered, it'd be more important, but since so many of my days revolve around Dan anyways, I hardly need to set one aside.

Still, I'm older, now, numerically-speaking, and its nice to have a milestone that I can celebrate every year without the pomp and circumstance (and in some cases "Pomp and Circumstance") that accompanies the Hallmark holidays. It's a good little day, quite aware of how little it matters in the grand scheme, but observed nonetheless.

I'm completely unprepared for my quiz tomorrow in Math, but I don't care. Still, I need sleep. Later.

Green Chai with 2% Milk is great.

I'm coming down now, though. Tonight Nick-From-Next-Door and I made a run to the coffehouse, sans Greg, who chose to avoid the cold rather than have Chai. The coffeehouse is nice when there's no entertainment there, but when it's bustling and exciting it's basically just a cheap restaurant, and then what's the point of going to a coffeehouse? I ask this, of course, rhetorically. It wasn't bustling and exciting, but we came back right away anyways, which I suppose neither of us had planned to do but I suggested it and he assented, so whatever.

We watched more South Park episodes, and I should have been doing my homework. Tomorrow is going to suck, at least for the first part, because I can't seem to write my Qur'an paper and it's due Wednesday. I had my midterm today, by the by, and I have no clue how I did, because its the first thing we've turned in all year.

On a less shaky front, I met with Prof. Dintenfass, my advisor, today about changing my schedule. Apparently three classes a term is normal (3 + 3 + 3 = 9/year) but I've been feeling like a slacker. Well, I am a slacker but still… it's all these music majors; they all have so many classes that it makes me look bad. Nevertheless, I'm going to switch some classes around and end up with four classes next term, possibly.

I took Calculus II this term as a challenge, and now, having successful destroyed my GPA, I just want to be done with math and science. So next term is all about finding the easiest/most interesting science class I can, in order to fulfill my Lab Science requirement.

On to the drama, now that the tediousness is hopefully at end. There really isn't any, besides some minor inner turmoil over not writing my Qur'an paper when I had the chance this weekend. In fact, this whole entry is tediousness, or whatever the noun form of tedious is. But we'll see.

I thought today about religions, and how at some point, you have to call a part of each religion a mystery or ambiguity or other mystical what-have-you. In short, you can never fully describe a religion without at some point just labeling some inscrutable (many would say illogical) aspect of that religion as "the twentyfifth glorious mystery", giving tacit consent to your own ignorance. I'm not about to opine on this, because even mathematicians have to admit the failure of their theories to account for everything, and likewise each science has anomalies.

My main concern is with people; you get to know someone, but there will always been an aspect of them you can't describe with words, something you have to label with "mojo". I just thought that was odd. Even words like "gusto" and "mojo", which in the end have little or no meaning, can't completely describe someone.

So, though we may thin we know someone really well, we'll eventually have to resort to these mystery-words, and in that sense we can never really describe anyone, and if you can't describe someone, I don't see how you can claim to understand them.

Well, I'm tired, and this is still tedious. Later.

Actually, because I'll forget this tomorrow, I'd just like to note that when I ordered "just a Chai" the girl behind the counter said: "Are you sure? Our white-chocolate scones are very good."

At which point I shouted: "Don't tempt me, woman!"

I thought I'd never be able to say that, but, well, here I am, through the looking glass.

It's over. The bad man can't hurt them any more.

Or can he? I just finished watching an old german movie called M, with subtitles because I'm lazy, and it was pretty good, except for the last bit, which didn't make sense. So we should watch the children? The child murderer was getting away with it because the mothers were negligent? Gah?

I don't usually do this, but I'm going to give a proverbial "shout out" to Adam, who has once again spoken out from the cornfield-wilderness that is Iowa, spewing logic like some kind of crazy sophist volcano.

I don't like any/excessive praise, and I'd expect that Adam is the same way. The "shout out" is now complete.

I have my Qur'an midterm tomorrow, which I should be studying for, soon. It's a weird feeling to have forgotten to study for a midterm and not care at all. I guess I'll do that now.

Later.

It's over. The bad man can't hurt me any more.

I just finished Kuhn's The Structure of Scientific Revolutions, which required more willpower than I knew I had. The last few pages of today's 70-page marathon, well, I'm surprised I got through them. I knew what he was saying, you see, but I didn't want to listen to the man.

Now I'm done, and I'm going to kick back and watch M and forget about my Qur'an essay and relax.

It's a lazy Saturday; I feel guilty for not doing much of anything, but it's been relaxing and enjoyable and such, and I did get some homework, albeit very little, done.

I finished Dune Messiah, which was a good plot-driven book, and now I'm watching a South Park episode about NAMBLA and eating the best kind of pretzels: stolen pretzels.

This guy from across campus was in here a while ago, and he left his pretzels. It's been about two weeks so I figure he doesn't care anymore. And they are Rold Gold Pretzel Sticks, after all. It really doesn't get any better.

Actually, it does, I would hope. These could be less stale, and if they're anything like Greg's "Extra Butter" popcorn, which we had last night during another depressing show of sloth, they'll make me sick to my stomach.

To go on:

My R.A on the phone: "…all I need is dwarves, midgets, and some monkeys."

Today was a big day for snippets of conversation; Greg and I talked at brunch about good examples of half-heard conversations (his were mostly body-fluid oriented, but occasionally funny) and just now I overheard my R.A, above, say probably the best original snippet all day.

I could go on about "…as if sheep existed." and usually do, but the real classic is probably "…so then I realized how to get rid of my problems and the witness at the same time" or something to that effect. I forget how it goes; Graham or Manney might know.

As for the best of our Saturday-morning ingenuity, I suggested:

"…so then I sez to him: well, to be honest, I'm not a doctor, but your wife is dying!"

But that really #1 isn't funny and #2 doesn't fit the pattern. As I told Greg, I used to be good at these. Possessed by some twisted muse, he suggested:

"…my question is, is it supposed to be green?"

Well, he said something to that effect, but it was much more explicit. Ah, the words you hear at brunch in Downer.

Speaking of words, Greg tried to take my words today to no avail. I remain the only person on the planet allowed to use words stemming from "-gad" in everyday conversation.

For amusement, I used words to confuse my good-old hetero-life-buddy, (who'd been abusing some substance or other with his frat buddies, doubtless) -analyzing street slang as part of my ongoing quest to make in so uncool, that current speakers will revert to Shakespearean English out of disgust. I suspect that my over-use of five-year-old slang cannot accomplish this noble goal, but whatever.

I must 'represent', as 'twere.

Ok, now I'm getting a bit too weird. Tone it down, Dan, tone it down.

Well, I suppose today's entry is a bit long already. I guess I'll leave it here. Later all.

I sound oddly like a New Age-r in the few last posts, at least in retrospect, this morning. Hmph.

I did hallucinate today, though, I think, which should be noted. I was at the coffeehouse, well, standing outside because a comedian had thwarted my plans of actually entering (she was discussing why men should shave their armpit hair, I believe). And Alanis Morissette was playing in the background.

I don't know why I like it at all, that wacky, shrill '90s music. I suspect that most of my music choices are made on the basis of how much 'angst' (in the bizarre american sense) is in a song, and we all know that Jagged Little Pill is the angry white girl CD.

I turned around to Greg and Nick-From-Next-Door, who had ultimately been the one to force us out of the room, and, 'rocking out', noted that "This music speaks to me" in that odd semi-facetious way I hope I have.

I turned back towards the coffehouse doorway, and then looked to my left. There was a girl there I've never seen before, and she looked me right in the eye and said something completely incoherent. Then she was gone. It was probably real, but it was really surreal.

For whatever reason, I was insensible for however long it took her to disappear. I've gone over my reaction, and, well, I wasn't attracted to this girl at all so it's not that I was stunned by her beauty. Likewise, I doubt that any comments relating to Alanis Morissette could have provoked either her comment or my reaction. And, in general, I'm used to randomness -in fact I told The Poet this morning that I have no problem treating strangers like I already know them.

It kind of reminded me of earlier this school year, when, during a convocation with That Fellow, The Insurrectionist, and some quite popular girls who have since renounced my existence, I accidently made eye contact with one of the girls while she was asking That Fellow out.

It was disorienting and weird, and it made me pretty embarrassed, but it was so weird to see what her eyes looked like, then, that I always come back to that stolen moment. I don't really care for that girl nowadays, because it's clear that I've always been an extra in her movie, but for a few seconds, there were just some -is it wrong to be interested in emotions that don't belong to you? Anyways.

That's what this reminds me of, it's another stolen moment that wasn't directed to me or anyone, and I think it'll take me a long time to forget. The whole hallucination angle… well, I do think it's weird that no one else seemed to notice her, in that crowd of people around the door. Very strange, for such a cryptic comment.

Whatever it was.

I know on some level; it's probably something really mundane that I'm building up, but whatever it is, it was interesting. A interesting day, I guess.

The choir concert was very good, but I don't know anything about music so that's all I'm entitled to say. I couldn't really spot anyone I knew among the singers, except The D.J. (and yes, I helped put up posters today) and Free Spirit (who I suspect no longer knows my name). They did play some stuff from Carmen, which was cool, and some German opera, which was wrong wrong wrong. How can you sing German, when it's such a guttural language? I couldn't make out a word, their rendition of Sta[ndchen was so light and airy.

Well, whatever, it was good, but I was expecting to be all clever during the German songs. As is, I understood the word "leise". Anyways, this is enough, methinks; it was a good day, busy and full of random socialization, so not much more need be said, or can be, unless I spend some time working on my nickname system.

Later.

What a day, and it's only the afternoon. Good gads.

My immediate concern is the barber at The Campus Barbershop (a private business near the campus with a deceptive name). I'm not good at small talk with strangers, or for that matter with anyone, really, unless I steer the conversation towards myself, but I really didn't care to discuss the pros and cons of Our Bold Hero today, as it seems vaguely self-absorbed. Somehow.

Well, anyways, I couldn't make small talk so I sat there in silence, which a year ago wouldn't have been a problem, but of late I've started to feel guilty for not entertaining barbers and hairdressers and such, because any job where you have to deal with customers kind of sucks. So I was sitting there in silence, feeling guilty, and after the haircut I gave him a tip.

A two dollar tip. First of all, that's too much to pay a self-employed barber on top of his normal fee. But secondly, this isn't the greatest haircut, and now next time I come back he'll think that I really liked it. So now I'm doomed to get this haircut over and over, unless, gads willing, he forgets who I am.

There was quite a bit of drama in Freshman studies today; The Feminist was absent, but one student decided to provoke a discussion about ethics, which ultimately saved us all from the dreaded lectures of our teacher. The Diplomat, The Queen of Plantz, this as-yet-undubbed hero, and myself wasted a lot of the class' (or is it classes?) valuable time discussing cloning and ethical value considerations and other junk.

Also, we got our papers back, and my previous grade is now adorned with a plus, the smallest possible concession Prof. Alger could give to my salutary improvements. The correction that bugged me on the first essay, and which I'd dismissed as a fluke, is still there:

The original monster is hideous despite the "infinite pains and care" (p. 56) put into beautifying his form, but had Frankenstein studied the results, he could have perfected the monster's bride, creating a better, if nonetheless revolting, abomination.

Around "revolting, abomination" Professor Alger drew a circle and wrote "Why?", questioning, yet again, why the second monster would have to be ugly. I believe I explained this in the first section of the sentence- the book says that Frankenstein put infinite pains and care into making his original creature beautiful, so how could he make the second monster look better? More than infinite pains and care?

Maybe I'm just taking the book too literally.

Well, whatever, I suppose I should go punish myself with a few chapters of Kuhn before I get to this afternoon's festivities: poster making with The D.J. I'll write about the other dramas of the day later tonight, after the choir concert and such.

What will it be tonight, I wonder. Grandiose whining? Existential musing? Fluffy comic observations?

I just deleted quite a bit of writing, although this time it wasn't a horrible-horrible accident. I still don't know exactly what I want to write about, so you're going to have to bear with me as I attempt stream-of-consciousness style, with no idea of what, exactly, that style is.

I imagine it begins first with perception, the stream-of-consciousness writer is like a character just coming to after a swift kick to the head, and everything is fuzzy. I can feel my gangly legs, which don't really run correctly, or walk correctly, or do anything requiring coordination, and I can feel the dry taste in my mouth; it's desert dry though- I'm not wearing the plastic-retainer thing I'm supposed to wear at night because in the morning it tastes like dead fish and I wonder if that's what my mouth tastes like.

The mouth is an interesting area, although I don't think my interest would define me as orally-fixated. I findle with keys and pencils and little things near my hands, though, whatever Freudian category that is. I forget. It was in Firestarter, my answer, but already the little details of that book are fading away.

That's what always bugs me about reading books. I can't remember them, well, besides the basics and plot line, after a few months. It makes me wonder if I'll reach a point where I don't need to buy any more books, and I'm just reading the same ones in a constant loop. Reading and remembering.

My hands, that's right. Constantly fiddling, or typing. I think they want to type, which is good. When I'm older I suspect I'll get Parkenson's or Parkinson's or Parkensen's (any one of those terrible diseases) because my hands don't want to stay in one place and I'm not sure I'll be able to control that forever.

The tactile impressions of my fingers on the keyboard are quick and fleeting. Like touching your fingers to dice and pulling them away very quickly, like when someone says it's not your turn when you're playing Monopoly. When I'm playing Monopoly.

I rule at Monopoly. Ask anyone. My brother and I would always play when I was younger, my brothers and I, I guess I should say, but Josh never really stood a chance. It always came down to someone buying Boardwalk from someone else; we determined the selling price by how many times they'd have to go around the board to catch up.

I usually made Matt go around four or five times, but Matt was brutal. I think he wanted to keep Boardwalk, but for some reason the person who landed on it always traded it away. He made me go around the board six or seven or eight times, and sometimes that was enough to let him win the game.

Not usually though. My wrists are slimy. I don't really sweat much, partially because I'm a lazy inactive blob, but just naturally I don't avoid it. I guess they're not really slimy, my wrists. A better description would be that they're sticking to the keyboard, the way skin just sticks to things. It does.

I keep flashing back or remembering a Kids In The Hall skit I've never seen, that Greg and Nick-From-Next-Door told me once. This guy, in a blue shirt I imagine in my imagining-bucket, is in a room with a woman, and he's talking about imagining.

He says: I imagine an Umpa-Band.

She says: Why?

He says: What do you mean, why?

She says: Why an Umpa-Band? Why not something else?

He says: You can imagine something else? All I see when I close my eyes is this Umpa-Band.

It's kind of funny, but I think a lot of what makes things funny is, well, I don't know. Statements like that I want to be thoughtful about, but I really aren't, I can but I don't want to figure it out right now. It's tired and my eyes are sore.

I suppose I should eventually get to lunch today, because I sat next to The Astrologer and some girls whose names I'll probably never learn. I feel rude, and they probably feel offended, but honestly they seem to be the passive ones, anyways. The people I talk to: I usually remember their names. Lunch today, you see, at lunch with The Astrologer we reminisced. Wait, new paragraph.

This is one of those things that'd been in the back of my head all day, I was tinkering with the phrasing and everything, trying to make it more exciting, so that's the version here. What happened, colored by (hopefully) my writing.

I've been lazy with my writing lately. I bet you thought I'd start the story now. I don't feel like it, I don't care. That's the problem with my writing, beyond the general sloppyness or tedious perfectionism (Graham and I both refer to our systems as lazy perfectionism, which I think we coined in 6th grade or something. A while ago at least).

Beyond that, it's my not-feeling-like-it that worries me; some days I don't want to write. Still not to the story. I did this before with the Structures thing, but I figure anyone who can slug through this prose, slog through this prose I mean, doesn't care about coherency. Some days I'm not motivated, and I'd apologize but I owe you nothing, and I don't feel like writing, which is a problem. I want to be a writer, partially because I'm good at it and I like it but/and because other people might like it too. I've been saying I'm a writer for so long, and the stuff I'm working on doesn't get anywhere. It exists, and it's meaty, but it's not growing like it should. I've been saying I'm a writer and sometimes that's the most important thing, just saying it. It keeps me motivated but the hard times are when it doesn't. My writing is still good, I hope, but it doesn't get written.

I have an image in my head of unwritten thoughts, like the Trash Compactor on the Death Star or some other swampy rubbish heap (for rubbish is what we call trash we pretend we're not throwing away) and it's full of drowning characters and dead ideas and a white kitten and so many premises. And it all stays there, and some of it suffers but most of it is dead. I don't like sending things to that place. I'm one of those people who, if he has a 'witty' comment, will say it long after the proper time, if that's the first chance he has, because it's just important that I get it out.

I guess that makes me an exhibitionist at heart; I really think we all are because the bible makes it pretty clear that "When you pray, pray not as the hypocrites do, but rather, go into your closet and pray there in secret", which I take it to mean that communal prayer isn't encouraged, but you really don't see Christians listening to that message, which for me means that something fundamental in human nature won't let them. They need to be seen to be good, I guess.

Other people and exhibitionism, is everything, that's the premise of a Futurama episode I've watched too many times (3). What's a writer that doesn't want to write all the time? I suppose none of them did, really, except maybe Milton, that chauvinistic writing-god. It's something that they need to do, but I'm not expanding that thought, because that way lies bombasticness. No writing lab for Dan, that sort of thing.

The story. It kind of made my day; today this blog came full circle, touching back not only to Lawrence (which it did previously) but to one of my actual characters, and I suppose it's wrong somehow to call a real person a character but o well: The Astrologer, who thought I was writing, well, I don't know what. I don't know either. This isn't stream-of-consciousness and it's sloppy and its too long. Anyways, that's my day.

I went to the radio show, which was also my day but more of my night, and wow that first part of this sentence should be cut into pieces and fed to four nasty dogs. Yes, the radio show was good and tomorrow I'm going to school and getting a haircut before I help out The D.J.

O.K, I've had enough. My head hurts and my eyes are tired. Time to end this farce, but I remember that my original motto was "Everyone Loves A Farce!" so I hope you liked it. I didn't, really, it was like War and Peace -too much detail and rambling and only that good part with the fat peasant dying, tucked right in the middle of so much rubbish. Well, anyways, later.

I'm going to start this one off with a quote, so brace yourself.

"It is very easy to be as wise and good as your companions. But we stop where they stop."

Or so I read somewhere today, in a book that I really connected with. I don't agree completely with the author's generalization, but, in general, what he's saying is true.

I haven't had a philosophical conversation outside of class since my chat with The Astrologer more than a month ago, and most of my fellow students seem to be more interested in discussing comedian's routines, movies, and 'scoring' than with bizarre hypothetical scenarios and meaning-of-life discussions.

This was, of course, true in high school, but my group of friends back then was composed of debaters, geniuses, and slackers, and here I'm surrounded by musicians, who really don't have to be proficient in any area besides music.

There are still debaters and geniuses and slackers here, I'm sure, but none that I've met/not-offended. And my roomate, the person I talk to most, is more likely to quote Dennis Leary than to say anything I'd ever hear talking to someone from back home.

I'm whining, once again, but my point is that my immediate group here determines how active my brain is, and how intelligent I feel. Books, discussion classes, and a variety of antisocial activities can supplement stimulating conversation, but they don't fill the gap.

Luckily, it's not that big of deal; classes alone should begin to provide a good substitute, especially next term, and there's nothing wrong with my makeshift social circle as is.

Going back to the word 'scoring', I have to note, as always, that they changed the rules of that game without my knowledge. Back in grade school, and in middle school, 'scoring' was easy -it was kissing or something, wasn't it?- but by the time I'd hit high school, all the bases were changed and the rules of the game were different.

Someone is plotting against me, to do all this.

That's the great thing about having an archenemy, you can blame everything on them, tracing all misforture to some guy in a room with puppets, shouting "Dance, Puppets! Dance!" and laughing maniacally. Suddenly the world makes sense; you're no longer Job, wondering at God's random and sudden dislike for you.

Everyone should have an archenemy.

Well, I've got class early tomorrow, which will suck, so as much as I want to keep writing, I'm just gonna sleep now. Later.

I'm back, and better now.

That's the problem with temperance and abstinence and the basic refraining-from-things that our culture, for all it's talk of freedom, tries to encourage. I'm a lightweight, with alcohol and caffeine and a dozen other assuredly quite wonderful things, and every time I un-abstain it's like I'm starting all over again.

Every cigar is like the first one, the one I inhaled and got sick to my stomach from, and even a tiny bit of caffeine is like that time I took too many caffeine pills in Vancouver and ended up staying up all night trying to blink, all the while listening to the unmistakable sound of Dylan throwing up.

I don't want to need to smoke or drink a can of Mountain Dew every few hours, though. Still, occasionally all these things would be fun, if I could find a middle group that doesn't keep me up all night with a nasty headache. What kind of whack root beer has caffeine in it?

There was a lecture on The Structure of Scientific Revolutions today, and I spent most of my time drawing, because there isn't much to say about that book when you're a Freshman in college. It's not written for laymen, and it's really repetitive.

The speaker did all he could, and his last joke, "Hey brother, can you para-digm?", is probably one of the only things anyone remembers from his lecturre.

Like I said, I regressed in order to cope. I created a superhero named Exemplar who basically just flew around the page fighting the only physicist I can draw- Stephen Hawking, superstar of the science world. And Wolverine, of the X-Men.

A bunch of the people I randomly sat with at lunch a few times this year sat with us today at lunch, for some reason. It was nice, because they're nice folks, but some of them don't know my name, which is annoying after how long I spent learning theirs.

Most importantly, I had a midterm today, in Calc, and it was pretty easy. I read over some of the stuff that I knew would be on the test and then remembered it when it was time to answer questions. Nevertheless, the minute I left the room I realized one of my answers was wrong. That always happens to me, too.

My competitive nature is once again here; I noticed it today as I tried to finish the test before The Vain Man, which I did. It's a petty, useless victory, but when you don't have a really good reason for liking someone, petty and useless victories are all you have. Go me!

Well, I'm tired. Later.

I'm very dizzy right now, for some reason. Once I feel less light-headed and all, I'll do an update.

The caffeine must be to blame! The caffeine!

Musing tonight, that's right, I'm musing.

It's Sunday night, and as usual, I'm back to my old self again, ready for another week of routine and homework to knock me down again.

It's a melancholy euphoria. Everybody dance now.

It's times like these when I wish I could be in total silence, in a well-lit white room somewhere, just thinking.

It's the homework I hate that does this, the homework I always put off until Sunday. That and a combination of dense reading, a Calc study session with The Ghanan, and intelligent conversation. School is going well enough, by the way.

It's got to be bad parenting or something, but I still can't account for The D.J.'s bizarre social skills -he's got the personality of a warm sponge, he has no perception of when annoying becomes abrasive, and yet he's the big man on campus, the non-threatening friend to seemingly dozens of girls.

It's not a perfect comparison, but in many ways reminds me of Mr. Discretion, the tactless social wonderboy of my hometown, and the official archenemy of Outside The Asylum.

It's got to be called something after all, and as for Mr. Discretion, it's not like anyone else has done anything to upset me in years.

It's odd that I no longer use the exclamation point. I'm not that dry, humor wise, and I really don't know what I'm trying to pull off, but it's been slipping away from my MSN and ICQ conversations, and it left my other writing years ago. You gots to respect the tilde, however.

"~" is the underdog of English punctuation, that or the two little dots some spell checkers put over the "i" in "naive".

Now I'm just being banal, and now I'm just being apologetic. So much for the "It's" thing. It was cool while it lasted.

Anyways, I ate dinner with The D.J. and The Mustache-less Man, a few times this weekend, and while The D.J. is too socially unpredictable to be tolerated for long, it was nice to see The Mustache-less Man, who I only know through The D.J.

You see, The Mustache-less Man is a fellow geek; he read The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, plays text based adventure games from the '80s (how I miss my beloved Zork Trilogy!), watches the Simpson's religiously and used to watch the X-Files, loved [Pi], etc ad infinitum. Geeks: We are legion.

I ran into The Poet a statistically improbable number of times this weekend, and we talked about books every time, at some point. I am an English major, but I guess I never wanted to be defined as one, and I really am, with her and That Fellow and all her nameless followers. I'm started to flashback to my visit to Cahrleton:

Preppy would-be English major: "Hey, are you all here for the English class too?"

Many preppy would-be English majors: "Yeah", "Yes"

Preppy would-be English major: "I wonder what they're studying?"

Our bold hero: "Canterbury Tales, I think"

Many preppy would-be English majors: "I love Chaucer, back in high school…"

Preppy would-be English major: "…well he's way better than James Joyce, for sure."

All of the preppy would-be English majors: "Oh, I know. I hate James Joyce!"

I know I talk about books and writing too often, but if I ever adopt that kind of attitude about literary stuff I have no clue about, someone should dig my eyes out with a spoon.

Hopefully The Poet and I can move beyond English-major small talk, if only because it would make our conversations so much more interesting in the long run.

Beyond Zork will not run on my computer, except in full screen, which is a shame. Still, I'm good to go, nostalgia-wise.

Lastly, instead of a quick "later" and an explaination for my departure, here's a quote of the day, courtesy of That Fellow, who I bumped into downstairs while covering Greg, who was stealing food from the Colman Hall superbowl party: "I don't think I'll ever get used to the way you talk."

That was really nice to hear, because everyone was saying "Indeed" today, unaware that it was my word. Attempts to take it back were unsuccessful, but hopefully they'll get sick of it before I do.

Well, that's enough tinkering. There will be a real update tonight, while I watch Dr. No.

For all it's lack of angst, this webpage frightens me.

There's too much white space, and it never goes away; I have nightmares about that, you know.

So I'm keeping it, for the time being.

No update tonight, and the site looks worse. That may or may not improve.

First, some background.

The Structure of Scientific Revolutions is about the evolution of science over time; it's main thesis is that each scientific discipline starts out with many different, competing views, all of which are independent of each other.

For instance, some early electricians thought that electricity was a purely attractive force, while others thought it was both attractive and repulsive, and still others described it as a fluid.

Each scientist, at this point, spends so much time discussing fundamentals, defending their own basic assumptions, that they can't really progress.

At this point, what Kuhn (for whatever reason) calls a "paradigm" forms, and out of these many different competing basic views one takes the lead like Newtonian Physics or Ptomelic Astronomy, and slowly gains a majority of scientists, who start research on more specific things until a new, better paradigm forms and makes them all start over again.

With that said, here's how I pissed someone off in Freshman Studies today:

It was a snow day for the Appleton schools today, so I didn't have Qur'an class because my professor couldn't find a babysitter. I went to my Freshman Studies room, and began reading Revolutions, which I hadn't had time to finish last night, as I was at WLFM with The D.J. and Nick-From-Next-Door.

The Feminist (who had luckily found a 'sitter) and a few others came in with the same idea, and there was a really friendly mood floating around the room before class. Well, they finally got the heat working in that room, so that could have been it too.

The Diplomat didn't show up today, so The Queen of Plantz couldn't strike up an argument about Russia or Free Speech with him. Although he thought the story I'm about to tell was funny, so maybe you should stick it out and keep reading.

Once Prof. Alger had showed up and class had started and Alger had rambled on about economics for about half an hour, I was, well, not bored but unstimulated.

I demand that the world dance and sing before me, you see, so as to entertain me, and this was at most a waltz.

He was talking about Revolutions, and the fundamentals vs. established science stuff I went over above, when it suddenly clicked. For the first time, I understood what-the-hey Kuhn was writing about.

It's just like the WNBA, I said.

I didn't say this to be funny, honestly, though some people did laugh at my randomness nevertheless. I said it because it was the perfect comparison, at least in my mind.

Alger, stuck in so many thought-paradigms of his own, observed with admirable tact that yes, the same words were involved.

Yes, it makes perfect sense, I went on:

The WNBA is like pre-paradigm science; they're hung up on 'fundamentals' and can't work on the 'specific sciences' of basketball, like dunking, for example.

There were objections.

Caught up in this wonderful metaphor, I detailed the nuances of my comparison.

For example, while established scientists "stand on the shoulders of giants" (as Newton would say), the male players of the NBA are physically taller then the WNBA-ers, paralleling this metaphor physically in the world of basketball.

The Feminist, who is, as I'd somehow forgotten, a raging feminist (last night she was up all night at the theater practicing a triple orgasm for her role in Lawrence's popular The Vagina Monologues, as the title character, in fact) ripped into me.

We argued for a while; I don't give up arguments very easily.

The WNBA was defended by her, and I didn't so much pick it apart as continue to find parallels with my earlier metaphor.

It was the classic paring of Policy against L-D.

Evidence against Abstraction.

At last she noted, as red as her pale features will allow her to get, that she'd done research on the WNBA, that my assumptions were completely wrong, and that since I didn't have a clue what I was talking about I should probably just shut up.

Not that my "not having a clue" has ever stopped me from talking before, as I calmly observed out loud.

I really don't take myself so seriously as to refrain from saying something because I'm afraid I'll be wrong, after all. And it's very rarely that I get angry.

That, thankfully, was inside my head.

Needless to say, before The Feminist ripped my eyes out with the icy claws of female empowerment, someone, possibly The Queen of Plantz or Bollywood, both of whom are great fans of my work, changed the subject.

Soon Alger was droning on and all enmity was forgotten, as far as I know. I don't even like basketball, regardless of what gender is playing.

Speaking of gender issues, that reminds me of my would-be blog for last night.

The gist, in the sense that the gist means my entire conversation on the subject, is available on Graham's page.

I've been called gay for my mannerisms, for my gay-radio-voice, for my current (and assuredly continual) lack of a girlfriend, for not porning-it-up on a daily-weekly-or-yearly basis, for empathizing with girls, and by Graham for no reason in grade school practically every lunch period, but I guess I took my rage out back then on Meghan Rahn.

But never for my poor/apathetic html-ing abilities. Thankfully, Graham has graciously offered to make me a better looking page, to reflect a new, less-gay Dan. A truly masculine web-page.

Still, there's no way to convince someone you're not gay, (to steal a theory offered wonderfully and articulately by Manney), because they can always say you're in denial, even if you have sex with a different random woman every night, which is what I suppose I'll have to start doing now.

Not being in denial, the sex one. I'm not in denial, except about the quality of my musical taste and the sophistication of my writing.

It's times like these I'm glad that my old hetero-life-buddy Larson can back me up on the whole deal.

At lunch today, as yesterday, I sat with The Poet and That Fellow, which is still random socialization but nonetheless interesting.

Their world, however, is far too guileless for me, and the search for the Lawrence cynics continues, albeit not with the same drive; I've had enough to do of late that I don't need to worry about being entertained.

Well, that's enough blogging. Anything else would just be a slimy afterbirth-blog, unnecessary and superfluous. Yep, both of them.