Arizona, knowing full well that I'm contemplating leaving, decided to put on a show for me today.

It was one of those days when the sky is streaked with rainclouds and yet it's as blue as can be in the wide spaces between, and the mountains I've grown up under were clear, the way it gets after it rains, and it was breezy and not too cool and just plain gorgeous. I spent most of my four hour shift at Fry's outside, pushing carts around, just soaking it up.

Then tonight, I saw the biggest bluest shooting star streak across the sky, I swear to God I thought for a second it was a cruise missile or something. But it wasn't accompanied by an explosion, or a crater, it burned up and disappeared behind a cloud.

You could find plenty worse places to grow up. Really, you could. Arizona, I could never stay mad at you, baby. It was a good show.

I promise, fingers crossed, I'll get entertaining again real soon. Just hang in there, and I'll try to do the same.

Kate Hall knows the score


Can I be honest for a second?

This is all about honesty, right?

Well, no, it's really about entertainment first. I entertain myself, and hopefully, in the process, you. So sometimes I feel like sparing you the details of my petty problems, and I try to minimize gratuitious posts that say, "Boy am I tired and cranky," although sometimes I feel like that's all I have, posts like that.

But this week, I seriously felt like I wanted to strangle a guy. Not anyone I know. I'm just sayin' if there was a room and they said "There's a fairly non-descript guy in there you can go strangle. We promise he'll be alright afterward, but it will be a heck of a stress reliever," I think I might very well have taken, they, whoever they are who have such power over rooms and guys and how much it harms them when you shut off their windpipe for a couple of minutes, I might have taken them up on that offer. But they never showed up, with promises of guilt-free strangulation. So I just sort of festered.

I snapped angrily at the occasional innocent. If you were one of them, I'm sorry. There's no excuse for not being super-cool twenty four hours, especially when you have it as easy as I do, all told.

No one likes laundry lists of stressors, so I'll spare you. But it's fair to say I had a fuckload to do, plus my Early Decision application to NYU is due Friday, with 25 pages of...something. It's supposed to be a portfolio, but what I'm sending them is basically a twenty-five page sample of the play I'm writing. It's not done yet. There's a ton of other stuff, plus the concept that if I get accepted, I gots to go, and I WANT to go, but it's ridiculously expensive, and...

ARGH. Ms. Idler says, if you get in, go. You'll find a way to pay. Yea. That sounds about right. I just fly by the seat of my pants in the rest of life, why not when tremendous amounts of cash are involved?

It's just that, shouldn't this be the one thing I'm sure about? That I do with intent rather than just a semi-formed idea and a whole lot of bullshitting? I don't know. Seems like it.

As much as I hate to be That Kid Who Vaguely Talks About Fate And "Feeling", I feel I shouldn't be here anymore.

All my life, I've just figured it out on the way over. On the drive there. On the walk to class. As my fingers are pressing the last three digits of someone's number. A second before the words come out of my mouth. And the flight to New York is long, lots of figuring time. Maybe I'll just write "Tuition" on that little plastic cup they give you for the beverage you get with your pretzels, pass it around the plane. Travellers carry a lot of money.

I also feel like I'm not adequately capturing the desperation of my petty rich-white-suburban boy situation.

I'm freaking over nothing, I know. The trouble is there's so much nothing over which to freak.

I was unnecessarily mean to this girl tonight at a MPTC fundraiser, and gave her stuffed animals as consolation.




I am tired as my inability to come up with something to compare my tiredness too.

It could have something to do with the concert I went to last night, featuring emo gods Saves The Day. Chelsea H. will have you believe that the opening bands sucked, but don't be fooled. The first band, Saturday Looks Good To Me, had a saxophone, a vibraphone, a microphone, every kinda phone, even a phone backstage so they could call up they moms and say "WE ROCK." They were kind of a throwback deal, almost B-52's. Wrong crowd, but I dug it. I dug Kind Of Like Spitting so much that I bought their CD, which is news because that's the first CD I've bought in months and months. The Irish rock supergroup Ash was merely "eh."

It's weird. When a band isn't coming on stage and you're tired in general and tired of standing and it's cramped and smells like Port-o-Potty, that band is the biggest bunch of pricks in the history of the world. Primadonna assholes. Soundcheck's over. They're just sitting back there on the bus playing Xbox while we all stagnate out here. Pricks. Then the roadies scamper away and they finally come on and hit the first note and all is forgiven. You guys could've taken another ten minutes, if you wanted, that's how hard you rock. Here's hoping they come back again soon.

I get ten thousand bucks a year for college. NYU is like twenty-five. Time to start robbin' banks.


In Arizona, there's nothing we hate more than letting terminally ill people use small amounts of a harmless drug to ease their suffering. That sort of thing just steams our clams.

It's a good thing I can't vote yet, I didn't know it would completely decriminalize small-amount possession until tonight. Now I wish it had passed even more.

My Creative Writing teacher doesn't like Prop 203 because it sends "the wrong message." Yup. Passing it would mean people might get the message that government policy on prohibition of substances has any sort of real-world sense to it. Sounds wrong to me.

We can't assuage the pain of the sick if it would mean that stoners could legally toke up, eat pizza, and fall asleep. You have to draw the line somewhere.

Looks like the House and Senate are going to the Elephant though. They're no Libertarians, but they're better than the Dimocrats, that's for damn skippy.


Today started with a breakfast burrito, which means that it would take a lot more than the usual shitty misadventures to turn it sour, but there weren't enough. Today came out on top. I have the distinct feeling if the universe would've started out with a burrito as opposed to, you know, a bang, we'd all be a lot better off.

Not that we're not good now.

My plan to have my friends blogging continues to go forward, trampling, raping, pillaging, and other activities that go naturally with conquest. Alecia has one now. You know, I'm starting to think that everyone having a blog isn't enough. Everyone's component parts should have blogs as well. What if I want to know what someone's gallbladder thinks about Mideast peace? Where on the Internet am I gonna go for that sort of stuff? I had a conversation with my right leg a while back, but that was about it. And that was like a good rap song with an unnecessary appearance by a guest MC with questionable rhyme skills (see also "Welcome To Atlanta," featuring the epicly underwhelming Jermaine Dupri).

Hey, fuck you. YOU'RE the shitty guest appearance in MY otherwise bumpin' rap song.

Oh, hi, right leg. Ladies and gentlemen, my bitch-ass gimp right leg.

Maybe you should stretch me properly, dickweed.

Stretch you properly? You swear like I know how to do that. I didn't pay attention in elementary school PE, I just wanted to play with that giant parachute we got to sit under. I didn't take PE in middle school because I was in band. I didn't pick up any useful stretching tips in freshman year PE, because I was trying every minute of every period to keep myself from being with the only other theatre kid in that class, who was a effete cigarette-y douchebag, not that there's anything wrong with people like that, you just don't want the wrestlers in your class deciding all theatre kids are like that and there might need to be some toilet-based hate crimes because of it. So what I'm trying to say is, I don't know how to stretch you out before running, right leg, because I never learned how. Plato says all wrongdoing stems from ignorance.

But if you're aware that you're ignorant isn't it then your responsibility to get not-ignorant?

Lots of things are my responsibility, Righty. Doesn't mean I'm going to do them.

That's true.

I still maintain that you are the shitty guest rapper of my bodily hip-hop joint. If it weren't for you, I'd bump 'till dawn. I would be so def, and possibly even so so def.

You know what's a good song? "Clampdown," by The Clash.

It's good to see we agree on something.

I had something to say but I completely forgot what that something was. Uhm. Oh right.

I always thought that by and large poetry was crap with a few nuggets of truth but I just read some Charles Bukowski and now I want to throw away everything I've ever written and start all over again, only this time with more drinking and swearing and everything

Cool, man, cool.

I forgot to say anything controversial in this post, so here goes: Women are objects, trees are bullshit, and ugly children deserve less of a chance than everyone else. At kickball. And life.

Disagree below.


Things I needed to know: One of my favorite bands, Creeper Lagoon, is coming out with an EP in December.

Things I did not need to know: The frontman of Creeper Lagoon is named Sharky. Ew.

I guess basically the entire band left and now all that's left is the unfortunately named Sharky and a bunch of new guys. But all the new line-ups in the world cannot undo Take Back The Universe And Give Me Yesterday," which, like Jimmy Eat World's "Clarity," is a good album to put on when you're in a mood to be in a mood, not to mention just about the awesomest thing on wax. Or CD, in this case.

I stole the above picture from Chelsea H., and if she were still online I swear on a stack of Bibles I'd ask her permission before using it. But I'll just link her three times instead. It features Chelsea W., who Tim thinks is just the hottest bunch of hot that ever hotted. And if pressed, I can't say I disagree. But there's the picture. You be the judge.

Trevor says Ramses, like, Ramses pharoah-of-Egypt Ramses, fathered 160 children. Wow. Suddenly everything I've ever done seems painfully insignificant. Well, more insignificant.

I think all my friends need blogs, that way I never have to tell a story without linking anyone. And then I can sit around all day never going out scratching myself and eating candy, candy, candy. And blogging 'till my eyes atrophy. Glaiven.

This weekend I shoved the competition one-act in my head. Did I mention that? I'm the lead in the competition one-act for Theatre Company, "Degas, C'est Moi" by David Ives. I'm a guy who wakes up and decides to be dead French impressionist painter Edgar Degas for a day. Another Chelsea plays my wife, because no facet of my life can go unChelsea-ed. So there was memorizing that, plus all the stuff I have to keep in my head for "Man Who Came To Dinner" in a couple of weeks. Not that I'm complaining, but I'm seriously starting to wonder if I'm pushing other things out in the process. My social security number, people's birthdays, which pedal makes the car go. On the plus, though, I get to say words like "picosecond," "vermillion," "unalloyed," and "insensibility."

Jesus P. Christ I'm a nerd. It's clear that I've had a couple of ridiculously attractive English teachers in high school, because otherwise I would've learned to stop loving words and start liking cars.

Note to Nature: I walked over to the middle school tonight in my little tiny shorts so I could go running when I could've just as easily driven over there and been much warmer, so don't say I never did anything for your typhoon-causing hippy-spawning evergreen ass.

You gotta show Nature who's boss sometimes. She tends to forget.

As the first step in the aformentioned plan to get all my friends blogging, Trevor has one now, thus proving that even Asian-looking whiteboys who I have to pick up tommorrow morning so we can go get breakfast burritos before rehearsal can do it, and so can you. Yes, you.

I looked in the mirror today at Fry's because basically all I do there is go to the bathroom, walk around, bag some groceries, then walk around, then go to the bathroom, anyway, I looked in the mirror, and I had a big purple bruise above my left eye in between my eyelid and my eyelash, and a little bit of a beard because I haven't shaved in ever, and I said to myself, You, you are a God. You are a wrong-side-of-the-tracks, both rough AND tumble, God among men. But I was also wearing my XL baggy workshirt that I bought when I was probably fifteen pounds heavier, and The Man wants me to pay ten bucks if I want a new one that fits better. Then later, I saw Hottest Girl ever driving a big white Cadillac in the Fry's parking lot. If my black eye and my stubble make me too handsome to resist, I didn't say, I'll understand.

She said she got in a car accident and her grandma died. The Caddy was Grandma's. Poor Hottest Girl Ever. So I guess my weekend was summarily not all that bad.

Then she said she and her mom were on their way to their sister church for Sunday mass, a gospel service, but still, disheartening. Jesus always gets to 'em before I do.

Oh well. I'll have my day. I just have to keep not shaving.