It was a small group of us, five of us to be exact. The streets more barren as Chrismas came closer, the air finally resembling something near frigid, we shared in pizza and calzones, jokes and memories. Three of us were long ready to call it a semester, for two others a college career. We essentially held sole control of our corner of Leonardo's. For a moment I felt the urge to hop atop the table and reenact the diner scene in Swingers, but we were having an evening of contentment, and the subdued jubilation more appropriately displayed the relief and satisfaction of going home for the holidays.

My dad and I were standing in the mall when I sighed, "Ah, it's good to be home." This time he smiled and gave me some forced laughter. I had already uttered that statement a few times in the two days since I left Gainesville.

Review of my Hypotheses for this Semester

The fall will be much easier than last spring. Wow, we're not starting so hot here. I severely underestimated how much effort and dedication went into all the preparations for grad school. Applied Behavior Analysis required attention everyday, and the exams in other classes were surprisingly complex. Nearly surpassed last semester as the toughest of my studies, though the forty-page paper last spring puts any other work I've done to shame.

My legs will be stronger than ever. Ok, so now we're 0-2, and I realize that we're talking in the seldom-used fourth person. I found combo bus routes to take me 1.5 miles to my class. I have the same sexy, well-toned legs I always had.

It is mathematically impossible to not sit by an attractive girl in my Behavior Analysis class. Everytime I went to class, I had an incredible view. There are only three acceptable reasons for getting up before 7:00 am: watch the sunrise, Saved by the Bell reruns, and to see pretty girls in psychology class.

I will spend a personal record on coffee. Let's just say my barista offered to give me personal space behind the counter for my own mug.

Behavior Analysis will be my favorite class. Yep.

"I mean, I'm proud of my monkey heritage."
-- My roommate, accepting evolutionary theory

Wine
Cheese
Spanish music
Fireplace
Dresses
Suits
Dates
Friends

What a scene, what a time.

I lost all my comments.

A few thoughts that ran through my head as I was half asleep and turned on the news at 9:00 am:
I want to hear Bush's real reaction (Probably more like, "Whew! Hell yeah!")
His breath must be hella nasty.
What's it like to live in a hole?
If this is Ashton Kutcher's doing, he's gone too far.

For Christmas vacation, I have my mind set on finishing one of those big jigsaw puzzles. The question is, what kind should I get? I was thinking holding 1,000 pieces of Cameron Diaz in my hands and putting her together would be way cool, but I'll probably just get some stupid airplane picture or whatever they sell at Wal-Mart.

I've decided to use my Christmas present (which I knew about a month ago) for a project next semester. I came up with the idea five minutes ago after wanting to just vent aloud some things that either a)would be too complicated to effectively simplify into printable word, or b)were told to me in confidence and cannot be publically detailed. Let's just say that Italarican dot Blogspot dot Com will be equipped with a few video clips in 2004.

I can't remember it being so easy to talk to someone so quickly. I sat next to my friends at a dinner banquet, and a few minutes later she came in. Luck would have it that the chair next to me was empty. She sat beside me, brushed aside the hair that draped across her shoulder, and said hello. We had met once before, briefly, and it was good. I turned toward her to greet her, to return the hello.

I never turned back toward my friends.

Two straight hours, two straight hours at an end-of-the-year banquet, a social, a large gathering where everyone drinks, laughs, and shares war stories. Yet we spent the night Dinner for Two. Just talking, laughing, connecting, bonding. Two hours together, but she had to leave. She told me how she looked forward to the next time we'd get to see each other, get to talk. I felt the same, but I had no idea when I would see her again. I didn't get her number, and we won't have the chance to cross paths at these mutual gatherings for the next month. But it will happen. I will see this girl again. And when I do, I know we'll continue as though we never missed a moment, and I'll know this girl, and she'll know me.

And hopefully by that time, the invisible boyfriend will be a deceased character in her story.

Top 5 Things I've Found Out, 2 days Post-Thanksgiving Break '03
1) My dad's examinations for possible cancers all came back negative.
2) My GRE scores put me one step closer to getting into the grad school of my choice (as long as the GRE-Psychology test doesn't run me up the ass).
3) After saying I'd love to go out with a girl about 24-26, it turns out a girl I went out with a few months ago whom I assumed was 21 is actually... 26.
4) I'm not gonna get the flu (though this has to due with my 10 days of coughing finally metamorphisizing into a cold).
5) This picture of Dick Gephardt.

Top 5 Moments, Thanksgiving Break '03
1) Having a pleasant conversation with hometown friends on Thanksgiving night concluded with, "So, who's up for finding an open strip club?"
2) The phone ringing approximately 3 seconds after the Florida-Florida State game, and my sister answering, "It was rigged!"
3) Talking one-on-one with the excitable, quirky, incredibly voiced Rosie Thomas (Concert pics here)
4) My buddy coming to me, and then my mom, for a pep talk before having sex with his girlfriend for the first time (and then coming over the next day, asking me and my dad whether he had successfully finished the deed!)
5) Turkey, rib roast, manicotti, corn bisque, mashed potatoes, scallops, pumpkin pie, chocolate trifle, pumpkin roll, flan, and Italian love cake... four meals in a row.

Incidentally, I'm wondering if I should leave the paper I memo'd these moments on for some stranger to find, because I'd sure be bewildered if I found a note that read, "Strip club, food, virginity, Rosie, rigged game."

I think 30 cds will suffice during Thanksgiving break (and my trip to the ATL).

I was sitting at the kiddie table at Alehouse--- the one low table with short stools surrounded by raised bars and high stools--- eating my free buffalo wings and chicken nachos, when a buddy asked if I had heard the song, "Slow Your Roll." The title didn't ring a bell, and neither did the lyrics of the pop/r&b chorus my friend half-assedly performed. I was quickly losing interest in the conversation, until he said, "Well, the girl who sings it is right over there."

And suddenly I'm intrigued. He says she's way hot. And suddenly I'm more intrigued. He says we should go over and get a picture with her. And suddenly I'm leaving my friends at the kiddie table, asking a guy I barely know for his camera, and walking over to Susie. On the way there, I'm asking my friend to spit out the essential facts--- her name, her song, etc.--- as though I'm doing some last minute cramming for a big test. And I am. I don't want to walk over to this quasi-local-celebrity and not know a thing about her. If she thinks I'm a fan, the conversation must start somewhere.

The fact that she was smoking hot gorgeous beautiful made it easy to want to talk to her, but the truth is, she could have looked like Biz Markie and sang like--- well, Biz Markie--- and I'd have still gone over to meet her. Fame and celebrity, no matter how minor, fascinates me. With celebrity, you can meet someone for the first time, and you're the only one making a first impression. Your view of her is not naked. She doesn't know you, but you know her: her name, where's she's from, what she does for a living. Imagine walking over to a complete stranger at a party and having this conversation:

Hi, what's your name?
Clara.
Hi, Clara. I'm---
--- Joe Guy, I know!
Right, Joe Guy. Nice to meet you. So, where are you from?
I lived in Boca, about an hour from where you're from. So how's your foot?
Oh, my foot, yeah. It's getting much bett---
--- because I heard about what happened, and I was like, oh man! And how's the studying at UNC going? You know, I almost went into computer sciences too...

It's happened to me one time, because of this blog. Soon after taking my seat on the bus, a guy asked me if my name was Anthony. I didn't lie, and he further asked if I had an online journal. He looked past my puzzled grimace and asked me one or two questions I'd only expect to come from friends, people that know me. I had forgotten the powerful reach this internet has. This guy knew much about me (or perceived to, at least), and I had nothing of his. But now, I had his praise.

With celebrity, you're placed on a higher platform based on the fact that you've done something significant (or petty) enough to gain outside recognition. Strangers know you and what you've done, and they compliment you. You're praised by someone whom you know nothing about, and you're helpless to return the favor. You can only smile and accept the admiration.

Oh, Susie was very nice. Great smile. Did I metion she was smoking hot gorgeous beautiful too?

Oh yeah, and when I put my arm around her, my hand bumped her boob.

For some reason, it's very surreal to me that Jonathan Brandis is dead.

Ways to expand my music collection this Christmas...
Let it Be... Naked, The Beatles
Grace, Jeff Buckley
A Mark, a Mission, a Brand, a Scar, Dashboard Confessional
Chain Gang of Love, The Raveonettes
The Thorns, The Thorns
Tupac Resurrection, Tupac

My mind entraps the significant and insignificant all the same. I have an excellent memory. It's worked to my advantage when cramming the night before exams, when quoting a movie with my friends, or when recalling the name of the vaguely familiar face of the girl who seems to have missed you immensely.

But sometimes the magnitude of my memory embarrasses me, and I downplay the visions I recall, or better yet, act as though they don't exist. I'd never tell my ex-girlfriend that I remember the shirt and pants we were wearing during our first kiss. Never let the hot blonde in my criminology class know I can recite her first and last name, where she grew up, and how she likes her eggs. Would never admit I can still name the actors from Full House.

Scott Weinger played DJ's boyfriend, Steve.

I'm afraid of showing people how much I remember about them. It creates the image that I hold things close to my heart that others would deem forgettable. I'm like the obsessive fan who can instantly tell you anything and everything about Emma Watson. You're impressed by his knowledge, but feel a tad uneasy that someone would remember so much about something so unextraordinary.

I am everyone's obsessive fan. I remember when you wanted to be an engineer, the one on the choo choo train. I remember your favorite flavor of Gatorade, Green Squall. I remember that your parents went to University of Nebraska and maintained a long distance relationship. I remember your last name is Miller. I remember that your girlfirend, a girl I've never met, fell in love with you in April of 2000, three weeks after prom. I remember that Usher's "U Got it Bad" gave you goosebumps.

But I don't have faith that you remember that in high school I wanted to be a radiologist, that my favorite ninja turtle was Donatello, that I got my middle name from an old doo-wop singer, that we met playing ultimate frisbee. That my name is Anthony.

And when I've been completely erased from your mind, I wonder why you won't escape mine.

A Few Things
1) You know when it's too hot? When you say to yourself, 'maybe I should've put deodorant on my balls.' --Lewis Black. For all you people who don't live here, let me explain something: no matter how idealistic Florida weather may seem, to live through it 11.5 months of the year, 21 years straight, gets a little monotonous.

2) Why does the health food aisle at Publix hold the candy station?

3) My life, in cliche: The most consistent thing I have going for me right now, is my inconsistency.

4) Ingredients for a successful Glutton Bowl '03: hamburgers, hot dogs, chips, Dr. Pepper, chicken wings, brownies, pizza, malt liquor

5) Best restaurant in Gainesville, pound for pound: Ballyhoo.

6) When I woke up Saturday morning afternoon, I found a bowling ball in our backyard.

7) My Top 5 movie list has had two vacant spots for a while now, but now that Swingers finally earned itself a spot, we're down to one free spot left. Maybe Glitter.

I may have narrowed the list of cities I will live in next year to four. In order of likelihood...

1. Harrisburg, Pennsylvania
2. Charlottesville, Virginia
3. New York
4. Gainesville, Florida

After I reread the sentence on the University of Virginia website, my stomach sunk to the floor. I must have lost all pigment in my face. I called frantically in desperate search for the tiniest loophole, and each time I found only barricade. I called my mom for any possible help, a friend for comfort, secretaries for mercy. Over an hour passed, the clock struck 5, and that was it. Businesses closed, workers left their offices, and I had created a blunder that I might not be able to fix.

I walked away from my room and down the hall. There were people in the other room, my roommates and one of their girlfriends. It's fitting that they were all contemplating what they were gonna do in a year, decisions that could very well affect the rest of our lives. Everyone envied me, thought I had it all figured out. I thought I did too. But I messed up.

Long story short, my scores for an exam required for PhD psychology programs will not be available until a few days after application deadlines. These deadlines are, apparently, quite strict, and there's no way to take the test or get my scores sent any earlier. None of my applications would be complete by deadline. I cannot get accepted for next fall.

All this happened for a reason. I'm just trying to figure out why. Perhaps God is telling me that I'm not ready, lacking the proper life experience, to enter the research, clinical world. Maybe I'm destined to go to Penn State, my number one choice and the most attractive education alternative to not immediately beginning PhD work (I'd work on a Master's). It could be that I need to learn to be more aggressive and ask for help and guidance when making life-changing decisions.

I'm somewhat sad and embarrassed by the whole situation, particularly since there is no finger to point but directly back at myself. I'll try to sort things out in the next few days. But one thing's for sure: for reasons good and bad, unfortunate and exciting, I have little clue as to where I'll be and what I'll be doing this time next year.

I sampled a can of frosting that expired three months ago. Butter Cream by Pillsbury. Still pretty freakin good. I ate a third of the can then threw the rest out. I didn't get sick.

Tried some celery and carrots the other day. Yep, they still suck.

Dawn, Carrie Ann, Billie Jean, Michelle, Donna, Alison, Sara, Layla, Gloria, Maggie May, Amanda, Suzanne, Angie, Rosemary, Lola, Cecilia, Beth, Susan, Natasha, Grace.

The 20 Girls compilation is finished.

We were still bursting with energy from the incredbile night, driving down an unfamiliar highway in effort to find a friend's house. Without finding that house, we were left with either calling hotel numbers we had been given that night, or sleeping three guys in a cozy-but-not-that-cozy Honda Civic. On the left, a dark stretch of trees clouded our view from the aftermath of a city-wide party we had just escaped. Every block looked like the next, and that's why the yellow lighted boxes stood out so strongly. We immediately looked at each other and smirked, as if it were our duty to pull over.

I got out of the car and put on my cap, my hair sweaty and curling by the minute, and walked in not quite sure what I wanted at Waffle House, but I knew I didn't feel like having a waffle. When we entered, our Waffle House waitress harked out a "Good Morning!" to us boys, we being perplexed until realizing that yes, when it is 4:45 am, morning has indeed arrived.

I got a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich on white toast, side of hashbrowns, and a glass of water.

One cell phone call later, we successfully found Lynn's house and called it a night morning night.

I lied motionless on a pull-out sofa, thinking about our night. Well, my night. Looking back at all the 32 oz beers, the hostile Georgia fans, the obnoxious array of noises, and the beautiful babies from both my school and across the border, I realized that definitely I had a good time, maybe even a great time. I did. I had a great time.

I knew that once I woke up, I probably would not have a night like this for quite a while. And actually, I was thankful; thankful that "partying" was not my choice of lifestyle; there are much better, more meaningful things to live for. And yet, the same time, I could appreciate my fun for what it was, and I'd have a few memories from this night that stay with me long after I've left University of Florida. The memories that stay with me will do so because they are deviations from the repetitiveness in my life. I was definitely content at keeping this night as an opportunity to see how great I have it, an anomaly in my subdued life, and, most importantly, an unforgettable October night.

Yes, I'm stealing a friend's idea, but at the same time, I'm helping him out too.

The project is to make an awesome compilation disc, but this one will have a special theme: girls' names. Each song (about 15 would be ideal) will have a title that is only a girl's name. But I have some rules:

>No other words can be in the title ("Come on Eileen")
>Only first names ("Penny Lane")
>Compound first names are ok (like "Barbara Ann")
>No showtunes ("Maria" from West Side Story)
>Only one song per artist

Here's what I have so far, but some of these just won't cut it. Hopefully this list will evolve with your help!

"Gloria"- Van Morrison
"Dawn"- Frankie Valli
"Rosemary"- Lenny Kravitz
"Layla"- Derek and the Dominoes
"Natasha"- Rufus Wainwright
"Barbara Ann"- Beach Boys
"Roxanne"- The Police
"Sara"- Starship
"Michelle"- The Beatles
"Bernadette"- The Four Tops
"Mandy"- Barry Manilow
"Donna"- Richie Valens
"Polly"- Nirvana
"Adrienne"- The Calling
"Marianne"- Counting Crows
"Billie Jean"- Michael Jackson
"Suzanne"- Weezer
"Alison"- Elvis Costello
"Cecilia"- Simon and Garfunkel
"Emily"- Michael W. Smith
"Amanda"- Boston
"Beth"- Kiss
"Lola"- The Kinks
"Angie"- The Rolling Stones
"Victoria"- The Kinks
"Marjorine"- Joe Cocker
"Elvira"- The Oak Ridge Boys
"Molina"- CCR
"Carrie Ann"- The Hollies
"Susan"- The Buckinghams
"Ella"- Vroom
"Konstantine"- Something Corporate
"Maggie May"- Rod Stewart
"Clara"- The Ataris
"Peggy Sue"- Buddy Holly
"Candy"- Iggy Pop
"Grace"- U2


Any others?

Today I felt the need to write a dedication in your name. I had posted something for him on his day and felt the need to deliver something to you on an equal level. But then it hit me. Just like him, you have no equal. You know how I feel and what I would say, and to both of us that's enough.

I love you.

Why do I always need to figure out who I am? who I'm not?
Why do I feel the need to label others? myself?
Why do I compel myself to act a certain way? to avoid certain things?
Why do I act critical toward my strengths? complacent to my faults?
Why do I place others' needs before mine?
Why do I have the friends I have? Why do they have me?
Why do I buy the clothes I buy? the music? the food?
Why do I want more consistency in my life? more spontaneity?
Why do I take constructive criticism so personally?
Why do I enjoy solitude? companionship?
Why do I provide solid advice to friends? but not always listen to it myself?
Why do I make a wife and kids such a priority for my future?
Why do I study so much? so little? so sporadically?
Why do I act with my heart more than my brain?
Why do I have so much faith? doubt?
Why do I fear failure? success?
Why do I worry about what I can't change?
Why do I allow nerves to affect my actions? or lack thereof?
Why do I feel so great when helping others?
Why do I tell people what they want to hear? what's best for them?
Why do I consider myself kind? intelligent? loyal? attractive?
Why do I cross my legs? talk with my hands? walk with a waddle?
Why do I conform to expectations? deviate from the norm?
Why do I still hate vegetables?
Why do I feel I deserve better? exactly what I get?
Why do I never join a clique of friends?
Why do I sympathize with minorities?
Why do I resist taking chances with girls?
Why do I use so much sarcasm?
Why do I like people because they're Italian? Puerto Rican? attractive?
Why do I surf the same internet sites everyday?
Why do I want everyone to like me? respect me?
Why do I possess this much confidence? humility?
Why do I aim for mutual agreement in a debate?
Why do I apologize for my shortcomings?
Why do I reveal parts of myself in an open forum like this?
Why do I wonder?

Top 5 Games I Miss from Second Grade

5a) Four Corners. The mayhem of fleeing from one corner of the class to another, praying that you didn't choose the wrong one that would send you back to your desk.

5b) Parachute. Actually, I don't think this game has a name. Your whole class lets air flow under a parachute, then you let go and run through the chaos of the bottom and try to make it to the other side before being suffocated by five tons of rainbow-colored cloth. Just as fun when you lose as when you win.

4) Heads Up, Seven Up. Nothing but darkness inside your folded arms as you wonder, won't someone come to my desk and tap my head?

3) Quietball. What a premise for the burned-out elementary school teacher: invent a game that forbids any sort of noise. Plus, you got to sit on your desk and dangle your legs in the air, which was way cool.

2) Kickball. The poor man's teeball was always rewarding whether you kicked the ball high into the air or tripped on the ball after striking out. Rivalries with classmates, tournaments with other classes, and a big red ball. Plus, I got to hide behind the dugout and kiss Whitney Allen, my second-grade relationship that ended in tragedy when I threw dirt at her and ran away from my commitment. I digress. On to number one...

1) Dodgeball. The game where legends were made. Nothing beat the gradual word-of-mouth that you hadn't been hit the whole game. Jumping over balls, watching flying objects pass your body from all angles, contorting in ways you had never discovered (I wonder if there's a correlation between great dodgeball players and future love life). And when you got hit, you joined the circle with your friends, caught a ball, and released your payback.

Apparently, you can find this blog by doing a search for:
>"I'm angry with you" e card
>Max Kellerman fetish
>"farted" + "ninth grade"
>paco will not beg
>Cameron Diaz sucking dick
>grandma sex story sunk free
>embarrassed happy faces
>homemade pee container
>spells to get rid of gym class
>naked girls who are under 8 to 16 years old girls naked snaps little under age teen girls nak
>middle school jockstrap
>jocks in their jockstrap after the game
>polish bertles
>pee bottle auto liter soda

This evening, a girl at Chi-O asked me how my day was going. I couldn't think of a substantive response and replied with a "just fine." I then thought about it a little more and realized I couldn't remember what I had done today. Did I get any tests back? Did I bump into any friends? Did I eat lunch at home or out? Did I even eat lunch at all?

For a few weeks now, all my days have blurred into one mass, an ongoing event. Everyday is the same becuase I'm always doing the same thing. Everyday I study. It's the first thing I do after taking a shower and last thing I do before putting in a Simpsons tape and falling asleep.

Whenever you fill out a survey, it usually asks for your occupation. I always scroll right above "Other" to find "Student." Unless the survey really sucked, then I fill out something cool like "Government Official Top Spy Superman 007." This month is the first time I have ever felt like "student" really labelled me.

So Anthony, what do you do?
I'm a student. I study. I read books, take notes, do homework, and take tests. It's tough, and the pay sucks.

It's my duty to study. It's right there in the job description. In the next few weeks I will have taken the GRE, aced a few exams, finished the literary review of a future journal article, and gathered some sexy letters of recommendation. And for the first time, I feel compelled to dedicate my full time into acquiring the knowledge and skills necessary to succeed in the upcoming stages of my educational life, because it's my job. I want to well so I can get a damn good promotion.

Even if you can't find me, you know what I'm doing. Back to work.

1:27pm- Strip down into hospital gown, thankful I remembered to put on underwear
1:32pm- Take pictures of my kidney
1:34pm- Cute nurse whispers that my butt is exposed, fixes my gown, grazes my butt
1:46pm- Bring X-rays to urology lab
2:15pm- Pee in a cup, ah the memories
2:16pm- Damn, Jennifer Garner looks a-m-a-z-i-n-g on this Teen Magazine cover
2:31pm- Hey Dr. Cassisi, how's it going? You got good news for me?
2:32pm- All looks good... systems clear... no more stones!

I just witnessed the post-accident part of a hit and run, so I guess I witnessed a run.

Best nickname I've ever given someone: The Kooter.

Camille took me to Chili's when I visited her during her first month at college. She and her friends made fun of the waiter, for reasons I can't remember, but I do remember that it took quite a while to get his crap into gear and take our order. I'm not a huge fan of Chili's, so I carefully dissected the menu in an effort to find something I may like. My craving changed 5 or 6 times, and when the waiter returned, I ordered some sort of chicken kabob dish (which failed to change my opinion of Chili's). My sister gave me a raised eyebrow and a perplexed gaze, one which came unexpectedly and not understood. And then she explained.

Chicken? Chicken? You ordered chicken?!?

I didn't realize that Camille had not seen my diet and--- as a result--- palate change over the past six months, and to see her big brother order anything that didn't require the slaughter of a pig or cow was quite an alarm. The brother whose favorite food on Thanksgiving was not the turkey, but the rib roast? The brother who ordered a medium rare New York Strip anywhere and everywhere? The brother who mocked her default selection of chicken strips or chicken nuggets or rosemary chicken or whatever the chicken special was?

I tweaked my diet this year in four ways: I've replaced many times I would have eaten red meat with chicken or fish, decreased my salt intake, made water my beverage of choice, and said goodbye to iced tea. You probably assumed these changes were choices based on health factors... until that fourth item. How is iced tea bad for you? Well, I needed a change for health reasons, but not for reasons you'd normally expect.

I needed fix to the health issues responsible for my kidney stones.

They caused me indescribable pain. They hindered my normal routine. They interfered with my sleep. They affected my studies. They terminated my already-waning social life. They lowered my spirits. I never want to deal with kidney stones again. And these slight adjustments in my eating habits should prevent me from ever dealing with these little balls of terror again.

Or so I hope. Tomorrow I go to the doctor, seven months after passing my last stone, and see if another little bundle of joy has festered into my kidney.

If you're perception of me is based only on my blog, on a few cyberthoughts of mine, you don't really know me. Snippets of my life and heart spread across the internet for you to see, but they only provide carefully dispersed clues as to who I am. This blog is not of my life; it is a dramatization of the real me. Like any biography, it takes the events of my life and gives them a sense of excitement, no matter how ordinary. The other 90% of my life is spent surfing the internet, taking a bus to class, watching The Simpsons, checking up on my dinner, studying for class, sleeping.

Everything is stretched across one strand of emotion to appear more vital than the everday feeling. With something good or joyous, my blog tells you about the ultimate exhilaration of that simple, forgettable chat with an attractive girl. When my mood is low, it may appear as though my turmoil nags on every thread of my life, when in fact I overcome my minor sulk in a matter of moments. The thoughts within my writing may impress you, but many times I've spent two hours in front of a white computer canvas thinking of one word that would be better for that paragraph, or one idea that would elicit a comment or compliment.

When looking at a painting, you may see a whole picture. You may even look up close and notice some hidden messages. But you can't truly uncover all the colors used. All underlying inspirations for the work. You may be close to deciphering it, but the only way you'll ever know is if you're personal with the artist himself, if you know how he ticks when he's not at work, if you know the other 90% of him.

So don't think my life is better or more captivating than yours. Our lives are just as oridnary and beautiful. I just edit mine.

Maybe the ten hours of studying have caused extreme pressure to my brain, or maybe having three exams in one day impedes on my ability to think critically, but I've stared at this sentence in my Developmental Psych book for an hour now, and I must be missing something:

In an observational study of blind children enrolled in preschools with sighted agemates, the blind children were less likely to initiate contact with peers and teachers.

I have no idea how this could be true. Oh, perhaps because the children can't see their peers and teachers!!!

Jamey and I claimed a table on the side and prepared to study, but within five minutes the workers behind the counter were closing the register and sweeping the floor. Starbucks was closing an hour earlier than I had anticipated (that's what I get for not reading signs and just making up facts like "Starbucks closes at midnight every night"), so we got in our car and headed back to the apartment. We listened to cover songs and played ketchup with each other's lives. And during our talk, it hit me: in middle school and high school, I always liked one girl. Not a specific crush spanning seven years, but one girl was always in my heart at one point, with a gradual transition of feelings from one girl to another. The point is, you could have asked me, So, who do you like? anytime during those days, and even though I was too shy to tell the truth, there'd always be a definitive answer. Today, if you were stuck in the Dawson's Creek phase and asked me, So, who do you like?, I couldn't give you an honest one-name response. And to tell you the truth, I haven't been able to definitively answer that question for over a year now.

I don't know how I'm supposed to feel about that.

Dear Coach Zook,

You seem like a nice guy, so why would you dismantle something so cherished to the University of Florida students as Gator Football?

Unsincerely,
Gator Football Fans

Things to do in October:
>Study for the GRE
>Finish literary review for professor
>Detail my hopes for 3 letters of recommendation
>Study for the GRE-Psychology
>Narrow list of grad schools to about 10
>Concoct a proposal of study
>Select a Halloween costume

Right now I'm supposed to be in class. I'm not. I'm at home, sitting in a computer chair, typing on a keyboard. My schedule says 2:00-3:00 pm is designated time to learn about Developmental Psychology, but Dr. Shenkman hit me with the type of mind-bending observation that made me wipe my forehead and profess, "That's it, enough school for today."

School is linked to education is linked to smarts. And yet we all know that intellect and smarts include a plethora of other areas outside of learning in a classroom. We have book smarts, but we also have street smarts, people smarts, X-Box smarts, whatever.

You can go to school all your life. Search a university catalog and see how many degrees, undergrad and graduate work, exist. You could strive to be a living alphabet soup if you so desired: Mr. Johnson, BA, MA, MS, PhD, JD, MBA, CAPS, MD.

But if you go to school all your life, do you necessarily know more at 30 than another man who, at 30, has worked and raised a family for almost ten years? Many educated men live in a sterile, insulated world while going to their ivory tower of knowledge, and while book smart, they could arguably know less than the man who has lived in the real world during those years.

This made me look at myself, which was very easy considering I was chosen as a case example in this lecture. I may not get my first real job until I'm in my late 20s. By that time, I should be damn smart, but in what ways? I'll know the facts and skills that are necessary for my field, but I must make sure to remember that during that time it's essentially as vital to live as it is to learn. Knowledge comes indirectly from books... where knowledge truly develops is from experience. We respect our elders on this principle, because we know through their years they have lived more, which implies they are wiser.

I must remember that during graduate school, I should intake as many lessons outside the classroom as I do within. Take in life, live my mistakes, question what doesn't seem right, help my fellow man, have fun. With each day I can become infinitely smarter.

I'm already wiser than the person I was two hours ago.

After lecture, I waited for Doc to pack his bag and followed him out the door. I thanked him for the talk, which he appreciated and offered deeper advice on life and school. My next class had started 10 minutes ago, but I stood in the criminology hallway learning from a man who has extensive wisdom from his life as a cop, a basketball player, a professor, a husband, and a father.

On the bus ride home, I unfolded my crossword puzzle and filled in whatever boxes I could. I was also humming a song. I was humming a Rosie Thomas melody, the words escaped me. When I got home, I put the disc into my stereo, and played the track stuck in my head. For the first time, I actually heard the lyrics.

Gradually,
I will get wiser.
I will get stronger.
I will be bolder.
I will not settle.
I will fight back.
I will stand up, or I will sit back.

Gradually, I will get older.
I will get wiser.
I will move slower.
I will see clearer.
I'll overcome.
And I'll acknowledge how far I have come.

Lines I'd (almost) give my left nut to never hear in another song
>I'd walk 1,000 miles just to be with you tonight.
>Let's spread our wings and fly away.
>I didn't mean to make you cry.
>Why can't I breathe whenever I think about you?
>You're the air that I breathe.
>I can't breathe without you.
>Anything that has to do with breathing.
>You drive me crazy.
>You make me crazy.
>Rock your body, baby.
>I got lost along the way.
>You're always on my mind.
>I can't live without you.
>I'm not a girl, not yet a woman.
>I'll be there. (how could I forget that one?)

Anthony, age 7: Daddy, how do a boy and a girl have sex?
Dad: You just stick your boogers in them.

Dad: Ant, cut that out or I'll break your face!
Anthony, age 10: What? You do it all the time in my face too!
Dad: Yeah, but mine smell good. Like tomatoes fresh from the can.

Anthony, age 13: It's not fair.
Dad: Well, you can either stay here in bed feeling sorry for yourself, or you can get up and do something about it. Either way, we'll help you any way we can. That's what we're here for.

Dad: I cried a little bit on the way home.
Anthony, age 18: Really?
Dad: Yeah, I saw a McDonald's and it reminded me of you.
Anthony: What memories do we have at McDonald's?
Dad: I don't know.

Dad: So what are you doing tonight?
Anthony, age 19: I'm just making a cake right now with a couple of guys on the floor.
Dad: Oh wow, I've never been so proud! Evelyn! My son is baking with the boys on a Saturday night!

Anthony, age 21: I'm wondering if maybe I should stay another year and maybe get some work experience.
Dad: Oh yeah?
Anthony: Yeah, what do you think?
Dad: Well, I think that'd be kind of stupid. Sounds like you'd just be putting your life on hold for a year.
Anthony: I guess.
Dad: You just do what's best for you, but you asked my advice. You've got what it takes to keep going.
Anthony: I know.
Dad: Like I said, you just do what you think is best, and I'll support you. You'll make the right decision.

Dad: You're a great kid, Ant.
Anthony, all ages: Thanks. You're a great dad.

We've had some great talks over the years, dad. Happy 51st birthday. I not only love you, but I like you too.

Ouch! Ouch! OUCH!!!

The rush I get from ordering a new (or used) cd is a reflection of the experiences I anticipate will later come. And honestly--- and this is a trait I've inherited from my dad--- I can't figured out which I love more: listening to new music, or possessing new music. The obvious pleasure comes in the listening, but there's something magical in holding that jewel case, in setting up a long-term home for the cd in my rack (In my dad's case, this is an entire wall. Have I mentioned we have over 5,000 cds back home?), in scrolling through the pictures and liner notes of the album sleeve, in the mere knowledge that I have this fifty-minute sample of another person's art in my grasp.

In a few days, there will be times when Rufus Wainwright's voice is soaring out my car, times when Rosie Thomas's humming will distract my studying, and times when I'll be sitting in my bed just looking at the cds in my right and left hand. And I'm not gonna figure out if I enjoyed holding them or playing them more, because that's like trying to figure out how The West Wing won a fourth consecutive Emmy.

ShOrTyLiLsWeEtIe: Aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoetnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer be at the rghit pclae. The rset can be a total mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe.

Monday, the beginning of the week, the blocker of sleep, the pimp to my call girl. I experienced quite an eventful Monday. As a matter of fact, all of the following happened. Except for one... I'm throwing in a fake. See if you can figure out which one it is.

1) I spilled garbage water all over my shirt.
2) A cd came for me in the mail... one I ordered a month ago.
3) A girl kissed me after I let her know that mangero is Italian for "I will eat."
4) I found out our water heater was broken the wrong way, by taking an ice cold shower in the morning.
5) One of my patients/students at the treatment center died of unnatural causes.
6) I took a one-hour nap naked, without sheets, and the fan on full blast.
7) My mom let me know that my cousin will soon go to prison for 5-10 years.
8) My team was victorious in our first intramural volleyball game.
9) With five minutes of free time, I watched five minutes of The Meateater.
10) I saw an ex-girlfriend who keeps getting hotter.

I don't think I've ever understood that it really is ok for me to look around and go out with more than one girl while no true feelings exist. I say this because I've never actively pursued girls, but the stars and the moon aligned in such a way that on Friday, I got the phone numbers of a few ladies, plural. I initially felt kind of like an ass, as if I were playing games with these girls, but then it hit me: I don't know them well, and I want that to change. If I begin to develop feelings for one, I have enough character to focus on what I really want. I don't have to justify what happened; what happened is inherently acceptable.

But none of this changes my goals, and I would still trade kissing 10 different girls for having just one fall asleep in my lap while watching a movie at home.

Vague One-Liner No One Cares About
I'm very curious as to how I feel about this whole situation when I wake up.

Every generation lives through a monumental event that changed the world, that cemented moment that's always in place when your grandchildren will ask, "Where were you when X happened?" To think that two years ago today, I thought our moment would be the OJ verdict.

My walk from Italian to Analysis of Police Organizations brings me through a crowd of library patrons and students looking for a lunch break across University Avenue. Every type of person walks through this passage; I can bump into a PIKE headed to MVP Sports Bar while overhearing the nasal singing of the Hare Krishnas. Today I recognized a guy walking in my direction, but I couldn't make a positive identification. He donned a baseball cap and sunglasses, and his attention was entirely devoted to the plain-but-attractive brunette by his side. I didn't strain my eyes to figure out who he was, but I knew that he had once been in my life. He and his female companion brushed by, and I heard him speak a few words to her.

The words were inconsequential; actually, they've already escaped me. It was the voice's timbre--- that nasal, subtly piercing tenor--- that brought me back to freshmen year, when Rob was my neighbor in East Hall. He was widely unpopular among the hall, partly for his odd eccentricites, partly for the non-stop cycling of Kid Rock songs from his stereo, but mainly for his remarkable anal retentiveness and intolerance of even the most faint outside noises. For reasons I can no longer remember, let alone justify, Rob once reminded me of my best friend from home, Andrew. When Andrew visited me freshmen year, the two met face to face. Andrew later informed me (jokingly) that he was offended by my comparison. I understand why.

Nevertheless, the mere vision and idea of Rob today made me think of Andrew. I spent last weekend visiting him in Pensacola, celebrating and reliving past memories. We involved ourselves in many of the same activities that made us best friends in high school: eating loaded potato soup at O'Charley's, watching The Meateater, discussing girls and religion, critiquing our old homemade movies. One of my personal favorites, one I did not appreciate until this weekend, has me sitting as a spectator as Andrew and my dad fire sarcastic insults toward each other, a battle my dad usually wins.

When Sunday morning came around and time had come for me to return to school, I gave Andrew a hand shake and hug, told him I loved him, and made sure he knew that I rarely want to ever see him again. If I rarely see Andrew again, I can be confident he is successfully chasing his dream. Tomorrow he takes a plane to New York and moves into his two-person, one-bedroom Brooklyn apartment. Andrew has been invited to join a theatre playhouse in Manhattan. He has never lived outside of Pensacola, but tomorrow he leaves everybody and everything familiar to pursue his acting career. Risky, terrifying, and exhilarating rolled into one chaotic ball.

Andrew was put on this Earth to perform. Dear friends are supposed to say such supportive things, but I put strong faith behind that praise. I believe him when he says that he will be happy in life if he can take masses of people and make them forget their problems in day-to-day life, if only for a passing moment. I'm sad but relieved to know he won't be a five-minute drive away whenever I go home. I may be losing proximity with a friend, but New York is gaining a passionate, delightful performer. The time has come for Andrew to share with the rest of the world what I have seen for sixteen years. I just hope the world is ready. And kind.

New look. Same, great taste.
--- Pepsi Campaign 1991

Thanks to Furio for the new design.

People are surprised when I tell them that I don’t cry. My friends know that I openly express my feelings, which is why it surprises them so much that all this time none of them have ever seen even a sole tear ride down my cheek. I’m a sensitive guy, somewhat emotional, but as for crying, I haven’t since 1996, when I felt my dog’s heart stop beating as the vet put her to sleep.

I know you won’t label me as some sort of freak robot for this, but I think I should explain that I have been close to tears a few times since 1996. The time my grandma, stricken with MS, got up from her wheelchair and took steps. The time I had to say goodbye to the girl I adored as she boxed up her belongings. The time we got the call that my childhood friend was shot and killed. The time I realized that my girlfriend would never love me the way I yearned for. Passion-entrenched times, enough for perhaps a sensing of my eyes filling with water, but never a physical outreach, never an emotional release. Never a shed tear.

Tonight I again caught myself on the brink of tears. This time no circumstances in my personal life were at focus. Actually I’m embarrassed to say what I was doing when it happened.

I was watching TV. And I haven’t even reached the embarrassing part.

I was watching “Legendary Nights,” a series that recaps classic boxing matches.

Tonight they recapped a 1990 bout, a fight I vaguely remember but whose memory will never escape me. Analysts widely considered Julio Cesar Chavez, undefeated after over 70 fights, the best fighter in the game. He was challenged by an up-and-coming Meldrick Taylor, with the winner well on his way to a legendary career.

The story of the fight goes like this: Meldrick Taylor dominates Chavez through the first nine (of twelve) rounds. All Meldrick has to do is be standing when the final round closes to be declared the winner. In the final round, Meldrick chooses to fight rather than dance around and secure his victory. With about 25 seconds left in the fight, Chavez unleashes a crushing blow to Meldrick’s head. He wobbles around for several seconds, trying to hold on for the bell. Chavez lands another vicious punch and knocks Meldrick down with about 10 seconds left. Meldrick is quite stunned but gets up to beat the count. Nevertheless, despite Meldrick’s wide lead on the scorecards and the virtual end of the fight, the referee stops the fight with 2 seconds left, declaring Chavez the winner by technical knockout.

These are the important details, the parts of the story I still remember, including the fury all boxing fans had toward the absurd call by referee Richard Steele. After that fight, Chavez continued a glorified career that will certainly place him in the hall of fame. Meldrick Taylor never reached the heights his career was two seconds away from reaching.

Tonight “Legendary Nights” replayed an interview with Meldrick Taylor, some thirteen years after the fight. I had long been curious as to his life after the Chavez fight. My dad had already seen this program--- I was watching a rerun--- and had warned me of the tragedy I would witness. No warning could prepare me for such a tragic display.

There Meldrick Taylor sat on his couch. He looked bloated, his eyes seemingly still swollen from a fight thirteen years ago. His mouth sunk, his chin nearly grazing his neck. Every word that came out of his mouth seemed to require all his effort and concentration. His once charismatic, loud-jabbing demeanor had deteriorated into a clunky, foggy trance. He expressed his thoughts at a plodding pace, his sentences so drastically slurred that executives must have pondered over the use of subtitles.

Meldrick Taylor is still boxing. He continues to distribute--- and absorb--- punches. He fights guys who weren’t worthy to hold his jockstrap in his prime. Sometimes he wins, sometimes he gets knocked out. But he continues to fight, not ready to give up on his dream.

Through all his stutters and fumbled language, Meldrick desperately attempted to convince the public--- and himself--- that he is as good a fighter today as he was in 1990. He still covets the championship that eluded him in that controversial defeat. He’s set on achieving the greatness he almost attained thirteen years ago. He will continue fighting. Even if it kills him.

This is a man who saw his defining moment confiscated by an outside party. He’s a destiny unfulfilled, a life unfinished. He will continue a hopeless quest to reverse time and reach conquest in a former life. He will never satisfy his purpose but refuses to search for any other journey. This is all he has to live for. This is all he will ever live for. We have already seen the future. His life is rapidly deteriorating. In another thirteen years he will have no quality of life, as he will either be a wheelchair-confined vegetable, or buried in the ground. All because he has yet to see his only apparent purpose in life realized.

It almost brings a man to tears.

If you decided to halt the normal progress of your life and fulfill every person's fantasy of becoming a full-fledged porn star, what would be your stage name? If you didn't know, there is actually a formula for a person's porn alias. Take your middle name, then stick the name of the street you grew up on at the end (omitting St., Rd., Dr., etc.). Bam... you're ready for a booming career in the video sex industry!

Tonight the boys of Country Village designed their porn posters, courtesy of Microsoft Picture It. If you'd like your own custom porn poster, send me your middle name, the street you grew up on, and a sexy portrait, because I'm totally down with making more of these to put on the marquee! For now, here are the rising stars of Country Village...

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.

Highlights of the "Anthony Turns 21" East Coast Tour

Witnessing an effeminate patient give himself a facial with pancake syrup
Making a grand entrance to my birthday dinner by blasting A Flock of Seagulls through the parking lot
Successfully downing my first Irish Car Bomb
Opening my presents and discovering a pattern: Cameron Diaz and Alcohol
Having the waiters at Red Lobster singing with my birthday cake tiramisu... while I'm in the bathroom
Hitting a $50 winner on my third pull of the slot machine
Screwing over disgruntled gamblers by playing foolishly, but successfully, at the blackjack table
Seeing my mom get hammered on one shot of Amarula
Waiting 45 minutes for Mexican food, only to realize we forgot to order
Winning Eddie From Ohio tickets for taking part in a radio sound bit
Pissing off a three-story parking garage
Giving a girl my underwear at her bachelorette party
Fulfilling a dream with a thirty-something-year-old woman, whom I'll affectionately call Miss Robinson

You only turn 21 once, so why not stretch it out for a week?



I'm recovering from all the festivities. I have quite a bit of stories, but they will have to wait for my mind to rest and catch up. In the meantime, click above for some pictures from my first three days as a fully legal.

My life is in the midst of a 360 degree transformation.

Whenever I achieve a set goal, I tend to "reward" myself by slacking off, convincing myself that a job well done merits a break from work. My meeting with my professor Friday left him quite impressed with my efforts; he let me know of his delight at my findings and knowledge gained from serving as his research assistant. I took the bus home and asked myself, why do I need to spend the weekend downloading journal articles and underlining passages if I have done such a good job the past month? So I didn't do any research, and without a job, my calendar was absolutely empty. Instead of doing anything productive, or even social, I spent the weekend downloading and listening to 80s music, reliving the world of crimped hair, synthesized keyboards, and testosterone-free vocals. I also played tennis. It was cool.

I slugged around in my own patheticness this weekend, but when the clock strikes midnight, it will be July 21, my twenty-first birthday! I actually came out at 5:01 pm, but we don't worry about such technicalities during times like these. Who knows what will actually go down on my birthday, but you know what takes place during 21st birthday parties, and it doesn't include twister and suck n' blow... unless there's a killer afterparty. We'll be at Gators Dockside at 7:00, so you should come.

Within 24 hours, my scenery will be much more serene and much less sweaty. How many people are lucky enough to be have a party with great friends one night, and another with their loving, entertaining family the next? The Italarican clan will grow the next day, when we "legals" in the family head out to Biloxi. My aunt sometimes wins thousands of dollars in jackpots, but I may just throw my money in air and watch all the addicted gamblers dogpile over it. I wouldn't lose any more money, plus I'd have one hell of a stroy. A stroy is just like a story, only misspelled.

I'll cap off a weekend celebrating 21 years of Italarican splendor by flying into Baltimore to visit my best bud Ben. Again, we will not be playing twister.

By next Sunday I'll be back in the comfort zone of my family, spending 24 hours between quality family time and sleeping. The next day I'll take the five-hour trek to Gainesville, the official end of my 21st birthday vacation. By the time I get back to my apartment and my summer life, I'll probably want to "reward" myself for having such a bodacious week (too much 80s this weekend) by taking a few days off to rest. It is then that I will return to the calm, chill state that characterizes all that is Anthony.

If I'm not back here before the 360th degree, just keep waiting.

Here's what I did on one of the most bodacious, bitchin Friday nights ever!

Members Only, Disc One
1. "Jump"- Van Halen
2. "Take on Me"- A-ha
3. "Maneater"- Hall and Oates
4. "Careless Whisper"- Wham!
5. "I Want to Know What Love Is"- Foreigner
6. "You Give Love a Bad Name"- Bon Jovi
7. "When I See you Smile"- Bad English
8. "Any Way you Want It"- Journey
9. "Karma Chameleon"- Culture Club
10. "She Drives Me Crazy"- Fine Young Cannibals
11. "Sara"- Starship
12. "Wild Thing"- Tone Loc
13. "867-5309/ Jenny"- Tommy Tutone
14. "Billie Jean"- Michael Jackson
15. "Walk Like an Egyptian"- The Bangles
16. "Rock You Like a Hurricane"- The Scorpions
17. "I Love Rock n Roll"- Joan Jett and the Blackhearts
18. "Right Here Waiting"- Richard Marx
19. "These Dreams"- Heart

Disc Two
1. "Come on Eileen"- Dexy's Midnight Runners
2. "Mickey"- Toni Basil
3. "Need You Tonight"- INXS
4. "Welcome to the Jungle"- Guns n Roses
5. "99 Luftballoons"- Nena
6. "I Ran (So Far Away)"- A Flock of Seagulls
7. "(I Just) Died in your Arms"- Cutting Crew
8. "Girl You Know its True"- Milli Vanilli
9. "I Wanna Dance with Somebody (Who Loves Me)"- Whitney Houston
10. "My Prerogative"- Bobby Brown
11. "Here I Go Again"- Whitesnake
12. "The Touch"- Stan Bush
13. "Material Girl"- Madonna
14. "Electric Avenue"- Eddy Grant
15. "Pour Some Sugar on Me"- Def Leppard
16. "Another Day in Paradise"- Phil Collins
17. "Everybody Wants to Rule the World"- Tears for Fears
18. "Footloose"- Kenny Loggins

Did I miss anything?

Days Inn: A Good Bang for Your Buck

When people say they like all kinds of music, except country, they really mean they have a pop, alternative, and rap station programmed into their car stereo. Whoop-dee-damn-doo!

Back in twelfth grade creative writing, Mr. Ives taught us foreign words we could throw into our stories to expand our creativity or merely impress our readers. Each day of class a new group of words would appear on the blackboard--- which was actually green--- and explain the significance of each funky combination of letters. He put these words on tests as sort of a vocabulary quiz, and though I probably got a 100 on all the quizzes, all the words have escaped me by now... except one. I only remember this one word, but its sound and meaning still ring vividly in my head.

Zwischenraum.

It's a word of German descent, and by descent, I mean it only exists over there. There is no true direct translation of this word into English. Essentially, zwischenraum (ZWISH-en-raum) represents those large, uneventful gaps in time. It's those times when you're sitting alone eating a bowl of cereal in the morning. It's those times when the commercials come on, but you effortlessly sit and watch the ads fly by. It's those seven hours you spend lying motionless, eyes closed, mouth open, in bed. It's you, right now, spending the last sixty seconds staring at the computer screen.

Mr. Ives mentioned how one of the strongest qualities of German film is in its careful use of zwishenraum, a feature ignored in most American film. The primary difference between life and movie is that in life, we face the physical constraints of the real world. This is not the case in movies, where a character can get from Providence to Aspen (name that movie!) within the hour. A fictional character does not stand at a red light for 45 seconds; he gets straight home.

This is why The Sopranos is my favorite set-in-the-real-world television show... ever. Sometimes scenes seem to go on longer than needed, while others seem completely irrelevant. The truth is, these moments of everyday nothingness give the characters a truer quality. In between whackings and screwing his goomah, Tony sits near the edge of the kitchen table, shaking parmesean cheese onto his rigatoni, mixing the cheese with his fork, then loudly chomps on his pasta, flashing a full-second glance outside the window before resetting his eyes on his bowl of food. He is the same as all of us, living through lapses of everyday redundancy that occupy our time before our next point of action.

My roommate set up a video camera a few months ago and aimed it at his computer desk. He set it to tape for one second of every minute. After an hour, he had sixty seconds of footage. He's browsing the internet, he's writing something down, he's scratching his head, he's out of the frame, he's rocking his chair, he's moving his mouse. An hour of his life is crammed into one minute, and this one minute seems insignificant. Nothing monumental or even noteworthy occurs.

I loved this project.

It is life, and therein lies the wonder of zwischenraum! Ninety percent of life is repetitive, normal routine that requires little concious thought. We take it for granted, but these moments are just as precious as the events we lock in our memory. Your seventy-ninth kiss is just as beautiful as your first. Not as memorable, not as special, but, because it is life, just as beauitful.

With all the articles about Britney's worst kept secret, I'm a little disappointed surprised that I have yet to find any with the caption, Oops! She did it.

Sometimes I'll talk about a really good meal, sometimes I'll talk about a beautiful woman, and sometimes you can't tell the difference.

My room in the old house was royal blue, teal, and purple. A border of beach waves streamed across the walls, and a denim-like wallpaper was tucked beneath the border. The colors matched my sheets. It was a big room.

My friendships mostly consist of one-on-one rapports. My friends are not close with one another, only with me. If all my friends were here for my birthday, it would make for an amusing party. Many would be meeting each other for the first time, not many group activities and conversation would take place, and I would be the central figurehead, the guy everyone flocks around because, well, I'm the only guy they know. Like when you had your 10th birthday: you're hot stuff, and everyone wants a piece of you and only you. Hey, open my gift first! Hey, I'm gonna sit by you! Hey, come here and talk to me!

This summer marked the long-term separation of me from many of my friends. They graduated with Hillary and Rebecca, they transferred like Chris and Josh, they got jobs elsewhere like Jason. When one of my friends leaves, it's not as though I'm part of a big group of chums sending off one of our members. It's an entire clique that's leaving, and I'm the last one standing. I am torn away as well. They're not the only ones left with a hole to fill.

When I was 14, my parents sold the house I had been living in for seven years. I remember protesting the move, being quite irritated that my parents did this without my approval. I thought that moving day would be depressing, that I would be uplifted from my comfort zone and thrown into some mystery land to start a new beginning. We sold our house after a few months on the market and had two months until we would say goodbye. In those final months, we were preparing for the next phase, tweaking floor plans to create the perfect house for us. The Dunns--- the family who bought our house--- came over and took apart our tile foyer. They wanted wood. I helped my mom scrape the wallpaper off my bedroom walls. I can't even remember what it looked like, but I doubt little Elizabeth Dunn wanted the room colors and patterns of a teenage boy.

By the time moving day came, the house looked nothing like the one I had called home for seven years. Old residents were leaving, new ones were arriving, and the surroundings evolved with the changing circumstances, not standing still just because I wanted things the way they were. Nothing stands still, no matter how frozen in our situation we appear. If nothing ever changed, it would be much harder to adjust when those times of movement and evolution had to take place. Everything was changing. Our move was the next natural step. It was not as hard to leave the house as I had thought because everything was changing around me.

I'm leaving Gainesville in a year.

Red, White and Blue
by Ali (Third Grade - New York)

The mighty flag stands in the sky
Waving its colors proud with pride
Its colors stand true
Red, white and blue
Showing our gleaming past.
Red is our courage
Blue our justice and
White our liberty.
These are the colors
That beautifully show our country.
Flags fly, people die
Half mast is the way we honor.
Our country needs us
To lead them
In the right direction.
And when we do
Our colors show true
Red, white and blue.

I purchased an internet popup blocker last November. Since November 12, 2002, it has blocked 7,511 popups (and counting). Thirty bucks to pimp slap satellitepop.com and those other popup whores whenever they try to get in my face (as of now, the rate is less than half a penny per block). It goes up there with the $30 scanner as the best bang-for-your-buck purchases in the history of man!

When Guys who Think they are Ultra Comedic Geniuses Beat an Inside Joke to Death and Beyond Death

JaysonKill: I wouldn't steer you wrong.
JaysonKill: But I am angry with you so maybe I WOULD steer you wrong.
JaysonKill: Going to Ale House without me. Sheesh.
JaysonKill: You sell-out.
adpearl: Yes or no... why didn't you go?
JaysonKill: Sold your soul for some chicken wings.
adpearl: And yes or no: I did not have ANYTHING at Alehouse
JaysonKill: hahah
JaysonKill: a
adpearl: except for a cup of water w/ lemon
JaysonKill: Yes or no, you went without me, did you not or yes. NOT!!!
adpearl: Yes or no, where were you?
adpearl: It's a simple question: yes or no?
JaysonKill: yes, I was not not in Atlanta visiting the Paste office for the day.
JaysonKill: And yes or not, it was awesome and I can't wait to catch up with you about it or not yes no!!
adpearl: Yes, yes, oh God yes!!!
JaysonKill: man, calm down, yes or no?
JaysonKill: Your silence indicates guilt.
adpearl: Oh, sorry. Yes.
adpearl: Wait, speaking of sellouts... did you realize that you're leaving town during my birthday?
adpearl: What kind of crap is that?
adpearl: I wrapped you a gift in FOIL on your birthday.
JaysonKill: What do I care yes or no?
JaysonKill: yes?
JaysonKill: no?
JaysonKill: I didn't think so.
adpearl: I can't answer that.
JaysonKill: Of course you can't. How convenient.

I just remembered that when I was really young, I imagined that God looked like Estelle Getty.

A Few Potential Journal Entries Puked into one Random Pile

1) We are in the middle of an unfinished film to bank off the massive success of the chilling b&w thriller "Poison Pizza." The untitled Twilight Zone-esque production stars yours truly as a man who finds himself in an afterlife waiting room after being murdered. Following his plea for another chance at life, he is returned a few minutes before his murder with the chance of avoiding his demise... if it is not his fate. Does fate exist? Are there some things not worth fighting for? As Ed Wood said after the premier of his Plan 9 from Outer Space, "this is the one that's gonna make me famous!"

2) My roommate woke up this morning with a 20" television on his leg.

3) The individuals in a clique tend to walk, talk, and look alike. I've noticed that when I am with a group of three or four people, I always look like the wild card. With one or two exceptions, I think I present myself far differently than my other friends. Each person's uniqueness aside: when I'm with my friends I either don't fit or stand out, whichever mood I am in.

4) I've had this inside me since noon and couldn't tell anyone while at work: there's this one guy at work that I just can't stand to be around! Not that he's a jerk, not that he is incredibly dull. The guy just smells like loads of raunch! I mean, he walked by me during lunch and made me choke on my sandwich. He sat by me too, which meant I had to always keep a napkin or drink around my face to avoid upchucking into his lunch. He smells like old people, if they had sweaty fish down their pants.

5) I've heard both sides of the platonic-friend debate plenty of times. The debate is over its mere existence, with the following requirements: (1) the two must be of the opposite sex, (2) must be attracted to the opposite sex, (3) not be related, (4) be true friends that spend quality time alone, and (5) never EVER have a sexual attraction or affection from either side. Well, I think I have case proof, from my own platonic friend. Her name was Alexandra. We were friends for a few years, walked home from school together, spent time at each other's houses, and were solid friends and nothing more, until her family moved away. It was a friendship without complications of love or sex, and never did the status of our purely platonic friendship come up for debate. It was simple, solid, good. Oh, to be in fourth grade again.