I'm tired, but not tired-tired, I'm just had four (five, maybe? Why am I asking you?) diet Vanilla Cokes at Matt's tired. You know, that kind of tired. Like propping up a dead guy and putting sunglasses on him and a drink in his hand. You know deep down you're tired, but you have all the appearances of being bright-eyed and bushy tailed.

I'm going to go take an off-brand antihistamine (Diphedryl, anyone?) and drink a bunch of milk, then come back and finish this.


In my secret heart of hearts, I desperately want emo-hair. I was just up in the bathroom, and often in front of the mirror, I'll brush it forwards with my hands just to see how it'd look. It's long enough now that I can do that. I don't know, I think I wash my hair too often for it to work, if I leave it like that for an extended period of time it settles in and then I look like a fucking Von Trapp child rather than a deep, soulful screechy-voiced guy.

But I AM wearing a sweater, and for just a second, I turned away, turned back, and it looked kinda tight. If I had thick glasses, it would be ON. I don't have any glasses on hand, though. I tried doing the Junior-Birdman thing with my hands. It doesn't really have the same effect.

I either need to get a damn haircut or start wearing it like this all the time, 'cause the in-between look is killing me. KILLING me with sticks and leaving me in a ditch.

Mel is staring at me from the preview Blogger window underneath the space where I'm writing this post. Stop distracting me. Stupid model. (By the way, thanks much to Tony for sending folks my way to help her get elected Mayor of Hometown-Honeyville.)


High school's end is rushing up all too fast for my taste, and it's going to be a busy last three or four weeks. Two improv shows, the senior show, writing that second one-act I've never started for Advanced Studies, doing a ten-minute video for Humanities, trying to secure a more lucrative job for summer, Prom...Frantic, but I wouldn't have it any other way, now would I?

No, no I wouldn't.

I taped a note to a girl's locker today, because how much longer am I going to be able to do that? And then I came out to the parking lot after rehearsal and she'd taped a note to my car, and yes, she will go to Prom with me. And tommorrow I'm going to ask her to go see Ghostbusters with me at Madstone and I bet you she'll say yes even if she hates Bill Murray and Harold Ramis beat up her dad, because she so totally digs me.


One year later, back in the saddle. 'Bout damn time.




You tell me you're blue
you're just confused
it's that you haven't been this happy in minutes

- Hey Mercedes, "Haven't Been This Happy"

There comes a time in every boy's life when he must use his web-jounaling device for something greater than himself.

This is that time. And that something, or more accurately, someone, is pictured at left.

I know I've mentioned her on here before, but to refresh your memory, Mel is the one of the best model/actresses I've ever had the privilege of going to high school with for two years. She's somehow found herself in the running for FHM (2nd rate Maxim)Magazine's Hometown Honeys contest, where their website visitors vote for their favorite...umm...honey, and then the winning girl gets...I don't know, I'm not exactly clear on the details, but I do know that if you're greatful for everything this site has done for you (remember that time my blog helped you move 'cause you threw out your back?) you owe it to me, to Mel, and yourself, really, to go over there and vote for her. There's a big matrix of thumbnail model-faces, she's five from left and five down.

It's about time smart, funny, well-read French-speaking models got their due, 'cause lord knows they've gone virtually unappreciated up until this point. Come on, kids. Get out there and rock the vote.

Hosemonster, Tony, you guys are great appreciators of barely-covered feminine beauty. Pitch in. You won't regret it.

The Nerdy Friends of Hot Girls community thanks you.

There's been a couple times when I've speculated on the nature of Hell.

But tonight, I stared it right in its fiery maw. Speculation over: Hell is a high-school district board meeting. Now I know why I can never go into business, or education, or politics, because if I have to sit through one more PowerPoint presentation or hear anyone use the phrase "M&O" (which I still don't understand) I will tie a rope and swing myself from the rafters, neck first.

I guess that's the game you have to play, though, if you want to make impassioned speeches to rile up overprivileged "gifted" kids.

So I played the stupid game, and now I'm going to bed.

There are times in my life where I say do this or you'll regret it.

And always when that something involves a stage and hot lights and a crowded auditorium, I do it, and I do it pretty well, so they keep asking me to do it again.

And usually when that something involves a girl, I let opportunity slip right through my fingers and consign myself to another lonely evening.

And this weekend, both opportunities swam by and I didn't just seize them, I grabbed them by their tails and swung them 'round my head and flung them off into the next county and watched the dust clouds of their impact drift over the horizon seconds later.

This weekend was the musical, How To Succeed.... The last mainstage production of my Senior year, meaning my last chance to fill that auditorium with my voice, the voice I hate so much when it's coming out of my big ol' skull in social situations but I for some reason love to hear echoing back pretending to be someone it's not. It wasn't last time I'll act, or even the last time I'll act at MPHS (there's still the senior show, which will go up in the much smaller Drama Room), but, as unimportant as it seems to the uninitiated, it was the last time I'll act beneath that proscenium, on those hallowed planks repainted black so many times.

There are things you do over and over knowing there'll be a time you never get to do them again. But the knowledge doesn't make it any easier when that time comes.

So I said Let's not think about it. And I tried not to. But it was like a conversation with a terminally ill guy where you're trying to pretend everything's normal and just the way it was. Only with more singing and dancing and stuff.

I'm coming off morose, but I'm not. I loved every glorious second of this show, every rehearsal, every show night, every wonderful scene made me remember just how lucky I was to be here, every time the lights went out and they pulled me on my rolling platform offstage I giggled with glee because it was just so damn much fun.

I could feel history rushing around me. Not history, George-Washington-cherry-tree history. My history. A thousand joyous moments rushing around me, reconvening as I realized the factory where those memories were produced was shutting its doors, boarding up its windows. Well, not really. I was just being transferred out of the factory. Time to go to another town and build a new one. The smokestacks will keep puffing, God bless 'em. There's a picture of me up on the wall somewhere in there. Promise you won't forget, because I won't.

It was very sad. I won't lie to you.


That other opportunity. The time when I usually say nothing at all, this time I said "You wanna?" and she said "I'd love to" and it was great.

Her smile kills me. Somebody file a police report. Fit me for a toe tag. I'm dead.

Asking is better than not asking. Teachers are always say they'll never punish you for asking a question. Two girls in the past month or so have seemed to live by that same philosophy. Remind me of this sometime.


I apologize for the incoherence, I used up all my cogent sentences on this Ayn Rand essay I finished only a third of, which has to be postmarked on Tuesday. Like my taxes, which I have finished but still have to send.

Ty says it better than I did anyway.