Sunday, April 30, 2006

Pathetically Making a Mailbag

I don't know why I love the ideas of mailbags. Maybe it's because it shows that I have readers and that I can interact with them. Maybe it's because I enjoy the Cowbell mailbags that Bill Simmons does on ESPN. Either way, I have an infatuation with doing a mailbag, as you can probably tell from my begging for comments. I could be going about this all wrong, and should just ask for questions for me to answer in my own unique way. Well, I guess if you have questions to be answered by me about anything, throw them in the comments or e-mail me.

These comments came from the That Guy column, so I will put in my own two cents (much like after the last That Guy column).

pt said...

Sing-along with his iPod Guy -

He's the guy that ends up waiting in line right behind you while you're at the grocery store, the GSU, or even the library. It may seem annoying and completely rude at first, but it's okay...he's courteous enough to only have one of his earbuds in. That way he can pay attention to how annoyed you are AND hear all of the lyrics to Kelly Clarkson's "Breakaway". Yet despite his attempts to handle both his environment and his MP3 player, he's still horribly out of tune and louder than everyone else around him. Thanks, iPod guy. You've not only ruined my studying experience at the BPL but have killed my love for Kelly Clarkson as well.


First off, I love the fact that he's singing Kelly Clarkson's "Breakaway." I don't know what kind of a creepy guy would be singing songs aloud from the original American Idol. I have experienced a similar situation with someone I loathe only in passing. There was a columnist in the school paper, The Daily Free Press, and I found him to be uniquely unfunny. He is also a comedian (lord knows not a good one) and I once saw him putting up a flyer for one of his shows. He was bopping his moppy-haired head back and forth as he literally bounced along to the music, singing openly for all to hear. It was at that point that I realized he was nothing more than an attention whore who had to go to the lengths of singing in public to get the disered effect. He gives the rest of us attention whores a bad name.

Pam said...
Oh man, I had an encounter with Can't Hit On Chicks Guy tonight. Shockingly, his "I love the NBA" comment didn't get him anywhere... and neither did "Do you like Motley Crue?!" I later found out that the reason his moderately attractive friend had struck up a conversation with us was in an attempt to get some play for Can't Hit On Chicks Guy. Awesome.


I feel bad about Can't Hit On Chicks Guy because he simply doesn't know how bad he is. He is plugging away with what he thinks is gold material with no idea that it's nothing but yellow-coated shit. When the night is over and he goes home alone to jerk off to Facebook while he cries himself to sleep he simply cannot understand why girls aren't all over him. That is the saddest thing of all. Then again, he could also know how bad he is, but figures if he just keeps selling someone will eventually buy. That is also sad, but at least he's congnisant that he's atrocious at luring the other sex into some sort of relations. If I were a girl, I would love to be hit on in a pathetic way. Wait, is that why I have so many friends who are girls? Did no one inform me that I am, in fact, THAT GUY? Irony of ironies.

Anonymous said...
"omg kill me now i have so much to do" guy


I'm so happy that isn't me. It's finals time, which means that people will irrationally freak out and might be on the verge of violence. Being at college during finals week is the closest that someone can get to witnessing werewolves. All of a sudden that moon goes up and people froth at the mouth. I have been screamed at by people for interrupting their studying session down the hall when their test is four days away. Usually, I don't understand the overreaction as I test well. But, there was a time last year before my Humanities final that while mulling over how I possibly ended my relationship with my girlfriend (lol wait a year lol), studying the Sistine Chapel, and listening to Coldplay's "Shiver" for the first time that I unconciously scratched my neck til it bled. So, I guess we all have that Finals wolf inside of us. I just chose to bring mine out in incredibly over-dramatic ways.

Anonymous said...
BLATANTLY stares at you from across the room in class guy.


At least he wasn't licking his lips and rubbing his crotch (stolen from comedian Jim Norton). The sad thing is that I sort of was that guy for the longest time with one former crush. Wait, actually, that happened a few times in high school. Thank god I grew some semblence of nerve or else I could very easily be mistaken for a stalker or a creep, or the super-blend of the stalker-creep. And whoever wrote this - I think he likes you !!!!

Finally, before I leave, it tunrs out that I might have received a column in the BU-funded newspaper The Source. I will also be attempting to get a weekly column in the independent paper, the already-mentioned Daily Free Press (Freep). This thing isn't going anywhere. For those out of the range of both papers, and for those who simply don't read anything from or about BU, I will be putting them on here as well. So hurrah - you could be guarenteed at least 2 updates a week. I'm spreading like crabs, folks.

Thursday, April 27, 2006

Retro - Graduation Speech

Sometimes, I'm just a boob. One night, I believe while I was a sophomore in high school, I wrote a speech for graduation. Never mind the fact that I was two years early, there was no way I would be anywhere near the top 10 in the class and vie for a speech at graduation. (For those interested, I actually finished 41st out of 82 kids...and ended up Boston University. God bless the SATs and their verbal section). Either way, here's what I might have said...and I think I'm happy I never did....

Have I said how painful doing this is sometimes? It's not like I'm letting you people in on something deep and personal; I'm not reliving any painful memories. Instead, I'm seeing what I refered to as "good writing" and realize it is not very choice. This will logically lead to me reading posts on this thing in four years and cringing. It's nice to know that I can see it coming. Ugh.



Graduation – 2004

Today, we leave our secure, known surroundings and venture into a new locale, that being college. All of our lives, we have been set up for something else. Pre K was set up for Kindergarten, Kindergarten was set up for Elementary school, Elementary School was set up for Junior High School, and Junior High School was set up for High School, and High School was set up for College. So, we are in part 4 of the 5 step cycle to success. As of now we are completely ready to go into college courses. That’s the accumulation of the past 3 steps. But, as we are ready for schooling, we are not yet ready for life.

College is to set you up for the big world. It is to ready you for a job. Realistically, that is all that is guaranteed. We have learned to live these past 18 years here in Park Ridge. We have learned from our parents. Things like what not to say to Police (GET YOUR FAT ASS OUT OF MY FACE CAUSE I WASN’T SPEEDING!), we have learned where not to play (BUT THE STREET IS SO TEMPTING!). And it is at this point that we have to learn the rest for ourselves. Out there, away from the sheltered existence here in Park Ridge.

There is a saying that only 2 things are guaranteed in life : to pay taxes and to die. And, unfortunately, that is very true. Now, when most people hear that comment, they think of all things negative. Well, it is a very positive saying. How I see it is that your life can be anything. Your life can take so many paths, and nothing can stop you. Robert Frost wrote a poem about two paths, one beaten, and one never treaded on, it reads “.” And, for the record, I disagree with what he says.

He explains that in life, there are two paths to take. There is the conventional route and then he says there is the unconventional route. I believe that there are more than 2 routes in life. If there was, why do we have so many different people with so many different jobs in our world today? There aren’t just 2 paths. There are an infinite amount of them. Some are obvious to you, and some may be hidden. But, our goal in life is to take one path, and take it as far is it can go, or as far as we want to take it, before taking another of a multitude of different paths. So before you go to college, bring a pair of hiking boots, because it’s going to be a long walk.



I can't believe I actually said that last sentence and thought I was witty. Holy shit, you people better appreciate things like That Guy, cause look what other dreck you'd be forced to read.

Well, you could just not read at all.

...

pleasedon'tleave.

Monday, April 24, 2006

The Triumphant Return of "That Guy"

You certainly can never escape That Guy. You know who I'm talking about. It's not that easy to explain as much as it's easy to point out. That one kid in your class who always does that...that thing or the girl on the street who you see, you know...she just...come on, you know what I'm talking about! If you want a concrete example, I was That Guy once. When running out of the house to see the movie Spider-Man on opening day I threw on the only shirt that was clean - my Amazing Spiderman ringer t-shirt. After sitting down, I overheard the guys behind me. One of them said, "dude, how can you wear the shirt to the movie you're seeing? He's totally That Guy." The phrase was coined. And then I stole it.

This entry is dedicated to those kinds of people. While I do say "That Guy," I also will include girls as a Guy, because saying That Girl is soooo 1970s. If you want to see the previous That Guy column featuring Guy In Class Who Thinks He's Better Than You Guy, Guy In Class Who KNOWS He's Better Than You, and of course, Overly Needy Guy, click here. Now it's time to start ranting.

Wearing Too Much Cologne Guy - I was in the elevator returning from the local convenience store with cereal at 1:30 AM, much like any college student would do, when this Guy wanted to take the magical climb upwards in the "special moving box" with me. As soon as I saw him I could smell him, finally knowing what it must feel like to be a jungle cat. The real problem was when he got into the elevator I felt like I was being tear gassed in Waco (ya know, before it was scorched). The smell of Polo almost suffocated me. Thank God I live on the 5th floor, because if I lived on the 8th, I don't know if I'd be alive to recount this story to you, friends. Whoever thought that more girls like you based on how good you smell/your ability to be used in a hostage situation was, in a word, misguided.

Wearing Shorts In The Snow Guy - It's February. It's New England. More specifically meteorologists' greatest adversary: Boston. Honestly, if you just throw out random weather predictions, you'll be correct. (Let's see....70 and sunny, then 35 and snowing, then 50 and raining! Folks, I've lived it). There is no reason for anyone to have shorts out in February. None. You're not some sort of bad ass, showing everyone how NOT cold you are. "Look at you pussies with your sensible, leg-covering garments! You're all sissies! Look at me and my bare legs! Please look?" I hope the only attention you receive is medical attention when they amputate both of your legs because you have frostbite you ass.

Can't Hit On Chicks Guy - While waiting for the T, I noticed a somewhat attractive girl. Instead of going over there and starting up an awkward conversation, I stayed to myself and continued to rock out with my iPod (a lot of Captains and Coke will do that to a person). Another boy decided to take the plunge, however, and started what turned out to be a fifteen minute conversation with the lass, mostly because metro transit in Boston is as dependable as Doc Gooden in a crack house. He started up a conversation and, jealous of this man's confidence, I listened in. What I heard was probably the worst conversation ever, let alone one that involved a boy trying to pick up a girl. I heard things like "oh man, yeah, that's crazy, like, you'd think that like, nah, but like, totally hahaha!" The guy did not stop. I wanted to step in, but, well, the ten-minute version of Betterman came on....

Puts Up An Away About The Cell Phone Being Good Guy - This usually pertains to girls, but it has been seeping over to the penis-having side of humanity recently. Here's what I don't understand: if you have a decide that is always portable and is almost always at your side, why would you feel the need to update us that it works? Isn't the point of a cell phone to be a device where you can always be reached? My next away will be "Hey, I'm not here, but you can im me." Alert me when your cell phone decides to tame lions, club baby seals, or simply not work. Until then, I'll assume I can call you.

Sexual Joke Waaaay Too Early Guy - I was in my film class one day when one boy asked if anyone wanted gum, mostly talking to myself and another girl. We all obliged, even though it is Juicy Fruit. For those not in the loop, the ole' J. Fruit is notorious for having incredibly short lived taste. I'm talking LFO short. The girl pointed this out, saying "well, it'll be a great five minutes, at least." Without skipping a beat I blurt out "yeah, that's a philosophy I hold dear," making an obvious illusion to my non-existent sexual prowess. It did not receive a chuckle, or a polite giggle. No, no it received the most dreaded of all reactions, namely, a non-existant one. On a scale of 1-10, with one being an awkward cough and ten being uproarious laughter with various liquids shooting out of noses, I registered a big fat zero. I have not talked to the girl since, and I'm pretty sure she avoids direct eye contact.

Guy Wearing Little Boy Clothes Guy - En route to class one day I peered upon a man in his mid-to-late thirties in clothes that should be worn exclusively by children aged 5-8. He was outfitted with khaki shorts that ended just below mid-thigh while sporting a tucked-in collared shirt that was about two sizes too large. His calves were adorned with those olive green "I'm somewhat important" socks and black dress shoes. Keeping his shorts up at naval-level was the "my first fancy belt," completing the package. He looked so incredibly creepy I was skeeved just looking at him, staring into his vacant, soulless eyes while trying to avoid the obvious combover. If he were to speak in a British accent--the creepiest of all accents--I would have literally shit my pants in terror. I have shit my pants many times folks, but never, and I mean never in fear. Well, except that time at the circus three years ago...god damn seals....

Cell Phone On Vibrate Guy - Your cell phone is equipped with different methods to alert you of incoming calls, texts, or other forms of communication for a given situation. For example, you have "really loud hit song mode" for parties, "really sappy song for when my 'boo' calls mode" for the every day, and silent for times where your phone should not go off. This includes when being in the library, in class, or during a test. Vibrate does not equal silent. Every time during one of my huge tests (300 people) when we were told to turn our cell phones off or on silent, there goes the phone. BZZZZT! BZZZZT! BZZZZT! Have you realized how loud those motors are that make your phone into a makeshift sex toy? The best part is that people would rather listen to that shake all day rather than suffer the embarrassment of turning their phone off. One time in class this girl needed to be told urgent information because someone called her four times. She never once turned the phone off. It BZZZTed for about two minutes straight. A simple word of advice to heed from the Almost Enlightening staff: It's better to be embarrassed than end up in the hospital via a pen through the nape of the neck.

Guy Who Is Overweight Who Always Wears Shorts And A Sweatshirt Guy - Is there some sort of rule or universal law that I was never told about? Any time that I see a guy in mild weather, he is NEVER wearing pants and a t-shirt. For some reason, it has become an adopted code of honor to walk around exclusively in a combination of shorts and a sweatshirt. Think about the last time you saw your overweight male friend and think about what he was wearing. Exactly. What is the reason for this? Shame? Hide the top part because overweight people usually have oddly thin legs? Someone should get into the brotherhood as an undercover operative and give us all the reason. I cannot volunteer as I was already in that group for about three years, and like a draftee in Nam, there's no fucking way I'm signing up for a second tour of duty.

Guy Who Takes His Laptop To The Bathroom With Him In A Public Place Guy - As I was entering the bathroom at the George Sherman Union (eats, drinks, chicks, tables, you know the drill) a guy left the bathroom and walked passed me. This is not unusual in anyway, but something caught my eye. In his hands was a laptop. For a moment, I was absolutely baffled. The moment was fleeting as the Gatorade I had previously imbibed was making a quick escape, but for the rest of my time in the bathroom I tried to figure out the workings of such a move. This boy was so paranoid about having his laptop stolen that he ran the risk of dumping it into a toilet. But the schematic of the situation didn't work out right. How do you urinate in a urinal (oooohhhh! that's why it's called that!) while holding a laptop? Are you forced to pee girl-style in a stall? Also, would you have to go through the decision of either precariously holding it (the laptop, perverts) in one hand while you pull up your pants or do you put it on the ground of a public bathroom? How do you put it down by a sink and then wash your hands? Couldn't you soak the motherboard causing a quick and painful death to your computer (not to mention your stash of anime, porn, anime porn, and I guess school work)? Economists, what's the risk factor here?

Offended? Have your own "That Guy" to talk about? Leave a comment. Since asking (see: begging) for people to leave comments, I have so far accumulated about five, including three from Partha, one from an anonymous, and one from my mom who was ironically calling me out on my misspelling of "overbearing." I know a lot more of you read this (I know because I stalked a hundred or so of you - don't make me do it again) so speak up.

Saturday, April 22, 2006

throwing it away

The post number 50. This was supposed to be a big retrospective post, going back over the last few months of posts and me showing my personal bests and worsts. I decided that I didn't want to go back and read over 49 posts, so it was going to be a "That Guy" update with about eight or so brand spankin' new ones to rant about. And then I made a call, and that all changed.

I clearly have no idea how I am to live my life. I am a twenty year old kid who thinks he knows a hell of a lot more than he actually does. I try and rationalize every problem without having the proper knowledge with which to base actions off of. Throughout various stages of my life, people have come to me to ask simple questions about difficult questions, and I answer them with a false bravado; the all-knowing idiot. This continued on for many years and has treated me well. People get to hear an answer that they either wanted to hear all along or wanted to hear so that they could bash it and do the complete opposite. I have always thought of myself as someone who knows best.

Over the past week I have realized I know absolutely nothing.

To start things off, I'm what can only be described as mired in love. I simply cannot escape it. No matter what I say, no matter how great I am telling you I'm doing, I'm lying. I have been an absolute wreck inside for the last month or so. It isn't like I haven't had the outlet to let these feelings out, I just have decided that if I can put on a happy face that over time I can magically become happy. Turning fat into muscle, water into wine; simple transubstantiation. Unfortunately, you have no one to prove your happiness to when you're alone in your bed at night. There is no one to answer to but your own feelings, and there is no sense lying. Hell, it's impossible.

Every night she skips merrily into my head, plops down, and refuses to leave. Any time I look around, she is knocked into my conscious like a dart. Any time I hear a certain song, she bleeds in from the headphones into my head. I'll toss and turn, or shake it off, or turn off the song to escape. The problem is, I can't escape myself. I have reached the point where I have realized that while it's possible that I could help others, I simply cannot help myself. More so, I don't know if I want to.

I'm tired of playing the games, following "the rules," and trying to do what's "best" for me. It hasn't work, it won't work, and it has landed me in a worse spot than I could have imagined. I was told to not text her, it wouldn't be best for me, or us, so I refrained from doing so. Time went on, and the pit in my stomach grew. Eventually we went back to texting. I needed to hear her voice, but that just shows weakness, that she has the upperhand. "Fuck her," was a common response. It is not very easy to deny someone who you still want to be with. It's been a constant grapple between the head and the heart, and I truly don't know which one I want to win.

The whole process was highlighted with my inability to change things. No matter what happened, it was always her call. If I came back home and I wanted her but she wanted nothing to do with me, what can I do about it? For weeks I have sat in a perpetual "is she or isn't she," regardless of the official name of our relationship. I was on a see-saw every few days between her wanting me back and her tossing me away. Every few days I'd say it wasn't worth it, I had to move on, and I tired. Every few days I couldn't see myself without her, and there was no way to move on. Believe me, I tried.

Now there is a new crossroads that has entered the picture. As I tried to distance myself from her, to push as far away as possible, I only drew her near. Through various attempts and various means, I made it a point to get over her. Who knew how should we sway? The best thing I could do was prepare for the worst and get over her by the time I came back to Jersey. No matter how hard I tried, no matter what I did, it was seemingly impossible. I have done a lot and all it left me was hollow, empty, even shamed. I continued, hoping that there would be some magical switch to turn her off.

I ran in to it tonight. As if a perverse gift from above, the switch was turned. This whole time I assumed she would distance herself from me, decide that she is better off without me, and move on. Thus, I would have to move on myself as there is nothing left for me to hold on to. Instead, I pushed her away just as I orginally intended. I feel like the super villan who puts on blinders and creates his plan for world domination realizing only when it is completed that it's not what he wanted at all. I am both Frankenstein and his creation; an amalgamation of ambition, regret, and shame.

There are no words in this writing or in any language you can find to atone for my actions. I know that now. There is no blueprint to follow, there is no path to go by until you blaze it yourself. I only wish that lessons didn't hurt the way that they do. I wish that more hearts would be thrown into the fire. I wish I could have seen ahead of time what consequences could come from my actions. I wished I could get over her. I wished I could put the onus on her to force me away. I wish I didn't just pull the trigger and kill something beautiful.

And I know I did.

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

Happy Birthday?

For the last twenty years, every birthday has been a celebration, worthy of being told to have a "happy birthday." There are so many special land marks along one's life, denoted of course by adding another year of birth to the tally. Here are some of the highlights:

-2 years old. Hey! You escaped SIDS, prom bathrooms, plastic bags in dumpsters, and being shaken beyond life. Also, you might be able to escape the confining torture of footy pajamas, and have started to eat Gerbers. Hurrah. You still will remember nothing of this time, which is probably good, since this is right at the tail end of your parents' sex lives.
-3 years old. You've made it out of the "terrible twos" alive. I know for me this was a personal problem, as when I was teething I bit my dad in his thigh as he was doing the dishes. Also, I bit my mom right in between the nape of her neck and her shoulder where recently a mole had been removed. Hurrah life!
-10 years old. The big double digits! By now you have been told drugs are bad, sex is dirty (although you're not quite sure what it is yet, or how it is done, but it's still immoral!), and that girls might not actually have cooties. Let's pause and think for a second - are cooties the first STDs that we encounter? Honestly, is there some sort of conspiracy to let us constantly fear that a person of the opposite sex might have some sort of transferable disease? Jesus, we never get a break from the paranoia.
-13 years old. If you're a jewish boy, you're a man. If you're me, you have your Jewish's friend's dad tell you a joke in which the punchline is something along the lines of "that's not seal cum, it's mayo!" L'hiem!
-16 years old. Sweet 16 girls! I know that if you're rich this is your big coming out party to all of high society that you are a spoiled bitch who should be shot and thrown on the street to beg for money you disgraceful stuck-up whore. Wait, I had a point there, right? MTV has really affected me recently. Anyway, this is the time where you (apparently) stop going through puberty. Luckily, with technology in the food industry, this stops around 14 years old. What is going on with our world when girls who are like 9 get their periods?
-17 years old. Hey, you can drive now, which means that you're free to do whatever you want and your parents can't control you anymore maaaaaaan! All this means is that you become incredibly wreckless and do a lot of things in excess because, well, you think you can handle it. With my experience of driving home drunkards when I got my license, no one really knows what their limits are until about 19 years of age. This is the age where you think you know everything and you finally beat your parents' wisdom. You are completely and totally wrong. This stage will repeat every year until they pass away, and it will never be true.
-18 years old. You can buy cigarettes, porn, and lottery tickets! This means a trip to the OTB and the 7-11 are a MUST! This is also the age where you become legal, so getting into scuffles will now land you in prison. Hurrah! Another plus is that this is the cut off point for statutory rape in some states - something I know absolutely nothing about. Nothing at all. Not a thing. Nope! Not this guy! Another bonus in New Jersey of late is that now you can drive after 12 o'clock with as many people as possible; as if you weren't breaking those silly rules in the first place.
-19 years old. Last year as a teen! You better enjoy it, because old people say that when you become their age you want to be 19 again. We don't have the perspective to know that, so we just blindly take your word. Once again, this should also be the year where you know your limits. Well, actually, just because you know your limits doesn't mean that you stick to them. Whoooo college!!!!1
-21 years old. Now you can legally drink, which means you can now go to places and purchase alcohol at ridiculous costs while getting no ass or phone numbers in the process. This birthday is given a lot more credit than it really deserves.

Notice how I skipped over 20? There's a reason. It is the first in a long line of miserable birthdays. After all of the birthdays I have mentioned above, twenty years old is the first depressing birthday. You're half way to forty, and the only thing you have to show for it is that you're still in college. Who knows what you're going to do with your life; do you even have a major? You see successful people all around you who were doing great things when they were fourteen and fifteen. Hell, LeBron James is playing basketball in the NBA while I'm the same age and playing AS him in NBA Live.

Twenty is the first of the awful decade birthdays. First comes twenty, then thirty, then forty, then fifty. Actually, I wouldn't really know what this would feel like as my Mom stopped counting somewhere in her mid-thirties. I think my dad's fifteen. All of my friends have reacted differently. One of them was reading Time magazine on a couch in his bathroom trying to piece together his life. Another one just cried all day. Me? I'm writing out all of my self-doubts and worries on the internet. God, reading that is so sad.

Luckily, I did hit a bright spot. Today, while being swamped with ims and facebook wall messages (btw facebook has one truly positive aspect - birthday watch) I was talking to a girl from my class and I pretty much said everything in this post--in a truncated fashion--to her. I asked her what the positives are of being twenty. Her answer? "Well, you're in college." It really is a great point. Who gives a shit about the future when I have an accepted level of alochol imbibition that I need to obliterate! Responsibility is for old people! Like my parents, like my family like...like me.

Shit.

Someone, get me a shot immediately.

Sunday, April 09, 2006

Written postmortem (eventually)

A strange thing occurred in the shower yesterday (sorry to start something so morbid off on such a sexy idea): what happens if I die? If I'm walking around and a Mass. driver decides to just start driving on the sidewalk--without a blinker to alert us that he is going to start running over pedestrains, of course--and kills every person on foot for about 100 feet down Commonwealth Avenue, what will I have left to everyone? Then I realized that my legacy would be this thing, which is both sad and scary, mostly because people will remember be thinking "man, that last post with the dryer was just...weird. Man, he was a weird dude. Let's shit in his coffin before the wake!" That's not a good way to end one's life.

I always think ahead, so therefore I am going to put the last chapter on this sucker just in case something terrible does happen. Also, if I die tomorrow, I can be labeled prophetic; the white Tupac, somehow 'knowing' his death was coming. Unfortunately, I don't have the luxury of a guarentee of getting shot every day, so I'm just going to have to guess and hope for the best. No, I don't know if "the best" means dying tomorrow or when I'm 80, mostly because the headlines would be soooo good! Wait, I'm a nobody college kid - I'll barely crack page ten. Well, hopefully it's gruesome so I can be a bloody mess on the Boston Herald's front page because they're sensationalist douches. Also, I hope no one famous was involved, because that would just ruin it for everyone.

The fact is that no matter what, a living thing always dies. There is no other option. If you live, you are sure to die (and if you're a plant, you get to miss taxation). While we all know that fact, we almost never accept it. When the person is eight, eighteen or eighty, death is never taken as an inevitablity, but a tragedy. It is almost always a surprise, no matter the age, as if it will never happen. My mom has tried to rationalize to herself that I'm "one of God's special angels," which is funny, because YOUR GOD IS DEAD Nah, just that I accept the fact that I'm not only not an angel, nor sent from God, but that I will one day pass away.

The weird thing is that I've never really had a problem with my own death. When I was younger, I thought I'd never live past forty. The best way I can explain it is that I was around five when I had this thought, and forty seemed like eons away, like traveling to Australia by foot (yes, I know you can't - that's the joke, folks). Now, I'm almost half way to the cap age that I have put on myself. Strangely, that's fine with me.

You can't beat death; there is no reason to try to win. Keep pushing that brick wall all day, pal, but it's not going to push back. Instead, I have realized what a great life I have (editor, please fix "have" to "had" if this is postmortem, thanks). I have a loving, supportive family who has always been by my side--although sometimes being on my side became "harping," I'll still forgive--and have believed in me.

I have had my close friends, The Table, The Boys, The Guys That Guy High At Mermicks A Lot, with whom I have shared the best, and worst, of times. They keep me stable, laughing, frustrated, ecstatic. I could very well shit all over them since none of them read this (notice how I didn't write "supporting") but hey, they're still good guys. I've been lucky enough to have a great number of friends, all of whom have had an incredible effect on me. Without them, I wouldn't think the way I do, write the way I do, feel the way I do, or possibly be sane in any sense of the word. I'm shaped by everyone who reads this, and for that, I thank you. (editor, if I'm backstabbed, "et tu, brute?" style, please make a note of "except for ________, who's a real dick.")

I have been in love, something a lot of people don't experience in a lifetime. I'm lucky enough to have it happen to me before I hit twenty. There are a lot of lessons to be learned in your teen years, and to have someone to share it with is such a comfort. We grew together, and now we are possibly growing apart, but isn't that the point? Together, we braved a lot of terrible times, where the only thing we had to lean on was the other person. Without a doubt, she kept me afloat for the better part of a year and a half, and I'm pretty sure I did the same for her. Our past was golden, or present is mixed, and our future is incredibly undecided, but I would refuse to give up any of the time we shared to curtail the current situation. They were the best years of my life (editor, the longer I live, extend this so if I die before like, 25, make it "my short life," it has more of a power to it. Also, if I'm married, throw in something about the wife, cause I might look bad if I don't, ya know, include the women I'm to love forever. kthx.)

The point of all of this is that I have become incredibly appreciative of the life I live. Thanks to my dad and my mom's refusal to go through child birth again, I am a spoiled little bastard who really hasn't had to live hand-to-mouth, or face any true hardships. I am now enrolled at a rather prominent college that could give me a great jump start to a career (editor, I hope that by the time I'm dead this is true...in fact, I just want a career in SOMETHING). I have tons of great people on my side and have accomplished a lot. The question is, what should I not be happy about?

My life has been incredibly successful, and I've already done more than I ever imagined. Growing up as the stuttering, glasses-wearing, rail-thin kid in an insulated suburb of New Jersey, I never thought I'd have these experiences or the fun or even the pain that I have had. I'm not going to say "I wouldn't change any of it for the world!" because there are a lot of (minor) things I'd like to change, but I'm sure I'm not alone (see: whitney houston, michael jackson, doc gooden, Pantera for being a hairmetal band, Styx for Mr. Roboto). I'm not sure I'll ever forgive myself for not watching 24 from the first season onward. Somehow, though, I will move on.... (editor, if I ever make the mistake of missing any other great shows featuring members from the cast of The Lost Boys, please add their shows to the list, cause there's no way I'm going to watch them right off the bat. If Corey Feldman gets a new show, and it is good, I'm sure we all died in the apocolypse, so ignore this and all other notes.)

The story whenever a kid (meaning up until 21) dies is "he had so much to offer!" I have always been amazed that almost EVERY single child who dies could have cured cancer, or beaten Super Mario 3 in 10 minutes, or write a novel that makes everyone realize how shitty of a writer Hemmingway is (and you're god damn right he's terrible - WAKE UP PEOPLE!). I'm sure that right before I died, I wouldhave gone on a coke binge and killed three people in a 7-11 before trying to hijack a Dennys and fly it into l'Arc de Triumphe. I think it's better off this way. (editor, if someone actually attempts this, try and clear my name for giving him the idea - the last thing I need is to be martyred a la video games, heavy metal, and the teletubby murders, which should happen around 2009.)

So, now at the ripe age of ___ (editor, please fill this in...and I don't see you needed that third _, but I figured eh, for insurance purposes), I have left the mortal coil. I hope my dying words were "oh wait." That way, people could think I was about to say something smart, or insightful, or profound, when really I just wanted them to think that. I would laugh all the way to the beyond, except, well, I don't think you can laugh once you're deceased. So, just remember me in my last action - laughing at you.

Wednesday, April 05, 2006

Pondering the End of Humanity

Remember in Terminator 2 where the computers of the world united taking over the missle defense systems and everything else pitting humanity in a battle versus those machines to win their world, and their freedoms, back? That will never fucking happen. Ever. You know why not? Because machines stink.

I remember watching that movie and then thinking about the internet, and those Honda robots that can play a trumpet, or that Sony dog that is just like a real dog, but is mechanical, and barely moves, and looks dumb, and is waaaay overpriced, but they thought it was really special, when it was just a piece of crap, and how all of these things were going to take over the world and only Arnold from the future could save us.

And then I went to Boston University.

The amount of shit that simply does not work in this institution is baffling for a number of reasons. The most important one is that I pay more than a good number of workers get yearly as a salary. What's almost as important to understand my anger over the situation is that it's never a complicated action that is never done properly. I'm not pissed at some complex pully and lever system with eighty different parts, a thermo-nuclear base, and a hampster in a wheel as a back up. No, I am pissed at the machines that do the easiest things possible.

For example, I will never understand why dryers don't work. Their purpose isn't to dry clothes and read, or dry clothes and formulate ideas on nuclear fission, not even dry clothes and chew gum at the same time (possibly while also rubbing its glass-encased stomach). All it has to do is move shit around while there is some heat. That's it! It's not really complicated. Hell, if you can get the same effect by leaving shit outside for a day while the god damn sun is out, you're really not doing anything strenuous. For whatever reason, this is too much to ask for some days.

On more than one occasion I have washed my clothes, put them in the dryer, and in an hour expected the clothes to be dry. It's not like I expect the dryer to fold them (but if I put it in a folder machine, you can bet your sweet as I would expect wrinkle-free bundles of neatness), I simply ask it to do what it's named for. Think about it: it does its job so well, it's not just its middle name, its the ONLY name...like Madonna, only she isn't best known for...Madonna...ing. Yeah.

When I come down to find my clothes sufficiently damp I will not throw a temper tantrum, nor will I whine. No, I will just with hold all of my anger, plunk down another $1.50 of my Dad's hard-earned money that I spend like the flow will never stop, and mope around like a little bitch. Then, I will hop on the internet to lambast that hunk of scrap metal in the hopes that Machine #3 either reads this, or overhears people talking about it. I think it'd be better if some kids go downstairs, around #3, and say "man, did you hear that kid rip dryer 3 apart?" The other kid will go, "yeah dude, it was wicked nasty to listen to, hahvahd, cah, go sawx, I like being ah livin' stereotype, Sully."

Then, I hope the machine hears it and doesn't cry. No, I don't want tears (I've seen enough liquid come out of that fucking thing). I want change. I want him to have a montage with an elder machine who works #3 to the bone as crappy 80s buttrock plays in the background. I want to see him spinning that inner cycle like nobody's business while "TO THE LIMIT...HE CAN PUSH IT! HE CAN PUSH IT TO THE LIIIIIMIIIIIIT" pumps in the background. At first, he won't do it fast enough, and the older dryer will mock him, saying he doesn't have it. But after a while #3 will keep working until he can spin that fucking inner cycle so hard he's shaking. The older machine will go for a high five and #3 will jump up and get that high five with his bright yellow headband and short shorts for its non-existant legs, which is good cause they're really short and you'd be seeing too much dryer machine thigh anyway.

The dryer will come back to the Myles Standish washing machine room and I'll have some wet, Tide-smelling clothes in my hamper. I will make an audible "argh" when there is only one dryer left - number three. I will complain, saying, "man, this dryer never has what it takes." The dryer will bite its lint trap (the closest thing resembling a tongue) and will let his work do the talking for him. I'll swipe my card, enter the number three, and accept the transaction, fully aware that I'll need to waste another dollar and a half in an hour.

I come downstairs an hour later, open the door, and expect to be disappointed. I'll check the pants, and they will be dry. I will check a t-shirt, and it, too, will be dry. In a joy that comes only with child birth I will go through all of my clothes and will still feel the warmth flowing off my dry garments. Wiping the tear from my cheek, I'll turn to dryer number three, and I'll say "I'm sorry I ever doubted not just your job, but your heart. You're a good dryer. No, no. God dammit, you're one of the best." Then, I'll grab that dryer's door, and I'll give it a hearty handshake.

The moral of the story is: simple machines that do simple things better fucking work. And if they don't, they better montage their asses to glory.

Now, dear readers, as you may have noticed, I have taken down the tracker to this blog off of my profile. Because of this, I don't know if I still have the same amount of readers as before. I now turn to you folks to help me with the next entry. I tried a mailbag-type situation before, very early in the process, and it was kind of a miserable failure. So, I will once again press my luck. Either write in the comments or e-mail something simple, possibly electronic, that doesn't work. Then, if I get enough of a response, I'll make a post with my comments about it. Or, if I don't get any response, I'll just look like a pathetic douche. Fun times putting yourself on the line.

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

Retro: Fulfillment

This piece I believe I wrote sometime in High School, maybe sophomore year. It's weird because it's poorly written and kind of boring. However, this is one of the better pieces that I have, so I figure I should be proud of this? Wait for the other retro stuff - it's incredibly embarassing. Ugh. Sometimes I really loathe this thing...



Fulfillment

A time that I had to wait was in sixth grade graduation. There is an award called the Presidential Award. This is an award from the office of the president to any student that got a B or above on every report card from fourth to sixth grades. Now I unfortunately didn’t get in a book report the last marking period of sixth grade. So I got a D, All perfect marks with one big blemish to ruin it all. My hopes sank for that award so dear to me. Most importantly, I had this brought to my attention from my mother a few times, also. While picking me up from school one day, my mom (who’s very sociable) started to chat with one of my teachers. He/she said that supposedly the last quarter didn’t count in the selection process. Now my, and my mom’s, hopes were raised as I had a chance for that award.

The next day, graduation happened. After an hour of singing, speeches, and the resemblance of some form of music coming from the band, Mrs. Mozak stood and went to the podium for a speech. Then she said the word “President”. A drop of sweat trickled down my ear. My mom, who wanted the award for bragging rights (I guess), got tense. As Mrs. Mozak was reading the letter that came along with it, I heard her end it with “Singed William Clinton, February 1998.” Well, then I really thought I had a chance. The last quarter couldn’t have counted since it came after the official signing. Then she said “Michael Anton”. I froze and didn’t know what to do. Alison Gletow, who was sitting next to me, hit me in the arm and told me to stand. I did so with extremely wobbly legs. I could barely stand. As the applause started, I had to use the back part of the bleachers to keep myself upright. I then looked directly at my mom who mouths to me “You’re one lucky little boy.” Those are probably the best words she has ever said to me. Then, we were all seated. The rest of the proceedings went on like normal, but that award meant so much to my family, myself, and my pride to get something that I worked so hard for over the last 3 years.

Sunday, April 02, 2006

Second Worst Holiday Ever: April Fools!

Imagine a day where all of the worst, hackiest jokes come around. Imagine one day each year where it is not only accepeted, but expected, to be a completely distrustful douchebag. Imagine a day when you hear more shit jokes per minute than in ALL of ABC's sitcoms. Imagine a day when all trust and faith in humanity goes completely out the window. That day does exist, and god dammit do I hate it with a burning passion.

I LOATHE April Fools Day.

I don't hate it as much as I hate Valentine's Day, but it's pretty close. You might ask yourself, "why, Michael? You are a man of quick wit and humorous undertones in your daily speech, one would assume that you would delight in a day of joviality and horseplay that is the heart of April Fool's Day!" To which I say, "go fuck yourself with your stupid ass holidy." It has brought me nothing but confusion and pain. I will elaborate, of course.

My first brush with Hilarity Day was in first grade. My teacher, Mrs. Cohen, had prepared the classrom in a strange way. For the first time ever, she pulled down the screen that is used by overhead projectors and the like, and it covered the blackboard. Wasting no time, everyone sat down and Mrs. Cohen excitedly said that we had a pop quiz. At this point, we had never even had a "quiz." I don't think we even had tests other than "don't pee yourself" and "keep that crayon out of your nose." No one was sure what this "pop quiz" was, except that we luckily knew it was something bad, as The Wonder Years and Saved by the Bell had told us. Just as soon as we grasped the idea of a pop quiz, she pulled up the screen and written on the board was April Fools! At that point we tried to figure out what April Fools meant. Good job confusing children, educator.

I soon learned what the day meant and was told by a friend of mine a way to get my Dad. Sujoy told me about a deliciously devilish prank in which you unscrew the cap/head of the showerhead and fill it with Gatorade powder. This way, it will mix together making the water taste like lemon--or more specifically "yellow"--and look like a different color, totally freaking my Dad out! There are numerous problems with this premise. First, the water tastes and looks differently because it's a mixture in a contained environment, and not some sort of magic chemical cohesion that can happen once water hits powder. I would assume that the water wasn't yellow or lemon-lime. No one would ever REALLY know for sure because my Dad lets the water run for about five minutes before getting in. Oh, and he's as blind as Mr. Magoo without his glasses (which one discards of while showering) so he wouldn't have noticed any change anyway. My first prank ever is a miserable failure.

Dad was too difficult a target, so I decided to hunt fish in a barrel and go after my good ole' mom. The thing with my mom is that she scares incredibly easily. It's ridiculous, actually. I will be walking down the hallway in my tiny house, and she'll be walking the other way. We will meet at the hallway intersection and she'll scream, even though you can hear me creaking with each step. She will then hit me, say "stop trying to scare me!" and walk away, when all I really wanted to do was pee. Nothing more. Honest.

I had a great idea that the best way to get at Mommy dearest is to scare her, since it's incredibly easy to do. I cannot lose. I used to have a My Buddy doll which, frankly, horrified me. It would scare me so that my Dad had to lock it in his Accord's trunk when I went to bed. Why not toss it you ask? Cause I loved venting my fear out by beating the shit out of it. It was theraputic because it used to scare me; vicious cycle indeed. I let my dad in on it, because if I couldn't get a gag on him, he should at least be on my side. I placed the foot-and-a-half plush doll in the pantry and waited til morning.

Turns out, Dad opened the pantry by accident and the My Buddy fell to he floor. He stuffed it back in, but somehow jammed it into the door. When my mom opened the door to get my breakfast, the doll sprung out towards her legs. She fell backwards, screaming, almost hitting her head on the counter by the sink. LOL!!1 I nearly lost my head for that one.

Thankfully, I never learn lessons. Two years later, I was watching Nickelodeon. They obviously wanted a rise in child beatings because they had little jokes that you can play on your parents in between the shows. One of them was to put a rubberband on the spray-attachment you use to power-blast ketchup and chinese food off of dishes. I thought it was rather clever, so I put it on and waited. Luckily, as soon as you put the water it would transfer directly to the sprayer and hilarity would ensue! What I did not take into consideration was aiming the nozzle, so when my mom turned the sink on, the water went directly past her and landed on the pile of bills. She had no idea what was going on, so she stood there watching the bills getting soaked beyond recognition, very confused. Finally, she figured it out, just as I ran in saying "APRIL FOOLS DAY!" Needless to say I'm happy that I still have all limbs.

That was the last april fools joke I ever made.

However, every year I get duped because I'm a trusting person. This year's prize went to Tom Lupfer. Good ole' Tom and I hadn't spoken for a while, so when I rolled out of bed at 11:43 I imed him to say hello. I asked him how he was and he said awful, that he broke up with his girlfriend (and my friend) Mer, with whom he had been seeing for a good number of years. I welcomed him to the club, and we commiserated until he had to go to work. Then, he left me with "And april fools day you gullible bastard!" I was upset, not because he took my friendship and faith and shit all over it, but because I just woke up and did not realize what the date was.

This day is horrible for one final reason - how can you take bad news seriously? If I get a call saying Grandma's dead, I'll laugh and say, "man, that's not even far-fetched!" If my (ex?) girlfriend comes up to me and says I'm pregnant, I'll kick her in the stomach in the direction of the nearest stair case before she has the chance to say "AP."

Don't take people's trust and crap over it people. Trust is a very important thing. That's why I trust in you guys to not let anyone know that I'm gay and I've been dating my pool boy, Eduardo, for the last 4 years.

LOL APRIL FOOLS! I DON'T HAVE A POOL!

...but I do have an eduardo.....