Go You Huskies

2005-12-20T15:12:00.000-08:00

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.

2005-12-16T22:38:00.000-08:00

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.

2005-12-14T16:17:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-12T23:37:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-12T16:17:00.000-08:00

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.)

2005-12-05T14:51:00.000-08:00

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.

2005-12-03T10:35:00.000-08:00

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.

2005-11-30T09:25:00.000-08:00

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.

2005-11-22T10:43:00.000-08:00

At the risk of ruining my street cred, these pictures are from my friends' various and sundry Facebook profiles. So, if anyone were to add me or they as a buddy, these are the pictures that would be listed under my name. The first three are actually acceptable. The top one is T-Dizzle and I at Halloween. His costume was none other than Boston George himself (George Jung for those out of the loop). In case you were wondering, he, Joanne, and I were hanging out with Jessie Owens that night...heavily to the max. The second picture is Morgan's Halloween costume. Its not a picture of me but Jesus Christos Diablos how could you not post a picture like that. The third is a random pic from one of Eddie's keggers. Alex and I share a special friendship in that we both get embarrisingly drunk whenever the fancy strikes us. Often-times earlier than 12 in the morning. Also in the picture is Hoon and my good buddy Rob. The fourth is my favorite picture of favorite pictures. I was obviously over the threshold of limitations. Keep in mind the picture was taken at 8 o'clock on a Saturday night in front of Stevenson, so there were alot of people coming to and fro. There was a shit-ton of people behind the camera too. Not one of my proudest moments, but still a great college memory. I'm not going to lie, my ass in that picture kind of disgusts me. There are clearly tufts of hair and a glowing redness that suggests heavy drinking or hard wiping... you be the judge.

2005-11-19T10:36:00.000-08:00

If this website isn't just waiting to be turned into a book, I don't know what is: http://www.rutgersrarities.com/ I have never been so absolutely creeped out and fascinated at the same time. Its like an episode of "Twin Peaks." Even if it is all made up, I applaude the creators for having the imagination to create something of this calliber in the first place. Although its no House of Leaves, its definately a good one.

Fuck, I am still absolutely trashed from last night. I heard a good joke yesterday, but it eludes me now. It had something to do with Jews...

Quote of the day: "There is more in Heaven and Earth than is dreamt of in your philosophy."
It may be mis-quoted because I'm working from memory rather than text. Here's some more Shakespeare from my memory. 5 dollars to whoever can tell me what each quote is from without looking it up...
"A rich diamond in an Ethiope's ear."
"Hi my hearts. Cheerly, Cheerly my hearts."
"I must be cruel, only to be kind." (an easy one.)
"A plague upon both your houses." (another easy one.)
"We were divided from them, only to be brought moping hither."
"Action is eloquence."
"Stella!"

2005-11-15T19:47:00.000-08:00

For two packs of Marlboro Reds and a handle of Dimitri, I wrote this short story for Joanne. The assignment was to write about the Vietnam War through the eyes of a soldier. Since it is for an upper level history class, I actually had to do an hour of research and make it in context. The paper actually took only 45 minutes. Five hours later, everything I had earned had been consumed. I am a glutton for instant gratification. This is actually a pretty funny story if you look at it from an ironic, melodramatic perspective...

January 30th. Hue, South Vietnam.
"Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country." I recited lazily, from across the café table. "They had me then. Hook, line, and sink 'er."

We were sitting in a café in the city of Hue on a rare day's stint of R and R. It was a beautiful place, a picturesque Asian city. I read somewhere it had been the capital city of South Vietnam sometime in the 1800's. It was like Boston or Paris, a piece of living history; pride of humanity. That's why it was spared the perfunctory bombing runs of the major cities. In the center lay the citadel, the Forbidden City.

"I'm so sick of hearing that fucking tired-ass line." Hemp shot back from across the table. "I'm not here because I once heard some cat, far as hell from the shit, rallying a bunch of corpses. I'm here because his buddies ran out of grunts."

"I got drafted too. All I'm saying is that those words shook me. They made me think, you know?"
"You were drafted? I always thought your silly ass signed up for this shit. The way you talk about it sometimes…"

"My parents convinced me to go to college. They said the Army would be there after I got my degree. Well, they didn't count on me dropping out. About four months later I'm working in a steel mill and there in the mail is a letter from Uncle Sam himself. Pack your bags son; you're headfirst into the shit."

Hemp let out an appreciative snort as he lit his Marlboro.

Somewhere down the city street was a few companies of American troops; supplements for North Vietnamese regulars in Hue. We had spent our time in the shit, but had recently been re-stationed here. To those in it as long as we had been, Hue was a paradise: restaurants, cafes, furtive drinking, and dry socks.

We had chosen this café only to get into the city proper for awhile, we had full intentions of returning to our encamped buddies. It was January 30th, Tomorrow was the Vietnamese Lunar New Year holiday, a welcome time of cease-fire on both sides. There was an anxiously giddy vibe among the grunts; they were ready for a well-deserved stress-free day.

"You hear about the fighting in the border regions?" When I shook my head, he continued, "I guess Charlie has been acting up out there. Same shit; advance, open fire, retreat. But it's all across the board."

I lit my cigarette. "What's the brass think about it?"

"They been drawing regiments from the cities to quash the uprising. I heard they're thinking this could be the start of something big. Maybe that offensive we've been hearing about."

"Who'd you hear this from? Decker? You know his 'connections' with the brass are just as much bullshit as he is." Decker was a notorious liar. He would spout all day about what campaigns were coming, when and why we were being deployed next. Nothing ever came to fruition. It was his way of coping I guess, some element of control over this disorderly, fucked-up war. Maybe just control over his own mind.

"All I know is, I'm getting short and I want to hit that freedom bird home before the shit goes down. You know what I'm saying?"

I nodded solemnly. We had come to accept the inescapable nature of death. Vietnam had created a score of 20-something fatalists, some even younger, that had been immersed in a culture of death. More-so than the 'glorious' World War II of our fathers, we were the unwanted, bastard sons of history. We were locked into a fetid jungle full of booby traps, snipers, and every manner of hidden, torturous death.

I flicked my cigarette into the street and finished my last gulp of coffee. For now, we were in Hue; miles away from the boarder. For now, we were safe.

February 3. Hue, South Vietnam.
They caught us with our pants down. We were laughing and drinking. There wasn’t a single conflicted face, a single frown in the whole beginning of the night. It was as if something had lifted the weight from our shoulders. Maybe it was the spirit of the New Year, the convivial atmosphere of the huddled bunkers. No one really kept look-out; we were celebrating a two day cease-fire.

Then it happened. Red heard it first. Above "Light my Fire" by The Doors, he heard the distinct whistle of mortar-fire. He only had time to scream "Smoke!" before the deafening concussion of explosions filled the night.

We were forced to retreat sometime in the early morning. It was a frenzied sprint out of Hue. There were so many fucking Charlie's, ten battalions' worth. You never really see them all at once like that out in the shit; a corpse here, a shadow there. But here they were in a full on attack, just like World War II and we couldn't stand up to them. We were beaten at our own game. It was the game we had been yearning for since this junglefied guerilla bullshit started. I remembered wondering how they would feel about this back home.

I found out later it helped get us out of Vietnam. To this day I cannot reconcile the deaths of my buddies with the joy I feel in being home. The fact that I survived Hue and still can view it as positive is uncomfortable, even disgusting.

February 25th. Hue, South Vietnam.
My company was tossed in with the 1st Division in a recapture of Hue. The brass is still holding out on the B-52's. They're skittish over destroying South Vietnamese monuments. Instead they're sending the grunts, the grizzled Marines, to clean up their tactical mess.

Those fuckers have no clue what we're into out here. They hover in their helicopters, employing tactics that were rendered obsolete the moment we stepped in Vietnam. From 1965 to now, there has been little change in command. They still march platoons through sniper alleys, into ambushes, through jungles with miles of tunnel crisscrossing beneath their feet. The major change has fallen on the shoulder of the grunts. We have streamlined our gear and mindset, adapted to a shitty situation out of necessity. We are the disconnected, the abandoned sons of Uncle Sam.

The pucker factor for the recapture of Hue was off the charts. We were performing an urban assault on an enemy stronghold. There were all manner of bouncing betties, cluster bombs, and mines strewn throughout the streets. Not to mention thousands of windows, sniper sweet spots literally everywhere. It was a glorified Zippo mission; search and destroy through buildings, alleys, and houses.

To boot, the media was nipping at our heels through the whole process. Clunking TV cameras followed us through the streets. During halts, they would swoop in and question us. Most of the guys got a kick out of it, but a few were frustrated with their blunt questions. I just pushed the cameras away. All I want from a halt is a cigarette and some peace.

The day was relatively uneventful. There were a few scattered firefights, normally with small groups of Charlie's holed up in a building. Alot of the grunts were brained by sniper fire. There would be a few rounds fired from a window above us, a few soldiers would drop, and then everyone would scatter for cover to search for a muzzle flash. If the M60's and M16's couldn't take care of them, the 90mm's on the M48 tank would. If we were lucky we'd only lose one or two guys to snipers; mostly they were officers. The smarter officers opted to tear off their rank bars. I'd imagine that exponentially improved their prospects for survival. It taking a big fat fucking target off your head.

March 1st. Hue, South Vietnam.
We did it. We captured Hue's stronghold. It took a month to take the city, and four days to capture the stronghold. Now we're finding thousands of Vietnamese corpses. But they didn't die at our hands. They're friendlies, the citizens of Hue. It must have been Charlie. The brass thinks they were executed as revolutionary elements during the occupation of Hue. The corpses lying in the street are civic and community leaders, South Vietnamese soldiers, and civilians who just got in the way.

The Captain said there were a lot of casualties on our side, but nothing close to Charlie. Our Zulus were in the hundreds, theirs were in the thousands. Somehow, I survived it all again. I was beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Soon I would hop the freedom bird out of the shit and bask in the radiant glow of home.

2005-11-15T12:02:00.000-08:00

Blog. More like BOO-log.

2005-11-10T01:24:00.000-08:00

Nothing of note has been transpiring in my scatological college life. I went home Wednesday for my pop's retirement soiree. The weekend, quite unexpectedly, was one of the best I've had in some time. It was an easygoing, slow recharge. There was no mad-dash sprint toward mental obliteration; only relaxin' and reflectin'. I realized there was no center in my school life, only the constant buzz of hive mentality; the incessent, barely stifled gutteral roar of 24 hour part people. Don't get me wrong, any other weekend I roar with the rest, sometimes with no pants, but I needed this one to whole myself.

So, in lieu of cross country skis and beligerant Risk playing, I will meander through my thoughts and commit my mental shenanigans to ePrint. For those not in the know, if you add an "e" in front of any word you become technologically savvy. For example, "I took a wicked eShit in my pants after someone eKicked me in the balls." Spice up your life by adding it into random conversations. "Hey co-worker Dan, I eBanged your wife at the office Christmas party last year. She was eTerrible. Who taught her how to eBang, your mother?"

Let's discuss my obsession with the word "meander." On this eWebpage alone, I beleive it has been used four times. That's unheard. Always I self-conciously stray away from using such a loaded word more than once in any posts. Its a million dollar word, to be sure, and poigniantly specific. Is my attraction to it a (e)Freudian, id thing? Is this my brain's idea of making fun of me for all my abuse? It just rolls off the tongue; there is a disco in my mouth every time I say it. Kite and Ball watch Meander jealously from the punch bowl. Meander always gets his pick of the litter of all the hot, sexy words like Trippy and Snowglobe. The best Kite and Ball can manage is frumpy Droll and the STD-ridden Probe. Meander's drinking buddies are the acerbically witty Doppleganger and the hilarious cut-up Platypus.

Sorry I ran so long with such a weakly high-concept premise. I'm not going to lie, it was a blast to come up with the words and their tired sitcom stereotypes. I was entertaining myself on that one. Isn't that what writing is though? A sort of entertainment for your very soul... eTangents.

Why is my roomate sitting in my room watching "Home Improvement" at 1AM? What vital piece of his childhood is missing that causes him to watch "Full House", "Boy Meets World", and reality TV for an entire day... without a trace of self-deprecation or even irony. Was he molested? Forever unable to reconcile his first-hand glimps of a harsh, cold world and the meternal bosom of wholesome television. I'm looking at him and I think I may punch him in the eOveries; give him the old double eggsack express.

I wanted to talk about Orson Welles' acting prowess in Jane Eyre, but I lost my motivation. I'm not as enthusiastic about it now. To quote Calvin (of Hobbes fame, not the Protestant Divine) "You shouldn't have to do something unless you're enthusiastic about it." However, I have interspersed this eBlog with pictures of other great actors. Although, I'm not enthusiastic about those anymore either. But the damage has already been done. That's the one bad thing about ePrint, everything is set in stone. If only there were some button on the keyboard that could purge a picture, or erase text. Alas, our grammatical follies are forever eImmortalized...

To end this meandering stumble through a fevered intellect, here is a list of things that make me laugh:
1. The word "platypus."
2. The word "cunt," but never "cooze."
3. Any sentence containing the name "Paul Reiser" or "Bea Arthur," but never when they are together.
4. CKY prank calls.
5. "The Bam Show." Its one of my trash TV guilty pleasures, along the line of a certain eBased movie starring Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan. If you're thinking Joe Versus the Valcano you are way off...
6. Any sentence containing the names "Bradley Whitford" and "Mathew Broderick." Always they must be together in the sentence.
7. Jess's ('s'-tastic) and Willy's Facebook profiles.
8. The nickname "shitgoose."
9. The name "Funk and Wagnall."
10. Will Ferrel as Robert Goulet. "You and me, staring contest, right now."
11. Gus Chiggins.
12. The night Anthony Andreasik(sp.), of the LZ crowd, brandished knives at nervous Marquette kids for an hour. I don't think I have ever laughed harder in my life. Joe can vouch for this...
13. Buying death sticks and counting midi-chlorians. Going to Toshii Station to pick up power converters.
14. The phrases "Ha-haaa. Dangley parts" and "Ha-haaa. Multiple entendres."
15. The battle of Jamie vs. The Pie in Willy's kitchen. The Pie won, but Jamie fought valiantly. Really any story that involves a combination of Jamie, parents, pot, and food turns out pretty hilarious.
16. Pod People or any "Mystery Science Theater 3000" episode. "This movie has more fog than the movie The Fog."
17. Lemurs.
18. Sloths of the three-toed variety. Never two-toed. They are grotesque.
19. The lyrical stylings of "Prussian Blue."
20. Darryl Strawberry.
21. The Rancor Keeper in Return of the Jedi.

Seacrest out.

2005-11-01T10:47:00.000-08:00

Sorry, its been awhile. Unfortunately its going to be a while more. I'll definitely be posting sometime later today or tomorrow. I just wanted to share with you the genius of Kathleen's costume, even if it was under-appreciated by the unwashed masses of U of Iowa.

First, I'll be damned if she doesn't look like Gwyneth Paltrow to begin with. But her Margot Tenenbaum costume goes above and fucking beyond. The brown fur coat, the blue blouse underneath, the red hair-tie, the eyeliner, the cigarettes... and she tells me her index finger was taped up. That bitch be crazy for good costumes.

2005-10-24T12:22:00.000-07:00

This quote comes from a Mr. William Makoski:
"The ocean: it's like New Orleans without all the houses."

2005-10-24T02:18:00.000-07:00

"Bob Marley and his reggae band/ Two hits and the joint turned brown/ Playin' that wicked music all over the land/ Oh, sweet mama/ Two hits and the joint turned brown"

Its been awhile since I have posted. Mas apologies. Last week was spent in the library, fist fighting laziness like Butch Palooka.

Friday was a blackout night. There was a half bottle of Halo played with Rob, followed by a SoCo and Tequila session at Eddie's. For discreet reasons, too sordid for the prestigious myblog.com, I believe Eddie is running full tilt towards the state penitentury.

We shambled to Alex's apartment at around 10. Mainly we went to see her sister because she is 18 and we are dirty, old men. More tequila and some gin later, I treck across campus to Lewis's to chill before going out again. This is the end of my memory for a few hours.

First, let me tell you something about Blackout Ryan. This is mainly for my siblings, because the rest of you have seen me in this condition at one time or another; Will, a little more than others. I am fucking bat-shit crazy when I blackout.

A rundown of my time at Lewis's:
1. I bump the table, knocking an Arizona Iced Tea bottle on the floor.
2. Smashed aforementioned bottle in the parking lot, in front of a large chunk of the Molly's crowd.
3. Threw a pizza box across the room.
4. Asked Lewis if I could please, please, please knock over his coffee table.
5. Almost succeeded in knocking over aforementioned coffee table before Lewis intervened.
6. Threw the pizza box again.
7. Stole a cigarette butt from Jim's room for later use.
8. Fell halfway down the stairs, creating a sexy ass-bruise.
9. Lost aforementioned cigarette butt in fracas of falling down the stiars.
10. Threw pizza box again, for good measure.

This was all accomplished in twenty minutes.

By the third pizza box toss, Joanne appeared in a flurry of hugs and love. She was tripping balls on mushrooms. She drove to Lewis's apartment, feeling very purple, to pick my lame-ass up for a cruise.

Three hours later, J. and I made our triumphant return to DeKalb proper. How she managed to drive for three hours, most of it at her peak, I haven't the foggiest. We swing over to Ashey and Pat's for a few hours, then end up, finally, in Joanne's bed watching Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkahban. I would be generous to say we made it twenty minutes into the movie before passing out.

Saturday, I offered my services in cleaning Lewis's apartment. We scrubbed and swept that shit within an inch of its life. All the while, we were entranced by my new favorite show: "The Scariest Places on Earth."

At around 3PM, just as Lewis and I were weighing the pros and cons of ordering a pizza (con: we're broke), Joanne appeared with something that caused Lewis and I to fall head over heels in love with her. In her hand was a plastic bag, filled with not one, not two, not even three, but four pizza puffs and four sandwiches of various and sundry flavors. She left us in a fit of appetite sating ecstacy.

Our booze arrived at around 6. We shmammed and played Risk and Stratego with Holly and Margaret, the literal and metaphorical "girl's next door." At around 2, they decided to head home and Lewis and I had one of our great, nay genius, ideas; we are going back to the abandoned record store to fufill misplaced childhood fantisies as amateur adventurers.

However, there is a catch. Wednesday, Joanne and I spotted a bike in front of the store on one of our midnight campus meanderings. If there were squatters in there, Lewis and I were prepared to defend ourselves "to the pain." What followed was a Steven Segal-esque armament period: guns slid into holsters, combat knives into sheaths, belts buckled, boots tied, and shotguns pumped. Actually it was more along the lines of Renaissance Fair knives slid into our pockets and my sandals adjusted.

What do we find when we get there? The motherfucker was torn down. It was now a cement hole in the ground, amidst a pile of boring, lame-ass rubble. Not to be defeated, we searched the surrounding forest for YAARG! some booty.

We found two pairs of cross-country skiis, complete with poles. I shit you not. They were just leaning against a tree. Which brings me to my next subject...

Would anyone be interested in buying a pair of cross-country skis? This is a one time offer. Products are practically flying from the shelves. They are in perfect condition and were once owned by Frank Zappa and Former-President Jimmy Carter. It is rumored Carter used these very same skis to pleasure Fidel Castro in their much-acclaimed peace talks. For just $15 you could own a piece of living history. The Jesus will be pleased with you for all eternity.

History!

2005-10-18T22:02:00.000-07:00

The dreaded Grey Army, lead by the tactical genius known only as "El Poncho Loco", was finally halted in an unheard of underdog victory by the yellow-bellied Yellow Army. The Grey Army lead a valiant campaign, spreading throughout Asia. They gained an early conquer of Australia, yielding a precious 2 armies per turn. The Green Army employed an impressive fan maneuver; encompasing Africa and most of Western Europe. The Red Army, the equivalent of Papa New Guinea in the world-power category, was a bunch of fiddlin' bens. They beg no mention other than beforementioned beratement. The Green Army was crushed by a combined force of Grey and Yellow, coming from Middle East and Brazil respectively. When the smoke cleared Grey and Yellow, former comrades in arms, faced eachother from across war-torn Asia. It was a battle equal in wits and brawn. Most notably, the battle of Yural, otherwise known as "The Thrilla in Manilla", caused a heavy toll on both sides. In the end, Grey lay dead at the boots of the world dominating Yellow Army. Punk Rock became their national music and piracy was legalized

2005-10-18T14:33:00.000-07:00

Talk about a fucking blur. This weekend was a gas station on a long, desert road; whipping past my window, a few unique features digested. The rest followed the utalitarian weekend mold... which isn't necessarily a bad thing.

Thursday was a fevered, manic dance; all hands and clumsy groping. We ended up at Steph's house, tucked against the cornfields on Hillcrest. Everyone from last semester was there, licking sweat from the night's naked neck (alliteration much?). It was a 10th floor rogue's gallery: Alex, Steph, Abbie, Christian, Lewis, Fast Eddie, and your's truly. Toss in Morgan, Morgan's Fine Ass Roomate (MFAR for short), Christina, Greek Steph, Dan, Noodles, Lorena, Kaylin, Kaylin II, Dougie Fresh II, and a house full of randoms and hangers-on. As usual, Morgan and I boozed hard, burying every last preener firmly beneath the table. At around 4, she and I stumbled our way to Old Rusty and passed the rest of the night in "silent reflection".

Friday was another wanderlust night... except Joanne and I didn't end up having breakfast with Molly in Chicago at 6:30 in the morning. Instead, we crisscrossed country backroads for three hours. It started as a sundown cruise, a celebration of Homecoming. It quickly evolved into a hazy meandering of America's breadbasket. I also introduced Joanne to Wet, Hot American Summer, forever altering her life.

Saturday was bananas. It was Homecoming. There was a game. We had tickets. We never quite made it inside the stadium. We tailgated straight through the game. J-Rock and I wandered the parking lots, in search of food and strong drink. Mind you, we were already a dozen shots of whiskey in the hole. But once you are locked in a serious bender, the tendency is to push it as far and long as your body will allow. Our savior came in the form of none other than Tommy D, T-Dizzle Streator himself. We partied the length of the game in the Sig Ep's tent, not paying for nary a beer or shot. After the game, we wandered up and down Hillcrest, in search of the College Dream; more free drinks. We found a few rocking parties and dodged a few of DeKalb's finest. Truth be told, anything past 6 is a blur.

Sunday was Sunday. Country cruises, movies, and homework. Joanne and I finished our ounce, a full week after we bought it. Kind of sad actually. It was good to us. Here's to you Greendawg McDirtybag.

That's really all she wrote. There was alot more random shit packed into this weekend than usual, but my mind is elsewhere. A convivial game of Risk lay in Lewis's apartment, waiting only for Joanne to return from class.

Oh and here are pictures of my pals lifted directly from Facebook:
Also, I don't know how to arrange them for easy naming. Instead, I'll describe a defining characterstic of each person. It'll be like a game... except stupid.
(1.)Blue Shirt and Smile: Alex (2.)Chad Look-Alike with Striped Shirt: Eddie
(3.)Red Shirt and Curly Hair: Joanne (4.)Teeny Bikini: Morgan
(5.)Blondie in White Dress: Steph (6.)Fly Glasses: Tommy D
(7.)White Button-Down: Rob (8.)Eyes and Striped Dress: Christina

2005-10-13T13:58:00.000-07:00

10 Years Ago I Was:
In the 5th Grade
Hanging out with Jess-man and Jamie
Carrying my lunch to school in a brown sack
Watching Jurassic Park religiously
Blissfully unaware of responsibility

5 Years Ago I Was:
Just meeting Chessa and Will
Taking over Carmel High School
Sneaking bowls in Will's car between classes
Watching Fear and Loathing religiously
Blissfully unaware of responsibility

One Year Ago I was:
Doing every drug imaginable with Tommy D
Taking over Grant Towers A and B
Stealing quarters from the girls' rooms to buy vodka
Not in class
Blissfully unaware of responsibility

Yesterday I:
Spent 5 hours in the library
Finished two papers
Went on a country cruise as a reward
Smoked a cock-tease tobacco hooka
Had an inkling of the concept of responsibility

5 Snacks I enjoy:
Stevenson mozarella sticks and cheese fries
Pumpkin cookies from Gogurt's
The Host (Jesus Wafers)
Anything Morgan cooks
Pooork Chopsh and Appleshaush

5 Songs I Know All the Words to:
"These Days" -Nico
"Casey Jones" -The Dead
"Two Hits and the Joint Turned Brown" -Yonder Mountain
"American Pie" -Don Mclean
"Prince Caspian" -Phish

5 Things I Would Do With 100 Million Dollars:
"Aside from two chicks at the same time?"
Become a doctor of something
Buy a bar in Chicago
Feast only on the most succulent of stem cells
Rebuild an exact replica of my Dad's 50th street house, complete with a stuffed Blue
Buy a steamroller and ten acres of Precious Moments figurines

5 Places I Would Run Away To:
Sedona, AZ
Perth, Australia
New York, NY
Wadsworth, IL
Hampshire, IL

5 Things I Would Never Wear:
Another man's semen
Human flesh (unless it was a tasteful licra)
Vestements
Joe Quille's wardrobe (one can only take so much J. Crew)
A frown

5 Favorite TV Shows:
"The West Wing" (but nothing post-Aaron Sorkin)
"South Park"
"The Daily Show"
"Aqua Teen Hunger Force"
"Family Guy"

5 Bad Habits:
Biting my nails until they bleed
Biting people when I'm trashed
Filling out "5 Things" lists
Smoking squares
Having no money

5 Biggest Joys:
Having all my brothers and sisters (because I now have two sisters) in the same room
Country cruises
Shrooming
Reading and writing
A convivial cigarette

5 Fictional Characters I Would Date:
LeeLoo Dallas Multipass (The Fifth Element)
Donnatella Moss ("The West Wing")
Camilla (The Secret History)
Lois Griffin ("Family Guy")
Elizabeth Swan (Pirates of the Caribbean)

5 People I Recommend Doing This:
Joe
Amanda
Joanne
Jamer
Tommy

2005-10-12T12:04:00.000-07:00

I am on the razor's edge, tip-toeing with Occum. To fall is to truly freak-out. It is midterms. I have been to the library literally every fucking night for the past two weeks (except weekends). To boot, I have two major papers due tomorrow and Friday respectively. If this shit doesn't end soon I may pull a Lazlow from Real Genius ("He's going to grow six inches in the next year.") Who'd have thought that giving a shit about shit was such hard work.

But, there is a benefit to the library aside from the book learnin'. It is chock-full of skeezers with nary a guy in sight. I struck up a conversation with a little blondie last night. Apparently she worked in Grant's cafeteria last semester. She claimed we had met before... when I was more shitfaced than the time I hit myself in the face with a rock. It was the night of the Dougie Fresh incident.

I didn't really know Dougie Fresh at the time. He was one of the smokers though, so we knew the same people... plus, I mean come on, I'm Ryan Fucking Bench. Who doesn't want to hang out with me? Dougie needed some help finishing off some alcohol. I obliged.

We manage to polish off three 1/4 handles of Vodka, Whiskey, and something else in under an hour. By the end, I was still functionally sober. The beligerant steamroller was still a half hour off. Because of my slow metabolism, I've found liquor takes awhile to reach its terrifying apex. Dougie, however, was shitfaced.

Douglas Fresh: "What do I do with this bottle?"
Me: "Chuck that bitch."

Apparently, to Mr. Fresh, "chuck" involves throwing the bottle out the window in a straight, downward angle. A second after he threw it, I hear the sound of shattering glass. Not the dainty tink of a bottle exploding, but the deafening crash of a man running through a plate glass window on Magnum P.I. And then Dougie has left the room, not to be seen until he is ushered into an ambulance for alcohol poisoning later that night.

He had shattered the push-out part of the window below us. We were on the 12th floor. There were no other floors above us on which to disperse blame. At this point, things start to get hazy.

Somehow I end up in the cafeteria with Morgan. My foot "slips" on the last stair and I fall flat onto my face, in the middle of Grant cafeteria, in front of the innumerable dinner crowd (this was also observed by library girl). Morgan helped me over to a seat in the corner, away from everyone else. I guess she was afraid I would start a breakdance fight or something. This is where I black out. The rest is solely gathered from a Columbo-like interrogation of the entire 10th floor the follwoing day.

-While Morgan is in line to get us food, I dissapear from the cafeteria. She comes back with two full plates of chow to an empty table.

-I break up with Steph. I did it standing in her doorway, leaning against the frame with my eyes completely closed.

-I tell Sarah and Morgan how attractive they are and apparently come close to hooking up with Sarah three weeks before it actually happened.

-I snap a broom in half.

-I make a triumphant return to the Grant cafeteria. This is where I meet library girl (her real name is Colleen). She couldn't remember what we talked about, but allegedly I was propped up by the counter the whole time. I'm a big fan of leaning, what can I say.

-Finally, I pass out, face-down on the floor of my room, hugging the fan. Alex managed to snap a few pictures because she is such an awesome pal.

I miss last semester.

2005-10-10T10:35:00.000-07:00

The Freakin' Weekend

Why is it Sundays end up being the most enjoyable day out here? Thursday, Friday, Saturday; they follow a stone-cut, rigidly fun schedule. Sundays are the wild card. All bets are off when you're dealing with my man the Sabbath.

But first, Saturday. Lewis's sister came up (down? over?) from the prestigious Bradley University. A handle of vodka, obligatory two hour bowl session, countless beers, a game of Risk, and two rounds of the Double Dare Drinking Game later... we become restless. Night hungry. Joanne trucks back to Stevenson. Steph passes out. So Lewis, his neighbor, and I treck to Jim's bandmates' house. But that part is lame; 20 year olds doing 20 year old things. The important part lies in the trip there...

Apparently there is an abandoned music store and house on Lincoln... right next to eachother, doors literally wide open. It was a shitty horror movie or a really good piece of gothic literature. Atmospheric lighting (a zippo), hidden treasure (half a trophy and a concert poster), and a dead body (old McDonald's bags). It was fucking insane.

Also, Morgan showed up randomly at 3AM with Fusion, the most addictively trippy video game since Paul Reiser's Pro Comedien. I think she's on coke and forgetting to mention it...

So, the story of Sunday. In retrospect it really isn't very interesting. Joanne and I drove to Hampshire (her hometown) to see the Pumpkin-Eating Dinosaur at Gogurt's Pumpkin Farm. Hampshire is the town Salvation from Big Fish, except paved and with alot more corn. The streets are sleepy, blanketed with trees, and everywhere are busy kids and lounging adults.

Unfortunately, we never made it to see the Pumpkin-Eating Dinosaur (which I envisioned as a cross between Truckasaurus Rex and a filthy vegan). But we did land two sweet pumpkins, carved post haste in Andrea's barn.

Joanne (looking at peace sign carved into her pumpkin): "..."
Me (looking at Jerry Bear carved into my pumpkin): "..."
Joanne: "We are walking stereotypes."

2005-10-09T20:40:00.000-07:00

I had a fucking blast this weekend... but I have absolutely no drive to write about it. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe not. We'll take this one a day at a time.

Instead, pictures!

Oh, and quote of the day courtesy of Joseph "Lotion-in-the-Basket" Quille:
"I mean I don't get physically comfortable with someone until they're a corpse in my basement."

2005-10-07T13:32:00.000-07:00

Lewis's last night. Admiral Nelson and Nickelodeon Gas.

For those of you not in the know, Gas is the Nick gameshow network. They rerun every gameshow Nick cranked out from the mid-'80's to the mid-'90's. I'm talking Double Dare, Super Sloppy Double Dare, Double Dare Family, Double Dare 2000, Guts, Super Guts, and Global Guys... Nickelodeon, you bunch of child-molesting cads. You only had two goddamned gameshows. How the fuck are you going to fill an entire day's worth of programming without re-booting your schedule bi-weekly? What's that? Useless filler you say? Trivia questions, sports tips, and zany sports-themed animations? Allright, I guess I can stomach that... unless you do something silly like only playing the same three hour block of shows all day. You do? Fuck off.

Rules for the infamous Double Dare Drinking Game (D cubed G)

1: Choose a team (red or blue) at beginning of show.
1 Drink if your team has to dare or double dare
3 Drinks if they answer a question incorrectly
5 Drinks if they lose a physical challenge
5 Drinks if the opposing team wins the physical challenge
7 Drinks if your team loses in points
Boundless Joy if your team wins the vacation

2: Various Rules
3 Drinks if you see Joel
10 Drinks if one of the prizes is tuna (no bullshit, its happened)
2 Drinks if prize is Bubble Yum
1 Drink if the prize is made by Casio
2 Drinks if the prize is shoes (3 if they are BK Rippers or LA Lights)
5 Drinks if Mark Summers gets something on his face and/or clothes
(6 drinks if he changes his clothes by the next camera cut)
2 Drinks for yelling at the contestants
1 Drink for swearing at Mark, Joel, or the contestants
1 Drink for talking during the obstacle course

I managed to catch a ride to Stevenson (my dorm) with Morgan as she was getting off from Molly's (the bar next to Lewis's). She made 80 dollars, a gram of pot, and a pack of Marlboro Menthol Lights in tips. If only I was a hot sex kitten; my money problems would be gone the way of Pet Rocks and Saspirilla.

After I smoke a couple of her cigarettes, we park by Stevenson and make a beeline for Old Rusty.

Old Rusty is a huge wrought-iron picnic table sitting on the edge of the Stevenson Lagoon. At night Stevenson and Grant, the old-time lamp posts, and the football field are bathed in warm pools of light. Everything is reflected on the murky lagoon. Its like a smallish city, without the opressive noise pollution. We the philosopher monarchs, sitting upon our rusty throne, lord over the diamond city.

Morgan: "Hippie, what would you do if this bench sudenly shot 40 feet into the air?"

So maybe not quite philospher in the truest sense of the word. I think I meant stoners... yeah, that's what it was.

2005-10-06T15:07:00.000-07:00

2005-10-06T11:38:00.000-07:00

Where the fuck did this cold come from? Yesterday it was all warmth, and sunshine, and smiles. Today it is the cold, harsh reality of fall. Actually, I'm kind of digging the cold. I just wanted a snappy literary device opener (parallel? metaphor?)

Campus is a ghost town on Thursdays and Fridays. Shutters clack and doors bang in the chilly breeze. Hidden eyes follow my lonely treck across campus... or maybe everyone is just asleep.

I drank too much last night. Memories of this month are crashing into eachother. There is a twenty car pile-up in my brain. Debris is everywhere. And someone really needs to adopt this highway because there are used tampons, McDonald's bags, and beer cans everywhere... fucking extended metaphors. But seriously, where was I last night.

Rob's.

I was at Rob's and we were drinking Dimitri and playing Halo 2. Halo fucking 2. Jesus. The scourge of NIU's external genitalia owners. No one but we depraved minority understands the addiction tied to that game. Understand, we are normal guys... most of us. We go out. We drink. We smoke pot. We sex girls. But give us X-Box Live and color-coded Master Cheifs and uppances will come.

Rob and I played for a half bottle of Dimitri. Not as a prize but as a measurment of time. See, to tell a person you sat in one spot, with the same person, screaming the same obscenities for five fucking ours is to admit you fuck dead cats in your shed. No, we measure in alcohol consumed or pot combusted. Here is an example:

Morgan: "What did you boys do tonight?"
Me: "Played Halo."
Morgan: "I haven't seen you all day. How long did you play?"
Me: "Two grams."
Morgan: "Man Ryan, you are so cool and creative."*

*Paraphrased. The actual line of dialogue ryhmed with "Jew bucking torque".

I got back from our degenerate jam session at around 9 and there was my girl Joanne sitting on the benches outside Stevenson. As is the custom, we took our nightly country cruise.

Country Cruise Set List/ Oct. 5
"Tiny Dancer"
"Casey Jones"
"Needle in the Hay"
"The Cheers Theme"
"Cosmic Blues"
"Good Vibrations"
"Cecilia"

So here we are tear-assing down Highway C (which is more a path than a road). We're about ten minutes from the Lutheran Church when a huge racoon runs AT THE FUCKING CAR. I'm not talking about freezing in the headlights, or even running with the car. I'm talking sprinting full tilt at Joanne's huge red Grand Am of splattering death. To say we felt a thump is an understatement. The fucking car jumped and shook like we had just rammed Seabiscuit. Joanne, being at the PETA end of the hippie spectrum, cannot believe she just killed a living, breathing, shit-eating animal. I, at the nihilistic end of the hippie spectrum, am laughing hysterically.

Joanne: "I can't believe it. I just killed a fucking racoon."
Me (laughing so hard it hurts): "In front of his family too."
Joanne: "His family was there? What are you fucking talking about?"
Me (not having actually seen anything) "I saw another racoon behind it and I'm pretty sure I saw some little racoons in the grass."
Joanne: "Fuck. Poor Meeko. Stop laughing, Ryan."
Me: "..."
Joanne: "..."
Me: "So, should we pack another bowl?"

Five minutes later.
Me: "What would you have done if we drove by it again and the babies were eating the carcass?"
Joanne: "Sometimes I love that we hang out this much... other times I am really disturbed."
Me: "Yeah, I'd smash their heads too..."