The Cities

There was no wild party last night, which came as a surprise, actually.

There was a house-warming party, complete with relatives and a biker gang. We hid upstairs until that was over.

Then we had some outrageously overpriced (but good) Mongolian food, watched half of Pretty Woman and half of Princess Bride, and played a rousing Dan-Graham-Noble Joshua game of Siedler. Whoo!

Well, it was fun. And I can get some shopping done, as long as I'm here.

In the meantime, I'm just sitting around at Graham's, using their very fast connection and listening to his very loud housemates laugh it up upstairs. It's a nice place to visit…

Still Alive

Rapidly completing the Sandman comics Manney lent me. So good…

Otherwise, I've just been working, delivering pizzas and such. Shoring up my savings account before it takes another big hit.

I guess I'm flying to D.C., but I'm driving to the cities tomorrow. Because I can. Or because of some logistical quibbles. Either way.

Out of the Sidehatch

I had to plan my whole day yesterday around Josh going to work. No one else was in town to pick him up.

I got off from work early and waited outside of Tom Thumb for about twenty minutes. Lost time. Not that I would have used those twenty minutes for anything constructive, but really I could have wasted them in a more interesting way.

So anyways, dropped Josh off and met up with Manney and Dylan at the former's house.

(The former/latter distinction still momentarily confuses me)

We started a fire (or, rather, Dylan, an eagle scout, did) and when it died we used some lighter fluid. Ten minutes later, when the fire had just about died again (the logs must have been damp) we grabbed some fireworks and went to the river to set them off.

None of Manney's impressive fireworks got off the ground. But, stuck in the ground, they were still somewhat impressive.

For our last trick, the three of us walked through the Brainerd graveyard. My bus used to go by the graveyard every day when I was in grade school, but this time, at dark, protected only by the only two people I've ever fought and beat, the graveyard was much more frightening.

Manney and Dylan kept an eager lookout for zombies. Alas…

Planes, Canoes, and Automobiles

Got the sublet; I'm sending out the security deposit check tomorrow. So I'll be in D.C. from July 14th until August 13th, give or take a day. In a fully-furnished studio pretty close to where I work. Our Bold Hero triumphs yet again.

I'm all for driving out there, personally: I'll have free parking at the house and I could visit a few people on the way to Washington. I have plenty of time to spare, and it might even be cheaper than a round-trip flight.

So of course my dad is dragging his feet in every direction, as expected. He wants me to fly. My mom wants something even worse.

If I have to drive out there with my parents…

Still, it's very good news.

In other, also good, news, Manney and I went joy-canoeing today on the mighty Mississippi, observing wildlife and exploring islands. Then eating ice cream. It was a grand old time.

Manney is an endless font of opinions, most of which are good and interesting. And that, despite years of misanthropy, makes him a brilliant conversationalist. So we talked about anthropology, the human urge to escape civilization, the failure of broad interdisciplinary majors, and Aqua Teen Hunger Force.

I think I have ticks on me from all that walking in the woods. Viva life!

Well, Not That Easy

Apparently I'm second in line, so I'll have to wait until after Friday to find out about this place. The good news: Scripps doesn't care when I come, as predicted.

Frustratingly, Catholic University finally sent me a confirmation email.

("Sorry I read your email address on your appication to be ovrboldhero@mailhaven.com")

And now thanks to that stupid appication I'm signed up for a three week, thousand-dollar single room.

That arrangement is too expensive and too short. I'm going to try and get back my deposit; I didn't agree to three weeks, and I'm unwilling to pay that much for a room, when there're nice sublets out there at half the price.

Back to waiting, then.

That Was Easy

All the puzzle pieces are… coming together I guess. Is there a verb for what puzzle pieces do? Assembling?

Anyways, I just found what sounds like a great sublet for the summer, available July 14th. I just need to make sure I can still start my internship that late. It's an unpaid internship, so I don't think it should matter when I start.

Waiting on a few emails. Hah.

Giovanni's

Started work (again) at Giovanni's, the best and most expensive pizza place in town.

Man, I love driving. And making…

(some quick math)

…about ten bucks an hour to drive around is good enough for me. It's the best job I could hope for, here.

There are some minor annoyances. For example:

Our Bold Hero: Giovanni's pizza, how can I help you?

Customer: Yeah, [cough] I was wondering whether it was cheaper to get a pizza delivered or to come there and pick it up.

Our Bold Hero: Well, our pizza delivery is free.

Customer: [cough] Yeah. Um… So which one would be cheaper?

Our Bold Hero: …

That guy didn't tip. I got stiffed four times tonight.

And, secondly, the crazy-religious assistant manager still thinks I stole a sign last summer.

But really, the job is fun, pays well, and several of my coworkers are pretty cool or at least tolerable. Lanky Dan, the blackest white boy in Brainerd, is the same as ever.

I work with the new drivers on Wednesday; that should be interesting. The veteran drivers don't like them much.

Red Flags For A Background Check

I told Jubb once that he was a Stunt-drunk, subconsciously waiting for the slightest push in any impulsive direction. I'd been watching about four hours of television a day at that point, and my mind felt like warm mush, but I stand by that bold and unjustifiable observation.

I, on the other hand, am a Declarative-drunk, content (usually) with observations and declarations. My favorite statement: A bold refusal to acknowledge my own inebriation. My second favorite at the moment seems to be some nonsense about the joy of right-and-left.

Although I could still be a Philosopher-drunk or a Paranoid-drunk. I'm not completely sure. Someday I'll catalogue the drunks.

I really think that I can tell when I'm drunk. Which is why I say I'm not, when people think I am: because I'm not, at least I think that I think I'm not and since I do I think that I think that rightly when I'm not drunk, or at least when I think I'm not drunk and I say I'm not drunk.

But high, as Our Bold Hero has come to understand, is not so clear-cut. I still don't think I've been there, what with the Reverse-Tolerance Theory and all, but my (gossip-gathering hetero-life-buddy) Larson called to congratulate me on just that today, so perhaps I was. But… nah, I don't think I've been high. I just learned what "inhaling" is, after all.

Another embarassing conceptual dead zone. File in that one in the mental warehouse next to "circumcision."

Graham, probably the youngest participant in the mosquito-ridden alleyway kegger Dylan brought us to (briefly) on Friday, accosted me for talking about a certain illegal substance within earshot of so many strangers. He was right: those other underage drinkers would have turned us in a second if they'd heard me mention weed. We got lucky.

I've never owned any and never (as I was saying) gotten high, so maybe it's not as big of issue with me, but whatever. Lawrence is pretty laid-back about that kind of thing, but I guess outside the LU bubble some paranoia might be justified. Or, if I know my red-eyed friend, caused by the pot itself.

It was good just hanging around with some Brainerd folks before I came back to near-empty (Manney is floating around, somewhere) Brainerd.

We got ice cream, saw Dylan's apartment and impressive certificates, and played some Puzzle Fighter on Jenna's Playstation 2. I resolved to visit again, often, and while I still can.

Back in B-town, it looks like I've got my old job at Giovanni's back, starting next week. Which is good, because I'm going through my savings very quickly. I told the other employees at Giovanni's to call me if they needed a sub; otherwise, I've got next to nothing to do.

So I'm trying to figure out some kind of self-improvemen routine for the summer. O.R.B. has begun.

This is going to be my shortest summer yet, if I am in fact going to Washington in July or August, and I'm not about to fritter it away. This is a time to read and sweat and climb on top of things.

Sophomore Year, Epilogue

I thought on the car ride home, which of course isn�t that much of a surprise because what is a long car ride if not �time to think.�

Reflections:

It�s been a good year. Not a fantastic year, but a good year and a better year than the one before it.

Jonas. My roommate this year and next. A guy I barely knew as a freshman, he turned out to be (unexpectedly) social, (strangely) funny, and (pathologically) accommodating. I knew we�d get along but I hadn�t expected to spend so much time with my roommate, certainly not outside of the room.

I played my first game of disc-golf with Jonas, and I suppose he�s also partially responsible for my first unquestionable drunken stupor.

We�re both lazy procrastinists, and living with Jonas �fun is fun� Hackett only made my procrastination worse. But even though my grades were slightly worse this year, I had much more fun and still managed to walk away with some actual knowledge.

A half dozen plays by Shakespeare� Prof Fritzell�s reading of The Adventurers of Huckleberry Finn� basic linguistics� Fiction Writing�.

Thursday was an especially good day. A good last day, really; I felt like there were talented screenwriters in the wings. It seems even better, now that I�ve so thoroughly romanticized it; Friday, even though it was my last day, was underwhelming in comparison.

Jubb, Jonas and I brought all the furniture from the room to a garage in Waupaca, then went to eat at The Golden Basket, a cheap Perkin�s without the stigma.

Six saltines in under a minute seemed doable. It is doable. But I was unable to refute Jubb�s odd urban legend. Doable just looks wrong to me. What a weird word.

Back at the dorm I started some half-hearted packing while Jonas fiddled with his computer. Sockless Pete stopped by to invite us to a White-Russian-themed Big Lebowski party, but no one seemed to have the motivation to sit through a movie on our last night at college.

Besides, there was a Co-op Party in a few hours.

I started some laundry, so we�d all have clean shirts for the party, then sidled into Sockless Pete�s room to make my orange-and-carrot juice a bit more Russian.

Jonas had cloves, so we walked down by the riverside with Jubb (and The Cheerful Cynic, making me seem like far less of a tag-along) and looked at our room for next year. Someone wished Ned was still around. We�re going to have a good quad.

I won�t see that room for six months; odds are I won�t see anyone from Lawrence for six months. It really makes me aware of the passage of time: everything changes in six months. But the quad should be, will be fun.

We went back to the dorm so I could stick the clothes in the dryer, then drove, sans Cynic, to the gas station for some cigars.

Back at Lawrence, we walked around outside again. The party had started but our clothes weren�t dry. We sat around, finished the cigars, and went back.

Of course, our clothes didn�t get dry. The dryer I�d put them in wasn�t spinning. Our clothes weren�t dry, and I didn�t have another token so we couldn�t dry them. Jonas lost a good sweater. We took what we could (I ended up wearing one of Jonas� shirts, which was probably a better idea anyways) and went to the Co-op house.

As with the last party, there wasn�t much to drink that wasn�t disgusting. For some reason I challenged Jubb to a jug wine drinking race.

Jubb is the most moral hedonist I know. He�s friendly and tends to make the right decisions. He works hard and even goes to church. He feels guilty if he doesn�t exercise and eat right.

But he also knows how to have a good time, drunk or sober. He had his third and final cup finished by the time I was halfway through my second. Stumbly Joe had won again.

He somehow got a live month into my cup, and I willingly drank it, well aware that a fluttering insect probably still tastes better than jug wine.

After that last glass I felt a pleasant sense of well-being, an innocent false confidence, and an inability to be annoyed by the annoying. I was exactly where I wanted to be, so I stopped drinking.

The party was just so much standing around, but it was pretty enjoyable. One good-looking super senior had a couple guys working their mojos this way and that; at the end of the night she probably had her pick. That (and a wayward mouse) provided most of the night�s entertainment.

Jonas, Jubb, and I walked into the woods (probably the only woods on campus) and had some more cloves. We sat down on some old railroad tracks and looked out on the water. A scene I somehow associate with Germany.


It was a good night; we got back to Ormsby late, The Cheerful Cynic once again in tow.

The next morning I woke up a little sick to my stomach from all the various tobacco products in my system. Jubb must have smoked six cloves that night; I smoked less and felt a little worse. Still, not too bad.

I ate breakfast with Colin, Jonas and Jubb, then packed up the rest of my belongings. Almost everything of value that I own was in The Deathtrap.

There were no big goodbyes, really. I shook hands with the guys and got a hug from Jinx. Until next year.

My Last Friday

Done with school. I'll hit the road as soon as I recover from last night. And pack.

My Last Friday

Done with class. Only finals remain.

I'm haunted by insincerity.

This may be evidence of a psychological problem, but it can't be too crazy to think that people are often selfish, to think that they often have motives beyond genuine concern or interest. Just because you're paranoid…

I'm often insincere, usually out of boredom, and I find it horrifyingly easy to imagine how others, with better motives than I, could be doing the same.

I watch as people completely change their behavior to suit their company.

I narrow my eyes at most compliments, doubting.

Mark it down in the big book as a failure to communicate. We've gone from phatic words like "like" to phatic sentences, phatic conversations. We apologize when we're not sorry, just because we feel obligated. We enthuse when we're not excited. We praise because it's easy.

Next year, thousands of college students will praise works they hate. Not everyone gets Gertrude Stein, but next year, every English student with an essay to write will pretend to.

I am pretty paranoid about this, and my chronic distrust for large swaths of the human population is reason number six why I find it so hard to interact with them.

(A drunken Our Bold Hero, in the spirit of in vino veritas, will readily and repeately contend that everyone is patronizing him.)

And how can I learn to trust people? Cultivate some more insincerity of my own, become a dances-for-nickels guy with an infinitely maleable (and equally fake) persona. Be all things to all people, and only half of them will despise you for it.

Ah, but I don't have the urge to go that far, and I certainly don't have the energy. I'll stick to quibbling about small duplicities.

Which leads me, naturally enough, to the English picnic, held yesterday in Colman.

I like the Annual English Department Picnic; it's an oppurtunity to mingle with majors, minors, undecided Freshmen, old-school professors, new-school professors… all the various denizens of our departmental world.

I can't trust the (young) new-school Professors. I love talking to them, but their enthusiasm for activities like this is pretty suspect. And it will always be, until they get tenure and can be as rude as they dare.

(Which won't be far. Also, I like the idea of measuring out rudeness like that, as a distance.)

I tried to talk to Prof Bloom, my feminist Shakespeare professor, but her inveterate niceness is too much. Who really cares what a frequently-late student like myself is doing this summer?

She does, apparently. But only apparently, I think. But she's nice so maybe she does… well, that was too much of a metaphysical dilemma. I sidled next to Prof Hoffman and The American Scholar.

I work with The American Scholar at the Writing Lab, but Prof Hoffmann I only know from my frequent attempts to meet with my advisor. I can never remember his hours, so Prof Hoffmann sees me knocking at his door about three times a day, sometimes.

Prof Hoffmann disengaged while The American Scholar and I were chatting. The professors and the students seemed to seperate as time passed, though some senior English majors congregated outside with the Prof Dintenfass, Prof Goldgar, and Prof Fritzell.

After some inter-student mingling, Representative Man, the Lawrentian's best editorialist, turned to me.

"Let's go outside."

I agreed and we joined the old-school professors outside. Someone was passing around a paper plate with summer reading suggestions. I looked over the list and added Reader's Block, the book I've had a love-hate relationship with for about a year now.

Best moment: bashing Eggers and A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, and having Fritzell agree. Validation!

In Search of Lost Time

Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm still in school, though. Remember that.

But all Lawrence students (the three who might be reading this) should go to this page to add their input to the term/semester debate.

My opinion: If it doesn't work (like it does for hundreds of regular schools) we can always change it back. We all know how annoying it is to start so late and finish so early.

Let's change the schedule now: if not for ourselves, then for our Freshmen, and our Freshmen's Freshmen.

(Not convinced? I'm not completely either, but let's not forget the third option (presented in question 21): splitting the winter term with x-mas so as to finish spring term earlier.)