The Evil Barber is defeated, for now. I gave him a reasonable $1 tip, received a decent haircut, and watched ever-so-innocently as his boss encouraged him with a snappy "You're getting better at this!".

Prof Dintenfass remains the master. I came at the wrong meeting time, twenty minutes late, and was told, in a voice all-too-sincere, that I was only late because I'm one of those befuddled geniuses. I still don't know if he was patronizing me or simply overestimating me.

The rest of the meeting was good. I hear The Feminist whined to get into his Lit Comp: Fiction class as a Freshman, which makes me, the non-whiner, feel better, or at least less inferior. Apparently you get an automatic B in that class if you do all the work. Meeting minimum requirements! Now that I can do!

Otherwise, the day was pretty mundane. My German skills are not where they used to be, or even where they should be. I seem to have misplaced them, I guess.

Next year looks exciting. My schedule:

Term I
East Asian Classics in Translation
Intro to Geo (unless they offer an easier lab)
Milton and the 17th Century

Term II
Buddhism
Lit Comp: Fiction
American Lit: Civil War to Great Depression

Term III
Shakespeare
Modern British Fiction (as in 1920-60)
Contemporary German Culture

Later.

Missing time. There was a five minute period this morning that I can't account for, unless it took five minutes to get socks from my aptly named "sock drawer". I was, of course, late for class.

Which was ok. Prof Fritzell spent the class period looking right at The Poet and I; combined, we answered all of his rhetorical questions.

Lunch was fun; I sat with Jinx and Rock Show Girl, and was soon joined by way too many girls. Normally I don't notice an uneven gender balance, but with ten girls at the same table I really had no idea what to do. We talked about rollercoasters or something. I forget. John McCain came up for the first time of many today.

The preregistration woes took up the rest of my day; I spent quite some time figuring out what to do, and I've got a rough outline for next year, nothing more. Prof Dintenfass, my advisor, will hopefully clear up some of my confusion today. Though I suspect he'll have me take less English classes and more of a 'mix'.

Dinner was originally conceived as a schedule-discussion session with Ann, but when others showed it was such an event that we couldn't help but talk about Adam Sandler and Jim Carrey the whole time. I got to bash The Majestic, which is always righteously entertaining. The review I linked to says it all.

Afterwards I went to Jonas's room and played video games against his roomate Andy, Jonas himself, and The Politician (whose real name is Bill; I saw tonight that he gets enough ribbing over his Republican politics). Also, Liar Liar was viewed.

But none of that is important, however entertaining.

#1. I found out that it's pretty certain I'll be rooming with Jonas next year: The Politician is taking on a Japanese student and his current roomate Andy is getting a single.

#2. Also, the part of my brain designed to correctly interpret the emotions of The Politician seems to have healed: I had no bizarre reactions to completely understandable statements.

#3. And most importantly, I went the whole night without hearing the word "percussion". I haven't hung out with guys who didn't talk about drumming for quite a while; brief discourses with The Mustacheless Man and The D.J excepted, of course.

That's enough. Later.

I poured my heart out and it's gone… not my heart, my thoughts… good ones too… let this post stand in memorium of the lost musings of Our Bold Hero.

Another marathon reading session at the library out of the way.

Brunch this morning was pleasant; The D.J and I ran into The Mustacheless Man, who as always provided interesting conversation. We bonded. He's trying to decide whether to live in Frisbee House or room with some random stranger.

Which of course means I need to talk to my current potential roomate, and figure out what's going on, so I'm not left all alone. Well, later.

Just finished watching The Manchurian Candidate with Greg. A great flick. I mean, seriously: a power-mad Angela Lansbury? What more could you ask for in a movie?!

It's raining today. Nothing to report.

So then. Yesterday night was filled with percussionists. Everywhere percussionists.

My good deed: Subtly encouraging Miguel Sanchez to think about rooming with Greg next year. They'd be great roomates. Miguel had been thinking about it already, so this was a significant push in the right direction; now if they'd just talk about it, and figure out what Sanchez's current roomate is planning.

This, thankfully, largely cancels out my guilt for other poor choices last night.

All told, the night wasn't too exciting. The percussionists subjected The D.J to a level of alcohol-related peer pressure that I hope never to see again. Also, we ate dinner at Arby's, which wasn't that great.

Whenever the percussionists —Greg, Nick-From-Next-Door, The Lanky Percussionist, and Miguel Sanchez— get together, they inevitably talk about percussion and percussion-related activities. It's not that they have bad conversational skills, it's just that they really enjoy talking about drumming, or, if not drumming, other things I'm equally uninterested in. They should concentrate on entertaining me, and me alone.

In their defense, I tend to, quite willingly, discuss English matters around fellow would-be English majors, though never with the same singlemindedness that usually pervades their conversations. I wonder if that happens with all gatherings of majors, or if it's just a bad habit that Greg and I both share.

In either case, at brunch this morning Greg and I pondered whether History majors bring history into every conversation. A bit later we realized that the people a few tables over were discussing history, which was really freaky.

That is all.

Ann Coulter is pretty sane this week, understandably perplexed by the Supreme Court ruling that, last week, struck down a ban on 'virtual' child pornography as too broad. Then, as usual, she took her argument too far, using a movie description she found online:

So Congress can't ban virtual kiddie porn because the law might make producers think twice before making [American Beauty]? This is the doomsday scenario? A little chilling might lead to "virtual" watchable movies.

Speaking of logic, yesterday I forwent the usual electronic distractions and read almost all of Weston's From Ritual to Romance, a sort of literary acid trip that connects the Grail legend to African weather rituals, Chinese temples, and Tarot symbolism. It's all very logical, and really helpful to understanding T.S. Eliot's The Waste Land, even if the phrase 'Aryan forefathers' appears on nearly every page.

I'm slightly annoyed today. Two little gripes…

Gripe #1: Yahoo.
My Yahoo email account is no longer accessible from Outlook Express- they expect me to pay $25 a year for forwarding and POP3 access, so I'm leaving. I'm still at Yahoo, for now, but I'm probably going to move to mailhaven.com in about a week. I'll send out a mass email or something. Cursed Yahoo, with its aggressive money-making schemes.

Gripe #2: Porn.
Sex-columnist Dan Savage of "Savage Love" is apparently attempting to convince poor innocents like Amelia of Brainerd that "all men look at porn", and those who don't are repressed.

I don't usually read "Savage Love", and I haven't at all since he advised a guy with a getting-thrown-up-on fetish to take out a personal ad (there isn't any 'kink', besides pedophilia, I could see him actually advising counseling for). But I'm getting ahead of myself. That's just bad advice, whereas this is an outright lie.

In defense of the millions of people who existed before pornography, the impoverished residents of as-yet porn-free countries, and self-righteous do-gooders like myself, looking at porn is nothing that needs to be done. People who don't look at porn aren't repressed, they're rejecting a human invention, not a psychological need.

Like someone who doesn't read books (my brother Matt), or watch t.v. (Henrik), or eat chocolate (Graham), they are rejecting a societal convention, which is, —however enjoyable it undoubtedly is for its fans— at best merely a popular thing to do.

To imply that someone 'needs' to look at porn, lest they deny their sexual impulses, is moronic. Sexual impulses exist independent of porn, and plenty of us understand that without feeling compelled to look at pictures of naked whose-its and whats-its. So no, Mr. Savage, not everyone looks at porn.

I was in such a sanctimonious huff I sent that to Dan without looking it over. Well, it's not like he'll listen/care to anyways. We now return you to our regularly scheduled program.

…Lately I've sat with Jinx, Rock Show Girl, and that posse for lunch. It's been a good time, mostly. Jinx seems to think I'm some sort of wacky entertainment, and most of that group continues to call me 'Crazy Dan'. It's not necessarily a bad situation, but it's a little dehumanizing to be thought of as a good show. I suppose it's fitting that someone so quick to label people on his webpage should be crammed into a pigeonhole himself.

Amazing, I found myself longing for a release from intellectual activity yesterday, probably because I hadn't relaxed all day, and sometime after a marathon dinner I stumbled back to the dorm for some solid relaxing time. Music, not religion, is the opiate of the masses.

After an hour of that, I was good to go, and spent two hours with Crazy Ed and Ann of Stillwater, hashing through the first half of The Waste Land. It's a spectacular poem, and we're all gearing up for a public reading "sometime in mid-May". I was there much too late, and had to rush back to finish a German essay.

Which I did, this morning, but I skipped German class anyways. Now it's off to dinner, or something.

"AH! No! Soap in my contact case! Well, at least I didn't pour something worse in there, like hate." -Greg.

It's the eve of the Feast of St. Mark, a very superstitious day. I was planning to sit outside the chapel, where, according to tradition, the doppelgangers of everyone who is going to die this year will gather, entering the church at midnight. But that seems boring at the moment. Restless nonetheless.

Today has been an exceptional day. I had a ton of really amazing revelations last night, and woke up with 'epiphany' scrawled on my palm. A great way to start any day, even if I don't remember half of what I was thinking.

Class went well; at lunch I sat with That Fellow, The Poet, The Insurrectionist, and a few other people from first term who I haven't seen in a while. Horoscopes came up —it turns out I'm the only Aquarius on my floor— so I let my horoscope advise me on some small matters today, rather than thinking or flipping a coin, as per usual. Ah, chance.

In this modern world of caffeine and hovercars and artificial hormones in beef, people don't rely on the same random methods of answer-retrieval that they used to. Sure, horoscopes and coin-flipping are the old, reliable procedures for poor decision making, but a far more exciting method of taking away responsibility is emerging as we speak.

Graham has already coined 'Blogburn' (which was used immediately afterwards by myself, and nearly a week ago by Jeff Jarvis). I will coin, tonight, not one but two pithy little words. Will he reveal I in this paragraph? Not likely.

In the olden days, when I was sixteen and a loyal member of the St. Andrew's Youth Group, we discussed the ancient (and often heretical) practice of Sortes Biblium, or bibliomancy, which is still common in today in the Germany. But with such a 'crisis of faith' today, where do people turn? Where do they go when randomly opening the bible and pointing at a passage is no longer enough?

They turn, dear reader, to Googliomancy. Google is the bestest search engine out there, and it holds the answers. Try it. Enter in Googliomancy. Enter in a question. Enter in "Ask Jeeves". Somehow, the pages that come up will have the answers, or related content.

The superstition of tomorrow: today!

Since that was so tedious, I'll skip to my second word, which is much less impressive. I merely noticed how people, in order not to sound biased, say 'the majority of' when qualifying an assumption. 'All' is too dangerous, and always wrong.

But t.m.o is clever. What's that? An acronym? It's pronounced, and spelled (now): 'teemo'. Now you can say "Teemo Democrats support X" or "Teemo Restoration plays are lame" or the standard "Teemo [Group X] are [Slur Y]". It totally adds a whimsical touch to prejudice, bigotry, and the relentlessly qualified sweeping generalizations I love so much.

Obviously, I'm much too hyper. My apologies, I'll try and relax. The main principle behind all this excitement is the my trumped-up moments of truth last night, which have spilled over into today and filled me with the conviction that I am capable of intelligent thought. Which leaves me that much less restraint. Maybe I'll read or something.

Anyways, later.

Project 2501's friend pointed out the potential culprit, who "took the game outside its circle" as Project 2501's friend calmly noted. I'll send Greg after him later, to even the peephole-stealing-score.

Four updates, however small, are enough for one day. I'm done.

O.k. Time for a theme. Outraged, yet aware of my own inability to do anything. Like Job. Only I'm not outraged about the loss of everything I hold dear, and my very system of beliefs itself, I'm outraged that some dastards on our floor are stealing peepholes.

From the timid R.A, from The Hedonists next door, from the scary people who live next to them, and from those two dorks in 326. That would be Greg and me, that last one. Dastards. I'd like to think it's random, but I suspect it's not. I'll ask Project 2501 from down the hall. He's in with the Colman crowd, he might have a lead. In the meantime, I told the Hall Director. This situation pisses me off quite royally, I suspect.

There's nothing I can do, so I'm amused, and not just because of the somewhat decent episode of Andy Richter Controls The Universe that I saw tonight. I'm amused because people are stealing peepholes, and I'm getting upset. Ah, sweet futility!

The D.J. is my co-conspirator on the whole housing situation. He brought up some interesting points about The Mustacheless Man, Miguel Sanchez, and Greg, and prettymuch put everything in perspective for me.

I'm cranky and irritable right now for no good reason. I need to do laundry and get a haircut and clean the room, but who knows if any of that will get done. I already did all my homework for the next two days, which is disconcerting.

Andy Richter will calm my nerves, that and some music of moderate volume. Just a few more hours, just a few more hours…

Weird, weird, crazy, crazy dream… I'm not going to relate it all, but for most of it I was in Office Max, looking in the Maps section under Shortcuts. We were happy to find one last map (a big black and yellow monstrosity) which showed a shortcut to D.C. from Minneapolis on the cover.

It was way out of reach so they took it down with a gaff, which I thought was a nice subconscious touch.

I have to find a play to do a project on for Drama and Crit. I think I'll go with Twelfth Night, because it's complicated and I've already read it.

Well, time to go to lunch I guess. Later.

Ah. I finally did what I needed to and talked to one of my potential roomates. Asking is the hard part; with that over I get to sit back and relax.

If he says no, then I just move down the list to the next roomate.
If he says yes, I'm done.

Either way it's wonderfully out of my hands at the moment, up in the air somewhere. For someone who just asked a near-stranger to be his roomate, I'm remarkably relaxed.

Now to write something angsty. I went without music all day, until right about now, and, excepting some minor social gaffes, the decision turned out to be a good one. I was alert and I got a lot of reading done.

Since I was too lazy to go to the bookstore, I read The True History of the Conquest of New Spain by Diaz del Castillo, who was with Cortes. I don't know that much about history, and Diaz impeaches prettymuch everyone involved, so it was pretty interesting.

Though reading about it probably isn't as interesting as reading it. I understand. I'll move on.

MSN is my real problem. Lately I've had a bizarre need to make every little social 'thing' into a little issue, but with MSN, all those little issues snowball into a big avalanche of awkwardness. Note how that clumsy metaphor captures the feel of my awkwardness.

Issue the first: Initiating conversation. I don't know when to do it. If someone is Idle, do I talk to them? If they're Away? Should I initiate a conversation if I have nothing to say? Which of course brings us to…

Issue the second: Substance. I have nothing to say and I don't know when to shut up. I'll talk about the most inane garbage, but I suppose that's acceptable. It's instant messaging, after all, not a transatlantic letter.

Issue the third, and last. Ending conversation. With my better friends from Brainerd, I usually know when to end the conversation, or think I do, but with, well, everyone else, I just keep wondering if the chat has reached critical mass yet. O, I like that last sentence!

Put all those together and I have a problem, or a lot of self-doubt, or just something to whine about in my usual passive-aggressive way. Whatever. Well, here I go.

In other news, my man Joel Stein has a new article out. It's about not watching television, it's very short, and he makes some interesting points at the end. Also, it's moderately funny.

Once again, Prof Fritzell has shown me the light. He should be an evangelist or a spirit-guide or something. Today we discussed The Cask of Amontillado, a pretty good short story by Poe that deals, by-the-by, with an issue most of us struggle with.

It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I had difficulty recognizing as that of the noble Fortunato.

Which, while a cool quote, is almost unrelated to the subject at hand.

Prof Fritzell spent the class period demystifying Poe, describing a man who was obsessed, not with horror, but rather with identity. The Cask of Amontillado is one man's attempt to seperate himself from the past, and from his former self. But writing a story merely dredges up old memories; in The Cask of Amontillado, Fortunato lives, and the man who killed him is undoubtedly the narrator.

Blah. The point, which I will come to shortly, is that you and I and Poe's protagonist- none of us can make a clean break. Vows, resolutions, murder, any of the many options at hand will, at best, only subdue the doers identity, because no one can escape himself.

It borders on hokey, so I'll quit the ramble here. Class was good, I appreciate Poe a lot more, etc.

Later.

Not much to report. Today was very boring.

In yet another stint at the library I got all my reading done, then I tried to write some lyrics (as I'd promised) for The D.J.'s band, only to give that up when I realized that I was basically just changing the words to Poe's The Raven. I'm just not musically adept, I guess.

My roommate finally explained the reasons for his recent oddness:
#1. He's become very good at tuning me out.
#2. His girlfriend is going through some stress at home.

If not for the first one, I'd be thrilled, but I'll take what I can get. We made fun of Laura's plight for a while; hopefully Greg found that cathartic.

Speaking of which, The Simpsons and The X-Files were horrible tonight, at a new, unexpected, low. I'm somewhat bitter that they chose to kill off my favorite recurring character (Byers). And after I finally took time to watch t.v…

On a more personal note, if anything can be more personal than network programming, I realized during yesterday's concert that I've been living in the future without actually planning for it. I just assume everything will work out, and, while it's a welcome change from my gloomy first-term self, it's not practical.

For example; if I expect to be, say, a writer, I need to write, and write now, or at least do some reading. I'm sick of all the spectacle without substance, I guess. Then again, it's Sunday night, and on Sunday night I usually make some sort of vow…

Later.

Just got back from an unproductive study session at the library, and here's what I found in the news:

WOMEN SAVOR "MURDER"

There's no serious reason for it that I can see, but Greg has been acting odd. Lately he hasn't been noticing things unless we point them out thrice or fice, and he just told me a story I heard from him half an hour ago. He's also been reverting, more and more often, into a less-mellow and more-genuine version of himself. Which leads me to the newest development.

I call it "Freundin Syndrome." Nick-From-Next-Door and Greg have no real female friends, here or at home. They, and the other guys who think like them, associate women only with dating. One pines over not having a girlfriend, or one is romantically involved with his only girl friend; there is no other option. But they can think whatever they want about women…

It's just that they assume that everyone else thinks like them: The D.J. was hanging out with a girl in his room and it took perhaps thirty seconds for one of them to insinuate that the two were dating. Admittedly, The D.J. has his crushes, but can't a guy be around girls without such innuendo? Apparently not.

So that's my gripe, another insignificant one that I'm hoping won't fester.

Went to a choir concert tonight with Nick-From-Next-Door; it was really long but good. The songs made me think; I've associated classical music with thinking ever since Adam of Brainerd's mom went through her 'Mozart Effect' phase.

I had some minor random socialization at the concert but we buzzed out to rent a movie to watch with Greg rather than mingle with the choir people. After a grueling period of indecision, I selected The Manchurian Candidate, which I'd heard great things about, but not everyone wanted to watch it tonight. Eh.

Later.

Well, I'm done with that game forever. After a short and rather easy tangle with the evil and quite fictional Timemaster, I went to the library to get some reserve materials that turned out to be equally ficitonal, as far as the students at the library help desk know. So that was slightly frustrating, especially when I have to listen to Earth Day festivities.

I'll try to be as logical as I can be in the scant time I have before dinner.

My simple assertion: Earth Day is a foolish holiday, because it's really just a celebration of trees and lakes and ducks and lemurs. The earth spent far more time, by my reckoning, as a ball of molten rock, and to celebrate growths on it's surface is akin to celebrating cheese by preserving mold. As far as the earth is concerned, humans, toxic waste, trees and guano all have an equal right to be here.

I'm all for preservation, but don't act like the earth has anything to do with it. I mean, even calling it Earth day implies the presence, for good or ill, of humans. We named this orb, after all; pretending that 'Earth' existed before us is like calling pre-vespuccian members of this country "Early Americans", when 'America' didn't exist until we named it as such. A pox on poorly named, yet well-intentioned, holidays!

Well, that's not perfectly logical, but it'll have to do.

Let me finish my computer game, then I'll update.

Tonight for me was a celebration of insecurities, but a good healthy one.

The radio show went well. "What Dan Wants" was a hit with the less sober listeners, especially a fellow named Siege.

More on Earth Day and my noncomical problems with it soon enough, but not tonight.

And I spent the night in many MSN conversations, mainly in order to inquire about the unspoken rules of IM-ing. The results were mixed, but good conversations were had, and that's enough.

Well, time to read Ligeia. Poe will ensure excellent dreams.

Ann: Why are you waving your hands around like that?

That's my quote of the day, I think. I'm getting slammed in this particular quote for my storytelling mannerisms, but it's witty nonetheless. There were a lot of good witticisms today, from myself and others.

Me: Once more, [The Idyllist], I have to say: "wah?!?!".

For example. This is after The Idyllist, prefacing her statement with the usual "not to creep you out or anything", related to me a dream she'd had about the amazing Dan the night before.

Apparently she was in the Lawrence University Chapel, because I'm relating the dream now, and some Starship Troopers-style insects, accompanied by Lucky, that insidious Lucky Charms leprechaun, were menacing her.

Then, in superhero costume complete with cape, the hero of this dream rushed in. He dispatched the leprechaun quicker than you could say "look at the buckles on me boots" and, donning the head of the dispatched elf, I used Lucky's mind control powers to subdue the bugs. I have to admit that in real life I'm much less heroic.

Which all came out of someone else's head. Amazing. It still managed to include my growing dislike of Lucky Charms. What is 'magically' delicious, anyways?

Well, today, immediately before The Idyllist related her dream, Ann of Stillwater and I attended a Career Center meeting for English majors, which had excellent handouts but was otherwise useless. Looking at iffy jobs gave me another good reason to work hard at writing.

I've got to write a few dozen "What Dan Wants" lines for the radio show. I think I'm getting sick of my segment. Later.

I have to read William's Cat on a Hot Tin Roof for Drama and Crit tomorrow. But I couldn't get through it tonight.

It's not the heavyhandedness of the play that put me off, it's just a general feeling of restlessness. I'm restless. I wish I had an addiction to satisfy, but since I don't, I just got myself some black chai. I'll probably be wandering all night, or reading, or something. Maybe I'll do some spree killing down at the mall.

After reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being, here's a classification system I found interesting. Four types of people.

1. Those who need many anonymous eyes upon them.
The Ann Coulters of the world.

2. Those who need many known eyes upon them.
The pretentious gaddabouts of the world.

3. Those who need the eyes of the person they love upon them. The Young Lovers epitomize this few for me.

4. Those who live for the eyes of someone who isn't there.
Jefferson Smith in "Mr. Smith Goes to Washington"?

Well, so much for that. Prof Fritzell, as expected, ripped into Emerson (and his Self-Reliance) for illogical statement like "with consistency a great soul has simply nothing to do" and the fatal "insist on yourself: never imitate."

I still like the beauty of the prose itself, but it's doubtful I'll ever look to him for guidance or reason, after the beating that poor uncertain man took today. Fritzell was kind enough to mention that the 19th-century "robber baron" capitalists and —o yeah— Hitler were big fans of Emerson. They must have latched onto old school Mein Kampf-style statements like:

To believe your own thought, to believe that what is true for you in your private heart, is true for all men; that is genius.

Much as I did in my first reading. I've decided that Emerson is American's greatest salesman of philosophical snake-oil. O, but that salespitch is tempting! And Prof Fritzell was too harsh on the cloud-dweller, who I tried in vain to defend.

So I slept well last night, thanks for asking, and at lunch today I sat with Mollie, Rock Show Girl, and Jinx, a happily spastic girl who's started referring to me as "Crazy Dan". All because I'm too jokey around her, so it's all my fault, really. There were quite a few people whose names I didn't know, or remember, but no matter.

Later.

I was rude to The D.J, though in my mind he's over it already. The guilt is just kicking in now though, thanks to a second major social mistep that catalyzed the whole process.

I read Emerson's Self-Reliance today, which as The Insurrectionist noted, is "a really great essay". The Poet dislikes it; you'd think after Cooper she'd be thrilled.

I think I'll start adherring to some sort of general moral system, rather than just making it up as I go along. Like Nietzsche's contemporaries, and prettymuch everyone else, I'll just adopt the moral system (Catholic) I grew up with and pretend it's original. Emerson's transcendentalism, for all it's flaky pantheism, sounded good too. Here's a bit of exemplary flakiness, you don't have to read it:

Else if you would be a man speak what you think to-day in words as hard as cannon balls, and to-morrow speak what to-morrow thinks in hard words again, though it contradict every thing you said to-day. Ah, then, exclaim the aged ladies, you shall be sure to be misunderstood! Misunderstood! It is a right fool�s word. Is it so bad then to be misunderstood? Pythagoras was misunderstood, and Socrates, and Jesus, and Luther, and Copernicus, and Galileo, and Newton, and every pure and wise spirit that ever took flesh. To be great is to be misunderstood.

Emerson, by the way, disliked people who quoted the ideas of dead men rather than express their own. And expressing other people's ideas can be dangerous, I've found. Well, I need to codify something, or identify myself more strongly with the lapsed-Catholic moral-community.

Or maybe I don't; living moment to moment is fine, but I'd have to think about everything I said, which just doesn't seem possible -I'm not quick enough, and any good Brainerdite knows that if I talk for long enough it becomes clear that I have no clue, even if I really do know the subject matter.

I just watched the last third of Andy Richter Controls The Universe. Hilarious!

I woke up very early this morning with what I can only assume was a migraine, because it certainly beat the crap out of any headache I've ever had. Well, to be fair, I had a headache like this some months ago, so it's not that unique, but it was certainly nasty. I'm going to blame the five hours I spent computer-gaming yesterday for causing it, because:

#1. I like post hoc fallacies.
#2. There has to be something wrong with that many hours.

Anyways, the pain made me nauseous, and while I was in the bathroom trying to throw up, I was struck by the gravity of the situation. When you haven't thrown up for five or six years, the action acquires a special importance. If I would have thrown up, which I didn't, it would have been an event to remember.

Larson woke me up this morning, calling while not high for the first time in ages. Go Larson!

But, more importantly, he woke me up from the most wonderful and bizarre dream…

There I was, in the Brainerd shopping mall with Graham and a mysterious third person. It goes without saying, or should, that the mall was slightly different, this being a dream and all. I'd been clothes shopping, and went to ask about a shirt I'd found (why I wasn't buying pants, which I need, I don't know).

The lady at the help desk, which was in a dark and dreary basement, sent me upstairs to a bench outside of K-Mart. Graham and the mysterious third person and I were talking, wondering if a deal on clothes was available. A gigantic pink pig balloon floated by, and suddenly a rep for some huge chain of stores materialized.

Reprising Robert Preston's role in The Music Man, my favorite musical, the store rep proceeded to tell us about their amazing special offer, a contest. Then he brought out a line of shampoos, and joked that [some word I don't know] fragrance conditioner is supposed to smell like strawberries because Americans expect it to. Everyone had a hearty laugh.

I asked him about this conditioner, which for some reason I wanted to try, and he instead went off about how the owner of the chain had a son who was so rich that he could get anything he wanted, who could even have the contest rigged so he won. He seemed quite angry, and I won't repeat what he said about that poor fictional boy.

Of course, at this point the phone started ringing, so I woke up, a ghost of a headache still in the pain-causing part of my brain.

Well then, later.

I just got done reading some earlier blog entries, which was depressing. I think my writing voice has left the blog to ramble around the american southwest for a while, hopefully it'll come back. Also, I liked the way I structured my old blogs; sure they were long, but they had a mood or a feel to unite the whole package! Usually teen angst, but, eh.

Speaking of the disparity between reality and literature, which I sat through again today in Fritzell's class, there's a bigger disparity I erroneously thought I'd mentioned before. The disparity between what The Politician means and my reactions. I know the meaning of his words, but my brain picks up random emotions, ranging from total despair to ill-concealed rage.

The explanation is simply, really. The part of my brain designed to correctly interpret his mood was injured during one of my half dozen childhood head injuries. (If you care, dear readers, only one required stiches, and it gave me a story I've long since milked for all it's worth.)

As for class itself, I was late for German but managed to write a fairy tale meant to teach liberal arts students not to hope for money. In American Writers, I questioned Prof Fritzell on his character categories for The Pioneers, because they really didn't make sense at first, but afterwards I think that the class thought I was just asking a question to sound smart.

The D.J told me a very complicated story about repeating a joke I made ("the weather that eats like a meal" was the apparent punchline), which is apparently explains why my sneezes got a "bless you" in American Writers and The Feminist's went unregarded. It's all quite above my head. Watch Magnolia if you don't understand and want to be more confused.

I sat with The Young Lover, The Insurrectionist, and some kind of Ultimate Frisbee monk at lunch today, substituting randomness and outright lies for wit across the board. Dan, be not proud.

Well, there's not much else of import to relate at the moment. Later.

I took down the link to Adam's blog because his page has been down for a while. It's sad though, because I really do like reading what he has to say- it's all so intelligent. But no matter.

I'm officially a "rising Junior" now, which is nice. Though there remains a bigger issue that I have to work out; Greg was talking to his mom yesterday (he talks to his mom in the room, and to his girlfriend in the hall, though if anything his conversations there are less private) and she of course brought up housing.

He's been thinking about it too, and seems to have worked out some plan; neither of us has broached the subject yet but I think it's pretty certain now that this is my last year with mellow-mellow Greg. My prediction is that he'll room with Miguel Sanchez in Colman or Kohler.

I for one want to get out of the suspiciously familiar geographic isolation of Colman.

I've got some free time now, so I'll play Freedom Force, probably. The heater in the room is on, for some reason.

Ah. But not one of those regular "Ah"s. No, this is an Allegra-style "Ahhh". I'm enjoying this nice weather a bit too much, I think.

I'm also enjoying, all thanks to the noble Jonas: Nero, Freedom Force (full version, cracked), and the four extant episodes of Andy Richter Controls The Universe. Five of us (Greg, Nick-From-Next-Door, Miguel Sanchez, me, and The D.J) watched a couple episodes tonight, to the merriment of all involved. There truly is nothing better than the getting the gift of Richter.

Freedom Force has me merely whelmed, however. Way to talk it up, Graham.

In less computer-related news, I'm done with The Pioneers, and all is forgiven as far as Cooper is concerned, or almost all, at least. I just can't finish a book and hate it, it's not in me. I want to hate Spares, but all I can dredge up is mild annoyance.

While I was at the library for my first bout of reading today I ran into Jamie, which was cool; I guess snap judgements about people, like those I made the first time I met Jamie, are completely-utterly unfounded. I sound sarcastic, but I'm really not, really really even.

However correct I believe I've been about my estimations of some people (enter The Vain Man or The Diplomat, both of whom I got to know before judging), the fun of generalizing sometimes outstrips, or in this case completely distorts, the reality I'm trying to explain, when it's not given enough time.

There's a character in The Pioneers who talks completely (that is, when he talks (which in and of it self does not occur (at least when compared to other characters) that often) to the others characters) with parathetical comments like this. I find it humorous. But where was I?

Ah yes, talked to Jamie, well, actually I tried listening for a change, and then went off for a quick walk with her and Ann of Stillwater, when I should have been studying. I also played Freedom Force and IMed today, with Jenna no less, when I definitely had more important things to do, but no matter. That's what mornings are for.

After a traditional dinner with my roomate and neighbors, I went back to the library and read, resolving not to leave until I had finished the last hundred or so pages of Cooper. I ran into Wacky Ed from my first term English class, who proposed, as it was rumored to me he would, to have me assist in a poetry reading for Lawrences defunct English-club. Huzzah, as they say.

And now, to compose the perfect German fairy tale. Later.

Well, I have to write something. I can't expect anyone to read through that last entry, which was admittedly written only to amuse myself.

I could write about myself, of course, because that's always fertile ground. The only problem is that, however honest I try to be, everything I write is always either self-pitying or self-aggrandizing, and I'm better than both.

Well, in any case. Today was a good day; I studied, had brunch with Greg and dinner with Ann, and then studied some more.

I watched about half of a movie called Kolya at the campus theater; at first it dealt with the Russian occupation of Czechoslovakia, which is what The Unbearable Lightness of Being is about, so that was interesting. Sadly, it looked like it was turning into a heartwarming story of a boy and his stepfather, so I ducked out.

Greg had his percussionist friend Miguel Sanchez over when I got back, as part of the get-together he'd been planning all day. We watched a few episodes of South Park, tonight's SNL (I hate all the 'new' people, Will Ferrell is that show's saving grace), and went out for subs.

We spent all night waiting for Greg's lankier drummer friend, but he never showed. Actually, scratch that, he just stopped by five minutes ago. Nice guy, actually, despite his freakish physique.

Later and goodnight.

On the eastward plains of that state known locally as Wisconsin, between the magnific waters of the seas, or lakes to use the common language of the land, known in that county only as great, and the sweeping plains of the regal Midwest, there sat nestled in a seemingly foreordained corner the town that would come to be known as Appleton. For this time of year, when Winter had finally relinquished it's icy grasp for the more feminine aspects of sweet Spring's warmer season, the weather, never predictable in that region, was nevertheless unseasonably warm. Night had fallen on the fair college town, and all around the amber orbs of the residential household lighting threatened to overpower even its more celestial counterparts. The buzzing of lakeflies, so common throughout the day, had given way to the gentle hum of the electric fan and the tranquil background noises of a happy and prosperous community. Looking out from one of the windows of stately Colman Hall (for such was one of the residences on that college named), provided the burnt-sequoia curtains were hung equidistant from the meridian of the room's particular looking-glass, one could see the stark pillars of the next hall, Brokaw, and it's neighbor, the more humble Thai food restaurant that managed to control the landscape with a dignity perhaps surpassing it's larger brother. At this time there was but one resident in that dorm room from which we have been looking, a simple country man of near a score years of age, contemplating nothing more than an ill-considered enmity towards one of his nation's early writers. Unlike that writer, he was writing from America, and not the distant hotels of France.

"Ah! Cooper," cried the teen, "thou knowest but little of the pleasure of writing succinctly and without such tedious elaboration. I have known thee to spend a minute delineating that which a more common man would have dispatched in a second with naught but a monosyllabic reply."

The departed spirit of that illustrious author took form as the head of the youth was prepared to drop in resignation. Understandably perplexed by this sudden change in affairs, the youth instead fixed the wraith with eyes that showed both fear and dignity. Instantly upon seeing the ghost both developed an enmity for each other that went beyond words.

"Put an ind, lad, to think afore you talk," opined the author. "An't mys work a spectarkular feat, as well as a popular one? Wasn't the romance made for misedukarted nobles sarch as meself?"

"Nay, my dead friend," replied the distraught boy, with a fire in his eyes that betrayed both boredom and exhaustion, owing perhaps to the pompous affections of an English education. Several women fainted somewhere, for some reason. "Thy gives thyself far too much credit. Did not the noble Twain take a merry swing at thee in his essay, hitting many of your natural foibles? It would be harsh of me indeed to discredit your accomplishment entirely, yet perhaps you too judge too quickly the rightness of your work."

The author flashed one of his trademark smiles with all the coolness esteemed his rank. "Thart'd be one bad day, on which old Cooper didno get the last ward. An't my work dense, and voluminous?" A silent laugh followed, and a friendly shine was seen in the hardened scribe's merry eyes.

The youth, however, growing tired of this game, had already traversed his way to the portal and left the room, leaving the dead genius in a more acceptable state.

Blah. Or perhaps Blarg would be more appropriate.

I was going to play basketball tonight with The D.J, The Mustacheless Man, and his bland friend The Italian, but, the gym being closed, that has fallen through. I'm not bummed because I have an extra hour of time, or because I can't play basketball and exercise and keel over exhausted after half an hour, nay, I'm mildly bummed because I haven't randomly socialized with The Mustacheless Man for about a month.

I've decided that The Mustacheless Man is the new Dylan. A great guy I just don't get to hang out with that often, who is largely a dork. I saw him today and we were both so bizarrely overjoyed that I wanted to punch him goodnaturedly in the gut, and said so.

Ah, it's nice to be around someone with the same sense of humor. Still, random socialites we must remain; I'm always suspicious that he doesn't remember my name, what with the infrequent interaction.

Here's where I stuck some passive-aggresive overthinking disguised as meaningful commentary. Reverse-blogging saves my readers once again!

In any case, I last night I was going to write about guilt and confusion and maybe a few more of the incredibly-egotistical-brand of human emotions, so I suppose I should do that, but not now. I'm in too shiny of mood with too sharp an edge.

Tonight is about reading, reading 150 pages of The Pioneer for tomorrow. So I'll update when I give up, or maybe not at all.

Hmph. Wracked with guilt and confusion, so I'll probably write some nonsense about that tonight. For now, it's off to the library. Studying is afoot.

And a thousand voices cried Grass!

Sidenote: In an act of unfathomable evil, Greg seems to have hidden the phonebooks. It's a shocking move that makes having no one to call all the more tragic.

As you may or may not know, I had dinner with a large and boisterous group of people, and thanks to the one they call Jonas, I've been thinking about The Andy Richter Show, which I missed again last night.

Doesn't anyone have a 'dazzle card'? Why can I download every episode of Friends ever made, but not a minute of Freaks and Geeks or The Andy Richter Show?? Or at the very least, why didn't Greg or someone slap me upside the head for missing, yet again, the show I've praised so much?

Jeers to J.F. Cooper. Prof Fritzell can go on, and on, about how Cooper's use of overblown verbalism and tedious histrionic repetition is a conscious attempt to call attention to the nonpastoral nature of the American Landscape, and I can try to understand him…

But in the end, all I see is pointless words and excessive description. If I learn anything from Cooper, hopefully I'll learn to write a simple idea with a simple sentence. Then again, that would make my blog entries woefully short.

Cheers to the noble Joshua of Hamline, whose blog is just fantastic. Concise, and good. Kudos, I say.

Not that I'm necessarily going to look at it daily or anything; I've got text-based adventure games to win. That and the whole not-knowing-him thing.

While I'm talking about sci-fi geeks, who likes Farscape anymore? It was great, but it's almost as if the writers know that no one is watching; the show is turning slowly from delightfully-trashy sci-fi soap opera to softcore alien-porn.

Getting a single room next year (my lottery number just might be high/low enough) hadn't occurred to me, and I suppose I can always fall back on that.

I have errands to run, and I really don't want to do them. But later, in any case.

Status check complete. 7215 file(s) can be deleted.

Another day, another 7215 viruses caught by my antivirus program. Yesterday I deleted five-thousand or so. It's all because I share files over the network without a password. I am the lord of divx, the patron saint of mp3s.

I went to the housing meeting tonight. I have about a month to figure out what I'm doing next year. Which is good, because the procrastinist in me only works under pressure.

Speaking of pressure, I'm going to attempt to read fifty pages of J.F Cooper's The Pioneers tomorrow morning before class. I could have easily finished it today at the library, but I've been feeling restless ever since the sun came back to Wisconsin.

The bugs are outside (in huge swarms); why must I sit and read?

Of course, this restlessness never never amounts to actually going outside, it's just that I have newfound energy from the sun, like Sunspot on the X-Men.

At lunch I sat with Rock Show Girl, some German majors, and a prospective professor interested in Lawrence: I was beligerent, and I used the phrase "tow-headed idealist", which, as someone later pointed out, is probably not something to say when discussing Germany, what with the whole aryan race thing and all.

Well, if I'm going to delude myself into thinking I'll do my homework in the morning, I'd better go to sleep. Later.

First, I remembered a quote from my English texts:

At length he began to soliloquize on the difficulty of getting them out, and how queer they looked when out.

It's from an 1845 article called Swallowing an Oyster Alive. I know it's juvenile to be amused by it, but at the very least I can claim that it shows how far our language has come. That was the second-to-last thing I thought about last night, as I chuckled.

The D.J. It's really weird to fall asleep thinking of him.

Nick-From-Next-Door and The D.J have a band (formerly "Fundamental Fusion", now reconstituted as a nameless jazz-fusion band) and a while ago I got one of their songs in my head, sung by The D.J.

I have to admit, having his voice in my head all day was much weirder and scarier than thinking about him as I drifted off to Dreamland, Nevada.

Back to the story though. The D.J was bugging me yesterday about two things.

Firstly, he's got some improv thing on Thursdays. He advertised it by saying "It's not like you have anything else you have to do Thursday night". Apparently, he actually meant that, the Thursday night radioshow notwithstanding. I'll give it 'serious thought', I guess.

Secondly, he came back still later to encourage me to write lyrics for his band. He thinks I can write soulful lyrics about far away mysterious men in towers, and I'm bored enough to agree, for now, as long as I'm not actually writing them. But The D.J was really exicited. He kept running from room to room, getting samples of his music, as giddy as a junkie with a Brompton's cocktail. Bad simile, I agree.

In any case, I had a lot of interaction with him, and thought about his zest for music and lyrics as I drifted off, which I think is kind of a weird thing to do.

To find out how to make your own Brompton's cocktail, right-click this link to the mp3 and select "save target as".

And lastly kids: don't try drinking a half cup of pure syrup at home. I have a nasty sugar-hangover of sorts.

Well, I have nothing to say. Or rather, I have nothing to say and I'm tired.

Class was uneventful, lunch with The Insurrectionist was noisy, as the formerly quiet table was overwhelmed by Helen, her friend, and other some people who, I assume, were either intense Ultimate Frisbee fans or wandering French Bohemians.

Then it was off to the library, to study, and then it was off to dinner with Ann, who I chanced to meet at the aforementioned library. We managed to discuss a poem that neither of us has read, and I managed to find someone who hadn't yet heard about my powerslide, which with the passage of time has become a tale of high-speed heroism.

Later I went to the coffeehouse with Greg and Nick-From-Next-Door, ostensibly because I wanted to hear some jazz and they invited me, but really because Greg forgot his wallet and Nick-From-Next-Door didn't have any money to lend him. So, wallet in hand, I went, and bought myself a shot of strawberry syrup. Disgusting.

Later.

So, yeah, just got back from a trip to Walgreens, with Greg, Nick-From-Next-Door, and Miguel Sanchez, to get cigars for celebrating things. I however, remain the only one with cigars (some unobtrusive 'tiparellos') because everyone else chose to smoke theirs in celebration of our successful trip to Walgreens.

Dinner with the aforementioned percussionists was ok, though the drummer informally known as "Prince" jabbed quite a bit. The conversation stumbled fatally from the cost of pianos to the cost of the Lawrence University organ, which naturally led to an exploration of the many metaphorical possibilies associated with that particular instrument.

It feels like a weekday; I'm shocked that it's still Sunday. It must be the weather; as I said before, it's pretty dreary here today. It's pretty dreary today, as I said before.

O, and the fact that the newest issue of Time magazine deals with fertility among rich working women comforts me. I guess we've solved the 17,657 issues more important than whiny yuppies who can't get pregnant. I'd better go read the news!

And that is all, really. Except for my epic poem there.

Sing, Heavenly Muse, that in the shaded black
Pages of Manney�s blog us oft inspires
Or pining drifts in Lampa's angsty rants;
Thou art more beautiful, subtle still, than all
These poor-wrought words, my verses ill-conceived!
Heroic then, this pentameter that reigns o�er
Webpage never read and mind web-covered?
The book of words, that Oxford, Webster wrought;
Ill describes thy type, thy Milton-lifted splendor.
Yet pray; sing on O Muse, that �tween Holy Ghost
And Madness voiced doth dwell, regaling
Us with minutiae, details boring of the day
And later night before, whence Dan for chai
With Ann of Stillwater, that gilded town, did
Go, forsaking mellow companionship and games
Computerized yet tedious, Counterstike and demos
Superhero, memes all from Graham purloined.
Or better still, verses self with verses to explain,
Citing article read and boredom enormous
Miltonic worship also playing in?
Nay, this tale begins on Saturday, though
Still remains but little to explain or
Delineate (pompous word, ill-treated and misused).
By lunch �or dinner then? The mind doth drift
Like current weather, gray skies and shifting clouds-
Some meal at least, the time was spoken
Rather then that I would wait, like those
Who in this country vainly cry for acres and a mule,
In room disordered, with roommate of mind too orderly
Mellowness extreme, odd quirks of poor humor
Sometime showing, as we of South Park 604
Partook, laughing at the burly Beautiful Mind
Therein lampooned with animation painful.
And wait I did, yet managed, out to be
As Ann came by, with book in hand:
The Unbearable Lightness of Being dubbed.
O Hypocrisy! How had I vowed said book
Nevermore to read, or in coffeehouse to dally
�Ere mischievous chance, man�s foe, the acquaintance
Made, well-met and interesting, of one
Who recommended, ere long, literature to trade:
My book of superheroes, ponderous
For this Czech novel, obscure, her present long ago received
For Christmas, birthday, some other fest unknown.
Yet thinking now, I recant such statements,
Made in haste and boredom here, words in white,
Internet static for bored IMers:
Here shown ill-considered, false, untrue.
Repenting then, my previous garbled declaration.
And for chai and chat still wishing, I came
In room from out to find here Ann,
Admiring the sewn blanket that I to my mother owe.
Not long waiting, she admitted, but still
Abused by lowly roommate, behatted and benign.
(He had before false notions of this meeting
Harbored, a social thing of mind mayhaps
But not romantic, intentions innocent now proved;
In lieu for sport he found amusement in subject
Conversational: �books� earlier explained)
At coffeehouse abandoned, discoursed we
Of books, yes, and this and that; the trails of
Normal conversation, random had, yet good.
�Hetero-Life-Buddy� still to her obscure, though Larson known.
After, books exchanged, we parted ways
Spring forward, back, falling stuck in minds still doubtful
Stillwater chauvinism meant I her for coffee owe,
Payment in future doubtless given back will be.
Meanwhile, poor Greg! Though he Miguel Sanchez
That night did find, social ideas both were lacking,
Phone calls made, drummer found: what then?
Sleep�s shroud, that like cold Death to all must come
To our bold hero came, then, morning finding,
Roommate missing, he awoke and to Downer
Breakfast went, Ann and Megan finding with
Them gladly ate. The Diplomat was greeted,
Conversation acedemics and gossip seperately enjoined.
The Idyllist a hello too was granted quick.
No nods of recognition: At Lawrence never noted
From Brainerdite confused yet friendly
Nonetheless. At library, after eggs and conversation,
Our hero buckled down, Goethe reading
A play of Egmont, Tuesday due but long.
Now, with Blogger peevish posting, poor
Experiment, Bad Teenage Poetry wrought,
That dreaded Enemy Mine, (though movie
Eponymous, remains to me unseen)
Fitting end can take, with sign-out �Later� said.

There's a peculiar sort of enmity, I've decided, that belongs only to the final pages of a very long novel. Reading, and finishing, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay this very afternoon, I was very frustrated with the ability of the book to keep going -"great American novel" refers to quality, not size, or should.

I had an odd sense of victory for those last fifty pages, as if the novel's malicious volume was no match for my reading abilities; I was a hungry man too concerned with eating to be distracted by taste. But it was good.

My head is still fuzzy with prose; all my classes this term are reading-intensive and I just spent five hours at the library reading. Which is funny because I'd told Miguel Sanchez that six hours would kill me. (The percussionists were once again in my room on Friday night, once again complaining about their workload and lubricating the week's aches with alcohol.)

It's so nice not to have to do math problems anymore, ever.
Take that, Sinbad!

Last night, after Miguel Sanchez shuffled back to Kohler Hall exhausted (around 11… sad), we watched the first third of Lord of the Rings, which Greg has a flawless Divx of. Nick-From-Next-Door had never seen it before. I'd forgotten how amazing it is.

Later.

So anyways, yesterday I had to read Euripides' Medea before Drama and Crit, and I started laughing out loud. In the library.

I read, in a book I will never finish, that the Greeks never really took tragedy seriously. And when Medea rejoices at her children's death, and when the deux ex machina helps the villain… well, I can understand why Mr James would say that. It's hilarious stuff, really.

I made the mistake of saying as much in class to a senior theater major, calling Medea "high camp", as I recall. The class had to take a little digression in order to rectify some of my misapprehensions about the text, which came about because the guy who translated it (Coleridge) read too much Shakespeare. At least, that's my excuse.

Today in German Lit The Ukrainian once again droned on about the mother country, but Prof Ternes is getting better at shutting him up. The trick is to make him speak German.

Speaking of speaking German, there's a kid in there who claimed to have six years of German, which really intimidated me, but luckily for me, and unluckily for him, his abilities are around my own, intermediate-german, level.

American Writers was once again straight lecture, but Prof Fritzell showed some really random wit. My favorite frenetic comments:

"God bless all organic suburban vegetable gardens!"
"No money down until the second coming!"
"Paul Harvey lives!"

I doodled all over my notes —that's right I'm 19 and I can use the word 'doodled' if I want— drawing giant spiders attacking Big Ben (America: Giant Spider Free!) and a crude Eiffel tower (America: At Least We're Not France!). Making my little pro-America commercials, private jokes.

Also, I drew a melting pot filled with boiling slaves and Indians.

It doesn't make sense really, I wasn't bored, I just felt like it. I suspect that Prof Fritzell noticed my artwork, as he always seems to be looking right at me. I bet it's like that for everyone in there.

O, and he's quick to bring anything into doubt. He spent one tangent criticizing Thomas Paine for statements like "we must steer clear of European contention".

Then it was off to lunch -the most disturbing incident was when The Poet and The Vain Man struck up pleasant conversation right in front of me- which was fun, full of much random socialization with assorted personalities, and now it's off to dinner. Later.

Eh, nevermind. Greg's watching Conan and I can't concentrate. Night.

At the radio show, or I will be shortly, at ten. The other entry is just a disgusting sack of feelings. My day will come later, when I have time.

It was exciting, though. There was Greek tragedy and procrastination and the usual random socialization and I used to phrase "high camp" in a sentence. Correctly and everything!

The only experience that I've found to closely resemble the ordeal of watching Requiem For A Dream (I have the poster now, so I have to reference it) is the phone conversation I just had with my parents, who I will now quite unintentionally demonize.

I'll do a good, less obviously cathartic update later tonight, if this peevish rant isn't your thing. It really isn't, but I'm not one to destroy anything I've written.

I begin, of course, by telling my loving relations about the ticket I got on the way back from Hamline. One more, says my dad, and I will lose [The Deathtrap]. My mom attempts to get the details, while he calmly repeats this mantra in the background. I cut him off everytime.

At this point I get angry at the "One more" threat, seeing as he's referring not just to the ticket, but to my 'accident'.

Begin Digression.

The accident, which I can't seem to find a reference to on my page, happened during Christmas break, when I fishtailed into the back right bumper of the car next to me while regaining control at an icy intersection, at no more than five mph.

We immediately pulled into the parking lot and examined our cars. I don't care about The Deathtrap, so we both looked at her car. There was no damage, we both agreed. I remember noting, when I looked at my back left bumper, that if anything, my van had conformed to their car, molding around the bumper of the other person's adamantine car.

My mom said the same thing, in her own words, when she looked. There was, we agreed, no foreign paint on the van. Now, she doesn't remember the results of our inspection, which later that day had impelled her to call the insurance agency to question the other girl's fraudulent insurance claim.

There is one accident on my record, this one and only mistake, that I'd completely forgotten.

Digression complete.

That ugly bit behind us, we went on to discuss my grades from last term, especially my Calc grade. There was another section here I'll soon repress, though less heated than the first argument. Around this point The D.J emerged from his room (I was talking in the hallway, so as not to disturb Greg) and asked me to stop my loud "flailing".

We moved on to the usual questions, which I answered grudgingly. No, Things were different back then dad, No, Yes, and No, not yet. In that order.

My dad is at heart a great guy, with my best interests in mind; my main gripe has always been that he's so predictable. If I didn't know what he was going to say, there'd still be a problem, but I wouldn't have to cringe everytime he launched into one of his typical lines of questioning. I'd be interested or surprised or something.

The questions buzzed around in my head, spawning more depressing questions, and combined with the verbal beating I received earlier, made me laconic and depressed. But now I've done some writing, and Manney's antics cheered me up a bit too, and now I have the radio show, so catharsis will be achieved. You can tell I talked about the Greeks in class today; catharsis doesn't come up, otherwise.

Another royal is dead, this time it's not such a big deal (sad evidence of the influence a late-summer news drought had those years ago, when Princess Di died painlessly in a chaotic amalgamation of fire and metal). The Queen Mother seems like a nice enough person, but I feel a tinge of anger at the existence of such figureheads at the government's expense.

Then again, I'm not completely familiar with England's political system -maybe the royal family has power to suppliment their clout, and an important function I have no clue about- and everything I've read about the royal family has emphasized their importance as symbols.

Here's a tidbit, though, while I mull over just how close the royal family approximates a bunch of government-funded celebrities. Brits have never made sense to me, but in person they've always been interesting.

In 1984, 77% of British adults thought the country would be worse off without the monarchy, with 16% indifferent. Now only 43% think it would be worse off, with 41% indifferent.

On a less anglocentric note, class today was fine. Rock Show Girl, a redheaded Weezer and Simpsons fan from my first term German class, is back again for German Lit, so I suppose I should introduce her formally. German Lit today was dominated by The Ukrainian. I wish his English was a little worse, so he couldn't speak as much.

American Writers was redundant; Prof Fritzell, however interestingly, spent the whole period explaining the problem of prolepsis (I looked the word for it up after class) in American literature, citing statements like "The first people to discover America came over from Asia over 22,000 years ago" for about an hour. The board was covered with variations on "Record is not equal to Reality".

At lunch I sat with That Fellow, The Poet, The Astrologer, Dungeon Master, and Helen of Stillwater, so all in all I was entertained. My entertainment being the most important thing, after all. Still, I felt a bit too cynical for that group, and I acted a bit too wacky.

Spurred on by other Lawrence Literati, I read more from The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay today, but I've decided that the book is too long. No book should be over 300 pages -if it is, split it into two books so it looks more manageable.

In any case, this is enough. I'm off to price laundry detergent.

I'm listening to my old Lifehouse CD at the moment. They really are good, every once in a while.

This morning I lazed around in my colorful pajama pants, accomplishing nothing until well after lunch. My housekeeping doesn't count, nor does watching the pre-recorded debate on drug legalization that Larson recommended. Though the latter was informative.

Once again at lunch I sat with Project 2501's posse, though this time without Project 2501 himself. They're always playing some crazy prank, it's like they learned to be college students from movies based on college students.

Apparently they messed with some really drunk girl at a frat party, and they don't know if she remembers their youthful shenanagins. I guess there's nothing wrong with mooning a tipsy coed, as long as I'm far, far away from the whole situation.

Dramatic Theory and Criticism is going to be fun (Plato, Freud, Marx, Shakespeare and Goethe, all in one class, folks). It's in the same room as my American Writers class, which means that all my classes are in the same building this term. Ah yes, and while my American Writers class has well over thirty people, Dramatic Theory and Criticism boasts well over three.

I had a traditional dinner with The D.J, Nick-From-Next-Door, and Greg, which was suprisingly interesting. On the way to dinner The D.J and I attempted to envision a world where atoms, electrons and elements in general are replaced by the powers from Captain Planet.

Snow, for example, is water, wind, and a tiny bit of heart. People are earth, fire, and heart. The Greeks would be proud.

Tonight I went to The D.J's April Fool's Day 'Concert' with Ann and Helen of Stillwater. The D.J was pretty funny; he even had everyone cheer "hurrah" at the end, furthering my half-serious scheme to distort our language to a antiquated and clumsy hodgepodge of Middle English, super-villian diction, and words like hodgepodge.

The rest was a bit, well, either above or beneath my sense of humor. A little too visual for me. I dunno. Maybe it was over my head because the concert revolved around musical jokes. I did enjoy a few of the gags, though, like the metronome-only song. All in all, it was worth going to, seeing as my only other goal for the night was to finish watching every South Park episode ever made.

Ah, and read. Reading was in the plan at one point. I read some Grimm fairy tales for Intro to German Lit tomorrow; that one with the fisherman and the magic fish is written in what appears to be Plattdeutsch (Low German) -it's all umlaut this and umlaut that, with too many extra vowels- I'm putting it off until tomorrow.

Well, time for some rest. Later.

Awkward babble deleted! Reverse blogging saves the day for readers everywhere!

Here's a little bit of blather, saved from the axe:

I talked to The Young Lovers at dinner though, so now I feel I can be a good person again.

Looking back, I've been a bit off since I got off the plane in the cities… I need to decompress and that just hasn't happened yet. In other words: Blah.

Here's how my schedule finally congealed:

9:50-11:00 MWF Intro to German Lit

I was really disappointed when I went into this class (as I've said before, Lawrence's German department hasn't impressed me) but Prof Ternes seemed like he has his act together, and I couldn't get into the other class I wanted to take at that time, so I'm in there. The only real downside is the presence of The Ukrainian, who relates everything back to Mother Russia.

11:10-12:20 MWF American Writers I

Prof Fritzell is amazing. I'm in this class with The Poet, The Feminist, and thirty other students. If anyone on campus is using amphetamines, its Fritzell, who seems perpetually on the verge of a heart attack, is obsessed with the exact meaning of words, and randomly raises and lowers the intensity and volume of his voice.

2:30-4:20 T-TR Dramatic Theory and Criticism

Which fills a requirement.

Ok, now that my bookkeeping is out of the way, I can get back to the second-most exciting aspect of this page: a catalogue of the amazing events that make up my spectacular life. This will probably be a bit too peppy, because I just want to buzz through it all and move on.

Mexico, I went to Mexico this break, down by Tulum (which I visited: that was cool). The nearest town was like Xpa-Chiuan or something. It had an X in it, though.

First of all, let me complement the Mexicans on the efficiency of their alcohol-regulatory system. In the US, where I come from, you need a drivers license or some other substantial ID in order to drink. At the *all-inclusive* place we ended up, all you needed was a green wristband.

I had a green wristband (my younger brother Matt, tragically 17, had a blue wristband) so I could drink. The problem is, my parents wanted to drink with me, and encouraged me to drink (my dad, shockingly, recommended that I drink [rum]runners and then go pick up chicks at the local disco). Alcohol is no fun alone, and its no fun with your family. I drank about seven drinks all weeks.

Mostly, I tried to get tan, mostly. I failed, however, despite the application of SPF-8 and many long hours in the sun reading. I finished The Eyre Affair, which ruined Jane Eyre for me forever, and got to the end of a short stories collection. Contrary to my own vows, I wrote nothing.

We went to a waterpark one day, shopping another day, and to Tulum (Mayan ruins) another. I ate at a restaurant that had an anthropomorphic sailfish, with freakish blue arms, as its mascot.

As expected, I clashed with my dad quite a few times, but by keeping interaction with him to a minimum, I saved myself from a lot of arguments.

It was nice to leave Mexico with no souvenirs; I'm proud of that achievement. We got back early, but because the airport didn't have a spot for our plane to unload, that extra time was spent rotting on the tarmac.

By this time I needed a vacation from my parents. Which meant that my preplanned visit to Hamline was exactly the proverbial ticket. I drove there, got a little lost, as usual, then hooked up with Graham, Jenna, and surprise guest Adam, whose family had gone to Mexico with mine while he languished in school.

We, if I remember correctly, 'blew' that 'fascist popsicle stand' and went to Alyssa of Stillwater's house, ironically enough in Stillwater, where I called Ann of Stillwater to make arrangements for the whole-driving-her-back-thing the next day. It was decided, though not by us, that we'd meet at the Stillwater Starbucks at three the next day.

Then it was off to Joseph's, an old Baptist church that had been converted into a senior citizen's dining establishment. We met up with Carly of Stillwater, and after waiting for our table, we were led into a room with several empty tables, each more empty than the last. Our waitress was very good, almost too good, at her job, and the food was excellent. I had a beef-bacon-beef burger and a huge hunk of Rhubarb pie. Fantastic.

Then, after a quick visit to the best-looking Video Update I've ever seen, we went to Carly's to watch Wet Hot American Summer. Graham enjoyed it too much for my taste, but I have to say that any movie with a talking can of mixed vegetables really can't miss.

After the movie we watched reruns on The Gameshow Network before taking our leave. Since everyone in the car had roughly the same musical taste, there was a touching sing-a-long all the way back to Hamline.

I awoke the next morning in a daze, having slept in the timeless sanctuary Fort Awesome (without leave, I suspect). In any case, I laid in bed until Graham got up, hours later, then went through my morning routine. I forwent shaving, though, because my razor was really dull.

Our Easter Brunch was good; the Black Sea has good Turkish food, and I ate a lot of it. I feel no shame for my actions.

After an awkward sitting-around period, I left for the Starbucks, being deliberately misled along the way by a malicious gas station employee who claimed there was "no Starbucks in Stillwater". Eventually, I found it, after calling Graham and Alyssa for directional support.

Ann of Stillwater and I had a nice drive back, prettymuch. We talked for five hours with perhaps one awkward pause, though in retrospect I'm not sure what the focus of that conversation was. It had no focus, methinks. Dinner was had at McDonald's. Everything was great.

Clintonville, my eternal foe, the town that has consistently ensnared me everytime I've passed through it, the place where I've gotten lost again and again, was no problem.

Or so I thought!

On the very outskirts of the town, I was pulled over for speeding. The officer asked how fast I'd been going and I said "75", because my cruise control was set at 75, and he got a bit confused. He then said he'd clocked me at 69 in a 55 and gave me a ticket for $126. Curse you Clintonville!

I lost all confidence in my driving, and considering that The Deathtrap almost got rear-ended later, perhaps I had good reason to doubt my mad skills.

Pushing that firmly into the past, I'm off to dinner. I didn't go at 5 tonight with Greg and Nick-From-Next-Door, in silent protest of their freakishly early dinners, but they waited for me so now I feel quite guilty…

Later.