Observations and Hypotheses for this Semester that You Don't Care About

The fall will be much easier than last spring. Research papers have been replaced by multiple choice exams. No graduate seminars. Free afternoons. At least this gives me a chance to study for the GRE.

My legs will be stronger than ever. None of my classes are anywhere near the others. Italian takes place in a building outside of campus, behind a sports bar. With less than 15 minutes to make a 1.5 mile trip, I must haul major calf to have any hopes in getting to Develepmental Psych on time.

It is mathematically impossible to not sit by an attractive girl in my Behavior Analyisis class if I sit in the middle of a full class. Thirty seats, thirty students. Twenty-six girls, four guys. Twenty-four of twenty-six could be labelled "attractive." That means only six students do not fall into the "attractive girl" category. Eight seats surround a desk. Yes, I made all these calculations myself; some stats are too vital to ignore. I will never miss this class.

I will spend a personal record on coffee. I have four hour-long breaks over a week, and all take place across from The Ox Coffee House. Fortunately, the caffeine will give me the extra energy boost I need to survive the Human Frogger game that is crossing University Avenue.

Behavior Analysis will be my favorite class. My most advanced course, the one that most interests me, my teacher drives a Ferrari, and did I mention the attractive girl thing?

My final year of college began yesterday just like any other. Like most people, I sat through brief welcome sessions for each of my classes, albeit I was late for my first class--- stupid freakin busses and their "Full Bus" signs! I wore some new clothes from the summer, nice clothes, to look good for my professors, not to mention make a good first impression on my female classmates. I checked my printed schedule thrice before my trek to the next class, for fear of popping into the wrong room and looking like one of those morons who looked bewildered when the syllabus is passed and they have to get up and leave in front of the whole class... like me last summer.

Like previous years, I took in good vibes from my professors and look forward to an entertaining, yet challenging, semester. Like previous years, I recognized some faces and dropped my jaw at others. Everything that is supposed to happen on the first day of school happened this year; there were no exceptions.

And yet yesterday felt incredibly different from any other year. Everything seemed the same, and no spectacular occurences arose. So, was there a change?

Yes.

What type of change?

One from within.

I foolishly assumed that with college came the end of a classified pecking order. How joyous would it be if each person were free of labels, seen only for his character, celebrated as an individual? Even in college and adulthood, we are still shackled by labels. Where there were jocks in high school, there are student athletes and Pikes in college. Where there were once preppy bombshells, there are now ADPi's and elementary education majors. Nerds have left the band halls and made their way to the engineering and physics buildings (sorry, guys).

I have a new label, and with it come symbolic power, dominance, and stature. I am a senior, and much like in high school--- and even especially middle school--- I have inherited an authoritative confidence that comes with being among the head of the class. I walk with a new swagger, not of arrogance but of esteem. Through my experiences and my observations, I feel more mature, better aware, and more highly regarded than ever. I don't get lost on campus, don't sweat the requirements on the syllabi, and am less hesitant to stir up conversation with my neighbor before class. Wasn't senior year the best year of high school? I imagine so will be the case in college, provided I remember to study and resist the temptation to slack off and excessively socialize.

During your college years, you're supposed to be stupid... but be smart about it. I will follow those words through my undergraduate swan song.

The best part of deciding to paint the living room today: I actually get to use the line, "Well actually, uh, a pretty nice little Saturday. We're, uh, we're gonna go to Home Depot!"

Instead, I stayed up through the early hours of this morning. We were doing nothing of importance, nothing of particular interest. We were just guys in an apartment, stuck in that mode of being ready to call it a night but not having a desire to go to bed. I had already done all of this during the summer. Air guitaring to 80s music, spotting all the hot dog references in The Meateater, watching home videos, none of this was new to me.

And yet this time was different. More peaceful, perhaps. I felt a subtle joy, realizing the glory of mere contentment. I took myself out of the scene. I saw three roommates back together, hanging out in their apartment for the first time in over three months.

I woke up in this apartment most mornings this summer, but usually I was the only one. Three bedrooms, two bath, one person. I was free to shower with the bathroom door open, to watch whatever I wanted on TV whenever I wanted, to get only groceries that I would eat, to bring people over at 3 am without worry.

But I was no longer free to perform dialogue from American Movie, to turn around and ask for the spelling of lachrymose, to walk down the hall and tell someone what Luke Wilson just told Jay Leno, to go pick up Bacon Egg and Cheese biscuits at 4 in the morning. Having my roommates back is similar to what I actually think of them as people. Not necessarily exciting, but good. Just good. Good enough for me.

Grade F meat, Grade F election.

14 Days Later

Throat tickle...
congested chest...
wretched cough...
unstable stomach...
body aches...
relentless fatigue...
constant dizziness...
oxygen-deprived head...
total weakness...
fainting spells...
compressed eyeballs...
violent upheaval...
back to normal*.

*I think.

Within each serious romantic relationship exists three essential elements.

Without dependence, what reason do you have for coming back the next day?
Without independence, do you even remember who you are anymore?
Without interdependence, well, aren't you just kidding yourselves?

Random Puke II

I'm still pretty sick, and I actually got worse today after taking medicine. My best day was the day I took no medicine (yesterday), so no more drugs!

You Don't Know Jack: remember that? I bet I'd still beat anyone at a Ticklish Testgum.

Turns out the visiting family is still in Ft. Walton, so they avoided the power outage in New York. The rest of my family up there is fine.

Underrated part of "Baby Got Back": the end, when Sir Mix-a-lot repeats the catchy phrase, Little in the middle, but ya got much back!

I didn't do anything constructive today until 4:00, but it may prove to be one of the most important things I've done in a while. I may have figured out what I want to research in grad school. I need more time to polish and elaborate, but it'll have to do with linking criminality and a skewed perception of what it means to "win" in life.

Underrated in so many ways: Maggie Gyllenhaal.

Little sister moving stuff to college tomorrow. Holy Crap.

I'm the guy in the PG-13 movie who you hope gets the girl.

I know the word "hot" has been used to describe sexy girls and guys for a long time, but it may be used now more than ever. This is in part because it now works overtime replacing the so-late-nineties "fine".

Best part of having the third bedroom leak of the summer: an excuse to go to the front office and see one of the pretty desk girls.

I'd pay money to see Hollywood-style footage of me and a few friends walking together in slow motion.

All I can stomach right now is chocolate chip cookies and baked ziti. Don't pity me.

Isn't it awesome that my family flew back to New York just in time for this massive power outage?

I can think of two differences between me and Mike:

I smile more, and--- even at my most incompetent--- I would NEVER call the girl that night, not to mention an hour after meeting, not to mention like five times, not to mention leaving the terms "desperate" and "no expectations" on an answering machine!

In a few hours I'm gonna go to Publix and get some mozzarella. I'm very excited about this trip. I'm gonna get in my car and drive a few blocks down the road. Who knows who'll I'll bump into? Maybe I'll get a parking space up front. I'll be in and out in five minutes, and this will be the highlight of my day.

These mundane activities turn out to be anticipated road trips when you're sick. Since I returned from home, my body has crashed on me. The weird thing is I can't figure out what's wrong. My cold is much better, yet I feel worse. My stomach feels as though I should be nauseous, but I'm not. I don't throw up my food, but I rarely feel like stomaching food. My legs crumble after a few steps. I randomly feel like I'm about to faint. I slept in until 10:30 this morning and have already taken two more naps. The highlight of my day so far? Maybe walking over to the living room to watch The Sopranos.

Watching The Sopranos gave me the craving for baked ziti, but I don't have any mozzarella. So I'm gonna go out and get some. I'm gonna go to Publix. I'm gonna buy some mozzarella. And I'm very excited.

A gift to my millions of readers who find my site via a google search for "99 Luftballoons translation"

You and I in a little toy shop
Buy a bag of balloons with the money we've got.
Set them free at the break of dawn
'Til one by one, they were gone.
Back at base, bugs in the software
Flash the message, Something's out there.
Floating in the summer sky.
99 red balloons go by.

99 red balloons.
floating in the summer sky.
Panic bells, it's red alert.
There's something here from somewhere else.
The war machine springs to life.
Opens up one eager eye.
Focusing it on the sky.
Where 99 red balloons go by.

99 Decision Street.
99 ministers meet.
To worry, worry, super-scurry.
Call the troops out in a hurry.
This is what we've waited for.
This is it boys, this is war.
The president is on the line
As 99 red balloons go by.

99 Knights of the air
Ride super-high-tech jet fighters
Everyone's a superhero.
Everyone's a Captain Kirk.
With orders to identify.
To clarify and classify.
Scramble in the summer sky.
As 99 red balloons go by.

99 dreams I have had.
In every one a red balloon.
It's all over and I'm standing pretty.
In this dust that was a city.
If I could find a souvenier.
Just to prove the world was here.
And here is a red balloon
I think of you and let it go.

I met Andrew before the start of kindergarten. We were both four years old and attended the same church. Our Sunday School had set up a Christmas ice cream party. Whoever my friends were at the time, I've completely forgotten. What I remember is at that party, Andrew ran up to me, his face blanketted in vanilla soft serve, and declared himself, "Frosty the Snowman!"

Throughout elementary school I never went over his house to play. We never even had the same teacher. But whenever I bumped into him at McArthur Elementary or Nativity Catholic, we had a good time. He always made me laugh. One of those class clown types, if you've already forgotten the Frosty the Snowman story. Always a performer, always an entertainer. He was the funniest boy at the talent show, when he used his scrawniness as a gag and declared himself the Champion Arm Wrestler. By middle school, he was a prospering trumpet player. He left high school as the comedian, the trumpet player, and the star of musical theatre, where he proved there were deep true talents behind the wacko facade.

We didn't become true friends until eighth grade. I was running late for a band trip to Atlanta and got one of the last seats on the bus. My friends were all sitting together, but I was stuck next to Ryan, a duh-duh trombone player who I never talked to. I'm sure Ryan was a fine adolescent--- maybe a little weird--- but we had nothing in common, nothing to say to each other. I figured it would be a loooooong bus ride of me staring out the window. For whatever reason, Andrew decided to bail me out. He asked Ryan if he could switch places with him "for just a minute." We talked the whole way up to Atlanta. About what, I don't know. Probably nothing important, though it did indeed prove to be important.

By ninth grade we were best friends. We spent many weekends at my house goofing off and recording comedy skits. I still have these productions on tape, but they are too incriminating to show. Just think of the ideas that would come out of hormonally and adrenaline-charged fourteen-year-olds. They're worse, but damn funny. At school we were part of The Four Amigos, a clan of freshmen trumpet players who worked hard and played hard in band. We each had our roles: John was the animated one, Charlie the tough one, I was the quiet one, and Andrew the crazy one.

When Charlie quit band we became The Three Amigos, and by the end of high school, it was The Two Amigos, just me and Andrew. I'd say it was quite an appropriate ending. He was the friend who immediately got a full page reserved when I got my yearbook. We never had difficulty filling the full page. He was the last friend I said goodbye to before I packed my things and left for Gainesville, and he's still the first friend I call on trips home.

This weekend we met up in downtown Pensacola. It was only 10:30 at night, but the life in Pensacola dwindles by 9:00, so we had McGuire's Irish Pub to ourselves. Andrew turned 21 last Wednesday, and I wanted to take him out and buy him a drink. Our waitress brought out two cold mugs, and just before we tapped our glasses to toast, it hit me. This was a significant landmark, a reflection of our friendship. Here was a guy who I associate with growing up, a boy who once complained to me about how his voice hadn't changed yet, and now we were men drinking our legal beers together.

You're supposed to grow old with your wife. With your friends, there are no guarantees. People move, people change, people forget. I'm blessed to have been able to drink a juice box and a beer with the same friend. Friday night we both grew a little bit older. Together.

Random Puke

Are there any other foods out there you can order by the "loaf" besides bread? If not, isn't that a waste of a word?

Take a long, hard stare at the nearest video cassette and realize how obsolete these bulky, black contraptions look.

Funniest man in the biz at this exact moment, even though it's probably a fad: Will Ferrell

So why does Dave's room get a 6 foot puddle that sits for a week without stinking up his room, and I get a 2 foot puddle that sits for the night and makes my room smell like a sewer farted?

All the attention is going to Arnold and Larry Flynt running for governor of California, but one celebrity candidate is not getting his just press: Gary Coleman. He's running on a stellar campaign of balancing the budget, decriminalizing marijuana, and abolishing size ordinances on roller coasters.

Too bad this rough, seducing voice I've recently inherited comes with a nagging cough and phlegm.

Smash Mouth: why?

When two guys at your table order a grilled chicken sandwich, you know the Big Red at Alehouse era is officially over. The fall of the dynasty will probably be traced back to Josh's move to Virginia. It's ok, Josh. It had to end sometime.

Paco can show you many things, but Paco will not beg.

Receiving drunk calls: funny when you're awake, funny when you're sleeping.

Tomorrow I head back to Pensacola for the weekend. It will be two great days: New York family visiting for the fourth time in 2 years, catching up with my back-in-the-country friend Crystal, buying a beer for my newly legal friend Andrew, and the three I call Mom, Dad, and Camille.

Jim didn't like anyone to call him James. James was his birth name, but he preferred Jim. It was Jim. Not James. Never Jimmy. It was Jim. Calling him by anything else would get you an evil stare, a cold gaze that let you know that for now you were safe, but things would all change if his fuse hit full ignition. And don't call him Jim Jr., either. There is a big difference between being the second and being a junior. Jim had the roman numerals after his name and made sure you knew it.

I met Jim in eighth grade gym class. Most of us had been at Ransom Middle School for two years, but this was Jim's first year out of home schooling. He was a different looking kid; kind of pudgy, hair wild and brushed straight back (later parted in the middle), cold dark eyes, neck and forehead full of acne. One glance at him was all it took to figure out he was weird, which is how eighth graders describe anything different and not necessarily better. He immediately was the target of ridicule. The cool kids called him a psycho, made fun of his name (who wants to be called Jim when they're 13?), and threatened to beat him up. Me, I did nothing. I stayed away. I didn't make fun, but I didn't help out. I did nothing.

Coach Jones had us hitting golf balls one morning. We'd line up, six of us at a time, simultaneously hitting our golf balls. Jim and his group went to the tees after my group. When they swung at their golf balls, Jim was the only one that missed. Some of the kids cracked up a bit in restrained ridicule. When Jim missed the second time, the laugher was relentless. I saw Jim's body tense up, his eyes bulging and his hands putting a death grip on the club. His third swing was a miss too, but this time it had more to do with Jim choosing to axe-chop his club into the ground. We all laughed at his incompetence. It was then that his neck and face went into tense spasm, his eyes rolled up almost into his head, he flung his face in our direction, and roared at the top of his lungs, "SHUT UPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!!!" Coach Jones, he told Jim to chill. The kids, we all got chills.

I still had no relationship with Jim until the end of eighth grade. I was an office messenger and had to deliver something to the band hall. Mr. Bertles was in his office, the band hall free of any authority. Kids were running rampant and throwing paper. I went into the back office, gave Mr. Bertles his note, and walked through the chaos that was the band hall. Near the door, Jim was on the floor, lying straight and staring up into space. When I got closer, I noticed the blood from his nose sliding down his cheeks. He let out one whimper of, "help me." It sounded so odd that I almost cracked up in confusion and fear. I returned to the office and told them what I saw. The kid who punched Jim was supsended for 10 days.

After that incident, I decided to be nice to Jim. It's not that I was mean to him before, but I wasn't kind either. I didn't defend him, and sometimes if the crowd was big enough, I'd join in on a good laugh about Jim. But I was gonna make an effort to be nice to him. We were both signed up to play trumpet in high school marching band, so we took freshmen summer school together. Since we played the same instrument, we always marched and played together. We were never friends, but we would talk once in a while. I'd ask him how he was doing, help him out on a musical run he couldn't get, show him how to do a left pivot, all sorts of mini-nerd-band-camp bonding.

On one of the last days of band summer school, Jim couldn't find his sunglasses. Liked he always did when he got mad, his eyes rolled upward and he yelled.

Where! Are! My! Sunglasses?!?

He romped around the band hall trying to find his sunglasses. He'd get right into kids' faces and ask for his glasses. When he got to my area, I told him to checked his band locker, that maybe he had accidentally stuck them in his trumpet case. He rushed into the locker room, and I continued practicing. That is, until Jim's hands were around my neck. He shook me in this chokehold and demanded his sunglasses. I threw his hands off my neck, and one of the seniors promptly grabbed Jim and led him away from me.

After the sunglasses incident, I knew I didn't want to be Jim's friend. I wouldn't be his enemy, but I'd never be his friend. He got most violent, most passionate, toward the people that were nice to him. I would be polite, but not nice. From that point, whenever Jim talked to me, I would acknowledge and greet him, but I drew the line at eliciting true conversation. This stance strengthened a few months later, when Jim once again attacked me, accusing me of pulling his chair out from under him when he fell from his own carelessness.

Jim was known as a weirdo throughout high school. Andrew (my best friend in high school, and a fellow trumpet player) and I could--- and often did--- tell an hour's worth of Jim stories at parties. Everyone knew about Jim's odd behavior. The time he picked up the little freshmen by his head and let him dangle. The times he would tell you with a stonecold face that his trumpet was worth more than your life. The time during a band competition that he threatened to ruin the show by running around the field. The time he yelled at the section leader and called him "the evil stepchild." The time he pinned a kid against the wall with his desk. The time he was caught talking to a wall.

Despite being the focus of ridicule, Jim wasn't miserable during high school. He had a small group of friends, most of which were just as different and mocked as he. Even if his sense of humor were odd, he did have one, and he smiled and laughed frequently. He truly enjoyed band and playing the trumpet, and he stayed for all four years. He enjoyed high school.

I haven't seen Jim since graduation night. I heard he joined the army, and his area of focus, as I was informed, was "to bomb down enemy planes." That didn't shock me at all. In fact, I would have expected nothing less. Periodically I get a second-hand update on Jim. Each one includes another odd story, but none surprising when considering the source. Finally today, he was able to surprise me. One of my friends bumped into him this afternoon, and Jim told her what he wants to do. Out of all the odd things Jim has said and done, I never would have expected this one.

All Jim wants to do is go back to high school.

I have watched the worst movie ever created by man about 15 times. I seriously recommend you read this review, then come over to my place with a bag of popcorn, and we'll watch the nasal suckiness of Peter Spitzer and the wretchedness of No Pants Boy together.

I just told someone that sometimes we don't know who we are until we talk to ourselves. You base your composite sketches of people on a few things. What they say, what they have done, how they carry themselves, how they express, outsider information, personal vibes. To beat another cliche to death, the whole is (greater than) the sum of its parts.

Today I am caught in my own self-dissection. I cannot figure out who I am right now, this Sunday. I don't know my mood, what is on my mind, what I should be doing. I have been upbeat and cheerful in public, my friends oblivious to my personal self-loathing. I don't know why I'm angry or disappointed or whatever I'm feeling toward myself, but I have a few ideas.

-I've lived the past 3 days as though my only purpose is to survive until Monday.
-I'm not praying/wishing for anything lately but my own selfish desires: girls, physical attractiveness, money, and girls.
-I had to borrow money from my parents. Again.
-I recently saw this girl and, without knowing a thing about her, remarked "She's no prize."
-I spend too much time sitting at my computer, looking at the same websites over and over.
-I tell people petty lies to impress them or avoid ridicule.
-I've done little this summer to prepare myself for post-graduation.
-I don't see myself doing anything to change the above from continuing.
-It's raining.

I feel better now than I did yesterday, and I have a few ideas as to why.

-I just simultaneously talked to myself and listened.
-I know I am in a rut, not a freefall.
-I have next week better planned and have included people I love.
-I'm gonna hit the tennis courts tonight. Cancelled. Damn rain.
-I called up a longtime buddy.
-I watched Life is Beautiful today.

Life is Beautiful will probably always be my favorite movie. Most obviously, it is an incredibly well-constructed film with a historic setting and one of the most likeable characters ever to grace the screen. No other movie makes me feel so delightedly happy and so painfully sad at the same time. But most importantly, you set aside what everyone else can see, and it has far deeper personal meaning. The Italian scenery brings me back to my roots and makes me feel like I should be with all my family dancing and eating and cheering. I have a tradition with my dear friend Crystal where we catch up, eat dinner, and watch this movie. My first love and I got together when we bundled up on the couch at my home and watched Life is Beautiful.

Deep down I really know that, despite the less-than-ideal circumstances I perceive myself to be in, life is beautiful. That's not enough to cheer me up.

But it's a start.

The amount of my life...

I have been a trumpet player: 47.6%
Living in one room with Furio: 9.5%
Having a girlfriend: 3.6%
In college: 14.3%
In Pensacola: 85.7%
Drew was my best friend: 66.7%
On the couch watching the debut of a Simpsons episode: 0.08%
As a black belt in Taekwondo: 19.0%
With a blog: 6.3%

I don't know what to think of any of this.

The truth is, I haven't been able to think of anything to write since my return from my trip. Two weeks ago I said, I tend to "reward" myself by slacking off. I wish this were not true, but it is, I cannot deny it. I can try to change it. But sadly, with apathy comes a lack of motivation, and motivation is a vital component for change.

Blah blah blah.

It's as though I'm waiting for something when I should be in pursuit, even though I don't know of what.