Saturday, June 14, 2008
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Toxic Euphoria: The Power of Cher
It is a Thursday afternoon in Columbus, GA. I'm sitting at the school in the Davidson Student Center, and needless to say, I'm thoroughly bored.
Of course there are things I could go off and do to amuse myself, but I've done them all too many times, and the repetitiveness of my day to day routine is slowly destroying what's left of my shriveled soul.
Enter Cher.
The SGA Secretary overheard me telling Andre how I felt about Cher...the deep affection that I hold for her moving voice, the way her upbeat rhythms give me hope, and how without her, I may not be half the man I am this very day. Then the secretary, Emily, in all of her infinite wisdom and kindness, not only put Believe on....but she had the music video playing for all to enjoy.
I walked over to the window so no one could see evidence of the sudden surge of emotions I just experienced, and stared out with a smile and the footprints of tears across my cheeks. Today, I thought, might not be so bad after all...
Of course there are things I could go off and do to amuse myself, but I've done them all too many times, and the repetitiveness of my day to day routine is slowly destroying what's left of my shriveled soul.
Enter Cher.
The SGA Secretary overheard me telling Andre how I felt about Cher...the deep affection that I hold for her moving voice, the way her upbeat rhythms give me hope, and how without her, I may not be half the man I am this very day. Then the secretary, Emily, in all of her infinite wisdom and kindness, not only put Believe on....but she had the music video playing for all to enjoy.
I walked over to the window so no one could see evidence of the sudden surge of emotions I just experienced, and stared out with a smile and the footprints of tears across my cheeks. Today, I thought, might not be so bad after all...
Monday, September 10, 2007
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Game Day: Prologue
We began our preparations for today long ago, hunting down tickets, planning out tailgating locations, deciding what time we'd leave from point A to go to point B, and sifting through a host of other details. Izzy and I have Student tickets to the game, yet we are not students, so I worked on some fake ID's yesterday...they looked spiffy on the computer, thanks to my copy of Photoshop CS 8, but nobody owned a printer good enough to do them justice, so we're stuck.
That brings us to today. The time is 12:40 PM, and our gameplan states that we leave at 1:00 to begin the festivities. That won't happen.
I'm using Robert Davis's UGA ID, and praying that I look like him by 5:45. To get into character, I've been playing RPG's all morning, and making insulting comments that instigate legitimate issues within the apartment.
My Game Predictions:
Georgia defeats South Carolina, and does so by a margin of more than 10 points.
Steve Spurrier throws his hat and or clipboard at least three times during regulation play.
More than 60% of UGA Sorority girls will wear dresses to the game, and 100% of me won't understand why.
Joel's still asleep upstairs, spooning with Charles. I'm gonna go deflate his bed.
That brings us to today. The time is 12:40 PM, and our gameplan states that we leave at 1:00 to begin the festivities. That won't happen.
I'm using Robert Davis's UGA ID, and praying that I look like him by 5:45. To get into character, I've been playing RPG's all morning, and making insulting comments that instigate legitimate issues within the apartment.
My Game Predictions:
Georgia defeats South Carolina, and does so by a margin of more than 10 points.
Steve Spurrier throws his hat and or clipboard at least three times during regulation play.
More than 60% of UGA Sorority girls will wear dresses to the game, and 100% of me won't understand why.
Joel's still asleep upstairs, spooning with Charles. I'm gonna go deflate his bed.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Just for safety's sake
Tuesday's and Thursday's are long days for me. Also, for some reason, I get stomach pains on these particular evenings. My last class lets out at 8:20. Cleaning up ink in Printmaking is a bitch like no other. Usually, I high-tail it to my car with a whistle in one hand, phone in the other, just for safety's sake.
Tonight, however, a particularly fun event took place at the sculpture studio. A bonfire, hamburgers, and corn (yeah, corn). I decide to walk briskly to the studio, whistle in one hand, phone in the other, just for safety's sake.
Down at the sculpture studio, there is a large bonfire, and off to the side what appears to be a flamming bird. Strange to say the least. This guy, Shawn, tells me I can have a hamburger, but he's eaten the last bun. Then, he continues to talk about the difference between the languages of Chinese and Japanese. Suddenly, two girls get up, and begin to throw fire. That's right, throw it. They had in each hand chains with flamming balls at the end, and were swinging them around. It was quite enchanting. Some others joined in with bongos and drums while the swinging flames mesmerized the audience. I felt like I should have had my acoustic, and someone should be passing around a joint. After the fire show, I high-tailed it to my car, whistle in one hand, phone in the other, just for safety's sake.
I arrive home. Laura isn't here. The house is dark. I walk to the door, whistle in one hand, phone in the other, just for safety's sake.
God my stomach hurts. I took a shower with Dehilah playing on my American Idol microphone. She annoys me. I don't find her voice soothing at all. It's patronizing and fake. I listened to a really good song by Phil Collins. I love him. Afterward, a swig of Pepto-Bismol has landed me infront of the T.V. watching the ARTS channel. Maybe I'll just fall asleep here tonight, whistle in one hand, phone in the other, just for safety's sake.
Tonight, however, a particularly fun event took place at the sculpture studio. A bonfire, hamburgers, and corn (yeah, corn). I decide to walk briskly to the studio, whistle in one hand, phone in the other, just for safety's sake.
Down at the sculpture studio, there is a large bonfire, and off to the side what appears to be a flamming bird. Strange to say the least. This guy, Shawn, tells me I can have a hamburger, but he's eaten the last bun. Then, he continues to talk about the difference between the languages of Chinese and Japanese. Suddenly, two girls get up, and begin to throw fire. That's right, throw it. They had in each hand chains with flamming balls at the end, and were swinging them around. It was quite enchanting. Some others joined in with bongos and drums while the swinging flames mesmerized the audience. I felt like I should have had my acoustic, and someone should be passing around a joint. After the fire show, I high-tailed it to my car, whistle in one hand, phone in the other, just for safety's sake.
I arrive home. Laura isn't here. The house is dark. I walk to the door, whistle in one hand, phone in the other, just for safety's sake.
God my stomach hurts. I took a shower with Dehilah playing on my American Idol microphone. She annoys me. I don't find her voice soothing at all. It's patronizing and fake. I listened to a really good song by Phil Collins. I love him. Afterward, a swig of Pepto-Bismol has landed me infront of the T.V. watching the ARTS channel. Maybe I'll just fall asleep here tonight, whistle in one hand, phone in the other, just for safety's sake.
Childhood was so much easier
The rigors of life seem to multiply almost exponentially as we age, and yet our ability to deal with them fails to keep up. Young adults are turning toward medication and therapy at a rate that should scare people. I understand that psychologists and witch doctors can help individuals to cope with tough times, but it's almost like people no longer try to make it on their own.
I've been to a therapist or two in my day, I admit, and the first one was a nice guy. Sorta looked like Bull from Night Court (by the way, the character's name in the show was actually Nostradamus Shannon...which is awesome). I cannot say that much came from talking with this man, but we did play a lot of card games. One of his colleagues diagnosed me as ADD and drugged me with mind altering substances to 'make me normal.' Normal sucks. Normal is the last thing on Earth I want to be.
The second shrink I went to see was a witch doctor. This bat crazy voodoo sorceress tried to convince me that the path to being 'cured' was obviously for me to go talk to her horse. I don't need to say anything else. I'm ending this paragraph now.
I did not want to talk to these people, though I was urged to by the powers that be, so I did so. I personally think the real cure for anyone who's feeling down is to get back to those happier times. Wake up and do the things you did when you were young and carefree. Play in the mud, build a fort, shove vitamins up your nose, color on the walls, and not worry about anything.
To summarize, I believe that ultimate psychological salvation lies entirely in watching Bobby's World.
I've been to a therapist or two in my day, I admit, and the first one was a nice guy. Sorta looked like Bull from Night Court (by the way, the character's name in the show was actually Nostradamus Shannon...which is awesome). I cannot say that much came from talking with this man, but we did play a lot of card games. One of his colleagues diagnosed me as ADD and drugged me with mind altering substances to 'make me normal.' Normal sucks. Normal is the last thing on Earth I want to be.
The second shrink I went to see was a witch doctor. This bat crazy voodoo sorceress tried to convince me that the path to being 'cured' was obviously for me to go talk to her horse. I don't need to say anything else. I'm ending this paragraph now.
I did not want to talk to these people, though I was urged to by the powers that be, so I did so. I personally think the real cure for anyone who's feeling down is to get back to those happier times. Wake up and do the things you did when you were young and carefree. Play in the mud, build a fort, shove vitamins up your nose, color on the walls, and not worry about anything.
To summarize, I believe that ultimate psychological salvation lies entirely in watching Bobby's World.
Adventures in Shitting
Don't read this if you're easily grossed out, you pussy.
Picture this: a sunny, muggy, 100+ degree day in the middle of August. It's miserable out, but luckily, I have my trusty Ford E-350 Super Duty billboard box truck with its ice cold air conditioning, my mp3 player (thanks Woot!), and my FM transmitter. Just five fast hours of the best job ever.
So, I start my route. Smooth sailing all around town thus far, no wrecks or any major traffic congestion. An hour or so in, though, it hits me. I have to shit. Lucky for me, I'm very close to my local East Athens marketplace, the Wal-Mart Supercenter on Lexington Road. This is one of the few establishments where there are enough parking spots for me to take up two with my truck and not feel like a complete bastard, so I pull in and make a mad dash for the bathroom. I scan my options. There's two stalls, and stall one is occupied. Stall two's door is open! All right! Handicapped stalls rock. So I mosey on in, but wait! Oops, the gentleman shitting in stall number two forgot to close the door! Maybe if he was handicapped and for some reason unable to close the door, I could forgive him, but this guy seemed perfectly capable of shutting a door and locking it. Pissed off, distraught, and literally scared shitless, I made a hasty exit. Next destination: Wal-Mart Supercenter on Epps Bridge Parkway, about 10 miles away.
All right! I'm here. I walk into this Wal-Mart, squeezing my cheeks together. I enter the bathroom. Both stalls appear empty. I check the handicapped stall to make sure that I don't have a friend waiting for me. No one's there. Success! It's time to get down to business. By now, a I've got another person in the bathroom with me, a little kid. He gets in the stall next to me. No worries, so long as he's not in the stall WITH me. Anyway, the stage is set, and right as my big moment is coming, I get hit in the foot. The mood is destroyed. My neighbor has hit me in the foot with a roll of toilet paper that had just enough paper left on it to give it enough mass to have the momentum to make it from his stall to my feet. Game over. My shitting experience is ruined and delayed yet again. Adios, Wal-Mart, I'm off to greener, less interruptive pastures. This time, we're talking Target, and it's only 3.2 miles away.
I enter the store. Terrific! The bathrooms are much closer to the entrance than in Wal-Mart. Fewer people will be able to see me walking like I have to shit or something. I walk into the bathroom and it smells like Heaven. I don't know what they use to clean the bathrooms at Target, but I have to get some. The stalls are empty. I hop in one and prepare myself for what is a beautiful dump. I've got a couple visitors, but no one does anything directly to me to destroy this sacred event. Judging by the legs and feet of the people in the bathroom, they were probably standing in awe and reverence at the holy, pristine temple that is the Target bathroom.
Thank you for making my day, Target. This is only one of millions of reasons I prefer you to that shithole, Wal-Mart. I'll never cheat on you again.
Picture this: a sunny, muggy, 100+ degree day in the middle of August. It's miserable out, but luckily, I have my trusty Ford E-350 Super Duty billboard box truck with its ice cold air conditioning, my mp3 player (thanks Woot!), and my FM transmitter. Just five fast hours of the best job ever.
So, I start my route. Smooth sailing all around town thus far, no wrecks or any major traffic congestion. An hour or so in, though, it hits me. I have to shit. Lucky for me, I'm very close to my local East Athens marketplace, the Wal-Mart Supercenter on Lexington Road. This is one of the few establishments where there are enough parking spots for me to take up two with my truck and not feel like a complete bastard, so I pull in and make a mad dash for the bathroom. I scan my options. There's two stalls, and stall one is occupied. Stall two's door is open! All right! Handicapped stalls rock. So I mosey on in, but wait! Oops, the gentleman shitting in stall number two forgot to close the door! Maybe if he was handicapped and for some reason unable to close the door, I could forgive him, but this guy seemed perfectly capable of shutting a door and locking it. Pissed off, distraught, and literally scared shitless, I made a hasty exit. Next destination: Wal-Mart Supercenter on Epps Bridge Parkway, about 10 miles away.
All right! I'm here. I walk into this Wal-Mart, squeezing my cheeks together. I enter the bathroom. Both stalls appear empty. I check the handicapped stall to make sure that I don't have a friend waiting for me. No one's there. Success! It's time to get down to business. By now, a I've got another person in the bathroom with me, a little kid. He gets in the stall next to me. No worries, so long as he's not in the stall WITH me. Anyway, the stage is set, and right as my big moment is coming, I get hit in the foot. The mood is destroyed. My neighbor has hit me in the foot with a roll of toilet paper that had just enough paper left on it to give it enough mass to have the momentum to make it from his stall to my feet. Game over. My shitting experience is ruined and delayed yet again. Adios, Wal-Mart, I'm off to greener, less interruptive pastures. This time, we're talking Target, and it's only 3.2 miles away.
I enter the store. Terrific! The bathrooms are much closer to the entrance than in Wal-Mart. Fewer people will be able to see me walking like I have to shit or something. I walk into the bathroom and it smells like Heaven. I don't know what they use to clean the bathrooms at Target, but I have to get some. The stalls are empty. I hop in one and prepare myself for what is a beautiful dump. I've got a couple visitors, but no one does anything directly to me to destroy this sacred event. Judging by the legs and feet of the people in the bathroom, they were probably standing in awe and reverence at the holy, pristine temple that is the Target bathroom.
Thank you for making my day, Target. This is only one of millions of reasons I prefer you to that shithole, Wal-Mart. I'll never cheat on you again.
planes, trains, and nancy botwin.
i like train travel. sure, it takes longer and sometimes your space gets invaded when the person sitting next to you falls asleep and subsequently, falls over your "ridge." for those of you scratching your heads right about now, a "ridge" is a term i've recently become familiar with. according to my friend, matt, the "ridge" is the raised portion of a seat on a subway train that divides a person's designated seat. i suppose this applies to regular train travel, too. whatever. the "ridge" is not the point (and i'm secretly cringing at the fact that i keep calling it a "ridge." oh god, it's like i can't stop.)
anyway, despite all these things, i still prefer train travel to flying. here's why. a) flying sucks. b) i was able to enjoy season two of weeds on my last journey. ooh la la. three cheers for nancy botwin and her agrestic posse. apparently, they provide power outlets on trains (yay yay yay), so all you need is a laptop, and a boxed set of your favorite series or films, and you're all set. just sit back, relax, and enjoy the time to yourself. no hassel. no worries. until your space gets invaded by the woman sleeping next to you, but that's another story.
i still can't believe they killed peter. he was creepy, but death? so unecessary.
anyway, despite all these things, i still prefer train travel to flying. here's why. a) flying sucks. b) i was able to enjoy season two of weeds on my last journey. ooh la la. three cheers for nancy botwin and her agrestic posse. apparently, they provide power outlets on trains (yay yay yay), so all you need is a laptop, and a boxed set of your favorite series or films, and you're all set. just sit back, relax, and enjoy the time to yourself. no hassel. no worries. until your space gets invaded by the woman sleeping next to you, but that's another story.
i still can't believe they killed peter. he was creepy, but death? so unecessary.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
There was a concert behind my house. A kid rapper named Lil' Crisp performed for the MCD Live (Mcdonald's Live) in the parking lot. Apparantly, there is a website, www.mcdlive.com. It appeared to be a big deal...nice stage set up, but not a huge crowd. He sounded about 5 years old, singing like he's 23. Amusing.
I'm gonna be so famous
My sole purpose in contributing to this team blog is to ride the coattails of Kern Clark's success.
Let me tell you about my blog.
This masterpiece in modern indie-journalism is the combined effort of the greatest minds of a generation. Our authors come from throughout the American Southeast, and bring with them an uncanny knowledge of absolutely everything.
The following is the world from their points of view.
Enjoy.
The following is the world from their points of view.
Enjoy.
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