Two Star Wars quizzes for the price of dumb. I was searching for the one Seany took but could only come up with these. Wouldn't you know it, I got Obi-Wan each time.

Master Obi-Wan Kenobi - Obi-Wan Kenobi is a strong man who in confident is his abilities to a certain degree, but never boastful. While being confident in his abilities, he is sometimes unsure of others putting him in tough situations. Constantly being described as near as skilled as someone else, but in almost every category, he could be called the most versatile as the Jedi Knights. A famous quote about him is that he is the best pilot in the galaxy, but hates to fly, and fiercest warrior but hates to fight. Obi-Wan is centered and sure of the right course. He is fiercely loyal to his friends, nation, and superior. He has extreme patience and also a quiet sense of humor. Despite constantly being the underdog he always wins out against sheer power by some luck (something he professes no belief in) and ingenuity. While using reason he has also gained the ability to center himself in the Force and flow.

You are Obi-Wan Kenobi! Strong in the force, patient and wise, your mastery of the lightsaber makes you a formidable opponent and a loyal ally. A seasoned negotiator, you will only resort to violence when all other options have run out. Your judgement is keen and you are perceptive, having Anakin as your Padawan has taught you great patience. Though wise, you cannot be the role model for Anakin that Qui-Gon Jinn, your mentor, was and this will ultimately lead to him adopting a relationship with Palpatine. Yoda will guide you well and Aayla Secura (Who?) will assist you when you need help. Anakin will fight by your side, but be caucious of his impulses.

Lewis's Christmas Bender last night. I'm hurting too much on the inside to write about it. I'm thinking I'll post my experience tonight or tomorrow. My bet is on thursday. Its safe to say, without question, I consumed more alcohol last night than I ever have before. Whiskey, bourbon (a reflexive shudder), martinis, tequila, and vodka: last night I was a Teddy Kennedy. Topical humor eh? What is this blog, the "Daily Show"? I'm going to go crawl back into my blanketed hole now.

Tonight's post is lame because I am so fucking tired, but too bored not to write anything.

My two year hiatus has run its course; I am finally finding the inspiration to write again. Through this blog and the behest of my friends, my voracious creative beast has been wakened from his slumber. He is becoming aware of himself, and is increasingly hungry; thirsty for the flesh of observation. I have begun to grab at the ideas buzzing in my head, and finally can commit them into digestible chunks of material. Screenplays, short stories, a fantasy novel; all tangible and realized, waiting to be plucked from my frontal lobe and shoved into prose. It may have been the jarring dynamic of returning home, but also I have realized the time to make my mark is now. Rather, to begin making my mark. I have no allusions as to the difficulty of this task, but my penultimate goal is to sustain myself solely by the written word. Say a prayer to St. Boozimus that my writing problem pans out, and the drinker enriches rather than hinders.

In the meantime, let's talk about the BBC television show, The Office. I don't really watch much TV anymore. My boob tube addiction was broken this semester by my roomate. An overly possesive only child, Clem made it very clear the TV was his child. So, rather than watch his reality shows and low-brow sitcoms, I spent my time outside, experiencing N.I.U. firsthand. Making friends is easy when you are essentially homeless, and have nothing but time to spend talking and smoking cigarettes...

I lost myself in a dead-end, well-trodden tangent. The Office is the most genius thing to come out of the UK since Kate Winslet. It is a mockumentary series focusing on the daily business of a fake paper firm: Swindon. It follows the inept, popularity-hound manager, David and an entire office of familiar characters. By familiar, I don't mean stereotypical, rather it is almost a study of the characters you meet in daily life. There is the low-key, girl next door, Dawn. The intelligently witty Tim. The chubby, aloof, Keith. And all manner of middle-class personalities you see waiting in line at the bank. It isn't just the acting that makes it spectacular though, its the subtle satire on the whole. There are times when I have to pause the show because it is so excruciatingly awkward. Any comedy that forces you to invest so much into the characters that you actually cringe for them is adept to say the least.

Dawn is quite possibly the hottest woman on the planet. And really, physically, she isn't anywhere near a knockout. Yet, Tim and Sean C. agree that she is absolutely captivating. There is something about her personality, mannerisms, and facial expressions that makes her utterly spellbinding.

Anyways, long story short, rent the Seasons 1 and 2 DVD's if you haven't already seen them. They are nothing short of inspired. Seany B, I especially suggest you rent them, seeing as your current employment matches the environment of the show. Also, it has been duly noted that if ever Tim and I were to see Dawn walking down the street, an intense session of mortal combat would take place. The victor only so-claimed after his opponents submission or death.

Below are Dawn and Tim, the two best characters on the show.
One day, I will marry Dawn.

Because I'm Bored:
1) My uncle once: forced me to sit in a kitchen and draw a fucking semi-truck for an hour. (Tales from the crazy side of the familial line.)
2) Never in my life: have I not kicked a bottle when I saw it sitting in a parking lot.
3) When I was five: I had a friend named Jamarlan with a speach impediment that made him sound like Marlon Brando in The Godfather.
4) High School was/is: an unmitigated blast.
5) I will never forget: Morgan Freeman
6) I once met: Don Vito (from The Bam Show)
7) There's this girl I know who: loves pot, booze, and dressing up as a sexy fairy.
8) Once, at a bar: I watched as a girl popped a squat in a urinal in front of five guys.
9) By noon I'm usually: eating a sammich.
11) If I only knew: Milla Jovavich.
12) Next time I go to church: I will max out on the Jesus Wafers.
13) Terry Schiavo: was never as good a vegetable as a cumquat.
14) What worries me most: is that I'm somtimes too cool even for my own damn self.
15) When I turn my head left, I see: clowns.
16) When I turn my head right, I see: jokers.
17) You know I'm lying when: I make my "lying face" (Molly knows.)
18) You know what I miss most about the eighties: Being four.
19) If I was a character written by Shakespeare, I'd be: Chuck Norris. Or maybe Othello, because I am a proud, black man.
20) By this time, next year: I will undoubtedly be excelling at something.
21) A better name for me would be: Deathninja McSex.
22) I have a hard time understanding: the pains of childbirth.
23) If I ever go back to school I'll: be in the present.
24) You know I like you if: I rub you suggestively.
25) If I won an award, the first person I'd thank would be: Paul Reiser and Chcuk Norris; for the gift of humor and roundhouses, respectively.
26) Darwin, Mozart, Slim Pickens & Geraldine Ferraro are: people I went to Abbot Middle School with.
27) Take my advice, never: take acid and go searching for a train. (Molly took my first choice for this one.)
28) My ideal breakfast is: Dimitri and grilled cheese.
29) A song I love, but do not have is: Y'all Gon Make me Lose my Mind (Up in He'yah)
30) If you visit my hometown: eat at Leno's and get some flaun at Ofelia's Azteca Restaraunt.
31) Tulips, character flaws, microchips & track stars: are something lesbians and gardeners enjoy, things other people have, The Punisher's fat helper, and oddly shaped, five-pointed pocks heroin addicts get.
32) Why don't you: look at me when we make love?
33) A sure bet is: I'm not sober.
34) A true sign of genius: long, shaggy brown hair, a full-toothed smile, brown eyes...you get where I'm going with this.
35) What is that blue thing: talking to The Beatles?
36) And now for something completely different: "Just one more tiny morsel."
37) I really wanted to: say something far worse in the 'Terry Schiavo' portion of this quiz.
38) Paperclips are more useful than: your mother's syphilus-ridden vagina.
39) If I do anything well, it's: drifting.
40) And by the way: "your time is up Mr. Hoffa."
41) Why can't I: make normal faces in pictures that don't involve my tongue?

Also, also: Willy has now created his own blog. In the vein of humorous shit, his promises to be a barn-burner. To quote Morgan Freeman: "I enjoy the company of little boys. Because I engage in sexual congress with them." Willy's blogsite is www.tubgirl.com

Just kidding. Its: www.fconclusion.blogspot.com

Check Out These Muthafuckas:
Two new additions to the prestigious blogspot.com family. In a late night conversion, I have managed to convince two of my generation's top minds to create their own blogs. These two E-Generation braintrusts are none other than Timothy Waldeck and Francesca Rose Gagliano. Hell, Tim updated three times in his initial two hours. Each one was funnier than the last. And as for Chessa, her writing is a fucking fluid dream. (Hmm, that last phrase was almost a Freudian slip.)

I asked each to blurb their own site, as a plea for a position in your new hotness link lists.

Francesca (pictured above as Waldo's estranged wife) had this to say about her site: Stories that include something of interest, disgust, inhumane activity, comic relief, politics, have people with belly pooches that own real pooches (with names like Ernest), are productive with unproductive things, say things with meaning like mutherfucker (with the first "u"), and have a rock-star dance formula. Read it three times over for your own sake. The blog that is. www.fountainclassics.blogspot.com

Timothy (pictured above, sans pants) allowed Chessa to write this about his site: “He wants you to write his blurb for him.”

“Why doesn’t he grab his balls and ask me himself to write it for him?”

“He’s working on blog stuff.”

“So you’ve become his guinea pig?”

“No, you have.”

“He’s good.”

Timothy Joseph Waldeck. Dry humor. Bad Taste. Odd Obsessions. www.googlemang.blogspot.com

Life as a House.
Check out this website. Follow the directions and your drawing will reveal the very nature of your being. How drawing a house has managed to accomplish what scientists, sociologists, and clergymen have been trying for years, the world may never know. It must be deep magic, as Aslan would put it.
You have to highlight the box with your mouse in order to see my house. The black outlines on grey background don't mesh very well.
http://www.drawahouse.com/TakeTheTest/


Here is my psyche synopsis:

You are sensitive and indecisive at times. You are a freedom lover and a strong person. You are shy and reserved. If you've drawn a cross on each of windows, you always want to live alone. You are very tidy person. There's nothing wrong with that because you're pretty popular among friends. son.

You will avoid being alone and seek the company of others whenever possible. You love excitement and create it wherever you go. You see the world as it is, not as you believe it should be. You added a flower into your drawing. The flower signifies that you long for love. It also safe to say that others don't see you as a flirt. You don't think much about yourself.

Also, check out my new favorite website: www.lemonparty.org (Thanks Timmy.)

Morgan called me in tears yesterday. It turns out, one of our buddies is coming to the end of his life. Bill has had a rough life in the way of maladies. As a child he was diagnosed with cancer. On top of his chemo, his right leg was amputated to the thigh. Four more times throughout grammer and high school he returned to chemo. It was understood every remission could be his last. Yet, always he fought through it, beating back with sheer force of will. This last time was just too much. He waited out the pain for a month, losing almost thirty pounds in the process. Finally he notified his parents and was quickly pushed into operation. After taking one look, the doctor saw there was nothing he could do. He released Bill from the hospital so he could be at home for the precious last days. His family and friends were able to attend a living wake yesterday afternoon, Morgan included.

I was an aquantence of Bill. He was sometimes a part of our Grant circle, but never a permanent fixture. I knew him well enough to know he was worth a damn. He had a sense of imbued toughness and gentle care only someone dealt his life could possess. Morgan, on the other hand, was one of his best buds. She was always there to take care of him in the fevered depths of his leg infections. She was always there to take care in general. So, obviously, yesterday was a rough one for her.

But, as an ode to the tough-ass chick she is, Mo was laughing by night.

She picked me up on her way back into town. We chilled at Neptune for awhile, talking about Bill for an hour or so. Suddenly, Morgan decided she needed pot. Two grams later we were in the car driving all over Dekalb. It started as a lackadaisical stroll through downtown, but ended a pan-county, philosophical endurance trial. The entire drive was a conversation; life, love, death, beginnings, endings, divinity. All the questions and musings death brings condensed into a three-hour cruise.

At the end, some Adult Swim in Mo's room. A new episode of Aqua Teen was on for the first time since last semester. Which, Morgan took as a sign of some sort. A sign of what, I never really understood. I stumbled my ass back to Stevenson at 3Am to claim some sleep before my 1Pm final. I aced it, in case you were wondering. Intro. to Fiction ain't got nothing on me. I can talk circles around the similarities and differences drawn between Jane Eyre and Antoinette Mason.

I'm going to pull a Marty McFly here. "Doc! We gotta get back to Friday night." "I don't know if the flux capacitor can take it Marty." "But Doc, we gotta. Biff Tannen is going to fuck my Moms!"

Rob's house at 5 for some Halo. We played until 11, so that's 3/4's a bottle of Dimitri. Needless to say, we were a little shmammed by the end. Matches started to blur together, and we quickly slipped into a nervous frenzy of twitch-shooting; a far cry from our sober, robotic precision. Its actually an interesting combination, alchohol and Halo. Whereas pot is great for the patience and precision of sniping, the right amount of alchohol is perfect for an all-around gell of motion. There is a certain fluidity found in drunken Halo, not unlike Drunken Monkey-style martial arts. Of course, "the right amount" equates to a single stiff glass of Dimitri, not four. After four glasses, your nerves are shot and your eyes are a twitching mess of irritated redness. Your head becomes apathetic to the game itself. Its like an out of body experience... except for nerds, not spiritualists and coma victims.

I also discovered the breathtaking adolescent beauty of air-soft guns. Rob has an air-soft handgun with 1,000 rubber pellets. We set up targets of empties and cologne bottles on the top shelf of his closet, waiting to be toppled by our mighty Doom Cock of Yellow Rubber Death. I must say, I am an excellent quick-draw, but Rob has the calculated aim of IG-88. (I decided this blog needed more obscure Star Wars references.)

At 11, Doug showed up to get our shit moving for the Toga party. Throughout the afternoon, Rob and I had been trying to figure out how to get our fucknig Togas to even stay on. Last semester, we always had the girls to do it for us. Now, we were adrift, victims of our own devices. So, increasingly inebriated, our attempts became more and more abstract. I shit you not, one itteration involved Duct Tape and twine. This is when Rob slurred out the quote of the night; "If you bring it there, they will put it on for you." Where 'there' is, and who 'they' are is still being determined by our top scientists.

The party itself was a blast. Even a semester post-mortem, the 10th floor is still a force to be reconed with. Everyone was there in force. It was a great party to end the semester on; full of delinquency, debauchery, ribaldry, and a general love of eachother's company.

It broke up at 4. I crashed at Noodle's house to avoid the treck from Greek Row to Stevenson. I don't care how beautiful a snowfall is, my drunk ass isn't walking two miles in it just to sleep in a shitty bed. She and I dashed to The Junction for some coffee the next morning, my final-five-dollar treat.

Now, as promised, my eShrine to Amanda (the dork on the left).

She's a cunt.

Just kidding hon, I love the shit out of you and am counting the days until your triumphant return from Dijon.

I am fucking hungover. We had a toga party for Greek Steph's Birthday last night and everything went blurry from there. It was our first chill snowfall of the year though; not the angry rush of slicing flecks native to DeKalb, but an honest white Christmass type of lazy falling. And all around there was that rustling silence only a nocturnal snowfall can bring.

Since I have mentioned Chessa scarce times in my Blog (something Willy has not failed to point out to her), I have decided to post her fucking amazing paintings. Until recently, they have been hanging in a coffee shop in Chicago.

Most of her paintings are centered around music. The one above is my favorite of her guitar centered works. I wish there were a way to enlarge it without losing sharpness because the writing is almost as cool as the painting itself.

The next two are painted directly from photos I took. The one above is Willy standing outside Dad's 50th St. House (R.I.P. Blue, you little bastard). Chess told me she has sold it already. So clearly there is a painting of Willy in some wealthy, well-appointed Chicago apartment. He stares at them from his wall perch, biding his time until he can grab that guitar and strike.

This is Justin, during our Junior year at High School. We were on our daily pilgrimige to White Hen, to pick up some Bong Water energy drinks (The Headrush Cola- THC, get it?) Although now he has gained a beard, and a bleak, Midwestern snowscape has given away to a beautiful beach scene.

There is a painting of me in the works. Its from my former Facebook picture, where my tool-ass has a cup of beer and a Black n' Mild in the same mouth! Oh, my crazy antics. Will the fun every start? So until that day, my shit has no other paintings to post.

Oh yeah, here's a photo I found on Facebook. Its Rob and I playing Halo in Dougie Fresh II's room. That was an Everclear day. 2:00 to quickly passed out. I'm posting it because it is a perfect example of why I will not allow myself to play Halo in front of people I don't know. I mean, what the hell kind of facial expression is that.

Taking the train to Chicago, the hub of the notorious Midwestern travel network; Metra and Greyhound, Union and O'Hare. A tangled mess of tracks, roads, and highways, crisscrossing in an Escher-like jumble. People, people, people always moving, running, walking, driving, riding. Never in the same spot; forever going anywhere but here.

I am officially rich. Mike Bench slipped me a cool 40-spot on the sly. My original intention was to buy booze and squares. That's all I ever really buy. Pot has been streamlined out of my budget; "phased out" as The Mooninites would put it. I have been suckling the dank green teat of Joanne these past months, and now that gravy train has come to an end. But I still have no drive to purchase some greens. I have Morgan, Eddie, Matt, Jim, Rahul, Lauren, Sarah, and Mike still.

I'm going to take Morgan out for dinner. For the past semester, she has appeared at odd times, always with gifts. First it was a movie ticket for The Brothers Grimm. Then it was a plastic "Zig Zags" cigarette case. Next it was a sweet little one-hitter. A half bottle of Jager. Wendy's. McDonald's. Marlboro's and always always always dank nugs; rich, yuppie bar nugs. Understand, I've never taken her dotage for granted, I just haven't reciprocated in awhile.

Before Thanksgiving break Morgan and I had one of our increasingly sparse "hanging out" nights. No parties. No bars. No roomates. Just us, some Jager, and Adult Swim. I had forgotten how relaxing those nights could be. Nothing sexual, just laying on her bed while Snowball Eightball the wonder-hamster crawled around our legs. It was just like last semester, except Snowball Eightball would have been a 3 foot long lizard named Kiwi.

There is something inherantly different about this semester; some seemingly innocuous, but whole-heartedly vital change. Last semester, I was truly living a communal life. Grant was a melting pot of 18 year olds whose only initial connection was pot and cigarettes. Interestingly, it was more than enough to spark our minds. Me, Morgan, Jeff, Stoolie, Durdis, Phil, Christina, Sarah, and Kenny. The more I reflect, the more I realize we were a sort of family. Granted, a rather incestuous family. But our fortunes were intertwined on the daily level. When one person had money, we all had money. When one person had squares, we were all garaunteed one. When one person had pot there was always a convivial bowl for the rest. We lived, breathed, ate, and slept eachother's lives. And naturally, there were little sub-spectrums and pairings that came along with that. Morgan and Me. Sarah and Christina. Ken and Jeff. Stoolie, Phil, and Durdis. But the point is: it worked.

It was an odd suspension of reality; our only real focus was drifting as aimlessly as possible. When "The Hill" came into the picture, our ranks swelled. For a month and a half, at least four days a week, we would spread blankets in the commons and simply chill, in the truest sense of the word. Without fail, someone would come with a joint or some booze and they would be welcomed into our little circle. I suppose this may sound dumb to some of you, but it really was the best time of my life.

I'm putting words to something that should be left alone; one of my biggest pet peeves. I am cheapening the experience, but its been on my mind so much these past two days. It was more than the things I explained above. It was the little things too: trying to figure out what Kiwi ate for a whole fucking week, Morgan's acid freak out, Old Rusty, Sarah flawlessly singing Janis Joplin, naps, the Grant Bench Experience, Greek lessons with Christina, The Great Drunken Class Swap of 2004, the daily battle to scrape money for booze and pot. It was a complex game, where the only outcome was tomorrow; we all got there somehow and had a blast while doing it.

Now I'm at Stevenson, N.I.U.'s asylum for second prizes; C students without any real intelligence or social grace. I guess that's why I don't like to stick around this place too often. In my mind, Stevenson could be so much more. Its cleaner, better appointed, and it has real, honest to God food. Everyone here is older and should be more mature. Maybe that's what it was. Our communal living was an outlet for our relative immaturity. It was our way of coping with a sudden plunge into impoverished familial isolation.

For once the psychology of the situation doesn't interest me; it only matters that we were there.