Tired and burnt and worn to a nub.

Leave the beach tomorrow.

Back home by afternoon.

Have waves of salt water and mounds of the ultraviolet fried my brain?

Tomorrow begins the routine back at home.

Haley, I miss you already. See you Friday.

Lots of great times here at Emerald Isle. Details will follow.

Can someone teach me how to post a picture in my blooger entry?

Tired and burnt and worn to a nub.

Bona note.

Camille tapped my red chest, all the water from the hot tub slinging from her arms onto my face. I had fallen asleep in the sun, relaxing by the pool, absorbing more rays that will further contribute to my charcoal fleshtone. These moments seem peaceful, until I think: what have I done with my life the past five days? Basically nothing.

Summer school ended with overwhelming pressure from my finals, and all the sudden here I was at this condo my parents won for a week in a silent auction back in February. I can even remember finding out, I was on the couch with Haley, at that time my girlfriend, trying to make me feel better after I had been a little ill that evening. I figured the getaway would be awesome. And yeah, it has been. It’s beautiful out here, the sounds of the beach make me feel at peace, but now this peace is becoming a euphemism for boredom. Last week I was learning about criminology, astronomy, and politics, and although the studying could get tedious and frustrating, I was doing something productive. I can use the knowledge I attained from those classes and apply them to life, think of things with a more refined perspective, grow more developed in my future career in criminology. Even astronomy, though not applicable to my studies’ focus, provided my brain some more fuel; at least I’m not entirely ignorant about what goes on out there in space.

I left summer school with a more polished education and nine credits closer to graduation (the total tab is 84). Here at Emerald Isle Condominiums, I’ve achieved a darker complexion, but I have made no contributions to better myself, to better the people around me, to better my world. The only thing I’ve attempted is to continue strengthening my relationship with Haley. We are succeeding. Yesterday I felt more comfortable with her than I ever have since we put a halt to things. I’ve missed that intimate comfort tremendously, and presently she is the only person on this Earth that can give me that feeling. I hope I can give her everything--- and more--- that she has given me.

But I’m not sure. We’ll see.

Good morning, campers. It's a glorious morning! Today's "evaluation day." The key word here is "value." Do you have any? Not yet...

The Pensacola cult classic: Heavyweights! Not the boxers... but the 1994 Disney picture about eleven-year-olds at fat camp. Ben Stiller plays the funniest psychotic villian I've ever seen, portraying the new owner of Camp Hope who plans on turning the fat camp into an infomercial for his weight-loss program.

Oh look... a deli meat!

Coming soon to a theatre near you...

The waitress at Village Inn paced toward our table. Only one other couple sat in her section, but she appeared somewhat distressed and overwhelmed. Her racing speed helped our cause; McSwain Engineering needed Haley back in an hour. Our waitress took Haley’s order: a turkey veggie melt, with french fries instead of the fruit. My turn followed, and I requested the turkey honey mustard club, “without lettuce or tomato, please.”

Haley interjected toward our waitress: “Wait, does that dish come with a pickle on the side? Yeah? Ok, don’t bring the pickle; he won’t eat it or any food it touches.”

That’s all she had to do for me to know. This is my girl right now. If I’m supposed to be with someone right now, and if I’ve met the person I’m supposed to love right now, I know who it is. She was sitting across the table from me, helping me complete my lunch order, protecting me from ever-disgusting pickle juice.

I didn’t know how to react. So many thoughts went through my head. I could tell her everything about her I’ve prayed for and dreamt of this entire summer. Instead, I chuckled and said, “Haha, thanks sweetie.”

I wanted to say so much more, but that’s all I can say right now. Thanks, sweetie.

The Earth completed one rotation on its axis, Friday evolved into Saturday, and in a span of twenty-four hours, my life underwent a makeover reminiscent of one of those HGTV shows where people redecorate a room in their friends’ homes: the scenery is barely recognizable, but the change is relieving and enjoyable.

Friday, June 21, 2:30 pm: Lee Walker sits at his desk, awaiting my journey down the UF classroom to submit my scantron. At the time I’m sitting next to Jesse--- probably the coolest chick I met this summer. She just has that vibe that says, “Hey, I’m just a cool girl.”--- and we’re both taking our final exam for Comparative Politics. Hours of studying and tiresome nights precluded this exam which will conclude my summer semester. My shaved-bald professor has been quite the listener and compromiser, one of the nicest and most flexible professors to teach me. Sadly, when he announces, “I know I enjoyed you and this class, and I hope all of you enjoyed it too,” Jesse, I, and the rest of the class wonder what reaction we should give. There’s a reason I dubbed Comparative Politics as the student art-doodling capital of the world: the class was so effin boring we gave up trying to listen to our professor and spent lecture time doodling and awaiting 3:15. Friday would be our final time here, fortunately, and all that separated me from complete academic freedom sat atop my desk, eager to be bubbled with my #2 pencil.

Saturday, June 22, 2:30 pm: I struggle to fight off the lovely Haley’s attempt at clipping Camille’s hair extension on my head. As a whip cracks in the background, I submit, allow myself to look like a longhaired hippie for a few seconds--- for Haley’s sake, of course--- and snatch the hair mat off my scalp. We return to the couch overlooking Pensacola Beach. The waves are crashing, though the sky unfortunately shadows with a gray dim. Only one level of steps separates us from the Jacuzzi and the white sands. My family and I will be spending the entire week in this serene condo. Even as I type, a mere turn of my head lets me see the moonlight bouncing off the waves, appearing closer to the palm trees than ever before. The rays sucked all the energy from my body this afternoon, and I’m beached out for the night, ready for bed. When the morning comes, I’ll awake refreshed, the sun will shine on the sand, and I’ll be ready for another trip down by the shore… after I take Haley to lunch.

Twenty-four hours, felling eternally separated, existing in other worlds. From a mundane routine of summer school, I leave an empty apartment, drive I-10 with my cousin and his girlfriend, discover my cousin has matured immensely since our last talks, and arrive in Pensacola, my home. I may complain about Pensacola quite often, and I never intend to establish residence here ever again, but it is my home, where my parents raised me, where I made my childhood friends, where I first kissed a girl, where I played in the marching band, where I broke boards for Taekwondo, where I come for peace from school.

I’ll be here for two months. A change of scenery, barely recognizable, yet a change relieving and enjoyable.

In the ideal world, my mind would be given enough freedom to ponder about the many dimesions of my last few days in Gainesville: good times with a new friend; a somewhat concerning talk with a girl; saying goodbye to people I've met this summer; spending the next week in a beach house; what I'm going to do with two months to spend in Pensacola with my family, friends like Andrew, Crystal, and John, and the girl I'll be dedicating time to; what I learned from spending six weeks living alone...

Instead, I must dedicate the bulk of my hours studying for my finals. My brain is near maximum occupancy with all the criminology, astronomy, and politics intruding like guests who have overstayed their welcomes (You're free to stay, criminology. I love you.).

Wow, proof I've been studying astronomy too long (2 hours) tonight: Brandon comes up and says, "I didn't plan it." My response?

"Hehehe, 'planet'." Get it?

Yeah, I'm scared too.

The sacrifice for the next two days shall be sleep.

Two finals come tomorrow, one on Friday. While I'm on track for an A in each class, one slip-up could convince my professors that I'm statistically unworthy of such an honor. So far the day has been filled with criminology notes, but tonight the focus will shift to astronomy. Astronomy has been a boring class with an intriguing specimen of a teacher, Professor Leacock. He has some serious issues, and I gave up trying to analyze his life a few weeks ago. As Chris Rock said about extensive analysis of people, "whatever happened to 'crazy'?" Occasionally during lecture, I'd quote Professor Leacock while he went into one of his ramblings. Here's my sample of "notes", which you should repeat in a nasal-voiced imitation of Stuart Smalley (SNL: "Because I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and, doggone it, people like me."):

"Pluto is kind of a bastard child."
"We've got five more billion years to get the hell off the Earth."
"What it means is... oh should I tell you? Nah, I'm not gonna tell you yet."
"It was impossible to pass this one guy... took me three days. He was a wasp. I was a wasp, so I figured what the hell. He was an arrogant son of a bitch too, like me."
"I'm too old to go through my second childhood, so I'm safe... until I get old and senile and sent to a nursing home."
"We had more money than brains, and she knew how to use them."
"Is this tequila weekend?"
"Telephone: instrument of doom."
"I returned a very sweet reply that basically told him to go to hell."
"The only Greek I can remember are the words I can't say here."
"I like Christmas tunes."
"I came here as a freshman and thought I'd died and gone to hell."
"This doesn't come by osmosis or dream technique. I find that if I don't write it down with a pencil I don't remember anything. I guess that's a function of my age... or my mind."
"You'd rather have pictures? I'll never touch a piece of chalk again."
"They're about as useful as... we used to say, 'tits on a bull'... the hell with it!"
"When I think, things shut down."
"Being married for so long, all I have to do is look at my wife and she gets mad."
"If you live on Earth, which I hope you do..."
"Only if you ate the iron fillings were you barred from that activity. But anyhow..."
"I'm going to turn unto a pumpkin."
"Here is an anatomy of the sun spot... backwards."
"I had a roommate, who was not very bright. He was a good friend but a little on the dumb side."
"I can remember when I was 10 years old and talking about the Virgin Mary and not knowing what the hell I was talking about, and I think some of you are like that about this."
"Well how the hell do you know?"
"The revenge of the nerd!"
"I never answer the phone anymore. It's either someone soliciting or one of my kids."
"Good thing we have lots of closets. I wish my kids would settle down and get their crap out of there. Of course, they only want the good stuff and leave us the crap. They're not getting the good stuff. But anyhow..."
"I had a TA who asked the head English guy, 'What's up?!?' He was fired that day HAHAHAHAHA!"
"Ask me what ROY G BIV is and I'll laugh."
"You remind me of monks in the library."
"As my three-year-old grandson said, 'Mommy, we played that game before.'"

Whew, I had no clue it was this often that Professor Leacock interrupted class with his ramblings!

An excerpt from New Jack: Guarding Sing Sing. Larson, in keeplock for using marijuana in prison, has a discussion about the future of corrections with the author, a guard at the prison.

The superintendent had said that getting money to build new and bigger vocational shops was his number-one priority.

"I'd die to stop that," Larson said, to my surprise.

"You don't want to see this place improve?"

"No. The money should all be put back into the poor neighborhoods, back into education for children, to change the things that send people here." He held out the articles he had loaned me. "You read these, right?"

I nodded.

"Then tell me, Conover, if I understand correctly. It says here in this article that the government is planning right now for the new prisons they're going to need in ten or twelve years. I got that right?"

Again I nodded.

"That's wrong."

"What's wrong about planning ahead?"

"Because, dig this. Anyone planning a prison they're not going to build for ten or fifteen years is planning for a child, planning prison for somebody who's a child right now. So you see? They've already given up on that child! They already expect that child to fail. You heard? Now why, if you could keep that from happening, if you could send that child to a good school and help his family stay together-- if you could do that, why are you spending that money to put him in jail?"

I had no answer for Larson. He made me feel dumb in my uniform, like a bozo carrying out someone else's ill-conceived plan.

Nothing profound to write. All I can think about is trying to find a rationale behind my nose bleed this evening. A nose bleed? Only once in the fifth grade had I ever had a plain-and-simple nose bleed like today. Who gets these things anyway? Little kids, people moving to high altitudes, old people on blood thinners, cancer patients... I've grown beyond childhood. Gainesville is flat and around sea level... I think. I know we're not at a high altitude though. I have no prescriptions for medicines that would thin my blood. No way I have cancer. Or is it, "no way... I have cancer!"? I won't even joke about that. Well, not any further anyway. I'm a perfectly healthy nineteen-year-old who just happened to release some excess blood through his left nostril.

Maybe this case should be given to Unsolved Mysteries. To my pleasant surprise, Robert Stack hosts new episodes on Lifetime, Friday nights. The show always fascinated me as a child, but with it's airing at nighttime, my dreams were tormented by nightmares. Every Wednesday night around fourth grade I would awake frightened, walk next door to my parents' bedroom, and ask to sleep with them. When my panics became a weekly event, my mom threatened to prohibit me from watching the show if I came into their bed that next Wednesday. I watched the episode, and I promise I tried. Flashes of the wanted murderers and missing children raced through my head, causing my heart to pound and my body to sweat. I surrendered to my night terrors and squeazed into my parents' bed, hoping for some sort of protection against the frightening images. My mom probably kissed me or patted my back or something. Whatever she did, that mother's touch calmed me down enough for me to get sleep before going to Ms. Kellum's fourth grade class the next morning.

Of course, Unsolved Mysteries continued to air, but I did not see the new episodes. To this day, I still get a little antsy when I stumble upon an episode at night. I love watching the shows that come on in the mornings and evenings, but the night airings still get to me. Even this Friday, during my first attempt at seeing these new episodes, my heart jumped a beat. Honestly, I think the problem is not the suspenseful stories, but rather the "Welcome to Hell" intro music. You know the tune. A faint whistle that cresendos and cresendos until that sadistic bass line comes in, which is followed by Robert Stack's spooky narrative.

Uh-oh, describing the theme has supplanted the music into my head. A long night could be in the works for Anthony. If you see bags under my eyes tomorrow, you'll know who's responsible: Robert Stack and the composers of the Unsolved Mysteries theme.

Hopefully the judge will grant my request at a restraining order. I cannot go on with this guy haunting my every move!

The grossest part of these week-long blisters has to be when I stretch my feet out and can feel my pulse through the puss and blood near the base of my foot. Ba-boom ba-boom ba-boom, the feeling gooses my bumps!

Speaking of face-cringing situations, I need to be a good student and finish my research paper.

Love,
Anthony

I would seriously deprive myself of $100 and deposit it into your checking account if you would do the research for my paper, then write the paper, then present it in such a way that I'd be guaranteed an A.

So my seven-page research paper is due Monday, 2:00 pm. I probably spent more of Saturday bitching and moaning about the work I wasn't doing than actually making progress on the assignment. At least I got some work done, though I drifted from my original topic so badly that I'm now writing about a different subject. Picture this paper: Comparing the Electoral Systems of the United States and Germany. Who could possibly not get jazzed over such a topic?!? Did I just use the word "jazzed"?

Changing the focus of my paper requires me to make a last-minute trip to the library tomorrow and find different sources. To do well on this paper, I need to change my focus in other departments too. Time to stop complaining and get to work.

I miss Haley. She's out of town for the weekend visiting her dad. With summer school racing toward the finish line, I haven't been able to make that extra effort to share hour phone calls every other day. She knows how jammed my schedule has become, so my mailbox--- the Outlook Express mailbox--- has received little hello notes from one of the most precious angels I know. One week from today, two halves of a young couple that have endured an uneven few months will finally be in the same city for a record two months, shattering the previous mark of five days. What are we going to do with all that time together? I honestly don't know how our relationship will develop: it could blossom and solidify a bond or stay stagnant and ultimately wither. Obviously I pray for the former, but most of all I'm anxious to end this ambiguous chapter of our relationship that has spanned for almost three months. Perhaps our looks into each other's eyes will indicate what the rest of the summer holds for us. Seven days away, Haley.

(Anthony's little guardian angel taps Anthony's shoulder.)

Sorry, I have some researching to continue.

Let's imagine you're using the bathroom. I know, it's a far-fetched scenario, but follow me here. There you are, sitting on the rim of porcelain, unaware that at this same exact time, another person has the urge to go too. Since you're a decent person and have closed the door, the other guy knocks before he will enter. How do you respond when you hear a knock while you're on the can?

"Someone's in here."

Why do we use the codeword someone? Are we trying to keep secret our activities in the restroom? The guy knows you're not some messenger who hangs out in the bathroom; you're not the user's secretary. He knows you are using the bathroom. As far as anonimity goes, admitting you are the user gives him no more clue to your identity. Saying "I'm in here," provides the same help to the man on the other side while acknowledging you have nothing to hide by using the bathroom.

Someone doesn't see the big deal.

For a while it felt as though time had frozen. I've been experiencing a bit of a phaseout for about three hours now. To think that just this afternoon I sat in a lecture hall listening to the nasal rants of Professor Leacock seems odd. Classes and schoolwork feel pushed in the past, as if when I awoke from my power nap there was a closed captioned footnote that read, "The Next Weekend..." Life abruptly has this weekendish vibe, a carefree, dog-lazy attitude.

A striking black book channelled me and released me from a trance. How did my senior yearbook get into my apartment? I noticed it during my productive staring-at-the-wall time. Who packed it? Well, no one packed anything except for yours truly. Somehow my when my yearbook was collecting dust in my Pensacola bedroom closet, it must have done what parents always claim objects never do: gotten up and walked away. Off the bookshelf, hopped across the carpet, and hid in one of my bags so I would unwittingly escort him to Gainesville. There's no other explanation. This reminds me of my freshmen year at UF when a few months into the year, this blue dress shirt appeared neatly hung in the corner of my closet. I didn't recognize the shirt and still to this day am convinced the shirt was not mine. It was a good-looking shirt, though, and it's become one of my favorites.

My point about the yearbook: I felt compelled to pick him up and start reading and remember the good old days of Tate High School. The memories overwhelmed my system as I flipped through the pages: activities I used to enjoy, girls I used to have crushes on, teachers who are still in the system I graduated from a few years back. You can brush through all the picture pages, but the essence of the yearbook comes from the messages and signatures you collect from friends, acquaintances, and teachers. The messages from my true friends had deep feeling, inside jokes, and speeches of farewell, good luck, and love. Most yearbook signatures are from casual school acquaintances, people you might have had good times with at school but rarely saw off campus or shared deep talks. Those people give you the cookie-cutter goodbyes that all sort of mesh together. The school acquaintances mention a moment or event that gives each entry a smidgeon of uniqueness, but for the most part they all preach the same speech. Observe:

Anthony- I can't believe it's actually over (yeah!) I had tons of fun w/ you guys in homeroom and in band. Good luck in all you do. I sure will miss you! KIT and always remember... Tarzan rules!

Antonio... Hey buddy! You're a great guy and I loved getting to know you through the years. From Mrs. Cope to Ms. Robertson, it's been fun. May God bless all you do and what you become.

Anthony, It's been fun having Government with you. You are a great man. But remember: one day you and Andrew are going down, cuz we're gonna ace you guys (me and John). Have fun in college and good luck in whatever you do.

Anthony... Well what can I say! You are a bright person and will go far in life! I hope whatever you do in the future you will be happy! Good luck in life! Hope to see you in 10 years ahead!

Anthony, Well dude it's finally over. That's crazy. We have known each other forever and it's been a blast. I know I will see you over time but do great.

Anthony... We have made it all the way from Mrs. Cope's class and now we're graduating. You are so intelligent and have a great personality, I know you will go very far in life. Thanks for always being such a sweety! We will have to get together at UF sometime.

Go back to your old yearbook and read the messages, and you'll see a whole bunch of it's-been-fun-getting-to-know-you's, you're-great's, good-luck-(not-that-you-need-it!)'s, and hope-to-see-you-around's. Of course your real friends write special messages that warm your heart.

I read those too. Shows me how lucky I've been to share so many moments with such great people.

Allow me to sound like a hippie for a second by incorporating the nuclear bomb analogy into a casual dialogue...

Joe: They should implant the key to activate a nuclear missile into a staff member of the President. Then, the only way for us to fire a nuclear bomb is for this man to die. That way, the President would have to actually kill a man right in front of him before he could kill thousands of strangers across the ocean.
Fred: That's crazy Joe! If he had to kill someone, the President would never fire a nuclear bomb!
Joe: Exactly.

I'm too tired to analyze or deliver a stance. Just had to read something like this again tonight and thought I'd share it. Anything wrong with that?

Random ideas, themes, and images scrambling through the creative zone of your dome.

Not feeling good about yourself physically? Shrugging at the pounds you put on for the summer, the bloody blisters on your feet, the gargantuan zit festering on your forehead, and your bush of hair? Well the only instant solvent to any of those problems is to get a haircut! One down, three to go...

"Duh" is a product of fear.

Guy sits outside classroom with spare time. Reads his book concerning graphic details of state executions. Makes for cover during a brief downpour. Finds dry spot for more outside reading. Hears voice call for him: "Hey you." Recognizes voice. Lifts head to confirm it's his ex-girlfriend. Ex sits. Looks smokin hot. Ex and guy talk. Finally address how they haven't really talked since last semester. No hard feelings. All in the past. Reminds guy of things he likes in a girl and things he doesn't. Thinks about most recent girlfriend. Acknowledges she doesn't fit guy's previous idea of the ideal mate in all areas. Wonders if that means she's not right for him or if you can't predict who'll be right for you. Guy knows he thinks about girl constantly and wonders what she's thinking. Gut feeling says she's not thinking about him nearly as often. Guy feels underappreciated. Believes he deserves better. Not a better girl, but a better girlfriend. Wonders if girl can be that better girlfriend come this summer. Guy doesn't know what will happen. Girl and guy share same feelings. Guy is pretty confident in this. Girl and guy will see if feelings are enough. Guy thankful for talk with ex. Sees how no matter what happens with current girl, guy will be happy. Guy sees great bliss with current girl, but if it's not meant to be, it's not meant to be. Guy has been happy. Guy is presently happy. Guy will be happy.

I clicked on my comments section and noticed that my comment section was "temporarily disabled." My sleuthing skills led me to realize that when I last checked two weeks ago, this "temporary" problem was already in place. Then I realized that there was a reason I hadn't checked the comments for two weeks: what was the point? It was not a very widely used link.

So I just removed the comments section. I may put another one on, but perhaps it's better that I don't have a comment section. It was just a reminder that no one comments here. Why did I have a comments section in the first place, and why would I even consider adding it again? A friend of mine who openly wondered why he has added a commenting area can explain our reasoning much better than I could.

"We're all DJ's on the graveyard shift playing our favorite songs, hoping that someone will pick up the phone and give us a call to say they liked a certain song or wondered who wrote that last tune or request something or whatever. We're lonely and bored and we'll take what we can get. Crank calls are always welcome... I suppose my writing in this blog is just another way of asking the same question over and over, the one I kept asking on Christmas morning when my brother and I got those walkie-talkies with the bright orange buttons and morse code guide on the face.

"Can you hear me now? How about now? Can you hear me now? Hello? Can you still hear me? How about now? "

I don't think many people are reading this stuff anyway. Most of my viewers have been college friends who have since gone home for the summer and don't parade around the internet let alone visit a blooger about someone else's life. That's fine with me because I honestly did not start this blooger for other people. This writing I'm willing to share, but it's essentially for me and me foremost. An outlet of creativity, of expression, of record-keeping, of emotion.

I very well could cave in and insert a comments section to see who's listening. Sound like an insecurity? Well, I enjoy attention, and I like to be admired and respected. I take pride in myself, but that verification from others feels good too. Only I know I shouldn't rely on others to make me feel good. It helps when you're down on the ground if you have others come to pick you up, but sometimes the best thing to do is to just get up by yourself.

I came back from morning class just fine and chipper, when my mood stumbled a bit thinking about my comments section. Thanks to writing, I rose from the ground, by myself. I don't need to write anymore. Lunch calls... coming ham and cheese sandwich!

My Comparative Politics professor--- you could put that title, meaning "trained and distinguished teacher," in quotations if you so desire--- rambled toward himself as usual today. To pass the time I went through my usual routine of daydreaming and doodling on my notes Lee e-mails us so we don't even have to attempt to keep focus and record notes from class. Today my mind took a vacation to this weekend, when I actually was on vacation. I spent the weekend in Melbourne with my buds Nathan, Jamey, and Jennifer. If you don't believe I had a killer time, just check out the flaming blisters on the inside of my feet. Frankly I don't think I've ever had a more painful blister than the one on my right foot. My strategy will be to just wear sandals for the next 3 years, maybe buy some band-aids to conceal the grotesque scene mutating near my ankles.

Usually I use my pen to draw on my notes during class because I need some sort of entertainment. I got a little self-concious because the guy sitting next to me today is an artist and draws these detailed portraits of our professor in action. There was no way I could display my stick figures and crooked patterns in front of this guy. So I wrote. I made two little poems about my boredom. I intended for them to be more like song lyrics, but considering I haven't completed a composition since middle school, the words I squiggled down in five minutes (I think it was actually about 8 or 9 minutes) will probably just remain on Page Two, Day 12. Here are my two dedications to Comparative Politcs:

"Blah to Stay" (Fast, 3/4 time, G major)

He talks, and
I hear blah.
He talks, and
I hear blah.
He pauses, and...
I don't know
because my ears
still scream of blah.
It's blah to stay.
It's blah to all he'll say.

See, terrible, huh?

"Countdown" (E major or minor, somewhat largo)

Imagine seventy-five minutes,
yearning for a savior,
pleading for a purpose.

Imagine seventy-five minutes,
depleted, fluttering toward a dumpster
filled with the rambling of a poor, kind man.
(A poor, kind man) whose path has forked in erroneous manners.
Constant interruption of the internal and external.

An interruption of seventy-five minutes
never to be used again,
forever spent here,
outside life so near.

And that's what I do waiting for Lee to dismiss me from Comparative Politics. Only 16.5 hours until my return!

6:07pm is not the same thing as 6:07am. My alarm clock (didn't) remind me of that this morning.

Maybe my studying sessions would flow more smoothly if I replaced the time I spend complaining and moping about all the studying ahead of me with actual studying. Rather than complain about studying, I'll regurgitate some light-hearted information I learned today from my course booklet:

"A standing rule exists stating all inmates must be silent until count is cleared. Violation of this requirement can result in a loss of privileges for all inmates, regardless of who breaks the rule. During count the men sit or lie on their three-tier-high bunks in silence while a guard walks up and down the dorm counting the bodies on the beds. With an expression that can be seen as nothing less than defiance, inmates will, once the guard has passed their bed area and is a safe enough distance away to insure their anonymity, fart loudly. The resulting laughter obviously mocks the guard. It also, in a safe way, attacks the system, or, in this case, the people responsible for creating the rule that all must be silent during count. It also allows the inmates to break the rules and reaffirm, at least for themselves, their own power."

Ah, the smell of success.

No freedom: they tell you when to wake up, how to stand, when to speak, what to eat, what clothes to wear, when to shower, where to sleep, what you can buy, what you cannot own, how much money you can earn, when you can leave this hell.

When you get out, don't be the 80% who return to the cycle of captivity. Do something with your life. Resist the streets, the drugs, the violent urges. Overcome the abusive parenting, the poor education, the chaotic cities, the degrading sneers.

It's like you're a frail paper clip, and the system is one of those horseshoe magnets. The magnet can very easily pull you in. Once you're lured, you're trapped. The best way to escape is push a median to divide you and the magnet. Perhaps a sheet of paper (education). Perhaps a block of wood (vocation). Perhaps a protective cloth (therapy).

Whatever it takes, resist the attraction.

I haven't watched professional wrestling in a long time. The WWF used to be a major part of my life from age four to about ten. From the television events to the exhibitions at the Civic Center to the action figures, if it was WWF, I wanted it. While I grew out of that phase long ago, I still remember how I followed and admired those wrestlers.

That's why my discovery that Davey Boy Smith, known around wrestling as the British Bulldog, died last week brought me down. For a brief time, British Bulldog was my favorite wrestler. It's sad to realize the character I idolized was a real person, with real problems, who abused steroids and, as a result, suffered a heart attack at age 39. Actually, I didn't know how he died until I did an internet search. What I found: an entire list of wrestlers who have died in the past decade, many of which I grew up watching on the television or fake-wresteling with their action figures. Some other WWF came up during the search. While I had already known about a few of the deceased wrestlers--- such as Andre the Giant and Owen Hart--- I was saddened to realize many more wrestlers who have been merely a distant memory led real lives that are now over. Here's a list of WWF wrestlers I used to watch that until tonight I didn't know were no longer with us:

Dino Bravo (murdered)
Big John Studd (cancer)
Junk Yard Dog (car accident)
Bobo Brazil (heart complications)
Gorilla Monsoon (natural causes)
Ravishing Rick Rude (heart attack)
British Bulldog (heart attack related to steroid abuse)

Here's a three-count salute to you guys. You gave me much excitement during my grammar school days.

If a magazine columnist rings your doorbell and surveys you by asking, "Who is the worst phone conversationalist you know?" make sure you put my name into consideration.

I hate talking on the phone. Wait, scratch that. Sometimes I enjoy talking on the phone, but only on rare occaisions, like when it's time to catch up with one of my best friends I haven't seen in a long time. For the people I see regularly or know I will see soon, I have difficulty maintaining a decent conversation. If the television is on, it'll probably distract me from devoting my full attention to the person on the other line. If I'm near my computer, I might actually surf the net while my caller tries to stir up a conversation. I prefer face-to-face talks, where I can see the other person's body language and make eye contact. If my eyes aren't focused I can drift off toward whatever my eyes actually see.

Most of the time, the talks don't completely disintegrate because the other person has something to say. After all, I've always been more of a listener than a talker. I'm more of a counter-talker. I mean, I'll play off the other person--- what they say, how they feel--- and base my words on those factors rather than create the talk from my own independent ideas. Tonight I was engaged in a phone call so pathetic the phone company should charge us double for wasting valuable energy from the cell phone towers. Ironically, the other line had a person I've shared some of my more memorable phone calls with: Haley. She had just come home from dance, exhausted and ready to go to bed. At the time, I was planning a weekend trip with some friends online. Basically, even though we normally talk about every other day but hadn't since Thursday, there was this whole "what's the point?" vibe from both of us. I think we fed off each other. My mind was going...

"What is there to say? I know how her weekend went. She knows how mine went. Nothing groundbreaking or exceptionally exciting is happened for either of us soon. I know basically everything about her I can think of. She knows all the 411 on me. I'm hot. I'm tired. She's exhuasted. I don't feel like trying to provoke any conversation. Let's just call it a night."

So I did. I think I made up something about getting back to homework, but I had no intentions of doing that. It would have been rude to say, "Ok, well this is going nowhere, so I'd rather go back to doodling on the computer without the cell phone pressed against my ear." The name "jerk" rang through my head a couple of times, but I think it was just one of those nights where we caught each other at the wrong time. I really don't mean to be boring or cold or rude on the telephone. If I'm going to talk to somebody, though, I prefer for them to be in the same room.

We can talk about this more if you want, but not over the phone, please. At least not tonight.

So I figured 5:00 on a Saturday afternoon would be perfect for a nap for a guy who can’t seem to get a decent night sleep (Whether in the heat trap of a bedroom with the mattress that’s too short, or on the rock-solid couch with the “no occupancy” sign forbidding arms to fit, I can’t get an effin full night of sleep!). For a soundtrack to prelude my sleep, I put in the home video I spontaneously picked up while leaving my house last weekend.

Well, I couldn’t sleep because I was too busy laughing, crying, and shrugging!

The label of the video reads, “Perillo Cinema.” I taped these in the summer of 1995, back in the days when you actually stuck the videocassette in the camcorder. I had just turned thirteen. Looking back makes me see why I wasn’t the coolest guy in the seventh grade. With that Don King afro, high-pitched girly voice, and chunky body that had the ghastly potential to develop man boobs, I can’t see how I got girls back then. Oh wait…

I loved videotaping things. Random shots during the day, my pets sleeping, several commercials, and two Anthony-directed movies fill the two hours of footage. How did I think these movies were actually good when I concocted them? I never planned the theme of the movies. Instead, I pressed record, ran in front of the camera, and just starting “acting” and whatever scenario popped in my head became the them for my movie. If Dr. Radiaki wanted me to return his jewels to his fortress by midnight, then why did I have to fight and kill all his guards on my arrival? Why did I listen to my dad when he interfered as “the voice of God” and recommend I give myself an enema to release the jewels? How could Camille Columbus defeat and assassinate the almighty, undefeated Chief Powaton with one whack to the leg?

I just shook my head and rolled my eyes at all my pathetic improves, particularly my screw-up of words. When removing the jewels from my poop, I remark, “Oh, let me get it out of the dog doodoo,” the plastic prop I was using. It seemed every time I was supposed to say “him,” I said “her” and vice-versa. My crowning moment had to be during an interview session with my cat Tammy. While reporting, “We have an inside scoop,” I picked my nose.

Only three other people are permitted to watch these hilariously horrifying spectacle, and they all share my last name. I suppose one day I’ll let my girlfriend see the truth of my awkward adolescence, but only after she is already deeply in love with me. That way, even after seeing my acting and directing from 1995, she’ll be stuck. After all, she’ll have promised she’d stay with me through the good, the bad, and the ugly.

And, boy, is this ugly!

Man, I love it! Maybe I’ll return to my career of film. Umm, no.