For me, 2003 will open in a much different manner than 2002. The last time we watched the ball at Times Square discend, I rushed outside with my new girlfriend so we could kiss passionately in private, away from our friends who would just blow on their party kazoos and yell out "Happy New Year!" (I would personally rather whisper that phrase to a girl I care about than flail around foolishly as though I am incredibly delighted at the technical inauguration of a new year.)

This year, I don't know what I will do when the clock reads midnight, but I know I'll be here, at home. For the last week a nasty cough and headache has engulfed my body, and I am in no mood to get dressed, gather in public, and celebrate the new year. I may go downstairs and watch the ageless Dick Clark and his New Year's Rockin Eve with my parents, or I may just crawl into bed right now and awake next year.

These past 365 days have accounted for the best calendar year of my life. I grew in too many dimensions to recall: more polished emotionally, better educated, stronger spiritually, more comfort in my appearance, happier in my relations, the list goes on. I enter this new year no longer a teenager, having been twenty for over five months now. Hopefully I am old seasoned enough to use the past year to further improve my life and the lives of others. "2003" seems very futuristic to me. It looks like a much bigger number than 2002. We really are living in a different time than the 1990s; the transition is over. Let's steer things in the right direction. What does that mean? Um, I don't know. Maybe that should be something to figure out in this next year.

Goodbye 2002. You were so good to me. Let's hope your neighbor is just as charitable.

Sometimes you talk to and confide in people close to you so frequently that you don't feel the necessity or desire to regurgitate those ideas onto the computer.

Every year on December 25...

My family gives me love and gifts, when all I need is the love.


I warm inside when a younger relative enjoys his gift (no matter how dangerous!).


My friends--- even those long out of sight--- show me they care.


I grow more humble and appreciate my life on this Earth.



"Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!"

Go see it.

I used to awake at 9:29 am every morning to the sounds of cathedral bells.
I used to race across heavy traffic and have the wind of flying cars mess up my hair in an attempt to catch the Number 12.
I used to sit next to a cute Asian girl who was so quiet that I could not tell you a single thing about her (other than she has a killer body and dresses superbly).
I used to drive to campus in cool 7:00 pm weather and leave in 10:00 pm frigid temperatures.
I used to attend professional concerts, from jazz to choral to samba, and write honest reviews.
I used to get all the updates on college football imaginable from my friend who read Sports Illustrated during lecture.
I used to rush home after Monday classes to finish the crossword puzzle.
I used to finish research papers minutes before the due time (Isn't it sad when I cannot say "due date"?).
I used to attend football games equipped with a whistle and a t-shirt with the word "Coach" emblazoned across my chest.
I used to hear lectures on our prison system from a guy who sounded just like Mr. Mackey.
I used to anticipate the Sunday showing of the new Sopranos episode every weekend.
I used to gather my roommates to play cards the night before any exam or paper.
I used to wonder whether Leilani would smack my butt as we switched classrooms.
I used to ponder if I could become a truly great criminology student.

Another semester completed, another growing process, another time to say goodbye to temporary little aspects of everyday life, another opportunity to utilize my lessons into a successful future.

My good friend was dating this girl during our junior and senior years of high school. She and I were casual acquaintances, mainly by default because we had several mutual friends. During our senior year we talked more personally, and recognized we could develop a true friendship. Soon into our friendship, I saw the potential for a bond unique to just the two of us, a connection that would transcend a casual friendship. Instead of exploring this friendship, I stayed distant. I made no effort during the school year to confide in her, to befriend her, to grow close with her. We both had an inner sense of what such things could lead to, and I did not want any part of it. She was dating my friend, and I would never betray an established friendship over a girl.

They dated throughout senior year and into the prom. My friend would sometimes come over and talk to me about problems with his girlfriend. My advice put his feelings as top priority; that was my responsibility as a friend. Eventually, with graduation approaching and a pending separation, she broke up with him. My friend cried in his bed for much of the night, though I was blind to this fact at the time. Soon after, she came to me. I felt more comortable being her friend at this point. She no longer kissed my friend, her feelings for him had dwindled, but I knew he was hurting. I would suffer knowing I caused him further pain, which would have been the case if he saw someone he called a friend swoop in and now go for his own glory.

It would be three months before we would leave for college. We grew closer together, realizing we did indeed share some sort of bond, one I had never experienced before. We spent much of the summer together. As we'd go play tennis, watch a movie, swim in the pool, or just talk, my mere acquaintance grew into a best friend. I wanted more than a friend. Those summer months quickly evaporated, and at the twilight I felt myself more strongly yearning to be with her. I wondered what could have been, who she would be to me if I had been there for her instead of him the night they started dating, how different the last two years could have been, if those lips tasted as heavenly as she smelled.

But I restrained myself, and we left for college as close friends, that bond still maintained through occasional phone calls, e-mails, and visits home. Hers is a dear friendship I cherish, a true friendship that lasted longer than my romantic feelings that have long since dissipated. I take pride in how I handled that summer, partly because I left with one more great friendship, and also because I never betrayed my friend. Throughout the summer his feelings for her remained strong, and I knew as a friend I had a duty not to hurt him; our lengthy friendship was more important than a summer romance that could not have withstood time.

I stepped outside my door and immediately could see my breath. My Yankee snow cap protected my ears from the near-freezing temperatures. I stretched in the parking lot, getting ready for my run, when a familiar black truck blinded me with its lights. My roommate walked out from the truck, dinner in hand, and stood confused--- or maybe amused--- at me dressed in running gear. Understanding that I was about to go out on a run, he asked me one question.

"Are you sober?"

While I had no alcohol in my system, perhaps my judgment was not at its clearest, clouded by romantic images of bursting through the cold and instantly returning to a state of top-notch physical condition. I have run a mere two times this semester: a five-mile trek around the main streets of Gainesville and a three-mile race to fight sickle cell anemia. At the time of these runs, however, I had built myself into my peak physique, the most healthy and into shape I had been since I was a buff second grader. Over the last few weeks, during my battles with apathy/exhaustion/exams, I lost the desire and time to engage in sport. My lack of exercise, complemented by my unhealthy eating habits, gradually pushed me further and further from a healthy body. My pants are no tighter, and I can still sport an XS shirt in comfort, but I feel out of shape, loose, unhealthy.

I tried to run this evening and work myself back into self-approval, but my back stung. My legs ached. My lungs burned. My chest tightened. My throat dried. My nose dribbled. My stomach cramped. I thought I could mentally overcome the physical pain, but halfway into my run I understood that my body would not allow me to return to peak condition just because I wanted it one evening. I turned left onto Archer Road, and the cars seemed to be racing at a rocket's pace as I walked back home.

During my slow return home, I thought about how shallow I was in assuming that because I wanted to change, I could quickly and effortlessly attain my goal. Any true goal is out of reach when first noticed. No matter the good intentions, an accomplishment set out in the distance requires a stepping stone approach, a continuous effort to advance steadily toward an ultimate end. We cannot transform ourselves from one state to its radical superior, from adequate to great, from evil to godly, from destitute to rich, from ignorant to educated, without a steady determination.

Tonight I may have failed in one more quest, but I took the first step.

Here lies the dilemna and my unfortunate defeat: part of me wants to sit at my computer desk and write in my public journal. Furthermore, I particularly yearn to write something of substance, something profound, something that could arouse discussion or debate. Of course, there's always writer's bloc waiting around the corner. I've been suffering from writer's bloc for about a month now. The "dead" days that come with finals week gave my mind and body plenty of rest, but my mind seems to only have two modes right now: study and dormant. At this point, if I had anything I would hope to focus on between my periods of mental standby, it would be to study. Only two finals remain before I have two weeks free of scholastic life.

So there it is: a part of me would like to write quality work, but the part of me that controls that aspect...

Quik Ketchup Thyme (a summary of my last few days, in five or fewer phrases)

Friday: swing dancing... wallflower at first... girls teaching moves... confidence up... sweat, girls, fun

Saturday: up in afternoon... sad for uncle... Ben and Carly... Alehouse... better

Sunday: sick in stomach and face... Christmas concert... Ben, Carly, and girls... feels like setup... uncomfortable

Monday: better at crosswords... Alehouse All-you-can-eat wings... 30 and a Captain Jacko's... possible backup in Brooke

Tuesday: on task with school work... final class taught by favorite professor... abnormal urine volume... twenty-dollar Simpsons bet... wonderment about friends' relationship

Wednesday: thanks to professors... no more classes... exhausted but relieved... alone... solitude

Sorry that this part is blank, but I'm between philosophical thoughts at the moment.

Can a person be unmasked by his DVD collection? What to think of someone who owns some disgracefully atrocious movies? of someone with nothing above PG-13? of someone who buys every Hollywood blockbuster crap-a-thon imaginable? of someone whose collection of independent movies seems disingenuous, as though he bought them to impress people with his superior knowledge and passion for the quality flick?

I know my DVD collection is not one to be amazed by; there are some duds, not many Academy Award winners, and an overrepresented mafia theme. I don't know myself any better by looking at the titles of my movies, but maybe I should:

American Pie
American Pie 2
Any Given Sunday
A Bronx Tale
Carlito's Way
Casino
Cast Away
Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon
Detroit Rock City
Dude, Where's my Car?
Eight Millimeter
The Exorcist
Forrest Gump
Freddy Got Fingered
The Godfather
The Godfather, Part II
The Godfather, Part III
Goodfellas
Heat
Jaws the Revenge
Lethal Weapon 4
Life is Beautiful
Planet of the Apes
Platoon
Rebel Without a Cause
Shrek
The Simpsons: The Complete First Season
The Simpsons: The Complete Second Season
Snatch
The Sopranos: The Complete Second Season
The Sopranos: The Complete Third Season
South Park: Bigger, Longer, and Uncut
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles
Traffic

Snippets

I got done with all my reading assignments early tonight but drank a 24 oz chai tea, so I have plenty of excess energy. With that said, I was genuinely happy to get an e-mail from you, and since I have never written you an exclusive e-mail, I figure now is as good a time as ever... I am perfectly content with my relationship status. I vaguely recall telling you while in South Africa that after four years of knowing her and just two weeks of dating, I sensed that my relationship with Haley would blossom into love. And you know, it did. She is the first girl I ever said those three magic words to, because I wanted to have no doubt in my mind when I first said them. Haley and I genuinely loved each other. Never in my talk with you, though, did I say that I had a feeling she was my soul mate, the woman who would share the rest of my natural life. Deep down, I knew she was not that girl. I did not know why, especially since I knew I would fall in love with her, but I just knew... I am not the type to scope a club for chicks or ask for the phone number of a girl whose face I think is gorgeous but whose name is hazy to me. Rather, when my next love comes into my life--- it may not be my true love, as I know I still have some learning to do--- God will let me know, and the situation will work out the way it is intended to be. From this knowledge I hold peace and content in no longer being in a relationship... even in that brief message in your e-mail, I could feel that sincerity you always showed me in South Africa. I do wish that we had been able to talk more one-to-one in South Africa, as I was always interested in what you had to say... I hope these twilight months of your college career are incredible. I know it's cliche, but you deserve nothing but the best, and I hope you achieve this. Good luck creating that path into a new life, with relocation, career, and wife. Best wishes, Anthony

The best purchase I made--- purely based on bang for buck, not purchases of sentiment or significance--- came a few summers ago, when at the Pensacola Interstate Fair Outlet fair I exchanged a twenty and a ten dollar bill for a flatbed scanner. With one single USB port connection I could transform flimsy strips of photo paper into pixelated graphic displays on my computer and the internet. If not for the scanner, that photo of Mike sucking on my walking stick would be confined to my photo album, shackled from the rest of the internet world.

Today I received a surprise e-mail from a girl I met in South Africa, asking me to send her the picture of us during our final night of that indescribable trip. I'm able to grant such requests after a click on the scanner and a trip to outlook express... but this be no longer so. A retrieval of the scanner from my closet, an openning of the front latch, a crooked laser sliding dealy (whatever actually goes through the motion of scanning the picture), a broken piece of black plastic swimming around the base, a scanner which can no longer serve its purpose. How this happened? I do not know. What I do know is this: my best purchase sits lifeless, without a purpose, reaping no more rewards.

Dad takes his son to the book store and sips on coffee while the little boy grimmaces at the steaming cup in front of him. They reveal to each other answers from the book dad bought for his son, among them:

If you could find the personal diary of one person from history, with all the juicy details, whose would you want to find? (Son's brief answer: John F. Kennedy)
If God were to appear before you in any form, what form would you want Him to take? (A glowing light with outreached hands)
If you were reincarnated into a musical instrument, what instrument would best suit you? (Piano)
If you could, in retrospect, thank one teacher you had in school for what they taught you, who would it be, and what would you thank them for? (Mrs. Kellum of fourth grade, for condemning a walk through life without applying effort to talent)
If one part of your body was to become a religious relic, which part would you like it to be? (Big toe)
If you could gain the courage to do one thing, what would you do? (Walk up and talk to people I'm interested in)

Lots of stories pass through the question and answer session, until the dad, in response to one particular question, feels the urge for pizza. He takes his son to the local pizzeria, the one with the real Italian pizza, where you fold the large drooping triangle of mozzarella, dough, and gravy in half and take a bite out of the crispy crust before beginning to consume the actual pizza part. Dad doesn't fill the day with lengthy activites to consume the time he will spend with his little boy. Instead, he walks through everyday life with his son by his side, doing nothing glamourous to impress his son, doing the trivial things to talk with his son. Even the little boy can sense when that happens, and he skips along and grabs tightly to dad's leg, appreciating the motionless time they have together while the rest of the world keeps moving.

---Excerpt from a boy's trip home for Thanksgiving

The door opens, and my eyes are filled with the beauty of Latin twenty-somethings. I find Lourdes. A naked cheek exposed for kissing. I kiss and follow with a hug. A little muchacha, Arianna, barely three years old, runs for my leg and glues herself to my jeans. A poinsetta for me from this innocent blossom. The music is unleashing the passion from everyone's hips: the salsa, the merengue, the samba. One gorgeous dark-haired dancing partner after another. The words are barely comprehendable from the thick ethnic accents. Words are not necessary; the communication is all from the body. The wine sits patiently on the dining table in the far corner. As though I'm drinking the aroma of a flower. Another glass. Another. Another. I find my dancing partners and say goodbye to each with a kiss. Lourdes takes me to the door, and with one more kiss and hug, I'm out the door and gone from the party.

Fifteen minutes across the hall that overcompensated for a dull, depressing day at Sears Auto Center.

Title: Effin Tunes 10
Subtitle: Patty Hipp and Little Cici
First Track: "When You're on Top" by The Wallflowers
Final Track: "He Ain't Heavy... He's my Brother" by Rufus Wainwright
Vibe: Entering a warm New York City Catholic church filled with incense after trekking five blocks in the winter snow.

Let's wing it and see where it goes...

My current state: in a slump and worn out. I'm still trying to maintain a positive facade, but the passion to excel in my schoolwork diminishes with each passing day, with each assignment, with each day closer to a 4.0 semester. With all the excitement gaining focus on future goals at the beginning of the semester, I stormed out the gate in all my classes and established a very healthy A in each class. The fall semester is fastly reaching an anticlimatic endpoint. At my current pace, I could walk into each of my classrooms, Christmas tree the final, fling the scantorn sheet toward the professor, jump on my desk, do a little salsa... and still receive an A. Some NFL reporters said the other day that the biggest problem of the Philadelphia Eagles is that they play down to their competition and are lacking a killer instinct. What of me? I'm losing the killer instinct that has made me a prosperous student this fall. I'm playing down to the competition, putting unenthused effort into papers and exams that cannot drastically damage my grade. The great ones, in whatever area we may be discussing, persevere because they defeat not only the outside blockades, but also those internal obstacles that test mental strength and heart. Internal apathy is a mighty shackle to unlock and serves as the bane of my battle to be great.

I don't let others see my struggle, though, and this outer guise actually serves as a medicine, relieving me of the symptoms of apathy. Ever since my return from last month's trip home, I have acted been more friendly, cheerful, and energetic in my relations with other people, whether friend or stranger. I'm more confident and attractive in my outer appearance and have noticed the results. I have decent conversations with unfamiliar people. More girls smile at me. I have stronger relationships with my professors. I feel that people are more intrigued by me, more interested in getting to know me. Granted, my shyness still shields me from being the life of a party--- or even a guy who can dominate an initial conversation, for that matter--- but I sense that fewer people misinterpret my shyness for aloofness or conceit. If I feel that people are more attracted to me while perceiving my shyness for shyness, do I feel that people are attracted to me because they see me as more genuine?

This evening I headed over to Alehouse to take in a Big Red and some friendly atmosphere. Normally my tab comes to $11.44: $6.95 for a Big Red, $0.49 tax, and a 54% tip for Chas.

(Does any server deserve a 54% tip? Probably not, but Chas is no longer our server; she is a friend. I miss her when she's not working on a night I go to Alehouse, and she genuinely misses us when we leave for over a week. I know that she cried when her daughter left for the first day of kindergarten this year, that they just moved into their first house, that she cannot decide if her favorite color is blue or green, that with the thousands of Big Reds she has delivered us she has never had one, that she has a passion for acupuncture. Chas is simple but sincere and always knows she can have the cherry that comes on our Captain Jacko's dessert.)

Today's bill was much higher. Not because Chas decided to charge me for mountain dew or extra hot sauce, but rather because I picked up the tab of someone else. Earlier in the evening a bet was placed inside the Chi Omega house. We were serving shrimp scampi, and Caroline had sloshed the treys with far too much scampi butter; arteries clogged with congealing fat cells at the mere sight of angel hair swimming in this pool of lard. As a joke, I offered someone--- whose name shall remain anonymous--- a free ticket when we went to Alehouse. All he had to do was drink a glass of the scampi butter. Who would dare sign his own death certificate in this manner? Apparently, a hungry college student who is offered a free meal. Without hesitation, he filled a glass two-thirds of the way with the garlic-infested fat and drank his way to a free dinner--- and closer to triple bypass surgery.

These stories may not be the most outrageous or luring of tales. They may not cement themselves in your memory after tonight. But for now, they are intriguing, genuine, and likeable, yes?

a long time: a time in which focus is lost

When I was in high school, I generally liked only girls that were at least my age. The girls my age, however, liked the guys that were older than I was, someone who could grow decent facial hair or buy a pack of cigarettes. When my high school friends dated guys in college, I never thought they were cool for doing so. Rather, I thought the guys were pathetic for dating a high schooler.

I have been in college for three years now, and everything remains exactly the same.

One half pound of sliced and diced chicken
One packet of red curry
One can of coconut milk

On a medium-low heat, pour half the can of coconut milk into a stir-fry pan. Immediately mix the curry into the milk. Continue to mix until some of the oils appears atop the blend. Add the chicken to the mix, allowing the meat to fully cook in the curry, which should happen over 10-15 minutes. When the meat is fully cooked, add the second half of the coconut milk to the mix. Keep the melange of flavors on the stove just enough for the coconut milk to warm to the temperature desired for eating. Pour in a large bowl, adding red pepper for spice. Serve by a bed of rice (by the way, make one cup of rice along with this dish).

The simple steps to making my new favorite food: Panang. Preparing this dish for your favorite Italarican would be a true testament to your benevolence.

Still alive... have a trophy... third in race... feet throbbing... thighs aching... heart pounding... chin up high.

This may be my final entry.

Tomorrow my alarm clock will pierce through my deep state of unconciousness at 7:00 am. After I wipe the morning gunk from my eyes I will shower, get dressed, eat breakfast, stretch out, and drive to campus. I'll give some frat guy a fifteen dollar check and continue to stretch and contemplate my life. I'll probably say it was a nice run, these twenty years, and think about the things I've been able to do. Then I'll get in position to fight for my life.

That's because tomorrow morning I am running a 5K.

5K, five thousand feet, a little over three miles. Five thousand feet is a walk in the park--- maybe literally--- for Phil, my friend Ben's roommate who is a UF track star. Five thousand feet is practice on the stopwatch for Ben, who runs almost daily and talked me into this battle. Five thousand feet could be fatal for the author of a certain weblog, someone whose last organized run was when Coach Jones timed his eigth grade class in the (one) mile run, someone who prepared today for his run by sitting on his butt studying and making an orgasmic dinner that contained about 400% of the typical daily saturated fat content, someone who is typing on his computer at 11:45 pm instead of sleeping and dreaming that God will turn off his alarm and spare him the emabarrasment of having to wring his sleeves of perspiration after walking to the track.

But at least I will cure sickle cell anemia. And if I survive, I'll continue to write.

Men essentially have four choices in the matter, though two choices are more obvious/popular than the others. Back at the 1992 Rock the Vote, some girl asked Bill Clinton about his personal preference in this issue. People can be judged, possibly ridiculed, based on choosing a certain option. Over the past week, I have experimented with all four options, all my passersby and friends blind to the study. Like most studies, each variable had its postives and negatives, but will I ultimately select one above the rest? The four options:

Choice 1: Tighty Whities
History: During the first nineteen years of my life, and especially up to age seventeen, I had a dresser drawer full of briefs. Everyday I woke up wearing briefs, put a new pair of briefs on after every shower, and wore my briefs every night in bed. Over the last year the briefs have been phased out, though I occaisionally still wear them, as I did today.
Positives: Provide security, never tangle with other items of clothing, pants come on easily over them, prevalent use gives them a "natural" feel.
Negatives: Can be constricting, embarrassing to be caught in, attatched stigma, front flap very hard to use, cannot wear variety of designs after age 5.
Overview: If briefs were thought of as cool and sexy, maybe I never would have flirted with other styles. I may still use them but would hide this fact to avoid ridicule.

Choice 2: Boxers
History: I got my first pair of boxers sometime in middle school, but I hated them. The extra room felt spooky and uncomfortable, as if my cozy townhouse had been replaced by a haunted mansion filled with chills and echoes. I casually used boxers starting my junior year of high school, mostly when I dressed up; the bagginess was more tolerable in soft dress pants. While I increased my use of boxers sophomore year, they have never been the staple of my dresser drawer.
Positives: Ample breathing room, variety of designs, appeal to girls (so I hear), comfort when pant-less.
Negatives: Can bunch up when getting dressed/walking/doing any type of moving, little security, clash with gym shorts, have to see guys try to be cool by sagging their board shorts and revealing their boxers.
Overview: For some reason, this is the least appealing option. While boxers can give me the illusion of freedom, I never quite forget they are there because they bunch up. A fine item to sleep in and perhaps the coolest option to claim I use.

Choice 3: Boxer-briefs
History: I began to wonder whether I could get what I like from briefs without the stigma. Out of sheer curiosity, I bought my first pairs of boxer-briefs this summer, and they have been the most prevalent in my rotation ever since.
Positives: Security, fit easily under clothing, attractive, come in sleek colors, provide steady air flow, comfortable with virtually all styles of clothing.
Negatives: Tend to stretch out over the day (thus providing inconsistent results), can ride up thighs, considered a cop-out from briefs for those without enough machismo to strut in boxers.
Overview: All in all, boxer-briefs incorporate most of the strengths of boxers and briefs to provide a happy medium. They will hold the dominant corner of my dresser. However, intrigue brought forth a forgotten option...

Choice 4: Going Commando (!)
History: Most of us have tried it in small doses, but a Seinfeld episode--- the one where Kramer decides to abandon underwear--- gave me the motivation to experience the Kramer life. My unsuspecting friends did not realize I went half of last week without wearing a single undergarment!
Positives: Spaciousness, sense of power and mystery, quicker getting dressed/undressed, save money on fewer clothes, plenty of breathing room.
Negatives: Idea that one thin strip of pants cloth separates you from the rest of the world, too much motion, stigma of a sex-hog, one "pantsing" away from indecent exposure, must use extra extra care after peeing, zipper snips.
Overview: I'm gonna be honest here: I enjoyed the commando experince, expecially when playing sports in gym shorts. Going commando has its personal advantages but also has the potential for disaster. Would I dare incorporate this into my normal repertoire?

... ... ... ... ...

... ... ... ... ...

... ... ... ... ...

(Anthony surrounds himself with a mysterious aura as he keeps his decision secret.)

My roommates walked through the front door and stopped in front of my room. Apparently something has happened, I thought. Dave quietly spoke the next words: "You need to come outside. You'll never believe who's waiting for us at the front door." He could only be referring to Toad Seefus, who we assumed perished after our videotaped feeding several weeks ago. I maintained my composure, partly because I did not believe my roommates and partly because if the story were true, if our apartment pet had indeed returned from hibernation and awaited more moths, I did not want to frighten him with my inner excitement. I creeped closer and closer to the door anticipating disappointment, to find our hallway barren of any life. More and more of the hallway was revealed as I slowly creaked open the front door. On my left sat a still, brown amphibian looking straight into my eyes. After fifteen seconds of anticipation, I knew exactly what to say upon this sight:

"That's not our toad."

This creature that sat in our hallway was a smaller, browner imposter. We can see the tiniest details when what we are looking at has a more personal attatchment. Some people have trouble distinguishing between my mom and her twin sister, but I could never confuse my mom for my aunt. At the same time, I went through elementary, middle, high school with the Iversen twins--- acquaintances but never friends--- without ever being able to definitely distinguish between the two. Most people see a toad as a toad, every toad the same as his neighbor toad. I was one of those people until Toad Seefus first propped himself near our door. Now I know, and I still wait for the real Toad Seefus. No imposters allowed.

So this is how things have to look for now. You would think that I could easily find a program on my computer which would allow me to simply edit the text of my header while maintaining the color background. I must be stupid because through all my bumbling around, I cannot phase out this bland white for the more attractive burgundy background. One hour later I have lost precious reading time. Just avert your eyes. Besides, I enjoy my blooger for the words inside, not the pretty pictures.

This afternoon the invisible lightbulb flashed above my head, and I had motivation to tell a story on my blooger. Unfortunately 250 pages of Corrections reading blocked my will. Nevertheless, I jotted (?) down some notes so when the appropriate time came I would have structure to write. Of course, obstacles can stumble in front of your planned agenda. Among the reasons I will not spend time tonight writing my full entry:

1) One hour of frisbee turned into three.
2) My sister asked if I could figure out some pre-cal for her (I haven't done the math thing for three years, and eventually I figure out the parts she didn't need help on)
3) New Simpsons and Sopranos episodes
4) Still have blending text to stare blindly at read
5) I'm tired
6) I don't feel so great

As a consolation, I've decided to copy the notes I wrote down this afternoon, the notes that were to further motivate me to write a delightful narrative. So here's a story without the, well, story:

Kindergarten: Taekwondo... Black belt at 8... new class Thursdays at 7... Butterfinger commercials... thought that Bart was cool... found out there was TV show with him... same time as Taekwondo... skipped once... mom taped show while at Taekwondo... "pack rat" with video tapes... reuse tapes always fill up b/c don't like to tape over things... kept Simp episodes until ran out of tape... started new one... tradition started... almost every Simp episode on tape... tonight new episode is on tape 24... quotes... tape on when I go to sleep... my little weird collection

Got it?

I don't know whom I am apologizing to, but I'm sorry that:

1) For the last week I've written no more than 2 lines at a time.
2) When I feel the desire to write down my thoughts, other activities and tasks occupy my time.
3) I can be vague and brief with points that should be given more detail.
4) When I have time to sit at my computer and type my mind is too tired to develop a solid thought.

Halloween came a day later this year...

Had a wild time as Clarence Botox V at Reeser's party. Had a wilder time as Little CiCi at Huddle House!

Probably a year had passed since I last saw Kelly. She looked a little different--- her hair was grown out to her shoulders and free of those blonde highlights--- but the North Carolina twang could come from nobody else except Kelly. After a share of smiles, a pair of exclaimed hey's, and a hearty hug, we were able to share an encouraging moment because we had both experienced a similar cleansing and sense of clarity and relief in the past week. To feel this rush is comforting; to share it with someone who can relate from a similar experience is exhilarating.

I'm hoping this high in my life is a new level in my journey and not a temporary visit. There's a bit more paint in the sky.

The phrase "shout out" is for giddy teen girls on TRL, not for comments on journal entries. Does anyone know how to change the phrase on my comments link? If you do, give me a "shout out."

A brief list of pros and cons of my weekend at home, a get-away so pleasant that the pros should clearly outweigh the cons:

Pro: Time froze for a weekend.

Con: Dark skies and rain muddied the colors of Pensacola.

Pro: After calling my dad to tell him I had arrived home safely, he urges me to come visit him at work promptly, not because he had to show me something, not because he needed me to do some errands, but because he wanted to see me, hug me, and talk to me.

Pro: My internal camcorder records the scene of my family, Aunt Neomi, Grandma, and new-to-Pensacola cousins Milton and Jackie in my Aunt's kitchen. Everyone is pleading with my dad and sister to sing for us, and the pleading turns into roars until the finally comply. Family sitting in silence while other members belt out song for there genetically connected audience compels me to turn my head and search for the HBO cameramen.

Con: The freshest of curry carries even more potency than the fires of hell. Attempting to handle the third level of curry at my Thai restaurant, I sense that this curry could be more like the ultimate fifth level of spice. My throat attempts to shut down, my eyelids go into spasm, and I can barely breathe from the suffocating spice. To top it off, I brush the bottom of my nose with my fingers, which still had curry on them. My burning nostril feels as though it is eroding for a half hour.

Pro: Haley and I engage in friendly, warming, and deep conversation. Never does a moment pass where my stomach turns queasy or my heart pounds against my rib cage. We are completely comfortable together; we are completely over each other; we are completely solid friends. As I repeatedly declared to myself and to Haley, "Wow, we did it!"

Con: After confirming I am over Haley, I realize I am truly single and can no longer consider myself as someone who isn't dating because he just got out of a relationship (granted, I went on a few dates with one girl this semester, but I still wasn't quite ready to date at that point). While I don't miss having Haley as my girlfriend, I do miss having a girlfriend.

Pro: My thespian buddy Andrew manages to escape his hectic schedule just long enough to have an Italian lunch with me and the family.

Pro: My mom always has love and sincerity in her eyes when she looks at me, but it practically oozes out her pores when she's thanking me for being home for her birthday (Happy Birthday Mom! Sorry I can't be there tomorrow.).

Con: Some people from my high school days may have completed twelfth grade, but they still haven't "graduated" from high school.

Pro: I return to Pensacola to a healthy group of friends and family that love me. We are all making our own distinct pathways in life, but we can still get together for a weekend and show each other how invaluable our bond remains.

We did it, Haley! We're ex-loves who have maintained a genuine friendship without any awkwardness. This friendship is one of the best gifts I could ask for, partly because it's with you, and partly because people say it can't be done. We did it... we went from friends to something more, and when that ended, we preserved the basis for our whole relationship: the friendship. Wow, we did it!

They call tomorrow Homecoming, so I'm coming home.

Home is where my family guided me and raised me to share myself with the world.

Home is where my cousin Milton and his fiancee Jaqueline now live as of today. A few rough years have motivated them to escape the Bronx and be closer to family that loves them.

Home is where I lust on Panang, the best Thai food in the world.

Home is where the high schoolers look younger and less familiar. By now, I will only recognize the occasional senior who would have been a freshmen when I graduated.

Home is where I get to see Haley again. I can't wait to see the girl I once loved, give her a great big hug and kiss (on the cheek), and just talk and talk with a dear friend.

Home is where my old schoolmates show me their new lives. No one is the same. The ones that appear the same are merely depressed shells of their former self.

Home is where my good friends and family show me that even when away, those who truly love you don't change; they merely evolve.

This weekend I'll be at home.

Sunday afternoon I created Effin Tunes 9: Toad Seefus. My latest compilation disc's subtitle refers to our beloved toad who used to greet us at our front door and lick his chops when we'd catch a moth for him. About three weeks ago we videotaped a battle between Toad Seefus and some creature we caught for him. The beast looked like he was part dragonfly, part hornet, and he was about the same size as our toad. Nevertheless, we thought Toad Seefus (aka Toad Diddley and Jack Toad) could handle the challenge, and fifteen minutes of gut-wrenching action later, Toad Seefeus had ingested the entire creature. We have not seen our beloved toad since that night, however, and fear he may not have survived the battle. If you're reading this, Toad Seefus, you can come back home. Anthony, Mason, and Dave will feed you whatever your little snap-action tongue desires.

My compilation discs might as well be called complementing discs for how well they complement where I am in my life, and Effin Tunes 9 is no exception. In August, Effin Tunes 7 reflected my sadness to have finally lost Haley after months of attempted salvation (hence the intro of Bill Withers's "Ain't no Sunshine (when she's gone)") but pointed to an optimism that came with returning to Gainesville for school (hence the finale of Sarah McLaughlin's cover of "Blackbird," which includes the line, "take these broken wings and learn to fly"). One month later Effin Tunes 8 consisted of hard-edged rock and fast-paced tunes to signify the enjoyable chaos that comes with that first month back at college. The disc is more alternative radio-friendly, which means lots of fun but perhaps a slight lacking in substance.

Effin Tunes 9 is packed with substance when compared to more recent complementing discs. Once again situated inside the acedemic barriers of UF, I'm in a more intellectual state. I'm striving to put my career prospects in order, discover what I want to do in life, discover what I want to be in life, and with dedicating time to myself I'm putting things in a better perspective. Effin Tunes 9 does not have a clearly visible motive, as neither do I quite yet, but it, like me, is filled with potential by holding deep thoughts about all sorts of aspects on life, from how exciting it can feel to realize you truly are alive (Radiohead's "Airbag") to accepting that we sometimes crave the sinful (Rufus Wainwright's "Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk").

Will I play these cd's years down the road and be able to recall the feelings I was going through? Will my fiancee listen to my past and feel she knows me better than ever? Will my children rummage through the attic to find an old, dusty compact disc player and listen to my "oldies"? I started these discs to have music while I drove. Now, the good ones have the same purpose a good blooger has: to reillustrate some highlights from my existence.

In the next world war
in a jack knifed juggernaut,
I am born again.

In the neon sign,
scrolling up and down,
I am born again.

In an interstellar burst,
I am back to save the universe.

In a deep deep sleep,
of the innocent,
I am born again.

In a fast German car,
I'm amazed that I survived,
an airbag saved my life.

In an interstellar burst,
I am back to save the universe.

---"Airbag" by Radiohead

At ten o' clock tonight I returned to my apartment after finally finishing class for the day. I had to open that blue book one more time to make sure Professor Fondacaro had not made a mistake on my practice exam. Last week in Criminal Law we were given 75 minutes to analyze a case and break each element down into a four page legal analysis, hard-core junk when compared to my usual multiple choice, fill-in-the-blank exams. This paper had no effect on our grade but instead prepared us for the essay that actually did count for 50% of our grade. Two exams, two essays, two grades, 50% each, zero pressure at all, right?

As I expected, the seventy-five minutes crunched on my style a bit. My writing takes time to develop. The first words come out very slowly and infrequently until I can reach a momentum to propel me into a comfortable mode of transfering my thoughts onto paper/computer. When the countdown for our essay began, I kept my composure, steadily read through the case, jotted some notes for prewriting, outlined my paper, and wrote the first word... about fifteen minutes later. The first students were walking down the aisles and handing in their blue books as I was just feeling the gears accelerating in my brain. The deadline came closer and closer, and my paragraphs shrunk further and further into two-line snippets. I turned in my report unsure of how someone with a PhD and JD would care for my work. After reveiwing the model answer, I left feeling slightly more assured of myself, though I did forget to address the fact of whether or not the place burglarized in the case qualified as a "building" under statute (you have to be incredibly precise).

Tonight Dr. Fondacaro returned our papers and said to read the criticisms that would help us on the real exam. He also said the grades were on a grade-point scale, with 2.0 being a solid C and 4.0 being a solid A. I came home tonight with a little kick in my step, my shoulders a bit higher, my nose trying to stay relatively even with the ground as to avoid completely inflating my own ego. I went to my room, and read the criticism so that I definitely knew what he thought:

"Talk about the (mens rea) in the discussion of the issue. You could also use a few more facts, but overall this is an incredible job. You have a real knack for legal analysis, Anthony. Very impressive. 4.0"

So why am I boasting about all this? Why do I openly commend myself doing well on a test when getting an A is a regular occurence at all schools? Sometimes I hit myself too hard over the head. Whether I fail to dedicate enough time to my studies, catch myself sitting on the bus while a girl with a heavy bag is standing in the aisle, or flash only a shallow smile when a girl at Chi-O asks for more bread, I bring myself to the corner and chastize my laziness... my inconsideration... my aloofness. I, like many of my friends, are at a crossroads in life where I'm trying to decide what direction my road will follow. The only certainty I seek is this: I must be a better person. I cannot stay stagnant and certainly should not digress. I must find ways to improve myself and, in turn, my world. Of course, I have no clue as to how I will do that, but bombarding myself with criticism and counting my flaws will not make me a better person unless I do so in a positive light. There are appropriate times to criticize yourself, just as there are appropriate times to pat yourself on the back. I must remember that not all of self-improvement comes on finding flaws; sometimes you must acknowledge your strengths. Tonight I wanted to reward myself and (super)conciously remind myself that I'm not all bad.

I'm glad I took time to write tonight. My blooger has been depleted with trivial two-line tidbits as of late without any effort or thought under the surface. I was desparate to find some sort of substance in my thoughts that I gave myself a note to write about a thought brewing in my head last night. Of course, Father Time made me sleepy and robbed me of my will to write. Inspiration revolves around every level of writing. A writer must be inspired to fully release his thoughts and emotions onto the page, and a reader must be inspired with some sort of emotional response in order for the words to be truly heard. I'm no longer inspired to write about Columbus Day; Italtian-American pride day has come and faded into the calendar. As for my sister, I'm immensley proud--- almost in awe of her. With the track she's following, I'm sure she will once again do something that amazes. With the right timing, maybe I can use that inspiration to write once more.

Where is the detail? Where is the depth? Where is the substance?

Perhaps if I write it, I may be compelled to follow it... note to self: after class tomorrow night, study Research Methods and then go to your blooger. There, polish your inner thoughts connecting Columbus Day and your sister and present them in electronic journal mode.

Before the Florida-LSU game, we discussed using a coupon for Domino's Pizza after the game for free cheesy bread "When the Gators beat LSU."

During the Florida-LSU game, we joked and wielded out the sarcasm to relieve ourselves of the pain.

After the Florida-LSU game, we burned frankincense and myrrh in our Zook shrine and pleaded with our leader to release us from the misery that has become Gator football.

Sometimes the thoughts come into my mind, but they fail to impact me. That is, until someone sets them in writing for me. Thank you, Elizabeth.

In conclusion, women express a more compassionate attitude toward criminal offenders that would indicate support for a rehabilitative model of crime policy.

Thank you. I can go to bed now.

They're an odd bunch, those folks at Country Village.

If my living buddies and I were to have our front door open, our daily lives at full display, here are some moments you might have caught:

1) One of us beating up a football, punching the pigskin with all our might and finally slamming its "head" into the ground
2) One of us stepping in a circular motion atop an empty water jug, while another chugs from his still full jug in envy
3) One of us trying to slap the other one's chest, while the other is pointing a pocket knife toward his attacker
4) All of us crowded around the patio window staring at the second bird to crash into our window and break its neck
5) One of us shaking our hips from east to west, executing the official apartment greeting
6) One of us burning our happy trails with the lighter
7) One of us checking on our captured lizard to make sure he's alive, the lizard we made a booby trap for and hope to feed to Toad Diddley whenever he returns
8) One of us pulling out robo-mullet and gawking like a boy from Spiddle County
9) One of us pouring lemon juice into his water
10) All of us playing cards on the dining room table while blasting Motown through the living room speakers
11) Two of us reciting scenes from "American Movie" while the other pulls out a meat cleaver
12) One of us yelling at the other in a Grandpa Murphy from Spiddle County voice
13) All of us doing nothing

Sports serve as entertainment. Fast action, physical dominance, intriguing storylines, fierce rivalries, relentless determination, and amazing outcomes can all cloud the fact that sports are games, broadcasted on the same television that shows your favorite sitcom. They may be fun to watch and track, but they are not life. I must especially tell this to myself on a Saturday when I just basically lost two sports for the rest of their respective seasons.

Why I lost college football: The Gators lost to one of the few teams they had a chance of dominating, Ole Miss, by a score of 17-14. The loss is our school's second, a rarity to experience by early Octobr, and the rest of the season looks bleak.

Why I lost baseball: When I say baseball, I only refer to the Yankees. If the Yankees aren't playing, I don't care. The Yankees won't play anymore this season. I won't watch anymore this season.

So, with college football done, baseball over, and no good boxing this month, I can do one of two things: (1) get excited about the NFL or (2) get a life.

...

I'll get back to you.

Scores from the Putt Putt Open at the final major ever to be played at the closing Putt Putt Entertainment Center:

Anthony (Phil Mickelson): 51 (+15)
Jamey (Tigger): 58 (+22)
Nathan (The Shark): 55 (+19)

Though almost choking in Mickleson fashion, Phil Mickelson wins his first major! Sadly, Gainesville no longer has room for miniature golf. I'm sure this town needs something more in the college mold. Maybe we can get another restaurant that serves buffalo wings and chicken fingers or a place that serves beer rather than slurpees. After all, we don't have enough places in that atmosphere. There's little room in a college town to be a carefree youth, even for one night.

I can't wait until the toad comes back!

Three guys.
Spotted outside apartment door.
Reunited.
The Toad.
Many names.
Toad Seefus, Toad Diddley, Jack Toad.
Feedings from Friday.
Gobbled moths, beetles, dragonflies.
Delight to the guys.
Toad fulfilled.
Leaves.
Guys in dismay.
Until now.
Toad back.
Videocamera.
Frozen memories.
Quest for insects.
New grub.
Toad hungry no longer.
Gargantuan bug.
Size of Toad Diddley.
Ultimate test.
Minutes of struggle.
In mouth, then regurgitated, then back in mouth.
Swelling body.
Bug inside Jack Toad.
Permanent.
Willful toad.
Accomplished toad.
High-fives around.
Celebratory guys.
Farewell, Toad Seefus.
Back into apartment.
Tape of action tonight.
Forever secured.
Toad.

This was the night I said I would get to sleep early. I told my friend that after work I would go home, read my Criminal Law casebook, and get some good sleep, in bed by 11. Instead, the night featured Tweet Sampras (the bird we found dead on our patio), games of Oh Hell, a meat cleaver, underwear time, Simpsons watching, and a mini torch.

(The author now allows you to ponder the various manners in which the mentioned elements could co-exist in one flowing Monday night.)

Well, this is earlier than normal bed time. That amounts for something, yes?

Haley and I have been apart long enough for our feelings, experiences, and lessons from our relationship to be put into perspective. We're now comfortable to talk to each other about exactly that: what we gave each other, what we learned, and how we became more mature, loving people. We've recently shared deep thought with each other to discover we essentially value the same things from our long-distance relationship. One of the blessings Haley touched upon me when we first dated--- and what made me realize how special she would become in my life--- was that she filled me with so much joy that I not only wanted to be a better person to her, but I wanted to be a better person to everybody. She held me up to a higher cloud of happiness than where I had started, and I never wanted to settle for anything less. My life is at a more polished, more blissful level than ever before this year. She willed me to fight more vigorously during any struggle; to persevere even when failure seems to doom every effort; to love my friends, my family, and my God in more meaningful ways. I thank her not only for what she gave me, but for her thanking me as well. To touch someone like that is to serve a fulfilling purpose. Haley has given me feelings, experiences, and lessons I will eventually share with my true love, the woman I'm supposed to love for all time. At that point, everything should be in place. The future seems like a bright, astonishing skyline. Two words we've shared with each other, two words that sum up our sentiment for our relationship: Thank you.

Whew, can someone explain this dream to me?

First, I must warn that my dreams are very choppy, almost as though they are merely snippets of various scenarios. Rarely do they have a conclusion. Rather, each theme is swiftly thrown in place of another.

I'm waiting for the #12 bus, but I'm not in Gainesville, but rather Atlanta. I know it was Atlanta because I recognized a mall that I had been to when my family and I stayed for a weekend in Georgia ten years ago. This short pudgy guy tells me that today in order for me to get to my apartment, I'll have to take the #30 at this stop, then the #2, the #7, and finally the #12. I get on the #30, and the bus driver looks and sounds like Otto from the Simpsons. He zooms me straight to the #7 stop. I say thanks, leave him a tip, and get off the bus, but now I'm in South Africa. My South African buddy Mike is there, and he's telling me about this concert I should go to; I think the band was called The Flaming Cherries or something. I run across the street, and now I'm in Atlanta again. I have to crawl through a sewer to get to the bus stop for the #12. I get out, and I need to cross the street again---

Bam, I'm in a big house that looks like a sports bar. Florida is playing Florida State in the BCS championship game. FSU returns the kickoff for a touchdown. Someone jumps straight on top of the big screen and yells, "What the hell?!?" It's some kid I kind of recognize. I think he went to my high school, but I have never talked to him. At the end of the first quarter, it's the Seminoles 28, the Gators 24. I'm sitting on some inflatable furniture, and now I'm decked out in a tuxedo and top hat. Joe Pantoliano, the guy who plays Ralphie on The Sopranos, is fighting with my mom and my aunt. They're yelling about something, and then he threatens to kill himself. He goes to the kitchen, takes out a steak knife, and thrusts it in his chest. When he takes it out, there's a huge steak on the knife. He starts laughing, and my aunt's boyfriend does a cartwheel. Suddenly, it's midway through the third quarter, and it's the Seminoles 93, the Gators 80. My roommate Dave yells, "Coach Zook sucks!" I turn around---

Bam, I'm in some sort of heavily wallpapered room. Professor Fondacaro recommends that I take Psychology for Italians, but before I do, I should make sure that my throat feels better.

And that's when I wake up.

On my eighteenth birthday, my dad gave me a card, and in it he wrote something so simple yet so poignant: "Not only do I love you, but I like you too." Today my dad hit the half-century mark, celebrating his fiftieth birthday. On his special day I could bond with him from across the phone line (Actually there is no phone line for a cell phone, is there?), but I could tell he was genuinely happy and enjoying September 24th with the small group of people he loves on this Earth. My dad is a wonderful guy. I hope I can live up to the last name. He's a man I not only love, but I like.

On the latest episode of The Sopranos, Meadow attacks her mom for not understanding the stress her life is filled with. While listing her pressures she mentioned, "Try taking 12 credits for two semesters! I deserved a summer!" Meadow has complained about the hardships of being a young student many times before, and each time my friends and I ridicule her for complaining about overblown quandries we handle every day. The thing is, though, I sometimes whine like Meadow.

I'm about to go to bed because I need some sleep after a busy half-week. I was going to come on here and type in my blooger about how busy I've been with school, how much time it took to do all this studying, how much energy I used to write my papers, how much I loathed sitting in my bed reading and writing when I could have been sleeping trying to get rid of this cold, how I should get a cookie for my efforts. I asked myself who I would be complaining to: myself? my college friends who do as much work as I do, many with even busier schedules? My friends face many tough tasks these next few weeks. They can relate, but they don't complain. I'll try to refrain from bickering about my schedule. I don't want to be like Meadow. After all, I was well aware of what I had in store this semester. Student: the job description is in the title.

No longer sick of studying...
just sick AND studying...

At the risk of revealing myself as an ignorant, lazy youth... studying sucks. When did I develop this dread for opening the school book? In high school I went through the motions because I didn't know what I wanted. I was a smart kid, my teachers gave me good grades, I enjoyed earning the highest grade in the class, so I continued to study without question. I only needed two weeks of college to see that with a world of opportunities ahead of me, I should discover my passion, what I could generate a rush from when I studied. Psychology I loved. Criminology I loved. Chemistry I loathed. And with a new purpose for studying--- to digest the tools I would need to excel in my beloved fields--- I dedicated study time to Psychology and Criminology (as well as Philosophy) and abandoned Chemistry. When an exam in Chemistry would near, I would cram enough facts in my brain to remember the best answers come test time, but I could not concentrate during that study time. For the first time since my elementary school days, my transcript showed a class in which I had received less than an A on. Instead, a big C+ stood beside the code CHM2045, a C+ I earned.

Ever since I turned my back on Chemistry, I struggle to focus in classes that don't elicit any excitement for me. Tomorrow I have my first exam of the semester, in Research Methods of Criminology. Our class time thus far has concentrated on tools for conducting research and statistical analysis, two concepts that don't exactly tickle my excitement bone (whew, that's bad!). The material should be simple enough for me to master between now and tomorrow afternoon, but here I am, writing in my blooger rather than studying. I've done many things this evening to distract myself from reading that dull textbook. I've checked the mail, balanced my checkbook, stared at the wall and thought about girls (the good and bad), read other bloogers, and created new away messages, among other trivial activities. The most recent away message I wrote, the one that's active on AIM as I write, depicts my confusion at what I saw in my kitchen. Here's what I wrote (notice that my going to the kitchen, my writing the away message, and my redistributing the message here all help me abstain from studying):

"Ok, so in another effort to avoid studying for tomorrow's exam, I went into the kitchen to get a caffeine drink. When I get there, I see my roommate Mason standing there with a cup with ice and an open bottle of lemon juice. I stare at him, at the cup, at the lemon juice hoping to find a rational reason for this scene. I can't find one, so I keep staring at Mason, desparate for an answer. He gives me one:
"That's the way I like it."
Now I'm more puzzled than ever."

On a side note, Mason later gave me another explanation, which puzzled me even further: "I don't like the way the water tastes from our tap." To quote Lewis Black, "Don't think about that statement for more than three minutes, or blood will shoot out your ears." I won't because I need to study. I would like to overcome this rut I'm in for only studying when the subject interests me. Right now I'm a student, and I want to fill the role as I'm supposed to.

I could say, "I wanted to write, but I just couldn't think of what to say." I'd rather say, "I couldn't think of what to say, but I just wanted to write."

Woo-hoo! The Sopranos are back!

As the frail kicker thrusted his foot through the football, the crowd hushed in a frozen moment. The pigskin sailed in the air. It glided, and glided, and continued to soar until it pierced through the uprights. The Ohio University Bobcats had accumulated a 3-0 lead over the University of Florida Gators, and suddenly a massive cloud of despair beared over Ben Hill Griffin Stadium. Thunder and lightning cursed the field, the rain poured unrelentlessly, the Earth cracked along its axes, pigs flew through the gray skies ever so majestically, and Satan himself penetrated through the soggy mud and pelted the shocked specators with snowballs from his recently frozen-over hell. The witnesses fled in fear and misery for protection under the outer barracades of the stadium ramps. Some maintained their loyalties and eventually faced the aftermath at the Swamp, while others surrendered to the fear and escaped from the grasps of the stadium and abandoned their beloved Gator football.

So there I sat, in the passenger seat of Ben's car as he drove me home after our three minutes at the football game. Tropical storm Hanna added to the already dreary conditions of this evening's game: facing a team we were expected to dominate in a boring manner, coming from a blowout loss early in the year, then actually falling behind a team that up to that point had failed to score a single point the entire season! I saw a tree uprooted and crash-landed into my apartment complex. The tree now rested in the apartment directly above mine. I rushed into Dave's room to see if he had any damage, and although it appeared conditions were safe at the time, we are discovering slight moisture to the ceiling. But not even a tropical storm and a tree in the roof could subside the eccentric activities of a social in the house of Dave, Mason, and Anthony...

Yes, even with the rain, the wind, and the debris floating around, Mason flipped the generic-brand beef patties that were flaming on the grill. Dave and Mason buy these cheap frozen meat discs for burgers because they like to grill often and these are dirt cheap. Flanders brand frozen beef patties cost $3.99 for a pack of 20 quarter-pound slabs that consist of beef, water, and beef hearts (yeah, I just read the ingredients tonight, and that beef heart thing hit me from out of nowhere). The living room was filled with a well-balanced dude-to-lady ratio. All the attendants were invitees of Dave and Mason. For some reason, I could not get myself to pick up the phone and persuade someone I call a friend to come barbeque in a thunder storm. The evening ended with Dave, Mason, Maria, and I playing this card game Dave calls, "Oh Hell." Oh Hell is essentially spades, except every man works solo, and the trump card is randomly determined by whichever suit appears on the top card. After twenty rounds points are accumulated to determine a winner. I'm not going to lie: at the beginning of the game, I was majorly sucking. Everyone had at least twice as many points as I did, and I could never correctly guess how many tricks I would win. To give you an idea of how pathetically I started, here were the scores as of Round Seven:

Maria: 58, Mason: 46, Dave: 39, Anthony: 16

Nevertheless, something inside me (probably my ego) compelled me to boast aloud, "I'm not going to come in last when this is all over. I hope you all know that. I'm just stating fact here. Someone will come in last, and I guarantee it will not be me." My playing backed my snobby mouth, as I grabbed my shovel and did what most people would have claimed to be impossible: I dug myself out of a hole. My ego forbid me to admit defeat, and after twenty rounds were dealt and played, here were the final tallies:

Maria: 154, Mason: 141, Dave: 133, Anthony: 142

The ancestor of the game had ended at the bottom, while my Joe Namath-esque bantering propelled me to runner-up spot. Hey, I didn't finish atop the entire crowd, but my hat goes off to Maria; she is a true competitor.

A mere glance out any Gainesville window today could have told you that today would be one of those days where nothing productive would develop, one of those days where the clock has barely touched evening and you're ready to call it a day. And yeah, I could have done more productive things during my Saturday: I could have completed reading assignements for my classes; I could have practiced my saxophone; I could have worked out and toned my gut abs; I could have balanced my checkbook; I could have finished those e-mails that should have been long sent; I could have fixed my car...

but I look at what I would have deprived myself from, and I know I chose the best path for this partiular Saturday.

A little boy, all too excited and confused at the world around him. Wants to tackle everything at once, but at the same time focus on one thing at hand. Question is: does he really want what could be inside that chest, or should he just continue to reacquaint himself with these old surroundings until he knows what is best for him? Either way, the boy plays and smiles. And others can see him. And they smile as well.

The first anniversary. We all share together, we all remember together, we all live together. We stayed strong then, we stay strong now, we stay strong always. In God we trust as He blesses our incredible nation. Great love blossoms from great hate. We'll keep the event forever, as well as the disguised blessings from which we profit.
United forever,
America

A sample from tonight's reading for my Criminal Law seminar:

"... Imagine that after committing a brutal rape but before sentencing the defendant has gotten into an accident so that his sexual desires are dampened to such an extent that he presents no further danger of rape; if money is also one of his problems, suppose further that he has inherited a great deal of money, so that he no longer needs to rob. Suppose, because of both facts, we are reasonably certain that he does not present a danger of either forcible assault, rape, robbery, or related crimes in the future. Since the rapist is (by hypothesis) not dangerous, he does not need to be incapacitated, specially deterred, or reformed. Suppose further that we could successfully pretend to punish him, instead of actually punishing him, and that no one is at all likely to find out. Our pretending to punish him will thus serve the needs of general deterrence and maintain social cohesion, and the cost to the state will be less than if it actually did punish him. Is there anything... that would urge that the rapist nonetheless should really be punished? ... if one's conclusion is that people like him nonetheless should be punished, one will have to give up the mixed theory of punishment..."

The mixed theory of punishment beautifully incorporated a utilitarian belief I had in punishing offenders while taking care of the faults that come from simply aiming to help the greatest good (For example, punishing an innocent man would be acceptable if the public demanded it, for more people would be happy with the man punished than not.). The mixed theory concludes that punishment is justified if and only if it achieves a positive social gain while only geared toward an offender who deserves punishment. Under this theory I've newly discovered and appreciate, I would choose the mirage of punishment and not actually punish the rapist; I am no longer worried about what happened in the past as I am in making a better future for society. If you believe the man should be punished regardless, for the reasons that he committed the rape and every act should be consequenced, then you would follow a theory based on retribution, which focus more on amending past actions rather than promoting the strongest future. Neither view is necessarily right or wrong, with stronger or weaker arguments. The alternatives simply provide more background as to how you believe we should run our society when an evil threatens the well good of man.

Ok, the Gators lost today. Big. Really big. Here's the away message I displayed on AIM following the game: "In times like this, some people cry in their beds, others go get drunk, and others watch a guy from their hometown smack the crap out of a little English boy!" Thanks to Roy Jones, Jr. and my fifteen peers who barbequed and watched Pensacola's master boxer display his greatness with vicious punches to a British boy's head, I'm recovered from portal to human misery that was today's Florida-Miami game.

This summer my Corrections professor brought in a few people in our field of study to talk to us about their personal encounters with the dangers and troubles of alcohol. This guy named Dana pointed to our desks and said he once sat in the very room we were currently in as a student. He had dreams of law school, a respectable profession, and a firm future. His hopes cracked the instant his windshield cracked, as he stayed slumped in the car he just smashed into a brick wall while driving in a drunken stupor. A DUI conviction quickly interfered with his life's plans, and he struggled with the detours followed to redeem his life. I forget what he does now--- something with the county concerning police work--- but he told us that he learned so much from the incident, and that at a time when we feel invincible we must look deeply within and realize we must make wise decisions, for in a flash dreams worked for can crash into a brick wall. His words were striking, powerful, and convincing. They began an entire class of self-evaluation, and I could see those in the class who often drank carried slumped heads. Dana was no longer ashamed of his mistakes, he said, because that experience led him to a cleaner, stronger life.

Jason picked me up after work at Chi-O this evening, and we drove toward our inevitable destination: the Alehouse. A hug from Chasity, a Big Red we didn't have to verbally order, and some stale french fries that were eventually replaced by our accomodating lady. The crowd at Alehouse was growing by the minute. Apparently, people enjoy standing around tables at sports bars when the NFL season rolls around (I was gonna use a pun like "when the NFL season kicks off... literally!"--- but I decided against it.) I looked over at the group of four guys across from our table. They got loud occasionally, but I guess that's what happens after a few beers. I recognized the guy in the green shirt with the beer in his hand. That guy loved to drink beers a few years ago until he wrecked his car and his college career with a DUI. He had told me that even when we feel invincible, we must reflect on what our actions may lead to, that acting carelessly after a few drinks with the guys is not worth the potential dangers that follow.

I hope he didn't drive. I would like to think he didn't drive. Even if he didn't, those four guys seemed to feel high and mighty, almost invincible. To me, one of them looked weaker than ever.

Just a stupid, vain, wasteful obsession. End this madness!

Stranded on campus. Pleas for a charitable ride home after a 10:00 pm seminar fall upon the robotic ears of an aswering machine. So I walk toward the library. Several students trekking the opposite direction in efforts for public transportation to deliver them to their doorsteps and away from their daily schooling. A girl, face unnoticed, whisks by me. Suddenly, her aroma sends signals through my nose and brain and heart. Thousands of micro-memories flush back into my head. I recognize the scent. That smell is bottled in many department stores. Some girls sample and decline. Others purchase and spray the scent onto their skin each morning. Others rub the scent onto me, onto my face, onto my lips, when they kiss me.

My heart didn't cry this time like it would have weeks ago. Instead I smiled, recalled a few magic moments, felt fortunate that I could store them in such a benficial way, one that won't plague me to yearn for the past, but one that will allow me to appreciate the past as it guides me toward a prosperous future.

So I kept walking. Up the stairs into the isolation chambers of the library. Rushing to read the excerpts from the book I only purchased this afternoon, still possessing that new book smell. Clock speeds up, robs me of time. Class in twenty minutes. Twenty minutes away from three hours of discussion, lecture, and debate. Unprepared, not in the most ignorant sense, but in an unconfident manner. Tis better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to open one's mouth and remove all doubt. Tonight I will probably absorb information rather than disperse. By the end, hopefully I'll have a means to snatch me from my intellectual surroundings and release me back to my peaceful comfort of home.

Excerpt from an e-mail to a friend afar:

...I went over Ben's so we could leave to go to the Ox (that coffeehouse) to study. So we drive down there and I'm noticing there's plenty of parking. Of course, that meant it was closed for Labor Day. So we went to Java Lounge instead. Closed too. So we went down to Starbucks b/c there's no way they're closed. They're not closed... far from it; they're packed mad crazy. No empty tables, no empty seats, and a bunch of people standing up. So we cut our losses and decided to go to Ben's place to study. By this time, he wants a drink but not coffee, so we stop by Checker's and get milkshakes: his vanilla, mine strawberry. We go back to his place and see There's Something About Mary on the television screen. You know about my little thing for Cameron Diaz, so we sit and watch "for a little bit." Basically, we watched the movie, and by the time I finally left we had gotten absolutely nothing done. It kind of reminded me of when you and I drove around for Space Camp and ended up eating ice cream sundaes at a McDonald's 20 minutes from home! You know, I really did enjoy that night. Some people hate when things don't go as planned, and while sometimes the times you'd most like to forget are ones that don't go as planned, I think times when things don't go as planned can also be the most unforgettable highlights of your life. That'll be a night I'll store in memory from this summer, among others...

Enjoy this little test on the consistency of your internal religious beliefs.

My strained voice burned whenever I attempted to yell, screaming as though I could personally distract the opposing quarterback while handling the snap. Gator football under Ron Zook looked quite similar to that of the Steve Spurrier era. Granted, many teams could look invincible after playing the University of Alabama-Birmingham, but our display of power prepares us for next week's showdown against the defending champion Miami Hurricanes. A victory for the orange and blue in that game would call for a night even more crazy and loud than tonight!

By now I'm tired and dehydrated from the craziness of the Gator game and Big Red fun. We'll close tonight the way the Florida Gator fans close the third quarter: singing, "We are the Boys from Old Florida." Sing after me:

We are the boys from old Florida
F-L-O-R-I-D-A
Where the girls are the fairest,
the boys are the squarest
of any old state down our way. (Hey!)
We are all strong for old Florida,
down where the old Gators play. (Go Gators!)
In all kinds of weather,
we'll all stick togetherrrrrrrrrrrr,
for F-L-O-R-I-D-A!!!!!!!!!!!

Still no internet, by the way.

Many things for a twenty-year-old college student to do on a Friday night. Tonight I talked to you. I didn't leave. I talked to you, and you talked to me. Words made my Friday night better than any action could.

I think I'll just stay here.

Cable modem installation unsuccessful = check computer for problems = can't fathom a reason websites won't open on my computer = call Cox Communications for assistance = talk with Richard the technician for 1.5 hours = still have no internet = still have no clue why modem and computer hate each other = will call Cox tomorrow morning = a technician will come and discover that I did something to my computer = he'll take my money I need for books and car = I won't buy my school books or fix my car = I flunk my exams and my car still screams = I flunk my classes and my car scares people = I flunk out of school and my brakes stop working = I have no job and live in my car, which lays lifeless against a telephone pole I crashed into

The last three or four nights have stretched along in consciousness, my body pressed against black pillows and sheets, never finding a position allowing me to relax and submerge into sleep. My brain--- or is it my mind?--- took a sabbatical from the world of academia while in Pensacola and instead fostered on emotional maturity, learning about the deeper layers of love and how to handle the obstacles lain in front of a twenty-year-old child set to become a man. The new (old) atmosphere of schooling thrusts me back into the stage of present dedication and future planning of education. When I turn off my bedroom light the goal is to sleep, but my brain (mind?) activates all its tiny lights and races through these bloated balls of questions and ideas. I wonder when during the day can I schedule time to read for classes; if my choice of courses will help me attain future prosperity in my career; what I can do next summer to maintain momentum before graduate school; whether I should just graduate a semester early or take two part-time semesters next year and look into working in a relevant Gainesville institute such as the courthouse; where in this world graduate school will relocate my life. I should have given more love and attention to the academic part of my brain. He tussled locked in the shell I made for him, and now that I opened that shell, he makes me tussle.

Highlights from the first day of classes:

>>>Sitting at the bus stop for the first time, awaiting the bus, here it comes, here it comes... what's the bus driver doing? He's shaking his hand at me as if to say, "Go away. The bus can hold no more." There it goes. Cross the street back to apartment. "Hey Dave, can you drive me to campus?"
>>>Discovering that my summer course in Corrections gives me an edge over the other suckers students in my History of Corrections class.
>>>Yea, at least the bus will bring me home!
>>>Deciding to order cable modem from Cox rather than get a phone line, saving me about $27/month. Apparently Misty, the operator I spoke to from Bellsouth, goes by the script and just blurts out remarks like an automated teller. Her closing remarks after I cancelled my phone line order: "Thank you for choosing Bellsouth. Have a good day."
>>>Ooh, the bus will pick me up now!
>>>Scoping out the room at my World Musics class. There's this girl on the other side of the room. My eyes have retired for the day on her face. Something about this Asian girl with the school-teacher glasses and the fine clothing just mesmerizes me, as though I'm now in the presence of a fine work of art I've longed to catch a glimpse of my entire life. You better stop staring because she'll eventually catch you and think you're a freak. Why can't I stop staring? Oh crap, she's looking over! Oh crap, eye contact! Oh crap, she just smirked a faint smile this way! Should I strike the nerve to talk to her after class? Wow, I'm just not ready yet. Ok, stop staring now.
>>>First concert I find out I'm supposed to attend for a World Musics paper: the David Benoit Trio. He effin rocks!
>>>No, I'm sorry, miss: I would remember if I had appeared on Guiding Light.
>>>Josh is introducing us servers to the girls of Chi O. Calls out Raphael, check. Mike, check. Brandon, check. Enrique Iglesias, whuh? What's he talking about? Wait a minute, he's pointing toward me! Ok, so now he'll tell them my real name. Chris, check. Wait... he didn't tell the new girls my real name! Now they're all calling me Enrique. My name is--- hmmmmmm---I kind of like it. I mean, if Anna Kournikova likes calling out the name, it must be a keeper.
>>>A crowded table of friends reunited after a summer apart. The Alehouse walls have not moved an inch; they stand exactly as I remember. Hey, there's Chasity (not Chastity), the coolest waitress ever! Hey Chas! Aw, she remembers my order. But not tonight thanks, for this evening would be Monday: All-You-Can-Eat Wings for $6.95. Seven guys share laughs, loads of wings, and eventually all rush out in a race to the their home toilets!

The first day back to school always turns out to be either hectic and stressful or crazy and thrilling. A day like this requires all your energy, cool, and focus. The second day, while for most people comprised of entirely new classes and experiences, never reaches that upper echelon of uncurbed pacing and saved memories. This school year has premiered with the thrills we all hope a new beginning will deliver. The future holds to reveal whether this first day is merely a Monday on my calendar, or whether today serves as an omen for a spectacular year.

I prefer my life evolve in gradual increments rather than staying stagnant or undergoing sudden upheaval. For the last week and a half--- probably since Haley went back to school--- I’ve acted somewhat like a bag of frozen chicken: cold and bland but gradually softening up and ready to get cooking. My time in Pensacola had run its course. My activities circulated around the same themes everyday (staying stagnant): cooking at Appetite for Life, running errands to kill time, surfing the internet, and having dinner with my wonderful family. In a matter of two days, my surroundings completely changed (sudden upheaval): the people, the daily runnings, the tasks at hand, the attitude. Something I had claimed to feel giddy in excitement for--- returning to my college life--- quickly overwhelmed me with the drastic change of pace. I’m waking up at 11 am again. My neighbors look more my age than my grandparents’. No one cooks for me or picks up the tab. I watch lots of Simpsons-- No change there; we must keep some continuity.

I’m growing warmer to these changes as they become the norm again. The apartment has life with it’s greens, burgundies, and browns. When I want to escape, I can walk down the hall into my bedroom, overcome by jazz. The golds, the blacks and whites, the music, the sexy view, the classic pictures: they all scream Miles-Davis-esque jazz coolness. Hopefully Dave and Mason will grow on me, but it feels slightly awkward at time with them being much closer friends than I am with either man. They do their things together with BCM, while I march to the beat of my own drummer. Eventually we’ll do the occasional activity as a group of three. I feel like the “other” roommate, which is what I anticipated, but Dave and Mason are great guys that would never push me from our little apartment circle. As long as we’re peaceful to each other, do not purposely exclude each other, and share mullet jokes and Simpsons fun, I’ll be content and satisfied with my roommates.

These twilight days before the reality of our purpose here in Gainesville kicks in--- school--- follow a pattern of relocating your friends, adjusting your living quarters, searching for your next meal, and cavorting as though every puzzle piece is magically snapping securely together.

And the bulk of the puzzle finds another match every day. The next piece awaits me.

Things I hope to find upon my return to Gainesville:

An authentic Thai restaurant
Friendly neighbors
A cool jazz spot
Kind, mature, beautiful twenty-year-old girls
A big tv for a low, low price
Cameron Diaz in my bedroom asking if I need a back massage from a long day of driving/classes/doing nothing
Intellectual, compassionate, helpful criminology advisors
Pizza by-the-slice I can call home about
A guy to join me, Dave, and Mason for tennis, racquetball, and ultimate
One surprise new friend from both genders

Saturday night, post-midnight: Cameron Diaz's gorgeous face flashes onto the televison screen. This is the moment it hits me: I don't have any pictures of Cameron Diaz on my blooger! Of course, I had to change that promptly.

Uh, I must have missed the orignal advertisements for tonight's rerun of Saturday Night Live, or I would remember hearing that Jonny Mosely was the host and responding with the same puzzled look that children have when their parents try to rationalize with them. Excuse me, who? When? Why? And does this guy realize he's mispelled his first name? This episode apparently aired just after the Winter Games in Salt Lake City, and Mosely represented the United States--- I already forget in what skiing event. He won a gold medal... but that happened four years ago in Nagano; he didn't even win a medal in these Olympics! Couldn't they have found at least a current medalist? Who rejected Lorne Michaels's calls? Apolo Anton Ohno? The Canadian skating pair they parodied in this very episode? Sarah Hughes and Michelle Kwan?

I give this episode a big ole boo!

After a quality night of Hibachi and Italian Sodas, I surmised that your best friends from high school eventually fall into three categories:

1. Those who share a weaker bond with you than expected. You may exchange the occasional e-mail, but by year three you no longer speak and cannot still be considered friends.

2. Those you follow and talk with through year one. You steadily update each other with your state of the union, reflect on old times, and engage in decent conversation, but by year three you are different people, and the drifting apart slowly strains your bond.

3. Those you don't worry about continually updating, and no matter how little or often you talk while apart, you can still meet up, goof off in the car, and share an intimate talk with as if you've been in each other's lives everyday for the past few years. You have been a part of each other's lives this whole time. You hold a truly special friendship, one where you can envision playing catch with your friend's children while your wife laughs at how you two still act like kids from high school.

Tonight I sat across the table at Barnes and Noble from a dear friend who falls into the final category. Her name is Crystal. We shared one of those nights where we reaffirmed the legitimacy of our close friendship. We even taught each other a mutual lesson that applied to some of our shared dilemnas: you can only live in the present. We hugged and said goodnight, thanked each other for the wonderful night, and as I closed her car door, we quoted Zoolander and chuckled like kindergarteners.

Ah, bona note.

With so many emotions and feelings circulating through my body today, it's fitting that I physically crumbled and fell victim to a sudden nausea and sickness. My mind is tired from saying hello to people I love but rarely see... and saying goodbye to the girl I must admit I still love. We had a heavenly farewell, almost straight from a Hollywood script. The beauty of my growing cousins gave me a joy I needed to block the fact that I had seen Haley for the last time for a while, unsure of where our friendship will be three months from now--- will we still be the closest of friends now that we're no longer together and will be busy with other lives and other people? I need to return to Gainesville soon. Spend time with my visiting family, share some final moments with my family and hometown friends, and leave for a new chapter in my life.

Con te partiro...

One U-haul truck... one U-haul trailor... two trucks... two SUVs... all going to the same destination... Gainesville will soon be hit by the mullet gang... The David... The Mason... The Anthony... moving into their new stylish apartment!

See you when I get back.

She kept flashing that beautiful smile and saying, "I really had a great time tonight."

Instead of smiling and saying the same, I allowed my head to go limp and wondered, "Is this our last great night?"

See, Dave, Mason, and I move into our apartment in Gainesville Friday morning. I must work hard to finish the tasks at hand so I can return home to see my visiting family... and bid adieu to her before she leaves Tuesday and cements herself in Mississippi until Christmas.

I hope I get to say goodbye. Maybe I'll smile and say, "I really had a great time too."

Red crayon covers the sleeve of the first cd I ever owned: "Anthology" by Frankie Valli and the 4 Seasons. My parents always gave me a present after a Taekwondo tournament, and back in 1989, my dad handed me my first compact disc, which he told me I could listen to on his stereo system. At that time I was a tad immature for jazz music, but my dad surrounded me with the oldies. In my kindergarten years I was playing Thundercats and listening to The Beatles, watching Who Framed Roger Rabbit and listening to The Lovin Spoonful, picking my nose and listening to Grass Roots, cartwheeling through the living room and listening to CCR, to The Rolling Stones, to Fats Domino, to The Animals, to Elton John. To this day, I can still put my first cd in my car, take down the T-tops, and cruise through Track One ("Sherry"), Track Six (my personal favorite, "Dawn (Go Away)"), until the final Track 26 ("December 1963 (Oh What a Night)").

Where am I going with this? I don't know. I guess I like the classics, the originals. No album could ever replace Frankie Valli in my collection. Ask me for the second cd I owned and I'd strain so hard to recollect that my cranium would suffer through an ice cream-esque brain freeze. The also-rans don't receive the same special space in the memory chest. Have you ever asked someone, "Who was your second love?" Friends don't tell tales about the second time they had sex. I can't recall hearing about the second car my mom owned. My first day in the dorms freshman year is still sharper in my memory than my first day of second year--- let alone the second day.

Where am I going with this? I don't know. I guess the second occurrences generally represent the beginning of a trend, where only the significant points get saved. I can remember the first sentence I wrote in this blooger entry had to do with red crayon on my Frankie Valli cd, but I don't know where the next sentence took me. The first time represents a beginning; the second time either confirms or follows the first. In life we remember the beginnings, the extraordinaries, the specials, and the ends of our experiences. What makes life all the more special is when we can remember those complementary parts, the step twos, the pettiness and tiny screws of our experiences. That first cd I own is special, but without numbers two, twelve, or twenty, the collection would not be built as strongly. Similar, yes, but not the collection I know and appreciate today.

Where am I going with this? I don't know. I guess, as the 70s classic says, "Lord, I was born a rambling man."

A new commercial has replaced "This is the face of erectile dysfunction" as the no-way-in-hell-could-they-ever-flash-enough-money-in-my-broke-college-student-face-to-get-me-in-that commercial. That poor guy dancing around in his white Joe Boxers by K-Mart is scarred for life. That pathetic smile on his face as he shakes his fists like marachas; that bouncing up and down with his abs, calves, and bulge in full display for the entire viewing nation; that freeze-time quality the commercial possesses where it seems this guy has been permanently stapled as the wallpaper to our television... it all adds up: scarred for life. He'll be walking down the street for the next five years with strangers mimicking his little mariachi rhumba for him to see. Not for all the money K-Mart owes has!

A recent away message on my instant messenger surprisingly aroused quite a bit of response, a simple question on the preference of one actor over his sibling. Which actors do you prefer (my personal choice in bold)?

Owen or Luke Wilson?
Joan or John Cusak?
Keenan Ivory, Damon, Shawn, or Marlon Wayans?
David, Rosanna, or Patricia Arquette?
Alec, Billy, Daniel, or Steven Baldwin?
Mary-Kate or Ashley Olsen? (Is there a difference?)
John or Jim Belushi?
Kirk or Candace Cameron?
Ron or Clint Howard?
River or Joaquin Phoenix? (Tough call)
Dennis or Randy Quaid? (I'll admit it!)
Bart or Lisa Simpson?

Side note: Thanks to amiannoying.com for help finding these sibling pairs.
Side note: I'm aware I have to install a comment system to elicit response to these highly important debates. I may remove the comment section soon, as I had a hostile relationship with my barren commenting system a while back.
Side note: I left out two pairs of brothers because I am scared to admit regularly seeing certain tv shows that include them. Here are a few clues to the sibling pairs: Fred and Ben Savage and Joey and Matthew Lawrence.
Side note: Don't spend too much time wondering if I watched The Wonder Years/Boy Meets World/Blossom/Brotherly Love or blood will shoot out your nose.
Side note: Does anyone know how to edit/add to the blooger time and comment entries? I'm no big fan of "Shout Out" and wouldn't mind having the liberty to adding a few spicy intro words before the time of post.
Side note: That's it. I'm done.