My Weekend

Well here's my going's on. I don't have any great insights today. I never do, but I like to pretend that when I set out to write these things (blog. Blog? That damn word...) I have an idea of where i'm going to go with them. This creates the illusion, in my mind, of a great plan; arching ideas where the reader intently leans against his/her elbows, eyes illuminated, brain racing trying to keep up. You all weep. You all cry. You all clamor for more. I hope this really does happen. That would make me say the word blog.

So last night I finished Running With Scissors. It was awesome, and made me only think, after I was done, "Why can't I write a book then?" Then I realized that my life wasn't his and I wasn't gay and my childhood stories are like laffy taffy jokes compared to Augusten Borroughs' stories. But it still made me want to write a book.

Then this morning I officially switched showers to the secondary shower. I couldn't help it. The old shower is a demon. It's a scary monster and I'm afraid of it. I feel like my grandma who's scared of the dvd player. I don't know how it works, I don't know how to operate it, and I'm certainly not the one in control. So I stole all of my things from it and went to the other bathroom. It's like bliss. The lighting is even better. It's like showering in a rainforest, tropical paradise. I'm in love. And slightly scared of what the old shower will say.

On the way to work this morning my mom said, "BURN IN HELL JAMES FREY!!!" over the phone. Yelled it. I couldn't agree any more.

Tonight Natalie and I will be seeing Girl Talk in Salt Lake. This is awesome to me.

Tomorrow Natalie, Liz, and I are all going trick or treating in the dorms. Liz is dressing as Margot Tennenbaum. I should have been the Baumber. I remember back in the summer I had actually SAID OUTLOUD that I wanted to be Richie. I think it's when I saw some cool glasses and a tennis racket. I just remembered that right now though. It's ok, my costume is great anyways. Natalie and I are being Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald. We've got classy clothes and a bottle of Welch's 1975. It'll be an affair to remember. Then after that we're all heading up to Salt Lake to see Rocky Horror Picture show, as done by the latter-day transvestites. I wonder how they're voting Prop 8...

So this is my weekend. We'll see how it goes. I'm sure it'll go awesomely. But maybe our Suburban will flip or I'll break my leg again or something. Somebody pray that doesn't happen. Not me though. I'm not praying that. Then it gives God the idea. Then I'm goin' down.

Today has no point. haha. Except for Girl Talk. Doin' time. Wastin' mine.

Voting is titillating

Voting is the tits.

That's right. There's nothing more sexy, more appealing, more ENDEARING than the right to vote. There's nothing bigger and brawnier than a strong bicep pulling down that lever in that curtained booth. There's not one thing better in my mind than knowing that your vote goes to a representative in the electoral college of my state, who will then vote for the person he thinks is best (probably the party that paid him off). There's nothing better to me than not knowing who the hell I actually am pulling that lever for. And there's nothing better than knowing I'm gonna vote me some local politics.

You see, earlier today, after a very disparaging conversation with my older, purportedly wiser brother, I was distraught. He told me I couldn't vote because I didn't mail in my ballot by yesterday (he was wrong, I am wiser). He then told me I was out of the family. Incensed, I made a call. A call to my EFFING CONGRESSMAN. He answered the phone and looked up my information like a little lap dog.

And yes, I am eligible to vote. This is probably one of the most significant elections in my immediate history. And in case you were wondering; I'm voting Obama/Biden. And then I'm voting Bennion Spencer.

And then I'm eating Gandolphos and laughing and laughing and laughing all the way to the nonexistent bank.

I'm Learning... I'm growing.

Provo is gorgeous right now. There’s not a cloud in the sky, the mountains are nice dusty little friends next door. I had a fun morning. I was up at 2 AM watching kung fu movies in Spanish and making pork chops. I went to bed and woke up at about 9. I made some delicious toast, slathered in chunky peanut butter and honey and cinnamon. Damn it was a good morning. Then I went to 7-11 down the street to get my daily 44 oz of Diet Coke (don’t judge). I even bought a shrimp lime cup-o-noodles (don’t judge). And then, I locked my keys in my car. And I was kind of pissed off. But then I sat outside for an hour and half and just enjoyed Provo. I never knew there were so many homeless people. Natalie’s been telling me for a long time to get a spare key to put under my car. I knew she was right; especially when the homeless black guy told me the same thing. He yelled at me to duct tape a key up there. I loved that guy because he knew JUST how to small talk. Sincere long laughs and then a pat on the shoulder to say goodbye. I think that comes with age, knowing how to talk to people like that. Homeless people are so awesome to me. I sat on the curb after I found a locksmith to call; I sat there with my cup o noodles and my big gulp and tried to look homeless. I wanted people to think it so badly. I’d love to be homeless sometimes. You see so much. Man.

So then I sat there on the curb and I saw a lot of cool things. I saw a funny bike and I saw a man with three Mexican women that were laughing really loudly and he bought them groceries, but looked very ashamed through his small smile. I saw Obama getting gas. He looked just like him. I saw people in very worn shoes and ill-fitting dress shirts getting on buses to go to work. I saw people calling about jobs. I saw a man with a walking stick and very nice clothes followed by a guy with a mustache and a can of soda walk into an alley to a research place. I got to just sit. Finally the guy from the pop-a-lock company showed up in his beautifully emblazoned truck. I don’t understand why every locksmith company gives their workmen a big truck to drive around in. They only have about 2 tools they use. It just seems silly to me. But he came in his huge truck and performed the fastest door jam service I’ve seriously ever seen. And I’ve seen a lot (Austin).

So all in all, my trip to 7-11 took about an hour and half. It cost me a little over 40 dollars. But I like to think of it that I paid to make myself sit still and enjoy the city a little bit. And I saw some cool stuff. Like a helicopter.

Of course, this all probably would have been more interesting if I hadn’t done the same thing about a month ago. I don’t deserve a car.

Blockers of the blue.

I like my blueblockers. A lot. I like them because I put them over my face and they make my hair sweep over the tops of them and they keep things out of my eyes. Like blue. I like them because I can look at a lot of things and they look entirely different than they would normally. Normal colors don’t exist. Things are far more cut, lined, edged. It’s like someone took the world and made every detail finer. With my glasses on I don’t have to worry about a lot. In fact sometimes I get so caught up on wearing them that I’ll realize that I’m driving or something and get instantly scared because… wow, I’m driving. I could hit something. I could run off the road. I could die. This is a side-effect of these glasses. You get so caught up in how they rest against the bridge of your nose and your forehead, in the way that the colors everywhere seem to turn off and on, that you forget where you are or what you’re doing. I like them because people look at me and see big reflective amber plates where they’re supposed to be able to read me. I like them because nobody else has them. I like them because they feel like a friend. I think other people should find something like this that they have in their life. Headphones, an ipod, a pillow, a book, a journal. Some small semblance of who they are that they constantly need near them or on them to help define them. A little placard explaining themselves and what they’re about. A Hello My Name Is sticker. Maybe this would make finding friends easier. You could look at a person and their thing, their one thing, and you could say, “That’s interesting, tell me about it.” You could ask, “What do you write about in that journal?” or “what do you find in that bottle?” Or “What do you carry in that backpack?” And then we could all show each other what we find in our things; I’d put my glasses on your face, and you’d put your headphones in my ears. I’d sip from your brown bag and you’d spill all the books and ink pens and drawing pads out of your back pack. I’d even show you my rock collection. I think that would make the world a little easier to get along with. If we were all just a little more interested in each other’s insides.

My fabulous driving record. (Dear God don't let my mother read this)

Before I moved to this state, I thought of myself as a particularly good driver. I was in control, but daring. I could make moves other people only did so unawares of the danger that would befall them if they failed to perform perfectly. I did fishtails on wet kentucky backroads blasting Jack White. I also caught a car on fire, blew an engine going 90, and ended up in a field with a few friends after we forgot to break for a stop sign (I wasn't driving... but I did yell a lot).

Ok, I wasn't the greatest ever. I'm not Bobby Labonte ok! (If you were wondering, I'm getting a tattoo on my forearm. That's what it says)

But the thing is, since I've been here, I'm the king of motor vehicle infractions. Just last night I got pulled over for a tail light AND a headlight being out. This was, in fact, my second ticket in 24 hours. I awoke to a tasty yellow envelope trapped beneath my windshield. Apparently I had parked across a sidewalk. I looked to my left and right, at the two cars parked in red line spots, and then across the street at the two trucks parked near hydrants and in front of a driveway. No yellow slips. I'm the lucky one I guess.

So I've got two tickets. But that's not all. All of this transpired within the month where I got towed at 3 AM and walked 10 blocks to the impound lot to pay $150 dollars to get my car out. I also hit a pedestrian. I hit. A pedestrian. My car literally hit a girl as she attempted to cross the street. Here's the thing. This happens daily. This is a combination of factors.

1) The drivers here, inexplicably, are more wild and dangerous and TERRIBLE than I am. It's true. I'm not just saying that. They really. Really are. This means that I'm too busy watching THEM to watch you; you slow, backpack laden, snoody Idaho dwelling street crosser. Back off.

2) The pedestrians have a magic power. It's called instant crosswalk. See a street? Is it busy? Do you NEED to cross right there at THAT CERTAIN intersection? Is this the quickest way to the HFAC? Well, look at this! A crosswalk has appeared. You can't see it? That's ok. It's there. Oh is the light green? It's midday traffic in uptown Provo? Is 900 as congested as possible? Perfect, time for me to walk boldly across this street. I swear, it's a deathwish. You aren't protected by your garments or by God's divine love. You're a person walking across a 35 (45) mph street. Act accordingly.


I almost hit people daily. I almost crash everytime I get in the car. I'm scared out of my wits at night to park ANYwhere. It could be an empty street, devoid of hydrant, stop sign, or cross walk with no redlines or driveways or even sidewalks. I'd be afraid. Afraid for my life.

And I'm also pissed off. I've got 5 days to pay this parking ticket. 5. The back of the ticket nicely lists options for payment.

1) I can pay online. I just have to go to payprovo.com. But, of course, this means that I'll need to know the exact way to fill in the online request. I put in the infraction number (do I include the parenthetical number? Maybe...). I also put in my license plate number. Or my VIN number. My license plate number doesn't work, no matter what combination of numbers, letters, state abbreviations, and spaces I add. I look on the ticket to find the VIN number. It is oddly, and frustratingly, not present.


2) I can call in the ticket and pay it over the phone. I've called 85-court approximately 12 times. Nobody picks up. The voicemail box is full. I... don't get it.

3) I can bring it in. I can bring it to the people who are apparently too lazy to pick up the phone or update the website.

4) I can mail it. Does the mail really make it to the designated place in 5 days? Especially over the weekend? Really? No. It does not.

Apparently my options have been limited to bringing it in. So I've got to go find this sucker, hand them my money, and then leave serviced.

Thank you Provo PD. Now fuck the police. do not cross

Damn son!

You’ve got your salted cashews, your lightly salted peanuts, your dry roasted peanuts, your crispy pumpkin seeds, your gummy bears, your runts, your mike n ikes, your boston baked beans, your hot mango, your gummy orange peel slices, your pistachio nuts, your mucho fiesta delicious fun bag, your sour balls…

Standing in line at the 7-11 down the road from my house I’m watching the Indian guys talk to the irish truck drivers with the white stock boy helping the Mexican coffee buyer. I’m driving in my car thinking about how some people really complain about this place. How there aren’t any Ethan Allens or paneras or hip coffee shops or cool places for all these kids to go and look cool. But I think that’s bullshit. I attribute that to the hipster ideal that interest is dead and indifference is ironic and nobody knows if knowing anything is worthwhile. I think that cool is being interested in experiencing the local flavor. I think it’s a beautiful mix we have here. An old town from the early nineteen hundreds that basically stopped developing somewhere in the 50’s. All the houses are those nuclear ranches with big locust trees out front and basements with walk in steps and there are still Sinclairs here with the box pumps. People take that for granted. We have a rich mezzo American culture here. Indian (feathers), Mexicans, English, Germans; those predominant cultures prevail here establishing a weird mix of suppressed Mexican and native American pride, that really only comes out in the some 30 or so Mexican restaurants that peddle half real food to half interested white college students. I say give up the game. Give us real Mexican culture. In fact, unleash it all. There’s a growing Indian (dots) population growing here too. The latino culture needs to embrace them; the latino, mezzo American, Mexican American, latin American whatever you want to call it. Everybody needs to get together and stop giving a shit. Have the Day of the Dead festivals in the middle of Center street. Hold Sego up the road at Pioneer Park. Let the Indians have Hopi dances across State Street. Let the Buddhists and the Hindus pray silently and then dance wildly through 900. Germans go ahead and prost all over town. Irish, fife and dance and punch each others teeth out. I want one big stereotype orgy and I want it now. I want to watch as this town explodes with culture and all the bored white college kids pick up a sari or a kilt or a trash bag poncho and stop caring about anything. I want all the hobos who sit on parkway with their sleeping bags and their bottles of liquor and their walking stick to sit back on their heels and smile at everything. I want them invited into homes and I want them to not steal anything and I want them to leave quietly in the morning and to hike up to Heber to tell everybody about it, and I want these valleys to bloom into big garish color displays of celebration and fall. I want a harvest dammit. Break the pavement into slabs. Bust the windows of cars. Kiss in stairwells and set up wires that criss cross town from window to window, sending gifts and baskets and flowers and cheese to friends and people we don’t know. Just do something instead of being bored and not giving a shit anymore. Celebrate, winter isn’t here yet.

Sometimes I wonder whether or not the minorities here pretend to be different ethnicities. If the Indians put on name tags that say "Juan" when their real names are "Chiraq" or "Dixit." I wonder if anyone notices but me. I wonder if it's a way to abandon everything you've been and where you come from. I'm making a name tag right now that says "Jamaal Washington." I'm testing this out.

I'm over it

I got over my unpleasant experience that occured a few minutes ago. Mainly because I found this on the internet. And I think that this is best marketing I've seen in awhile. Better than those shoddy microsoft "I am a PC ads." Better than the new Burger King ads. These are great. This one is exceptional.

On Hold

I'm on hold for the student services office. This is the most frustrating wait of my life. I learned last night about some big mess up with my tuition and now I supposedly owe 1,200 dollars for something someone, no MULTIPLE people said was covered a month and half ago. Now here I am today. I jumped out of bed, showered, ran to work, only to sit in my cubicle meekly, my ear resting the on the phone that's cradled between my head and shoulder. I've been on hold for somewhere near 10 minutes. 10 minutes. I've been to this office before. There's like 50 people in there. And three windows to help people. The rest of the people just sit around with phones. But not my phones. I called again after waiting 5 minutes. This time they said my wait time was 4:56 seconds. It's been 6:46. They just told me the expected wait time was 4:24. Somehow in this one place on campus, time has slowed down infinitely. The classical music interludes somehow have a calming effect on the laws of time and space. Maybe time smoked a J. Maybe it hotboxed it with all the telephone operators before it came into work. Maybe Brigham Young showed up too, and all the workers for FAFSA. They're all sitting around making out and talking about Heroes, laughing about the lights blinking on all the phones. They're- oh. Someone picked up. Pretty good job guys. It's only been 15 minutes of hold time. Exactly fifteen minutes.

...

Oh cool. Ok. Hold again. Nice. I'm loving this. I'm brushing up on my classical knowledge. I know all of these songs now. This is Tchaikovsky's 5th. This is Maller's 12th. Beautiful. Calming. It makes me ok with this super long wait. If they were playing Jimmy Eat World or Notorious B.I.G. I would be upset and angry because each song would clue me into just how long I've been waiting. But no, not with this music. Genius. I'm soothed. I'm calm.

Seriously, what the hell takes people THAT long to pick up a phone? I always like to imagine what they're doing. Playing paper wad basketball. Filing their nails, staring at the phone just muttering for it to stop ringing. Talking about who got married last night. Maybe no one is there. Maybe the girl picked up and said, "Can I put you on hold really quickly?" And I said, "Ok... sigh" and then she put the phone down next to a little speaker box playing classical music and stood up and walked outside, locking the door behind her. She walks across campus and she sits on the grass with a bunch of people with a frisbee and asks them if they want to play. They all get up-

She's back. Thank God.

...

She. Is it true? Really? She put me on hold again. She's calling someone else apparently. She said she's calling a processor. Here's what's really happening.
She says, "Let me call a processor. I'll put you on hold again."
Me, "...ok."
Linda (that's her name. I made it her name) puts down the phone gingerly. Her nails have just been did, so she doesn't want them to get scuffed. She's got a date on thursday; she's angry that it's on a thursday, but he's cute and funny and loves Brian Regan so it's ok. She's thinking of them getting married, has already looked up wedding dresses and places to take pictures. That's what she was doing for three hours, up until she got a call. She hoped it would go away, but nobody else picked it up, so she turned off her carrel light and crouched under her desk. The light wouldn't stop going off so eventually, after she briefly fell asleep, she stood up, stretched her back, and picked up the phone. She immediately knew she didn't know how to handle this so she put them on hold. She sat back in her chair, and stared at the cieling. All those little tiles have so many holes in them. They look like space in reverse, with little black spots. I wonder what they taste like. She picks the phone back up and says that she's been looking through the account, and now needs to call a processor to figure out what the hold up is. She puts the phone back on the cradle and gets up and walks to the water cooler. She takes a little cup and places it under the blue top spout. She eyes the red spout, wondering just how hot it is... it says caution hot... She switches the cup over to the red spout and lets the water fill up halfway. She then picks it up and looks through the thin waxy paper. She tips it onto her hand and drops the cup, wincing in pain. Yep, it's hot. She looks down at the water across the floor and the cup and her the blotch of red on the top of her hand. She turns around and walks back to her desk and picks up the phone.
Linda, "yeah, I called the processors and apparently they don't pick up for me. So, I'm going to try back later. I'm going to take your name and number and I'll call you back once I get in touch with them?"
Me, ".......... ok. I'll be in class later, so make sure you leave a message please."
Linda, "Ok, thank you have a great day!"
She hangs up the phone and sits down in her chair again. She looks around the bustling office, at all these people with papers and phones and people to talk to and thinks to herself, "I belong here."


I'll never go to college again.

Things I like thinking about

I really like thinking about your house in Kentucky, the way the lanes and rows of houses stuck together, burning down sometimes just because. I liked that big muddy field by the road next to the church, and I loved that trailer park next to it where the kids would go to get high in shaky rooms. I like thinking about the vault gray skies of falls and winters with no snow, and the hard ground. The warm basement with the piano. I liked your house a lot.

I like thinking about all the summers in my house, in the cul-de-sac in front of the field. I like remembering how it felt to come home from Colorado, only gone for a week and a half, but feeling like everything had changed for the better. I like remembering the humidity every summer, how the heat and darkness swallowed our backyard. I like when you stood through the roof of my car and watched the valley when we drove home from the country. I like all the long fields and dirt driveways and big spaces. I like how we always played in the rain. I like remembering staying up all night that one summer, walking streets at night, with friends, sometimes alone, but always staring around, looking at each house, loving each place my eyes fell.

I like thinking about Kentucky a lot. Sometimes I like thinking about Ohio too. But only sometimes. I like to think about Kentucky, with all those kids I've grown up with, with all those places I've grown up with, with all those problems and all those issues and all that happiness I've grown up with. I like when my brother kicked off his side-mirror in a snow storm because it made him angry. I like the creek at the bottom of the field, covered in trash, but always flowing and pushing all that refuse down stream. I like dark nights on that deck that we got so late in my childhood. I like the drinks and the drugs and the friends and the cold.

But mostly, I like it in the past. So I can always visit.

Snap. Crackle. Pop.

I don't know if it's the weather or what, but I'm convinced I'm getting sick. My left ear is crackling. That's probably not good. It sounds like its full of water and everytime I shift my head, so that the level of pressure is rebalanced in my ears, it's like little springs are snapping. I open my mouth, and a coil gets loose and bounces around my eustacian tubes. A Keebler elf is jumping trampoline in my ear drum.

Maybe it's the weather. It's been cold here lately. As in, freezing. And I've been walking home a lot. It's been snowing and I've been walking and breathing hard into my scarf and wool collar. Maybe that's it. But it feels so good to have hard pavement under your feet with cold wind in your face.

I never anticipated it'd be THIS beautiful out here. I drove into the canyon and through Heber Valley over the weekend. Even at night, I was just awestruck at those mountains. I was at a campfire on a summit of one of them, and it's intense how far you can see into the range even at 2 AM.

It's perfect for driving with a little heat on, listening to Jose Gonzalez and Bob Dylan. Did anybody get my Merry Christman 06 cd? Listen to it if you're ever out here and it's cold. It sits by you like a warm puppy.

Some people have less tact than Dick Cheney in a quail flush. I'll stop thinking about them.

Speaking of quails, there are quail everywhere. And we chase them yelling "Young Prince! Young Prince!" For some reason that makes us happy.

All I can think about anymore is US 42 in winter. I hope when I come home people will stay up all night, enjoying being outside in the middle of the highway, or parking lots, or car windshields, or music and empty parks again. That would be awesome.

Take it easy, love nothing

I'm at work again. Like everyday. I've been here too long, trying to make my hours this week. I want to be on a shoot holding a white board, making actors wince when I catch the sunlight right in their eyes. Not in my building. It's a wonderful feeling.

This place got more flourescent lighting. Being in here long enough makes me realize that they're blinking to stay alive, these lights. They jump against my face like the Scera marquee, all neon whites. It's like a snow covered tv screen after awhile. All you can see is the swirl of black and white.

I want a sandwich, a drink, and sunlight.

Update over.

If love is blind it must have an Oedipus-complex because it hurts like a motherfucker.

Reasons why I've decided I was cooler as a 9 year old.

Being at work allows me a lot of time to do, well, absolutely nothing. Most of my time goes into reading wikipedia articles. A lot of them. Because of this job so far, I am way more knowledgable on the topics of Conan O'brien, The White Stripes, The Soledad Brothers, Space Ghost Coast To Coast, Adult Swim, H. John Benjamin, Squigglevision, the first season line-up of UPN, Brendan Small, Michel Gondry, and a number of other unrelated, worthless subjects. But surfing through a lot of these pages has caused some hardcore nostalgia. And, I'll admit it, a little bitterness. The result of all this learning has lead me to realize this simple fact:

I was way cooler as an 8-10 year old than I could ever hope to be again in this lifetime. It's true. It's the simple truth. I was way cool. I was part of trends that didn't become trends until I started driving a car. I was part of a culture that was maybe 20 years older than me. Which is weird to think of. I'm not half as cool as I was back then. Not even. If I met myself, I think the 8 year old would blow me off and go back to playing with Alien toys and watching awful sci-fi movies. The reason for this coolness was almost certainly my innocent curiosity. If it was new and intersting, I wanted to be a part of it. This is the reason I started collecting old bottles. And sea glass. And out of date action figures. This is the reason I spent hours drawing up lists of the things I knew about, connecting television show writers to comedians to producers. I once linked the entirety of the Loren Bouchard/Brendan Small/H. John Benjamin collaborative work together. I'd seen every episode of Just Shoot me by the time I was 10. I was unstoppable. That's not all, in reflection, I've come up a lot of other reasons why I was way way way cooler as a young kid. Let's review:

I’d frequently stay up far too late watching new episodes of Home Movies, Dr. Katz, Dilbert, and Space Ghost Coast to Coast.

At the age of 8, I was enamored with Bob and Margaret, that Canadian-based show about the orthodontist and podiatrist. I’d stay up until 1 AM trying to catch it on the Sunday night slot, Oh Canada received.

I’d viewed almost every aired season of Brady Bunch, The Facts of Life, and I Love Lucy.

I was privy to the amazing guerilla marketing and creative take-back that was “What a Cartoon!” show. I gobbled up this new style of cartooning and ad marketing. It was new, incredible, and I think is the main cause for every single bit of neurosis, paranoia, and compulsive awkwardness. Think of it this way. Space Ghost was awkward. So I had to be.

I watched Baby Blues debut on the UPN. And cheered when it came to Adult Swim. And cried when it left.

I downloaded Barenaked Ladies songs for mixes that included Flogging Molly, Boyhitscar, Polaris, and, of course, the Transplants.

I was obsessed with Yu-Gi-Oh, Final Fantasy, and anime classics like Cowboy Bebop, FLCL, Outlaw Star, TriGun, and Akira. I was unashamed in everyway. I knew I was cool. I wasn’t just cool. I was badass.

Even I knew the PJ’s was a bad idea for a tv show.

I beat the hell out of a kid who called me gay one day. With my broken arm. I had broken my wrist by jumping off of a bmx ramp on a mountain bike. I flipped the bike and broke the wrist in two places. I then neglected the injury for two weeks, finally acknowledging its presence when I re-broke it in my sleep watching the UPN show “Bad Girls.” I got the cast on and decided it would be a good idea to use it as a weapon. It was. I was feared.

No shoes was a standard.

I watched Adult Swim evolve from its original air date. I was appalled when they deserted the original swimming pool bumps.

I constantly referred to Salute Your Shorts, Stick Stickly, and Hey Dude in middle school when it was apparent that everybody else was too cool to remember their childhood.

I was too cool to remember my childhood when it was cool to remember your childhood.

It's depressing to know you reached your peak so long ago. Maybe I'll go try and build a blanket fort. But even if I do, I know it won't be nearly as impressive as the one I constructed in the 7th grade (a whole basement. Like. the entire basement. With a sky light. An atrium. Auxillary entrances). It's impossible. I'm giving up. All that's left to do is write letters to the past, hoping one of them succeeds in breaking through time and space and ends up in the hands of former self. Here's the message,

"Never lose it."

How's it gonna do?

I keep wondering how life could have turned out lately. Not in a way that laments my current position. I'm happy to be where I am. I'm happy for the choices I've made, and the things that have happened as a result of that. It's just an old game I play in my head, imagining where I could be right now at this minute if I'd done things differently. I think I started playing when I was about 9 and some wise 4th grader talked to me in circles about the existence of different universes. I would sit for hours absent-mindedly thinking up what could be different in those universes. "There'd be ducks. But they'd be purple. And in another universe off of THAT, the ducks would be purple but I'd have new air jordans. And in another one off THAT one..." and so on. I still don't understand why all I ever altered in my dream universes were the coloration, size, and frequencies of populations of ducks. But some mysteries will never be solved.

So I sit and think about where I could be. Of course to do this, it implies that I know where I am right now. Which, maybe I don't know so much about.


We can start with the surface: I'm on a couch that sort of smells like pee. I'm in an apartment that almost always smells like bacon. I'm in a cold state. There's one light on in the apartment. I represent 1/6th of the apartment's population, 1/72th of the building overall.

We can dig a little deeper: I'm getting tired. I feel sort of bad because it's two minutes from 3 and I promised Natalie I'd actually try and get to bed before 3 tonight. I'm craving green apple Mundet. I'm reading an A.J. Jacobs book and I just watched 10 hours of conference talks over the weekend. I feel church-y.

From here I could think about the things I want: I want it to snow. I want to be warmer in my home. I want to have enough money to get the hundreds of photos I have left to develop. I want to scan in all my other photos. I want to not go to work tomorrow.

But then again we could think about the things I'm grateful for: I'm grateful for the Restored Gospel. My family talking to me while they eat dinner. I'm grateful for my eyesight. For my hearing. For great music on my zune. I'm grateful for pretty nice roommates. I'm grateful for good friends. I'm grateful for the existence of green apple Mundet. I'm grateful for the ability to choose my own life. I'm grateful for my Lord.

Actually, I'm thinking maybe I do know a lot about myself. So let's play the game.

In an alternate universe, I'd be going to Ohio University. I'd get wasted every weekend. I'd grow an awful beard. I'd have a million friends. I'd probably smoke and have a puffy vynll farming vest for the winter.

In an alternate universe much like that, I'd go to Ohio University and I'd have no friends. I'd be awkward to talk to and I'd take to wearing thick-black rimmed glasses that I don't necessarily need. I'd respond to people much too quickly. When people asked me where I'm from, I'd nearly cut them off saying, "Nowhere!" I'd wear a hunting hat like Holden Caulfield. I'd be involved in a very unfortunate event involving my roommates and the girl's dorms, wherein I'd never live down the nickname "Boss Ross."

In an alternate universe, I'd still be in Northern Kentucky working at Domino's. I'd start selling drugs with my manager Jeremiah who, I swear to this day, was Biggie. I'd use the words "shiii" and "gimme a smoke bitch" a lot.

I think if I had my pick, I'd choose the final one. Notorious.

Que?

Watch this. It'll change your life forever.

Things I've learned at college

Here are some things I've learned at college. Take notes:

-If you're in a lecture class and you have a laptop, eventually, no matter who you are, you'll play solitaire.

-Anyone with a general parking pass will soon despise the term "A Lot."

- Alexander the great looks pretty dead on Brad from Home Improvement.






Alexander Ty Bryan