Which A Minute Will Reverse

Taking a somewhat-deserved break from writing and revising.

As feared, it's going slower than I thought, largely because I've chosen to work in the room. With the lights out, as usual; though everyone seems to think that's creepy.

It's a novel idea, though, using my computer as a tool instead of a toy.

18/50.

An Observation Before Writing

Odd night, last.

Also, Mike's Hard Lemonade is delicious.

12/50.

A Smoke-Filled Room

Saw Club Dread last night: Meh. I probably would have enjoyed it more had I sat next to someone who wasn't scared and unamused for half the movie. Nevertheless, it's no Super Troopers.

Afterwards there was nothing doing, so I scuttled over to the Viking Room (V.R.) for K. Elizabeth Bates' birthday celebration.

Which in itself is an odd thing for me to do. I had Fiction Writing with Miss Bates last year, I worked with Miss Bates last year, but I never attended any of the functions she invited me to, fish frys (yes, I know the "correct" plural form) for the most part. To avoid seeming thoughtful, I assured her that there was just nothing exciting going on in my dorm.

As I mentioned last night, part of Miss Bates' social group is composed of the Lawrence Literati, a cadre of writers who churn out, easily, some of the best stuff on campus. My views on this group have always been a bit conflicted. On one hand they're lazy, ironic, and talented, which I like.

On the other hand, their insularity (one, despite having Fiction Writing with me for the past two years, didn't seem to know who I am), sophomoric insistence on sitting together at the back of the room, and cultivated literary pretentiousness is off-putting.

Our Bold Hero has always grouped himself with Pseudo-Literati like Miss Bates, Roy the Effeminate Heterosexual, and The Bombastion. The talented Ronin of the Lawrence literary scene.

Although he has to admit that said literary scene has never read anything of his he'd call "good." My Pseudo-Literati status is founded, largely and regrettably, on an overblown perception of my own talents. And the story I'm working on now (well, today) is too uneven to change that sad fact.

Told The Bombastion, apparently "out of nowhere," that he should use his awesome Adamsesque associative abilities to write a serious story.

Crowding around a smoky table (I love the smell of second-hand smoke in a bar, for the record) with Miss Bates' odd little group, writers all as far as I could tell, I ended up talking to Lawrentian editors.

I remember a heated but congenial argument with the music critic over Shootenany!, the latest Eels album. As an Eels fan I like it, but I don't consider it, as he does, last year's best album (he hates the The White Stripes, if you were wondering).

My critique of Shootenany!? The irony is too obvious, the tone is too "classic rock" —it's a dangerous step away from what made Electro-Shock Blues original and great. That said, I appreciate E's latest effort more, now.

I criticized Representative Man, fellow Fritzellian and a Lawrentian copy editor, for allowing numerous typos and mistakes to appear in every single issue of our college newspaper. The front page article last week had something spell-check could have caught.

That seems to have sprung a trap I didn't know was set. Now I'm trapped in a college organization, albeit one that pays somewhat well. Prized, supposedly, for my meticulousness.

I said I'd copy-edit next term on a trial basis (maximum commitment: five hours a week) and shook on it with the Copy Chief, who invited me to work on this term's Satire edition (one of the reasons I came to Lawrence) as a show of goodwill.

This foiled Miss Bates' plan to have me follow in her size-8 shoes. I still get to write editorials, however, so I don't know how copy-editing is worse than Op-ed work. The only downside may be working under Representative Man next year, and I can probably handle that.

He wanted to found a misanthropy club, not knowing that I'd already founded one (La Resistance) without inviting him to join. I think it's clear which of us understands misanthropy.

Miss Bates and I, as far as that goes, talked about fiction. I talked about fiction more last night than I have over the past year. I passed sweeping, rude judgments on some of the best stories we've read, trying to convince this budding novelist that she is, really, one of the best writers on campus. If not, considering what I've seen…

I rejected her ill-thought reciprocal praise ("Infinity," the best story she's read, is conceptually flawed and in-any-case nothing special), although I've decided to feel considerably honored that I was her first pick for the Bloomsbury Group she wants to found in Chicago.

All this time, we were drinking. The V.R. is very expensive; I decided that last night, glad I'd removed half the money from my wallet beforehand. I had three drinks (less than most) and didn't get much beyond a buzz, but came back almost broke once the bar closed.

Hanging out there would be an expensive habit. Hanging out here is free and often fun.

Still, it was suprisingly enjoyable (albeit, once again, very odd) to hang out with people outside of the usual circle.

Now to write. 12/50.

K. Elizabeth's Birthday

At Miss Bates' behest, I just spent the last four hours or so with Lawrence's reigning Literati, loosely defined as the rather self-absorbed mass of intellectuals that sits at the back of my Fiction Writing class. It was, given my pretentions, understandably enjoyable.

The Post-Modernist and The Bombastion, as well as non-Literati Sockless Pete and Frisbee Matt, followed me home and are now watching one of my movies in the living room.

I, on the other hand, am going to sleep. More details tomorrow as the situation merits.

Betting Bulliot

Earlier this term Jubb and I got into an argument, a trivial one about whether or not the phrase "exploded systems" is in the book Frankenstein. That was our first bet.

I was, for those of you not familiar with the book, victorious. I was spared the gastrointestinal indignity of eating a pound of sunflower seeds in one sitting.

Jubb was forced to buy himself some boxers, like all the rest of us did in high school, if not earlier.

Today, I was sitting at the lunch table with Jubb when, once again, the conversation somehow turned to matters pointless and literary.

Did Piers Anthony or P.K. Dick write the book or short story on which the movie Total Recall is based? Both of us were sure of our answers, both of us willing to make a bet. We decided and shook on it.

I won and Jubb, who'd failed to remember that he'd read a mere novelization of the movie, once again took the fall.

Because I won, I don't have to wear Freshman Matt's old goatee (which Jubb, for whatever reason, owns) at the next party.

Instead, Jubb will be doing a Guinness challenge (which, as I decided beforehand, means no water and no food, just the Guinness I provide) for three days.

This will happen sometime next term, it seems. From now on, I'm setting time limits on my bets. Jubb, for his part, swears he'll never make a book-related bet with me again.

I like making crazy bets with Jubb, because it makes me feel impulsive and I haven't lost yet. But there are problems with this habit beyond the possibility of humiliation and loss.

Jubb, while always honoring the rules of a given bet, never seems to respect its spirit. He'll have to be watched. You can trust that in the future my bets will be phrased like wishes to a powerful yet malicious genie.

Also, he pummeled me a bit (our gigantic novelty hammer is nothing but trouble) once it became clear that he'd lost. He's not a sore loser, but Jubb can certainly be a violent one.

All Together Now

I've decided to be more bold, cynical, impulsive, reserved, literary, athletic, honest, caring, and, if there's time, normal. What's more, I think I listed those adjectives in order of importance.

Yeah, I don't have anything useful to blog at the moment.

Deep Thought For The Day

Malcolm in the Middle is one of the greatest shows ever made. Anyone who says otherwise is either a liar or a fool.

Our Bold Hero and his two roommates hosted a superheroes/supervillains theme party last night.





Here's us: I was Billy Lee of Double Dragon, Jubb was Big Baby, and Jonas was Cobra Reborn.

Other notable costumes included Jimmy Lee, Sidekick-For-Hire, Thor, Emo Girl, Pirate, Laundry-Day Batman, Born-With-Glasses Man (actually a rather elaborate costume), Rocket-Powered Celine…

Not to mention The Sweetness, who wins the nonexistent award for best name.

The superheroes/supervillains rule, as you can probably tell, was very loosely interpreted. Frisbee Matt, pictured below, was one of many people choosing simply to dress a bit oddly.





And there was booze. I, certainly, drank enough to tolerate or ignore the more annoying people there, which was of course my goal for the night.

But I didn't realize how much everyone else drank.

This morning we found empty Guinness cans, empty Budweiser bottles, and, strangely, an empty "wine" (Carlo Rossi) jug with Jubb's signature on it. We're out of gin, and I suspect we're out of vodka but I'm afraid to check.

Which means that, in some respects, the party was a success. We had a lot of people show up, including (I suspect) at least a half dozen prospies. And many people drank.

But I can't help but feel that the party was fundamentally a bit boring. Drinking provided far too much of the entertainment (for me, certainly, and probably for others).

Everything was already starting to wind down when I went to bed (after a trip to the bathroom to feel thin again) at two.

We had some laughs from the various costumes, but ultimately, this isn't a historic (read: Jubb's Illicit Birthday Extravaganza) room 207 party. Just another notch in the wall.

The Pear Tree

Woke up this morning feeling—despite the beer and pizza and headache I had last night—absolutely fantastic.

Tylenol, I think, gives me some sort of natural high. The last time I remember feeling like this was the morning after my 21st.

I lay in bed this morning for well over an hour, looking out at the sunshine, trying to mentally list my five least favorite Lawrentians, doing, in short, all the things I love to do in the mornings when I'm still lazing about in bed.

Ah, bliss. Superhero theme party tonight.

The Ho-Down Goes To Houghton

So my folks are long gone; they drove off to Michigan Tech on Thursday morning to visit my other little brother, a highly-skilled fisherman and would-be engineer.

It was pretty awkward, admittedly, having them here.

For better or worse, I've always segregated the people in my life from one another. It's undoubtedly some sort of control freak thing and certainly not something you should try at home, kids. But that's how it is.

The consequences (besides having my two best friends in high school, on some level, heartily dislike each other) are as follows: After years of going elsewhere (usually Graham's) for entertainment, I have no idea what to do for fun when I'm stuck with my family.

We ate out quite a bit and saw Miracle on the Ultrascreen. I'm quite proud of the Ultrascreen.

Miracle, though set in Minnesoata, was less impressive. The usual Disney underdogs-win fare, with some not-sly-enough product placement to boot.

Josh stayed in my room for two nights, taking advantage of the Lawrence network and, otherwise, not doing much of anything at all. We played Halo, we watched Snatch. He listened to the kind of conversations I'm having daily these days.

And now I'm alone again. More relaxed, certainly. More productive, even.

So The Politician learned a valuable lesson tonight about not destroying glasses when people tell you not to.



We had a good run, Reutlingen glass.

Hoodie

Wearing my grey hooded sweatshirt (what The Urbanite once called my "beggar outfit") for like the fiftieth day in a row. I love this thing.

Eating big slices of delicious cake and staring angrily at my Symbolic Logic textbook. Nuts to Symbolic Logic, I say.

So I have been thinking (perhaps even better: "So I have been thinking"), trying to figure out a number of things. Conceptual stuff for the most part.

A day or two ago I found myself hunting for a very useful, very precise word.

(On a related note, mention of the CD Talkie Walkie sent me hunting for spoonerism the day before.)

The word, as I soon recalled, was "periphescence." In his otherwise very uneven book Middlesex, Jeffrey Eugenides (via a character named Dr. Luce) comes up with this very useful term.

The word itself means nothing; Luce made it up to avoid any etymological associations. The state of periphescence, however, is well known. It denotes the first fever of human pair bonding. It causes giddiness, elation, a tickling on the chest wall, the urge to climb a balcony on the rope of a beloved's hair. Periphescence denotes the initial drugged and happy bedtime where you sniff your lover like a scented poppy for hours running. (It lasts, Luce explained, up to two years—tops.)

If we ignore the excess sentimentality and overall irritating tone of that passage, the author of The Virgin Suicides makes a good point, albeit indirectly. We need a better understanding, perhaps even a dissection, of the term "love."

The L-word is too massive, too broad. It implies commitment and all sorts of different, perhaps horrible, things. Periphescence is useful in that:

First, it doesn't have to mean love (allowing the worried fathers of teenage girls, among others, to skirt a sticky issue altogether) and

Second, it describes (I'd say accurately) a very specific emotional state.

Which reminds me of the voles and love article, which (had I the power) I would force you to read. It's about another attempt, scientific rather than (as here) literary, to answer the question I almost asked above.

Periphescence is, of course, just one possible—one group of possible, relationship states. I think of it when I consider Jonas' odd blend of ironic self-conscious overattentiveness to Miß Sarah (I'm told that he played up her absence hilariously at the tournament, to irk Jubb) and apparent devotion to the same.

(I also think of Jonas' words after the The Last Party last year. Something about how he didn't mind me blogging about his love-life. I think of those words and I laugh. My tact punches me in the gut and I keep writing. On topic and incoherently, as always.)

We need, as I was just thinking, names for the many various emotional states. I could name them, since I enjoy naming things, but I don't have the literary cred to do it successfully and semi-permanently.

I also don't have a rough list of those states, which would help. Cataloging the different kinds of "drunk" is a much easier task.

It would be nice, I suppose, to feel that gooey periphescence jive again, but I'm boggled by even more specific considerations. The states I'm thinking of, sketches of various relationship gestalts, entail more than some emotional disposition.

All of us are hoping for certain—for the most part broadly accepted—feelings, but looking for very different qualities.

Jubb, whose highest compliment, by his own admission, is "crazy", is presumably looking for a female, art-loving version of one of his drinking buddies.

The one adjective, and it's a broad one, that I would look for in a girl is "interesting."

I've noticed, from observing the world's many happy boring people, that not everyone places such a high value on "interesting." Some people use "nice" or, in cases of extreme mental illness, even "religious" as their highest adjective.

("Highest adjective" is a good concept, come to think of it. I would have to go with "interesting," but I bet there's a better, more specific word for what I'm thinking of…)

So everyone is looking for an emotion (easier to generalize) and perhaps some specific qualities. Even that isn't my point; there's something to the state of a relationship that's more than the qualities of the people within it.

But it's too complicated. There are too many possibilities and I don't know how to describe them, let alone which of the myriad relationship states I'd consider "ideal."

(Time to wrap this up; I lost my train of thought a while back anyways.)

So it's back to the L-word. Seperate into the three traditional sides of the triangle (romantic, companionate, lust? I can't remember Psych 101 anymore).

Mix together varying combinations, parse, refine, define. Periphesence is a good start.

Ah, sweet delicious words, like chocolate cake.

A Hilariously Mundane V-Day

Spent most of the day either studying or sleeping. Also slacked.

Still have gobs of work to do.

The Contemplative Life

The U-Frisbee types are at a tournament in Knox, which means that I can finally, hopefully, get some work done this weekend without trekking to the library.

I sit here and write this, knowing full well that I have no plans to do any work tonight. But it's a nice thought.

I am planning to spend some time inside my head this weekend. I've spent too much time lately consuming various sorts of media and various sorts of alcohol, and, as always, I feel stupider.

My brain feels soft and fuzzy, as if one of my roommates had mischievously filled it with cottonballs. Probably Jubb…

I probably am stupider, when I get like this. I certainly don't feel awake until I've done enough reading/writing/thinking to jumpstart my brain again.

More later, perhaps.

Twenty-one and not even hungover, thanks to the miracle that is Health Center aspirin. I'm filled with a warm feeling of general goodwill towards all mankind.

And I have a cake, which my mom had delivered to me at eight this morning.

In spite of a slow start and a few annoying and unexpected guests, last night went well. I had fun and ended up passed out the couch; Jubb carried me to bed.

Cleaning up the numerous wounded soldiers today, I'm struck by how little everyone (myself included) drank. The Sky, a gift from Ben and Nora, is still there. My flask full of rum, a gift from The Politician and Jonas, is still full. The mini-keg of German beer, a gift from Jubb, is about half gone.

The Politician tells me that there were several hours of crazy partying after I'd gone to bed.

Still, I got drunk on my 21st birthday, and I suspect that others did as well. That was certainly what I had in mind.

It was a night full of surprises, some of which I had a hand in (Jinx's singing valentine) and others I did not. I'm not thinking, at the moment, of the giant cookie Miß Sarah's mom made me.





This surprise, at midnight, was the most interesting and, to be honest, the most fun. I was blindfolded and then, with the help of more than a dozen (sometimes-mustachioed) anonymous volunteers, I successfully quadrupled the number of people I've kissed in my short time on this planet.

It's blurry (you have to press down the button on my camera twice, for the record: once, lightly, to focus and once, firmly, to take the picture) but this is what it felt I felt like at the time.

At midnight the mature, legal, adults left the party for a quick trip to the VR. I couldn't even finish my honey weiss (my excuse: German beer sits somewhat heavy in the stomach) but it was still enjoyable. Frisbee Matt, the gentle makeout king of Lawrence, heard that he'd missed out on The Great Midnight Makeout and gave me a make-up kiss.

I remember going back to the party, and talking to various people there (the pictures seem to show me spending an unusual amount of time with Rock Show Girl) and laying down on the couch.

But I know (and celebrate the fact) that there are gaps in my memory.

This, as they say, is how we become men.

February the 11th

Still twenty, still sober.

Just rocked a Modern British Fiction midterm like a certain boyband rocks bodies.

Which means I finally have time to update: steamy works by D.H. Lawrence can wait. So here goes.

Not much has been going on, of late.

Aside from watching Jubb go through various paroxysms of sexual frustration, our room hasn't offered much in the way of entertainment recently.

It's my fault, and Jubb's, really. Jonas and Miß Sarah, contrary to all expectations and at least a few perceptions, have been spending quite a bit of time in the room, playing Stratego and doing homework.

But the two of us, the other roommates, haven't been around for much quality slacking time.

As mentioned earlier ("above" has always seemed less natural, personally), Jubb is visibly cracking under the strain of not having a crazy art-loving girlfriend.

Jinx has set him up on a blind date (her method involves asking girls out for people until she finds a willing volunteer) for Wednesday the 11th, the night I'm set to become (at midnight), if not a man, then at least a manchild with adult status.

In the meantime, Jubb is hitting the weights, the books, and anyone who gets in his way. It's business as usual, but with midterms his time has become, as they used to say, "dear."

So he has work to do and hasn't been around as much. At least, that's my explanation. He could have a secret family somewhere that he's going to every night.

More images, brief flashes, of my life if Jubb were my father.

So that's one reason our room has had only low-key gatherings of late (I assume, with this, that no one is throwing sexy parties without me).

I've been gone as well, and of course that's more important because Our Bold Hero is more important than all but the most necessary of the four elements. May death come swiftly to his enemies.

The library is a nice quiet place, when you're hopelessly behind on your writing. My undisclosed location on the third floor (from which, once, I heard Jinx shouting through the supposedly-soundproof outer wall) is several magnitudes more productive than my room.

I can't wait to get the antique laptop from home, so I can stop taking advantage of Ben's glorious and neglected machine, a Gateway.

My story is going well, thanks. I'm up to six pages, double-spaced, out of fifty, but I've become awful connected to two of my characters and am having second thoughts about ridiculing them in the second act. Or maybe I'm just regressing back to sentimentality.

Blarg, english stuff. We'll see.

That's where I've been, in any case. At the library for hours and hours each day, sometimes writing, often reading. The presence of so many books makes it easier to do homework, somehow.

Every time I come back from said library, I find Jonas and Miß Sarah, studying quietly. I read quietly for a while yesterday in the same room as Miß Sarah. I consider that bonding.

If the room continues to be such a quiet haven for the studious, I might actually try writing here.

I talked to my parents yesterday, speaking of phone messages Miß Sarah gave me. They're coming next Tuesday and Wednesday with my little brother Josh and the backseat for The Deathtrap.

Assuming that my van stops stalling out randomly, I can finally drive around without people cramming in the back immigrant-style.

Perhaps to make up for the recent lack of interaction, but most likely for some completely arbitrary reason, Jonas has been sleeping on the Sacrificial Altar lately.

It's odd to talk to Jonas and Jubb without a computer or some other distraction in front of me. The conversational dynamic is quite different.

All in all, being awake long enough to hear Jubb's alarm clock fall on him for the third time was well worth the hour of sleep I lost to girl talk.

The 207 Informal

Continuing our room's proud tradition of anti-events, we had an Informal last night during the Lawrence International Formal.

Dressing up for the Informal, we tried to make ourselves unfit for public display. Or odd-looking. I don't quite know what the underlying philosophy was, but I'm sure that we rose to the challenge.

The Politician wore a disgustingly tight red shirt. I wore a hawaiian (in this case, Hawaiian) shirt, tucked in, with an ugly tie. Etc.

We played Apples to Apples, Curses, and Presidents and Assholes.





Party games, all. Curses was probably the most memorable. I had to speak through an invisible CB radio, begin every turn with a proverb, and talk as if there was an invisible golfball in my mouth.

Here, Miß Sarah tries to mug me as I frantically use my CB radio to call for help.

The Politician, simultaneously proving both that God exists and that he hates me, was cursed to always act interested in whatever I said and, secondly, to shout out said acts of condescension.

I suspect that the rift between the drunks and the sobers, widening as the night went on, made some of these games more difficult for Our Bold Hero, Ben, and The Politician. I had trouble with something as basic as not spilling my drink (though, as always, I insist that my coordination goes first).

Throughout the night, Ben tried to tell me about Margaret Weis's Deathgate Cycle. I still don't understand how we went from Keats and Yeats to epic fantasy, but it sounds interesting.

Freshman Matt, also not in any photos, was present at the party. He whipped us in Apples to Apples, but apparently he knows the inventor so I consider his victory meaningless.

Jonas, as President, made a rule similar to the sentence card from King's Cup. I still can't remember how the entire sentence we made went, but you weren't allowed to play a card unless you could. It was something about Jamaican ladies digging hot dogs that clear…

Meanwhile, there was a dance going on somewhere. After it got done, Jinx and Jubb graced us with their respective presences, clad in all their finery.





Here's Jinx, looking literally better than ever (even if she was probably too lazy to shave her legs). The preponderance of pretty ladies at the Formal was supposedly mind-blowing.





Here's Jubb, looking super-fly. After all the expensive drinks at the Formal, he treated himself to a few slugs of cheap cheap Informal vodka, posed for a few pictures, and went to bed. If he were my father, I'd be in therapy right now.

Others popped in and left, a blur of people. Rock Show Girl came back here, and stayed until the wee hours of the morning for a drunken Ben Folds singalong… but I don't have a picture of her.

At some point, we decided to go to the next Formal, rather than having another counter-party. So this was probably the last Informal. But more anti-social behavior is to be expected.

And Now, Sports

Played some hardcore racquetball yesterday night against Jinx. She's slightly better than I am, but I have the ability to make her hyperventilate simply by running, saying something, or standing still. So it all evens out.

The final tally after two matches: 1-1.

Baseline

Working on a short story, my first this term. I'm excited to write it but, as this blog entry makes clear, writing is not the priority it should be at the moment. It's too bad, really.

Tonight was incredibly low-key, like many a night recently. As Jonas pointed out, sitting around and watching stuff is prettymuch all we've done this week.

We did play some Uno. Our Bold Hero and four others lost to that girl who Jonas is always hanging out with these days.

Aside

Struck once more by how inane the Internet is.

It's no doubt hypocritical of me to observe something like that on some whiny weblog, but there it is.

Have changed my motto to reflect this realization.

Maybe I'll start a letter-writing correspondence of some sort with Graham.

It's All Sunshine

Relaxing all cool to some Minnesotan rap (Atmosphere, of course) after a long and unproductive day. Still a little unclear on the difference between rap and hip-hop, by-the-by.

So much homework to do tomorrow. But that's tomorrow.

Anyways, my day started around noon. The Frisbee Social Plus last night had wiped us all out. After brunch, I sat around for hours and hours, watching entertaining things with Jonas.

Dinner annoyed me, if only because it took an hour to figure out where and what I was eating and all of the delay was my fault entirely.

We ended up getting some cheap pizzas and watching Andy Richter Controls The Universe while we ate. I recall being borderline offensive when I meant only to be facetious.

Lost in Translation, which I'd spent the week downloading (only to find out, this afternoon, that The Cheerful Cynic has a copy) was the night's main entertainment. I recall looking stupid when I meant only to be facetious.

Reactions to the movie were mixed. Freshman Matt, he of the goatiest goatee and the Cursed Coat of Shoplifting +1, didn't really appreciate it.

At the other extreme, Our Bold Hero really liked the movie: it wasn't better than the equally low-key Punch-Drunk Love, but it was darn good. So sad, but rarely melodramatic.

There was a brief intermission. We watched some more stuff off of Ben's laptop. People drifted in and out.

Blazing Saddles was our unplanned second movie: Sockless Pete retrieved it from his room for us.

I'm not a big fan of Mel Brooks, I've decided. The movie was funny. But I knew that, I didn't feel that.

Blazing Saddles, since it's a convenient target, is the official cause of my general peevishness tonight.

I got really moody, complete with all the usual signs: fidgeting, hypersensitivity to semantics, and other even more obvious and hopefully less-nerdy clues. At least, to me, but then again all-encompassing annoyance is old hat for Our Bold Hero.

So now I'm cooling down, thanks in large part to a chai milkshake and instant messaging technology. The nastier aspects of my (let's use an ugly phrase) anal personality pop up every now and then, seemingly at random.

And now, it fades. Alles wird gut, and all that.