Larson, Graham and Jenna just called. That was mint. Apparently they literally have nothing better to do in Brainerd than lie about and call me. And, as I noted, I usually attempt to be the voice of restraint; my presence would, if anything, make Brainerd even tamer.

I finally went climbing today, much to the joy of Dungeon Master, who's been bugging me to go for months now. Q, Crazy Ed's youthful-looking 22-year-old friend, was also there; today marked the second time I've talked to him —ever— but he's pretty cool. I didn't do as much climbing as I should've, but I'll still be really sore tomorrow.

Today is Matt's birthday. You'll recall, Dear Reader, that Matt is the cool one in my family, and coincidentally enough, he's also my slightly-younger brother.

And so it goes. I ate dinner with Jamie, until The Vain Man came. I was going over this hypothetical conversation with him in my head:

The Vain Man: I don't understand it, I've never done anything to you. What could you possibly dislike about me?

And here I'm torn. I feel like a bad person, and undoubtedly I am, but here are my two possible responses to What could you possibly dislike about me?:

Our Bold Hero: I'm sorry, it's nothing specific, it's just a feeling I get from you, something that inexplicably rubs me the wrong way; I know you're really a good person.

or

Our Bold Hero: Everything.

The second is too blunt, and the first too apologetic and untrue. It kind of bothers me that I dislike someone this much. Also, it bothers me that I'd give The Vain Man a hypothetical voice so completely removed from his real personality; he'd never ask anything even remotely like this hypothetical question, yet there he is, asking anyways.

Enough about The Vain Man. At lunch I sat with, at one point, the entire Waste Land poetry-reading group. And Jamie, again. And Dungeon Master. That was interesting, for the dramatic combinations of people alone.

I am King of Housing!

Jonas and I are going to be living in Ormsby 201, a really sweet room -as you can tell from this floor plan. It's pretty exciting.

Jinx and Meg(h)an stopped by after the housing lottery, spluttering something about all the cool people who'll be living in Ormsby next year. So many, I had not thought Ormsby had tempted so many. They were both very giddy; Jinx promised to hook me up with some discount posters for the new room.

In other news, I attended The D.J's radio show for the last time. My "What Dan Wants" segment was really lame; I feel like I should have put a bit more thought into it. But I did get a call in support, which was cool.

Eh, that's enough. The God of Housing need not trouble himself with such mortal concerns.

Night.

So yesterday was Helen's birthday, that was big. We went to Chili's -I rode in the back on the way there, and the driver chose to take the shorter, bumpier route. Mollie rode in the back after dinner, and we took the longer, smoother route back to Lawrence. Coincidence?

Probably. I was annoyed that this really crappy music was coming from the speaker next to me while I was in the back. I kept hoping that we would make it to Chili's alive simply because I refuse to die while listening to Godsmack. Ugh.

At Chili's we conversed. Besides our driver, a guy friend of Helen's, the revelers consisted of Helen, Our Bold Hero, Mollie, Ann and Dungeon Master. There was much mockery, mainly directed at Ann, and an incident in which knives were purposefully dropped on the floor. But mainly it was good fun all around. Happy Birthday Helen.

The next, equally important event of the day was the Senior Streak. Coming back from the library after studying with The Young Lover, I ran into Jonas, Andy, Jinx, The Diplomat, and Jamie. We sat and watched as naked Lawrentians, drunken members of the graduating class, paraded by. I even knew a few streakers -Al from the Waste Land poetry-reading group and Greg's Lanky Percussionist mentor/friend both marched past.

There was a unicycle.

The Senior Streak isn't just a yearly stunt by graduating seniors; it's an expression of freedom and equality. For once, the Morlocks and the Eloi were cheered together; everyone gutsy enough to bare all was praised. It was a brief moment in time where (disregarding the calculating leers of the more oppurtunistic audience members) looks no longer mattered. Because if they had, none of us would have been cheering that often.

As The Diplomat said, it's just this kind of experience that brings Lawrence students together. It was a cool experience, if not always aesthetically pleasing, and I'm glad I didn't go straight to my room. I met The D.J and Greg coming back; they enjoyed it too.

I ate lunch with the same people I was to voyeur with that night, after running into Megan on the way to Downer. That was pretty fun, even if we got heckled by the next table (Jinx) much of the time. We talked about facial hair. Good times.

Actually, I don't think anything could have spoiled that lunch, as I had just gotten back the essay (entitled "And Everything Was Lilacs") that I'd procrastinated on a week ago. As it turns out, shoddy last-minute work is enough to get me a good grade as long as my thoughts are cogent. So yesterday was a pretty good day.

As if the day couldn't get any better: Ann Coulter has done it again with one of her trademark illogical rants. Giving a pilot a gun is foolish. Sealing the cockpit during flight would work just as well, as would giving the gun to an air marshal of some sort. Unless the airlines want a midflight suicide or another plane crash, they should try to keep firearms off planes. Also, I love the gratuitous knocks to Islam.

Night.

Goblins. Ah, I am a geek.

So I dreamt that I was running from some sinister character, out in the woods. But night was creeping up on us, so me and my guide -some kind of Stryder-like being- made a make-shift tent out of a white blanket and the side of my uncle's northwoods cabin. My pursuer stalked slowly by, and I could see his black shoes from under the tent.

Then the tent wasn't against the side of the cabin, it was against the closet door in my old room, the one that my brother Matt and I used to share. Stryder had been replaced by a jabbering, bulbous creature that would have been monstrous had it not been so frightened. I was still in the tent, on the floor of my old room; the bulbous creature had found Matt's bed.

I still had to stay here, of course, to hide from that sinister fellow. So I prepared to go to sleep. Then there were many tiny little snarling voices, speaking goblin-gibberish, from the other side of the closet door.

And all at once, they tried to get out, little arms and feet sticking out from the sides of the door as hundreds of them pushed against it. Their limbs weren't green, they were an ugly dark brown, almost a Walleye color.

I put my weight against the door, to keep the hungry critters out, and after a few seconds of resistance, they stopped pushing against the door. The snarls became a low, angry murmer. Then they tried again. And I stopped them. And again, and I again held them back.

I was angry now, that these goblins would simultaneously imperil my life and threaten my sleep. I opened the door and charged in.

There was nothing. A shelf with hidden cookies (in the past, someone had bribed the goblins to stay inside) and the vacuum my mom kept in that closet. The goblins weren't there.

This part of the dream seemed very, very real. I could sense the goblins, hundreds of them, invisible, and snarled at them and rushed towards the corner. Their presences went inside me, and soon I had all of the goblins inside of me, snarling, free-floating consciousnesses. I rushed about madly, ranting and destroying, fighting for control of my mind.

Then I woke up.

I was actually called "snotty" today by a girl who took great pains to ditch me earlier this year. I could launch into a pointless rant on the inescapable hypocrisy of human judgement, but I'd probably just be proving myself right. Plus it would be trite, and we all know I'm never trite.

Lately I�ve been spewing the bile of bitterness on the nice grey carpet that is the world. It�s mainly an end of the year frustration-thing; I�m sick of school and getting a little annoyed with the now-obvious foibles of my roommate. I kind of like this mindset, for all its obvious shortcomings, because I think I think more when I'm feeling cynical than I do when I'm 'content'.

I've been reading My Antonia, by Willa Cather. It's a great book.

Well, it's yesterday now, I suppose. I just got done watching some Simpsons episodes with Greg and this girl from his jazz combo. Greg spent the whole time apologizing for the lack of entertainment, and she spent most of her time fishing for compliments.

Because I was feeling a bit contrarious, I called both of them out on their behavior.

Greg, for one, can't just sit and entertain himself; I didn't want to listen to his excuses when it was his idea to do something in the first place. I could just as easily have gone to sleep, or studied, no big deal. Why bother organizing something at 11:00 on a Sunday?

The girl, of course, was an innocent bystander and the most guilty person of all. Though she did nothing ire-worthy, the fishing for compliments, however 'unconscious' on her part, got pretty annoying. She was much too obvious about it and left Greg, the target, with little to work with. What do you tell a girl when she says her breasts are too small? Greg's girlfriend, at least, would be proud of my intervention.

I observed, for the second time tonight, the even-more-mellow persona that my roomate unveils for his interactions with girls. I'm not implying that he's being phony, not at all, because I do the same thing. I try to be consistent, but I end up acting differently around different groups of people. Guys and girls, Appleton people and Brainerd people, family and friends, etc. Is there a more 'genuine' Greg, or is every personality just a combination of personas?

It sounds like Graham, Jenna, and Adam had a conversation about personality types that I'm sorry I missed,

I don't buy type-A and type-B; we can't pigeonhole people in anything but the broadest of categories (I say this despite my love of generalizations) but we love to pigeonhole people nonetheless, so we make these types. I believe there's a type-C now too.

Anyways, combine a vague, cold-reading-style type description with the human capacity for self-deception and confirmation bias, and you can make any pigeonhole fit as snugly as your daily horoscope predictions.

But on a related subject, I was thinking of genius today. We want to believe in pure genius as much as we want to believe in true love, but I'm not sure who could ever claim to possess either. Einstein's relativity and Shakespeare's plays were not produced in a vacuum; I think genius may very well be a lie. At the very least, it's an ideal.

I went to Greg's jazz combo recital today, and afterwards went to dinner with the aforementioned percussionist and The Mustacheless Man. It was fun. I won't see The Mustacheless Man ever again after this year, I suspect, so I actually gave him my undivided attention, causing the next table over (which for some reason expected me to evesdrop) to question my ability to hear. I'll miss that scrappy little guy.

Anyways, time to sleep.

Insomnia. Not the affliction; I'm talking about the movie, which I just saw with Greg. It was odd. We both felt, afterwards, like we were still in the theater.

I ran errands today with Ann, who needed the ride into town. Happily, I'm no longer under any obligation to go into any woman's clothing section of any store for any reason, so while Ann did her shopping, I went and bought a book.

We ran into Megan at Target; that was quite the coincidence.

I bought a CD at Media Play that was in the "popular" section, which makes me feel far less original.

Ann and I stopped at a christian coffeehouse (just like a regular coffeehouse but with christian rock on the radio) to study —I had a white chocolate scone and it was delicious— but I think I left my wallet there. Hopefully I can trust those shiftless christians.

Night.

I did some research on the freedom of speech side of Graham's Hamline troubles.

Here are the links:
The Labor Party platform.
A legal brief on the subject: see point two in the intro.
Board of Regents vs Roth, a similar situation.

The Hamline decision is stupid and unfair, but I'm no longer sure it's a Bill of Rights issue in any sense of the word. Either way, I have better things to do than stick my nose in the business of others.

Later.

Perspective.

That word has been bouncing around in my head. I'm going to put it here until I figure out what to do with it. I'll write more later tonight. For now, it's off to dinner.

Well, after a pang of guilt this morning, I realized that I should probably have done more to defend Graham publicly. To recap: he was hired, then fired because of some stuff on his webpage. It's unfair. Of that I'm convinced.

The immediate, and only, result of my guilt was a hastily assembled plastic.com article which —though it raised my karma to a record 4— has generated mainly negative feedback.

I'd forgotten how nasty Plasticians are; I stopped going there for a while after the love-fest that ensued when someone posted that Rush Limbaugh was going deaf. Ugly stuff.

With few notable exceptions, they're quick to note that "This is Not a Freedom of Speech issue" and other comments to that effect. Granted, I could have built Graham's case much better in the original post, but they make some good points nevertheless.

I called my potential employer at College Square this morning for a job interview. That'd be a sweet job… opening at the gas station, working 30-40 hours a week at a decent wage… and the interview went well, so I've got my fingers crossed, as they say.

All thanks to nepotism, I bet. I can sense that my dad has been talking to people back home, greasing the wheels. There I go again with the idioms.

I had lunch with Jinx, Mollie, Meg(h)an and The Young Lover. That was an odd mix, but The Young Lover is pretty cool. We talked about foreign countries; everyone there had been overseas, which I thought was weird. I'm so glad that I'm finally out in the real world.

There was some stuff here, homework and stuff. Then dinner with the traditional group: Greg, Nick-From-Next-Door, and The D.J. It's been a while since I've eaten with just them. I ripped into The D.J. at one point, after he'd asked Greg some particularly inane grade-school-level relationship-questions. It was pretty fun, but petty.

We're a patchwork little group.

Tonight I hung out with the Nick-From-Next-Door and Greg, but we didn't do much. Watched a few Family Guy episodes. It was a quiet night.

Well, time to sleep. Later.

I just read this Time article on Emo and naturally I no longer have any idea what emo is, if I ever did. Angst? So I'm a huge emo fan suddenly?

Is Trainspotting a play on transpontine?

I have the same birthday as Jamie.
So this is what it's like when doves cry.

On another touching note, I did my bit, "What Dan Wants", on The D.J's radio show tonight, and it was better than usual. I wanted South Dakota and North Dakota to merge and form Ultra-Mega-Dakotatron.

And I ate dinner with Ann, who hadn't seen me "forever" -i.e, since the Waste Land meeting Tuesday. It was fun, of course, and we carried dinner over into a somewhat productive study session at the library, which I left in order to call my parents.

They really didn't have much to say. News from home washes over me and leaves nothing. And I never have anything important to say, beyond noting that the weather here is different. Why must I talk about the weather?! Why?!?

So those are the highlights. Night.

2% milk for under a dollar? I must be dreaming!
-Nick-From-Next-Door

I dreamt last night that I was buying new shoes —probably because the ones I have now keep coming unlaced— and my first thought upon waking was: "wow, that dream was pretty boring."

I ate breakfast at Lucinda's with Greg and Nick-From-Next-Door, where, after hearing the fanciful musings of my subconscious, the latter contributed the above quote.

The day was dominated by my neighbors, really. There was plenty of random socialization at the library and at lunch, but Nick-From-Next-Door's hilarious comment this morning, and The D.J.'s omnipresence, made those two especially noticeable.

Class was good. Prof Fritzell's lecture bordered on performance art. Observe:

Prof Fritzell: His Nature is full of little chipmunks, little chippy chip-chipmunks like the ones, the chippy the little chippy chippy that lives outside of the house and the chippy comes to eat the little nuts, the cute little chippy chippy that BEATS THE CRAP out of any other chippy that comes in its, its chippy territory!

We left the class as he screamed after us, "Free the rope-children!"

Lunch was good, I sat with Meg(h)an and Jinx's posse. But getting back to The D.J. and Nick-From-Next-Door.

After lunch I needed to go to town to pick up some Q-tip brand Q-tips and a shiny blue box of soap and maybe a shiny CD or two, so I asked The D.J. (Nick-From-Next-Door was practicing, and Greg was wherever he goes when not sleeping or on the phone with Laura) if he wanted to come with me. He said he needed to be back in an hour to meet some friends of his from Neenah (the Baxter of Appleton) which was fine.

At Target I bought my toiletries and The D.J. bought Ghostbusters, but they didn't have the CDs I wanted so I asked The D.J. if there were any record stores in the mall. He said there were two, but that they were too expensive to bother going to. I acquiesced, however suspect his opinion seemed given The D.J.'s need to get back to campus soon, and we left for Colman.

By dinner I'd made a trip to the library and I was alone in my room. I'd planned to eat with The D.J. and Nick-From-Next-Door once they got back from basketball with their friends, but Helen invited me to dine with her and since the waiting plan was so nebulous I left to go eat. I ran into my neighbors and their friends outside Colman and we trooped off together. I ate with Helen and the basketball players.

Naturally, the dinner was awkward. Helen intimated that if they gave ACT scores before basketball games she'd be well-qualified to play, or something odd like that, but that was as close as the two groups got to meshing.

I was trapped in the haze between conversations, trying to talk to the guys (who spent much of dinner entertaining themselves with inside jokes) and Helen (who left for a while with bagel issues) and in the end succeeding at neither goal. Dungeon Master, also from Neenah, stopped by and stood directly behind me, adding to my conversational confusion.

On the way back Nick-From-Next-Door gave their most interesting friend, Fast Eddy, a reassuring masculine pat on the back, a Neenah mannerism The D.J. has frequently, and without cause, used on me. The Neenah folk seem to think that the geeky Eddy needs to be 'built up' and 'humored', but I don't agree, and I don't want the same quasi-patronizing treatment from the likes of them.

Sorry, that was foreshadowing; I'll be angry in a second. You see, dear Reader, after noting the reassuring masculine pat on the back that Nick-From-Next-Door gave Fast Eddy, The D.J. gave me a reassuring masculine pat on the butt.

Wait for it…

Now, that's crossing a line. Not only does The D.J. not know me well enough to do that, I come from neither the social nor the athletic background in which that kind of behavior is acceptable. There was none of that in Brainerd, though even then it would have been more understandable coming from childhood friends.

I'm not even sure where to put The D.J.; I hang out with him a lot and appreciate his loyalty, but does doing a lot of things together make people friends? Is a catalogue of joint activities enough, or does not friendship require a will to understand, or try to understand, the other person?

As for understanding, I was somewhat freaked out, if only mildly, by The D.J.'s physical expression of encouragement. I acted freaked out, if only mildly, saying something to the effect of "What the…?" and cracking a joke about sexual harassment. Then The D.J. said I was homophobic.

At the point, I expect many of you to agree with The D.J. But given the fact that this behavior wasn't what I was used to, was without an adequate social context, and immediately precipitated to charges of homophobia, I have to take offense. Though most of my homophobia was purged on debate trips —sharing a bed with a guy will cure any latent tendencies towards homophobic panic— I'll admit that I still have a bit of general homophobia.

Like someone who fears the military but not the soldiers, or like a Frenchman who fears Germany but not individual Germans. Coming from a very conservative, Catholic, Midwestern home, I consider my relative lack of homophobia commendable.

So now that I've defended myself there, admitting that while still a bit homophobic I'd never take offense to an individual gay person or anything like that, a poor defense, come to think of it but anyways; I can turn to the bigger problem. The reassuring masculine butt-pat is a heterosexist gesture. The D.J., who can't help but view all women as potential sexual objects —that's how I explain his numerous crushes— is stuck in a heterosexist world in which there are no homosexuals, a world without homoerotic undertones.

Someone who's not homophobic treats both genders equally, because they recognize that gender does not determine whether an act is sexual. I can see how sharing a bed with a guy, or a girl, can be a completely non-sexual, Brady-Bunch-approved act, but in this modern world of aeroplanes and hydrox cookies, a pat on the butt would never be given to a girl, in fact, it's a hallmark of sexual harassment.

If The D.J. continues to engage in such actions (he's a nice guy, he won't do it again to me now that he knows I'm bothered by it) it's evidence of a heterosexist worldview. Unless he goes around doing that to girls, which I'm sure he doesn't. Who would? The masculine butt-pat is a remnant of the world of bull-dances and barn-dances, and either contains homoerotic implications I could justly repulse, or evidences a heterosexist, or even just sexist, worldview, in which gender represents a clearly drawn line.

Now there's a rant, however disordered. I'm sure The D.J. has forgotten the incident already, and I just used it as a springboard for this broader argument. No offense to him; it isn't the first time my vocalist neighbor has generated a long blog entry.

Night.

Dan, you have two classes a day, and you skip them.
-Nick-From-Next-Door

Well, I only had one today, Drama and Crit, though I did skip it so I could finish my "Essay Outline", the last written assignment for that class. It's such a vague assignment that even after starting the paper I don't know what I'm doing -one person turned in a single page, another turned in ten.

More importantly, Edward Hirsch, poet, spoke at a convocation here today. He seemed big on what sounded like Reader-Response theory, which isn't that surprising.

According to our newest Honorary Grad, reading is the last step in the creation of a poem, and as long as Hirsch is fine with people misinterpreting his work (which seems to contain a lot of personal references) then I agree completely. It's a little flaky, but whatever.

After the convocation, I ate dinner with The Poet's crowd (the Freshman girl, not Hirsch), letting Greg and Miguel Sanchez go without me to the housing office to have their squatting plan turned down, and managed to arrive at the Waste Land meeting only ten minutes late.

I'm excited about that reading, but I need to spend some time reading the Eliot's poem, so I don't slip up. I got an offer to apply to tutor at the "Speaking Lab" —it's not the "Writing Lab", my holy grail of jobs, but it's cushy— so I'm supposed to be good at public speaking, in theory. But really, they're just desperate for people and the Prof in charge knows me.

Anyways, after the meeting I went to dinner with The D.J and sat with his posse -for some reason I ate really slowly, or took a lot of food or something. I wasn't talking that much, and my plate was still full when they were all eating dessert. It was odd, and I commented on it then, too.

Themes will be back someday; these inane summaries are as tedious to write as they are to read, after a certain point. Highlights! Rants!

At the library, where I spent the rest of the night, I ran into the usual assortment of people and ended up sharing a study carrel with Dungeon Master. I managed to get a German essay done, proving that I can do work when around other people. Amazing!

Night.

I'm just wild about Harry.

I meant that as a joke, you see, but now I'm reminded of Harold Obermaier, an old acquaintance from Germany. Harry was in many respects a less cool version of myself. He had Tomb Raider posters all over his wall, spent a lot of time playing/making computer games, and enjoyed soccer like a typical German.

He's also the only German I knew who wore clean, colorful clothes every day and refused to drink. He had a really bad reason, too. I forget what, unless it was "I don't like the taste".

Of every alcoholic drink ever made, no less. This doesn't connect to anything, really.

I've used Harry's excuse before, and while I'm on the subject, I don't know what to say about my drinking, or lack thereof. I don't drink anymore, but there was a period when I did. I couldn't tell you what got me to switch back to soberdom, unless it was the guilt of getting a speeding ticket or the realization that drinking with The Percussionists wasn't as fun as it sounds.

I could think of plenty of reasons, all equally plausible, and now that I'm back to Dan Classic, I'm sure I'll continue to jusitfy myself in more creative ways, as they say. So enough of that. I think there's a problem with concentrating on what I don't do, in my angsty teenage search for identity.

I finished Traumnovelle for German class today. The story is all about the things we have to keep from each other, as it turns out. The necessity of secrets. It seems like the half-mysterious stuff that I associate with Jenna, of all people. Yeah, where'd that come from? I mean no offense, whatever it is I mean.

So class was good; there was no American Writers because the paper on Walden, which I started today, was due this afternoon. I ran into Megan on the way to the library, which led to lunch with her and Jamie; dinner with Ann, Jonas, and the aforementioned; and some odd-but-interesting conversations, none of them about shoes.

After dinner I listened to every Eels song I know, read the news, and talked to The D.J. He and Nick-From-Next-Door are living in Backstage House next year, and we've cooked up an excellent running gag about the wacky people who live in Backstage House.

Anything goes in Backstage House! Oh, it's hilarious in person.

Well, anyways, tomorrow should be just as busy, so I've got to sleep. Later.

After the X-files, I did as I've done all day today and went to the library to accomplish nothing. I read a bit of Walden, to my credit, but in the end I spent most of my time chatting with Dungeon Master and Ann of Stillwater.

It was quite the study break, and once I got back to the room I read more of Traumnovelle for German class tomorrow. I've got quite a bit of work to do tomorrow, actually. I'm really behind.

I had not one but two phone calls from Brainerd today. I talked to my mom and Josh but I really didn't have much to say, and neither did they. When my mom doesn't have anything to say she says "Well, I don't know much else…", and she said that a half dozen times in this conversation

On a related note, I think it's odd that my mom asked the same questions my dad did a few days ago, about girls and all. Are my parents checking my answers for consistency? At least now I got to find out the odd logic behind this sudden inquiry, which actually was my mom's idea after all.

My second conversation, however brief, was a fitting end to tonight's socialization. Larson (the rest of the gang could be heard from the background) called from Brainerd, high on the sickly-sweet fumes of life, in the midst of what Larson called "a Dan moment".

I have to say, I enjoy being a kind of moment. It was good timing too -I was knee-deep in German literature when he called, and Larson is far more interesting than any of Schnitzler's masked orgies. So hurrahs all around.

Night.

It wasn't great, but it was good. The three stages of watching the X-Files Season Finale:

Why?
Wah?
Whoa.

I was going to write a complaint, you see, something about abrasive prosecutors, Mulder's refusal to cough up crucial information to the one he trusts most, and hokey ways to end a series that was already jumping the proverbial shark, as it were… but now I can't. I have to say, Chris Carter surprised me.

If I had a nickel for every time I've said the last half hour was the best part of something, I'd have two nickels now.

Well, the X-Files hasn't been that impressive so far, but I have to admit, I didn't see that twist coming.

Yesterday I saw West Side Story —I mistakenly went to the early 7:30 showing— and then whiled away the rest of the evening watching an episode of Mystery Science Theater 3000 (Puma Man) with Nick-From-Next-Door.

The first movie was excellent, the second hilarious; even if Greg put on headphones rather than be subjected to MST3k. But here's something I was going to write yesterday:

The Amazing Art of Communication: A Primer.

Learning to communicate is fun and easy; you do it every day! Few people realize that talking, the noise we all make when not eating or sleeping, was originally a form of communication, meant to express thoughts and ideas! It's amazing!

But communication isn't as simple as it sounds. Let's look in on our friend Our Bold Hero as he demonstrates the three parts of communication:

Output.

Our Bold Hero talked to his dad yesterday, demonstrating the principle of Output. First, think before you speak: What ideas and thoughts are appropriate for this conversation? Our Bold Hero decides on vague positive statements, talking about class. But, what happens when Output breaks down?

Dad: So, your mom wanted to know if you're dating anyone yet…

This statement is acceptable; it's not a question, just a statement, and can be ignored. The inclusion of "your mom" cleverly demonizes the absent spouse.

Our Bold Hero: Um… no…

The hesitation and ultimate denial in this statement don't take long to say, but notice how Our Bold Hero communicates the idea that he was put-upon by the previous question. You don't need a lot of fancy words to get your point across!

Dad: Well, your mom and I were just wondering; I'm sure you know a lot of girls, you should think about asking one of them out, even if it's just a casual thing.

At this point, Our Bold Hero has two immediate options. His Output could be a sarcastic response like "Ah casual thing… you know, I could go for some sex and heroin…", or an admission of his pathetic little vow.

Our Bold Hero: Actually, I really don't feel like dating for a while…

Our Bold Hero takes a dive. Remember, an idea is only communicated if the other party can understand. This doubtless comes 'out of the blue' for Our Bold Hero's dad. Let's see what happens:

Dad: What?!? Why?

This reaction necessitates an explanation. We can see how Our Bold Hero could have communicated his thoughts better, without having to reveal so much about his shiftless psyche to an unwitting and gossipy parent.

1. What would you have done in Our Bold Hero's situation?

Input.

In this example, Our Bold Hero checks his voicemail, only to find a minute-long message from his hetero-life-buddy. The message covers pizza, girls, love, Graham, and a slew of other topics in a blur of babbled, non-drug-induced speech. Larson's message, the Input, is too frenzied for Our Bold Hero to understand, and he resolves to listen to the greeting again later.

1. What is the second part of communication?
2. Who was the message from?
3. Why would Our Bold Hero have a problem with this Input?

Interpretation.

After eating lunch with Megan, Andy, and Jamie, Our Bold Hero stumbles across an Interpretation problem on the way back to the dormitory. Let's see what Jamie and Our Bold Hero have to say!

Jamie: Well, here's my mom's philosophy…

Our Bold Hero's brain struggles to understand, or interpret, this piece of information. He looks around, and sees other students, a lamppost, some trees, and an older, blond-haired woman in a leather jacket. The interpretation centers of his brain jump to a quick conclusion.

Our Bold Hero: That's your mom? (Points at woman)

Jamie: What?

Let see what Our Bold Hero made of the original sentence!

Jamie: Well, here's my mom's philosophy…

Interpretation Area of Brain: Well, here's my mom: philosophy.

Uh oh! It looks like Our Bold Hero doesn't have a clue! Jamie's mom isn't a Philosophy teacher at Lawrence, nor is she the woman Our Bold Hero happened to be looking at when he heard the original statement. Let's see what happens when Our Bold Hero explains what he thought to Jamie!

Jamie: (loud and uncontrollable fit of laughter) So you were wondering why you hadn't realized earlier that my mom was a philosophy teacher here… (laughter)

1. What did Jamie originally say?
2. In this situation, was looking at nearby objects really the best method of interpretation?
3. What would you have done?
4. Did Jamie, as she claimed, really come close to 'peeing' her pants?

That concludes this brief course on communication, presented by one of the masters of the field. Later.

So Miguel Sanchez is lazy and forgetful. I couldn't get ahold of him, probably because he was sleeping —a common enough occurance— so we couldn't go to the Housing House and switch rooms on paper. Greg's clever scheme will have to wait until Monday, now.

That doesn't bother me. The narrowminded and humorless dastards at Hamline have unjustly deprived Graham, America's favorite nerd, of his RA-dom. Why? Because of out-of-context statements taken from his webpage. Blogburn strikes again.

Righteous indignation aside, because I'm sure there'll be enough of that, my day was pretty good.

I skipped German class for a few reasons, none of them very convincing, and American Writers was less exciting than usual. I'm glad Fritzell is done telling us about Thoreau. It's getting repetitive and boring.

Time to call the folks. Later.

So today in Drama and Crit we talked about performance art pieces. My assignment was some footage from a rodeo that was slowed down to 4% of its original speed. I didn't have to watch it, but I did read the review. The eternal dance of man and beast. Sure.

I'm supposed to read Traumnovelle for German class tomorrow. To tell the truth, I'm not even sure I'll go. I'm in a bit of a crisis, unable to maintain my successful procrastination. I need to catch up but I haven't the urge; basically it's the same thing I've done every spring since 7th grade.

Once I run out of Daria episodes to watch, I'll have no choice but to apply myself again. I've got five left, so I should be alright.

For lunch today I ran into Megan (not Meg(h)an, who I saw at the library later), Jinx, The Idyllist, and a few other random people. I don't remember who. Needless to say, it was some 'mad' random socialization.

As for preplanned socialization, there was a Waste Land meeting tonight -Al, Ann, Ed and I finally and mutually gave up pretending to work and just sat around for an hour or so. We played a game of Star Wars Trivial Pursuit, marred only by the presence of some hardcore fans -letting them ask the questions made the game feel like the outside of a long in-joke. Not the best analogy, but that's how I'm thinking of it.

Ah, and I wowed the same potentially pretentious fans with my SW Customizable Card Game knowledge (Chewie came from Kashyyyk), proving once and for all that the hundreds of dollars I spent on cards were not in vain. Mastery of SW trivia, now there's a worthwhile accomplishment.

On the way back I should have been freaked out but some freakishly coincidental meetings, but wasn't. That's how mellow I am. That, and tired. Back at home, The D.J. and Nick-From-Next-Door were entertaining some of their cooler friends, so Greg and I talked to them-all for a while.

Sidenote: Housing is a big mess; I'm glad I'm more certain than those folks. Still, tomorrow I'm meeting with Miguel Sanchez, Greg's would-be roommate, to officially switch rooms, allowing Greg and him to squat in our room, at least on paper.

Even if I had to move into Miguel's room, which isn't going to happen, I'd just be around The Mustacheless Man (who's transferring next year, an American tragedy) for a few weeks. So there's no way I can lose. But with all the various plans with triples and houses and singles that our neighbors are throwing around, Greg has a lot of decisions to make. Decisions. Bah.

Whenever I use WinAmp right after using Realplayer —whenever I listen to music after watching an episode of Daria, for the ignorant Luddites among you— my computer crashes.

Anyways, methinks I should sleep, if I'm going to get up in time to realize that I have no chance of getting anything done. I should be feeling stressed; I'm not. Sweet detachment. I need to do some reading…

In any case, later.

Episode 2.

I went tonight to the midnight show with Jonas, Helen, and Bill (formally known as The Politician in dramatic entries like this dramatic retelling of Friday, March 15th). It was fun, and we stopped at Perkins afterwards.

But look at the time. Goodnight.

I don't know if Greg is talking in his sleep or just messing with my head. I think he just said "I won't go on the bus."

Anyways, it's been a good day. I got back from the libary about an hour ago, but that's just because I'm a lazy procrastinist. And because I got away with it, slipping my annotated bibliography under my Prof's door seconds before they locked up the building, I live to slack another day.

I ran into Bollywood, who is at the library as much as me —I think I see him every day, because he works there. Meg(h)an was also working, and the three of us talked for a bit, which was absolut mint.

Deciding to end this quite social study-break, I went back upstairs and ran into The Young Lovers, who always put me in a good mood simply by being such great people. I don't mean that hyperbolically, either; they seriously do have such awesome power. Plus they seem to find me humorous, which is mint.

If you're still reading, you win this weeks prize. No, that was a lie. I think I'll go to sleep. I did have quite a bit of random socialization today, but you've gathered that already.

Plus, I'm listening to Madonna, and there's nothing you can do to stop me. Though I think it's about time I stopped myself.

Later.

Carter Tells Cubans About Democracy
Tue May 14,10:30 PM ET - (AP)
HAVANA (AP) Speaking in Spanish in a live, uncensored broadcast, Jimmy Carter gave Cubans a glimpse of Western-style democracy Tuesday, revealing to them the existence of a grassroots campaign to bring civil liberties to the communist-ruled island.

I'm sure the Cubans were like "Demo-cracy? Wahhhh?"

Seriously though, I've been unusually lazy today. Disgustingly lazy. I shouldn't be updating until I finish my Annotated Bibliography (whatever that is) for Drama and Crit. Due today. So I won't update. Starting now. Off to the library.

I just got Blogtrack after randomly stumbling into a site that recommended it. It seems to work pretty well, and it'll cut down on my compulsive blog checking, hopefully.

Today was an o.k day, otherwise. I found my glasses, which had been missing since spring break.

Where were they? Well, if you must know, and I know you must, they were in my ergonomic school bag, the school bag I've been using since I got back. I can't believe I didn't find them before, with all the times I've rifled through compartments looking for a pen. Stupid, or unlucky. Something.

So I might wear my glasses tomorrow. They make me feel smarter.

Yeah, I think I'll sleep now. I've got to get up and do homework.

Attention must be paid, and notice given.

I just got back, more or less, from another pre-poetry-reading meeting with Ed, Ann, and Al, who as it turns out, may be my R.H.D for next year. We divied up T.S Eliot's The Waste Land into parts for the reading.

The biggest accomplishment, though, was Al's fabulous storytelling. He kept us riveted with tales of romance long after the poetry discussion was over, and, in short, rose greatly in my estimation. Which of course is incredibly important. A fun meeting.

The ride back, which I survived as you can plainly see, was o.k. Quiet. Restive. Not fraught with anything bad, like accidents or getting lost. Everyone slept for most of the way, though Helen and I discussed taxes and bonds for a bit, for some reason.

Back at Lawrence, I decided to wind down from the eight hours of travel. I missed the window for dinner at Downer, forgetting that our cafeteria closes earlier on weekends, and ended up grabbing dinner at The Grill with Jinx instead. The cosmic forces aligned to revealed that, just as my family has a urinal, Jinx's has a bidet. Spooky, I know.

Mother's Day. We made my mom breakfast and bought her presents. I hate the small holidays. So much compulsary emotion, simply because of tradition and, worse yet, society. It's obscene.

I'm back. I had to go, to apply for jobs and attend my cousin's grad party, but it still seems like I wasted my time.

I picked up applications today from a couple gas stations; I�ll drop them off tomorrow. I turned in an application to Book World, Brainerd�s only secular bookstore, but I�m competing with people far more qualified for that cushy job.

I brought my mom lunch at school, springing for Burger King chicken sandwiches. We ate in the faculty lounge at her elementary school, which of course meant that I had to socialize with her teacher friends.

I saw Mrs. Wallace, my fifth grade teacher. Ah, memories.

After trying to call Manney a few times, I got a call from Larson and went over to his place. Good old Larson. We talked about drugs, women, auto repair, and his bizarre family dynamic. The usual, basically.

I called around and ended up meeting September for dinner at the shiny 371 Diner. They have the best food, but after dipping �batter bites� in mayonnaise I became very aware of how incredibly unhealthy it all is. Dinner was good.

Matt had people over, and I stayed inside to work. Matt's nebulous-relationship-person, Kittel, came inside to "flirt with Dan" �I can't say I like the sentiment behind insincere flirting, but we joke and it's all in fun. She's obviously just trying to make sure that all the members of Matt's family like her.

Anyways, I have the added comfort of my no-dating-for-a-while vow. I am invincible. I�ve rejected every woman in the world before they even talk to me. How�s that for the upper hand?
Hah hah�

Speaking of confidence, we changed toothpaste brands at home; the new brand purports to have �Fresh Confidence�. It�s invigorating.

Well, that�s all. Night.

Quite the day, quite the day indeed.

I awoke in a daze. It was nine, and I was supposed to pick up Helen and Ann at eight.

I panicked, then looked at the clock again. It was seven. Greg had woken me up. It had all been a crazy dream, obviously expressing my anxiety about being late.

I awoke in a daze. It was eight.

So I was late, and I got lost a half dozen times, and I got to Stillwater late. I'd blame all this on the alarm clock if I could. Those Stillwater people are forgiving folk.

My inability to get places notwithstanding, the ride was a rather run-of-the-mill five hour drive. We ate lunch at Subway, and I managed to spill more food on myself -somehow the shirt I'd washed yesterday had already acquired other stains. Everyone was tired so things were pretty quiet the whole way; we listened to some music, much of it mine, and Ann and Helen took naps.

In Brainerd, things had changed a bit. Our dog, Daisy, has prettymuch stopped caring about me, or so it seems, and the house has been remodeled slightly since last time I was here.

The following describes my family pretty well.

Matt (17) was at the movies and planned to eat in town, so my dad asked if we wanted to go out to eat. Josh (14) and I didn't care, and my mom didn't want to cook, so we went to Sportland Cafe, an unpretentious roadside diner in Nisswa.

Picture us at the table, if you will. I'm next to my mom, on the outside of the booth, wearing a buttoned up, slightly wrinkled shirt so as to conceal the stained undershirt I was too lazy to change. And my 'driving jeans', which actually fit me. I'm looking apathetically at the menu, because I wasn't hungry but came anyways.

My mom, next to me, is sporting one of the homemade-looking outfits that only elementary teachers seem to wear. It's very rustic, and probably took some impressive quilting technique to make. She's looking matter-of-factly at the menu, but doesn't seem too interested. She's tired from teaching all day, but I bet she's probably already thinking of tomorrow. She's losing her class next year, bumped from fourth to second grade by administrative favoritism. Don't mention it. Seconds after we sit down, she invites me to visit her class on Friday to help.

Across from my mom, on the inside of the opposite booth, is Josh. He's wearing a blue Brainerd Warriors hooded sweatshirt and some jeans or something. Socially, it's a very neutral outfit; my brothers and I, in our own seperate ways, have been between worlds in high school. Josh is part jock and part nerd, flitting between tennis matches and RPGs seemingly without effort, just as he now switches between muddled excitement and affected boredom. We'll bring up common interests later, to try and bridge the five-(four in June)-year gap.

Next to Josh, and across from me on the outside of his booth, is my dad. He's wearing a These Colors Don't Run T-shirt and jeans that probably have a hole in the them somewhere. It was his day off today, so fashion isn't an issue. He's mired in local and national politics but takes time out to make a few church-parking-lot quality jokes that go regretably unappreciated. He's a bit too self-assured, and I'm a bit too critical.

We eat. I say some unfortunate things by accident but manage to keep everyone happy by focusing attention away from them. At home, I go into the t.v room and remain there for the rest of the night.

Matt walks into the room, back from a chick-flick he saw with a dozen people, I'm sure. He has a goatee now, and it's really weird looking. He now looks like The Insurrectionist's roommate, who I never really warmed to, and the whole facial-hair thing is going to take some getting used to, because I really like Matt. Things are going well, same here. He sits down, we watch The Daily Show. I say "later". He says "later" and goes to bed. Good times, good times.

Well, that's enough of that. A better day tomorrow, soon enough.

I just downloaded a new version of "The Sharp Hint of New Tears" by Dashboard Confessional. I think I liked the band more when their music was just some guy shouting over the pitiable, inexplicably loud strumming of an acoustic guitar. I guess our civilization has finally peaked. It's all downhill from here.

Speaking of downhill, I committed myself to driving The D.J. and his friends to the theater tonight, for the 10 showing of Spider-man. I know, I know, I'm such a great guy. Still, that's a bit late for me to be out, what with the whole driving thing tomorrow.

Speaking of the whole driving thing, I just talked to my parents. That's all we talked about. I'm going to be home alone on Friday. I love being home alone, what with the wacky adventures and bumbling thieves and all. Seriously, I really do love having that house to myself.

I'll be gone too, of course, applying for jobs. Man, what am I going to do. I can stand people, but not customers. Not every day, at least. And homework. I have so much homework to do. Man.

I mean to use "Man" here as an expression of sorrow, as in "Oh, man…", for those of you confused by my literary gymnastics. I know it's spectacular.

Wow, mock-serious boasting gets annoying. And so does my use of pretentious terms, like "mock-serious". I've never seen the word "mock-serious" outside of an essay.

Maybe once I get in a car accident on the way to the theater I'll have something to write.

There's so much blah in my recent entries, and of course I apologize. I'm ordering everything today before I go off to Brainerd for the weekend, which means I have to do the laundry and respond to all the messages that have been sitting in my Inbox.

I just wrote an email to my crazy aunt and uncle, the only relatives I can really relate to for any period of time. They'll be at my cousin's grad party this weekend, which is very good news. Usually it's even odds that they're hiking or in Alaska finding their spirit animal, or something.

All will be ordered! All will be classified and filed!

What to say? I'm way behind on my homework, but after reading forty pages of Walden today and engaging in quite a bit of random socialization, I'm in a tranquil mood.

Thoreau, Thoreau, he's a wonderful guy. Graham knows the story, and some of the song.

He'll sing it for you, even. But I won't.

I want to philosophize, but I just can't vent the fumes of my bubbling genius at the moment -I'll probably dump whatever random thoughts on whoever happens to be in Brainerd this weekend. Or write tomorrow night. Whatever. Tomorrow night it is.

Today was dramatic. I watched too many episodes of Daria. I wrote a midterm essay for English just in time. There was a tornado, somewhere, and I had to go to the basement. I talked to Jamie and The Young Lover, neither of whom I'd seen in a while.

I really was planning to elaborate, but I guess I won't. Maybe I'll work on this post in the morning.

I'm becoming unstable socially, I think. I would despise a character as inconsistent in his motives and emotions as myself. This disintegration goes well with these shoes. I need to figure out what exactly my act is, if I really do need an act after all. But enough of this: I'm fine, nothing tragic, wonderful or unexpected has happened, and this is just the kind of vague meaningless nonproductive blather I want to avoid. Enough.

In today's installment, Dan learns a valuable lesson about talking to strangers.

Tddybr516: hi… :)
*** Tddybr516 signed on at Sat May 04 13:37:56 2002.
OurBoldHero: hey
Tddybr516: asl?
OurBoldHero: what the hey does that mean?
Tddybr516: 23/f/ny
OurBoldHero: ~sure~
Tddybr516: so waht are you up to ourboldhero?
OurBoldHero: talking to some odd girl, apparently.
Tddybr516: you wana cyber me! im kinda in the mood if you know what i mean :)
OurBoldHero: good gads. who is this really?
Tddybr516: its liz.. if you wanna know more check out my web page [web page link deleted].
OurBoldHero: ack!
Tddybr516: great! can you jst get it started..
OurBoldHero: just a sec, brb.

And Our Bold Hero fled. Unlike my hetero-life-buddy, I refuse to use instant messaging as a dating service. Larson can of course pull it off, but when strange girls message me, I quite understandibly freak. I was kind of rude to her, nevertheless.

Ah, and for those of you who don't know, I use tildes (~) to denote sarcasm, especially when I feel like looking like a dork.

Along those same lines, The D.J recently discovered that I can't run normally, or talk without moving my hands. Or at least, I choose not to. Gah.

The odd hours of the night. I just got back from watching Life is Beautiful in the basement of Lawrence's cavernous Freshman dorm. It was bittersweet, and I'm not sure yet if I liked it. I think I did. It feels like I've been beaten up by a clown.

I'm hearing good things about the Spider-Man movie. I guess Kevin Smith was just full of himself and wrong.

After watching the wonderful feature-length series finale of Daria, I went outside so I could be outside. I was supposed to meet Greg for dinner at 5:15, but he didn't show, and rather than go eat The D.J insisted that we sit and wait for half-an-hour. We ended up eating with The Mustacheless Man, which was of course entertaining.

Afterwards Greg and Nick-From-Next-Door started a little party of sorts in the room, with Dr. Katz and everything. I really didn't feel like that kind of thing tonight, so when someone mentioned Life is Beautiful I left, trying unsuccessfully to save The D.J from his own boredom.

Which was nice of me. I'm so great. But he declined.

Anyways, later.

Like every day, today is all about the absurd. There's a website devoted to the Amish. I just thought everyone should know that.

Horoscopes, before I begin, are total bunk, but that doesn't mean they can't give meaningful advice.

So I sat and pondered over newly-posted editorials and caught up on my news. Since Greg, Nick-From-Next-Door and The D.J are all busy until late on Thursdays, I went over to the Grill to grab a quick dinner when I was hungry, happy to escape the fascist five-o-clock tradition.

Inexplicably, I ran into Ann of Stillwater, and we chose to exploit the random socializaton at hand by sitting down for an unproductive yet entertaining dinner at the Grill. Conversation was had and food was eaten, then we went our seperate ways.

My seperate way led back to the dorm, where I managed to pretend to do homework while working on my "What Dan Wants" radio segment tonight, fooling only myself. The disk I saved the segment on died on me, however, and I was very late for the show by the time I got it fixed.

The usual characters were there: Nick-From-Next-Door, The D.J, and the D.J's female friend, and later in the show The Mustacheless Man and Greg showed up with a prospi. It turns out the prospi belonged to Nick-From-Next-Door. I knew that by then, but you didn't. The poor kid; we're pretty sedate on the weekdays, and there wasn't much to entertain him even with the radio show.

During my segment I went off on Captain Planet. How original of me. Well, in any case, later.

Ann Coulter is the slobbering mad god of craziness. Her thoughts on the surprise primary victory of far-right anti-immigrant frenchman Le Pen?

Liberals have finally found a people even more worthy of their admiration than the adulterous French: synagogue-burning, genital-mutilating, terrorist-cheering Muslims.

Not that there isn't a grain of truth somewhere beneath all those layers of crazy, but her generalizations shock and amuse me. As always. Thank goodness for the Utterly Wrong.

You know, Muslim extremists tried to bomb Dante's tomb because of his negative portrayal of Muhammad in Inferno- 700 years after the fact no less. You'd think Coulter'd be pissing them off, but I guess none of them reads The Nation.

I finished my Drama and Crit midterm. There's not much to add.

A Blogger T-shirt would be ultra-cool. But then again, there's something self-promotional about that I'm not quite sure I'm comfortable with. He wrote on his eponymous webpage. Hypocrisy aside, it would be nice to have a t-shirt that didn't require a white undershirt. Ah Fashion! Ah Humanity!

This is why I shop alone.

Speaking of internal conflict: Yahoo and Mailhaven.com don't seem to be getting emails from one another. I don't know who to blame when mail servers fight like this. Maybe they're fighting because of me. I should just run away so they can both be happy.

And so it goes. I need to study for a midterm. A midterm. Later.

The Ego and The Anti-Ego. That's how Prof Fritzell described Bartleby the Scrivener today, and though I didn't agree with his analysis of the text, I though the classification was useful.

The Ego: The Feminist. We talked before class today and she's overloading every term next year, going for a triple major while raising a daughter on the side. She's driven, intelligent, opinionated and independent, and I can't help but respect her.

The Anti-Ego: Our Bold Hero. When I'm around The Feminist I feel like a slacker, partially because I am a slacker. Still, I can't get that upset. I may not have Goals or a Master Plan, but I'm working on it, and though I envy her seeming maturity, I'm glad that I haven't had to grow up as fast.

That was much too smarmy at the end, but I liked the other parts. At lunch I sat with the usual crowd, asked Mollie some pointed questions about veterinary ethics, talked about Bloom's Shakespeare class, and participated in a huge tangent involving seagulls.

Also, Jinx apparently asked Jonas a week ago if he knew 'Crazy Dan', and he said he didn't. At least I'm not coming off as crazy in some circles. I talked to Jinx quite a few times today. That's pretty weird.

I talked to my parents today; things went well, though my dad has this odd idea that I should work for MnDOT this summer. MnDOT? What?

Well, that's enough. Later.