2/01/2003

Today was full of highs and lows.

High: Getting a Superior rating and winning "Best Actor" at the State One-Act Competition

Low: The Space Shuttle blowing up on re-entry

Crazy world.

1/30/2003

Some Automotive Notes tonight.

To the asshole in the car behind me making a hand motion to his girlfriend next to him indicating the lopsidedness of the back end of my truck, then cackling: Man, fuck you. At least I don't drive my lady around in a hatchback then pretend like my vehicular shit don't stink.

To the moron rollerblading down the MIDDLE of a poorly lit street holding hands with two friends who had the relative good sense to stick to the bike lane: You owe your life to the fact that my headlights hit you a few seconds before I did, and that the word "Manslaughter" went through my head before the words "Natural Selection." You earned a good ol' thump-n'-squish. Be thankful I gave you a swerve-n'-honk instead. Dumbass.


Some Positive Notes tonight.

I don't have to go to school tommorrow! Instead I get to go watch one-act plays at the state competition, at which we're performing on Saturday. Wow, that was a horrible sentence. A horrible, wrong sentence, that's almost too much of a monument to grammar gone wrong to delete. It'd be like killing a rare three-legged toad. Squishy. Anyway, no school tommorrow. Pretty-eyes Hogwarts girl from last week will probably be there, too. Yee haw.

What was the other one? Oh, right. We had our first improv show tonight. Matt and I switched off hosting and playing duties, a good time was had by all, or at least it would seem that way. There'll be another show in a couple of weeks, if you're in the Phoenix area, or plan to find yourself in a high-school drama room in the near future, or whatever.

Well, I'm going to hit the sack. You owe it to yourself to read all the Achewoods from the past few days, if you're wondering what's been missing from your life. Besides mah love, that is.

1/29/2003

Everybody's sick.

That's right, everybody.

Yup, him too.

Everybody, that is, except for me. My family's doubled over in gastro-intestinal woe. My friends are staying home from school. And here I am, a rock of immunity in a sea of Pepto-Bismol-guzzling invalids. I never seem to catch half the crap that goes around. I'm so hardcore.

Then I got home tonight from the gym, and felt almost like dinner wanted to pay me a follow-up visit. Now I feel kinda woozy...

hardcore hardcore hardcore...

1/28/2003

You grew up and the sights you saw most during that time were probably the faces of your mother and father, the ceiling of your room as you wondered why all the adults were still up having fun, the television screen on Saturday mornings. Terrence Metcalf grew up and his world was all tail-lights and off-ramps, and his father’s face illuminated every couple of seconds by yellow street lamps as the Union zoomed by all around them, from sea to shining sea.

Terrence liked the Atlantic Ocean better. Definitely. There was something about it, especially up in New England, that said it was just allowing North America to be there on a whim. The Pacific was sky-blue and showy, like how a billionaire might build his own private sea if he had the time. The Pacific was for people having a better time than you. He had seen the Pacific six times and the Atlantic five, and they were heading back to the east coast when his father pulled the old Accord into Wharton, Ohio. But first things first.

He was all curly sandy blonde hair and had to be the only kid in America with a right-arm driver’s tan, from those long stretches of blank prairie when he’d stick his hand up to the window to block out the sun. Then, when they’d get to Oklahoma and the sky would cloud over, when the radio would start playing an endless loop of the Charlie Daniels Band, he’d put his arm down, stick both arms behind his head and watch the rain fall on the windshield. He’d pick two raindrops and watch them race them from the front windshield to the end of the passenger window, knowing that as long as the rain fell, the race would never end.

They lived out of the trunk and every Goodwill store between San Bernadino and Cape Cod for three years, and, by Terrence’s count, three shoe sizes.

They were out on this inter-ocean expedition under the pretenses of Mr. Metcalf looking for work. But all Terrence knew was that Mom had left, Dad used to be a gas-station attendant and before that, a truck driver, and for some reason nobody was paying for the line of work he was looking for.

They pulled into a little Virginia village one afternoon, and while Terrence’s father ducked into a bar for a drink, Terrence headed down the block under the pretense of buying some jerky at a corner store. He ended up in the town library, not so much out of a voracious need for literature but the desire for free entertainment: he had done three whole Mad Libs books on this particular leg of the trip and somehow stories that started “So I walked outside my house of CHEESE and lifted up a car with my EYEBALL” had just ceased to amuse him.

He was warming to the idea of a narrative for which he didn’t have to provide all the adjectives and verbs when the space designated “ADDRESS” on the library-card application stopped him dead. Worse yet, the librarian told him that if he didn’t know his address she would be more than happy to call his mother. A number he didn’t know to find an address that didn’t exist. He settled for a dusty clearance copy of 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea that lay on a shelf between the Help Desk and the faint twilight of the Virginia town.

It was too dark to read every night, so Terrence would count mile markers ‘till he fell asleep, because if he was lucky, once or twice a week, he’d wake up in a motel bed. He’d dream he was deep beneath the Atlantic, wrapped in cold blue, darting in and out of the legs of a giant squid, thrusting his way up towards the surface and hearing the roar of waves. But when he would always awake to find that it was the engine, not the waves, that were roaring, and the ocean’s surface was now a seemingly endless prairie sky.

One night he went to sleep and woke up in bed in a farmhouse in Wharton, Ohio, owned by grandparents he’d never met, who were downstairs making breakfast. The Accord wasn’t in the driveway, just a beat-up old truck that would one day take him in to town to buy school clothes. He would try to grow accustomed to a stiff desk instead of a bucket seat. It would be hard (the desks didn’t have a cupholder and never reclined.) And some afternoons at school, during geography, his classmates would pull out their textbooks and trace their finger along a cartoony map of the United States, in accordance with some assignment. Terrence would just stare out the window, secure in the knowledge that not only did he know his states and capitals, but he could tell you how to get between any two of those capitals in the Continental US, how to navigate the New Jersey Turnpike, and could draw from memory the winding stretches of the Pacific Coast Highway. He had seen these flat, awkwardly colored shapes spread out before him, one continuous mass from the wise old ocean to the showy arrogant one.

Small town life would eventually settle him, with its promises of a permanent address and all the books the Wharton Public Library had to offer. His father never returned, and neither did his lust for highway life. Eventually, he’d find himself wanting out of the one-horse town, but not wanting to make the journey to get there, for fear of wandering until he regained his driver’s tan. He hoped someday to find a place of his own, where he could fall asleep and dream of asphalt receding under headlights to the tune of six cylinders, and wake up to realize it was only the ocean.

1/27/2003

I'd never read Shirley Jackson's "The Lottery." Only heard about it and seen it parodied in places. And apparently the post that got me all those hits from Carnival of the Vanities is very similar to it. But I'd never read it. So when my Creative Writing teacher said, "Who's read Shirley Jackson's 'The Lottery?'" I didn't know I wasn't supposed to blurt out "Is that the one where all the townspeople get together and kill each other?" I thought everyone knew what it was about, but apparently I ruined the big suprise ending for a classful of seniors. Should of read it before. Buncha bums.

It reminded me of that line from Dogma, about being bludgeoned to shit with big fuckin' rocks.

Man, I just can't contend with the past two days, where my blog featured, in rapid succession, two teenage girls making out and legendary rapper Flavor Flav. Which is why instead of me writing an actual post, we're going to conduct a Reader Poll, and then, you, the reader, are going to take the poll. Here goes.


OFFICIAL HFT READER POLL
I, loyal HFT reader, would like to see more of the following in DC's daily posts:


A) Chicks totally making out
B) Members of Public Enemy just BUGGIN'
C) Chicks totally making out with members of Public Enemy, perhaps on some sort of Japanese game show


Answer eloquently in the comments below, and I'll see you tomorrow, sunshine.

Credit where credit's due: Monkey-on-monkey action found via Ken Layne

1/26/2003

Just for the record, MTV's Made is the best show in history.

I may be hasting in making that declaration, especially considering I've only seen two episodes, but damn, is it ever some watchable shit. It's as if the TV Gods asked, would you like to see pathetic layabouts struggle endlessly to acheive their seemingly impossible dreams? and I said, Well, yea. But will there be a five-alarm flaming cheer coach? Or a whiny kid who resembles a stick and a terrible attitude doing Suicides and falling all over the place? and they responded, You bet your sweet ass, G! and then the TV Gods and I did a slow-motion high-five, and the sound produced by the meeting of our hands...well, that was MADE.

And it was good. Was it ever good.

I almost feel bad describing it. If you ever woke up in the morning and wish you could watch physically ungainly teenagers be tortured by coaches shouting trite motivational slogans, you owe it to yourself to tune in. The first episode I was privileged enough to catch involved a fat Drama girl attempting to make her school's cheer squad. The highlight might have been her friends: buncha awkward bucktoothed girls insisting that all cheerleaders were snobs. I wanted to say, wow, you go to one of those high schools? With the jocks and the goths and the hitting and the locker-putting-in? Poor bastards. We have cliques and muscular guys stealing wormy band kids' Magic cards and things, but I guess it never seems that bad. Or that ugly.

I don't know where I'm going with this. Good show, though.


Someday I will go to sleep and wake up as Flavor Flav. And until that day, the slowly growing stash of giant clocks on necklaces will sit in my closet, gathering dust, until I awake one day, ready to implore the masses to Fight The Powers That Be.


Uhm...let's see...let me pull out the topic checklist...made is a good show...wake up as member of public enemy (flavor flav, if not, prof. griff, despite antisemitism)...


Apparently, a plug from HFT is the kiss of death. On Wednesday, I linked Katie Hall's joyous wonderfully well-written if spottily updated blog. And days later, this: No more blog. No explanation. Not even a cursory "let's-just-be-friends." Poof. Kate is no more, blog-wise. This is a late blog. No wonder I have friggin' abandonment issues.

One of my other favorite bloggers, Jim Treacher, hung up his spurs a few weeks ago under vague and ominous pretenses, but he took them back down from the Wall of Spurs again, and is currently making jokes about the Hulk's skin care. Good for him. Meanwhile, Kate's spurs just hang there, without explanation, waiting for the return of their gifted owner. What's the deal, Kate?


I was shocked when she told me. "There's no milk! Not a drop left," she said, ashamed. I could tell she was in disbelief as I saw her look back into the refridgerator numerous times, hoping a gallon of milk would suddenly appear... but no luck. "Where could it have gone?" Umm, we drank it, Grandma. I drank it, you drank it, we all drank it. It's... gone.


Ha ha. Kenzie is funny. Hopefully me linking her will not result in the immediate demise of her blog. Although, at least I know her and see her every day, so if such a thing does happen I can grab her shoulders, shake her, and say "What the hell, baby?" Not that I would do that. Naw. Although Flavor Flav just might.
Last night I left a party early.


THIS PARTY.


What the hell is wrong with me?
Ben called me a slacker.

Yea, I'd say that's pretty accurate.


The Smiths follow Nas in my MusicMatch Jukebox playlist. How eclectic am I? The answer? Very eclectic, motherfuckers.


We performed the competition one-act today, at a competition, ironically enough. We didn't really know what it was all about and we showed up to the high school about forty-five minutes before our scheduled stage time. It turned out to be some podunk theatre festival Apache Junction just decided to have, but it was a chance to perform. There couldn't have been more than five other schools there, although you can tell they expected a lot more. Oh well, can't complain. The judges ate it up with two forks, the audience was receptive (perhaps too much, it seems theatre kids will laugh at anything), and our ratings were all Superior, for a total rating of...Superior. Yee-haw. State is next Saturday. There's a cute girl with a Hogwarts shirt in Apache Junction who said I was an amazing actor. She better be there.

Was going to see Confessions of A Dangerous Mind tonight but ended up seeing my friend's band at the YMCA and rocking my ass off, then chasing it across the parking lot, insisting that I needed it, you know, for sitting. And if I lost it, I'd have to rock off other parts, and eventually I'd run out and be nothing but a head in a jar in that shadowy derelict ward of the hospital for people who just rocked...too hard. Although I will continue to insist there is no such thing as rocking too hard. Some will call me mad. Some will call me Steven. All of them will be wrong. None of them will be hot. So what the hell's the point.


I wish that more artists obeyed the Tupac Shakur law of post-mortem production: the deader the artist is, the more prolific they become. Apparently nothing clears up writer's block like getting shot the hell up. If only Jimi Hendrix still released a new track every other week, like Tupac seems to be able to do from beyond the grave.

Biggie's better anyway. I'm so eclectic. And so much fun to be around.




Take me out tonight
Where there's music and there's people
And they're young and alive