Running Naked With Scissors

Quick Update

2010-06-08T03:27:00.003-05:00

I'm finding it hard to take the time to keep this up. But I want to do it. I'm just in the process of motivating myself.

Also, my right armpit itches something terrible and I got a mad grease stain on my shirt from work.

Also, a co-worker of mine, cute 20 year old Bible schooler Katie who likes to make unintentionally comical and overt flirtation with any and all male co-workers, randomly walked out of the dish room today while myself and two other co-workers, Eric and John, idled, and declared that she didn't find blowjobs appealing. I laughed and made an attempt at empathy. She blushed and slapped her hand on the counter, smashing a rotten cucumber that had been set aside.

I found this to be hilarious.

Consider that story shared.

Something Else

2010-04-01T04:32:00.002-06:00

It is the summer before Junior year of high school. I'm a dorky kid, but I'm figuring it out (this is a clever way of falsely implying I've 'figured it out' by now) and I'm sporting some impressively unimpressive side burns and a hefty head of hair courtesy of I'm 16 Years Old And Barely Trying.

I was in the Troupe program at the Masque, this was my first and final year in the Storyteller Troupe. For two years prior I had been in the Mime Troupe. Every summer the three troupes (the Puppet troupe being the missing link) would take separate weekends to travel north to the Renaissance Festival and perform for two straight days.

I'm making an executive decision to not expound upon what the Festival amounts to. Those of you who have been there know what it is, and those of you who haven't probably have a good idea. It's a silly place, really, and I know what it was to me is not what it really is, but I loved it lots.

This summer was the final year the Masque Troupes would be making the annual journey to Ren Fest, and while it was always something to look forward to, this being the last hurrah made it something of an extra big deal.

We arrived that Friday evening, ready to spend the next two days clothed in our pluming white costume and frilly colored collars and hats (I was the blue clown, thank you) traveling around the grounds from stage to stage to perform semi-clever original pieces in front of small, unforgiving audiences.

Past years we had arrived early enough to spend some time in character on the grounds, but due to chaperon confusion there was a delay, and by the time we rolled in it was near closing time and most of the patrons had filed out. We set up camp, pitched the two tents, and ambled about for the rest of the evening.

I was the only guy in the troupe and was good friends with most of the others. The Red Clown, however, was something of my nemesis and I did all I could to avoid her. The youngest two, the Green and Orange clowns, were the best at playing nice with Red, so I generally would leave them to it and wander off with Purple Clown and Rachel.

Oh, Rachel...

She had just graduated that June, and it being near the end of August she was about ready to head off for college. She hadn't been able to commit the time to rehearsals to be in the troupe itself, but it being her last summer with us all she had to do was ask and she was along for the ride.

I had always had a dorky crush on her. I was in awe of her, in a way. We never hung out outside of the Masque, but when we spent time together at the theatre I always felt like we got along swimmingly.

She had said once, during rehearsals for the spring play months before, while we joked about something or another:

I had always thought, Andrew, that if you were only a few years older we would make a super couple.

Well fuck, I thought. No problem. But no matter how hard I focused, I could not will myself a few years older.

But we wandered off, Purple, Rachel, and myself, onto the grounds. It was well after close now and, aside from a few handymen here and there, the place was deserted.

We three made our way to a small stage hidden by a cluster of trees. There was a small bridge that jumped off stage left over the small pond that Little John would fall into time after time day after day because Robin Hood is such a silly trickster.

We sat around, the two ladies did most of the talking, Rachel apprehensive about college, Purple Clown excited to be a senior and politically active member of society. I just sat there through most of it. Until Rachel turned to me after a time and asked:

'Do you still hang out with Alex?'

I did, of course, still do. Alex was my good friend. One year my senior, one her junior, Alex and Rachel had pseudo-dated for a short time that had ended only weeks before. The details of their relationship were always curious to me; the two were so terribly different, Alex being a nut-scratching burnout and Rachel a romantic cynic and future philosophy major. It had, in the end, turned out to be not much of a relationship. They spent most of their time together at the theatre, and the rest was, as far as I could tell, delegated to secret activities. Such as kissing and hugging.

'I don't know what he said to you about our relationship or whatever,' she said to both me and Purple Clown. 'But I feel like I need you to know that it's a weird thing for me. Like, I never considered him my boyfriend or anything. I just liked hanging out with him for a while, but he's an ass.'

He certainly can be.

'Did he talk to you about us at all?'

'Not really,' I said. He hadn't. 'He was pretty smug about it for a while.' I hesitated. 'He said you gave him a blowjob on his birthday.'

And she slapped me. I had never been slapped so hard (though I can proudly say we've topped it since). I remember it taking a moment for me to remember where I was and I squinted up at her with an
'aauuughhh the hell?'

She stared at me for a moment, held eye contact with me for an uncomfortable amount of time. I cocked my head. 'I'm sorry?'

'He's an ass,' she said. And she stood up.

We walked through some paths, the three of us talking, but not talking. Purple Clown occasionally proving she reads books by sharing an unsolicited fact or two.

We eventually made our way back to camp. The sun was all gone, and it was prudent to get some sleep because waking up would come very early.

Clowns Red, Orange, and Green had already taken refuge in their tent, and I jumped in the empty one while Rachel and Purple wrapped up their ladies room business. Rachel came back first, tucked in to her sleeping bag quickly. She was very quiet and very sad. I scooted up next to her and asked her what was wrong.

'I don't know...'

I wait.

'I did give him a blowjob on his birthday,' she continued. 'That's why I slapped you.'

'I figured.'

She was quiet, sniffling through tears. I didn't know what I was supposed to do. I lay there for a long while until finally I moved closer, lay my head by her shoulder and wrapped my arm around her belly and hugged her.

'It's just something so stupid,' she said eventually. 'I feel like I'm always upset about something so stupid. Something so trivial. And I know that in a year, two, maybe just a few months, it won't even matter. I'll have forgotten all about it.

But that's no comfort.'

And I didn't say anything. I just hugged her a little bit tighter, because I know what she means.

Part One

2010-01-27T16:42:00.001-06:00

The dog won't stop barking. She kneels down by the small crate and sticks her finger through the grate. The dog is quiet for a few moments, slobbering on her knuckle, but then is bored and barks some more. Because, why not?

She groans and lets him out. He shuffles around anxiously, tail between his legs. I squat in front of him and let him sniff my hand. This is what I had to do back when I visited regularly, just after her dad brought him home. She didn't like him much at first, always felt he was a poor replacement for the dog she grew up with as a kid. But she likes him fine now, just isn't too keen on the fact he makes a puddle when he gets excited.

I reach to pet him. "Don't let him pee," she whispers. "I'm not cleaning it up."

It's just after two in the morning. I'm dropping her at home. She doesn't have a curfew anymore because now we are adults.

I haven't seen her in months. Briefly back in June when I stopped in for my sister's high school graduation.

We had been more friendly back then, for the first time in a long while. More open, at least, about the things that make us different now. And more open, perhaps, about the fact we both wouldn't mind if we somehow worked our way back to square one.

But it had been a very short visit. Enough time to hand her a mix CD I made out of habit. A pathetic habit maybe, but I'll forever cling to the hope it's at least a little bit cute.

She was so sad. I always see her when she is so sad. I seem to be, and this is in no way self-congratulating, the only person who knows what to say to make her feel any better. And while this is a bit flattering, sure, it's also a bit hard to see the little lady you pine for ever so blindly only when she is wiping tears from her face.

(I would love, so much, to be once more the man who gets to see her smile)

But we got along fine. And I went back to Chicago. And we talked more regularly, though still infrequently, on the phone and sent a few innocent letters through the post.

My final innocent letter, just before Christmas, made a rather forward point of stating we should spend some serious time together when both back in Rochester and also that I maybe was ready to stop pretending I don't still think about her the better part of always.

Saturday the 26th, free all day long.

I have no car, so she comes to me. We sit in my basement, talking. She'll be moving to Chicago in a little under a year. Off to grad school. A four year seminary. Out of habit, I hide my excitement. We are pleasant. She brings up Jason, Mr. Jason Gass, the Gass Man, her college ex-boyfriend of two years who allegedly broke it off with her for reasons similar to mine.

It's a little hard, she says. Being with someone you want so badly to be with who just isn't sure.

Well, just give him three years, I say. If he's anything like me, and I feel like he is, just give him three years and he will have no doubts.

You know I'm not much for waiting, she says.

We're quiet for a moment. I rise out of my chair and move to my room.

I have something for you.

She stands. Am I ever going to get a hug? she asks.

I stop, halfway across the room. She cocks her head and waits. I sigh and walk towards her, arms held out. I drop to my knees and we embrace, my head on her belly. She holds me tight until I let go and even then she takes a few moments to release.

I look up at her, still on my knees. Are you getting taller?

Stand up, asshole. She jabs me lightly under my chin. I stand and run to my room. I return with a CD. Old habits die hard.

She smiles and drops it in her purse. You wanna go to the mall? she asks.

Do you wanna go to the mall?

I wouldn't mind. I've got a gift card to get rid of.

Let's go to the mall.

Okay. But no talking to me while I'm driving. I have to focus.

Haven't gotten any better behind the wheel?

What do you want from me? she asks, running up the stairs. I am a woman, after all.

2009-11-16T00:39:00.006-06:00

There are three small squares of cork-board mounted on the wall by my bed. Originally, a fourth hung with the rest, but twice now it has fallen and as I am a man who prefers to pick his battles, I concede this one to the cork-board.

Pictures of family and high school friends are tacked to the squares, a few sketches and postcards, and a giraffe my sister drew for me when she was five. I wonder, always, how it is I still have that.

On the square hung highest on the wall (next to an old poem written me by a middle school crush and a group photo from a Halloween piano recital, in which a scowling fifth grade Andrew is dressed as Count Dracula three years running) is a program from a play I had been in, A Christmas Carol brought to you by the Masque circa Winter 2002. On the back, amongst a few scribbled signatures, in nearly illegible writing I have signed "Andrew Haynes, Scrooge. To that punk kid."

Clipped to this is a note:

Andrew,
This was on Mitch's bulletin board in his room. Please keep it and know you're a good role model.
Thank you,
Kim.

Next to this on the highest cork-board square is a program from a funeral.

Mitchell James Henderson

July 15th, 1992 to April 20th, 2006

2006 was the year I graduated high school. It was the year I finally had a social life outside of the Masque Theater. It was the year I finally had a girlfriend. It was the year I finally got out of Rochester.

I was a relatively active kid, far more so than I am these days at least, teaching classes and acting in shows at the Masque, taking Century High School by storm with my boyish charm and laid-back-cool-dude attitude (right guys?), and serving as a senior high representative on my church's youth committee. I wasn't a particularly religious guy, in fact by my senior year I was fairly certain I could call myself an atheist, but the church was an important place to me. I had a fair number of friends there, a great relationship with the minister and her husband, and the youth group was genuinely fun to be a part of.

Mitch was a junior high representative on the committee. He was in 8th grade, angsty but good mannered and the funniest fuckin' kid I have ever met. The monthly committee meetings were jokes to him and I, the two of us scolded on a regular basis for throwing pennies at whoever wasn't looking and trying to sneak out the smelliest of farts.

I didn't see him often. Once every week or so for church, the monthly meetings, and whenever the junior and senior youth groups would embark on joint adventures, but he was a genuine friend of mine. And I knew he looked up to me in a way any young boy looks up to an older boy who is a little bit cynical but also makes fart jokes. I would give him the occasional ride home from a meeting and he would talk about the latest R rated movie he had seen or which swear word was his new favorite.

I remember the moment my mom told me what happened. She had picked me up from school to take me to the doctor's office on my lunch hour. There was a small chance I might have lymphoma, so we thought it best to find out for sure. Turns out I didn't. But right as we got to the doctor my mom parked the car and turned to me. Mitch was dead, she told me. For some reason still relatively unknown, he had gotten a hold of his father's gun and shot himself in the neck. His younger sister found him bleeding out in the study. His mom was gone, off to his school to pick up homework or a book, something he had absentmindedly forgot but needed that night. They had gotten into a brief fight before she left, him and his mom. And the last time she saw him, the one time after she had chastised him for being lazy or irresponsible or whatever it is moms say to teenage sons who don't really feel like getting their shit together, was with a hole through his neck and his eyes rolled up into the back of his skull.

I was devastated. And I was furious. And I was sobbing. And when the doctor told me I didn't have cancer I didn't really care. And I didn't go back to school. And when I went to see Sara I didn't say anything, I just held my eyes shut and pushed my head into her belly and tried to think about something else.

I didn't understand it. I don't understand it. And I missed him immediately. I missed the goofy man he was going to be. And that was the moment I finally decided that, no, I do not believe there is a God. Not because he let a 14 year old boy die. Not because I was mad at him. But because as I sat in church and tried to grieve I felt nothing. No comfort. No understanding. No invisible pat on the back. And I know that the power, wisdom, and glory of God is more complex than that. I know that there is more to faith than seeing those selfish, human moments of need met with some divine intervention. But so was there more to my grief. So was there more to the emptiness I felt in that sanctuary. And I am sorry that I cannot find the words to fill that emptiness, but my rejection of the Heavens was not a knee jerk reaction made out of spite and rage. It was the declaration of how I had felt for the better part of my life, now reaffirmed.

I have not been back by choice since.

Mitch's mother, Kim, gave me the program at my graduation party less than two months after he died. Her eyes were sad as was her smile and she hugged me for a moment before leaving.

I see it everyday, the program. Hanging in my room always since June 2006. And still three months until it has been with me as long as it had been with him.

I stare at it sometimes, think about how old he'd be now, what he'd look like. I try to imagine how he'd talk, what fads he'd have fallen for, what he would be wanting to do with himself now that he'd be graduating high school so soon.

But sometimes, most times, I wonder... if he were still alive today, if he had never gone, would I still know him? Talk to him? How often would I see him?

And, really, would he still mean so much to me?

mostly just because no one likes having that talk

2009-10-04T01:35:00.004-05:00

no, i'm not mad.
i'm confused.

because i'm pretty sure just a week ago
i walked you home in the rain
and even though you only live two minutes away, i got soaking wet for you.

don't get me wrong, i understand.
you have very pretty eyes that get really big when you laugh loud
and you're plenty fun to be around
but when you tell me
'i mean, yeah, okay, there are feelings, but i just don't really feel that pang to be exclusive you know? so, i mean, what's the point?'
all i can say is 'yeah. okay. i mean... yeah.'
'cause, you know

i mean. yeah.

'cause no, i'm not mad.
just surprised.

because i'm pretty sure the other night
the night i went down on you for the better part of an hour
you were pretty into me.

and yeah, i was pretty into you
more into the fact that you were pretty into me
and more into the fact that i could finally say i was seeing somebody again
but there wasn't a long list of cons
though the pros weren't really tipping the balance.

so no, i'm not mad.
just overwhelmed with a crippling sense of inadequacy

is that too dramatic?
because i'm pretty sure nothing stings more
than slow, cross-eyed rejection
and when i'm certainly not devastated, you still got me to hole up in my room and write another passive aggressive poem.

would we call these poems?

but no.
i'm not mad.
just, you know.

Part 1.3

2009-03-24T22:51:00.004-06:00

We arrive at Jeff's later than most. A pile of shoes block the door and we force our way in, adding our own footwear to the mountainous obstacle.

It appears I do know Jeff, or at least met him in passing. I had, as has become expected, forgotten his name immediately after we shook hands.

A large group of people have congregated in his room, sitting two asses to a chair, crowding atop his mattress, standing awkwardly in corners. She and I sit up against the wall near his door.

I take my position as silent observer, speaking only when spoken to. This is a role I do not mind playing, one I used to reprise frequently at social events I was dragged to by my high-school-days lady friend.

"You don't have to stay here with me if you want to socialize, you know," I say to her. "I'm a big boy."

"Believe me," she says with a smile. "If I wanted to be out there I would be. I will be. But sitting here with you right now is just fine with me."

"Okay."

Across the room, a lanky, long haired boy eagerly stuffs weed into a bowl and begins passing it around. When it gets around to us she dutifully declines but waves it my way.

I take it and, well... when in Rome.

Soon, a young man by the name of Brett, the other lead in tonight's canceled performance, makes his way to the center of the room with a clip board. He is probably under the influence of something or another, taking frequent pauses in his speech to stretch his eyelids and cock his head to the left. Jeff stands with him, and another long haired, this time bearded, fellow sits in a folding chair nearby.

"If we could just take a moment," Brett is saying, "to talk seriously to you all about something we've all been thinking about."

"Yes," says Jeff.

"Because we are all very serious about what we are here to discuss."

"Yes."

Pause. Eyebrows raise, head ticks to the left, and we continue.

"There are five of us, myself, Jeff, Billy," he motions to the beard in the folding chair, "and two others thinking about moving into a house--"

"A commune," adds Billy.

"Yes, sure, a commune of sorts, this summer. Through next year. We are looking for people--"

"Artists," adds Billy.

"Yes, sure. Yes. Artists of all different walks and fields--"

"Painters, sculptors, photographers, actors, writers--" adds Billy.

"Yes--"

"We are looking," says Jeff. "To start a revolution that will bring students and young artists to the forefront of the Minneapolis art community. We are looking for people interested in and serious about this goal who would maybe like to come live in or work with this house to mold a studio space, rehearsal place, and gallery space to get this ball rolling."

"Yes," says Brett.

"Right," says Billy.

"Cool!" someone chimes from the crowded mattress.

Spatters of applause.

People begin to talk excitedly about the prospect. Jeff and Brett explain a little more, but I tune out.

She looks at me. "I could never do that."

"Me neither."

"Yeah, fuck it."

"Yeah."

She smiles. "It's kinda cool though."

"Yeah, I just could never operate that way."

"Me neither."

"Kinda cool though."

"Yeah."

She rests her head on my shoulder. "Welcome to my world."

I laugh. What's funny is as I look around the room I can easily attribute names to all these faces I see that match up with friends I have back in Chicago.

It's interesting to see all these people in the same room. Back home I run into everyone in smaller pockets at various gatherings. It's strange comparing the artsy community here to the one back home.

It's also strange that I refer to Chicago as home now. But that's fine with me. Just strange that the change has become so definite in the last year.

But a real niche has arisen from the traditional college experience at the U of M so much more concrete than what has come out of art school. There's a greater urgency here. A need to define oneself as an artist. Whereas, at Columbia, it's something always apparent and easily taken for granted.

I don't know which I prefer.

Brett approaches the two of us and crouches next to her. "I feel like we should do something."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Create something."

"Okay."

"Okay..." He looks around. "Any ideas?"

"Nope."

"Okay..." He stands up and spreads his arms. "Hey, uuuh... people? We should like... do something."

"Yeah!" someone shouts.

A large mass of people arise and rush out to the living room.

She looks at me and smiles. "Welcome."

Time passes, she's talking to a rotund queen about why he hated her play and he's blushing and laughing and trying to convince her he didn't hate it.

I get up and wander out to the living room, curious about the laughter that has begun to drift down the hall.

I'm feeling pretty okay still and as I squeeze through the crowd another bowl is thrust my way.

Cheers.

Part 1.2

2009-03-19T02:20:00.002-06:00

We sit inside a classy hipster café called the Wilde Roast. I drink a small coffee; she eats a large salad and talks about the background music. I don’t say much.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You’re being really quiet.”

“Sorry.”

We sit in silence for a few moments.

“I’m excited for the play tonight,” I say.

“I think you’ll like it.”

“I’m sure I’ll like it.”

”I hope so.”

I catch her eyeing the desserts and smile. “Still hungry?”

“Oh God,” she drops her fork on her empty plate. “That shit looks so good.”

I stand up and offer to buy her something.

“No no no no no,” she stands. “I’ll get it myself.”

“No, come on, I said I would buy you dinner and you didn’t let me.”

“When did you say that?”

“A while ago.”

“Stop it.”

“I did! When I bought the bus tickets. Whatever, doesn’t matter, let me get this.”

She sits down. “Stupid.”

I buy her a large, fruity dessert in a big coffee cup after she begrudgingly points it out. She makes me try a bite. It’s pretty awful. She grimaces after tasting it, but finishes it quickly.

“That was gross,” she says outside.

“So gross.”

“I ate the whole thing.”

“You sure did.”

We hop on a bus that takes us onto campus and we walk toward the theatre building. It’s dark outside, and quiet. A few people are walking about, but mostly it’s quiet. She sees some people she knows and yells at them waving. They yell back and we keep moving.

Visiting friends that go to real college always makes me a little sad. Nostalgic for the classic college experience I’ll never really have.

It’s cold and wet outside. My choice of footwear for this visit was less than exemplary, and crocs squeak and squish around as we walk. I’ve rolled my pant legs up to my knees to prevent them for getting anymore soaked.

A walking sight-gag, we tromp through campus. Me, a giant in my size-too-small suit jacket and homemade man-pries, and her, less than half my size in her six-sizes-too-big acrylic fur hat and huge, hipster Ray band spectacles.

We arrive at the theatre building, a giant concrete building three stories tall housing at least 8 different theatres. Around every corner she’s introducing me to people whose names I’ve forgotten before they’re even mentioned.

We plow our way through pockets of peers until we arrive at the Ready Room, a brightly lit room with walls made of mirrors and row upon row of hot yellow lights. I am introduced to Maddy Riley, her newfound identical twin soul mate. The two hop around and giggle at some newfound revelation about another thing that makes them hopelessly the same.

I shake hands with a few more people and she pats me on the head and moves to the changing room to get into costume. I step outside to get some fresh air and sneak a cigarette.

When I return someone I may or may not have met earlier tells me she is looking for me. I peak my head into the Ready Room and she is sitting at a mirror putting on her makeup.

“Someone’s not here yet,” she says. Call was a half hour ago.

“Uh oh,” I say.

“Yeah, what the fuck.” She drops her make up and looks at me.

“I swear to God,” says Addie, a large, loud, tech girl with bad teeth and big hair. “If she walks through that door within the next two minutes I will be genuinely glad to see her for once.”

“That’s mean,” she says.

“I’m serious,” says Addie. “I will, for once, be happy to see her.”

“That’s still a mean thing to say.”

I sit down next to her. “Everything’ll be cool. The show doesn’t start for another half hour. I’ll go get my seat and see you after the show.”

“Okay.”

We hug.

“Good luck. But not good luck. But good luck.”

“Thanks.”

I go upstairs to the theatre and get my ticket. The seats are tiny and I have to bunch my knees up to my chin. I pass the time by reading the program over and over. I want to check the time, but my phone is still lost and I don’t feel like asking a neighbor.

Soon, a man walks out onto the stage holding a clip board which he reads from.

“Ladies and gentleman, we apologize for the delay. Due to an unfortunate accident, a cast member has not shown up for the performance and we are unable to go forward with tonight’s show. If you would like to wait five minutes we will have the box office open and ready to offer any ticket exchanges or refunds on your way out. We apologize again for the inconvenience.”

Oh no.

I go back to the Ready Room. She’s not there, but Joe, an older student with a big beard and silly hat tells me she’ll be down shortly. I ask if they’ve heard anything from the missing cast member, and he tells me they still have no idea where she is.

I sit down and wait.

She comes through the door, her hair braided into cute pig-tails and make-up smeared around her eyes. She is crying and walks slowly toward me with her head down.

“I’m sorry…”

“Why?”

“You came all this way to see the show…”

“It’s okay.” I pull her into me for a hug and she sniffles.

“This is stupid.”

I don’t say anything.

“I’m really sorry…”

“Not your fault.”

She pulls away from the hug and wipes her eyes.

“Okay, I’m over it.” She smiles. “Let me go change.”

She does. When she returns she sits down next to me.

“Now what?” I ask.

“I don’t know. I think we’re just waiting to see if we hear anything.”

We walk upstairs and sit on a big puffy bench.

“I hope she’s not dead,” she says.

“Me too.”

The next hour is spent wandering around the theatre building, pockets of kids standing around speculating about what happened. She tells the story over and over about how I came all the way from Chicago to see this show, and people express a polite amount of sympathy then continue on with their conversations.

Soon the stage manager gets a call. The actress is fine, she collapsed in her room and just woke up. She’s on her way to the hospital now.

Quickly, the mood changes. Relief spreads through the room. People begin talking about a meeting/party at Jeff’s house.

I don’t know who Jeff is, but it looks like we’re going to his party.

“But I don’t’ want you to get bored,” she says.

“I’m not gonna get bored.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m doing whatever you’re doing, kiddo.”

“Okay. Let’s go have some fun, I guess.”

“Okay.”

Part 1.1

2009-03-12T15:55:00.000-06:00

Rock Band has destroyed me. A game I have readily avoided due to the sheer cost of owning it alone.

I love it now, I think. It has done what all twelve Mario Party games have only dreamt of doing and developed a game that doesn’t bore the fuck out of people after the first half hour.

We have been playing for what could easily be an hour, waiting for her to arrive.

She’s been is classes all morning. I, in the interest of saving quite a bit of money, took the overnight bus to Minneapolis and arrived at 6:30 am. A long time Rochester-era friend of mine found and rescued me from the bowels of the unfamiliar city. To protect his identity I search for a humorous nickname but am too tired. His name is Danny Eckberg. Google it.

After breakfast and a bit of a stroll we arrive at his place and rest. Upon awaking, my introduction to Rock Band begins.

Also, I lost my phone. So that sucks.

Danny’s phone, serving as my surrogate means of communication, rings. He tosses it to me, I answer.

She’s lost. I look to Danny for directions, but he throws only a compass rose my way, and being unfamiliar with the immediate location I struggle to use it in a constructive way. Eventually I just run outside to see if I can spot her roaming the streets.

Sure enough, here she comes. Walking at a painfully slow pace, donning her new acrylic fur hat, she comes.

I am excited to see her, of course. Over the past year and a half she and I have become increasingly fast friends, and life in Chicago has grown mind-meltingly stressful. To get away is, in a word, a treat.

It is also important to mention here, though there may be no need already, I harbor a great deal of affection for her. This is a more recent development than some of my close friends are willing to believe, but I insist that these feelings have only begun to manifest themselves in the last few months of our friendship.

That said, however, it may also be important to note that I haven’t had a crush on anybody, let alone a legitimate relationship, since the disastrous high school break-up of ’06. I am, suffice it to say, out of practice.

But if there is one thing the Windy City has taught me, it’s ‘look like an ass as infrequently as possible.’ So my dorky, pimply, angsty teenage self that has been resurrected along with these feelings stays quietly inside me for the most part and I remain cordial and socially acceptable.

She trots towards me once she sees me, waving and smiling. We embrace momentarily and say our hellos. She is tired, of course. I know few people these days that report they are lively and attentive after a morning full of classes.

I am in town to see a play. Night Train to Bolina. She is one of the leads and has been obnoxiously busy with it for weeks upon weeks.

It is noon now, seven more hours until she is due at the theatre, so we return inside and convince the next few hours to be devoted entirely to Rock Band. Alas.

Danny does Oasis proud with a heart-wrenching rendition of Wonderwall, I warble away with Fleetwood Mac, and there isn’t a dry eye in the house after she takes the mic and brutally rapes Rage Against The Machine with their own tune.

Perhaps the Mario Party franchise would be more successful if it gave you the opportunity to scream into a fake microphone for points.

Before we leave, Danny insists upon making us lunch, selling us on the fact that the one item on the menu is not only a mysterious tasty treat, but also the only thing he can prepare without use of the microwave.

The dish, the secret recipe I unfortunately could not get the rights to divulge here, is a surprising and silly treat ironed and pressed to perfection on a big red knock-off of the George Foreman grill.

Created and coined as “Quesa-Quesa” by a twelve-year-old version of Danny’s father, the crispy specialty is a delicacy, I’m sure, in some far away made up Eastern-European country.

We eat, we chat, we exchange high-fives with our host, and leave.

We walk slowly to her apartment. It has warmed up outside, the ice that attempted on several occasions to take my life earlier in the day has turned to rivers and oceans.

As we walk through someone’s front yard to avoid one of these mass expanses of accumulated H^2O (yeah, I remember something from chemistry. Suck it.) one of her boots sinks into a puddle of mud and she groans.

“Now we have to go home and wash my boots,” she sighs.

I smile. A moment passes.

“I am, of course, using the royal ‘we’ in that instance.”

“I assumed so.”

“You don’t have to help me wash my boot.”

“Good.”

We walk a bit further.

“I’m glad we’re friends,” she says.

“Me too.”

“I don’t know what to do after the show tonight.”

“Whatever you want.”

“But I don’t want you to get bored.”

“I won’t be.”

“Okay,” she says as we approach the door to her apartment building. “We’ll do whatever the fuck I want.”

I smile. “Perfec’.”

She smiles back. “Perfec’.”

Update.

2009-02-26T23:32:00.002-06:00

Puddles are pretty big these days,
So big you have to walk around them if you don't want to get your shoes wet.

It's mostly because of all the rain.

The rain is what does it.

The Clubhouse

2009-02-15T00:48:00.003-06:00

The summer before my first year of middle school, I was either nine or ten probably, considerably smaller than I am now at any rate, my best friend of the past 6 or so years, Stephanie Kunkel and I sat in the small attic space above her garage that we had spent the last several months or so turning into our club house.

The club had no name, the important fact being not that we were an established club but that we were in charge.

Stephanie and I would swap between President and Vice President, my turns as President always lasting longer than hers what with my being an outspoken glutton for power and attention.

Sheldon, Stephanie's younger brother would, on occasion, make an appearance to put in hours as our Secretary, taking dictation on an old broken typewriter whenever I felt compelled to pretend I had something of importance to say.

I had just learned how to swear that year. Not that I had just learned what wear words were, but I had recently became aware of the power of words such as "Hell" and "God Damn" and maybe even, dare I say it, "Ass."

The real biggies, the four letter words that mean business, "Shit," "Fuck," and "Cunt" were still out of my vocabulary's reach but I didn't need them. I did just fine with what I had.

This particular summer was a hot one and while we were out of theThe sun, the attic had no air conditioning and made for an excellent sauna.

We were dying, lying on the tiny squares of carpet we had lain around between boxes, sweating through layer after layer and we had nothing to do. In just a few weeks Stephanie and I would be separated, off to different schools, off to become separate people with separate genders and sensibilities. Steph had already begun to try on blush and maybe even lipstick, had already started to talk about boys and maybe even have crushes on them and I was worried. That's not to say I wasn't discovering an interest in girls but to me, Stephanie wasn't a girl. But I was a man, and Stephanie showing interest in little stupid boys meant that interest in me was dwindling. I guess. It was sound logic at the time.

But we're sweating in the attic, growing apart in uncomfortable silence when Sheldon, the young brother secretary comes scrambling up the ladder from the garage. He was loud and mousy and anxious to be our friends but the minute he arrived we sent him immediately to the Box, an old refrigerator box we had filled with tiny rubber bugs. The rule was if you were neither Stephanie nor myself you had to spend up to five minutes in The Box to prove your worth. Old fashioned hazing at an early age.

Sheldon at this point was a master of the box and lie in the darkness with the rubber snakes and spiders humming to himself.

Suddenly, in the tiny attic window overlooking the driveway, Stephanie sees something move. A tiny little ball of fur clutches to the screen, trapped between the metal netting and the small glass pane. How it got there was not apparent and how long it had been watching us was unknown.

We watch it, Sheldon clambering out of the Box to stare with us. And I, with the natural instincts of a child, take a pencil and, with limited care, poke at the shaking ball of fur and watch as it shifts, pees itself, and falls to the window sill still strapped between glass and screen, dead.

A tiny baby bat that I had killed with a pencil and curiosity.

I do not remember the specifics of what followed. I remember being upset and I remember not knowing why. I had seen death before. Simba's father died right in front of my eyes, Bambi's mother had been shot, but neither of these things had effected me so greatly as this. I mean, I hadn't killed Mufasa. And when Bambi's mom was blown away I hadn't pulled the trigger. And the baby animal I had killed was no cartoon, but in fact very real and very much dead.

I didn't cry but I was angry. I didn't know what dying meant, and now that I had ended a life I still had no idea, but now I knew I didn't know and I was angry.

I yelled at Stephanie and Sheldon for not understanding and I didn't even swear.

Swearing makes you powerful and important and an adult and I wasn't any of these things. I was a little boy with a best friend who didn't love him anymore because she loved make-up and shoes and girl things instead.

I left. And we weren't friends anymore. Not anymore, because she was a girl and I was a murderer and we just weren't friends anymore.

Happy Holidays

2008-12-25T13:31:00.000-06:00

Merry Christmas, fuckers.

In Case You Haven't Heard

2008-11-06T21:43:00.000-06:00

My pulling obviously paid off.

In Case You're Curious

2008-11-04T14:22:00.002-06:00

I'm pulling for Obama.

What's That All About?

2008-10-25T21:47:00.001-05:00

Apparently two pores on the right side of my nose bleed now whenever they want to?

mostly just because t.v. doesn't really do it for me anymore

2008-10-01T03:28:00.006-05:00

i miss you a lot sometimes

in the same way i miss the memories of grade school that have just become kind of clouds nowadays.

and i couldn't really say for sure if they ever really happened.

i don't sleep for that long, really. just a couple hours. and i dream too much.

nothing fun. or funny. just a bunch of dreams i have.

Clarification

2008-09-20T15:43:00.003-05:00

For the record, the previous post was in no way any part of the aforementioned "best thing I've ever written." It was something I wrote for a class.

So, in following old family tradition, I begin to post more frequently directly after apologizing for and saying I will continue to not post as often.

SILLY ME.

Writing and Rhetoric II: Cultural Autobiography

2008-09-19T04:41:00.001-05:00

“Confessions of a College Boy Bore”

What most people don’t know about teenage angst is that it tends to overstay its welcome.

As the world turns, who I am and who I have been are perpetually at odds, the gap created by passing time growing narrower and narrower. As I grow older and begin to more and more embrace the cathartic power of the written word, who I have been has become more frequently documented in anything from spur of the moment blog (yes… blog) posts to simple style of prose. And as I grow older, the need to reflect on who I have been through these writings has become more frantic and pessimistic.

I am not racing to become someone who isn’t what I was. I feel I am always someone who isn’t what I was. Instead, I am straining to stand still, let who I was catch up to who I am and find a way to be content with both.

Vague.

I can be so vague.

Self-analysis is a disease.

I know what I want but not how to get it. I know what I need to do but not how to do it. I know who I do not want to be but not how to be who I am.

People make their own luck and they make their own trouble.

My life is an easy one to lead, my problems are not unsolvable, and those who I surround myself with are pleasant, appropriate, and necessary. I am not unhappy.
But I find absolution and contentedness unattractive. If I find no fault with myself, how might anyone else discover my redeemable qualities?

There is a fine line between confidence and arrogance.

Perhaps I overcompensate, but better to constantly avoid what I despise than to accidentally become it.

And we are all the same. The world is just as confused as a 20-year-old boy pretending he knows who he is. No one really knows who he is, let alone who anyone else is. Let alone what anyone else is. What anything else is. There is so much to be learned from what we cannot understand. The world is filled with people who pretend to be so different from one another.

And we are all the same.

Angst, Anyone?

2008-09-18T02:55:00.009-05:00

Oh golly.

Anyways... so, I'm currently working on what I decided is probably the best thing I've ever written.

Not to toot my own horn or anything. But if this isn't the place for a little tooting...

Moral of the story is, most of my time for words has been and will continue to be devoted to that. If it is not done by the end of the semester, hassle me about it.

mostly just because closing my eyes means i have to open them again

2008-09-18T02:55:00.005-05:00

can't sleep
probably could if i tried

hard to imagine what life would be like if it were just maybe a little bit different.
hard to imagine what life would be like if i wasn't always straining to imagine what life would be like if it were just maybe a little bit different

probably easier.

it would probably be easier.

A Dream I Had

2008-08-22T04:12:00.005-05:00

I'm at a party. The host is a friend of a friend and the room is full of nameless faceless, all of them recognizable but none of them notable.

I'm off to the side looking out a window. One of many windows. All windows. All the walls are windows. There are no walls. Only windows.

We are very high up. What seems to be the top floor of one of the tallest non-Sears Tower buildings in the entire city.

I'm on the phone. Have been for longer than I later think I was.

She called me. First. I didn't answer, though. My phone was on vibrate. I called her back.

She was sad when she answered. As she always is. No reason for her to be calling me otherwise. If you have nothing to cry about, why call the only guy you've decided you can cry to?

She's cheered up by now. We're talking the way we used to talk, though both ignoring the fact we were ever involved. And doing so admirably well.

The party goes on behind me. Surprisingly quiet.

I rest my forehead against the glass looking down. The people down there are so tiny. Street lights turn on as day light falls away.

She's talking about something else now. I'm not sure what it is. I'm not paying attention. I've never had to. She doesn't call me to have a conversation, she calls me to hear me say what she wants me to say. She hasn't changed. Never will. A part of me is annoyed by this. Another part jealous. But most parts just apathetic.

We're so far apart now, hearing her voice has almost started to not matter.

Outside, the sky begins to change. The dark blue turns to a bright green and my belly prepares for a storm.

Green is bad. I remember this from when I was little. A green sky is bad. A green sky means thunder and lightning and maybe tornadoes that will blow your house away.

Black clouds swirl into view, encroaching quickly from every angle, blocking the green, shutting it out completely. I stare, confused, terrified. All the walls are windows. There are no walls. Only windows.

If your house is blown away, all the windows explode and everyone you know is cut into pieces by the glass.

She has stopped saying words, and waits impatiently for me to take my turn. Read from my script. Make her not sad again. But I don't say anything.

The clouds begin to swirl. A dark ocean hanging in the sky, spinning round and round like black cotton candy wrapping around an invisible paper cone, only this isn't sweet and tasty like regular cotton candy, but scary and unstoppable like death.

Suddenly it opens like a yawning mouth and a pool of green light tries to escape but is sucked back in as the clouds reform and create a thin tube. It looks like a tornado but moves like the eighth leg of an octopus. In a fraction of a second it lunges downwards and scoops a tiny man from the sidewalk and pulls him into heaven.

I watch in silence. Everywhere, patches of cloud turning into black cotton candy death just before puking green and snatching up pedestrians with long tornadopus arms.

Everyone around me has moved toward the windows, watching with slack jaws and wide open eyeballs.

Hello? she says.

I gotta go, I say. We're all gonna die. I gotta go.

These Are Some Things I Want To Say About Why The Dark Knight Is So Good: Pending

2008-07-26T03:50:00.002-05:00

mostly just because my memories seem more like things i made up in my head these days.

2008-07-03T04:52:00.007-05:00

it's just not the same, you know?

like when you were a kid
the first time you stood at the top of your swing set
told the world it was a pirate ship
but didn't really...

believe it.

and you knew
right then
you would never actually believe it was a pirate ship again.

there's a moment like that for everything
for everything that goes from mattering to not mattering anymore.

today it was the moment when you looked at me
and your eyes just stayed sad.

instead of going from sad to happy.
or from tired to happy.
or from angry to happy.
or from bored to happy.
or from happy to happier.

they just stayed sad.

mostly just because nighttime can go on forever sometimes

2008-06-20T01:29:00.004-05:00

i don't think
much

not about things i should

not about my future or
my work or
my life

just about you

and him.

little things like

do you touch his dick? and
how often do you touch his dick? and
do you like to touch his dick? and
is his dick bigger than mine?

i don't care if it is, i'm just

curious?

remember when we kissed for the first time?

me neither.

i wonder, sometimes
what happened to that memory?

sometimes i forget that we were ever together at all.

those are the times
i miss you the most.

and sometimes i forget that we were ever apart.

those are the times
i forget how much we've changed.

either way...

i don't sleep
much

not as much as i should.

An Open Letter To M. Night Shyamalan

2008-06-15T05:04:00.003-05:00

Dear Mr. Shyamalan,

Are you retarded? Don't be offended. I don't mean for that to offend you. I just think you might be retarded.

Have you been tested?

Your concerned friend,
Andrew

Judgement Day

2008-06-12T02:41:00.002-05:00

If you say you hate the Beatles, you do so just to say you hate the Beatles and should probably stop trying so hard to seem just a little bit different.

Or Some Other Fairly Large Thing

2008-06-10T03:17:00.004-05:00

Squeaky Cheese is his name. Fitting, I guess. He asks for a cigarette so I give him one. He's sitting next to some guy he calls his brother who nods his head. His eyes are closed.

Squeaky Cheese asks me if his brother can have a cigarette.

I guess so.

It's late at night and I smell like garbage. My hands are dirty and smell like tuna.

I hate my job.

It starts to rain kind of. Not enough to make me really wet, but enough to make me uncomfortable.

I pass another guy whistling the Addams Family theme. Instead of clapping where necessary he jangles the few coins in his McDonald's cup.

Got any change?

(I don't give shit to the Asian lady in the subway who plays the guitar and the violin at the same fucking time, why the fuck would I toss you a quarter just 'cause you can whistle?)

No, sorry man I don't have anything on me.

Can I have a cigarette?

... Yeah.

It's still raining kind of.

The sign at the corner says "Don't Walk" but I do anyways because I don't play by the rules.

It's almost one in the morning. No one else is at the bus stop. Just me at the bus stop.

Just me at the bus stop until a man rides up to me on a old yellow bike.

Got any change?

I look at him and then at the bike.

Did you steal that?

He smiles.

... No, he says, and rides away.

I put my hands in my pockets and look down State St. No bus.

Across the river there is a tall building that I have never really noticed before. There is a hole near the top, on the eastern side, big enough to fit a small airplane through. Or an elephant. Or some other fairly large thing.

I wonder what that hole is for.

What is that hole for?

I wonder if people can even go out there. Like it's some fancy pants inverted balcony or something.

And as if to answer my question, suddenly a little black dot of a man appears walking slowly in what is probably circles.

Then he stops. I look at him for a long time. He doesn't move even once.

My phone vibrates. I look down at it. It's running out of battery juice, it tells me.

So I shut it off and put it back in my pocket.

Then I look back up at the little black dot man just in time to see him jump.

Tuesday Night

2008-06-04T02:39:00.004-05:00

I'm driving. It's late. I'm tired.

Suddenly, about ten yards in front of me, and man hidden in shadows is slowly walking across the road. Before I get a chance to freak out and slam on the breaks I remember

I'm also pretty high.

I slow down gradually, and sure enough the silhouetted man slowly disappears.

I tighten my grip on the wheel and blink hard several times.

Once again, much closer this time than ten yards, the man appears again, walking in the center of my lane in the direction of traffic. At first I can only see bare feet connected to a old pair of slacks, but as I catch up shadows form up and around his legs and I'm staring right into the face of a semi-transparent black man dressed as though he's on his way to play the token Negro in a Mark Twain novel.

My knuckles grow white as I hold fast and insist that what I am seeing is not real and I am just stoned out of my mind. And once again, the closer the man gets the more transparent he becomes and he is gone. At the next stop sign I come to I take a few extra seconds. Never have I hallucinated so vividly in my life.

And I know that if I had been at all religious, I would have been certain what I saw was real, I had made eye contact with the spirit of an elderly black man. But I didn't, though. I am just very high.

But I can't help but wonder, what if it had been a real spirit? It's not that I would ultimately feel guilty for not believing in him.

I just wouldn't want him to think I didn't believe just because he was black.

It's All I Ever Dreamed It Would Be

2008-04-02T00:52:00.001-06:00

Today is my 20th birthday and also my 100th post!

Coincidence? No.

I have been planning for this moment my entire life.

mostly just because we were both so lonely

2008-03-29T18:24:00.003-06:00

it's not so bad

the mole that sat above your right breast
the one that made you shy when i would touch it
that i would touch just to see
if you would let me

and you would frown and mutter something quiet

like you always did.

what?

nothing.

a game you would play
like a three year old who lived for attention
who would hide and i would have to pretend
you could not be found

just to make you happy.

a walking sight gag, me and you
six foot five and five foot two
acting like we knew
who we were
and what we wanted from the days spent

quietly motioning to one another

just to stand

a little bit closer.

What'd You Expect?

2008-02-22T17:43:00.001-06:00

"I don’t know. That’s the answer. I just don’t know. I couldn’t tell you who I am or where I’ve been, much less where I’m going. I just… I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m… supposed to.

There’s this story… my grandfather would tell me. Well, there were a lot of stories, but there was one in particular that he’d always tell. That he’d love to tell. And I’d always listen. Not because I wanted to. I did want to, it’s not that I didn’t. But I mean… I felt I had to. You know? And it was always different. Always. Not so much in the way that he’d tell it, but in the way that I’d listen.

I couldn’t tell it to you now. I almost… I almost forget how it goes. I remember what it was about, I think. Or… or what I thought it was about, back when I was six or seven. Or eight. But I couldn’t tell you.

I remember, though, always listening hard. Really… hard. Like I was searching for something. Something behind it. For something… for some reason. Maybe I wanted it to tell me something about who he was, my grandfather. Or who I was. I don’t know. And I felt he was to. Even back when I was six, I felt like he was searching… he was searching too. Maybe that’s why he always told it. Maybe he was looking for something. He always told it the same way, and he always told it slowly, and there was always… always this half smile on his face like he was so close. Like he was halfway there. Like he was going to find it first. But I don’t… I don’t think he ever did.

That’s who he was, you know? That’s who he became. He was an old man who told stories. Who was looking for something. And then he died.

And maybe that’s where I’m headed. I’m just supposed to… spend my life searching for something, some unknown thing that might not even exist. And then I die. Like he did.

But then, you know… What’d you expect?"

Grant Park

2008-02-13T03:10:00.004-06:00

"Why don't we play like that anymore, Harold?" she asked.

The two yellow puppies ran through the snow, jumping on one another, rolling down the hill and barking loudly. Their owner ran after them, leashes coiled in his pocket.

Harold kept walking, hands in his pockets.

"Because I'm not a fucking dog, Sheila."

Sheila tugged at the scarf wrapped around her neck and frowned at him. The wrinkles around her thin lips tightened.

They walked side by side. Harold's hands always in his pockets, Sheila's always grasping her scarf.

"I'm not a dog, either," she said sternly.

"Well, there you go," Harold sighed.

DON'T WALK

He came to a halt at the crosswalk. His head tipped back to look up at the city, his eyes squinting as snow fell gently onto his bifocals.

"What?" She looked up at him.

"What?" He tilted his head towards her.

She stood up on tippy toe. "What did you say?"

He looked down at her, bundled stiffly in one little scarf and her old red jacket. He smiled. The wrinkles at the corner of his mouth danced. "Nothing."

Ode To My Big Green Boots

2008-02-05T22:17:00.000-06:00

Oh my big green boots
Oh dear me
Where would I be without you, my big green boots?

To think, big green boots, to think I used to walk around
Walk around the very city I walk around now with YOU my big green boots
YOU
I would walk around that very city, big green boots, in shoes that were not only made of rubber, big green boots
Rubber!
But also had holes in them, big green boots.

You can imagine, big green boots
as can anyone with even the slightest imagination
That with the changing of the seasons
And the falling of the snow
That my feet, big green boots, may have gotten a tad wet and cold.

Well let me just state here and now, big green boots, to say those feet got a TAD wet and cold would be the worst of all understatements!
For the holes in these old shoes were the most convenient of passage ways to my feet, big green boots, for the wintery weather!

But now, with you, my big green boots, I can brave the wettest and coldest of the wintery season
With our powers combined, big green boots
With my outrageous height and stride and overall size, big green boots
And you with your bulk and warmth and overall waterproofness, big green boots
Together we have braved over seven of the city's deepest and broadest puddles.

Together, big green boots, the possibilities are endless.
Together, big green boots, we can rule the world.

I Didn't Finish The 100 Things List

2008-01-10T00:05:00.000-06:00

Sorry, but I just can't. I'm making shit up for the sake of the list, not actually finding things that I feel I needSLASHwant to do.

So, one person that cared... I'll make it up to you somehow. Plus, I'll get you that fluorescent bulb. Just tell me what size and kind and stuff.

Another Poem I Wrote

2008-01-08T21:19:00.001-06:00

tea time tea time
time for tea
won't you have
some tea with me?

drink it up
so yummy
tea time tea time
we love tea

bellies full
and so happy
but i lied
you drank my pee

don't spit it out
or spit at me
i just want friends
don't you see?

and i heard
that you like tea
at least i tried
so sue me

you piece of shit
don't scream at me
i'll kill your dog
at the count of three

tea time tea time
time for tea
won't you have
some tea with me?

A Poem I Wrote

2008-01-08T21:16:00.001-06:00

if jesus is really coming back
he already did
and we locked him up for thinking he was jesus.
... whoops.

One-one-thousand... Two-one-thousand... Three-one-thousand...

2007-12-28T02:45:00.000-06:00

I don't know why I'm here.

Over the summer I had become amazingly proficient at pretending I'd forgotten she worked here. And the first half dozen visits, my act was entirely unnecessary. She was never there. After a time, I figured she must have quit. But she hadn't, of course, and I would see her now and again, pretending to ignore her, ignoring the fact I am a horrible pretender. But I would swing by, more often than not, to see her like this.

And I'm here again, months later. And so is she.

My heart shivers the tiniest bit when I see her, and I turn my back quickly. I am suddenly spinning backwards in time, inhabiting the body of the twelve-year-old boy I forgot I ever was.

There is an eventual confrontation.

I say words I immediately forget saying. She gives me a look, telling me with her frown that I sounded like a complete fuck. I am embarrassed and can feel my face burn red. She is so composed, giving nothing away. She obviously feels nothing in seeing me. For the three consecutive seconds I bring myself to look directly at and into her eyes, I can see nothing revealed behind them. We exchange quick words, the obligatory
question/answer yes and nos that come with the territory of employee/customer relations.

As I am passing her to leave "Merry Christmas" she says. I double clutch. I do not know what to say. How do I not know what to say? The only response to Merry Christmas is another Merry Christmas. Even the Jews know this, and they're fucking Jews.

What the fuck.

I open my mouth and only poop comes out. I leave quickly.

This has been the third in a presumably long line of unfortunately purposeful encounters, but the only thing I remember concretely are her eyes, for those are, I assume, the reason I go. The reason I need to see her. Because there used to be something there that is gone, something that used to make me feel like someone I never really was. And every now and again, I just need to check. To see if it is really gone or if maybe it just got... lost.

But I can never find it.

Driving home, the radio is off. The light turns red 100 yards away. I accelerate. I have no death wish, there isn't another car in sight. The brake just seems so pointless.

The light turns green just before I hit the intersection.

Happy Holidays

2007-12-25T20:54:00.000-06:00

Merry Christmas, fuckers.

ONE MORE THING

2007-12-12T05:42:00.000-06:00

(Reading this post out of context is not as big of a deal as reading the last one out of contexts, but still, please, have respect for the older posts and read those first. They are going to die sooner. (Right? Like a metaphor for old people or something. I'm gonna use that one in a book I write, I think.)

I was just making a quick note of thought here, feel free to comment if you'd like Thousand Readers (sorry, I'm about to make a quick side note, but then I'll get back to this)

((this is the side note i told you about before) Stephen King refers to his readers as "Constant Reader" which I thought was cute like rabbits so I kind of stole it, except I changed it to Thousand Readers because instead of Mr. Kings solitary One reader who constantly reads all of his hodge podge, I have over a thousand of you guys reading all of mine (though mines not really hodge podge, it's more like... Splenda. In blog form. (another metaphor. i don't know what for, yet)) But anyways, that's the side note))

Anyways, the quick note I was making was that I think it is so strange how much of a constant transformation and change my blog is going through! I mean, if you were to zoom back to some of the first posts I wrote, I barely write like that anymore! Not in this blog that often, at least! And also, if you were to zoom to the middle of my posts, the same can be said about those! Me oh my, right?

Anyways, Thousand Readers...

Until Next Time!

Chip Chip Choorie!!

ALSO:

2007-12-12T05:37:00.000-06:00

(ATTENTION, CAPS LOCK ON(THIS IS A FOLLOW UP TAG ALONG TO THE POST THAT CAME RIGHT BEFORE THIS ONE. IF YOU ARE NOT EDUCATED IN WHAT THAT LAST POST HAS TO SAY THEN YOU HAS BEST GET YOUR SMARTS UP ON IT SO THIS ONE WILL BE GIVEN A VALUABLE CONTEXT)ATTENTION OVERWITH, CAPS LOCK OFF)

As I mentioned previously in a previous post I am starting to teach myself guitar so, in more exciting news(!!1!), I am already getting a crack start on my list of 100 things even if I haven't gotten all of the 100 (I have 60, more than haff, sooo...) figured out, sooo... this can be added to the list of exciting news.

Also, just a quick honorable mention::

Two of my three roommates snore like any of you would not believe in a thousand years and if I don't cool my jets off soon they are going to get a pickle in their throats, no PUN intended!!!

Some Exciting Things And Some Not Exciting Things And A Couple Things That Are Right In The Middle

2007-12-12T05:27:00.000-06:00

You know what I love almost more than making brown and settling for anything less than the absolute best? When my friends post in their blogs so that I can reads them!

THREE of those friends have done so in like... the past DAY!

Holy cow, ya'll! Was it my burfday or sumthin!? It sure felt like it! It sure felt like my burfday, e'rybody! Hippy HooraY!!

So, that is some very exciting news that preceded this forthcoming not so exciting news...

The not so exciting news is this:

I is being up all night tonight so I can finally get my works done. I am also crossing my fingers that I do not fail all of my classes.

Thirdly, and this news is neither exciting nor particularly not exciting, but it is sort of news none the less, but anyways... Thirdly:

I am angry at myself for taking forever to complete my Ten Part Series About 100 Things I Wanna Do Before I Kick It. But I will have all of you know, all of the (give or take) tens of thousands of you who read this, especially the several thousands of you who are deeply invested in the Series progression, that I promised a very stalwart friend of mine (ONE THE AFOREMENTIONED WHO EVEN WROTE IN HIS BLOG EVER SO RECENTLY) that the list would be completed by the end of the calendar year. I also promised him that the fluorescent bulb I shattered would be replaced.

BOTH OF THESE PROMISES WILL BE COME TRUTHS

That is another promise.

Tally ho!

Song Names and Lyrics

2007-12-10T00:31:00.000-06:00

I is teaching myself guitar! And also, for the sake of laughs, am making an lol band out here with a roommate and some friends.

Starting to write some lyrics.

Give me song titles.

First verse and chorus for new hit single: Four Fingers For A Three Finger Hole

When she throws a fit she can be so obscene
Like the monsters in my closet while they’re trying on blue jeans
I’ve packed all my bags but she won’t travel in threes
And whenever she gets sleepy she eats all my Saltines

(chorus)

‘Cause I’ve got four fingers for a three finger hole
I twist and shout but she won’t let go
You forgot the maps and your cereal bowl
But I’ve got four fingers for a three finger hole

Ode To Spider Bite That Is Maybe A Zit But I Doubt It On The Tip Of My Nose

2007-11-28T14:40:00.000-06:00

Oh spider bite on the tip of my nose
Why do you delight to torture me?
Are you a zit, I must ask
Though I know you are not, spider bite.

I know that you are not a zit.
You hurt whenever I touch you, spider bite.
Honestly, all I have to do it barely tap you
And I feel like my nose is on a fire.

And when I squeeze you, spider bite
When I squeeze you to test your zittiness
To see if you will explode white pus
White pus, spider bite, is that what you are full of?

My efforts always suggest the answer is "no."
No white pus, because you are not a zit.

You are a big fucking spider bite that fucking kills.
Jesus fucking christ.
Go away.
Holy fuck.
Jesus butt fucking christ.
I hate you, you son of a bitch spider bite.

Go away go away go away.

I miss the days when there was no spider bite on the tip of my nose, spider bite.
Give me those days back.
I'll give you a dollar.
Eeeeeeeh?
A doooollaaaar?

Just take the fucking dollar and leave me alone, spider bite.
Fuck shit piss, spider bite.

Fuck shit piss.

The First Annual Thanksgiving Weekend Talent Show

2007-11-25T03:17:00.000-06:00

A game can stop quickly after something gets broken. Such is the case with this particular game of foursquare, and it was my turn to play the role of the jackass who does the breaking.

Apparently I need to work on my overhead backwards throw. It runs a little high. Likes to crash into fluorescent lights and really bust those fuckers. The game ends, everyone laughs at the long tube that lays half shattered on the concrete floor.

My bad.

The group quickly falls away into two separate activities: One involves sitting against one wall on, around, and tangled between various limbs and squares of loose carpet. The other, running around and kicking a tennis ball twelve times its normal size.

It's fun to see how close you can kick it at someones face before their nose gets smashed.

I pick up what I can right away and shuffle towards the garbage bin.

Give me 'til winter break and I'll get you that new light I owe you, I tells the Host.

Yeah sure, he says. His tone is sarcastic. Which sort of baffles me. I don't know why I wouldn't replace it. I suppose many objects around here have been lost to the shenanigans housed in this very basement, but I can't think of anything in particular, that I have been responsible for at least, that hasn't been replaced. Don't get me wrong, I'm sure there's something, but so large as a big ol' tube bulb?

I mean... I'll definitely need to put some research into where the hell I'm supposed to get my hands on one of those things, but mark my words it will be replaced.

By the time I dispose of the last few bits and pieces, the group has reformed into one large mass of people huddled at the side of the room against the wall.

I am standing barefoot on the concrete.

Aren't your toes chilly, Andrew!?

A little bit.

I'm bored.

A couple of people inquire, rather meekly I might add, as to whether or not we plan on getting the game started again.

No one responds. Everyone is talking to the person to his or her left. There are few coherent conversations taking place.

I'm still bored.

I want to do something.

I can't remember if it was my idea or if someone else tossed it up into the air, but either way I grabbed onto it and proposed it a few times. Let's do a talent show.

Why not, right?

I'm bored. We're bored. We're not doing anything. Let's play a game.

I stand up and try to get it started.

No one plays along.

Now, there are plenty of reasons I could be standing in front of a group of my friends trying to M.C. an impromptu First Annual Thanksgiving Weekend Talent Show. Here is a list of a few that were just not the case:

1) I wanted people to look at me.
2) I had a special talent that I wanted to show off, I just needed any kind of excuse to do so.
3) I wanted to see what secret talents anyone elsein the room might have had.
4) If I don't get enough attention I go into cardiac arrest.
5) I really like talent shows.

In actually, there was only one real reason for it all. I like goofing around. More importantly, I like goofing around in groups.

Is there anything harmless about an impromptu talent show? Not that I can think of. In fact, it's probably an opportunity for a very goofy occurrence. And I love the goofies.

I just want somebody to play along.

And while a talent show does take place, with only one non-participant using the all too familiar "I'm allergic to cats and am currently focusing on battling respiratory failure" excuse, it's just something to pass the time. And a surprising number of people whine about how they can't think of anything. And an even more surprising number of people don't even whine, they just refuse to play along.

Why? Why not? What do you have to lose? Is there someone here you're trying to impress or are worried about embarrassing yourself in front of? I mean... seriously. How long have we known each other?

Sure, some people played along. And it was a silly way to pass the time. And it was nothing to actually get worked up over. And I wouldn't say I'm actually worked up, persay. I'm more confused. It's an opportunity to not be bored.

Why not play along?

Part 6 of 10 In Tired Ten Part Series: 100 Things I Want To Do Before I Die - - - No Longer Pending

2007-11-17T04:25:00.000-06:00

--- I had a really good one that I thought of as I was walking home and now that I've sat down... it's gone... I am so frustrated with muhself---

51) Scuba dive.

52) Meet and shake hands with and propose to and have six children with Bill Nighy.

53) Meet and shake hands with Andrew Bird. And then make him godfather of my six mini Nighys. And then maybe have an affair with him.

54) Build my own home.

55) Own a Hookah.

56) Live well past the age of 40.

57) Trick someone into to eat my poop.

58) Convince a friend they have a serious problem by throwing an unexpected and unnecessary intervention.

59) Spend a day in Japan walking the streets dressed as Godzilla.

60) Egg someones house.

81st Entry! We Did It People!!!

2007-11-15T14:13:00.000-06:00

What a milestone! And to think, we are less than one week from our one year anniversary!

That's like... a post every 4 and a half days!!!

I am such an asset to the blogging community!

Well, it's been a heck of a ride, gang! And this has been a heck of a post!!! Here's to 81 more!!!

Teenage Angst

2007-11-15T02:16:00.000-06:00

You'd think it was all gone with high school. But I guess not. I guess it's not all over until you're no longer of teen age. Right?

This must just be my body getting it all out of the way before I turn 20. Which is in April... When did we start getting so old?

Some Haikus I Wrote

2007-11-14T03:21:00.000-06:00

dreams of yesterday
more like nightmares, I suppose
... did you fart again?

sweaty palms and sighs
filled with sorrow and regret
i miss your yum-yums

yogurt and french fries
this couldn't be more awkward
we'll make out later

silent promises
smack that sack against my chin
what? i said what? gross.

saturday morning
anything for love, you said.
why not tongue my hole?

on the ferris wheel
gaze into your weary eyes
pucker up, baby.

sandpaper pie and
polyester silhouettes.
my my, you're frisky

tingling insides
your declaration of love
lips on my butthole

sourcream daydream
the doctor said wait two days
fuck that, man. fuck that.

tears fall towards the sky
my pants around my ankles
forget 'em. let's dance.

forked tongues locked as one
so wrong, yet it seems so right.
... ew... can you smell that?

these sweaty balls itch
shout of bittersweet surprise
your hands be so cold

sunburned marshmallows
help to find my ticklish spot
these farts define me

panda bear pies and
day old taxicab pudding
no, i won't swallow.

dribbly sunsets and
your salamander fingers
make my wee-wee smile

pursed lips softly blow
making sweet love without touch
gentle breeze 'gainst pubes

all because of you,
pudding off the ol' butt crack
ne'er tasted so sweet

Part 5 of 10 In Tired Ten Part Series: 100 Things I Want To Do Before I Die

2007-11-06T20:59:00.000-06:00

41) Jump out of a birthday cake.

42) Shoot a bow and arrow.

43) Bike cross country.

44) Throw up off a balcony.

45) Live for an undisclosed amount of time on a (relatively) tiny island.

46) Travel to Las Vegas and blow lots of money at casinos.

47) Host and dominate a "How Many Whole Large Pizzas Can You Eat?" contest.

48) Start a radio station.

49) Make an ultimate functioning snow fort.

50) Travel to Dubai and go crazy.

Do You Believe In God?

2007-11-05T01:56:00.000-06:00

Nope.

You Don't Know Me Anymore

2007-10-30T01:29:00.000-06:00

They sat across from each other. She looked at the ceiling. He looked at the floor.

It was winter outside. They were both cold, but she was the only one to show it. Her arms wrapped around herself, hands clinging to elbows, fingers digging into sleeves.

He leaned forward, elbows on bended knees. A dark spot on the rug is what held his gaze.

A water spot on the ceiling is what held hers.

Neither of them knew why she was there. Him most of all. She probably knew why. Somewhere. Probably.

They didn't talk for a very long time.

They had been out in the snow. The flakes were enormous. They looked like cotton balls, that's how big they were. They looked like cotton balls floating quiety to the ground. A street lamp across the way showcased a swirling bubble of cotton balls, and if the two had looked around they would have seen it and they could have appreciated it. But he was busy looking at her and she was busy wishing he wouldn't.

She finally asked him to stop. That's when he decided to not speak. To not speak unless spoken to.

Why was she here?

They went inside slowly. It was colder inside than it was in the snow.

He didn't ask her if she wanted something to drink. He wasn't talking, remember? And he didn't care to be polite. She wasn't thirsty anyways. They went downstairs, because that's where they always went. He sat on the floor, 'cause that's where he always sat.

She sat in the big green chair. She used to sit on the floor, too. But this time she sat in the big green chair.

"It's cold," she said.

"Yeah," he said.

They were quiet again, but not for as long.

"Why am I here?" she asked herself outloud.

He looked up at her. She didn't look back, but she could feel him. She could feel his eyes on her. She wanted to yell at him, but she didn't know why.

"I don't know," he said.

She glanced at him for a second then looked away. "It's so fucking cold. Can I turn on the fire?"

"It's broken."

It wasn't.

"Can you hand me that blanket then?" she asked.

He tossed it at her.

She wrapped it around herself tight.

Two winters ago they had sat outside until they were so numb. They had been under the same blanket. They even held hands.

The winter after that, the winter just before this one, they never saw each other even once.

She breathed in through her teeth quickly, sucking in words she decided not to say at the very last second.

He stared at her harder. She wanted him to stop, but she was the one who had come here, remember? She had come here without any warning. Not even a phone call. She had just showed up, and he had been home, home all by himself, and she drove slowly into the driveway and stood outside until he saw her and his heart seized and he put on his boots and he went outside to meet her and she had said Hello and he had said Hello back and he had looked at her and she had asked him to stop. She was the mystery. He was just looking for clues.

"I'm sorry," she said, squeezing the blanket.

"For what?" he asked.

"I don't know why I'm here."

He looked at the dark spot again. "I still love you," he said.

"No you don't."

Silence.

"Why not?" he whispered.

"You don't even know me anymore."

"You don't know me either."

"You're right."

"I still love you."

"Then make it stop."

"How do I do that?"

Silence.

"I don't... I don't know."

"How did you stop?"

"Stop what?"

"Loving me."

"It just..." She was picking at her nail polish. Specks of dark red fell all over the blanket. "It just went away."

He shook his head.

"Why are you here?" he asked.

"I don't fucking know." She left her nails alone and glared at him. "I have no fucking idea."

"Then leave, please."

"I don't know where to go."

He shook his head harder.

Outside, the snow stopped.

Slowly and quiety she lowered herself off the big green chair and onto the floor in front of him. "I'm going to kiss you, but you can't kiss me back."

"That's not fair."

"Those are the rules."

She leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth. He didn't kiss her back. She pulled back and looked at him. He leaned forward. She didn't move. He looked at her in the eyes for a very long time.

Her heart seized.

"I want you to leave me alone," he said.

She stood up and left and he stayed on the floor.

She walked outside. It was dark. The street lamp had gone out. She walked to her car and almost slipped. She opened the door and got inside and started the engine and drove away. She rolled down her windows and turned the radio off and when she got home she went to bed but didn't fall asleep until the sun was coming in through her windows.

The next winter, the winter after this one, they didn't see each other even once.

Regrets And Some Words She Says

2007-10-28T04:02:00.001-06:00

"Everyone liked that about you - your sense of humor. They'd tell me how lucky I was to be dating such a funny guy. I never got that. I mean, yeah, you always made me laugh, but I found you a different kind of funny. The kind of funny they'd talk about, you know, the sardonic comedian who is kind of a jackass... that's who you'd be around everyone else. You were that pretend funny guy around everyone else, but around me you could just be normal you. And I found that you entertaining. I remember you said that's what you liked about me. I never really liked the other you, and maybe that's why you eventually decided it wouldn't work. But that normal you, the real you, I loved him bad..."

Part 4 of 10 In New Ten Part Series: 100 Things I Want To Do Before I Die

2007-10-24T01:46:00.000-05:00

31) Answer the door naked.

32) Destroy a hotel room.

33) Spend the night on a beach.

34) Egg the house of a nemesis.

35) Make the world's biggest snow fort.

36) Audition for "So You Think You Can Dance?"

37) Pee into the Grand Canyon.

38) Force myself to finally somersault.

39) Make a three piece suit for myself.

40) Pimp my ride.

Part 5 Coming Soon!!!

Part 3 of 10 In New Ten Part Series: 100 Things I Want To Do Before I Die

2007-10-23T22:08:00.000-05:00

21) Hijack a scooter.

22) Visit a therapist for a month. I'm so curious about what they would say.

23) Poop in this toilet.

24) Master juggling.

25) Move far away and sustain myself on a farm for at least one year.

26) Hire a private investigator to follow someone I don't know.

27) Make a body puppet.

28) Fire a cannon.

29) Blackmail someone.

30) Grow a mustache.

Part 4 Coming Soon!!!

Marry Me?

2007-10-23T03:32:00.001-05:00

Regina Spektor: Love will be the death of me.

Me: I know, right?

Part 2 of 10 In New Ten Part Series: 100 Things I Want To Do Before I Die

2007-10-22T23:52:00.000-05:00

11) Punch someone in the face.

12) Stay at a 24 hour diner for 24 hours.

13) Road trip to every national landmark I can think of.

14) Become a YouTube superstar.

15) Learn how to play the guitar.

16) Spend a weekend as a street performer.

17) Get less fat.

18) Drive a van down the highway at obscene speeds and dump fully dressed mannequins on the side of the road.

19) Fart in a crowded elevator.

20) Build and live in a tree house for a summer.

Part 3 Coming Soon!!!

Part 1 of 10 In New Ten Part Series: 100 Things I Want To Do Before I Die

2007-10-22T10:06:00.001-05:00

Dedicated to Andrew Johnson and his travel train to Albania for the next two whole years of our lives.

1) Own a potbellied pig and name it Junior.

2) Drop a bundle of $100 bills into a homeless person's cup.

3) Learn how to use a flamethrower.

4) Ride into a Ghost Town on a horse.

5) Burn down said Ghost Town with a flamethrower.

6) Live to be over 40.

7) Spend a night in each of these hotels.

8) Give the "birds and the bees" talk to a kid I don't know.

9) Pick up a hitch hiker and convince him that I'm a serial killer.

10) Fake my own death.

Part 2 Coming Soon!!!

So. You've Become That Guy, Eh?

2007-10-16T02:47:00.000-05:00

It is late and raining lightly. He steps outside after grabbing his matches and a cigarette.

He heads onto the lawn and looks toward the water. It's quiet aside from the ocean washing up against the beach. He walks down onto the beach and sees his friend sitting up on the wharf holding a guitar. He treads barefoot along the rocks, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.

"So, you've become that guy," he says pointing to the guitar.

His friend laughs and strikes a chord. "Yeah, I guess."

He grabs a match and lights a cigarette.

"Why are you up?" his friend asks.

"I don't really sleep anymore," he says.

"Yeah." His friend starts playing lightly again. "Me neither."

"Where'd you find that?"

"In the living room. It's really nice."

"I think it's my uncle's. He always plays it when he's here."

"He any good?"

"He's alright." Blowing smoke out of the side of his mouth, he looks up at the clouded sky.

"Can I bum a cigarette?"

"I left my pack in my room." Pause. "I can run and grab 'em."

"No, it's cool."

The moon pushes through the clouds in a blue, hazy half circle and the rain slowly ceases. The two sit in silence for a long while, he with his cigarette smoldering between two fingers and his friend with his uncle's guitar sitting quietly on one knee.

Suddenly, his friend looks down at his feet with a sharp inhale. "I don't think I love her anymore, man."

"What?" Pause. "What do you mean?"

"There's no double meaning, or anything. I don't think I love her anymore."

"What do you mean 'think'?"

"I don't know."

Silence again. He takes one last puff and smashes his cigarette between two rocks. His friend lets out an aggravated sigh.

"What am I supposed to do? What am I supposed to say to her?"

"Well, probably nothing until you know for sure."

"But isn't the fact I'm even doubting a bad enough sign?"

"Yes."

"Then I should break it off."

"Yeah. But not until you figure yourself out for sure first, so you don't sound like a complete dumb ass on top of breaking her heart out of the blue."

"It's not out of the blue. I've been thinking about it for a while now."

"With her?" His eyes are angry.

"No. In my head..." His friend grows visibly upset and coughs. "You're not allowed to make a move on her."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. Don't."

"No, I mean like... really? You're going to sit there and tell me-- Like I've just been fucking waiting around to pounce?"

"I wasn't saying--"

"I'm going to bed. Put that guitar back where you found it when you come in. It's older than you are." He stands up. "Do you plan on staying here after you talk to her?"

Pause.

"I don't know. No. I guess I was going to see how it goes? I can just go stay with my dad or something."

"That's very sensitive of you."

"Fuck off."

"You're an asshole." He heads back inside. His friend sits alone for the next ten minutes staring down at nothing.

The next morning, over a cup of coffee and a bowl of Apple Jacks, they pretend the other isn't even there.

Strange Woman

2007-10-14T04:11:00.001-05:00

Her face frowns.

Not just her mouth, but her entire face.

And it frowns at everything.

"Hullo," I says to her. She just looks at me and frowns. I am still part of everything, even though I says "Hullo."

I don't says anything else to her, but instead I look at my feet.

They are dirty.

Moments later I try again.

"How are you?" I says. She just frowns still.

Obviously she is not good, that is how she is. The frown tells me this. But I figure to myself "If I asks you how you is, you can says you are not good with your words, and not just your frowny face, Strange Woman."

Her stockings are black as the night in the countryside. The kind of night that is not lit up by tiny electric fires like in the city. But the kind of night that is black as the frown on her face because there are no fires to brighten it up.

She has an open seat next to her, but I do not sit down. She does not want a body in her general area of being. She would just like to frown.

She is little. She is a little old woman who frowns. Not the kind of little old woman who gives out good chocolates and smiles. To me, that is the best kind of old woman for I like any kinds of chocolates. Good and bad. I am also a fan of smiles, but smiles only make my heart happy and not my belly.

She has a large suitcase, for she has somewhere to be. Or one would assume so, at least. She could be dragging around all of her things she's ever owned in that large suitcase while she is just looking for somewhere to stay, but she is dressed too nicely and too cozy for me to assume she does have a place where she belongs.

Finally she says "I am fine." But this is a lie. Her body has already told me, in particular her frown, that she is not good. Nor is she fine.

She is neither of these things.

"That's good," I says. For it would be good. If it were not a lie.

Twenty two seconds go by before she says anything else.

"How are you?" she says.

Well I am delighted you ask, Strange Woman. "I am okay," I says.

"Grand," she says.

We are still and says no more.

She is confused as to why I says anything to her at all. I am also confused. We stay confused until the train stops at where I wants it to stop and I gets off.

Then the train goes away taking Strange Woman and her frown with it.

You Know What Word Will Always Make Me Laugh?

2007-10-07T23:47:00.001-05:00

Poop.

Lies

2007-10-01T04:13:00.000-05:00

"I don't miss you, if that's worth anything." He looks up from his drink to catch a reaction.

She's staring into her empty mug, expressionless.

"I just miss not being lonely."

The waitress walks up with a pot off decaf and offers a refill.

"No, thank you," she says, looking up. The light is dim, but her eyes flash a sadness. The waitress nods and looks away.

"I guess I just miss having someone--"

"I don't miss you either," she interrupts.

"Okay," he says quickly.

Silence.

"Do you smoke yet?" he asks reaching for cigarettes.

"No," she says. "Not yet."

He lights up and looks around. "Nice night."

"It's raining."

"I like the rain."

"I don't."

Silence.

"Well." He coughs. "It's been great seeing you."

"Definitely. Let's do this again sometime."

He blows a cloud of smoke to his side and frowns. "Are you mad at me?"

"No." She looks around and sighs. "This is just... weird."

"You," he mutters. "Called me."

"I know. Sorry."

"Why are you sorry?"

"I don't know. I guess I just figured you'd be over me by now."

"Why, that's awfully presumptuous."

"It. It. I meant it. Us. I figured you'd be over it by now."

"I said I don't miss you anymore."

"You were lying."

"So were you."

"No I wasn't."

"Then why call me?"

"I thought--"

"Fuck you."

Silence.

The waitress walks up with the check. "Here's your check. Pay whenever you're ready." She sets it on the table and walks off.

"You were lying," he says, picking up the bill.

"I have to go." She stands up and grabs her coat off the back of her chair. "Thank you for dinner."

"My pleasure."

She watches him as he reaches for his wallet. He looks up at her and smiles an ugly, painful smile.

She looks back.

They look at each other for a long moment and she leaves.

He waits until she is gone and stands up. He leaves a small tip and presses his cigarette into the ashtray before walking out into the rain.

Fire Drill

2007-09-30T04:17:00.000-05:00

It's four in the morning. What the fuck?

It's The End Of The Fucking World, Man

2007-09-24T02:23:00.000-05:00

I'm having dinner at a friend's house, making grilled cheese while she fusses with her DVD player. The remote won't work. It doesn't have the right button.

I laugh at her and turn towards the fridge, snooping around for a beverage.

A quiet scream sneaks in through her screen door and quickly erupts into the whole apartment rattling the walls and my brain. It is the distinct sound of a large, fast plane flying dangerously low and dangerously close.

My friend runs off onto her balcony, eight stories off the ground, looking up with wide eyes.

I quickly follow her and poke my head out just in time to see a small speck of a stealth jet soaring through the sky past the football game.

Go Bears.

My heart quickly tip-toes back up from my balls into my chest.

For one second, a part of me had expected the end of the world. And for half of that second, a part of that part of me had been ready for it.

Bad Choices

2007-09-20T02:57:00.001-05:00

It's 3 AM. Instead of doing the homework that is due in six hours I am watching hours of Scrubs and eating my roommates cookies until I fall asleep.

And Scrubs isn't even that good of a show...

HAHA, YEEEAH RIGHT!

And these cookies are dyno-mite.

The Blindfold

2007-09-18T02:55:00.000-05:00

"Okay," she says.

"Can I take my blindfold off?" he asks.

She laughs quietly at herself and looks away from him. "Sure."

He looks around. They're sitting in her station wagon pulled up to the curb in the middle of a small, quiet neighborhood.

"Where are we?" he asks.

"I don't know."

He smiles a confused smile and looks out his window. "What do you mean you don't know?"

I didn't have anywhere else to take you, I just didn't want to take you home yet. I thought maybe I'd come up with something while we were driving, but I didn't."

"Well," he shrugs. "You don't have to take me home. If this little scavenger hunt is over let me take you out for dinner or something."

"I'm not hungry."

"Okay. Well. What do you want to do?"

She laughs at herself again.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"What are you laughing at?"

"Nothiiiing." She looks at him with embarrassed eyes.

"Okay," he says and leans back in his chair. After it's quiet for a moment he pulls the blindfold over his eyes again. "Alright, where are we going next?"

"I told you. I don't have anywhere else to go."

"Then what were you laughing at?"

"Weeell..." She leans over the stick shift across to his side of the car and rests her chin on his chest. "You know that list I wrote at the beginning of the year?"

"Nope."

"You know, the one I wrote about all the things I wanted to do before high school was over. All the stuff I wanted to do before college?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, I got most of it done."

"Good."

"Yeah..."

There's a pause and she laughs at herself again.

"What are you laughing at?" he asks. He raises his eyebrows to pull the blindfold up just a smidge and peeks out at her with his squinty right eye.

"Well, I've never made out in the back of a car before."

He laughs at her. He laughs really hard and his belly jumps up and down. She smiles and her eyes are embarrassed again.

"That's on your list?" he asks.

She snorts. "Maybe..."

He chuckles again.

"Well," he leans forward and kisses her on the forehead. "If only I could fit in the back of your car. I would have loved to help you out." He sits up and pulls the blindfold up and off his head. "Come on. Let me take you out. You've had this thing on me all day."

She pauses for a moment, looking at him. He watches her eyes get sad and her mouth quivers into half of a frown. "Okay."

"What's the matter?"

"You don't want to make out with me."

He just oh so barely prevents himself from laughing again. "Stop it," he says.

"Well, why don't you?" A small tear rolls down her cheek.

He leans forward gingerly and reaches his hand up to her face. Instead of wiping the tear away, he catches it with his thumb. Her sad eyes look down at the floor, while his sad eyes look into hers. Her lip quivers again and she looks up at him. He pulls her in and kisses her hard on the mouth.

"Let me take you out."

"Okay." She sniffles. "Where are we going?"

"Let me drive."

"You can drive stick?"

"I'm getting there," he says and and steps outside. He walks around the front of the car and looks at her through the window for maybe two seconds before opening her door and helping her out.

They say nothing until they are seated at her favorite restaurant twenty minutes later and her eyes pretend to be happy again.

Later that night he hugs her for a very long time.

She hugs him back.

They say good-bye and go to college.

She never makes out in the back of a car.

He never hugs anyone like that ever again.

Two Guys

2007-09-15T17:56:00.001-05:00

Dan: Hey.

Mike: How’s it going?

Dan: Good, good. You?

Mike: Not too bad.

Dan: Smells good in here.

Mike: Yeah, it’s awesome. You ever eaten here before?

Dan: No, is it good?

Mike: So good.

::pause::

Dan: So when’d you get the chance to eat here before? I thought this place was pretty new.

Mike: Yeah, Jan and I swung by a week or so ago, thought we’d check it out.

Dan: Oh, cool. How is Jan?

Mike: I don’t know. I haven’t seen her in a while.

Dan: I thought you just saw her last week.

Mike: Well, yeah. But not since then.

::pause::

Dan: So how was she then?

Mike: She was alright, I guess. We didn’t talk a whole lot. I’m starving.

Dan: Me too.

Mike: Oh, don’t order the fish. I got that last time and it was really poor.

Dan: I thought you said this place was great.

Mike: Well, Jan had to use the bathroom so when she was gone I stole a couple bites off her plate. It was amazing. Probably the best thing I’ve ever had. I’m getting that, I think.

Dan: What is it?

Mike: It was saucy.

::pause::

Dan: Saucy?

Mike: Yeah, it had past and some sort of sauce. It was really good.

Dan: Sounds good.

Mike: Had some meat in it, too. Chicken, probably.

Dan: I like chicken; maybe I’ll get that too.

Mike: It’s really good.

::pause::

Dan: So what’s the story, Mike?

Mike: What?

Dan: What’s all this about?

Mike: What do you mean?

Dan: This. Lunch.

Mike: I don’t know, man. We haven’t seen each other for a while.

Dan: So?

Mike: I missed you.

Dan: Bull shit.

Mike: I just wanted to hang out, man. We haven’t hung out in ages.

Dan: You fucked my wife, Mike.

::pause::

Mike: Technically she’s your ex-wife.

::pause::

Dan: Do you need money or something? ‘Cause if you do, I don’t have any. So this is worthless.

Mike: Nah, I’m fine for money. This is my treat. You can even get the fish if you wanted.

Dan: You said the fish was bad.

Mike: But it’s expensive.

::pause::

Dan: Don’t worry about me. I’m not really hungry. I think I’m gonna head home.

Mike: No! Please. Dan. Don’t.

Dan: What?

Mike: You’re the only one I can talk to.

Dan: I don’t want to talk to you, Mike.

Mike: Please.

Dan: What?

Mike: I… I think there are ninjas in my apartment.

Dan: What?

Mike: Karate guys. Asian fighting machines. Only… they’re not Asians.

Dan: What do you mean? Like… they’re Mexican?

Mike: No, don’t be stupid. I mean like robots.

Dan: There are robot ninjas in your apartment?

Mike: I don’t know how to get them out.

Dan: Just… ask nicely. I’m outta here.

Mike: You don’t believe me?

Dan: What the fuck, Mike. You’re wasting my time.

Mike: I thought it was funny.

Dan: Robot ninjas? Mike, we’re 35 years old. I can’t even guarantee I would have laughed at that back in high school. And back then we were still friends.

Mike: We’re still friends now, man.

Dan: You fucked. My wife.

Mike: Technically she’s your ex-wife.

Dan: Because you fucked her! Pre-fuck she was still my wife!

Mike: Okay, now. Don’t point the finger of blame at me, buddy. You didn’t get divorced because I fucked her. You got divorced because she fucked me. Because she went and fucked someone else. It’s not like there’s someone out there she could have gone and fucked who would have been okay by you.

::pause::

Mike: Except maybe Brad Pitt.

Dan: Brad is an attractive man.

Mike: I know, right?

Dan: I’d fuck him.

Mike: Hell, I’d let him fuck me even.

::pause::

Dan: This is weird.

Mike: Sure is.

::pause::

Mike: So you want to eat or no? I’m buying.

Dan: Yeah, sure. I think I’ll try the fish.

Mike: Really? It’s really not that good, man.

Dan: Yeah, but it’s expensive.

::pause::

Mike: I’m sorry your wife fucked me, man.

Dan: Me too.

::pause::

Mike: She was hot, though.

Dan: Sure was.

::pause::

Mike: So does this count as a reconciliation?

Dan: I guess.

Mike: Okay. Really, dude. Don’t get the fish.

Dan: Yeah. I’m not that big into fish.

Mike: We should get drunk after this.

Dan: Maybe.

Mike: I’ll let you draw pubes on my face if I pass out.

Dan: Can I shave your eyebrows too?

Mike: Hell yeah!

Dan: Deal.

End

The Red Line

2007-09-11T16:08:00.000-05:00

Evening has settled into night and it's drizzling outside. My old roommate Dan and I wait on the Roosevelt Red Line platform pointed North. Two security guards stand around, chatting, each of them with a large, muzzled, German Shepard at their heels.

A group of six or seven men stumble up the stairs, arms around each others' shoulders laughing and talking louding. Suddenly, a shorter chubbier man in the group freezes. His chums move a few steps before realizing he has fallen behind. A taller, bearded man turns around and awkwardly reaches out his hand. "What's up, dude?" he slurs. The other four turn around too, swaying and mildly confused.

Dude is staring at one of the dogs.

"Come on dude, what's the matter?" Beard steps forward.

"WHAT THE FUCK" Dude screams.

The security guards turn, eyebrows raised.

"What's up, man?" Beard walks to his side.

"WHAT THE FUCK ARE THOSE DOING UP HERE"

"Calm down sir," a security guard says.

Another member of the group, wearing large, thick glasses and sporting a shiny bald head, walks over to Dude and grabs his arm.

"Come on man," he says, giving his arm a tug.

"FUCK THAT GET THAT SHIT OUTTA HERE"

"Sir, calm down"

"Come on man, let's go."

"FUCK YOU FUCK THIS WHAT THE FUCK ARE THEY UP HERE FOR"

"Sir," the security guard takes a step forward. His German Shepard looks indifferent and groans under his muzzle.

"GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME"

"Come on man, we'll go downstairs and take a bus, okay? Let's go,"

"GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME"

The train's headlights are seen rolling down the elevated track not too far away.

"Let's go, dude," other members of the group say.

"Sir, stay right there please."

"FUCK YOU"

"Come on, let's go."

"STAY RIGHT WHERE YOU ARE," the other security guard suddenly shouts.

The train arrives quickly and loudly, drowning out the noise. Dan and I quickly scoot onto a car and take a seat.

"You want something to read?" Dan asks.

No, I'm fine.

Across the aisle, a woman is bent over her legs, head flopping against her knees, matted hair reaching around to her face, invading her nose and mouth and ears. She breathes loudly, but unintrusively. A plastic bag sits at her feet, her left hand clutching one of the handles. The other has escaped her as she sleeps, dropping to the floor. Its contents lie half on the floor, half in the bag. Mostly garbage, scraps of food, newspaper, old McDonalds boxes and cups, magazine, squished box of cigarettes.

She's dressed in a thin black sweat shirt that doesn't quite cover her arms and light blue pajama pants with small pink bunnies dotting the fabric. They are too short for her and between their hem and her old battered sneakers I can see puffy, swollen flesh where healthy ankles should have been.

The train comes to a quick halt, her head swings and cracks against a metal pole. She doesn't move. I can still hear her breathe.

The train arrives at our stop and we stand. Dan exits before me. I don't know what to do and for a second I stall. I quickly roll up a five dollar bill and stick it in her bag. She doesn't move.

Walking along Belmont Dan lights up a cigarette. "You see that crazy lady sitting across from me on the train?" he asks.

I step in a puddle. Yeah... I did.

"Pretty fucked up, huh?" he says and takes a long drag.

Sad Dance With Me

2007-09-04T23:51:00.000-05:00

I hate them.

Why?

Look how happy they look.

Maybe they are happy.

Of course they're happy. They be dancing.

Then what's the problem?

No one's that happy in real life.

Well, maybe that's sorta the point of dancing. To make you happier than real life happy.

But why does no one dance real life happy?

I don't know.

They look like a lie.

They look happy.

Let's go dance with frowns on our faces.

You want to sad dance with me?

No. I want to look sad while I dance with you. But on the inside I'd be the happiest boy in the world.

Livin' The Dream

2007-09-01T01:39:00.000-05:00

I walk into Kwik Trip on a mission to buy my old roommate a carton of cigarettes. They are apparently quite a bit more expensive in Chicago. (I end up dropping over $40 on 'em. If that's cheaper than what he usually pays... I sure am glad I'm not a smoker.)

I go to make my usual B-line to the beverage section, to snag the usual Cherry and Pomegranate SOBE LIFE WATER!!!

A middle aged man in a UPS uniform is standing near the doors, reading a poster hanging on the wall. One hand is in his pants pocket, and the other is holding a Kwik Trip hotdog, sans bun, which he casually snacks on.

"Howdy," he says to me.

"How's it goin'?" I ask.

"Oh, livin' the dream," he says and takes another bite of his dog.

One Last Coffee Before We College

2007-08-29T14:00:00.001-05:00

Her: "This whole home thing is just weird, you know? 'Cause like..."

Me: "... you don't really have one?"

Her: "Yeah... thanks for understanding."

Me: "Yeah..."

(slurp)

Me: "Well, these are the best years of our life, right?"

Her: "They sure better be."

Third Part In Well Reknowned Multi-Part Series: Long List Of People I Would Let Stick It In Me

2007-08-24T20:16:00.001-05:00

3) Peter Sellers

4) Regina Spektor

5) Roger Ebert

6) Bill Nighy

7) Chewbacca

8) Julie Andrews

9) Alan Rickman

10) Marketa Irglova

11) Michael Palin

12) Dora the Explorer

13) Al Franken

14) Diane Keaton

15) Michael Cera and Jonah Hill (Double Team)

16) and Jenna Fischer

Second In New Critically Acclaimed Multi-Part Series: Long List Of People I Would Let Stick It In Me

2007-08-23T01:03:00.001-05:00

2) Bernadette Peters

First In A New Multi-Part Series: Long List Of People I Would Let Stick It In Me

2007-08-22T14:59:00.001-05:00

1) David Cross

A Letter To Fellow Cast and Crew of The Glass Menagerie:

2007-08-17T22:45:00.000-05:00

I am sorry. There is something here that must be said, something beyond these words, to each of you individually. But it is late, and while you all deserve a lengthy, personalized letter of your own, and while there is one, somewhere, inside of me for each of you, I cannot find the means or ability to do you all justice. Just know, please, that there is something in me, somewhere, that is yours. But for now, this general letter will have to do. So here goes.

Dear All Ya’ll,

Thank you.

For me this wasn’t just a chance to come back and be onstage. It wasn’t even simply a chance to come back for the sake of the good ol’ days. It was an opportunity to return and represent the Masque, demonstrate what a terribly important role this theatre and all of you involved took in my life.

Over eight years of my life is in this place, and what the Masque is, what it offered, and what it continues to be inside of me is something that I will never lose. The Masque has grown beyond a name, a building, a theatre, a place to… hang; it has evolved into an idea, an active passion, a source of creative and personal growth and ideals. It represents a milestone in my life and a greater part of who I am today. What the Masque is on any grand scale is indefinable, because within each of us the Masque is something irreplaceably unique.

The Masque is not a training ground for professional theatre. It’s not a program made to ready people for a future career in the arts. The Masque is a community larger than that established to instill an appreciation, respect, and love for who we are as people and to strengthen the relationships we have with others through art as we develop our own creative sensibility.

The Masque gives students an opportunity to discover what there is to love about not only the theatre, but also working and interacting and growing along side others on a regular basis. It gives them a chance to fully realize themselves.

At it’s best, the Masque is the one and only venue for youth to come together and collaborate creatively and freely as they struggle through the most overwhelmingly developmental stage of their lives. The Masque is freedom of expression and exploration. The Masque isn’t just a home away from home, it is the very foundation of my person.

The fact that I can return, nearly two years after my involvement at the Masque had come to its initial end, and discover the relationships I have with all of you have not only remained consistent and meaningful, but have even strengthened over time, is a true testament to the unmatchable lasting power of this place and what it means to us all. Our experience here has become a common unfailing bond, and while I cannot speak for all of you, the theatre and you all will stay most certainly forever and ever in my heart.

I can say with great honesty and ease that I love all of you. And I am forever grateful that you have all taken these central, involved, and intimate roles in my life. I am proud of the show we have put together and am already sorry that it must come to an end. Best of luck to you all as we go our separate ways once more and here’s to getting us all back together again in the future, in some form or another. You think I’m making this up because I was invited to do the alumni show and I have to be nice. I could do that. I could put on an act for you all and say a lot of things without being very sincere, but this time I am. I am talking to you sincerely. Thank you.

The Glass Menagerie

2007-08-16T13:49:00.000-05:00

I don't want it to feel like a waste of my time...

The Glass Menagerie
Friday and Saturday, the 17th and 18th of August
7:00 PM
Masque Theatre, 14 4th Street SW Rochester, MN
$10 per ticket

Call me a dreamer, butI'd really rather not have it just be our parents in the audience.

The Architector

2007-08-12T03:08:00.000-05:00

He stared at his thumbs a lot. One was shorter than the other, though not by much. He had cut off the tip years ago working as a short order cook at a local diner while struggling his way through college. He was going to be an architect.

He had driven himself to the hospital, pressing his thumb against a wad of paper towels just under his chin. The tip sat in the passenger seat next to him in a sandwich bag.

After waiting in the emergency room for near four hours, they had taken him into a back room and sewn it back on, but the stitches pulled and busted and when his mother told him to drive himself back and get it all fixed up he didn't. He let them bust. The tip fell off again and was lost.

He never finished school. He didn't have the money. And his mother certainly didn't have the money. There just wasn't any money.

He drew a lot. Scribbles and doodles resembling architectings. He loved to architect. He was going to be an architector. Co-workers would find the drawings, add to them, drawing people walking past the buildings, under the archways, dogs peeing on the pillars, things, flowers, growing on and around doorways and monuments. He took them home and hung them on his wall.

His favorite was that of an aqueduct running off into the distance, a basic design, a bad day for the doodles, but a co-worker had drawn an eye peering through one of the arches and a giant hand reaching over the stone to grasp at unsuspecting sheep.

The look on the face of one sheep that saw the slow approaching hand was quite possibly the funniest thing he had ever seen.

He never drew at home. He would stare at him thumbs and listen to the radio. But he would never draw.

He had never been touched. Not by a woman. He had never held a hand, he had never received a hug, he had never been touched. Not by a woman. And some nights that's all he thought about.

2007-08-06T09:00:00.000-05:00

Go see Once.

Charles H. Duell and the IIoT

2007-08-02T20:06:00.000-05:00

As my family whiles away their summer in New England, I have been left alone for the second annual What-to-do?-What-to-do?-So-bored-Kinda-Hate-Rochester Extravaganza. And no matter how exciting it sounds, this two week period is no walk in the park. I am left with the hefty list of responsibilities that includes, but is not limited to: watering plants, walking the dog, getting the mail, sleeping, taking out the trash, feeding the dog, driving my dad's car, not closing the door when I make #2, and dancing to ABBA with limited to no inhibitions.

This afternoon, on my way in from walking the dog, being the ever efficient time saving son-of-a-gun that I am, I also swing by the mailbox to wrangle up the letters and posty-cards. Killing two birds with one single stone, as it were.

Rifling through the notes and envelopes, a packet sent by the Illinois Institute of Technology catches my eye. It's for my sister, soon to be a junior in high school, already wildly bombarded by the many surrounding colleges screaming for people to join their quaint little school. Memories begin to flood back to me with the ferocious energy of any gay man presented with the opportunity to hop on board a young Kevin Bacon (am I right, gang!?) but I put them on hold to inspect a cuuuuuurious quote written in laaarge bold letters right on the back of the packet:

"EVERYTHING THAT CAN BE INVENTED HAS BEEN INVENTED"
-Charles H. Duell
Commisioner
U.S. Office of Patents, 1899

What!? What!@? How is that any kind of incentive to apply for a school?

I mean, if there is one frontier that relies on any kind of reach-for-the-stars go-for-the-gold let's-become-the-next-best-thing absolute optimism, isn't it education?

Sure, let's invite people to our college, but at the same time let's put some strange limit on knowlege and ability.

Printing a picture of Richard Nixon fingering the Pillsbury Doughboy while whispering in a tiny speech bubble "We're your last resort!" would have been a better draw.

I mean... reeeeally...

I don't... get it.

Harry Potter and the THANK YOU LORD of the Phoenix

2007-07-21T03:23:00.000-05:00

--Yeah... I usually only post my garbage about movies on rottentomatoes, but I love this one too much to just let what I have to say sit in one place--

Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, 9/10

Now, before we get started, I am well aware this film doesn’t deserve a rating higher than a 7, realistically. But in a series that has grown shallower than your local kiddy pool, this fifth Harry Potter movie isn’t just a breath of fresh air, it’s a fuckin’ 9 outta 10.

Granted the film isn’t for everyone. Harry Potter, like most well regarded series, has two kinds of fans: Fans of the books, and fans of the stories. Fans of the books, clinging to every last detail and specific structural element of the novel, will not like this movie. In fact, many people have already railed against it. These are the people, we have to remember, that enjoyed the fourth movie simply because it crammed as much of the book as it could though completely neglected to do any sort of justice to the true nature of the story and its characters. So I could care less about them.

The first and second films were both directed hopelessly and soullessly, as is his charm, by Christopher Columbus. Made simply in response to the growing popularity of the books as a cute and whimsical way to make some green, they never truly amounted to… much.

Albeit, the first three installments are essentially not but charming Hardy Boys novels with magic, and Columbus did a decent job of providing some form of visual companion to the page.

While the third film took a step past whimsy to create a picture visually intriguing and justly involved in its presentation, director Alfonso Cuaron still seemed a trifle above the subject matter of the story, never really grasping the spirit of the novel or its role in the series as a whole.

And then to the fourth film, which seemed a mere obligation to those in charge. If there is a film adaptation of a novel more thoughtless and disrespectful than this absolute suckfest, I have yet to be introduced. Perhaps frightened by the length of the fourth book, or simply too tired to actively give a shit, the simple hack-and-slash cut-and-paste attitude of screenwriter Stephen Kloves makes me scream and gargle obscenities until I explode.

Enter Michael Goldenberg. God save you, Michael. You’re a saint.

Fans of the stories will love this film because not only is it helmed by a screenwriter who actually cared this time ‘round, but it also (dare I say it!?) improved upon the novel!

WHAT!?

Better believe it.

(And to think Kloves is coming back for the last two films. Is there no human decency left on this planet? I would think stabbing him in the throat has become a simple common courtesy by now. No?)

The story of Order of the Phoenix is really quite splendid. And while the book drowns that splendidity with an overabundance of both quirky side stories and sudden teenage angst, the film focuses to the story’s core with regard to the series as a whole and the humanity of its characters.

In fact, Goldenberg is the first to write a Harry Potter film that actually stands alone as such and does not rely to any extent on the audience’s familiarity with the books. And that is, though the fans of the books will deny it, an absolute strength.

And at the wheel of this mighty ship, with a steady hand and presence of mind, is director David Yates. God save you too, David Yates. Not only did you care about the story being told, but you actually acknowledged and used the astounding cast that the series has always had at its disposal but never seemed to respect.

Gary Oldman is, quite certainly, the only man to have played Sirius Black. Alan Rickman, who can do no wrong, finally has the screen time to do Snape justice. And without Ralph Fiennes, I would have never imagined a Harry Potter movie to be so exhaustingly creepy and strangely badass at the same time.

Even Michael Gambon, who I was sure had murdered the character of Dumbledore after the fourth movie, was effectively reigned in and used to his full potential. You can chide Warner Bros all you want for letting Richard Harris die, but Yates couldn’t have molded a more perfect second best.

Many grumble at the fact that this, being the longest book, has been turned into the shortest movie. But, you see, this is because they didn’t just make cuts. They made changes. They altered the plot to serve the story. To save the story.

And they fixed problems left by the smarmy mess that came before. Sirius’ appearance in the fireplace was changed from the hideous coal formation to the more accurate and aesthetically pleasing image in the flames, and the Death Eaters, thankfully, lost their upsettingly silly KKK hats.

OH! That reminds me. Jason Isaacs as Lucius Malfoy. Also amazing.

And to quickly address what may be the biggest change made to the film, Dolores Umbridge. Admittedly, I loathed the change when I saw it on the previews, viewing it as completely unnecessary and even cheap. However, Imelda Staunton was not only absolutely terrific in the role, but the change actually seemed to make sense. Umbridge was certainly the most terrifyingly frustrating entity I have ever met in the literary world. And the only way to truly get that effect in the film in the shorter amount of time we have to spend with her was to use the contrast of her appearance and overall front against her true nature and set of disturbing morals.

Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix is the first actual film in the entire series. And unless Kloves gets his act together for the next to, it just may be the only one of its kind.

At least Yates’ll be back. Let’s hope he can work his (pun!) magic again for number six.

My fingers are crossed. How about yours!?

Plane Ride

2007-07-17T13:49:00.001-05:00

My knees pop and my feet tingle as I step off the plane into Chicago Midway airport. The journey home from Boston has reached a much needed intermission.

Heading to our final flight to Minneapolis, my dad, unable to resist the draw of any and all smoothie machines, makes a quick pit stop.

He asks me if I would like to partake.

No.

Two strawberry smoothies please, and he hands me a cold plastic red cup o' frozen drink. I suckle on the end of the straw and am pleased to find the smoothie tastes not like a butt hole. I finish it well after my father, but with no complaints.

As we board flight #764 the two of us are separated, and my dad lumbers back to the bowels of the plan to slouch between a pregnant woman and a not-pregnant-but-boy-would-that-be-a-nice-excuse-please-stop-pouring-into-half-of-my-seat woman.

I am seated in the middle seat, also, though my traveling compadres have yet to arrive. I sit with my book in my lap and wait.

The first is a hefty man with equally hefty pit stains and a disconcertingly tight red shirt. He shuffles about in his bad, elbowing me in the side several times. I, ever so politely, shift a few inches to my right and pray to any God that might be floating in above around or below me to please please please leace this other seat open ooooh please jesus christ

Knowing my luck, Sweat Stains grins at me, the guy sitting in that other seat there'll be a big guy too.

He has keenly noticed that I am also of a large stature and is, as always seems to be the case, noticing so outloud.

I force a muttery laugh.

Seriously, he continues with a bark. Next big guy through that door'll be sittin' down next to the two of us! Three big guys in a row! His eyes widened as did his smile and he looked at me for a time.

That sure would be inconvenient, I say quietly.

Yeah man! he chortles and we are now best friends. He continues to pontificate on the hilarity of his hypothetical situation until he is interrupted by a timid

S'cuse me.

We both look up to see a small, staggeringly beautiful young lady pointing to my right.

That's my seat, I guess. I gotta get in there.

Sweat Stains turns to me with a slack jaw and big round eyes the size of pizza pies.

I guess we were wrong, he whispers.

We should probably move, I whisper back.

He and I shuffle into the aisle, allowing her time to slide in towards the window. When we all settle back in, fidgeting with our seat belts and clicking them closed, I am nearly smacked in the face as Sweat Stains reaches across my lap with a terribly intrusive and mainly repulsice

HI I'M SWEAT STAINS!!! (only, as a quick side note, he used his given name at the time. I just, you see, had kept no mind to think of remembering it. In fact... I was too concerned abuot the fucking SWEAT STAINS!!! inches from my chin)

The young lady responses in turn, slowly reaching up to shake his hand.

I sit facing forward while S. S. retracts his arm.

I turn to face her.

Hi, I say. I would offer a hand shake too but my hands get so sweaty

(all the god damned time)

whenever I fly, I think I'll spare you.

That's quite alright she says with a smile and leans in towards my face, kissing me on the cheek.

I shift a bit in my seat, alarmed and confused.

Her lips move over to my ear as she whispers ever so softly

((i'm not wearing any underwear))

I look around the cabin and back to her. She just nods at me and sits back in her seat, but not before lowering her hand to my groin and feeling around, giving me a light squeeze.

I cough and shift again.

What are you doing?

She bats her eyelashes. Falling in love with you, she says with a sigh.

We are passionately involved the rest of the flight, and when the plane lands we run off to Vegas and get married. We honeymoon all over the world, swimming with the dolphins of the Pacific, running with the bulls of Spain, dining with the midgets of Paraguay. We have a thousand kids together and live happily ever after on the cliff side overlooking our very own vineyard and cock-fighting arena.

I drift back to the middle seat row 12 flight #764 from some hazy edged day dream in any bad 1990's sitcom and look down at my book.

I don't finish it, but get fairly close. The light outside fades fast and after we land I sleep the whole drive home.

My Chair

2007-07-04T21:21:00.000-05:00

Stop humping my chair. Just stop.

It's not funny. Having sex with my chair isn't funny. Not while I'm in it, at least.

If I wasn't sitting down, yeah. Maybe I'd laugh. No, I'm not going to stand up and watch. The jokes pretty much lost now, isn't it?

No, dude. Seriously. Fucking stop it.

Midnight Run

2007-06-30T01:53:00.000-05:00

Exercise has become easier as well as more frequent. One thanks due probably to the other.

It's colder tonight. I'm wearing my green senior shirt, one of the few tangible relics from last year's legacy. OH SIX, it screams. It's really freaking dumb.

My mind wanders off to a place I need not worry about it. Thoughts grow so repetitive and tiresome, to do without them is a relief. The moon is really bright. It has been for the past few nights.

Dogs bark at me. I ignore them.

Before I know it I've run farther than I ever have without stopping. And I mean run. And I mean far. None of this hobble-jogging around the block bullshit. As a fat guy, I'm finally beginning to get my act together.

(3 lbs fell off of me these last few days. I finally weigh less than I did before college. Feel free to give me a high five next time you see me.)

As I make my way around the block towards home stretch I pass a house with a light on at the ground level. A girl who went to my highschool lives there. Music that sounds either straight out of an early 1980's video game or a 'new-age indie alternative electronic post modern-funk' band's demo pokes its way through her window tickeling my ears until they bleed.

Without understanding why (my mind was still elsewhere) I slow down and walk up to peek through the blinds. The girl I know is on her bed. Some guy I don't is fucking her from behind.

He looks up at me and I wave.

The rest of the way home is a breeze, but my side is killing me as I hit the driveway.

04/14/06

2007-06-24T03:48:00.000-05:00

[A journal entry I've stumbled upon while sifting through old musings and material. Couldn't sum up my current situation any better. I feel as though I should be more frightened by the fact I seem to be in exactly the same place, but instead... I'm simply a lonely, lonely boy.]

Words are gone. I should be writing something, I should be writing a number of things, but I can't.

It’s really hot. And I’m fighting with music. Nothing is more distracting than silence, and nothing is more complicated than finding just the right music to effectively lull me into a state of comfortable productivity.

I am frustrated by my inability to remember. Feelings, images, and other confused thoughts bounce against each other in my head as I try to recall specific events and dialogues that elude me. And those memories that I’ll never forget, the few that I can hold on to and examine anytime I want, I cannot put into words. The last five years of my life are represented by inexpressible, disjointed ideas, moments that slip through my fingers when I try to reflect on them. My entire memory is like a bajillion piece puzzle missing the box and subsequent picture. All the pieces are scattered in front of me with nothing to serve as a basis for their reconstruction.

Where are you, words? Fuck. Nothing is happening. Nothing has happened. Am I waiting to be inspired or am I just waiting for someone else to decide what to do with me?

It seems as though I am still under the delusion that this struggle can eventually produce something meaningful.

Time for a nap.

Good night.

[Good night.]

Classic

2007-06-21T12:07:00.001-05:00

So this horse walks into a bar.

And the bartender says, Why the long face!?!?

And the horse says, I just found out I have AIDS...

Map, Anyone?

2007-06-13T01:53:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I think I just don't know how lost I really am.

Hey You

2007-06-09T04:02:00.001-05:00

Boy oh boy, thoughts are just racing. The time and opportunity to sit and talk to anyone seems pretty nonexistent recently.

We should sit down and just talk sometime.

If I ask to, don't you dare say no.

I mean, hey, if you want brownie points, ask me. I'd be the happiest boy in the whole wide world. I'll even buy you a cup o' coffee. If you don't like coffee, how 'bout a milkshake? Something?

Anyone?

In related news, I love music. Anyone else love music?

We should sit down and listen to music sometime.

Simple Pleasures

2007-06-04T13:36:00.000-05:00

If there is one thing I miss the most about home when I am in school, it's the freedom that comes with driving fast - all alone - windows rolled down - singing loudly to a song you only know half the words to - at night - while it lightly rains - and you have no idea where you are.

The only thing better? Being with anyone who will sing along.

Something Less Than Shadows

2007-06-04T00:06:00.000-05:00

A series of events over the past couple of months have led me to realize... I've completely forgotten huge bulks of my existence, immense pieces of my life are lost. And I don't mean they have become hazy, I mean enormous chunks of my memory are missing. Literally gone. For example... the entire second semester of my junior year of high school. I do not remember it. Events have been brought up I do not remember, letters recounting times, moments I have shared with people, that are no longer in my memory.

And with the memories, I have lost all recollection of who I was. I have forgotten all the people I used to be. And as I fall away from myself, I become disjointed. All of the memories I still may have become disconnected, meaningless, no longer a part of me or a reflection of who I once was. Something less than shadows.

I feel empty.

And fewer memories are being made. Honest connections with the people around me, shared emotion and worthwhile moments are less frequent.

Am I going crazy? What's happening?

Channel Surfing

2007-06-01T20:03:00.000-05:00

Jennifer Aniston is really rather charming, isn't she?

Frozen Treats and Curious Sweets

2007-05-26T13:48:00.000-05:00

So a week or so ago I was sitting on the back porch with my family when we heard a curious jingle.

"That sounds an awful lot like an ice cream truck," my sister observed and we all nodded, mumbling our own variations of "yes, yes that is what it sounds like."

To our surprise, as ice cream trucks have become as extinct as the dinosaurs and a good Christian conscience, the tune became louder as what seemed to be maybe could have been hmmmm not sure an ice cream truck? rolled slowly along the street behind our home. Only, this was no truck. It was a white, windowless van with a flashing yellow light at its back and small "Ice Cream" signs slapped on like cheap magnets.

We shared glances and the van rolled out of sight and out of mind.

Time passes and I forget about these happenings until this morning. This very morning. Sitting at the home I am looking after for the next couple of weeks, lovingly labeled by a friend as "My Special Place," I hear the curious jingle once more.

Memories rush back to me like a stampede of half-retarded wildebeest and I rush to a window.

Sure enough, slowly rolling along the street is the very same van that haunted me before. Only this time there are children that run up to it in a more than giddy manner, excited for ice cream and other frozen treats.

Oh my, I think to myself. Oh dear me. And as I watch the kids talk to the man in the van after rushing into a house for money, the elderly gentlemen who lives next door hobbles down his driveway and towards the van's window. He says something to the driver, who immediatly drives off, leaving a small group of children clutching bills and coins with frowns on their faces.

Watch out, Rochester. I am soooo not making this up.

Single Tear

2007-05-16T10:47:00.000-05:00

I know there is more than a great risk of me sounding like a complete tool here but so be it. It must needs be said.

Gilmore Girls was an amazing show. Anyone who says otherwise is a close minded fool. It was smart, fast, charming, and reeeeally really well done. And though I only hopped on board for the last two and a half seasons (credit given to my two younger sisters) I am all kinds of bummed it just ended last night.

The series finale, however, was perfect. It was dignified, moving, and magnificently written. Everyone involved has every right to be proud. It couldn't have been better.

And, seriously, who knew Sally Struthers was so freakin' funny?

The Most Terrifying Second And A Half Of My Entire Life

2007-05-09T23:43:00.000-05:00

My sister totalled her car yesterday. A Ford Taurus was slowing down to take a left turn while she was on her way home from track practice and she thought it would be fun to give it's rear bumper a bit of a smooch. Only she didn't think it would be fun, and instead of a smooch it was more like a headbutt.

The front foot and a half of the car has been squished to a few inches and the radiator (along with several other pieces found under the hood that apparently rack up to over $1500) was smashed to pieces.

She's fine, wasn't hurt or anything. She is, however, the kind of girl who was so distraught over the fact she failed her drivers test on the first go she wouldn't talk about it for days, nevermind get back in a car, so one can imagine she isn't in the best of shape after completely biffing the family's new vehicle.

I just heard about it a couple hours ago and the phone call from my mother held within it the most terrifying second and a half of my entire life.

I could tell from her voice that something was wrong and she hurried through the "how are you"s to get to whatever it is she called about.

"Your sister was in an accident," she says.

And my heart leaps a mile into the air.

The most terrifying second and a half of my entire life.

"She's fine," she adds. "The Camry's totalled."

My heart takes longer to fall back into place once it has jumped so far upwards, but it finds its way.

To get right down to it, the news could have very easily been "Your sister was in an accident... she's in the hospital" or worse "She's dead" and just like that, after one phone call, I'd be down one sister.

What would I have done? Honestly. What would I have felt? How would I have acted? What would have happened to me?

I've never gotten news like that. Not so sudden, not so unexpected, and not in regards to someone so close.

Lately I've spent time outside sitting in the grass staring out a window up at the sky down to the street, trying to look at the world through the eyes of someone who believes in God. I can't do it. These eyes are not mine.

But I can't help but wonder... how would it be different?

Squee Squaa

2007-05-06T14:49:00.000-05:00

I seem to be suffering from mild constipation.

My bowel movements have become less frequent and my poo is small and hard.

Pray for me.

I Am Sprinkles

2007-05-03T23:45:00.000-05:00

My world had gone cold. An emptiness crept inside of me, pawed it's way into my heart and curled up to snooze, much like I might have done to a throw pillow or ball of blankets.

He left me. Suddenly, one day, he was gone, much like his brother had disappeared before him, though the brother's absense was nothing compared to the longing... the betrayal I felt when he... when he left.

I wanted to be confused. I wished to spend hours lying awake wondering why. Instead, I knew. Hours were spent dwelling on the knowlege that he had left because of me. The regret was exhausting, the hurt was unbearable and while I crawled my way through every minute of every hour of every day, I was hopeless... I had no reason to go on, but for him. And he had left me.

And now months have past. The pain has not diminished, no. It has not become anymore bearable. It has simply... grown familiar. A haunting part of me.

I miss him. Not his smell, not his touch, but his voice. Oh, the songs he would sing. The songs he would sing. And I knew, I knew by the twinkle in his eye while he sang these songs, they were for me. These songs were mine. His voice was mine. He was mine. And I was his.

I... I was his.

And now he is gone.

The small divot in the couch cushion, where his firm buttocks would rest when he was weary, ceased to be not a week after he had gone, and any trace of his warmth soon after. But I return to it. Day after day. Some days I can close my eyes while I lie on that spot and remember. Oh, to remember. My whiskers tingle, swept up by memories, and I smile.

He may be gone, but at least I have these memories and tingly whiskers and the pain. The pain that assures me... only something that was truly good can hurt so bad once it is gone. And what we had... what we had was truly good.

I'm gonna go shit in some sand.

The Last Harry Potter Book

2007-04-28T15:46:00.000-05:00

Harry will yell a lot, in all caps lock, because he is a teenager and they do that.

In one last act of defiance, McGonagle will let her hair down and get a butterfly tattoo on her ankle next to the chinese symbol for "Peace".

The steamy sex scene between Ron and Hermione will be ruined by an overabundance of the word "snog".

Dumbledore's not coming back.

Snape was good all along.

Harry is the final Horcrux and will have to destroy himself.

I will hate it.

Hello

2007-04-27T14:48:00.000-05:00

The next person to read this must give me something to write about.

Love,
Andrew

P.S. Seriously... I... I got nothin'.

Truth Through Fiction

2007-04-24T23:14:00.000-05:00

I've been fascinated with the idea of truth through fiction for quite sometime now. Particularly the idea that nothing can be captured truthfully, in the slightest, without some form of fictionalization. Sure, an event can be recounted, step by step, factually and with certainty, but from who's point of view? No one involved can relay a story exactly as it happened. They are hindered by limited perspective and personal bias. Anyone on the outside looking in, a reporter for example, can interview everyone involved and get every side but every story they get is skewed in some way. The big picture is pieced together with small flawed stories.

The reason I started this blog is because a friend of mine asked me to. He was saying one night how he wished all of our friends had blogs so he could keep up with their lives, keep up with what they had to say. And because I realized I wanted the same from all these friends, I figured it would be hypocritical of me to not have one myself.

Blogs are silly.

Nothing I've written in this blog is real. Some posts are obviously fictional. Stories I wrote to stifle my own boredom or workshop some silly idea. But most are disguised as some self indulgent true story about stupid little things that have happened to me. And while a lot are based on actual experience, there are some I just made up.

Hell, the posts based on actual experience are probably the biggest lies of them all. I leave so much out, I let so much lie, I'm telling a completely different story from what actually took place. Each post becomes a self important, angsty heep of nonsense as I pretend my words might hold some ambiguous yet universal meaning, touch on something even remotely human.

Is it presumptious and arrogant of me to assume this admition means anything to the few of you that read this? I'm genuinely curious. I mean, how many people are even surprised? Now that I'm writing about it, thinking about it, perhaps that's all actually expected and there's nothing to be surprised about. I don't even know.

Silly blogs.

?

2007-04-21T23:15:00.000-05:00

I don't... get... Björk...

What Is The Perfect Human Thinking About?

2007-04-20T00:52:00.000-05:00

-- inspired, in part, by Jorgen Leth's The Perfect Human and The Five Obstructions --

He sits alone at a table. Not alone, but by himself. He is with a phone. An old phone, the rotary kind. He picks up the receiver and dials. It rings into his ear and he stares at the wall.

"Hello?" It's a woman's voice.

"Hi, who is this?" he asks. Outside is just beginning to wake up. The blinds are pulled, but only halfway, and light pours into the room painting everything a soft morning blue.

"This is Katie, who is this?"

He picks up the phone and moves it onto the floor by his feet. He pushes his chair back and slowly lowers himself next to it and stretches out on his back. Brown spots, burn marks, are scattered across the carpet, some forming patterns but others lost to random distribution.

"This is the perfect human," he says with a smile.

"Oh really?" she asks.

"Yes."

Books line the wall, stacked in piles by color and size. A small fern sits at the top of a tall pile of encyclopedias in a cracked red pot. An empty, stained coffee pot sits beside it on its own stack.

"Do I know you?"

"No," he says rolling onto his belly. "I don't think so."

He lights a cigarette.

"How did you get my number?" she asks.

He slowly lowers the cigarette to the carpet, watching it carefully with his jaw unlocked and hanging slightly in concentration. He touches it to the weave and it quickly turns a dark brown color, the fibers turn upwards and into themselves. He pinches the butt between his thumb and index finger and rotates it slowly, pulling the circle outwards until it is about as big as a quarter, then he smushes the cherry and tosses the dead cigarette into a small tin bucket.

"I dialed it," he says.

She laughs quietly.

"And we've never met before?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." He rolls onto his back again and blinks twice. "What do you mean?"

"What if we've passed each other on the street before? Perhaps we've even bumped elbows, we just didn't know it was us."

"Maybe," he says.

"What are you thinking about?"

Blink. "Me?"

"Yes. What is the perfect human thinking about?"

"Can I draw you a picture?" he asks.

"Please."

He sits up and starts to put the receiver down on its side before hurrying off but stops and throws it back up to his ear. "One second." He runs off to a small desk in the corner, littered with papers and pens, spare change and notebooks, and grabs a sheet. He opens a drawer and grabs a tiny box of crayons.

"Okay," he says back at the phone.

"Okay."

"What should I draw?"

"Oh, I don't know. I have to choose?"

"Yes. How am I supposed to know what you like?"

"I like everything."

"Everything?"

"Well, not beetles."

"I will not draw you a beetle," he says.

At the top of the paper, with a dark blue crayon, he quickly writes No Beetles.

"Good," she says.

Sometimes at night he can't sleep. He lays in his bed on top of the covers and stares at the ceiling fan. He never turns it on. Not even in the summer. His sheets and pillows are covered with little brown quarters, and the blinds on his windows are always pulled but only halfway.

Sometimes when he can't sleep he turns on the radio and taps his toes to the music. Sometimes, if it's a song he's never heard before, he dances to it. But never very well.

Sometimes, if there is enough light coming through the window and everyone else is already waking up, he calls somebody.

"So what should I draw you?" he asks.

"You know what, I'm really sorry," she says. "But I've got work. I really have to go."

"Okay," he says.

"But listen, draw me that picture. Anything you want."

"Except beetles."

"Right," her voice smiles. "Do you remember my number?"

"No," he frowns and his cheek hits the carpet. His eyes close. "I just guessed it before, and now I forgot it."

"Oh no..." she says.

"You're going to be late for work."

"Okay," she coughs twice and clears her throat. "I'm gonna go now."

"Okay."

"Maybe we'll bump elbows again sometime."

"Maybe."

Click.

2007-04-17T00:19:00.000-05:00

Some stories don't have a clear beginning middle and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next. Delicious ambiguity...
-Gilda Radner

I love her.

A Dragon and A Shoe and A Chicken Bone pt. I

2007-04-14T00:31:00.000-05:00

Harold was small by dragon standards, but not much smaller than his brother Kyle. And he had a nice smile which everyone agreed was, by far, his best feature.

But Harold liked to think his best feature was his feet. Not that they looked like anything special, though he did get a frequent pedicure at the nail salon around the corner from the deli where he worked (Mrs. Kim, Mr. Kim's sassy and emotionally vulnerable wife, was a wonder with the nail file), he just thought they were nice.

"Have you met Benji?" Mrs. Kim would ask. He had, of course. Benji was the deli's new delivery boy. He had trained Benji himself, even drew him a tiny little map of the town on a napkin with arrows and dots helping to illustrate several short cuts Harold had discovered on his own.

But he'd humor her every time she asked. "Yes, I have," Harold would reply, and Mrs. Kim would smile.

"He has a very nice butt."

"Yes," Harold would sigh as Mrs. Kim massaged the scales on his large, green heels.

Harold loved his feet. There was just something about them, something subtle, something that went on day after day unappreciated by anyone but himself.

It was odd, the town thought, that such a nice young dragon like Harold would spend so much time doting on his feet when he had such a pair of fantastical wings. For, while Harold was small, his wingspan was phenomenal.

Twice had he knocked over the display in the deli's window turning carelessly while helping a customer. After the second spill, spoiling over three pounds of fresh sliced bologna, Mr. Swanson, the store's round and proud Grecian owner, banished Harold back to the supply closet to spend his eight hour workdays emptying boxes and stocking shelves.

Here, in the supply room, is where Harold did most of his thinking. He thought about seagulls and orchids and existentialism and collectors plates, but mostly he thought about matrimony. At the age of 25 (26 in dragon years) Harold was beginning to grow lonely.

Harold had only had one girlfriend in his entire life. Her name was Stacey and was two years Harold's senior. They had met through his high school's drama program; Harold, a sophomore just finding his stride in the school's confusing and cliched social system, and Stacey, a well meaning girl failing to cope with the reality of her situation as a graduating senior.

They dated for two weeks but broke it off after Stacey's lactose intolerance grew out of any plausible control.

To be married and have a family, Harold would think to himself back in the deli's supply closet. That is my dream.

And while most dreams, I have never been more sorry to say, rarely come true, this was a dream Harold was determined to pursue.