I'm sorry for the couple of times I've gotten pissed off at Blogger for not working. I realize the whole deal's run by just one guy, and he's been exceptionally kind to all of us by allowing us this opportunity. It is wrong of me to get pissed at him when Blogger doesn't work. Computers are cruel mistresses, I'm sure as much to Ev as to the rest of us. So, I'm sorry. I was wrong. Thank you for all of this.

I've decided to get three tattoos. Sadly, none of them is M I K E. I still don't have the courage to get that. Lindsay called me a coward for not getting it, but at the same time she suggested I should just get it temporarily tattooed again and again. I may be a coward, but at least I know I'm a coward. I am not brave enough to get M I K E tattooed on my knuckles, not yet. It is better to admit that you are paralyzed by fear than to live in denial. "Hey, man, I'm just not sure if i want to get it." I'm sure, I'm just not brave.

Of course, that's all bullshit. There's only one question in the whole of the universe: are you in or out? I'm out, but I'm pretending to be in. I hate me today, but Ira will make it all better.

There is no better show on radio than This American Life. NPR is the only thing worth listening to on the radio, and This American Life is the best show on NPR. My poor planning forced me to be out of the house during this week's broadcast of TAL (I'm an idiot), but I'm making it up to myself by listening to a past show off ye olde Internet. Sweet.

Oh, yeah, I'm not at home. My brother needed the car this weekend; so, I can't take it back to GB. I love the kid, but I swear he is the single most selfish human being you could ever meet. He's not evil, he just literally never thinks about other people or their needs. It never occurred to him that I might need the car, or that I might want to go home (that I didn't is beside the point, I'm talking about principle here). He just knew that it would make his life a little easier to have the car and so that decided the whole matter. By no means am I mad at him, but I pity him the adulthood he's going to have. Most people will detest him for his selfishness while he will remain utterly oblivious to the problem. (And before you go thinking I'm a bastard for not helping him, I've tried to tell him this. But he doesn't want the truth and when he hears it he sulks for days and then brings it up to bitch about for months after that. We Wilsons are a passive aggressive lot.)

Sure, I should have done this years ago, but I have just discovered Elvis Costello. What the fuck was I doing before this? Oh, well, no use crying over the years lost, all I can do to make it up to myself is make the most of the time I've got left. (Which, reckoning by my diet, should be about twenty years. Or twelve. Either's fine.)

Julie. For some reason, I've been having the worst time creating links lately.

Seriously, what's wrong with me? I was home three weeks ago for my dad's birthday, but only for the evening. My parents looked so sadly pathetic I felt the need to make them feel better; so, I agreed to spend this weekend at home (well, first it was last weekend, but I had to push it back). I don't want to be with them for a whole weekend! That's near the top of the list of things I least want to do. (Along with stick my hand in a fire and go see Dave Matthews live... okay, okay, they aren't that bad. Virtually nothing's that bad. Except maybe country music. Yeah, that's right, the Dave Matthews Band is just as bad as redneck country music. Worse, maybe, because it is more insidious.) Anyway, I wish I weren't the "good" kid. I don't want to go home this weekend.

You have to understand, it's not that I don't like my parents, I do, but they are getting crazier by the day. They're just unbearable. Maybe I can tell my kids they died saving orphans from a sinking ship of something...

I have to go home and write a little before bed. And if Brad gets in my way, there may be violence.

Okay, so both the Oni Blue Monday sit and the Official Blue Monday site aren't much use; so, here is the best source of general information you'll find. If you like music and teenage angst, you'll like Blue Monday, even if you don't like comics (though in my experience, most people that "don't like comics" have absolutely no experience with them). And if you don't like Blue Monday, then you're kind of a worthless twit, aren't you?

I swear to the Almighty that Brad is killing me. Not physically, but he's eating away at my soul. It's so bad that I've fled my house to find solitude; I'm not running from the Idiot Brigade, I'm running from my good friend. I have yet to record my awesome weekend in my journal, because every time I'm about to start he knocks on my door. He never wants anything; he's just killing time so as to avoid working on his papers! We are rapidly approaching the point where I will have little choice but to scream, Fuck off, you monotonous son of a bitch! And this is the way I treat my friends. Seriously, though, I've been very fair here. If I don't want to be disturbed, I put a sign on my outer door saying as much. Yesterday, he violated the sign. That selfish fuck.

I want to write a novel, but I don't want it to be another disillusioned rant by a twenty-something white guy. Yes, that's what I am, but God knows the world has enough of those already. And I'm not disillusioned. (Notice that yesterday, when I said I was disillusioned, I placed it in quotation marks.) I know what I believe in and how I want to live my life. I'm only disillusioned in that what I want and how I am is different than how I was told I was supposed to be.

Saturday
I'm disillusioned because I let Lindsay drag me out on Saturday night, even though she admitted herself the people with whom we were going weren't very cool. The group was a conspiracy of circumstance, a mishmash of people who have lived together because of the odd circumstances of collge life and their friends, so that some members of the group truly loathe others. The players (by couple - this was not my idea, and Lindsay and I are not *sigh* a couple, but we arrived first and conducted a headcount to give the server some idea of how many to seat): Lindsay and I, Mike and SSG, Orin and Jenni, Jeremy and Heather, Matt and Kami, and Jack. The Lord was merciful and Jack's horrible girlfriend stayed in Cincinnati, where they live. Of that list, I hate spending time with: SSG, Orin, Jenni (but only because she's always with Orin), Jeremy, Heather, Matt, Kami, and Jack.

I didn't want to go, but it was easier to go than to tell her, "You go ahead, I have no desire to see these peole; so, I'll stay here. If you want to come back and watch the movie later, I'm cool with that. But I really do not want to go with these idiots." But there would have been an argument, and I probably would have had to talk to SSG. So, I went and pouted the entire time. She told me I needed to be more social; so, I talked to Jenni, whom I really like. Orin was distracted by Mike, so the one thing I have against Jenni wasn't there. She's too nice the way my mom is too nice, but she's funny, too. But, when I started to talk to Jenni, SSG reared her chipmunk-cheeks and spewed forth some of her usual idiocy and I scowled and scowled and scowled. Mercifully, we left before anyone else.

Afterward, Lindsay said it was important for me to go. She's "working on me." Why? For fuck's sake, it's not that I'm antisocial, I just hate most people. I love nothing better than going out with the BTW gang; I just don't want to go out with those whom I despise. Does that seem unreasonable, to not hang out with people who aren't in any way your friends? The thing I love best and simultaneously hate most about Lindsay is the double-standard by which she judges everyone. She didn't want to spend time with Jeremy (they are long-time enemies), Heather, Matt, or Kami. So, why was it a good idea to go? I will never fucking understand why I should change if change means more time spend with the Idiot Brigade and their misbegotten ilk.

I had the most unbelievably great weekend! I really hate to give you that teaser and then not provide the meat, but I just don't have the patience at the moment. I wouldn't even be blogging if the stupid printer wasn't being so slow printing out The Newsletter. Does it seem like I spend too much of my time on The Newsletter and not enough on school? If it does, it is because I love doing The Newsletter and I don't like doing school.

Personally, I have never been more "disillusioned" in the whole of my life. It isn't at all important to me to finish school, except that I know I would regret it later. But honestly, I don't even want to go to graduation; I'm only going to make Mom happy. I don't want to hang my degree up on my wall. I don't ever EVER want to open a conversation by saying, "I graduated from the University of Michigan." If I do, and you have ever considered yourself my friend, please shoot me in the back of the fucking head.

I've only wanted to hit one person with a brick today, but I wanted to hit her repeatedly. I lifeguard with her on Mondays and she talks through the entire shift. She doesn't care that it is agony to me, she just wants to jabber on and on and expects me to nod attentively. Sometimes, it's amusing. Other days, it's like it was today. If yesterday hadn't been the worst shift of my entire life, today might have been in the running. A moment ago I discovered a cool new blog, but I'm not yet sure if I can support it enthusiastically enough to endorse it. Only time shall tell.

Read Chynna Clugston-Major's Blue Monday! (I don't have the energy right now to establish a link.) It's ace!

This past week, I've been so in love with Lindsay it's hurt. That is the greatest feeling imaginable.

(I've actually been in the lab here for an hour or so, but I've been designing The Newsletter and Publisher is only available on the retarded Dells, which get along with Blogger even worse than my beloved Macs. Still, while I'm in here I just had to zip over to a Mac to blog. Well, back to the salt mines for me....)

Dylan's the best. He made a sly reference to the Secret Base in an email he sent yesterday, and it made the world a brighter place. I know exactly why I lost contact with him, and I do not regret it, but at the same time I'm glad to be "talking" to him fairly regularly. I lost contact with Dylan for two reasons: a) I attend the University of Michigan, he attends Brigham Young University; b) he spent two years as a missionary.

a) When you no longer see someone almost everyday in the halls at school, of course you aren't going to stay in as constant of communication. But, that's not really it. Even before graduation, Dylan and I didn't hang out as much as we had. And why, you ask. Why do you think? There is only one thing that can come between two truly good friends: a woman. When Dylan and Julie broke up, it drastically altered our social circle. As time went by, I was one of the only people welcomed into both camps. Still, though, in the eyes of both camps I was tainted. I wasn't ideologically pure. And eventually I just started hanging out with Julie more than Dylan. (Hanging out is a deceptive term, since I was relentlessly yet fairly teased for almost never going out, prefering to stay in and spend time with my brother.) In any event, once we were in college, we emailed some, but we didn't really see each other much, not even when we were both in Grand Blanc for breaks. I think that's mostly my fault.

b) Dylan went to Mexico on his mission for his church, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. Yep, my caffeine-loving buddy's a Mormon. Although letters were allowed, I chose not to send any. I wanted this experience to be Dylan's. He was in a foreign place, speaking a foreign tongue, preaching his church's version of the Faith. I wanted him to be a Petri dish. I wanted his experience to be as pure as I could make it, to see how it would change him. I sent his parents a letter explaining my theory, placing it in trust to them to give it to Dylan upon his return. Of course, they misplaced it, but that doesn't really matter. Once he was back, it took us a while to get back into any sort of rhythm. I think we're still finding it. All I know is it's good to have my friend back. (Too much sugar, I need to go puke.)

For those in the know, it's been a slow day. So far, I've only got one.

Think about your day so far. How's it going? Well, I hope. Anyway, here's a little experiment I just devised. I don't know if it will tell you if you are having a good day or a bad day, but I think you'll find it amusing, and that has to be good. Here goes: think about everything you have done since you got up this morning. All the sights you've seen, all the people you're encountered, all the tasks you've perfomed. Now, how many times today have you wanted to hit somebody in the face with a brick? Not that you would even if you had a brick handy, but how many times have you wanted to? Just walk up behind the person, tap him on the shoulder, and hit him in the face with a brick.

So far, I'm up to five.

Here I sit, writing my next column, "Pax Americana," and these two frat boys are standing behind me discussing how to make a PowerPoint presentation. Argh! I know this isn't a library, but damn it! People are trying to get work done! (Okay, maybe what I'm doing qualifies more as recreation than work, but it's important to me, and I'd like to be able to work on it in peace.) Jerks.

I watched High Fidelity last night. I love that movie. I think it's my favorite John Cusack movie. Emily and Brad both favor Say Anything, but it's too sappy for me. Brad once said, "Dude, you need her dad to be guilty. Without that, it's Sixteen Candles!" Exactly. It's just too damned nice. There's nothing wrong with Lloyd. Rob Gordon (Rob Fleming in the book), though, he's an asshole. Not a villain asshole, an asshole the way real people are assholes. I said "asshole" three times in one sentence. Nice.

The second entry was about how losing the first entry very fittingly tied into the theme of the first entry. The first entry had been about my continuing concern that having a blog will siphon ideas away from my Journal, my column in The Newsletter, In Search of the Perfect Lesbian, new lyrics for Real Can of Yams, and the indie comics I one day hope to write. (Best indie companies: Oni Press and Slave Labor Graphics.)

This is a test message. Yesterday, I lost two good entries because either a) Blogger just decided to be an asshole and not work or b) the University's servers and Blogger were fighting. Either way, both times the POST and POST & PUBLISH buttons would not work again, and the first time it made the whole computer crash. Here goes nothing.

What could be better than Lindsay, K. Steeze, and Zach Nie! at the Less Than Jake show? Lindsay, K. Steeze, Zach Nie!, and the Bald Mountain at the Less Than Jake show! Alas, my beloved brother could not join us. Still, nobody loves their fans as much as LTJ, and nobody has a better pit. And the State Theater is the perfect size. Bigger than most clubs, but by no means an ampitheater; I never want any of my bands to get bigger than the State. (Note: Blink-182 was never good in concert, but they were a better live act before they toured ampitheaters and arenas.) Less Than Jake does it for the kids.

I didn't know her at the time I wrote the lyrics, but now I realize that "Riot Grrl" is about Lindsay. Fuck.

Friday night for the late collegiate/post-collegiate: nothing to do, nobody has the energy to go to the bar because half the group had had to go to work that morning, so we just went over to Justin and Emily's. The boys watched basketball, the girls talked about whatever the hell girls talk about (and because Mike's girlfriend, SSG, was there, I can assure you the discourse did not rise above the second-gade level). Still, there are worse ways to spend an evening, and for the most part SSG didn't bug me. I was the only single person there, the only person with no reasonable expectation of being engaged in the next twelve months.

NOTE: Mike's girlfriend's initials are not SSG. SSG stands for a rather insulting nickname. You see, her name is Julie. But I already have a Julie. And Mike's is vastly, immeasurably inferior; so, I derived the nickname SSG from somthing one of her old high school chums called her. I think it's hilarous, though I have to be careful not to use it around Mike. Sure, I don't intend to ever speak to him after college, but for the next few months he is useful.

Oh, yes, before I forget, I'd like to wish everybody a happy Ides of March. Let me just say this about the value of believing yourself right even when all the world tells you you're wrong: Caesar was ordered not to cross the Rubicon by men who've faded into the mists of history, while even 2046 years later, we still remember on what day he was assassinated. Sic transit gloria?

In a world where A.I. passes for intellectual, can you blame me for thinking of most people as Epsilons?

I tried to blog on Wednesday, but the program would not respond. I could access my site to read what I'd previously posted, but I couldn't add anything new. The POST and POST & PUBLISH buttons just wouldn't work. It was frustrating, but in hindsight an example of Mike Wilson Luck. The things I wanted to post would have been petty and stupid, temporary lapses in being who I am; so, the technical failure worked to my ultimate, if not immediate, advantage.

Mike Wilson Luck is the principle that little things go my way all the time. I'm not talking about the big things, like being an upper middle-class American born in the late twentieth century, a time of unparalleled advancement and prosperity. I'm talking about little things, like not being able to post stupid blogs of which I would later be embarrassed. Sometimes I can't see Mike Wilson Luck working around me; that's when I know I've given in to self-pity. It's like a canary in a mine. Anyway, I'm glad for this one instance of it, and thought I would share.

Zach Nie and Jon Mace dropped by last night, and we hit Conor O'Neill's (far and away the best bar in Ann Arbor) for a few pints. We were joined by the lovely Sarah Kline, Zach's beloved (yes, they love the song "Zak and Sara"). Much fun was had by all. Jon came up with the perfect title for Zach's new Newsletter column, which means it's fucking awful and completely inappropriate. Hmmm, Guinness, the only beer for me. That's not the point, though. After Zach and Sarah split (back to Lansing), Jon and I went to get Slurpees. Of course, this entails driving all the way to B.F.E. (you know, Ypsi) because Ann Arbor is full of bleeding-heart liberals who won't allow twenty-four hour convenience stores within the city limits because they attract the wrong crowd (God, I hate the hyprocrisy of this fucking city). Don't worry about me driving after two Guinnesses; I'd nursed them both over the course of the evening, and I am, as near as we can tell, invulnerable to libations. So, we drive all the way out to the 7-Eleven, and they are out of Coke Slurpees. The machine was recharging. Damn it! I settled for orange; Jon got a blue/vanilla mix. We approach to counter to pay (my treat), and find a woman buying two 40s with nothing but change. She's counting it out slowly and incompetently. She counts out $2.47 in dimes, nickels, and pennies, even though the display clearly show her total as $4.47. The clerk tells her she is two dollars short; the woman pulls out a wad of bills. She has bills?! That bitch. So, she hands the clerk $2.00 and then demands a paper bag. Paper bag in hand, she says, "Go ahead, gentlemen." I step around her and set our Slurpees down on the counter. I pay the clerk.

As I'm getting my change, the woman asks me, "So, how are you doing this evening?" I tell her the truth.

"Actually, I'm a little bit gassy." The clerk almost burst out laughing, visibly restraining herself; the woman acts as if I've said the most natural thing in the world.

"Well, that's you business. Have you ever been to Deja Vu?" Have I ever been to Deja Vu (a chain of strip clubs)?! Why in the hell would she ask me that? Old drunks don't go around asking college kids if they've ever been to Deja Vu, do they? At this point, things took a decided turn for the bizarre. (And see, here I thought I'd thrown her a curve with the gassy bit.)

"No, actually I'm a bit prudish." And I am; hey, if you'd grown up with my mom, you would be, too.

"Well, where are you guys headed." I look over at Jon. He's stiffling a laugh; no help there.

"We're just going to drive around a little bit."

"Looking for trouble?"

"I'f we can find any." Why in the hell did I say that? I stay in most Saturday nights. The last thing I want is trouble. I guess I thought I was still in control. Yeah, I'm an idiot like that.

"Where're you from?" By this point, I've got my change, I've put my wallet away, and I've started for the door. Bear in mind that I'm from Grand Blanc, Michigan. I've lived there my whole life (except for college).

"Originally? I'm from Texas."

"Yeah, where?"

"Houston." I'm walking toward the Mousemobile, keys in hand. Jon's heading for the passanger door, eyes aimed straight ahead.

"Hey, where're you going? Can you do a girl a favor?" A girl? Lady, you're forty-five if you're a day. I unlock my door. "Can you do a girl a favor?" I get into the car and reach over to unlock Jon's door. The Mousemobile is an '86 Chevy Celebrity; powerlocks would fit in as well as a flux capacitor.

She knocks on my window. SHE KNOCKS ON MY WINDOW! "Hey."

I start the car and pull away as quickly as I can. As soon as we hit the road, Jon and I burst into uproarious laughter. "What the fuck was that?"

"Dude, the clerk almost lost it when you said you were gassy."

We laughed all the way back to my house, where Jon crashed on the couch. It was hilarious, the prefect way to cap off the night. Zach would have loved to have been there. We just kept reciting the whole scene over and over again and laughing until we cried. I had buckets full of fun last night, all of it spontaneous. Aw, man, good times, good times....

Of course, when the woman knocked on the window, a scenario flashed through my mind: We let her into the back seat and gave her a ride and as I drove, she slit my throat.

"Clone War," the full theatrical trailer for Star Wars: Episode II - Attack of the Clones, aired last night; I'm in fanboy heaven. If you missed it, shame on you. Redeem yourself by downloading it now! I'll wait.

So, the Plate and I finished designing the latest Newsletter issue last night, and we had a merry old time. We made fun of Mike and Brad, and turned the issue into an ad hoc shrine to Jed Ortmeyer. The Newsletter will continue just fine without Mike, of that I am confident. I'm not trying to puff myself up here, but I think we've created something truly extraordinary. I will not let apathy destroy that. Death at the hands of some manner of megalomaniacal archvillain, that I could live with, but I won't let The Newsletter be shrugged into oblivion.

Sure, technically it is Monday, but to me this is still Sunday night. So, when I said yesterday, I meant Saturday. My rainy rebirth was on Saturday.

I was caught in a monsoon yesterday. The wind was so fierce that the rain hit my face with such velocity as to sting. Real pain. The front of my pants were soaked, while not a drop got on the back. Avoiding a puddle, I slipped on a bit of mud and fell flat on my butt. My shirt was untucked, so I got some mud on my boxers (ew). I felt and looked like a drowned rat by the time I got home. Not surprisingly, as soon as I'd arrived, the wind died and the rain became a gentle drizzle. (Nevertheless, I maintain that I love irony.) I peeled off my clothes; I felt disgusting. I took a warm shower, exchanged a dollar bill for some quarters in Brad's monkeybox, and put all my clothes (including my beloved crappy blue jacket) in the washer. And then I was reborn.

Working on The Newsletter had put my in a foul mood, but after I cleaned myself up, all that was gone. I was happy. Just incredibly content with everything. It was weird in the best possible sense of the word. I felt like that the rest of the day. The world was luminous.

"We are luminous beings." -Yoda, The Empire Strikes Back

The Newsletter
Last Fall, along with my erstwhile friends Mike "Uncle Jerry" Alber and Jim "The Plate" Platte, I founded The Newsletter. The idea came, as most good ideas do, from an episode of The Simpsons; Homer says to Bart, "Your ideas are intriguing to me and I wish to subscribe to your newsletter." We think our ideas are intriguing; so, we signed our friends up for The Newsletter. Vol. I, No. 1 was two pages; our columns were just a declaration of purpose, what we hoped to accomplish with them. For Vol. I, No. 2, we added Brad Dupay, and expanded to three pages. By Vol. I, No. 3, we hit four pages and this has since become standard. Each issue is photocopied onto a piece of 17"x11" paper, double-sided, then folded in half, stuffed into a letter-sized envelope, and mailed off. We've recently devised a method to steal copies; so, our only expense is postage. Each issue is theoretically available at The Newsletter Online, but Jim has fallen behind and the site hasn't been updated since January.

Now, Mike is planning on quitting. He says it isn't fun anymore. How that can be, I have no idea, but if that is how he feels, I won't try to stop him from leaving. I pity him, really. Mike is the most talented writer I know, in addition to being a fantastic artist and a truly hilarious human being. But, instead of doing something with those talents, Mike just likes to watch TV. (Listen, we all love SportsCenter, but Mike has been known to watch the same episode three or four times in a row.) Really, that's pretty much all he does, watch TV and play video games. By himself. And I'm not just upset that Mike doesn't want to be part of The Newsletter anymore (if anything, since the new year he's been less than half-assing it and hurting the rest of us); it just infuriates me to see so much potential going to waste. With his howntown friend Gabe, Mike has written a first draft of a screenplay. A full-length, professional-formatted screenplay. I've read it. It's hilarious. Yet, Mike isn't doing anything about revising it. He knows there are areas where it should be stronger, and he even knows how to make those areas stronger, but doing so would seriously cut into his heavy schedule of sloth-imitating. Damn it, Mike, how in the hell can you just give up on yourself like this?!

(True, if I had his girlfriend, I'd be miserable, too, but she's a noose with which he's hung himself. The poor bastard's even convinced he wants to propose to her and I have no doubt they will get married. It's really too bad Mike doesn't drink, because he could use a nice, stiff shot.)

Adding insult to injury, before he goes Mike is trying to convince Jim that nobody cares about The Newsletter. That may very well be true, but Jim is a melancholy kind of guy anyway, and telling him that is just plain cruel. It's bad scene, which, I'm becoming more and more convinced, is the nature of Ann Arbor. It's just a bad scene, man, and if you aren't careful, it'll eat you alive.

Ha ha, I have been to the dentist and I have conquered! (He drilled into my teeth while I lay helpless, my jaw numbed, and expending all my energy just trying not to drool, how is that conquering anything?) Quiet, you. The aforementioned dentist was Dr. Tom, my new dentist, son of my old dentist, Dr. Bowles, from whom he is inheriting the practice. Dr. Bowles is George Bowles, DDS; Dr. Tom is Thomas Bowles, DDS. Now, Dr. Tom was kind enough to let me come in today, even though he normally doesn't work on Fridays, but I'm not yet comfortable around him. Dr. Bowles has been my dentist since I was a wee tike; I almost looked forward to his disapproving stare at the end of my cleanings. It was a very central part of the ritual of going to the dentist. Most importantly, we didn't call him Dr. George, we called him Dr. Bowles. He wasn't your friend, he was a competant professional. I understand that Dr. Tom might not want to be called Dr. Bowles so as to establish his own identity, rather than assume his father's, but if he really wanted to be his own man, he shouldn't have taken over his dad's practice.

My archive is not as it should be, nor as (I think?) I set it. Hmmm, a puzzlement. I shall have to investigate.

Seriously kids, never volunteer for anything. How in the hell did I end up being elected Vice-President of Animania? I see now that I was being groomed the whole time. How else to explain it? The first time I was on staff, I dodged screenings for several months and then claimed that I was just too busy to be on staff. Months later, Dan, the president and my buddy, invited me to join again, if my schedule permitted. Feeling guilty over my first tenure, I did my best to be a good staff member. Then I'm nominated to be Veep and PRESTO! I'm elected. Aw, crap.

This is a lot like the time I was elected to the student government here at the University of Michigan, MSA. Heh heh, that was funny. I'll tell you about it some time. Oh man, that was great. How the hell do you accidentally get elected to anything? Officer, you gotta believe me, I didn't know the thing was loaded! I was just standing here and the darned thing went off! Nobody was suppsed to get elected. Let this be a lessen to you all: don't play around with democracy. It's all fun and games until somebody gets elected.

I'm awful to Brad on a sadly regular basis. Sadly, Brad deserves to be treated awfully on a regular basis. Yin and yang. Actually, I quite like the symmetry of that. I am impatient with Brad, but in my defense, it is quite inconsiderate of him to enter my room and stand there as if he has something to say, then say nothing when I look up from what I'm reading and ask if he has something to say, and only speak once I've returned to reading my comic book. Ooooh, I hate that. Bastard deserves to be teased about his potbelly.

Brad and his mythical girlfriend, Missy (lovely girl, terrible name) always refer to Lindsay as if she is my girlfriend. It's very sweet of them, demonstrating an admirable loyalty, but it puts me in an awkward position. Still, I thank them.

I have been betrayed twice in the last year. Or rather, two men separately carried out the same betrayal. It was my fault. I trusted too soon based on too little. I was only able to be betrayed because I was forgot who I was. There are reasons in legion for my cynicism, I'd only forgotten. "That name no longer holds any meaning for me." "It is the name of your true self, you've only forgotten."

Janus Kiss, an exciting new novel by Michael Wilson, presenting his unique views on friendship and the anti-social gentleman's place in this work-a-day world of ours. (I've got this neat bridge to sell you, too.) An evening surrendered to the Epsilons, partially reclaimed by the power of the Blog. I knew that I would be friends with Sarah von Linsowe when I said to her, "We are all two-faced," and she replied, "I know," with an enormous smile on her face and an evil gleam in her eye.

Two instances of grace: a) I wrestled Brad to the delight and amusement of Mara and Tracy (tolerable by themselves, but closely allied with the Idiot Brigade); b) Andi Watson's beautiful Slow News Day.

Come on, liar man...
Monday night, my brother said to me, "Come on, liar man, weave your web." You see, I'm a very good liar. After all the practice I've had, I should be. Sometimes this really bothers David. Not that he's a stickler for the truth, but.. well, it's hard to explain. That's not the point here. So, that line just kept playing in my head over and over again. "Come on, liar man, weave your web." All day yesterday, I wrestled with it, until POOF! I had the answer I'd been seeking for quite some time. The answer to an unrelated problem. Again, the novel. I needed a fifth housemate for Pete Winter's house. And there he was, the lair man. "Come on, lair man, weave your web." The liar man can do the things that you and I cannot. Being the liar man means never having to say you're sorry. The liar man is Gully Foyle (my literary hero). Now the liar man needs a name. I want to call him "the liar man," but I don't think I can pull it off. I'm leaning toward Friday, though I don't know if that's the liar man's last name or if his parents (damned hippies) gave him a weird first name.

I finally took the time to watch Mike's copy of Rushmore. It wasn't the first time I'd seen it (yes, I shall now flaunt my superiority and say I saw it at the theater), but I hadn't viewed it in far too long. I cannot even begin to articulate my love for Wes Anderson's work. At the same time, I hate him, because I know that in a million years I could never create anything as beautiful.

Last night I was reminded of what great friends I have (and whom I don't deserve): both Lindsay (see a picture of her at Justin's site; scroll down, genius) and Guy Zach Nie! dropped by.

Lindsay's been crisscrossing the country touring graduate schools; she has two more visits to go, but she's all but decided on going to Berkeley. She said that when she arrived in San Francisco, she felt like she was supposed to have been there all along; her initial impression is that she will never leave California. I've never been to California (neither had Lindsay and she was very excited about having seen the Pacific Ocean), but I can tell you that I could never live there. Her skin was positively glowing as she talked about the uniformity of the year-round weather; nothing makes me happier than knowing that last Monday (2.25) I was walking around in a short-sleeve shirt, whereas yesterday (3.4) I was cold even in my parka. I know that in California lies madness, as the mind is lulled into blissful apathy. My affection for Lindsay runs deep, and I am legitimately happy for her, but at the same time I am greatly saddened to know that I will never again live within ten minutes drive from her.

Zach Nie can get away with things you and I cannot... and we all love him for it. Last night, he was giving his brother a ride and decided to swing by Ann Arbor. It was fantabulous. He and I drove Big Honkey over to David's place and the three of us, after a brief stop for some eats at the Half Ass, watched Smith and Winkler Save Christmas! It was just an extraordinary evening.

Of course, I didn't get any work done on the novel. Holy shit, I called it the novel! My first refelx was to call it the novel! Dude, I rule! Hurray for me! Hip hip! Hurray! and so on and so forth. (Oh joy, Brad just arrived. I have to go. I love Brad, but man oh man does that cat know how to suck the life out of a room.)

Now, while I've been playing around with all this, there hasn't been time for introspection. Or to explain why I thought Priest was terrible, while wholeheartedly recommending fluff like 40 Days and 40 Nights. And because I'm a bastard, I'm not going to do that now. There just isn't the time.

Why? Because I've got bigger fish to fry. I've got this story, "In Search of the Perfect Lesbian," which I'm trying to turn into a novel (i.e. In Search of the Perfect Lesbian). But, as you might imagine, I'm more than a little daunted by the task of turning a never-revised 17,000-word short story into a 90,000-word novel. (See, here's what I love about me. I've been so lazy in my undergraduate career that I'm actaully in my fifth year, yet despite this I'm not worrying about my homework, but rather an extracurricular project.) I love my characters: Margaret, Pete, Kari, Jessica, Ben, Erin, Agnes (the oft-renamed BDOC), the other Pete, Skip, P.J., Ryan, Natalie, and the Dykehouses; I just don't know if I can sustain them for 90,000 words.

I think I can, but I'm having a hard time breaking 90,000 down into workable chunks, like chapters or even scenes. Plus, I really want to write a great book, something I'd want to read even if I weren't me, and I keep calling myself a hack. Actually, what I should do is go home right now and make myself work on it. Damn skippy!

And now the parade of ineptitude continues: Star Wars! Thanks to Julie for teaching me some very basic HMTL skills. She rocks. I mean, Julie rocks completely independent of her ability to make enlighten my ignorant butt, but that just adds to how much she rocks. While I'm getting used to this stuff, I might as well take the time to plug Dylan's site and my favorite band, The Mighty Mighty Bosstones.

Skeeter is one of my favorite people in the whole world. You will be doing yourself a disservice if you don't explore her Blog, Letters From the Pedastal.

Okay, wow, so that worked. Now to experiment and see if I can master the process. You should all (notice how I say all, implying the plural, as if anyone else would bother reading this) visit the Blue Tree Whacking website. BTW is the aegis under which my friends and I make movies, release albums, and live out our crazy antix. (Note: I don't approve of the spelling of antics as "antix," but BTW isn't my show; so, I've been overruled.) Everybody should visit starwars.com at least once a week. After all, if you don't like "Star Wars" (I still haven't learned how to italicize, dammit), get the Hell out of my Blog! Seriously, if you don't like "Star Wars," I would prefer you not read this.

Here goes nothing:

Blue Tree Whacking

I watch a lot of movies. I love movies. Yesterday, I saw two movies, both of which provoked a reaction: "Priest" and "40 Days and 40 Nights." I liked the latter, I detested the former. I'll expand on that later. Right now I'm trying to figure out how in the blazes to integrate links into my posts.

There are currently two main obstacles to my Blog kicking ass.
1) I have no technical prowess at all. I've been trying to figure out how to make a few changes, but even the How To section is daunting. I'll eventually figure it out, but it will be slow going.
2) I don't know what I want this to be. Sure, it's "The Secret Base of the Rebel Black Dot Society," but I've never defined what I want the Rebel Black Dot Society to be. Is it just me? Is it in any way connected to Blue Tree Whacking? (See, one of the technical limitations I'm talking about is right here. When I write Blue Tree Whacking, I'd love to make it a link to bluetreewhacking.com, but I lack to acumen to do so.) I don't know if I intend this to be some kind of traditional personal webpage, or what. I have no clear destination; so, it's hard to know in which direction to travel.

Fuck it, just make sure you see "SLC Punk" (see, I'd like to italicize that). I am not and have never been an anarchist, but I'm a punk (thus the surface attraction), and it's always rare for a film's characters to actually try to figure out what they believe in (the philosophical attraction). You can do it, if you sit back and try to reason out why you hold the beliefs you do. Movies commonly preach, "Just find happiness." Yeah, go out and find that which makes you happy, but if you figure out what you really want, you won't wander around blindly from plot-device to plot-device. You might start bending circumstances to your will, making the world as you desire it to be. And I learned that Matthew Lillard (another great chance for a link) can act.

The whole week's gone and I haven't been writing in my Journal. So many impressions I'll never really capture for posterity because Jim wants to talk late into the night and I'm too much of a tool to kick his Judas ass out. Or because David just wants to sit. I know his schedule is insane, but he does it to himself, and sometime it annoys me that he can only make time for me when he feels like loafing about.

(IMPORTANT NOTE: David is my brother and far and away the most important person in my life. He's honeslty the thing that worries me most about eventually getting married. My unattractiveness, my recreational sadism, my elitism, these things can be overlooked - if spun properly, they can ever be attractive - but how do I strike a balance between my brother and the woman I'll love? I guess I've just assumed that they'll see each other as rivals - yes, I'm horribly conceited, too - and I don't have a clue in Hell how to keep them from hating each other. I guess I'm just worried that I'll never find a girl with whom time spent will ever be able to hold a candle to time spent with Davidius. As usual, I'm getting ahead of myself.)

This week I met with the Director of Athletics of the University of Michigan. I had an axe to grind, but he tamed me. I think I got snookered, but I also don't think I mind. I saw a car accident while I was home Thursday. I'd just walked out of the dentist's office when I heard the collision. Yeah, I ran back inside and told the receptionist (whose name always escapes me) to call the police, and then I ran to the nearest car to see if the driver was injured, but my very first thought was of how cool the crash looked. It was nice and low-velocity, with a Safari van getting spun around and lifting up into the air, and this black S10 getting driven over the curb into a street sign. (This was in Flint, so all the cars were GM.) It was really neat, if only for a second. Then my lifeguard wits were once again about me and I acted decisively to summon the proper assistance.