Tonight in one word with a gratuitous swear word in the middle: Fan-fucking-tastic.

Hotson says there was an announcement today at school about people taking shits on the bathroom floor. I can't believe I missed that, and I may never forgive myself.

Matt has a blog.

More to come.


You could do worse than trying to go to a rival school's play only to realize that it's not happening and end up seeing Harry Potter with Jack, Braden, and Stefanie. Really, you could.

I liked it much better than the first one, which is weird, since I remember it being my least favorite of all the books.

My throat hurts.

Tommorrow we're going to perform our one-act at the State Competition, which is at the Thespian Conference, which is at North Canyon High School. The question of the day is, "How many high school theatre kids, trying to out-weird each other and prove their uniqueness, can you fit in a couple of hallways and an auditorium?" Should be fun.

At the last one, I remember thinking, This is great! If only there was a school consisting only of theatre kids!

And thinking, on the way home, If there was a school consisting only of theatre kids...that would be AWFUL! Can you imagine the jealousy, the sniping, the competition, the really effeminate scarves? As our own little clique in a school full of people who couldn't honestly care less, we're a team. There's no bitterness or in-fighting. But in a school where EVERY student is fighting for the lead...oh Jesus. The pain, the pain of it all.

Idler forgot we had to pay for lunch and dinner like a month ago, so we'll see how long I last on two salami sandwiches and whatever I can pry out of vending machines.

But I don't have to go to school.

Colby Cosh is a credit to all Canadians


I'm listening to The Shins and it reminds me of when school started. Should things that only happened, say, three months ago, already have their own nostalgia-drenched soundtrack? Maybe not. But as processor speed gets faster, so should nostalgia, I guess. Pretty soon I'll be getting all misty-eyed about that mythic time called four o'clock yesterday afternoon. Sigh. It seems like only this afternoon.

I was listening to The Apples In Stereo, whose CD the poor flu-ridden Chelsea W. loaned me, and they're sort of 60's throwback rock, so then I rocked The Shins.

And at the completetion of the paragraph I switched over to Jimmy Eat World, because all musical roads lead us inevitably back to Clarity.

Speaking of music, I was supposed to go see Brian's band Lakeshore Drive tonight at the Bash on Ash but fatigue and abject poverty prevailed, and since they so rarely do I figured eh, we'll let 'em have this one. I'm sure "The Drive" will be playing plenty more gigs. As a consolation prize, you should go look at their website.

Drama sponsor Idler wanted me to accompany her to an seminar tonight about packaging documents to have them digitally printed, since I'm program editor, and I did. Man, if you were in the greater Valley area tonight and you wanted to hear some good discussion about embedded fonts and see a room full of wispy nerdish types who, given the option, would chose to lose their precious virginities to Adobe Pagemaker, this was the place to be, and I'm sorry you missed it.

The Alphagraphics guy leading the seminar told a story about some guy who made a twelve-page brochure entirely in Microsoft Excel. At first I laughed in wonderment with the rest of the rejects, and then I realized, I am enjoying font nerd stories. STOP LAUGHING NOW.

I chose to take my leave before the informal post-seminar discussion about the pros and cons of 12-point TrueType Courier New, but I did get some cookies. Mmmm, cookies.

It's nine or so right now, and I figure, if I start circling the bed right about now I should actually find myself in it sometime around eleven. So I'll leave you to your own devices. Don't touch anything I wouldn't be allowed to. I get jealous.


I was going to get up at 3:30 am and watch the heavens be set afire by the Leonid meteor shower but that early, or late, or whatever, I didn't recognize my alarm clock. In my half-awakitude, it was probably a pesky android, or shrieking digital hornet. I was concious enough to reset the alarm for seven twenty and go back to sleep, though. So there's that.

There are a thousand tiny good deeds I leave undone each day simply because I'm too lazy to reach over and do them. I wonder how many of those little sins of neglect I have to commit before it equals something horrible. How many ants to I have to purposely step on before it's the same as killing a guy? Let me know if you find out. I'll be sure to step on exactly one fewer than whatever that number is.

No sooner did I post last night than I received an E-mail from THE FUTURE

Dear Me-
There are SO not as many robots as you'd think there would be. The president is thirty feet tall, and things run a lot smoother as a result.
We right-align everything here in the future. It's awesome.
Sorry so short, the verb supply is drying up and we're only allowed 15 a week, and I've already used 9...wait, 10. Shit.
Future Me

Delivery Status

You entered 0302 1790 0000 4221 1363

Your item was delivered at 11:07 am on November 18, 2002 in NEW YORK, NY 10011.

US Postal Service, I love ya. If you were a woman, I'd make sweet love to you, except you'd probably smell all musty and taste like stamps and look like, you know, everyone who works at the Post Office.


If you've read any Greek tragedies, like if you've been forced to, by, I don't know, say, your Humanities class, you know that the greatest drama occurs when the audience knows something the protagonist doesn't. When they're driving at something we know will inevitably destroy them, but they just have to get there.

That being the case, if I really wanted to make this an interesting blog, I'd have a future version of myself e-mail you all with how this all works out. Then you can watch (in the Aristotelian ideal combination of pity and fear) as I propel myself into the tragic flaming wreckage that is tomorrow, everyone except me knowing exactly how it's going to end. And if Greek plays are any indication, it will end like it always does: with pools of blood, long speeches, togas, and choruses of old men.

The future is a scary place.

And for catharsis? I'm thinking some sort of dance number. What kind of dance number will be providing the resolution of your inherent tragedy? The good kind. With nudity, fireworks, and 50-foot puppets. Yea, that kind.


You ever wonder if someone's your Margaret Yang?

That's not going to make any sense if you've never seen "Rushmore," and if you haven't seen "Rushmore," shit, I don't even want to know ya.

Wait, I do. I can't go around alienating all my friends based on whether or not they've seen a movie. But you should run to the video store right now, because this post will make a lot more sense.

That said, you ever wonder if someone's your Margaret Yang?

Like, you're too busy around putting on plays and founding the Junior Beekeepers to notice this timid little person who could be anything and everything you need, while you're off chasing your Miss Cross, this unattainable ideal, this hot English teacher that Bill Murray's going to leave his wife for anyway?

You ever wonder about that? I do.

The show is over, done, kaputski. It was received a lot better than I, or anyone, I think, for that matter, was expecting. Didn't realize 'till the last night that it was just a fun cavalcade of zany merriment, or a merry zane of cavalcadement, depending on whether or not we want to use real words. Everybody played their part to the hilt, and the audience couldn't have asked for anything more. Partially because I taped their needy mouths shut to prevent further requests. But that's besides the point.

I got The Coat for the show. The Coat is a hallowed Theatre Company tradition, passed down from person to person, each one selected by the last (often after consultation with the director, previous Coat winners, etc.) as the person who most embodies the spirit of Theatre Co. for that show. At left is Katie, getting it for The Yellow Boat. She gave a teary, moving, cute-as-hell speech, which got everyone right here that night, you know where I'm talking about.

Anyway, she gave it to me, and the already great honor is doubled by the fact that she's just about the most deserving person to ever get it, and she picked me. Says I inspire her. Aww.

To outsiders, I'm sure it looks like a faggy coat with a lot of trinkets hot-glued to it, but to us, it's like the shroud of Turin. Beyond sacred. A bunch of people who were selected as the pinnacle of dedication all added their little mementos, their pieces, much in the same way every person who passes through here for an all-too-brief four years leaves their mark. And now it's hanging in my closet, saying, live up to me.

For once, I feel humbled.

Now Playing: "Dodge Dart," Kind Of Like Spitting: the violin was invented for this song.