Sunday, November 24, 2002
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.
Fifteen minutes across the hall that overcompensated for a dull, depressing day at Sears Auto Center.
Friday, November 22, 2002
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 haveacted 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?
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
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?
Saturday, November 16, 2002
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.
I have been in college for three years now, and everything remains exactly the same.
Thursday, November 14, 2002
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 12, 2002
Sunday, November 10, 2002
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.
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.
Thursday, November 07, 2002
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.)
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.)
Tuesday, November 05, 2002
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.
"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.
Monday, November 04, 2002
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.
Sunday, November 03, 2002
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 tostare 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?
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
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.
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.
Saturday, November 02, 2002
Friday, November 01, 2002
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.
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