I'm back. There's no update tonight, though.

And o yes, I'm tired.

Behind schedule; looking for Graham so I can find out what the plan is for Saturday, and when that means I'm going to Lawrence. Cell phone is dead, but hopefully it'll work on the car, I'll try then.

So little time…

1. Sign up for classes next term
2. Study
3. Pack

$2. You win this round, barber, but next time…

Our battle began when I entered the barbershop early; he locked me in that cold, goodnatured barber gaze of his and continued cutting hair.

He started telling the other guy there this story about a kid who came by for a haircut during his dinner break the day before. A hilarious anecdote, I'm sure.

I was too busy reading People magazine, and losing my soul in the process, no doubt.

He called me up to the chair, and once again we sparred:

Our Bold Hero: "I hope I'm not keeping you too late…"

Barber: "My wife will get over it."

The haircut began, and he worked frantically, while repeatedly trying to initiate small talk, mentioning the weather, spring break, and my school.

But though I tried to extend the chat, it always stagnated after my second reply. I tried everything, being interesting, being myself, simply rephrasing everything he said… nada, as they say in France.

He seemed really frantic, as I said before, and gave me a bad haircut, although my magnificent sideburns look good.

Silence. Clip. Clip. Clip. The radio, some basketball game.

Dan attempts to initiate small talk, out of a growing sense of guilt.

Our Bold Hero: "So, who do you think will win this year."

Barber: "Duke, most likely. Or Kansas, but Kansas has a worse bracket"

I decided to take a chance, having heard "Arizona" on the radio moments before. For the conversation! Ho!

Our Bold Hero: "So have you heard how Arizona is doing?"

Barber: "They play tomorrow. What is their team called, anyway?"

A trap! Curse him!

Our Bold Hero: "Hmm… the devils? I should know, I visited that college."

Barber: "The Wildcats, I think."

The guilt piled up, and a half an hour after he should've gone home to the wife he never called, the Barber got a $2 tip, and all I got was this haircut. This!

Watching The Andy Richter Show. It's funny! This show fills that gap left by the Simpsons. And copies The Wonder Years wonderfully.

My favorite character: Keith, who gets everything he wants. That true-to-life dastard.

Oh, I can't pick! I like them all. Everyone: watch this show, until it gets bad!

Well, it's radio show night, I guess.

Time for some good old-fashioned errand running, as much as I don't want to go outside again.

I just got back from the Memorial Union, which wouldn't cash my check, and the library, which didn't have the books I wanted to check out —someone got to one of them first, and the other is on order. Then I went to the cashier's office to cash my check, but it was closed.

I hope all my errands aren't this difficult. I just need to buy some warm-weather gear, is all.

In more exciting news, I'm getting a much-needed haircut tonight at The Campus Barbershop, but my appointment is right at closing time, so I know I'm going to feel guilty about keeping the barber late, and end up tipping him too much again. I must be strong…

To The Deathtrap!

Greg's watching Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back, one of the worst movies ever made. It enrages me; this movie.

I just got back from my Calc final. I just got back from my Calc final. Of course it was rough, and I do love to complain, so I'm tempted to do just that.

Instead, I'm thankful for the following three things:

#1. I'm done with math, forever.

#2. I will never have a class with The Vain Man again.

#3. I think I did as well as I needed to on the test.

Today at lunch I was accused of, well, I don't know what. The Astrologer sat down with us for some reason, eating her tofu and olives, and listening, biding her time…

Our Bold Hero: Well, that Thai place should be good [Greg enjoyed it, but not I], at six. I have to be back at seven.

Greg: Hot date?

Our Bold Hero: Yes, that's it. A 19-year-old from Brainerd and a 23-year-old from Ghana hooking up at Lawrence.

Nick-From-Next-Door: Huh?

Our Bold Hero: I'm going to a Calc review session with [The Ghanaian].

Greg: A private review session?

The D.J.: (oooo)

Our Bold Hero: C'mon guys, it's not like that. She's one of those people who's really nice and who you could never see dating anyone.

The Astrologer, disconcerted: What's that supposed to mean?

Our Bold Hero: Well, she reminds me a lot of this one girl from back home. They're both so nice that you know that no one will ever be good enough for them. Their parents and everyone else will always be thinking "that guy doesn't deserve her, he'd better treat her right".

The Astrologer: That's horrible! You can't say that!

Our Bold Hero: Say what?

The Astrologer: It's pretty sexist to compare people like that.

Our Bold Hero: …

The Astrologer: Maybe not sexist

Our Bold Hero: More like, 'perfectly fine'

The Astrologer: Just because two people are alike you can't say the same things about them.

Our Bold Hero: Yes you can, you can come to the same conclusions off of their similar traits.

The Astrologer: No you can't. Just because one person is left handed…

Our Bold Hero: I'm thinking more like personality traits. Besides, I'm only comparing a handful of people.

The Astrologer: Well, you can't do that. Argue all you want, you'll still be wrong.

I understand in a hazy way that she probably applied what I was saying to herself, or someone she knew, and rejected my assumption, poorly stolen from Graham in any case. Still, it was harmless, I think.

Her stubborn argumentation style seems familiar. And "argue all you want, you'll still be wrong" doesn't sound as witty when you're on the receiving end. Well, I came off as pretty smarmy anyways, so I shouldn't talk.

I just got back from a victory cigar smoke with Nick-From-Next-Door and Greg. Cigars just aren't worth it at all, and I'm going to be sick to my stomach during the Calc test.

That study session helped, but I need to review some stuff tomorrow, it seems. Later.

All this Catholicism-related scandal is disconcerting to say the least. I still feel some loyalty to the Catholic Church, and I'm quick to look up any religious thing in my turn-of-the-century-Vatican-I Encyclopedia Catholica, but I don't know what to think about all these scandals.

On one hand, they are serious, and horrible, and like many guilt-ridden Chreasters, I've wanted Catholic priests to marry for a while —as any good ER fan knows, St. Peter was married— so I can see how this supports my agenda (quite nicely).

On the other hand, the left hand, I'm a bit sick of everyone attacking the Catholic church, especially non-Catholics who never even lapsed. It had, and has, many many faults, but I can't help but sense a singling out of Catholicism, given the reluctance of the media to criticize other, less visible, religions.

Is it all pent-up anger against our overzealous Jesuits?

Or are they criticizing the Catholic church because, with the drop-off of believers this kind of crisis only encourages, good clergymen are hard to come by?

As usual, a good rant has enlivened and envigorated me.

I'm going to dinner tonight with Greg and Nick-From-Next-Door at Taste of Tai, an apparently good restaurant that I can see from my window. More good news: I did well on my Freshman Studies final, and my last essay got a decent grade. And I got an email from our African sojourner, Manney.

These are a few of my favorite things.

Well, off to lunch.

I hope Joel Stein appreciates, or at least reads, my banal piece of fan mail. I figured he's probably tired of anonymous people trying to impress him, so this is all I said:

"O Joel, I was about to give up on Time columnists forever (I'd just read another Lance Morrow article), when I stumbled into this and remembered you. Don't ever change."

Anyways, I'm through studying, even though I will undoubtedly stress over Calc a bit more tonight. There's a lot at stake if I don't get a good enough grade. I went to the library to study for a bit, then went to a Calc review session, as part of the ongoing effort.

The Young Lover was there, and he's really cool, so goodnatured. The Vain Man was also there, but the icy thought-rays I shot at him had no effect, whereas his inhuman laugh pained my very soul, as usual.

Speaking of goodnatured, Joel Stein is my new personal hero. I just got a response; apparently he reads all of his fan mail:

Thanks for the email. It was a nice break from the
venom of the Oprah lovers. Joel

It's pithy yet thoughtful, and it doesn't even begin to patronize me. It's just a casual reply to a casual email, and it is freakin' sweet. My first message from a professional writer!

Discussing theme music with Nick-From-Next-Door and Greg, and assigning them theme music. Greg gets the only afro-cuban song I know, Tito Puente's rendition of "Senor Burns", The D.J. gets the "Charles in Charge Theme Song", and Nick-From-Next-Door, well, who knows.

Greg thinks he has it…

"Many Colors in the Homo Rainbow". Clever, in a Greg sort of way. I'll play these whenever they enter the room, until tomorrow when it gets old.

Last night I went to Breakfast at Midnight to pick up some food, which I in turn ate this morning. By food I mean "one muffin", but it was a huge muffin with pumpkin and walnuts and chocolate chips, and just eating it put me off from eating for the rest of the day. Try explaining to Greg that one muffin filled you up, however. Like he should talk, the anorexic that he is.

Greg isn't anorexic, but I've decided to start picking on people with eating disorders. You can't make jokes about people with cancer or schizophrenia or different religions, I've learned the hard way, but people who don't eat enough are fair game. Who's going to defend anorexia? Any takers?

Well, off to study. Why, I don't know.

To: The one I love more than anything. I want to be with you forever. Thank you for always being there. Love, M.

Or something to that effect. I'm bad with direct quotes. Nevertheless, it's the most romantic thing I've read in quite some time, I only wish I hadn't read it in the bathroom, in the newest issue of Lawrence's own "Potty Personals".

I suspect it was one of the guys across the hall, they're all named Matt or Mike or something. They're 'drunk' this morning (I'm reverse blogging), which I don't believe. Sure, they were drinking "double jack and cokes" last night, but they've been sleeping for about nine hours now at least.

I overhear most of their shallow bravado, in fact I overhear prettymuch everything because they're really loud. It's funny how they become angsty little whiners around their girlfriends. Ok, that's enough. My anger is spent.

The Calculus gauntlet is indeed a difficult one. I spent two or three hours plodding through about half of the course material and almost fell asleep a few times.

I later told The Vain Man I hadn't studied at all. What was the point of lying to him? Do I just not respect him that much, that I feel he doesn't deserve the truth, no matter what the question?

I feel bad that I find math so boring. With some effort, Calc would be interesting and profitable. English, however, is already interesting, and my hetero-life-buddy Larson has promised me a spot on his couch. I took a break after a little bit to finish reading a great story about a Fireman in my short stories book, not thrilling, but well written.

So anyways, I took a ton of breaks, random socializing it up and all. On one I chatted with Mollie of Stillwater and Dungeon Master; restating my intentions to go climbing next term, sometime, maybe.

I left them to call an AWOL member of my Qur'an class, Aaron Carter, who spirited away with all my notes, but the phone was occupied by a flamboyant guy who was gesticulating wildly, and I didn't want to make him feel like someone was waiting.

I didn't want to bother Dungeon Master and Mollie again, because they were working and I'd just said I was leaving the library to meet Greg and Nick-From-Next-Door for dinner.

But I wanted to get my notebook, because it's got all my Qur'an notes and some of my Calc stuff in it, so I harassed the famous Ann of Stillwater, and Jamie, a girl from my Calc class I wrote about before I knew her a little better, mind you, expecting that flamboyant man would get off the phone shortly.

A conversation ensued, centering on Gnostic Redeemers, boys I don't really know, and other normal topics of scholarly conversation. I was invited to dinner after a little bit, and hung out until then, getting nothing done at all. As we left I tried to call Aaron Carter again, but no one was there.

Dinner was, though odd. The Idyllist's roomate has a lot of rage beneath a timid exterior (picture a Meghan Rahn who constantly spouted profanities) and I met, again, this guy whose name is Jonas. His name is Jonas. I don't think I'll ever get sick of that, even though I don't really like that song.

More random conversation. Tried vaguely to describe what watching Requiem for a Dream was like- but what other movie leaves you so wonderfully depressed, with not a single moment of hope? Left for the room, and tried to get work done, and failed.

I had someone else's dream Saturday night, now that I think back. A conversation I overheard on the way back to Colman reminded me; apparently it had happened to someone else that night too, but they didn't have my dream and I don't think I had their's.

It's pretty presumptious of my subconscious to think it can guess what other people's dreams are like, and it's really presumptious of me to think that's what's going on. My subconsious is a weird little creature in any case; a certain slacker-genius once claimed that it was cheating at cards for me.

Just bought a Requiem for a Dream poster, which was oddly satisfying. And I listened to some quality music. Now I think I can run the Calculus gauntlet.

Besides a catalogue of suprisingly poor social skills (forgetting quite a few names, getting unwanted social tips from The D.J, trying haphazardly to dance, et cetera) there's not much to be gleaned from any blog detailing yesterday. It was an o.k day, but I could have done a better job with it.

I enjoyed dinner with Greg and The Mustachless Man, and I found out that Miguel Sanchez, The Mustacheless Man's roomate, is loaded.

But from right before dinner up through most of the "Jazzy Jazz Jazz Jazz" concert that looked suspiciously like a low-rent version of the Brainerd Xmas ball, I seem to have been socially retarded. I'm writing it off as an "off" day, though I have to say it was an interesting one.

Well, off to the library to study.

For those of you who don't go to Lawrence, there's always a jazz thing.

When Manney gets malaria we all have to say "quotidian". It's really the only chance we'll ever have to use it so correctly.

I will give a dollar to the first person who can tell me where my subtitle "good tastes echoes from the canyon" comes from. I heard it on a radio commercial a while ago, and I think 'twas for some kind of beer, but I don't know. It's been bugging me for days.

As you can tell, I finished my essay earlier today, in a typically productive session at the library. I just can't work in the room, not anymore; it's permeated though-and-through with no-think. The library, on the other hand, impels me to work, because otherwise why would I be at the library?

Wednesday, as I noted before, was great. Freshman Studies was interesting —though not as interesting as today's exciting installment— and afterwards we convened a Freshman Studies table.

It's a bit hazy who exactly was there; The Queen of Plantz, The Diplomat, The Idyllist, Bollywood, and The Young Lovers were certainly present, however, and we spoke of many things, fools and kings, etc.

I decided to start caring about things, and asked The Diplomat when his Amnesty International club met; being The Diplomat, he seemed glad to shell out the info. So maybe I'll do that next term. Think about issues and such.

That night I went to the Regression Session with Helen, noting that the only sophomore there was an R.A. from Colman. I'm starting to wonder about him, but I guess I find out when I'm a sophomore. Also, Helen made some horrible horrible puns I don't think she can ever atone for. Candyland balmed those wounds.

Thursday, being the day before today, I got up and went to a make-up Qur'an class. Apparently I can't get my final moved up for travel purposes, so I have to wait until late Friday afternoon to drive to the cities and meet my parents and fly to Mexico the next morning. I know a more conservative member of my family who won't be happy, but he'll get over it.

I got my essay subject approved: a comparison of the function of Muses in Paradise Lost and the Qur'an, which is my way of spending seven pages trying to figure out why their are millions of Mahometists and no Miltonians.

The Gnostic Redeemer wasn't there, and Prof Kueny noted that no one was bringing up Christianity. That was funny. I laughed.

Last night at dinner I ran into a gnomish guy with a Weeble-Wobbles shirt on. I had to confess that Weeble-Wobbles are me personal heroes, but sadly he had little to say. He likes them because they don't fall down, I like them because of their stubborn determination not to submit.

Today I woke up, thankfully, and went to class. Calc was necessary, and there was no Qu'ran class. I didn't know that Wednesday though, so now I feel I've missed out on enjoying the last-day-of-class mentality.

Freshman Studies. Today was our last day, and it really showed. Prof. Alger encouraged us to take classes from good teachers, and went through a list of the most respected teachers on campus. Dreyer, Vorrencamp, Goldgar… it was probably the most useful thing I've heard in Freshman studies all year.

Then he asked us if we thought there were any ways to improve the Freshman Studies program, and many of us winced. The Feminist was the first to raise her hand, and rambled on about how we should spend more time on this work and less on that. I agreed with her, but she seemed pretty sure of herself.

The Diplomat disagreed, blaspheming that we spend less time on Things Fall Apart (two days instead of three for a piece of classic literature). A hubbub ensued, and everyone had something to say. The Politician sided with The Feminist, and most of the class came down in the middle. I wisely kept my mouth shut, for the most part.

The Feminist wrapped up the discussion. The Diplomat interjected his own observation. The Feminist observed that The Diplomat had to say the last word. The Diplomat disagreed, and ended the discussion. The Politician agreed that The Diplomat always needed to have the last word. The Diplomat reiterated his earlier view that it was all a matter of personal opinion.

The Politician got upset at this lastwordsmanship and spat: "Fine, you know what [The Diplomat], today's the last day and I don't have to listen to you anymore." The class recognized this as pretty harsh, and though I never correctly interpret The Politician's emotions, I would have to say that he was disgruntled. The Diplomat muttered something in reply.

Bollywood, The Idyllist and I finished our last-day course evaluations, got benignly ditched by Dungeon Master, and headed off to Downer for fish and grilled cheese.

The Table:
The percussionist informally known as Prince stalked me to the table despite my best efforts, and The Idyllist didn't sit with Bollywood for some reason, or visa versa. Project 2501 came by, and with the addition of Roy the Effeminate Heterosexual our table was officially the most ill-begotten in history. No one had anything to say.

Scratch that. Roy the Effeminate Heterosexual was asking, randomly asking, people to have sex with him. I asked him to teach me, to teach me to be as smooth as him. His smoothness certainly needs to be written in my invisible notebook of dating advice.

He asked if I'd have sex with him. What a moron; he's all image and no substance. At least as far as I can tell.

I wrapped up my essay and went to the Union with Greg, The D.J, and Nick-From-Next-Door to attend the Freshman Studies Last Class Party. It was like those festivals we had in grade school with games and prizes, with the social dynamic of a cocktail party. It was, all in all, pretty cool, though I was disapointed when I realized that Greg, Nick-From-Next-Door, and I were being wallflowers.

Much quality random socialization was to be had.

Now I'm off the jazz concert. Ah, it's great to update.

Ah, to be alive.

The weather outside is great, and I finally feel like winter is gone for good. I started this morning with a cold shower —they're just as horrible as I'd always imagined— and the added shock of getting my Calc midterm back helped jolt me back into sharp lucidity.

It'll slip away again, as always, but for now I can think;
I'm awake and alive, etc. Maybe I'll spend some time outdoors, away from this wretched computer.

Off to finish my essays. More later.

I really don't like ham, the devil-meat. It tastes horrible.

The ideal paper, and in my case the actual as well, has two equally important parts:

1. Snappy beginning. A witty title leads into a masterful introduction
2. The other stuff I stick in later

As you can see, I'm a firm believer in the perfect introduction approach. No outlines for me, either. Roughly half my time for each paper is spent working on the first paragraph, and the rest is filler in comparison, or just filler in general.

I slept through Calc (choosing instead to have a weird dream involving a salamander child of some sort) and Qur'an was cancelled, so I had a chance to eat breakfast downstairs this morning. It was the third time this year, I think.

I ran into The Idyllist and our benignly womanizing R.A, and was coached through the complex procedures of a Lucinda's breakfast. Oh, and I found out officially that The Idyllist won some pageant in Beloit, which sadly knocks her down in my estimation. Pageant girls. Hopefully she was geeking it up on the side to compensate.

There was a Freshman Studies lecture, and I talked with this girl from my Calc class who was being unusually friendly, but didn't sit near her because she's consorted with The Vain Man in the past and I didn't want to have to sit next to him, lest I do something rash.

So it was off to the balcony, where the cool kids, sit, or so I thought. The only person I knew in the balcony at that point was Miguel Sanchez, who'd obviously gone up there to be alone, but I sat with him anyways and soon Greg, Nick-From-Next-Door, The D.J, and The Mustacheless Man did the same.

I shouted out Dungeon Master's name in greeting when she came in; I think the whole chapel heard me, except her. It seemed like a rebellious rejection of established social norms at the time, but it just seems juvenile now.

After the lecture we all scurried to Lucinda's for lunch. Random socialization with The Mustacheless Man is always fun; our group spent lunch mocking The D.J (who ditched us) for wearing girl's rings and other accessories.

Which brings me to now, at which point I'm taking a legitimate break after working for a few hours on the perfect introduction to my Qur'an essay. Only the introduction, but I think I've sufficiently rationalized my methods to make that look like reasonable progress.

Back to work.

I just got back from a jaunt to the Grill with Nick-From-Next-Door. He thinks I'm the king of acquaintances. I think it's a leftover impulse from Germany. Talking to people I didn't know very well is all I did there, and he could strike up conversations just as easily if he wanted to.

It's all because I went and talked to this one girl, Aaron Carter, who's in my Qur'an class. I just can't stop making fun of her name, is all; plus there's a schedule change she didn't hear about in class on Friday.

I had the jalepeno poppers, which were undercooked. That should be a crime.

Flashback to dinner (why do I want to call every meal here 'lunch'?) with The D.J.

Greg, you see, left early for some reason, which was really unusual for him. I think it's because we made him wait two hours last night before going to eat, when he was really hungry. He always has to eat right when the dining hall opens, even if no one else is hungry.

So I hooked up with The D.J and left a little later than usual. We ate with The Italian and another one of The D.J's friends, and the conversation was incredibly straight-edge. The D.J had some emotional problem that didn't seem at all pressing. In fact, he admitted that there was nothing he could do about it -more on that later, I reckon.

It was the conversational equivalent of a visit to the laundromat, in my opinion, but I refused to dominate the conversation with bizarre comments --as I usually do when the world refuses to entertain me-- instead opting to let The D.J and his cohorts talk. Though the resulting conversation was boring from my perspective, I stand by my original intentions; I don't listen enough nowadays.

Still, the conversation was boring. I can't stress this enough. I realized I'd had about three glasses of water while sitting there, and went to the bathroom as an excuse for leaving early. It was rude, but I don't think they consider me socially conscious enough to be aware of my faux pas.

On my way out I ran into Mollie, Ann, and Dungeon Master -who disapproved of my lavatorial deception but greeted me with high spirits and volume.

The D.J's problem is a typical one for a high school student: there's some kind of dilemma, but he -for some elaborate reason- can't do anything about it. So in his impotence, he worries. He asks people for advice but there's no solution because he can't/won't do anything. Those who know me well will remember similar behavior.

Everyone tells him the same thing: there's nothing you can do, stop worrying, but he still goes on worrying. But if there's nothing you can do about it, you shouldn't care. It may sound apathetic, but it's perfectly true.

Dostoevsky condemned the people who gave up when faced with a wall, but the only other option he allowed was to yell at it. The D.J's approach, as much as I like him, is just self-satisfied whining.

I'm not that fed up, it just seems like a high school mentality thing. I've been over this before, in any case. It's the frustration from having such a boring conversation, because I did the right thing and let others talk, that annoys me. Spot the inconsistency in my logic, kids, and win a prize.

I still feel like I can't think. It's probably the computer.

Later.

Still not thinking at all. Very frustrating in a fuzzy sort of way.

I think someone beat me up while I was sleeping.

I don't feel like doing anything today -the Gender essay will have to wait until my mind has woken up.

Remember thee!
Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat
In this distracted globe.

I just got back from a wind ensemble concert featuring Nick-From-Next-Door and The Insurrectionist; I got there late, of course, and couldn't see The D.J, who I knew would be there somewhere.

I spotted The Mustacheless Man and his parents, and it was only during the intermission that I found out that The Mustacheless Man's mother was actually The D.J in a brightly-colored woman's hat; his father was The D.J's friend from out of town.

So after the intermission I sat with the aforementioned Mustacheless Man and his roomate, Miguel Sanchez, who asked for his pretzel-filled backpack back from our room (it's been here for about a month and a half at this point). I ducked out early, for some reason, and came back here.

That appears to be my day.

I played Basketball today, kind of. I didn't make any baskets or really contribute to the 5-5 game in any constructive way, but nevertheless, I played basketball. I have blisters to prove it too, or in any case I soon will.

Yesterday. All my troubles, namely my two essays due Friday, seemed so far away. I plan to write quality essays this time, instead of the crap I usually churn out the night before, but procrastination will probably decide otherwise.

Chronologically, I guess. There's no importance to sort them by, in any case.

I was late for math again, because our room contains a bizarre time-devouring worm of some variety, and my first two classes were routine. Calc is getting progressively more understandable, and Qur'an class was remarkably silent with The Gnostic Redeemer inexplicably gone. Hurrah for adverbs.

Freshman Studies was as amusing as usual. Despite my complaints about Prof Alger, our mutual dislike for his teaching style really brings the class together.

At dinner, we had an oddly mismatched lunch table -Greg, Nick-From-Next-Door, The Mustacheless Man, and an Iranian percussionist. The conversation was as random as you would expect with such an odd group.

Then there was boredom. I read, and played computer games, then played some more computer games, until, finally fed up with the current setting/lack-of-fresh-air, I tromped over to coffeehouse for some delicious "green tea chai", planning to write and read a bit.

There was a group there with this girl (a Simpsons and Weezer fan) I knew from my German class, so I sat with them for a bit until we all went our seperate ways.

The highlight would have to be making the acquaintance of Roy The Effeminate Heterosexual, self-proclaimed intellectual, flirt, and nudist, and self-evident writer of Bad Teenage Poetry. Oh, and he makes a really weird reading on my usually reliable Gaydar (as endorsed and described by John McCain). I really can't explain it; he's an enigma, I guess.

After a little chat I went upstairs and ran into three girls I hung out with a few times in the first few weeks ("don't worry, we were all new students," observed one "it was o.k to be lame.") One of them is droll -in fact, she's the only droll person I've ever met.

The conversation was pretty good, well worth leaving my computer games for in any case. We talked about old music, classic movies, and how The Young Lovers make everyone so happy for some reason. Most of the conversation was, admittedly, out of my depth.

Does every college student except me spend their spare time watching obscure films?

Nick-From-Next-Door, his friend, and Greg all stopped by, and the social remora that I am, I latched on to that group and followed them back to the room, where at Greg's behest we watched The Cable Guy. Ben Stiller is the best director ever!

No, wait, he sucks quite royally. As does The Cable Guy, excepting some bright spots (thank you, Jack Black).

Later. More on today later today.

A general haze of suspicion is clouding my mind for some reason.

On a related note: I don't remember selecting a style for this page; I thought I created it myself in feverish coding session or something -I certainly didn't think I got this site from a template.

Which made it really interesting when I found a site that looks vaguely like mine. I guess my memory is in this case completely confabulated.

I read a wonderful story about a cartographer this morning while simultaneously walking around the room -an old habit from grade school I'm trying to start again here. Greg, of course, was not around, but when he walked in I explained that, if you could feel the pacing of a story, walking was a natural side-effect of reading.

Well, it was pretty good excuse, on the spot and all. It sounds like it could be true. I just don't like all this sitting at college.

It was an uneventful laundry-day otherwise; at the end it picked up however. Helen of Stillwater called with an extra ticket for Mikado, a Gilbert and Sullivan thingie, so I met her and Mollie of Stillwater there at 8.

Around eight. My instantaneous transport system once again malfunctioned -for those of you who don't know, I often forget to factor in travel time when going somewhere, instead leaving when I'm supposed to arrive. I'm better now, but it crops up every now and then. And our room is a time sink when you're trying to leave it.

The opera was good, very funny in fact, and afterwards I jaunted over to The D.J's radio show, late, but with twenty minutes to spare. The show was uneventful, though The D.J had in my absence been dubbed 'goofy'. I have reservations about applying that adjective to The D.J. 'Humorous' would perhaps fit better.

The ticket taker at the opera looked exactly like my ex-girlfriend, and I thought that it was all an elaborate The Game style joke for a few seconds. Still, I think soon I'll have found a doppelganger for everyone I know; The Lanky German's double is a popular Lawrence percussionist.

Later.

I just visited a random webpage with the following motto:

this is my web page
there are many like it
but this one is mine

Off to the opera.

Tonight The D.J. and I went to the "Interpreting Gender" exhibit at Lawrence's modest art gallery, which was supervised by an art professor with either a slight accent or a slight speech impediment.

He made a lot of references to the superiority of women. For example:

This etching was done during WWI, when women, who were not in power and therefore not responsible for the war, were seen as innocent. I think we can all agree that things would have been different had women been in power.

I try not to be sexist. I really don't think I am; I just have to be fair, and that's the problem. As a guy, I've been told I'm not allowed to make sweeping generalizations about women, claim that a for-women-by-women version of anything is inferior, or use a negative adjective like "ugly" or "old" to describe a woman.

The crown jewel, the proverbial 'gem' of the Lawrence gender exhibit is a sketch of a gaunt rat-faced man, probably insane, who is missing both his arms and his 'special purpose'. The girls laughed when told that he was castrated, which I don't understand, and I said as much. Can guys laugh at female castration, or is that mutilation not 'funny'?

Well, that's not really fair, I guess, given the rape-related comments I made to The Diplomat on Monday, which may have been in bad taste. Still, there's reverse sexism brewing on this campus, and I want to crush it, or do whatever you do to stop a brew, before it's too late. Drink it, I suppose. Drink the reverse sexism.

In Qur'an class today, The Gnostic Redeemer once again tied Islam back to Christianity, and got really loud. He gets louder and ruder the smarter he tries to sound, which annoys the whole class.

Before class I went into the bathroom to fix my hair, and since that's all I did, I saw no reason to wash my hands. One of my classmates was at the drinking fountain however, and I'm sure she noticed that I came out of the bathroom much too quickly. So now she thinks I'm unsanitary.

By the by, in Colman at least, how often you wash your hands in the bathroom seems related to popularity, but not in the way you'd think. I make a point of washing my hands constantly: if they're not bleeding, they're not clean.

When I got back, my pen was gone and I spent the entire class period working up the nerve to ask my neighbor where he'd gotten such a suspiciously identical pen. I finally did, he denied it, and I walked out shellshocked, sorta.

I ran around campus and was late for Freshman Studies. It wasn't that great anyways, though the discussion was evenhanded. I'm sometimes worried in that class that the other, wiser members don't respect me because I often speak without knowing what I'm talking about, or why I'm talking at all. But I've covered this subject before. Je m'en fichisme.

I am a moron, though. After telling my FS class the pen story and handing in my poorly written rewrite, I found my pen halfway through class, in my shirt pocket for some reason. Someone must have stuck it there. Dungeon Master and The Politician seemed amused.

At dinner, I was accused of being a percussionist hanger-on because I'm always sitting with percussionists. It makes sense, kind of, but since this theory was uttered by an odd little drummer informally known as Prince, I'm going to disregard it. There's apparently already a drummer groupie named Timothy (guy or girl, I just don't know anymore).

Well, I tried. It's kinda short? Isn't it… I suppose not. Later.

Four unanswered emails in my inbox. I'm so lazy and popular.

Late for class, but here's my New Deal:

My weblogs have been so long of late that I'm amazed when people actually read through them. I will most likely be writing shorter weblogs from now on, or more infrequent ones.

People: slimy, disgusting fleshbags.

I've been told I deny my humanity, because I often do, and I refuse to act human at times because people are a mess. So many conflicting impulses, so much hate and love and other confusing emotions. Nothing really makes sense, when you're human.

Why live in the moment, as most humans do, when it's not logical to do so? Why look at the long run, when we'll all be dead anyways? Why drink or smoke or do anything at all, if it's all either pointless or going to kill you?

It's impossible to generalize about humans; they refuse to be classified, they act irrationally just to confound their own best scientists, philosophers and poets.

Worse, they act so nobly erratic not to uphold some ideal of individuality and self-interest, like Dostoevsky seems to claim; nay, for humans nonconformism is instinctive and inescapable -everyone is different and unique and if almost everyone in the world agreed that Russian roulette is a bad, someone would have to play anyways.

When I am human, and that happens more and more nowadays, I spend a lot of time trying to justify my actions to myself. My laziness, my sometimes fickle behavior towards others- all my useless-yet-still-fundamental qualities. It seems that this huge lump of bloody flesh in my head exists soley so that I can explain my own actions, as if I'm trying to rationalize completely random behavior instead of the logical workings of free will.

Why do I dislike this person for faults I forgive in that person? How do I justify the snap judgments I make almost every day? Everyone is great once you get to know them, I think, so why do I write off The Vain Man and Sex & Poverty after some pithy salutary and painful effort?

That was a warm-up. This blog is about people.

I got my bi-weekly email from my former exchange student, Flo, just the other day. The Gothic German has it all figured out, every time he writes me.

Last time, he had a band and a (forgive my metric) "90-60-90 girlfriend with wonderful long red hair". This time he's directing a "teenie-psycho horror with a philosophical twist", to kill time before he ships off to South America for civil service. Then it's a year in a Zen monastery before he starts his directing career.

When I'm older, maybe I'll be a writer, but who really knows. I want a cactus and a nice comfortable chair.

Flo is a self-described gothic-nerd and an all-around standup, non-Nazi guy, and he's always had big plans. Flo confuses me, though; he's a ladykiller but will wear the same leather pants for a week in the summer. And he does things that even American nerds would dismiss as uncool. Like RPGs. Still, it's a good confusion.

I saw a message on The Vain Man's whiteboard today, from a socialite girl who irks me from time to time. The friend of my enemy is my enemy, I thought. And the enemy of my enemy is my friend, and the enemy of my friend is my enemy, and the friend of my friend is my friend. But the important thing was the first one.

Why do the people I dislike flock together? I guess I've always assumed that people have the same standards for judging people that I do. Honesty and compassion and all that afro-cuban jazz. Do people like The Vain Man have the same standards, or are they functioning at some level I could never comprehend?

I suppose it's good that people who I dislike hang around each other, because this way if I just avoid the whole group I'm generally going to be ok.

My hetero-life-buddy, the Jay to my Silent Bob, the Silent Bob to my Jay, the great Larson, is having mojo problems. It's overacting, oddly enough. Everytime I talk to him he's got a new random girl and a half dozen more prospects on the horizon. Too much for him to handle.

I was actually worried that mine would become at least partially overactive, because I bought a quarter of Larson's mojo a year ago, to replace mine when I was trying to win the heart of Beth. It's strong stuff, that Larson-mojo. The whole purchasing of the immaterial began, I think, when someone mentioned that the employees of our movie theater were literally selling their souls at work.

Random socialization today was good; I talked to a few percussionists at dinner, sat with Project 2501 and his posse for lunch, and ran into a Stillwater type who actually owns The Unbearable Lightness of Being.

There's a difference between being someone who reads that stuff and someone who reads that stuff to be someone who reads that stuff, however semantic.

As for nonrandom socialization, I attended the first anime club meeting, full of pretty hardcore enthusiasts. I think I'm frightened off for good, though I'll probably duck in for their movies. The same arrangement I have with The Hedonists, basically.

Graham: [blasphemy]. dan's blog entries are so… long…

For those of you who want the straight facts, without pronouns:

1. Two-and-a-half hour long Calc midterm tonight, maybe got a C+, if lucky. The Vain Man continues to piss the writer quite royally off. Sound of voice like rusty nails on chalkboard.
2. Got to Jazz thing late, thought The D.J seemed pleased in a distracted sort of way. Stayed for last ten minutes and walked back to Colman in the cold.
3. Achebe lecture and Qur'an thing. A guy I'll call The Gnostic Redeemer, who's incredibly full of himself, apparently understands all the complexities of Islam, and gets offended when we don't believe his outright lies.

Gargamel just wanted to try something new, the poor guy. What's wrong with that? Is it the "eating things with faces" thing that's a problem? Although I wonder at his religious choices, with a cat named Azrael.

Finally looked at my Qur'an paper, despite my fears that it would psych me out for the Calc midterm tonight. My professor, however, loved "Golthrax and The Mole People of Planet X." Now to go study for a couple hours…

Kudos and double kudos to Manney and Graham for saying what needed to be said, just how it needed to be said. And for teaching me how to link to specific days.

I was actually thinking along the same lines last night, after visiting a few random blogspot blogs. One, called The Beauty of Gray (after the Live song, of course) was really angsty and whiny. In fact, all the blogs I visited randomly were really angsty and whiny.

(These are people I don't know, mind you; I enjoy real people's blogs. Especially Adam's, because no one ever goes there. It's haunted.)

The misunderstood artist here, the dejected would-be romeo there; it's amazing how utterly useless my blog becomes in this huge sea of crap. The scariest part is how similar some of these strangers' blogs are to mine. Reading them was like hearing my effeminate voice on the radio and wondering if that's how I really sound.

It scares me when I'm unoriginal. I can almost always come up with something random and bizarre, but when I try to be deep or well, myself, it comes eerily close to these other low quality webpages I visited. These guys, as a friend of mine once noted, try too hard.

They want to be intellectuals and sit in coffeehouses reading obscure philosophy books and talking about The Unbearable Lightness of Being, which is of course everyone's conception of what an intellectual is.

I wanted this, not too long ago in fact, but I really can't take myself that seriously. I don't think I can take anything that seriously, not all the time. Myself is good enough; forget these images of smoky coffeehouses and stuffy literature. As lame as that sounds, even.

The Diplomat had a booth for Women's Crisis Centers today, and I asked The Diplomat if my donation would end rape forever. He laughed politely and said "here's hoping" so I gave a dollar, but there's no issue that really compels me, beyond vague concepts like Truth. I'm not that intense about things, even very important things, and neither are these people. It's all a show to impress someone, even if someone is only themselves.

Which brings me to my archnemesis, my real archnemesis: Bad Teenage Poetry. When it comes down to it, Bad Teenage Poetry is a lump of wonderful feelings that may seem unique and beautiful to some people but in reality is unoriginal trash:



Or something like that. All these webpages I looked at were uninspired angst; art, for them, is dead.

Most of the time I try not to be like that, so needlessly sentimental, but I know I can be, we all can be. Right now, in fact, I'm being pretty pompous and trite. It's how we build ourselves up, or part of it.

That, and sweeping generalizations based off personal experience that lead us to believe we understand everything about the world. Everything is so dangerous and so understandable when you're an angsty teenage weblogger.

Good gads, I wasted some space here. Well, congratulations if you sifted through that. There'll be another tedious update tonight.

My mind is prettymuch a complete blank today, which isn't a good thing because my Freshman Studies rewrite is due Wednesday. More pressingly, I've got a Calc midterm tomorrow I still don't care about.

Curse you, Math and Science, for being so uninteresting!

I did a pittance of math at the library, enough to feel like a good student, but excepting that I've been pretty unmotivated today. I tried to read and couldn't. There's not even anything to distract me from working, either; my beloved computer games are equally boring.

It must be cabin fever of the non-muppet variety.
O, if I could only frolick in the sunshine!

It's not like I would go outside if I could, I suspect; I'm just frustrated at not being able to do something because of this 'snow'. I hate walking in this weather. The snow stings my face and gets in my eyes, and all I can hear is John Candy's voice shouting "Go under the wind, go under it!"

I must have watched that movie a dozen times when I was younger, and this is the price I pay.

Last night I left the room for maybe thirty seconds, to put some towels in the washing machine if you must know, and when I came back there were four half-drunk percussion majors in my room. I was already a bit off, as my reality wasn't holding up too well yesterday in any case, and this was an added shock.

They sat around and talked about drummer stuff, of course, though we did discuss Natalie Portman, who they all love for some reason, as well as the Olsen twins, who Greg pretends to love because it's hilariously creepy.

Also, I found out that the reason there were two girls on stage and only one in the program for their percussion concert was that one of the girls is named Timothy. Apparently it's not something they recommend bringing up around her, because she's very boring.

Anyways, the drummers left to go sledding at this freakishly lanky percussionist's house, which was apparently a "really cool" experience that most of them wussed out of doing, and I hung out here and rapped with Graham via MSN.

There's a Jazz Singers thing tonight in the coffeehouse, and I guess I'll go to that and support The D.J, who I've been quite unintentionally avoiding all day. Wait- it was moved to Monday.

Well, that's enough pointless blather.

Ah, and my watch, a symbol of my everlasting friendship with my ex-girlfriend, broke yesterday at the concert. That was really sad and funny, for some reason.

Three final thoughts:

1. Went to the percussion concert. Ann of Stillwater, who I haven't previously mentioned here, is remarkably perceptive about a great many things, except for dry sarcasm.

2. 22.23

3. See below.

Time for an exaggerated, and lengthy, display of self-importance:

The metaphorical noose is tightening around my scrawny little neck.

Apparently word of my blog is circulating campus, as someone noted today having heard of it "third hand". Hopefully it doesn't get around to the wrong people.

The wrong people being anyone stronger than me that my webpage might offend, of course. And since prettymuch everyone is stronger than me, except for Dylan Cosgrove and those starving children in Africa, it may already be too late.

At first this webpage was mine alone, a simple space for me to justify myself to myself --it at one point featured a sprawling defense of my love of country music. Then from that it grew to a page I intended for my friends, a dry little journal of events in my life.

Due largely to the influence of my friend Graham, it grew to its current unwieldy and much-too-literary form, gladly welcoming in scattered acquaintences as well as the random strangers who blunder to my site while looking for clarencethomasporn.com.

I know this entry is tedious --you might want to look at the updated Thoughts if you want me to attempt to entertain you-- but the gist of it is that I like the way my webpage turned out, and it warms the feeble little heart of this prospective author to know that people who don't really know him read his writing, or at least could be reading it if it wasn't so long.

My thoughts, as pretentious as they are at the moment, belong to me alone, and I'm willing to own up to everything I've ever written on this page, even my crack about the WMBA. This webpage contains the truth, albeit my own subjective one, and I hope you find it interesting reading.

As I noted yesterday, my dreams lately have been really boring, full of obvious metaphors and tedious fantasies. As far as I'm concerned, if I need to sort out my subconscious dilemmas in dreams, like a pansy, then I've obviously got some issues. There's no reason for me to keep things from myself; why not just worry about these problems during the day, when I'm conscious and alert?

When my mind is in good order, though, I can have the kind of dreams I love -they may not always be happy dreams, but a really creative nightmare is infinitely more welcome than another dream where my dad beats me over the head with The Deathtrap.

We watched BASEketball last night, a movie I will no doubt regret for the rest of my life, and the touching story of the dying young boy, lifted without any pretenses from a Seinfield episode, must have stuck in my brain. So when I slept, I dreamt of death, and dying.

I was sitting in the dorm room, reading or something -I'm boring even in my dreams- and this anonymous guy walked in and told me Greg was dead, one of those kinds of dead where they'll never find the body. The hilarious part, thinking back, is that I didn't care. I've always joked to Greg that I wouldn't be affected by his death in the least, and that I'm going to kill him in his sleep one day, and it turns out that I really am that much of a dastard. I just kept reading in the dream.

Then the phone rang, and I knew in that dreamy way that Greg wasn't dead anymore, but I still couldn't be bothered to care. I really am a dastard. Anyways, the phone rang, sounding a lot like our old rotary phone back home, and I picked it up. I didn't have a conversation, but apparently someone communicated to me telepathically through the phone lines that my family was dead and I had to go home.

This time, I cared; I got in The Deathtrap, drove for about five seconds, and stopped at the toy gas station I'd had for my huge matchbox car collection. By this time The Deathtrap had turned into some sort of red firetruck-pickup, which didn't really matter in a few seconds anyways. I'd somehow found the last full-service filling station between Appleton and Brainerd, and the attendant came out to fill my red firetruck-pickup with gas.

But instead of a gas pump, he had a firehose, and instead of an attendant, he was Graham! Yes, his red bellhop uniform aside, this man was definitely Graham, which is why I was surprised when, in a very jovial manner, he pointed the running firehose at the car, looked at me, and lit a match. Graham and my vehicle exploded in a huge ball of fire.

In my panic, I somehow managed to find my way to an internet cafe, and read Graham's lengthy suicide letter, posted in advance on his webpage. Graham had, however, made yet another css stylesheet before offing himself, and his page now looked exactly like Manney's. It was a very touching letter, and I started crying. I hadn't thought that my subconscious was so weepy, but dream-Graham's last words to the world touched dream-Dan's heart.

Then I was home, a year ago and outside for some reason, talking to my slightly younger and more popular brother Matt, who was running around in a typical show of athleticism. I flashed forward to the next day, and Matt was dead. That was a shocker, given how healthy he'd looked only the day before, but apparently he'd caught that disease where you just drop dead in 24 hours.

In remembrance of Matt's death, Brainerd High School held prom outdoors, and everyone was invited to pay their respects to his black casket, which was situated next to the punch bowl. There were no adults around, except chaperones. There were a lot of round white tables everywhere and the sun was shining.

Everyone was mingling and I was standing there really, really distraught. Apparently I was the only member of our family to come to this, because the school had finally cracked down on non-students coming to prom, and I looked at the tables and all the happy people and then looked at the casket.

I'd imagined this scenario in high school, and I was never quite sure of what I'd want if the school encouraged students to come to my funeral. There were a bunch of people around that had never known Matt, and they were all paying their respects and trying to remember who he was.

I got very angry and for some reason started yelling at Lisa, his former girlfriend I believe, and her generically handsome date, for not knowing Matt at all, and everyone started looking at me because I was ruining the Brainerd prom. I started to say something profound, but then I got even more upset and started throwing wild tornado-style punches.

With that, I woke up and laughed.

Worldview adjustments complete. That won't happen again.

I feel slightly off balance right now, dizzy in the social sense of the word.

First, I have to criticize myself for the attitude I take towards women. As you know, I've sworn off dating for a while, which no one should have a problem with. The problem is that I haven't changed my views of women to accomodate this new outlook; I'm much happier --don't laugh-- imagining a world where women throw themselves at me and I'm the selfless martyr to my own ideals.

I'm sorry, [girl's name], but I don't want to date anyone, not for a long time…

It sounds noble and heartfelt, but in the end it's a pretty pathetic fantasy. If I were a bit less selfish I could imagine a world where girls don't have to be rejected by me; where they're happily with someone else and there is no scene for noble Dan to act his part in.

That is, with a few bizarre exceptions, how the world actually works. I've never been a hot item, and girls have never, and probably will never, throw themselves at me. Small objects, yes, themselves, no. The real world, in this case, is surpisingly fair to all parties -girls find someone better and I don't have to worry about dating. Still, it's a slight jab to the ego when everything works out like it should without anyone getting hurt, without any need for my brilliant speech of rejection.

That said, Freshman Studies class was cancelled today. Prof Alger was 'ill'. So I hung around outside with Dungeon Master, The Idyllist, and The Young Lovers, the most natural-looking couple I've ever seen, trying to decide what to do. Everyone dispersed to do homework or write sonnets, and The Idyllist and I decided to go to the library until Downer opened.

She's, as I said before, an English geek, and we naturally ended up talking about short stories. I really don't write them, but this girl is actually a writer, not a mere poseur like myself. So we talked about story ideas and her stories sounded pretty interesting, if a bit action-oriented for my taste. One of hers, oddly enough, parallels Ghost Dog, a movie she'd never heard of.

After our sparkling conversation, we went to Downer for lunch. We're both non-churchgoing Catholics, more or less, so we talked about religion for a bit and then the conversation moved onto dreams. My dreams are so boring lately --nothing but really obvious metaphors or simple wish-fulfillment-- but her's reminded me of the good-old-days of my own subconscious. Randomness, adventure, excitement, and the mafia. Also, she has lucid dreams, which I think is just amazing.

The Idyllist has eaten lunch with me every Wednesday of late, because its the only day she gets a chance to, so naturally I'd assumed she had nowhere better to go. Apparently she has a life when I'm not around, however, because she mentioned a boyfriend halfway through our conversation. It was a bit of a shock for my sad little mind, for the reasons detailed above.

Nevertheless, hoping that she didn't notice I was a little off-balance --look how long this took me to explain, here, to myself-- I forged on. I'm fine with the idea now that I'm used to it, in all honesty. Once I adjust my attitude towards women, well, some women, to jive with reality and my own chosen lifestyle, everyone can be happy, and I can be happy for them.

It was a good time, and I timidly and vaguely suggested that we hang out sometime, the first time I've been so bold socially, and got a suitably vague response. Nothing will come of it, most likely, but it was some quality random socialization while it lasted. Interesting. And we talked about English without being pretentious.

Well, that's all I've got to say about that.