Inasmuch As Which?

I Moved!

2009-07-24T22:03:00.003-05:00

Hey everybody! Or rather, hey the three people that I know for certain used to read this back when I had my ass in gear enough to actually post shit. I got really depressed last year and let my writing go down the drain. But the good news is, I'm back to blogging, now that my old site, diary-x, has been revamped as codexed.com. My blog is now here. Enjoy!

Maybe I Don't Know What I'm Talking About, But I Can Rant With the Best of 'Em

2008-05-20T15:04:00.006-05:00

I’m sipping coffee in a Jittery Joe’s coffeeshop right now, and writing this because a) I have nothing else to do, and b) it makes me feel like one of those artsy coffeeshop writers I’ve always wanted to emulate. I’m currently in Athens, Georgia, the hot, sleepy little college town that the University of Georgia calls home. Oh, before you even ask, yes, there is also a Rome, Georgia. And a Cairo (although it’s pronounced KAY-ro, and don’t you forget it, ya damnyankee). We’re not too original with the names here.

Athens also happens to be the town where a lot of indie bands got their start. I’m sure can tell the signs of a fierce indie-kid through my writings. Alas, “indie,” like many rebellious genres gone before it, has mostly been sucked into the mainstream. The ideals still exist, sort of. Fight the system. The more unheard-of is always better. Turn away from the pop culture and refuse to be like “everybody else.” Instead, do things because nobody else is doing them. Problem is, everybody wants to do that sort of thing. Everybody wants to be the cool person not following the crowd. And once you’ve got everybody not following the crowd, guess what! It’s mainstream! Then, of course, the original creators become whores, as the writer of an indie webcomic (Spelling the Vacuum) that died a while ago (the comic, not the writer. I hope) pointed out. Once everyone’s a nonconformist, no one is. That’s why the ‘60’s hippies seem so silly to me for thinking they were countercultural. It’s not countercultural if everyone in the room is doing it. The real countercultural thing to do, in that era, was to wear a tie and be right-wing. Village Green Preservation Society, etc.

Anyway, I’m not saying that “indie” is dying because it took over the world. I don’t think it did that at all. I just think that, as soon as they started having “indie charts” and awards for “best new indie band,” etc., they effectively killed it. You can’t turn away from the system if you’re part of it. The point of indie was that it was underground, the geek thing to do. Revenge of the nerds, and all that. Once geek became cool (just look at how many high school kids were wearing Converse in the last ten years), it stopped being geeky.

Another problem, of course, is that “indie,” as a genre, is almost impossible to define. You could cite the Pixies, Neutral Milk Hotel, Belle & Sebastian, Elliott Smith, the Smiths, Modest Mouse, the Shins, Pavement, The Mountain Goats, or even (God help you) the Arcade Fire or Bright Eyes. The list goes on, and all of them sound wildly different. Well, if they’re good, that is. The Arcade Fire or Bright Eyes mainly sound like suck. Cheap imitations of better bands. Sorry if that offends you, actually, hell no, I’m not sorry if it offends you. I’m sorry that you have shit taste. I never said I wasn’t a music snob. But really, what is “indie rock” or “indie pop?” The latter actually sounds like a contradiction-in-terms, since “pop” is supposed to be what “indie” rejects. Actually, whenever I hear a band referred to as “indie pop,” it generally means that the lead singer has the same, whiny voice, and the band is more emo than My Chemical Reek (which in fact sounds like a better band name than the real one). “Indie rock,” on the other hand, tends to refer to more hardcore bands like the Pixies or Modest Mouse (who really stopped being “indie” after they had a music video on MTV).

I guess that should tell you what indie meant to me. It meant something nobody else knew about, a secret shared between cool friends, a sort of club that the idiotic mainstream people couldn’t take from me. I remember my shock when, walking down the street in a ratty Belle & Sebastian T-shirt a few years ago, a really preppy girl stopped me to shriek, “Omigawd I LOVE that band!” Don’t get me wrong, I want the bands I love to succeed, and I’m always glad to find people who share my taste. It’s just that it’s a bit jarring to find that what you think is so cool and underground is just as above-ground as anything else. While I’m glad for my bands, I’m also a little saddened that the genre is pretty much dead, having been pulled into the light for all to see. Means I have to find something new with which to fight the system.

And I do still hate the system. These new “thrash-metal” bands, the hardxcore stuff, the emo kids, the wannabe goths, and, dear lord, the scenesters. So fucking pretentious, all of them. On the other side, all my college friends ever listen to is Sublime, which gets old after awhile. Oh well, at least they aren’t giving in to the pleas of my other friends to listen to “hard rock.” Seems like if it doesn’t involve the same incredibly loud baseline, and the same, semi-retarded lyrics (but that’s okay, because they’re screamed so you can’t understand them anyway), and the same, head-banging beat, it just doesn’t satisfy the young people of today. Seriously, if you try to piece together the lyrics of most “hardcore” music, it’ll either come out sounding mentally challenged or like a crappy version of Avril Lavigne (I honestly can’t tell the difference between that shallow bitch and Paramore), for whom my hatred cannot even be coherent. But the worst sin, in my book, is that it all sounds the same. I went to a concert a year ago given by Cute Is What We Aim For (But Sucky Is What We Accomplish), opening for Paramore. Except for the genders of the lead singers, I honestly couldn’t tell the difference between the bands. If you tell me that’s because I haven’t listened to them enough, I will smile and say, “Yes, I’ve been lucky that way.”

Well, that was quite a little rant, I must say. My apologies, I don’t think I’ve ever fully introduced you to the extent of my music snobbery. There you have it, another facet of my character revealed. I’m a very difficult person to please when it comes to music. Surprisingly, I’ll almost never criticize someone else’s music in public. That’s because I take my own music to heart, feeling personally insulted if anyone else casts aspersions on it. I feel like your music defines who you are, in a way, and that people judge you by it. Probably just my own self-projection, I know, but I don’t want to hurt anyone else’s feelings in case it’s not. So, unless I know you very well, I’ll usually just smile and say nothing if I haven’t got anything nice to say about your music. Then I’ll come on my blog and JUDGE YOU TO THE WORLD.

Just kidding. I try to be good about not gossiping about people on here. Besides, who the hell cares that Girl A thinks Avril is the shit, clearly indicating that she has neither depth nor musical taste? I certainly shouldn’t. So I’ll try to keep this thing either to Amusing Anecdotes From My Not-Very-Amusing Life, or to Rants Accomplishing Nothing Other Than Making Me Feel Better. Or, occasionally, A Cool Book/Movie I Read/Watched That The World Should Know About.

Speaking of, I’m currently in the midst of the travel writings of Evelyn Waugh. I love Evelyn Waugh. Brideshead Revisited has had a major impact on my life, which I can’t talk about, because I’ve already spewed out an incredibly long post.

By the way, people have an alarming tendency to take me too seriously. Don't make this mistake. Chances are, I'm just blowing off steam. If you disagree with everything I'm saying, that's totally fine. Just don't get all upset and angry about it, like some poor feminist who has to spend all her life being offended.

Honestly, I don't see how hardcore feminists have any fun at all.

The One Week Where It's Totally Normal to Meet Young Frankenstein Look-alikes at Three in the Morning

2008-05-17T18:43:00.005-05:00

[This was actually written last week, but due to the interventions of exams, coming home, and my laptop not working, I didn't get a chance to post it until now.]

It’s common knowledge that finals week is hell-week for college students. It’s also hell-week for the heart and lungs, given that we all tend to charge our system with massive amounts of caffeine and nicotine in an effort to de-stress. Neither of which, as my friend, Jake, would point out, actually help with anxiety, since they’re both stimulants. Then again, he also thinks that alcohol is a stimulant, and is willing to argue the point for hours at one o’clock in the morning while everyone else is desperately trying to study lab because we’re all fucked and would you shut up, Jake, please? Let’s just say Jake is not the most focused person around.

Anyway, despite all the panic-attacks, I find myself loving finals week. It’s hell, but at the same time, it’s kinda fun. When else do you get to stay up all night
having nervous breakdowns with your friends? Case in point: At two-thirty in the morning, Monday night, I looked around the commons and took in the spectacle. One guy was standing on top of a table, strumming a guitar and singing nonsense, another guy was blatantly smoking indoors (in California, no less, the land where smokers are pariahs), and the rest were studying as if their lives depended on it. Which, if we want to stay at this college, they do. If you fail one class here, you fail out completely. That accounts for a great deal of the aforementioned stress.

The point is, though, that you never get that kind of experience, much less that kind of bonding, outside of finals week. We’re all screwed together, so we bum out cigarettes and make each other coffee like there’s no tomorrow. And if you want to cry on someone’s shoulder, go right ahead. You can run outside and let off steam during the Midnight Scream (or any other time, really, but that’s when you can be sure of company). You're free to wander around, muttering things about syllogistic figures or harmonious equipotential systems, which would ordinarily earn you a trip to the psychiatrist, but tonight everyone understands. In fact, they're doing the same thing. Finally, once your brain ceases to process any form of logical thought, you can grab a couch anywhere and sleep for a few hours, if you don’t mind being hideously uncomfortable when you wake up. Which you don’t. It’s finals week, of course.

Then there’s the actual final. Obviously, it sucks, but the adrenaline-rush beforehand is sort of fun, in a masochistic way. Then there’s the beautiful, simultaneous feelings of accomplishment, writer’s cramp, and adrenaline let-down as you walk out, knowing that one exam, at least, is over and you never have to do it again. Unless, of course, you fail, but we don’t think such thoughts. Not if we want to stay sane, we don’t. Those thoughts are for the night before, when you’re melting down, but there’s still conceivably something you could do about it. After the fact, it’s over and done with. No need to dwell on it. You’re probably too busy worrying about the next exam, anyway.

And then there’s the silver lining to keep your mind on: The end of the week, when you can at last throw your pencil down and go have that drink, or drinks, that you’ve been looking forward to all the dry, studious week long. I also have a mad frenzy of packing to do this weekend, but that’s not a silver lining, that’s just depressing. So I’m just focusing on the party aspect this weekend.

Once that’s over, then the glorious summer begins, and you can finally go home and see all your friends for the first time in four months. Then the frantic search for a summer job begins!

To quote the infinite wisdom of Calvin and Hobbes: “The days are just packed.”

Sharpen Your Teeth on a Jumble of Memories

2008-03-19T19:26:00.002-05:00

I’d forgotten how much Ugly Casanova reminds me of Montreat. All it takes is “Smoke was pulled in ribbons from the windows of your car…” and I’m instantly back in the humid sleeping porch, the taste of Cheer Wine in my mouth, lazily scribbling in my book of ideas. The orange one, with the gridded pages. I finished that one a long time ago. I’m sixteen, or even fifteen, again, angry at the world, and glad to escape for a while to North Carolina. I’m sitting next to Lauren in the living room of the old, crooked house, writing, or playing guitar, while she draws a random picture, using up the last of her green-gray ink. “Bones of my ink,” she calls the picture. “Smells like autumn, smells like leaves, you don’t know that you’ll rust and not belong so much and then get left alone…” and I’m smelling the scent of pine in the muggy rain, walking down that steep, steep hill, exploring trails and bridges. Avoiding choir practice, getting beyond drunk on what turned out to be moonshine, and sleeping on stone walls in front of the general store with hideous hangovers. “Turns out the pony only had one trick…” Having an argument in front of the library, storming off in a dramatic huff, then feeling silly and making up. Lauren’s long hair fans out behind her. Next year, it’s above her chin, English-urchin style. Vague attempts at socializing with the other kids, with whom we don’t fit in at all. Noticing that they all look alike, the girls with ponytails, tank tops, and shorts, the boys with baseball caps, that preppie bowl-cut, and cargo shorts. Wondering why. Pretending to be the female versions of Ozzie Osborne and Bob Dylan. “The parasites are excited when you’re dead…” and puking our brains out in front of all those kids, due to the effects of the moonshine. Unsuccessfully hiding it from the grownups. “They said they’d give me everything, here’s the part that made me laugh: They didn’t give me anything, and they took half of that…” Taking random pictures of Lauren and Patrick with cream sodas, dogs, windows, waterfalls, and other random settings. Eating glowing gummy worms and large ice cream cones. Feeling awkward around Lauren and Patrick. “I lay down with the southern range…” Exploring Lake Susan with them, still not sure what to make of Patrick. Black nail polish and dog-collars, in an act of defiance against all the preppies. “Soon as I can walk, I walk out the door and never stop…” Harmonizing to Queen and snapping pictures of Lauren and Patrick whenever they got… awkward on the drive back. Blue Ridge, and breakfasting to the strains of the Pixies’ Surfer Rosa. And then, the depressing anticlimax: Going home. “So long to the holidays….”

Search for the Truth, and Take a Few Drinks Along

2008-02-28T19:20:00.006-05:00

I was out drinking the other day, having an after-party for the powderpuff football game. “Powderpuff,” in case you were wondering, is the term for girl football. Yes, I played. Yes, it was fun, and yes, I am now painfully aware of every movement I make. We played our asses off, but the upperclassmen won, because they started calling fouls on us every five seconds. I’m a little bitter about this, because the freshmen and sophomores totally deserved to win. We were so much better. Oh, well. So, anyway, we had an after-party involving hot dogs and, of course, lots of beer.
At first, we were all at a certain park down the road, which happens to be closed at the moment for renovation or some such nonsense. It’s been closed most of the year, actually, but we’ve had a lot of parties down there, regardless. So we were hanging out there, until a security guard, or something like that, walked up to what was probably the calmest drinking group he’d ever seen, and told us, rather rudely, to leave. Our response was “Okay,” and we instantly packed everything up and left.

At this point, some of us decided to leave altogether, but the others wandered down the road to another dirt patch that we habitually frequent. I was the only freshman who remained, and pretty soon I entered into a discussion with a couple of the sophomores, musing on how truly strange people at my college are. There’s no place like it. And the people there are completely inexplicable to the people outside. Just looking at that last incident, our drinking party was sitting around a fire pit, engaged in semi-intellectual conversation, when a guard came over and was unnecessarily rude. We didn’t give him any backchat at all, we simply cleaned up after ourselves and disappeared in literally under a minute (we’re rather used to getting kicked out of places). We simply moved a few hundred feet and continued our chill party. Someone started playing tunes from his car, and the intellectual conversation was resumed, occasionally broken by bouts of singing or rapping along to the music, or, more frequently, lapsing into gossip, which is much more fun (as a graduate once put it, “There’s two things to talk about here: The books and the people. And after about the first two weeks, you get pretty tired of talking about the books.” The people, on the other hand, are always changing).

That’s my college. We’re intellectual, we’re nerdy, yet we’ll burst into rap when the spirit moves us, and switch just as easily into indie rock or an Irish drinking song, or something equally unexpected. We swing dance, we get into furious debates about matters ranging from whether an angle can be a magnitude to which of the old Star Wars was the best to why the Iliad ends with the burial of Hector. We watch movies in cars off-campus, we smoke like chimneys, and we drink in dirt patches, while remaining comparatively polite. Most of us are either semi-alcoholics, or getting there. And, somehow, we preserve chastity.

Yeah. Nothing like the place, nothing like the people. For the first time I found myself thinking of this place as a kind of home. A funky, messed-up, claustrophobic home. Sounds like it should suit me, in a badly-fitting way. And maybe badly-fitting’s not so bad. It's sort of a perpetual state for me, in fact. I think I'm finally getting comfortable with it. After all, it's probably the best I'll get.

A Passing Feeling (I know, I couldn't think of a better title)

2008-02-18T23:34:00.003-05:00

You know that fragile feeling that you get when you’re about a drink and a half away from an actual hangover? That vaguely unstable, shaky feeling where the world is slightly too sunny and you have just the faintest ghost of a headache, and the slightest twinge of queasiness. And you know that if you had had just one drink more, just one less glass of water the night before, you would be absolutely fucking miserable today. You stumble out of bed around noon or later, and go out to face everybody. That first walk outside after partying the night before is always daunting for me. For one thing, it’s inevitably fucking bright outside. Well, I am in California, after all. But it still seems like it’s mocking me.

For another, I’m always somewhat reluctant to meet the people I hung out with the night before. I think Terry Pratchett said it best, but I don’t have the actual quote on hand, so I’ll try to paraphrase: That feeling when you got absolutely smashed the night before and jumped on the table, and started singing those songs that were screamingly funny at the time, and you know you have to go out and see all those people again today, and when you look them in the eyes, you’ll both remember, but the difference is that you’ll both be sober this time. Not that I did anything hugely embarrassing (I hope) last night, but still. There’s always that initial hesitance when you wake up and your memory’s all foggy and jumbled up, but you do remember that one incident, or two, involving that guy and the beer, and you sincerely hope he doesn’t. Like Pratchett says, it was so funny last night, but now that you’re wrapped in a cloud of sobriety once again, you just can’t see the humor anymore. And that’s really, I suppose, why sobriety sucks. Because you take life too seriously, and you start making stupid judgments and bad decisions, and generally making a fool of yourself.

Because, see, that’s what you do when you’re drunk, but I’m being all clever, and trying to make the same point about being sober. I’m sorry, I just wasn’t sure hit you over the head with the Great Sledgehammer of Unsubtlety enough to get the point.
Anyway, I’m holed up in my dark cave of a dorm room, with the aforesaid fragile feeling, sipping tea and writing this, because I really don’t feel like writing my math paper right now. I’m also listening to a mix I made that I’m actually quite proud of. It’s the Alcoholic Letdown Mix, for situations exactly like this one. The day after a party, when you’re experiencing the pains of the booze leaving your system, and sitting around, saying “Now what?” It includes, of course, the best hungover music I could find, such as classic Modest Mouse and Ugly Casanova ("Things I Don't Remember," anyone?), The Department of Eagles (probably the most soothing music I’ve ever found. And, of course, not to be confused with the Eagles), Eels, Wilco, etc. Mostly chill stuff. It almost goes without saying that Elliott Smith, and the Mountain Goats are represented, as well as various other good songs by other artists that fit the idea of the mix.

I’m not sure why I’m going on about this. It’s not that original of a mix, I know, but it’s rare for me to make mixes that aren’t totally second-guessed and over-thought. In short, it’s hard to make a mix that my insecurities don’t eventually ruin. This one just felt right.

It's a rare feeling for me. I'd like to keep it.

Eat, Drink, And Be Merry, For Tomorrow We Fast

2008-02-06T19:08:00.000-05:00

Today is Ash Wednesday. I’m hungry. Believe it or not, those two sentences do go together, because Ash Wednesday is one of the two fast days of the year for Catholics. Good Friday is the other one. A Catholic fast day, in case you were wondering (you probably weren’t, but what the hell), consists of two snacks (which do not, when put together make up a full meal), and one meal. And abstinence from meat. I decided that my meal would be dinner, therefore I am hungry. I just had some rabbit food as one of the snacks. Carrots and lettuce, I mean, not what you feed to actual pet rabbits. It helps, somewhat.

But Ash Wednesday is depressing. It’s the most time possible before Lent finally ends at Easter. And the idea of Lent stretching before us is enough to make anyone devoutly wish we could all just skip the next six weeks or so. So I should get off the topic, or I’ll sound like a self-pitying whiner, and whining in self-pity is not what Lent is about. Instead, I’ll talk about Mardi Gras, which was yesterday, because yesterday was fun. In fact, yesterday may have been one of the best days I’ve had here all year.

For one thing, because it was Mardi Gras, everyone felt justified in acting goofy all day. The Austrian boy in my section (one of the craziest people I’ve ever met in my life. He’s completely insane in a hilariously vague and out-of-it way. The quintessential mad genius), was called on to do a Euclid prop in Math. He wandered up to the board, suddenly whipped out a home-made devil-mask, and started screaming the prop at us in German. My section erupted in laughter. It was by far the funniest class we’ve had all year, and we’ve had some pretty wacky ones.

And the day just got better from there. We were all determined to go out and party that evening, mostly because it was Mardi Gras, but also because when would we ever not want to go out and party? Mardi Gras just gives us a better excuse than the usual cry of “Because it’s Tuesday!” So as soon as seminar (a 2-hour-long evening class) ended, we all changed into the warmest of our warm clothes, grabbed various blankets, chips, etc., and streaked toward the parking lot. From there, we hiked up the hill to one of our drinking spots. These spots are typically large patches of dirty asphalt, or just dirt, as the case may be, located barely within walking distance of the college. Steep, hard-to-navigate-in-the-dark-even-when-you’re-not-drunk walking distance. This is because we are a) not allowed to drink on campus and b) underage, therefore we cannot hang out in a spot that’s actually somewhat comfortable to drink. So it’s not just the college’s fault, it’s America in general. Specifically California for not having more convenient landscapes in which to drink illegally.

And a really good time was had by all. One guy had very sweetly bought all the beer for us, so there wasn’t very much, but that wasn’t a problem. We had enough for at least two beers each, which was the right amount to get most of us relaxed and happy, but not anywhere near drunk. So we sat around, listening to the guys playing guitar, eating cookie-like objects, slowly drinking beers, and just hanging out. I’m having a hard time expressing what a great, chill time it was. Pretty much the entire freshman drinking group was there (there are roughly fifteen of us), with the exception of Leon, whose departure is still being mourned by all. We toasted his memory. The guys played a song for us that they’d started composing the night before. It’s the ballad of our drunken group, and so far they’ve only worked out the chorus, but it’s hilarious. Each one of us gets our own line. When I remember it (or when they come up with the full version), I’ll post it up here, but for now, the line about me is “Spudge’s stealing cigarettes from the bodies on the ground.” For the record, I have never done that. But it’s still hysterical.

We made it back about five seconds before curfew, which is eleven o’clock on weeknights, by running almost the entire way back. It nearly killed us, but we made it. Whereupon, I burst into the dorm, ran to my room, hugged my roommate, told her I loved her, ran back into the common area, ate several doughnuts, ran out into the courtyard where I hugged Maggie (one of my best friends among the freshman drinkers) and told her I loved her, too, and then tried to call Fishy in order to tell her that I also loved her. Of course, I got her voicemail, so I just left a fairly effusive message for her to hear in the morning, or whenever she feels like listening to the messages. Yes, I was very hyper.

And today is Ash Wednesday, which makes the good time yesterday seem even better. That’s the way the day before Lent should be, and that’s why people party so much on Mardi Gras. The orginal reason, anyway. You need a happy memory to look back on, to smile at throughout the dismal days of the Season.

I’ve given up dessert and sweets of all kinds. It’ll be interesting to see how well I can keep this resolve. Good for me, too. I'm definitely lacking in the self-discipline area. But, as of now, all that is changing.

For the next forty days and forty nights, anyway. With the exception of Sundays.

The Ultimate Dramatic Exit

2008-01-17T20:26:00.000-05:00

Okay, so I know I already put a post up today (in fact, five minutes ago), but something really funny just happened to me. Well, funny to other people. I'm not in a place where I can laugh about it yet. I'm just not. No, I'm lying. I totally am. I'm staring at my computer screen and cracking up as we speak. Or rather, as I type.

But let's get to the point. This whole time, my music's been really quiet. So I kept hitting the volume button, with a subconscious question mark floating around in my head. I clearly wasn't thinking, or I would have noticed two things, a) my music is never that quiet when I have my headphones on, and b) that everyone else in the room kept glancing at me (they don't have wireless internet here, so we have to go to the mailroom, a public area where ethernet exists. Yeah, I know, Spartan times). But I did not notice, and therefore, did not connect these two points. This being the case, I was happily listening to a punk song (the first one that had been loud enough), and was caught completely off-guard when another student suddenly remarked: "Wow, that's angry music. Does it make you feel better or something?"

Startled, I did the first smart thing all afternoon. I looked at my headphone plug. Sure enough, to my utter chagrin, it wasn't plugged in. And the realization burst upon me that I had been obnoxiously entertaining the entire room with my music. For the good Lord only knows how long. A little thing, you might say, but enough to make me writhe in inward agony for a good five minutes at least, and devoutly wish I had the ability to burst into flames and die.

Seriously. It would get me out of so many awkward situations. With a nicely climactic effect.

"I wanna see movies of my dreams."

2008-01-17T20:13:00.000-05:00

I suppose I should put an actual post up, since that last one was pretty much just a rant that I spewed out on good ol’ Microsoft Word. A conversation with my sister convinced me that I should be writing more, so I put it up on my blog. And now I'm spewing this one out, likewise on Microsoft Word. The end!

Anyway, I’m back at college now, after a pretty good break. I spent as much time as possible with Fishy and Patrick, but it feels like it wasn’t enough. And I only got to see Saralyn once. Still, at least I got to see her. We spent most of our time wasting it, which is always a good way to spend time, if you’re with the right people. Which I was. They made me watch Silent Hill, which is quite a good horror movie. I know, because it scared the absolute shit out of me. But I wanted to see it, because here’s the cool thing: There’s a boy in my class who lives in the town that they used for the movie. According to him, they had to clean it up for the film. I cannot imagine. All I know is that if I lived there, I’d have to move far, far away after watching that movie.

We also watched Batman Begins, which I mention only because it sparked off a deep obsession (at least on the part of Lauren and myself) with Cillian Murphy. Yes, I admit it. I’m an utter Murphy-fanatic (by the way, we discovered that Patrick looks just like him. He denies this strenuously, but it’s true. Fishy got lucky in the boyfriend department). It’s not even about the looks, really, for me. He’s a fantastic actor. Blends into each role, etc. I think he’s miles beyond Johnny Depp, partly because I’m sick and tired of Depp, but also because Cillian’s amazing. Of course, from there we waged a campaign to watch every movie Murphy’s ever been in, such as Red Eye, which is a surprisingly decent thriller. Cillian makes a very good villain. I was also introduced to 28 Days Later, which is now one of my favorite films. It’s funny, because it’s the type of film I would snob off if I hadn’t been made to see it, but now that I have watched it, I adore it. Quite a good semi-indie suspense movie. And it’s not that scary at all.

I’m rambling on in this manner, because I don’t want to talk about college, really. I’ve discovered more and more this year that I just don’t like it here. The academics don’t interest me, and the social life leaves something to be desired. I’m just not happy, is what it all boils down to. Plus, I went drinking last Friday (I would say night, but it started in the afternoon and then went on into the evening), during which time Leon, one of my best friends here, decided to break the news to us that he was leaving on Sunday. For good. Needless to say, total buzz-kill. I nearly started crying on him, and remained depressed for the rest of the evening. Fuck, I'm still depressed. I don’t know what we’re going to do without him. He’s the king of our group. His car, his tunes, his total willingness to go out and get hammered any and every night of the week.... Also, he’s very good-looking. Polish, and all. What is it with Eastern Europeans? They’re fucking gorgeous.

So yeah, Leon’s bringing down the class average attractiveness by a lot with his departure, and the rest of us are in mourning. I understand why he’s leaving; I don’t want to stay here myself. I’m not sure what I want to do, exactly. Transfer somewhere, probably. Somewhere I can fulfill my dream of becoming a film director, and making beautiful, beautiful movies. Which would cause my parents to have one massive heart attack (studying film, not making beautiful movies). Well, you know what? Someday I'll win an Oscar. That'll show 'em.

Or, you know, become a bum on the streets. That would show them too.

The Shit He Most Definitely Ain't (oh yeah, and SPOILER ALERT)

2008-01-13T15:47:00.001-05:00

While I was home on break, Lauren, Patrick, and I all went to see Sweeney Todd. It’s been a few weeks since then, but I still need to write about it, because it’s the type of movie that everyone will love. Everyone meaning teen girls with crushes on Johnny Depp, crushes on Tim Burton, wannabe goths, or combinations of the three. I fucking hated it. Well, that’s not true. I didn’t completely hate it. Parts of it were quite good. The scenery, the costumes, and the acting, among other things. Depp gave a great performance, which was unfortunately undermined by other flaws within the movie. For one thing, Sweeney is traditionally supposed to be a bass, which Depp is decidedly not.

I suppose that brings me to the main overall point that I hated about the movie: It wasn’t faithful to the musical, or even to the spirit of the musical (and I love the musical). If it was faithful to anything, it was to Tim Burton. Which can be said about almost all of his films. For the most part, a Tim Burton fim is exactly that. A Tim Burton film. And you’re left with the impression that somewhere, Tim Burton is sitting back and chuckling to himself that he’s the absolute shit. I wish he wouldn’t, for obvious reasons, a very strong one being that it takes away, not only from the soul of the movie, but also very much from the acting. No matter how strong the actors may be, you still think of it as A Tim Burton Film. Because that’s what it is, no matter who else contributed to it. Don’t get me wrong, I do like some of his movies, especially Ed Wood, and Sleepy Hollow (minus the retarded witchcraft bits). I even have something of a soft spot for Edward Scissorhands, partly because it was his first movie, and I can forgive a lot for that. I appreciate A Nightmare Before Christmas too, mostly for the fact that it didn’t include Depp. Honestly, I don’t understand why those two are married to each other. Depp is way less annoying in his non-Burton films, and as for Burton, has it ever occurred to him that using the same actor for every film is slightly boring?

But I digress. What I really want to talk about is Sweeney, because, damnit, somebody’s got to take a stand against the tide of mindless Burton-ites. I liked most of the things that were in the film, but what I don’t understand is why he took out so much. So much that was essential for the musical. To start from the beginning, he completely cut “The Ballad of Sweeney Todd,” which is the defining song of the musical. I just don’t understand. How can you have Sweeney Todd without his song? And it would have been so easy, too. They had all they needed. I keep thinking about this. He would just’ve had to have a fairly artsy opening-credits sequence, with all the cast singing the song (which is how the musical usually opens), and then, of course have Sweeney sing the last bit, “What happened then, well, that's the play / And he wouldn’t want us to give it away / Not Sweeney / Not Sweeney Todd / The Demon Barber of Fleet Street!” That part, if done right, can give you chills. And Depp could easily give you chills. I know he could. So why the hell not? Instead he had a really retarded opening sequence that looked exactly like the opening sequence to Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, except with very obviously fake blood (seriously. It looked like paint) instead of molten chocolate. He also cut all the choral bits out, most of which are very good.

Some of his cuts make sense, and some his cuts I agree with. But why would he cut the Beggarwoman’s opening song in “No Place Like London?” It’s important, because it sets up her character in a disturbing way, ultimately making the end of the play much more gruesome and tragic. In the film, she’s introduced much later as a very random character. In fact, Tim Burton shied away from all of the more disturbing parts of the play. You have to admit, Burton’s a damn softie. He also skillfully removed all of the character conflict. For instance, Alan Rickman did a great job as the Judge, but I don’t see why his “Mea Culpa/Johanna” song was cut. That song shows off the disturbing side of the Judge’s character, and gives it some conflict. Makes it interesting. To be honest, the sadistic side of me was also looking forward to watching Rickman whip himself. The song also makes later parts of the play more gruesome, specifically his death, when he’s singing the refrain from it. Now that I think of it, though, I believe Burton removed all the character conflict. What, is he afraid of handling characters with maybe more than one side to them?

It was also far too serious. Most of the play is meant to be very sarcastic, and the characters are bitingly clever, specifically Todd and Mrs Lovett. Somehow, it’s just so much more disturbing when they laugh, because it shows that Todd, at least, has gone so far into his bitterness that he’s joking about it. I wouldn’t have cut as much of “A Little Priest.” It’s one of the most clever parts of the play. And I would definitely have made them laugh. They were having fun, in a really sick way. And that’s pretty much what the play is about. Being so disillusioned with the world that you can find a grisly pleasure in it. But Burton missed that point.

The worst part of the movie by far, however, was the ending. It was the ending that made me furious. The ending is the reason I’m writing this now. Because Burton changed it. Once again, he pussied out of the play’s essential sickness and changed it so that it really doesn’t make much sense. In the real version, Toby goes crazy. He’s completely out of his mind, obsessed only with the idea of making more pies, trying pathetically to crank the meat grinder when Johanna and Anthony come into the cellar and find the mess. But in Burton’s version, Toby just picks up the razor and kills Sweeney. That’s it. No point. No bitterness. No innocence-about-to-be-ruined in the case of Johanna and Anthony. In fact, he doesn’t even bother to wrap up their story. Just leaves a ton of loose ends. And misses the point of the play completely. That’s why it’s so important to have the actors who play Johanna and Anthony also play the young Sweeney and his wife. It’s because they’re exactly like he used to be: “A foolish barber and his wife / She was his reason and his life / And she was beautiful / And she was virtuous / And he was naïve.” At the final moment of the play, the climax of horror and tragedy, Toby straightens up from the grinder and sings, “Attend the tale of Sweeney Todd!” Johanna and Anthony join in, and so does each member of the cast in their turn until they’re all singing in an incredible ensemble, with the choir backing it up, making a point about how Sweeney could be anyone of us, anywhere, until finally they point to Sweeney and Mrs. Lovett who have the final words as they finish the song together.

But no, in Burton’s version, there is no climax. Like I said, Toby doesn’t go crazy, and there is no mind-blowing finale to the play. What makes it so frustrating is, it would have been so easy! Like I said before, they had all the shit they needed! They just didn’t use it. It could’ve been so cool, all the actors coming into the cellar, covered with blood, singing, while the final credits roll. So gory and hardcore, like the play itself. Or rather, like the play is supposed to be. But then again, Tim Burton is just about anything but hardcore. And, as I’ve also pointed out, this wasn’t Sweeney Todd. This was A Tim Burton Film.

What was I expecting, anyway? Damn it all.

Pissing Off The Locals, Or The Adventures Of A College Student

2007-10-21T15:53:00.000-05:00

It's only been two months, but I already feel like I've been at college for years. Over all, I've had fairly good luck. I have yet to get an hour (working in the kitchen. The penalty for breaking a rule) for anything, which is saying quite a lot. Most of my friends have served several, and one of them has already campused for too many curfew violations (yes, we have a curfew. Yes, if we're late we have to climb in through windows and things in a manner reminiscent of boarding school. So retarded). I also have yet to suffer the pain of a hangover, even though I've been doing some pretty hardcore drinking.

This week alone has been crazy. We had our equivalent of fall break, and I spent a goodly amount of it partying. I barely slept in my own bed, had to run from hicks with guns twice, and maintained a good buzz for most of it. We're not allowed to drink on campus, which means we end up huddling over handles of vodka in various dirt patches down the road. We tried to spend one night on top of a mountain, but got chased off by a hick in a white jumpsuit (no, I'm not kidding) with a handgun. We ended up shivering the rest of the night through in one of the aforementioned dirt patches.

Friday, therefore, we decided to play it safe (or so we thought), and just walked up the trail a bit to a spot fondly known as the Drunkrocks. Having established ourselves there, we proceeded to get nicely plastered on vodka and shots of tequila. A few of the boys decided to go back before the rest of us, so we watched them walk away. About ten minutes later, Jake (one of the boys) called and told us to "Get in a group and start praying." We started receiving texts from them saying, "Stay at the rocks," and "Hide." This was more than enough to make the less sober among us (which actually would be all of us) start panicking. Picturing things from farmers with guns to cops to Satan and his entire fucking army, we started to pack up and run. Or try to run, anyway. The Rocks are known as the Rocks for a reason, and they are not easy to navigate in the dark even when you're stone-cold sober. Which we were decidedly not. Furthermore, we had a girl with us who just had surgery on her ACL, and had to be carried.

Turns out, all that was going on was domestic violence at the ranch on the way to the Rocks. On their way back, the boys had heard women screaming for help there, and had called the police. Nobody was coming after us, but the boys were too drunk to convey this properly. Needless to say, we were ever-so-slightly pissed off at them for scaring us like that.

So I've had a pretty interesting week. Alas, it was last week, and this week classes have resumed. There are also about twenty fires in southern California, eight or so of which are near the campus. Oh well, at least we haven't burned down yet, right?

And there you have it. Exciting Things That Have Happened To Me Recently. At least I was nicely buzzed for most of them. Because when you're sober, things are just boring and depressing. Actually, sobriety itself could be said to be boring and depressing. That's why it's called "sober." People just take life too seriously when they're in that state. And taking life, or for that matter, anything too seriously is something to be avoided indeed. That way lies uptightness, judginess, and general inability to lighten up and have fun.

I just realized I'm getting way too serious about not taking life seriously. In other words, I'm turning into the kind of person I hate by trying too hard not to be that kind of person.

Wow. I think that's a pretty good sign I need to sign off and go back to the real world for a bit, before I type myself into utter confusion and despair. Wailing and gnashing of teeth. And whatnot. See you later.

A Little Confidence Is All I Need

2007-09-01T15:39:00.000-05:00

Ta dah! Suddenly, I find myself all the way across the country in California. Not only across the country, but with an abrupt status change as well. In other words, I am now a college student. Enrolled at TAC, where I am in full pursuit of the good, the true, and the beautiful. So they tell me.

In reality, I'm just trying to find an excuse to get off campus and go drinking. 'Cause that's what you do around here for fun. Some people would tell you that you should do Irish Dance and sit around campfires singing Oh, Susannah (while perfectly sober. I'm not kidding), but we avoid those people. Anyway, it is now the weekend and the weather is mercilessly hot. It's over 100 degrees here, in dry heat, which is very different from the Georgia humidity that I'm used to.

By the way, if you tell me that I should not be ending this sentence with a preposition, I will merely reply in the words of the famous Dr. Johnson: "That is a pedantry up with which I will not put." Be that as it may, I find myself moving from water fountain to water fountain, rather like a sponge which unexpectedly finds itself in an area devoid of moisture.

Sometimes I sit in my room and feel that it is all too much for me. Because there are people here. A lot of people. That I don't know very well. This perturbs me. It perturbs me quite a bit, and I don't know what to do anymore. I know that I just need to brace up and get over the stomach-clenching anxiety that makes me want to turn and run whenever I see someone coming. If I can do that, maybe I can have an okay time.

Some people are trying to get me to go sky-diving in Santa Barbara with them. Maybe that'll help. Then again, maybe my parachute will fail and I'll go plummeting to the ground. Sigh.

I really need to climb a long ladder and get over myself, don't I.

We Don't Want the Loonies Taking Over

2007-08-02T10:29:00.000-05:00

This is an email I wrote to Fishy last Monday, when I was on what felt like the Mount Everest of all manic upswings (and I don't mean that at all in a good way). Well, it wasn't quite Mount Everest, but it was definitely up there on my mood spectrum. Whatever it was, the email apparently amused Fishy to the point where she told me I had to put it up here (Oh, and before you even ask, yes I do know that Shakespeare wrote in verse most of the time. I'm not stupid, I was just too focused to go back and change it before I sent it):

Dude, you have to call me. These men have got me trapped inside the
house and I don't know what to do. They're the landscape guys, so I
guess they're supposed to be there, but I can't show myself at any
windows, because this morning they rang the doorbell, but I wasn't
dressed because it was an ungodly hour, and so if I show myself,
they'll wonder why the hell I didn't answer the doorbell, and I don't
know what to do. I only got down to the basement to type this email
by using some serious spy methods, and moving quickly from wall to
wall. I don't think I can go back upstairs, though, and I only
managed to snatch an apple from the kitchen and that's all I've had
to eat today.

I went back on meds yesterday and felt really horrible the whole day.
I haven't taken any today, because I can't go in the kitchen. This
is not good.. Lauren, this is not good. This is very, very not
good. I think I should go somewhere I don't know where and die in a
hole. I don't think that, that's just what Angela's been repeating
inside my head for quite some time know. I mean now. I mean I can't
fucking type and I'm starting to wig the fuck out. Wigging out.
What a strange phrase. Where did that even come from? Wig. Wig.
Wig. After awhile, that word sounds ridiculous, if you keep
repeating it to yourself. Well, any word sounds ridiculous if you
keep repeating it over and over again. You start thinking, where the
fuck did those sounds come from? And how did they come together, and
how did those sounds together come to mean that? Why that? What is
that? That's silly. That. That. That. That means nothing, that's
just a weird sound that comes out of your mouth. But it's not coming
out of my mouth right now, I'm just hearing it inside my head. How
am I hearing it, if I'm not saying it out loud? How can I hear
anything? Inside my head, I mean. Nothing's vibrating my eardrums
(well, yes, things like the computer and creaks in the house, and
other random noises, are vibrating my eardrums, but you know what I
mean. Don't you?), yet I'm hearing the definite sound of that.
That.. That. That. Okay, it's beginning to drive me crazy. Not
that I'm (Gaah! That word again! Fuck! There it is again!) not
already crazy, you understand, but I can't stand the way things keep
repeating themselves in my head. Things like that. You know. I'm
beginning to absolutely despise that word (Gaah! Not again!). The
that word. I can't even remember what part of speech it is right
now, fuck it all. It's a, it's a, pronoun? No, it's not a pronoun.
It's something more complicated than a pronoun, if pronoun is the
word I want. I mean if complicated is the word I want. Shit. I'm
thinking way faster than I can type, and it's tripping my fingers up.
Oh well, at least they're getting a workout. Maybe obscure is the
word I want. No, it's not. It's a demonstrative something, isn't
it? Shit, what is it? I have to know, I have to know now. And no,
I can't just look it up on Cop-out-ipedia right now, because I have
to keep typing, I have to get these thoughts down on paper. I mean
up on the fucking screen. Fucking computers. Why do they exist?
Pen and ink's much better. I think I need a fountain pen. A
beautiful, personal fountain pen. I could name it something and it
could be my constant companion (Be my companion! Don't hurt me)
wherever I go. And then nobody would just be able to say my
handwriting's crap. No, then they'd all be saying, "What a gorgeous
pen! Too bad her handwriting's crap." And I would think to myself,
"Ha ha, you lose. You don't have a fountain pen." Because everybody
knows fountain pens trump handwriting. Or maybe it would magically
give me beautiful calligraphic abilities. As if the very fact of
holding an amazing pen in my hand would inspire me to suddenly become
a writer on par with Shakespeare himself. Not that I have any idea
whether Shakespeare had good handwriting or not. For all I know, his
original drafts looked like pigs dipped their hooves in ink and
trampled on them. But that's not really what's important. Not the
physical appearance, but the inward quality. Sure, Shakespeare's
pigs may have had something to do with his plays, but does that
matter? Does any of that matter when we read them and understand the
full beauty of his works? No, being a good writer doesn't mean good
handwriting. Who gives a shit about handwriting? Especially in this
day and age, when everybody uses computers and nobody bothers about
beauty and style, let alone even the basic rudiments of grammar,
spelling, and punctuation? If Shakespeare could see us today, with
our brb's, and our "omg u no ur teh best lol," verily, 'twould make
each particular hair to stand on end like the quills upon the fretful
porpentine, and he would let despair of the human race feed upon his
damask cheek like a worm i'the bud. No, when faced with prose like
that, nobody gives a crap if pigs wrote it or not, it's still damn
good. And that's what I mean by good writing, and what I mean when I
say I'm going to be a good writer. Not that I'm planning on
emulating Shakespeare, mind you, I could never pull that off. But
what I intend to write will reflect the good, the true, and the
beautiful, because those three things are what's worthwhile in this
life that we call home. And that's what I'll spend my life pursuing.
Or maybe die in the pursuit. Whichever one sounds better to
you. I plan to do both, since, as we all know full well, life's just
a lingering death. And now that I've found a suitably morbid note, I
think I'll leave you. Have a nice day.

Bizarre Phrases and Screw-On Heads

2007-07-20T22:17:00.000-05:00

Everything's been bizarre lately. Partly because I'm leaving for college, and partly because of my state of mind, because I feel like the world is coming to an end, which is, in turn, partly because I'm leaving for college and here we go again on the old merry-go-round. There's a little person who lives in my head (I've sort of named it "Angela," but not really, since the voice is essentially asexual), who usually yells at me when I'm behaving in a manner less than brilliant, which happens more often than I'd like to admit (and by "more often," I mean all the fucking time), but occasionally the voice just sits there, perched above my ear, repeating the same word or phrase over and over again.

I'm not kidding, by the way. When that I was but a little tiny girl (with a hey-ho, the Shakespeare allusion doth end here), the voice repeated, "Nice, where?" Over and over and over again. What seriously aggravated me about it, though, was that I could never tell for sure if the voice was saying "Nice, where?" or "I swear!" This continued off and on for months, and I spent much of my time speculating on which phrase the voice was really saying. The voice's accent was such that it sounded exactly the same and it used to drive me nuts.

But this is beside the point. Right now, the voice is happily perched over my right ear, yelling "Bizarro! Bizarro!" at me, a la Sealab 2021. Strange, because my life, while on a bizarre tack at the moment, certainly shows no signs of becoming the complete opposite of itself. Nor have any doppelgangers or parallel universes been cropping up of late.

Talking of parallel universes, that reminds me: Fishy just showed me a cartoon of fantasmical brilliance. The Amazing Screw-On Head, it was called, and it dealt with matters ranging from Abraham Lincoln, to small parallel universes trapped inside old turnip-like vegetables. Almost every line was quotable, and the whole thing was highly larious. I wish they'd made a series out it. But, lest you doubt my words, here are a few choice quotes for you:

"Who says smoking people is bad for you?"

"It's as I always say, all really intelligent people should be cremated for reasons of public safety."

"America is depending on me, Mr. President! And by America, I mean the world."

"DAMN YOU, EMPEROR ZOMBIE!"

Emperor Zombie: You let me down. You went on and on about how sweet the candy was, then told me not to put it in my mouth, and got mad at me when I did.
Screw-On Head: If by "candy," you mean ancient forbidden evil, then yes, I told you not to put it in your mouth.
Patience the Vampire: I think your forbidden evil is fresh as a daisy.
Emperor Zombie: Thank you, darling.

Plus, Emperor Zombie is played by David Hyde Pierce, one of my favorite voice actors (and, for that matter, actors) of all time. But really, I'm just digressing again, because I don't know how to end this. I don't know why I'm even writing this post. For that matter, I don't know why I'm even here in the first place. Other than, of course, publishing random posts that don't have a point on my personal blog, which doesn't have a point itself, because I'm just writing pointless things about my life, which doesn't have a point, and eventually this sort of logic sends me into a downward spiral of doom, which can only end in a padded cell and doctors shaking their heads over me.

So, in order to distract myself from these never-ending what-is-the-meaning-of-LIFE debates in my head, I write in here. Because, you know, padded cells and whatnot aren't exactly my primary ambition in life.

One Paranoid Poker Shark, Coming Up

2007-07-01T16:47:00.000-05:00

Wow. It's been so long that I'm having a hard time just starting this one off. Like when you meet an old friend again, after not hearing from him for a long time. After the initial exclamations and hugs, you back off and lapse into an awkward silence, broken by hesitant dialogues about where you've been keeping yourself all this time or whether you've heard from So-and-So recently, floundering about until eventually you find a glimmer of your old friend in this stranger and use it to break (or melt, as the case may be) the ice.

And yet, it hasn't really been all that long. Less than a month. Perhaps it feels so much longer because my life has gotten very boring lately. And by "lately," I mean in the last couple of weeks. Before that, it was all stress about my brother's wedding. Which, when it finally came off, was absolutely beautiful, to everyone's vast relief.

So now Joel's married. Becca's off in Prague, where we're not really sure what, if anything, she's actually doing. She's a mite vague when it comes to communicating her plans. But who wouldn't be, given our parents? They do have the tendency to fall to pieces at the slightest hint that something, somewhere, might be going wrong. For awhile, I was living in a haze of Post-Wedding-Stress-Let-Down, but that's degenerated into general summer boredom.

A boredom enhanced by the fact that I have no social life whatsoever, and therefore nowhere to go, other than the Bookstore That Won't Kick You Out No Matter How Many Hours You've Spent Reading Comics There That You Clearly Have No Intention Of Buying Because You Have No Money. Occasionally some creepy old man will proposition me. Damn it, I can't seem to find a guy who isn't at least forty years too old for me. Why can't I ever get a young guy? Preferably about twenty, slightly nerdy and intellectual, with good taste in music. But no, the nerd-boys keep their distance from me, like frightened bunnies. But let's not concentrate on my lack of success with the opposite sex, shall we?

Also, the only comic I'm really interested in right now is Astro City, which apparently isn't mainstream enough for that bookstore to sell. So I browse about for a bit, then give up and leave, making sure to take as many pointless detours and drive down as many cul-de-sacs as possible, in order to stave off the inevitable return home for just a little bit longer. At least long enough to finish whatever album I happen to be listening to at the time. And I'll be the first to admit I don't know how to spell cul-de-sac. But that's what spell-check told me. Good ol' spell-check. Saved my ass many a time. Then again, it consistently attempts to make me misspell my own name, like the dirty back-stabber it is. Just goes to show, you can't trust anything. Not even me. Especially not me. Take my advice too often, and you'll end up a paranoid little fucker who sits in a room and shuffles a card deck all day. I'm not even kidding, those cards are actually wearing a blister on my thumb. How's that for pathetic?

One of these days, though, I'm gonna make money off your asses like you won't believe at poker. Just you watch.

"Well you just laughed it off it was all ok"

2007-06-05T20:47:00.000-05:00

Shit, it's been awhile. A long while. One of those whiles where things keep happening to me, and I think to myself, "I should update my blog about this," and then more things happen to distract me and before I know it, a month's gone by, and so much has happened that it's too depressing to even begin trying to sort it all out.

My cat just distracted me by coming downstairs and meowing plaintively for attention. I comforted her somewhat, and she ran back upstairs. She knows she's not supposed to be in the basement.

But I digress. So much has happened since my last post. Like my senior retreat, where we stayed in yurts and went white-water rafting on an ass-cold river. And I mean cold. But, somehow, not as cold as the company (or lack thereof) of my yurt-mates (I had no idea it was possible for someone to ignore at you). I spent most of the time avoiding them, which was not without its perks. It ultimately meant that I got on an all-guy raft. So that was a plus. But these events, and the religion teacher's lecture, which sparked off some unpleasant self-examination in my head, combined and culminated in a nervous breakdown in the middle of the night. Fortunately, I knew better than to let anyone there know what was going on. Instead, I called Lauren, who calmed me down and made things make sense for me again. Sometimes I feel bad for her, being my friend. She has so much to deal with. At least she knows how.

Also, the senior prank, which involved cups of water, a giant pyramid made of more cups of water (not so easy), cars, plastic forks, toilet paper, and the moving of massive quantities of furniture. And football uniforms. It turned out brilliantly, thanks to our sleep-deprived efforts. Although only two seniors, myself and Thomas, stayed completely awake the entire night. That would be because we watched Pulse together on his laptop, and I discovered that I do, in fact, like horror movies. 'Specially when there's a cute guy sitting next to me. Besides, Pulse was genuinely good. Scary and goose-pimply and all that good horror shit.

More importantly, the senior trip, which consisted of eight days in Rome. Yes, the Italian one. That was... well, to my chagrin, I had the same roommates that I had on the retreat. Only this time, I had no recourse to Lauren. Well, what doesn't kill you only makes you stronger. So they say. All I can say is, if you had said that to me while I was freaking out because the lights had turned off because they had told me I couldn't eat with them and walked out, taking all the room keys with them (you had to have a key in the switch to run the electricity), which meant that I had no way of turning the lights back on (or getting back into the room if I left), and I don't deal with being alone in the dark in a strange city, well, if you had said that then, I would have hauled off and punched you in the mouth. But that's as much as I let things get me down all week (well, not exactly, but we won't go into that). I was determined not to let them ruin my trip. I won't let anyone, especially not them, have that kind of power over me.

Eventually, the rest of the class finally stepped in and took my side against Those Bitches (as they called them. I referred to them as The Alien Bitches From Hell, but then again, I was the one who had to live with them). So I ended up having a good time, despite their best efforts to the contrary.

And really, all whining aside, Rome was awesome. From the top of St. Peter's to the bottom of the catacombs. Because I avoided Them, I got to know other people better. Even dealing with the annoying vendors ("Is not stolen! 20 euro! Just for you!") was fun. We had to walk at least ten miles a day, at a killer pace, and we saw just about everything there is to see in Rome. The major basilicas, the Vatican, Via Appia, the catacombs, the Spanish Steps, all the shopping streets, the Pantheon, the Colosseum, Forum, various fountains, and, of course, numerous gelaterias. Not to mention the pope himself at an excruciatingly long and sunny Papal Audience. It was a privilege, I'm sure, but it was also a severe penance. I don't know how the Swiss guards (with whom I imediately fell in love...sigh) stand that heat. And they even wear spats. I sweat to think of it. We even took day trips to Assisi and Ostia Antica. And I managed to bring back a bottle of wine, and smuggle a Cuban cigar through (not, I'll admit, without a few anxious moments in Customs, what with the Atlanta airport making me fucking re-check my luggage once I'd gotten it back safely. And then Mr. V dropped Robby's red wine and it looked like we'd killed someone.... Yeah. Go Atlanta security. Good times).

So, yes, I enjoyed Rome. Whenever I could ignore those girls, I had a lovely time.

Most importantly of all, however, we graduated a week ago, meaning that I am no longer a high school student. I'm not anything, now. It's kind of a weird thought. August will come (faster than I'd like), and then life will catch up with me and I'll become a College Student, but for the time being, I'm nothing. It's nice, being nothing. Nothing's expected of you when you're nothing, and you can just drift along lazily, doing nothing.

Graduation went well. We all got dozens of meaningless awards. Faber was allowed to walk, so I got to see him again. And we all made fun of each other in our silly caps and gowns. Some of those caps wound up floating in the fountain as a result of the hat toss. Everyone got a CD with a song for each member of our class on it. My song was "Float On" by Modest Mouse. I approve.

After all, that's sort of what I'm doing right now, isn't it. What with my new nothing status and all. Just floating on. Don't you worry. Etc.

If I Could Do Just One Near-Perfect Thing, I'd Be Happy

2007-04-11T15:44:00.000-05:00

[This was supposed to be published about a week ago, but I forgot. Because I'm an idiot, that's why. Now shut up and read it.]

I saw a film last night. Blow-Up, it was called. By the Italian director, Michelango Antonioni. (Yeah, one of them Eyetalian art films). Came out in 1966 and made a deep impression. It was... well, I don't know how to describe it. Evocative. Spooky. Awe-inspiring. Humdrum words like great, cool, awesome, etc., don't even begin to cover it. It's so sad that today's society has taken a word like "awesome," which really refers to something so awe-inspiring that you're shaking with the sheer wonder and terror of it, and turned it into something drab and everyday. Taken something of great value, and made it valueless. Which, now that I think about it, actually has a lot to do with the movie. What is valuable, and what is not. What's lasting. What really exists.

As you can tell, I loved the movie. I was completely absorbed by it, to the point of forgetting my own existence. Which Antonioni would probably take as a compliment, since the film is mainly about existences and reality. Ostensibly, it's about a murder mystery, but it's really so much more. A fairly accurate synopsis would be "Blow-Up: A murder mystery... or is it?" As my Dad put it, "It contains more philosophy than ten Matrixes." Without the cop-out of a shitty computer system.

Even on the surface, though. The film epitomizes the '60's. The photographer dude, the main character, is about as '60's as you can get. So's everything in the movie. Sex, drugs, and rock 'n roll, it's all there. With the Yardbirds and the first onstage guitar-smashing ever thrown in. It jumpstarted the '60's in London, and I can see why. The sound of wind in the trees will never be the same to me. In fact, I don't think I'll be going outside on dark windy nights for quite some time.

I don't want to say too much about the movie, though, because you really should just see it without knowing anything about it. Just let it sink in. And, believe me, it will.

So on to other topics. I hung out with Fishy last Thursday, because good ol' Easter break had started. We had a good time together, although we thoroughly depressed ourselves that night by watching Brideshead Revisited and having conversations that were far too serious. Easter itself came and went. Catherine cooked a huge dinner, which was incredibly good. Rebecca and her boyfriend, John, came home, which meant the whole family was here. Easter Monday was great, because I didn't have school, so I got to have the house to myself all day. I stayed in my pajamas till 5 o'clock in the afternoon. That's how life should be lived.

Yesterday school started again. And life became depressing once more. Not to mention, the weather's really strange. It was snowing on Friday. No, you don't understand. This is April! In Georgia! But it was colder here on Easter than it was on Christmas! And that's just not fucking right! Not that I mind all that much. I like cold weather. It suits me. Cold, crisp, and sunny, that is. Not cold, mushy, and foggy. Like today. You might as well be walking in a cloud.

And believe me, walking in a cloud is not as romantic as it sounds. It's wet and grey. Just adds to the bleakness of waking up pointlessly early, going to a pointless school, and plodding to pointless classes which are becoming totally irrelevant as our last day of school approaches ever so slowly. Eventually it will come, however, and then we will be through with this place forever. Then we'll be off to college. And then the future, with all its adult cares and responsibilities will bare its teeth and pounce, much like the Assyrian who came down like a wolf on the fold. Sigh.

I've come to realize that my ambition in life is not to work. It's not that I'm so supremely lazy, but I have better things to do with my time. Like write. I want to spend my time creating works like Blow-Up. But my own. I want to give people that feeling that comes right after you encounter something good. Or true, or beautiful. I realize how vague that sounded. But I really can't find the words to describe it. Sense of fulfillment, I guess.

Then I will ride in my personal cherrypicker and ponder reality on my own terms. While picking off the neighbors with a sniper rifle. Hee hee.

Lord, What Fools These Mortals Be

2007-04-02T09:01:00.000-05:00

I don't really know how to start this one off. Because last week was half really fucking depressing, and half totally brilliant. So I guess I should start with the depressing stuff first. Get that out of the way. Then on to the cheerful bit, callous as it may seem, because it always sucks when you're laughing with your friends, and then they look at you all solemn and say, "I have cancer." Or something. Sort of feels like they hit you in the stomach. And then you feel guilty as all hell for laughing just a minute ago.

Not that I have cancer, mind you. No, before you start freaking out, that was merely a hypothetical situation. To illustrate my point. If you follow me. Anyway, what happened last week was definitely not hypothetical, unfortunately. Remember that friend I told you about in the last post? Not Paula, the one with the eighth-graders. Yeah. Him. That guy's name is Faber, and he was among my best friends at the school. I say "was" because he is no longer a student at this school. Yep, he got expelled. Or rather, "asked to leave," not that there's much difference.

All because he was retarded enough to make out with an eighth-grader on the plane during a school trip. I mean, how stupid can you be. Naturally, it was all over the school by Monday morning. And by Thursday, he was gone. I couldn't believe it. Nobody could believe it. The news passed among the seniors by word of mouth, and each one of us had exactly the same reaction: You're joking. But it was true. And now it's so weird at school. He was one of the few people there that I could actually talk to, without having to stick to certain topics, or feel awkward, or anything. One of the people who helped me through the day. And he had to go be a total fucktard and get himself kicked out.

I could go on like that, but I'm only depressing myself and probably annoying the shit out of you. So on to the good stuff! And what took my mind off the whole fiasco. The school play, A Midsummer Night's Dream, was performed on Friday and Saturday night. I helped out with makeup, stage crew, costume problems, etc., so I had to be at school until late at night everyday last week. And I had a total blast. I love being behind the scenes, unnoticed, but keeping the show running backstage. Besides, the play fucking rocked. When people hear the words "school play," they tend to think "piece of shit," but this really wasn't. For one thing, the makeup on the fairies was fucking spectacular. And instead of using a normal stage, the play was in the round (really square, but let's not split hairs here), so surrounded on all sides by the audience. Which made blocking a lot more complicated, since you had four sides to play to, instead of three. Also, there was almost no scenery, allowing for a lot more scope for acting and the imagination. Which is how they did it in Shakespeare's day.

Last, but not least, all the actors were good. And perfectly cast. Puck was a little seventh-grader who completely stole the show. The whole thing was really funny. When I think about it, it's mostly just a montage of good times, from rocking out to Queen in the bathroom while spraying large amounts of hairspray and spilling mascara, to calming a nervous fairy by letting her do my makeup very quietly backstage, discussing the merits of C.S. Lewis with Theseus during the intermission, laughing hysterically when Hermia wrestles Demetrius across the stage, then grabbing him backstage and folding down his collar so the audience wouldn't see where she made him bleed, and etc. The cast party after the final show on Saturday also went quite well. We mostly sat around and sang along to Queen songs. Our theme music.

So, like I said, the week started out very badly, but ended up alright. Too bad a new week started and I had to go back to school today. Today kind of sucked. Total letdown from all the excitement, I guess. Besides, this is Holy Week, which is always an ordeal to get through. It is my favorite liturgy of the year, though, so I shouldn't complain.

And I have Easter break to look forward to. A rest from all those people. :)

Peace, Paths, and Pedos

2007-03-25T20:59:00.000-05:00

Ouch. Owie. My ass is so sore I can barely sit down. :( No, not like that, you nasty-minded people. I just went biking over the weekend and I swear the bycicle seat is firmly etched onto my ass.
I just spent the weekend at Paula's farm, down in what used to be the country south of Atlanta, and is now The Giant Traffic Nightmare of Overdevelopment. In other words, where all overzealous developers go to receive their eternal rewards. But Paula's farm, surrounded as it may be by the giant lights, gas stations, and McDonald's that replaced the once-gorgeous pastureland, is still a tranquil haven. Coming into their home after a long, gruelling drive from Atlanta feels like a drink of cool water after a long thirst. They're so peaceful, somehow. I don't know how they do it. Paula's family, I mean.

Paula is my friend. Funny how inadequate that sentence seems. We've known each other quite literally all our lives. Seventeen years, to be precise. Well, maybe not quite seventeen. She is, after all, six weeks older than me. But who's counting? Anyway, I've always loved coming down to her farm, because it's so peaceful and she always spoils me and somehow makes me want to be a better person. Makes me feel like maybe it's all worth it, after all.

So on this particular weekend, I battled the traffic down to her place, from whence we set out to the Gardens, which are a huge expanse of, well, gardens with all sorts of paths for walkers and bikers, lakes, trick waterskiing, butterfly houses, picnic grounds, you name it, as long as it has something to do with nature. Usually I don't like nature. Too buggy and hot. Plus, my family is very, shall we say, delicate. As in, any contact with nature whatsoever will cause us to break out into One Giant Itching Rash. And bleed like stuck pigs, no matter how lightly we prick ourselves.

But this nature was gorgeous. Early spring in the South is a sight to behold. Forsythia, cherries, dogwoods, huge azaleas, daffodils, and all sorts of flowers that I don't know the names of since I usually tend to avoid nature, all in full bloom. Or should I say explosion. The temperature was perfect, almost, but not quite, hot. And the full humidity hasn't plopped itself down yet. If it weren't for the vast amounts of pollen....

So Paula and I rented bikes and went off into the wild brilliant green yonder. Well, if staying on carefully paved bike paths counts as "wild." At first, we intended to take a path that went around some lakes, a little over a mile and half, all in all. Things didn't exactly work out that way. First of all, actually finding the damn path took some doing. After several false leads, we finally turned around and found the right one. By the grace of God alone, I'm sure, because at that point we couldn't read the confusing maps to save our souls. Once on the path, we then sped off, merrily biking up hill and down dale, exclaiming at ducks and turtles, flowers, and whatnot. We had to backtrack briefly to find a store when I discovered that I was VERY thirsty (also, I'm afraid to admit, one of us was starting to moan "I'm gonna DIE!" whenever we biked uphill, without regard to the hill's actual steepness. I won't say who, but it was not Paula). After going on our way once again, we encountered no problems (barring a few mishaps like near falls and Hills of Doom), until the last quarter, when our path rejoined its fellow paths and we had to start consulting the Really Unhelpful Map again. Becoming frustrated, I simply started following the signs, calling to Paula that it was much easier. And it is, as long as you remember to actually READ the signs. At one particular fork in the road, I glanced briefly at the signs, and sped on. "Shouldn't we consult the map?" Paula, who actually had a brain, asked. "I don't care, this way's downhill!" I called over my shoulder as I blithely pedalled away.

Broad is the path that leads to destruction. They don't tell you it's also downhill. Unless I'm misremembering my quotes, which I could easily be. Anyway, after following that path for a few minutes, it finally ended, and a new one began. A new...dirt...one. "Um, Paula? This might not be for bikes." But we continued anyway, assuming that maybe the path had made a mistake and we were right after all. But it proved itself right in the end with a large sign that said Bikes Not Allowed. So, feeling a bit silly, we turned ourselves around, said hello to two little old ladies that we'd definitely seen before somewhere on the paths (either they were teleporting, or they were Olympic Walkers, but damn, those little old ladies got around. That was not to be our last meeting with them, either). After leaving the not-for-bikes path, we finally found a for-bikes path. After pedalling for what seemed like an eternity, we came to the end of it. And to the end of the ground. Yes, it was a dead end. Led right up to the lake, where they had a handy-dandy little docking place for a bike ferry that was Not Running Today. We sat there, discouraged and panting, before we could brace ourselves to go all the fucking way back. Which we did, I'm proud to say, although a few more "I'm DYING!'s" were heard before we finally reached the right path again. The uphill one. Straight and narrow. Scriptural and proper. And, wouldn't you know it, there were the little old ladies. "My, you're getting around today!" one of them exclaimed. Likewise, I'm sure, I thought about calling out, but I was too aware of my muscles at that point to care.

Well, we did it. We FINALLY reached the end, after going at least a mile more than we meant to. Then we sat on the tram and fell asleep as the pretty flowers went by. Ah, the sense of accomplishment.

I had to return home early on Sunday because of my damn Latin lesson, so the peaceful feeling didn't last as long as it usually does. And it definitely died with a vengeance today, when I went back to school. School's just so fucking pointless and I can't talk to anyone there or see why I should try and I hate all those rich jokers and I just end up missing Lauren and feeling sorry for myself because everything's my fault and life sucks, dammit all. Sniff. What certainly didn't help was that a guy I liked in my class had been caught doing some highly inappropriate things with a couple of eighth-graders, and it was all over the school. Which I neither can nor want to imagine. Him and the eighth-graders, not it being all over the school, I mean. My friend is a pedo. Fucking depressing.

So that just put the cherry on the cake, as they say. Wait, do they say that? Is that the right expression? Shit, I don't know.

In Which, Spudge Proves Her Skill at Rambling

2007-03-21T17:38:00.000-05:00

This week has been weird, for some reason. Very slow and long. And depressing, especially when you consider how happy last week was. I guess it figures. Seems like you always get slapped in the face right after a good time.

I have absolutely nothing to talk about. Nothing's happened to me, particularly. Well, no, that's not true. A lot of shit's been going down, but a) I don't want to have to rename this blog Online Bitching, and b) second-hand gossip's really boring. Especially to read. And especially if you don't know the people involved. Which a lot of you don't.

Mainly this week, I've been sleepy. The effects of the lock-in and the time change, no doubt. One of these years, I'm just not going to go along with that stupidass time change. All it does is fuck with your mind so that you're constantly sleepy, grumpy, and yet one more step on the way to the psychiatric ward. Seriously, folks, on Monday we had a confirmation Mass (at school, in case you were wondering), and it got so bad that I fell asleep in Mass and slept right through the actual confirmation ceremony. I don't even fucking remember it! I closed my eyes for a moment during the sermon, only to awake with a jerk, thinking "Wait, weren't they supposed to get confirmed?" They were. And they did. But I missed the whole thing. So thank you very much, but I'll take showing up an hour late for everything over slowly driving myself over the edge from lack of sleep and frustration.

Oh, well. Could have been worse. Could have been raining. At least I'm not all that close to any of those kids (the confirmands. Or maybe it's confirmandi. Who knows. These high-falutin' names), mostly juniors and sophomores, so it's not like I slept through my best friend's confirmation.

Shit, I'm being boring today, aren't I. I'm too tired to be entertaining right now. I can't seem to stop yawning. Which has been an ongoing problem all week. My biochem teacher probably thinks I hate her class. Not true, I assure you. I do, in fact, enjoy experimenting with dangerous chemicals. Likewise, I enjoy architecture (we're building a frame for a house. Not a real frame, just a model of a real frame. But still cool!), religion (we just sit around and talk about Aristotle and Groundhog Day), english (where I'm usually full awake because my teacher's so damn interesting), and calculus (although only because the teacher totally rocks, and I like the actual subject matter of calc). I do hate my history class (I have learned absolutely nothing. It's the most boring class on God's green earth. The teacher just sits there and goes off on tangents that bore you to the point of compelling you to distract yourself with something for fear of your eyeballs falling out of your skull with the sheer boredom of it all). And I absolutely despise Greek.

It occurs to me that if I go on in this vein (vane? vain?), this really will turn into Online Bitching. Wait, what the hell did I think it was going to be? I mean, it's a fucking blog about my life! What the fuck else am I gonna do on it? Really, teenage girl plus blog plus power to vent equals ZOMG MY LIFE IS LIKE SO SUCKING RITE NOW AND I DONT NO WUT TO DO!!!!!!!!!.?!!/!?!.!?! Or, depending on what type of girl we're talking about here, it could be something more like: my parents told me to take out the garbege. i hate my parents. i look at the blak garbege bag and my sole is blak like the blakness of the blak garbege bag.

Wow. I just now realized how long this post is getting. And in the beginning I said I had nothing to talk about. I thought I didn't. But what I think is often very different from reality. Besides, most of this is about nothing. Just me wasting everyone's precious time and rambling on without knowing when to shut up.

So I shut up now. :D

Teenagers On The Loose

2007-03-17T20:58:00.001-05:00

So hello there. I'm Spudge. You'll get to know me if you stick with me, so I won't bother with any long boring introductions that end up making me sound far more egocentric than I actually am. Suffice to say, I am your typical teenage girl. Who goes to a school filled with rich people. Rich boring people. And yeah, part of that's sour grapes because I am not rich.

Fish Fillet, known on here as Abused Mollusc, is my bestest friend in the whole wide world. She is also quite the boy-magnet. In fact, let me tell you a little story about that. Last night I went to the hockey game with her and the rest of my family, but we weren't sitting with them. Not because we think we're too cool or anything (well, actually, we do, but come on, what teenager doesn't?), but because Dad bought seats on opposite sides of the rink. So the last thing my Dad said to us was "Now don't pick up any guys!" "Ha ha," we replied, and headed on. Famous last laugh. Because, you see, there was this guy sitting in front of us who kept turning around and flirting with us the whole time. He was really funny and a total dork, which, in my book, are two points in his favor. At first, his interest definitely lay more in Fishy (after all, she's the boy-magnet. I'm usually the one excluded), but when she informed that she had a boyfriend, he mentally crossed her out and turned his full attention on me. So I had a very good time.

We walked out with him when we left, and when we met up with Dad, Fishy grabbed the guy's arm and said, "I picked up a guy!" Dad was in a good mood because the Thrashers had won (The game was fucking awesome, by the way. Thrashers v. Rangers. We won by one goal in the last minute of the game. Oh, and there was an amazing fight, which the refs actually didn't interrupt until our Thrashers guy had kicked the other guy's ass. Can you tell I like hockey?) so he just laughed. The funny thing, though, was that he and the guy (I never got his name, but Fishy did get his number, so we'll have to see) hit it off right away. In fact, he talked to him the whole way out.

I guess I should explain that my parents are rather protective of me, so I really had no idea how Dad would react. But all went well in the end, proving my worries needless.

But I was dead tired. I had had exactly half an hour's worth of sleep the night before. It was the senior lock-in at our school. Much wackiness ensued. As you can only imagine when you put a group of very silly and hyper teenagers together. I don't want to go into much detail, but let's just say the night included a Connect-Four marathon; looking in the ceilings and damaging school property while hunting a gargoyle (we found it twice within the space of 40 minutes. We are so smart); steak; throwing soccer bags at the ceiling; throwing basketballs, volleyballs, footballs, and you name it at the ceiling in a futile attempt to get soccer bags down; climbing ladders and poking at soccerbags with long poles made of several brooms/mops taped together; Groundhog Day; tickling; giggling; stealing the teacher's academic robes and running around with our arms out all immature and teenage, yelling "WOO I'M BATMAN!"; trying in vain to sleep on the hard, cold, religion classroom floor; wandering the halls with a severe case of insomnia; giving up and heading to Starbuck's at 6:15; cursing more than usual when it hits us that we have a long, long day of school ahead of us...; and etc.

Any questions as to why I was tuckered out? Not to mention that it was St. Patrick's Day festivities, and we ended up in danger of catching pneumonia by standing outside in the cold watching teachers get pied in the face. Not that I'm complaining, mind you. Watching Miss K take a pie paid for every fucking thing she made me suffer throughout junior year. And Mr. P's turn paid for the entire time I've spent at that Prep Paradise.

Yep. That's my school. And that's me. *bows* Thank you all.