Thursday, May 18, 2006

Final Semester Final Final

'Ere 'tis:

“Hello there, Mr. Yaroch. I hope you haven't been waiting too long.” He said. I had, and while I was a bit annoyed, I could understand the circumstance. Plus, this is heaven; he's St. Peter, who the hell am I to complain?

“The line to get in here was a little long”, I said. That was a bit of a mischaracterization, you see, the line to get here was ridiculously long. It was understandable; judgment day is going to be crowded, but you'd think that heaven would have a better organizational system.

Processing took what felt like forever, which must have felt like nothing to the people that have been here for, well, forever. But after all was said and done, after we had cleared through the lines and been given our various nametags and put into our various buildings, and after waiting in what has to be the most boring waiting room that I've ever sat in, we were here, ready to be interviewed. At this point, the only thing I could think of was that this was the most important day of my afterlife, and I hadn't even ironed my shirt.
You see, when the judgment comes, it comes quickly, too quickly to do your laundry. As if I would've done it anyway.

I remember it being Tuesday. Why would you have the judgment be on a Tuesday, anyway? Monday, I could understand, if you do it Monday, you're giving everyone a break for the rest of the workweek. Wednesday would be fine, because everyone's in the flow on Wednesday, the hard stuff is behind them, the good stuff is coming. Tuesday though, Tuesday is right in the middle of the hard stuff. You've done your time on Monday, starting to trudge through the week, and the only gift you have is that at least Monday won't be as bad as Tuesday. The only thing that Tuesday has, the only benefit is hope for better. Tuesday's as bad as it gets, and even with his infinite wisdom, that's when God decided to end it all.

“Yaroch.” Peter said, “What is that? German?” I get this from time to time. “No. Polish” I replied. “Oh good, I was afraid I'd have to kick you out of here right away.” I hoped he was joking. “I'm joking.” He assured me. I was nervous, very nervous. The last time I had been in an interview like this, it was for a job at a library. A job that I didn't get. This was not a gig that I could afford to not get. This was either perform and have eternal bliss, or fail and say hello to damnation.

“You know what? It's a nice day out, you mind if we do this while walking?” I was a little perplexed by the question. Here I was, completely prepared for the most formal of all interviews, and he wants to take a promenade through the campus. “Hey, you're the boss” I said. “Not quite.” He nodded upwards, “But close.”

We got up from the office, which wasn't nearly as impressive as you'd think a heavenly office to be. In all honesty, it felt a lot like a dentist's office - pristine white was the entire range of the color palette, and the receptionist's desk looked just like my old dentist's one, with a thick long, winding table dividing you from the secretary's workspace. The magazines in the waiting room were even out of date.

We left the building and came out into a park-like area in the back. The world outside the office wasn't on fluffy clouds and veiled in a white haze; it was beautiful and green, with various flowers all around, but nothing too vibrant. Peter saw the look on my face. “Not what you thought it'd be, huh? That's most people's reaction.” “I remember as a kid, people would tell me that heaven was whatever you wanted it to be. That everyone has their own different one.” I said. “If that was the case, how could we afford to keep the place up?” he said, not really joking.

“Anyway, we should get on with this interview.” He lifted his clipboard and shuffled around in his pockets. “Oh damn it. Do you have a pen?” he asked. I reached into my left pocket where I had always kept one on earth, and there it was. I handed the pen to him, and I saw him notice my untidiness. “Heh. I didn't have time to do laundry.” I was embarrassed. “Like it would've mattered. We've seen you do laundry, and I don't think that an iron and a few sprays of Febreeze are going to save you anyway.”

“On with the evaluation. So your full name is?” I stressed my middle name, "Christian"; a middle name that has annoyed me for a long time but looked like it would come in handy here. “Mhmm. And you were born where exactly?” “Well, I was born in Alaska, but, but don't you have all of this already?” It confused me that he would know about my unorthodox laundry methods, but not my basic information. “Yes, well, we usually ask it to make the interview feel more casual. A lot of people are very nervous when they do this. Are you nervous?” “No, not really.” I lied. “Don't lie.” He said. “Okay, yes, but you understand.” Why I would be so stupid as to lie on their interview for eternity, I'll never know. “Yes, I understand. So, why do you think that you should be allowed into heaven?” This was a pretty direct question, and I felt like I should provide the best answer possible, so I thought about it. And thought about it. Why did I deserve it? Did I deserve it? Well, it didn't matter now, I needed any justification that I could muster to get in. “Well, on earth, I was, um, I was a nice person. I was helpful, I wasn't greedy, I made people laugh” I was searching his face for any reaction, to see where I should embellish, but his expression was stone cold. “I volunteered a little, I went to church.” “Don't lie.” He caught me. “Well, I went to church when I was little.” “And why did you stop?' I really didn't want to answer this question. “Well, because, when I was 12, I um, I wanted to rebel against organized religion, back then, um, I was fighting to truly know God, I was trying to be faithful, I was…” “An atheist.”

Shit. He knew.

“Okay, yeah, I am…well, I guess I was, an atheist. I guess you really can't be one now.” I was dreading this. “No, it's kind of hard to argue against God when you're sitting in his house.” He didn't look disappointed. That struck me as odd. “So wait,” I said, “I'm not kicked out for that? You accept atheists?” “Oh yeah, we've got tons of them up here. Atheists, Agnostics, Muslims, Hindus, we let everyone up. Hell, there are more Buddhists up here than Christians.” He chuckled. “Seriously?” I was floored. “Yep. There's a lot of misinformation going on down there about us. Look, if you're a good person, if you led a good life, regardless of your beliefs, you'll get in. Unless you're a lawyer.” I laughed, but quickly stopped. Again I asked, “Seriously?!” “No, it's just a joke. You see, we let the Jews in too.” Wait a second, I thought. “Wait a second,” I said, “did you just say hell?” “Yes,” he said, “why? Oh, you think that we care about swearing? You actually think that with all of the death and violence and horrible things that go on in the world on a daily basis, that we're worried about the seven words you can't say on television?” “Well, no, I didn't. I mean, I did, I guess, but…well, I just never thought…I never thought that this place would be so…” “Rational?” “Well, yeah.” I said. “Don't worry about it. Rationality is what we hang our hats on up here. The guys in hell, those guys are the crazy ones.”

“We're deviating again” he motioned to his clipboard. “Let's see. What would you have liked to have done with your life?” “Created world peace.” I quickly answered. “Okay Miss America. Now what really?” I had to think again. I was only 20 when this thing happened. I had hardly figured out what I wanted to do for that week let alone for the rest of my life. I told him what I had told everyone up to that point. “Well, I was an English and Philosophy major, so I guess I wanted to write. Or at least teach. I kind of wanted to work in publishing, actually.” I felt all over the place with my answers. “You're lying again. What did you really want to do? What was your ambition?” “Does it matter?” I asked. “Of course it does! Ambition's all we have most of the time.” So I thought some more. I figured I shouldn't just tell him what he'd want to hear, I should tell him the truth. “Well, I've always loved movies. Like, a lot. I guess I always wanted to be a filmmaker.” “See, that wasn't so hard. What kind of movies would you have made?” This seemed like a silly question. “Well, I'd really have loved to have made a great film noir. I love those, and people don't make enough of them. Well, didn't. I really liked lighting in film, and noir had that cool theatrical lighting.”

I could feel myself beginning to ramble on like I often did on earth about movies. I'm something of a film buff. Okay, a film nerd. Buff sounds too important, when really I just like being in a theatre and being taken away by a great flick.

“Yes,” he said, “We noticed that you spent a lot of time watching movies. Too much time, really.” This worried me. You see, I had spent too much time watching movies. I had become something of a film student in my spare time, watching Kurosawa and Welles, Fritz Lang and Jean Luc-Godard; all of this in lieu of figuring out what to do in South Dakota where I grew up. You see, film was all there was in South Dakota, really. It's a boring place, so I'd rather have Truffaut or the Coens Brothers take me away somewhere than go out to a field and get wasted only to wake up the next day and realize that I had gone out into a field and gotten wasted; a truly pathetic feeling.

“Is that bad?” I asked. “Well, it could be better. At least you weren't hurting people, or planning a bombing or something, but you weren't exactly using your time as wisely as possible.” “Hey, it's like my mother's interviewing me.” I regretted saying that almost as much as I enjoyed it. “Hey, a smartass.” He said. That didn't make me feel very good, and he could tell. “Don't worry, this place is full of smartasses. Wit is valued up here. Take God for instance. He's a huge smartass. You know those philosopher's that spent all of their time positing that the world was nothing and that God was creating everything at every moment?” “Yeah” I said. “Yeah, well, when those guys died, God immediately put them in a small, dark closet, just to see their reaction. Berkeley was in there for a week before a janitor accidentally opened it and let him see how crazy he really was. Anyway, point is, we appreciate a sense of humor up here.” That comforted me. “So do comedians get a free pass?” “The good ones. The guys you'd expect. Lenny Bruce, Bob Hope, Woody Allen. They were shoe-ins. But those Blue Collar Comedy guys, they can rot in hell.” Heaven was looking better and better.

We had stopped at a bridge, overlooking a beautiful river, and on the other side was a park where some kids were flying kites. “It really is beautiful.” I said. “I know,” he told me. “People on earth think of heaven as some place like where the Care Bears hung out, with rainbows and clouds, when really, it's as normal as most any park down there. Immaculately taken care of, beautiful trees and flowers, and one hell of a maintenance bill.” Spoken like an accountant. He pointed across the bridge. “You can go there now.” I looked, amazed that I had gotten in. I was accepted! I was more elated than I'd been in my entire afterlife. “You mean, we're done?” “Yep, we're done.” I said goodbye and started to walk across the bridge. “I can't believe I'm in heaven.” I said. “Oh, wait,” he had heard me. “You're not in heaven. This is purgatory.” “What?!” “Oh yeah, are you kidding me? You think we'd be able to process your forms this quickly? Man, are you stupid. Look pal, go to purgatory, and enjoy it. It's like New York but cleaner and boring.” “Purgatory is Toronto?” “Look, sorry guy, but we'll get back to you in 6-12 weeks. Heaven may be Heaven, but it's still a bureaucracy, and let's face it, bureaucracies are a bitch.“

Thursday, April 13, 2006

Latey McLaterson

So, I haven't been posting lately, can you guess why?  That's right, it's because I haven't been doing my work.  Well, that's not completely true, but I've been in somewhat of a rut creatively speaking.  Anyway, I did get one story done, and I'm working on two others to keep my mind off of the fact that I haven't made progress on my final project in a while.

Here we go:

Dear Kelsey,

Hi sweetie, I hope you’re enjoying class right now, as I’m sure you’re hard at work doing what you Theatre majors do. I remember that time I took you to that play in the park, the lilies, the trees, the wind, and the troupe of players acting out that performance art piece. Sure, seeing the man climb out of the giant, green plastic vagina and proceeding to shit on a Bulgarian flag while cursing in a language that I can still only really describe as a mix of Latin, Russian, and something-like-Klingon wasn’t the most romantic thing in the world, but I think the statement that he was making was valid, and we should have stayed, if only to see what happened to the midget with the flaming arrow stuck in the turtle shell on his back.
See, this is the problem that we’ve had. That day, our third anniversary, you got mad at me for bringing you there. I put a lot of time and work into finding that advertisement tacked onto a board at my favorite alternative coffeehouse. Yes, you know the one, The Caf, the only brewery in town that serves bean free coffee (indeed, the only people I know of that respect my, and other Ultra-Vegans’ need to not eat or drink anything that has ever lived). But still, you got mad. You said that those people were crazy, that I never take you anywhere nice, anywhere normal, that you’re tired of only going to coffee shops that serve, as you call it, “just hot water”. In short, that day, you told me that you don’t appreciate art.
I never, EVER thought that I would be in a relationship with someone who would deride a person for doing what they love, and for changing the world through their art. And for the most part, you haven’t, but this, the e-mail I received today, was the last straw.
When I sent you my novel, it was not for you to judge with your plebian views on art. Your “critique” if you can call it that was callous, misinformed, totally missed the point of the work, and just plain stupid. I’ll highlight the worst parts of your review of it, and my reaction to them:

Exhibit A: “I don’t know why the first 12 pages are blank”

Ha. You’re kidding, right? You couldn’t break down what I was saying? It’s called a STATEMENT. Look, how many books have you read where the first 12 pages have content on them? Think. How many? Hundreds, probably; historically speaking, the first twelve pages of most novels have words on them. Well, I’m sorry for challenging your ideas on what constitutes a novel. I didn’t realize that there was some divine mandate for all books to have words on their first twelve pages. A world where works of literature have to have the first dozen pages contain letters and words is not a world that I want to live in.

Exhibit B: “The main character, Minute (is it Minute like time, or like the basketball player?), why does he say “Bring him with triumph unto his house” so many times, at seemingly random intervals; in fact, rarely, if ever, having to do with the context of the book?

My God. First of all, Minute is NOT the main character; EXISTENCE itself was the main character. Secondly: I never thought I’d be seen with someone who wouldn’t understand a Shakespeare reference when they saw one. Yes, SHAKESPEARE. He’s an author that you may have heard of. It’s from JULIUS CAESAR, a play that he wrote. You could look it up in a book, if you wanted to, but I’ll just explain my reasoning for it now. I was re-deconstructing the myth of quoting Shakespeare. With that quote, I was examining what it is to allude to Shakespeare in a work, and how banal it can be. Authors have been doing it for too long, frankly. Allusion is the illusion of collusion. And I want no collusion from William Shakespeare, a man who is supposedly so great, even though I’ve never seen any of his works start out with 12 blank pages.

There were other issues I had with your critique, but they aren’t important any more. Your essay was a tale told by an idiot (you might realize that that was another Shakespeare reference, you see, I continue my proto-post-postmodernism even in my e-mails), and I’m really writing to say that I can’t see you anymore. I cannot respect someone who doesn’t appreciate my work, something I’ve poured my blood, sweat and tears into, which you would have recognized had you been more artistically keen. Chapter 11 is produced on paper that I mixed my blood, sweat and tears into while it was still pulp.

I’m sorry if this comes as a surprise to you, and I’m sorry that I have to do this in e-mail, but you’re at work right now, and though I tried, there simply wasn’t enough room on your mirror for me to write this out in my own blood.



Wednesday, March 22, 2006

A man, a plan, a canal...something else...

I have a plan.

Hear me out.

This plan is based on various "24 hour theatre" or "Make an album in a month" contests, and the fact that I want to start having a stronger output of creative ventures. Here it goes: Every third week of a month, for the next I-don't-know-how-many months, I'm going to write a short story, or other creative project of at least 15 pages, and of discernible quality (hopefully). The tentative schedule goes something like:

Day 1: Concept and initial outlining/writing
Days 2-4: Writing; and I mean a lot of writing, uncensored writing, too. Hopefully eclipsing the 15-page limit
Day 5: Edit and clean up.
Day 6: Rewrite some more, mesh story together coherently
Day 7: Finishing touches, and submit it to this (or possibly a new) blog. Tell people to read it. Profit.

A couple of reasons for this: I want to build up any ability I may or may not have right now, and I need a reason and a plan to begin putting out a lot of material. A week is no amount of time to write anything good, not really, so thus there's no pressure. These won't be masterpieces, hell, they probably won't be that good at all, but it doesn't matter; I've only had a week to work on them.

Why am I posting this here? Well, to put some kind of pressure for me to actually do this, even though there are maybe six people who've read this thing at all, the fact that it's out there gives me reason to do it. Also, I'm putting it out as a challenge to those six people to take up. Join me in this little project. It should be fun, and you creative types could easily take it up.

More on this later.

Thursday, March 16, 2006

Semester Project: Take One

Our semester projects have to be started soon, so I'm getting some ideas together. I'm going to be publishing my drafts here, starting today, and continuing as I work on them. These are very very rough drafts, which isn't to say that they aren't funny, or even good, but with a lot of it, I'm just throwing a bunch of ideas on a page to see what sticks. The final paper will be much better than these, so don't rush to judgement, though I would like comments on what does and more importantly, what doesn't work.

First part of the first draft:

A Film Proposal based on the Life of One Me:

Hello movie moguls and executive producers, I am an up and coming young screenwriter. This, is my life:

The film I’m about to propose is one telling the story of me. It’s a story that frankly, needs to be told. It contains all of the elements of life that you’d see in any normal Hollywood biopic, only they all really happened. Every part of this story is completely true, every kiss, every death, every lottery winning; it all actually happened. Sadly, most, if not all, of the witnesses are dead, and certainly all of the evidence is shredded, but take my word, it’s true.

The opening scene of my film will begin with my birth, where my mother, Mary, and my father, Joseph, attempt to get into a hotel, which is overbooked. Turned away from the hotel, they have to go stay in their Ranger. This is where I am birthed. Also, this adds a subtext to the film, referencing my birth to be much like that of Jesus Christ, leader of the Christian faith. Which it was. Because this actually happened. The scene would end, after I am born in the Ranger, but the camera won’t focus on me at the end. There will be a flash in the dark, some movement. The camera will pan up, zoom in, and the audience will see a dark figure in a trench coat and hat, moving silently in the night. He will turn and run. Audience members should note his appearance, it’s foreshadowing, he will return and be a prominent figure later on.

After my birth, the film will transition to my childhood, around the age of five. This is the age at which I started my first business: lemonade. I opened my first lemonade factory at the age of 4 and three-fourths years old. I sold lemonade to most of the children in the greater Los Angeles area. I lived in, and was based in Anchorage, Alaska, but for some reason, my lemonade was popular in L.A. Following a brief montage of my climb to inter-state lemonade industry domination (using charts, graphs, and images from wall street floating behind film of me on my cellphone in large office buildings), the film will show my fall from greatness. There will be a scene where my father, Joseph, yells at me for becoming too full of myself, for letting the lemonade industry effect my life too much. He tells me that my head is full of dreams, that I’m up in the clouds while he’s down here on earth working hard to keep clothes on our backs and food on our table. He tells me that he wants me to be a carpenter, like him, not a silly CEO of a fortune 500 lemonade stand. He tells me that the powder is making me crazy, that I’ve got to lay off the stuff, that he’s worried about me: my grades are dropping, I don’t have any friends, and that I need to just stop. He gives me a hug, but I push him away, and at a pivotal moment of drama and excitement, commonly referred to as the climax, I tell him that I know he’s not my real father. He looks at me, stunned, and turns and runs away. I do the same. I run away from my house at the age of four and three-fourths. That’s how my life began. I should note that this will be the fifteen minute mark of the film.

Friday, March 03, 2006

Wave of Inspiration

I got a wave of inspiration, and I'm going to post my piece, which I like a hell of a lot better than the stuff I was doing, but I'm going to post it tomorrow. I want people to see the last post first. Also, I used a large chunk of this for my stand up piece, so don't castigate me for plagiarism.

Thursday, March 02, 2006

Excuses and abstinence.

Okay, so I haven't put my work up for the last few weeks, and there's a reason. It sucks. I simply haven't been proud of the work that I've been doing, and I've been in this weird, unfunny funk for the last week or so. Sorry, it happens. It's like writer's block, only all of the humor has been sucked out of my system. It's getting better though. Here's some old stuff that I wrote up for a Facebook group called "The Silver Ring Thing" that I really liked. I'll post my final draft of my stand up act as I get more comfortable with its quality. Anyway, abstinence:

The Silver Ring Thing!:

We're like, just a bunch of guys and girls that are dedicated to showing people that the best sex, is no sex. We like to keep it real by letting people know that condoms only work 85% of the time. That's like, almost not at all! We just want everyone to know that there's a lot of misinformation out there, like, did you know, that sex can be "fun", but abstinence can be a whole lot funner!? It's true. Look it up.

The real reason we're here is to keep you up to date on Abstinence-only education, and why it works more better than the kinds of "protective" educations that a certain "political party" wants to teach. There is nothing errant about abstinence-only ed. There are numbers and things that prove how awesome it really is.

Make sure to check out the whole message board for lots of really insightful, really deep, really down to earth information about abstinence!

Announcement (Group Info):

Everyone, I just want you to know, that you're all special. Really special. And you need to find that special someone, someone you can connect with on, like, a lot of, you know, levels. Sex can't help you find that person, and sex of any kind is bad, and can get you pregnant! The Silver Ring Promise Ring Thing that you Promise to Do is a promise that you make, where you wear a silver ring thing, and stay abstinent, because you have a ring on your finger. Sound like a sure fire way to keep you sex-free? Sure it does! Nearly 20% of the cool kids that take the Silver Ring Thing promise oath stay abstinent until they're done with high school, and some, even through college. That's a lot!

Post: Iron Hymen

Some real cool kids were keeping it real with me the other day, and they told me that they'd happened upon this real cool site, with lots of information about why sex is bad for you. Check it out.

For example, did you know that: When a boy's disgusting private goes inside of a girl's shameful unmentionable, there is a serious risk of it breaking off and causing excruciating pain while it travels throughout your body like a giant trichinosis worm.

This is true. There are studies. It's just amazing what you find out when you do a little research.

Post: Hold Up!:

Whoa, my bud Jared just let me know that there's this super cool, super down to earth, super deep website that's like a sister site, or should I say brother site (LoL!) to the cool girls at ironhymen. the site is , and it's got loads of ways that guys can get off, by not getting off! Thanks Jer.

Post: Stat!:

Statistics. That's what the truest of true arguments are made up from. That's where I get the numbers that tell me that abstinence-only ed doesn't only work, but it works good. Check it, did you know that 60% of kids under the age of 16 haven't had sex! Nobody tells us these completely true things, free of all that spin that politicians do! Listen, reports about numbers don't lie, they like, can't!

Alright, alright, alright you say, slow down man, you say! Okay man, I'm slowed. What do all these numbers mean? They mean that 15% of the time that you have sex while using a condom, you could get your girl pregnant. What if I took a gun and pointed it at you and said "I'm going to shoot you 100 times, but you'll only get hit by 15% of the bullets" You'd say "Dude, no! Don't shoot me!" But that's what sex is like. Getting shot. And you aren't alone; there are a lot of people who don't want to get shot! Like 60% of kids under 16! Like 20% of kids in high school! They don't like the idea, and you guys can not get shot together.

Post: Whoops:

I forgot to add some down to earth discussion about born again virginity. Listen, if you've had sex, and know how awful and disgusting and horrible it is, it's okay! You can still be alright in the eyes of God's representatives on earth, and your friends might not call you a slut anymore! Born again virginity is like, if you shot someone (to totally borrow my own analogy!), and they did or didn't die, you can be like "Dude, I totally didn't think that shooting you would be so horrible and give me this rash! I never want to shoot anybody again!", and you'd be innocent of ever shooting anyone. The courts couldn't even prove it if they had video tapes and stuff. Born again virginity is one of the many special ways that people who have fallen into the trap of sex with others can get out of that trap, by simply saying they weren't in the trap in the first place, even if they really were! Isn't that awesome! Just thought I'd drop the knowledge.

Post: Come On Guys:

Man, as a guy who has been fighting for Abstinence only-education for a long time, I come across a lot of people who are like "Dude, I'm too radical for all of that, sex is cool" Well dude, I've got a few messages for you. For one, sex isn't cool. For two, I'm a radical guy, and I don't want sex in my life! I had a roommate who listened to The Clash and The New York Dolls! So, like, I know about being radical, though I'm a Genesis man myself (if you don't think Phil Collins is radical, you just ain't smart!1!!). In fact, I'm the member of the Raging Radical Republican Religious Right! That's a group made up of some amazing people and we go on vacations and get time-shares and stuff with corporations. It's cool. Anyway, you don't need to be a square to not have sex, I'm not square, and I'm proud to say, in a radical, awesome, and totally down to earth way, I'M NOT GOING TO LET SEX DESTROY ANY CHANCE THAT I HAVE IN AN EMOTIONALLY SATISFYING RELATIONSHIP, IN FACT, I REALLY DON'T WANT TO HAVE SEX EVEN WHEN I'M IN THAT RELATIONSHIP, BECAUSE IT WOULD TOTALLY RUIN ANY REAL CONNECTION THAT WE HAD AND THAT WOULD NOT BE THAT COOL AT ALL AS I ENJOY THOSE CONNECTIONS WHEN THEY FORM!!!!! Just a thought man, radical abstinence is a great thing in life, and you should live by it.

Post: Okay dudes:

Seriously guys and girls! Well, I guess it's just us dudes here, but come on man! We need more recruitment!

Oh well. Here's a poem I wrote about how totally awesome and cool virginity is:
You mean things to me,
Like the syrup from a tree,
You are important to me.

If you leave,
I'll be decieved,
and want to grieve.
Do not leave!
Because I want to be able to breathe!
Breathing is important to me
Important like you,

I totally hope you get the hidden message in that poem. It's really deep, and it took me a super long time to write it. I know you're thinking, "Dude, that's really deep." Well you're right dude, you're right.

Peace out, and remember: keep your man thing out of their hoo-hahs, and they'll keep their hoo-hahs away from your man things, but most importantly, you'll both keep your dignity.

Post: Been awhile:

Hey, I just wanted to let all of you guys and girls know, and this is totally true, that if you end up having sex with someone, you'll have to have sex with everyone that they've ever had sex with. It's ok though, I think you get like, ten years or so to do it, so you've got plenty of time. Point is, don't have sex with one person, or you'll end up having sex with, like, thirty. Unless they've never had sex with anyone. Or just one other person....oh well, either way, if you have sex, you'll go to hell and be sodomized by little fire-rocks. It's in the bible. Look it up.

Friday, February 10, 2006


Today's my birthday! I really like birthdays, as it gives me an excuse to be all nostalgic about my last two decades of life. I usually use them as an opportunity to look back at what's happened since my last one. I slogged through the spring semester at USD, and then happily got accepted to the U of M. Not that USD is awful, it just really wasn't the right place for me. I still miss a lot of the people that I met there, and it was nice to be able to see my family more often.

But hey, I moved. I'm in a city of over a million people for the first time in my life. I'm on my own, in my own (messy) apartment, and completely independent. I do need a job, though. That'd be a nice present. Anyway, it's really exciting for me right now. I was in a play a few weeks ago, and I helped Pat with a few of his film projects, which was great.

Tonight, Charlie, Brad, Bill, Andrew and I are watching An American Werewolf in London, and attempting to do a commentary track for it. Then, Rebecca and I are going to a Cloud Cult concert, which promises to be fun, and after that, I'm either going to see a Trash Film Debauchary show, or going to a friends to get, as the vernacular of the time calls it, "crunked".

Anyway, I'm going to watch The Daily Show now, here's my assignment from last night:


I’m writing this in response to your letter, which I received, with the bouquet, on Thursday. The flowers were very nice, and I’m sure that you meant with all of your heart what you said in the letter, but I have to tell you to stop. Please, stop.
I’ve received all of your gifts over the past week, and they’ve all been very nice, but frankly, it’s too much. The nine letters that you’ve sent me since we met last Friday have all been very sweet, and I thank you for them, but I just can’t let this go on. I don’t even know you well enough for all of this kindness. Now, before you say anything, I know that you think I’m worth the world, as you said on page four of the first letter you sent me, and I’ve noticed it’s how you’ve ended every letter since, but we hardly know each other, hell, we don’t know each other.
I haven’t done anything to deserve this. All I did was my job. You asked if I would recommend a CD, and I did. You liked it, I’m glad, but just because we have a similar taste in music does not mean that I’m your “Annie Hall” (letter 7, page 3), or that “Rachel knows me left to right/ My love, my smell, my sense of sight” (“Rachel’s Song #5” track 5, disc 2 of the “Rachel, Rachel” compilation set). It just means that we both like Benny Goodman. Okay! That’s it. That’s all there is to our relationship.
I can’t have you in my life right now. I need you to stop hanging around me. I need you to stop following me to work, I need you to stop following me from work, and I need you to stop standing outside my window until one in the morning. Really, I’m tired of it. I’m tired of calling the police, and they’re tired of having to pick you up.
I know how you feel about me. I appreciate how many times you’ve called me beautiful in the past week, I appreciate the time and effort that goes into learning the mandolin, even if only for a single serenade, and while my neighbors didn’t like it, I appreciated having my name spelled out in paint on every lawn down my block. The pictures you’ve drawn are wonderful, and I’ve never had a bust of my head sent to me before, but it was great, and honestly, the tattoo is lovely, but I just can’t let this continue. I can’t be with you.
Now, my roommate’s have told me to file for a restraining order, but I don’t want it to come to that. I think that we can deal with this like adults. All I need for you to do is to stop trying to talk to me. Okay? Can you do that? Just forget we even met, forget about the CD store, and stop going there to get music. I know some really cute girls who work at Sam Goody, with terrific taste in music. I’m sure you’d get along with them.
I’m wrapping this up now, because you’ve started throwing pebbles at my window again. And yes, there’s the singing. This is going to be the last time I write to you. If you don’t stop this behavior right now, I will get that restraining order. Okay, I see that I need to throw this out to you now, as the neighbors have once again called the police. I hope you have a good life, really, I do, but if I can offer a suggestion to your courting strategy: be a tad less clingy. No, clingy isn’t the word I’m looking for. It’s creepy. Be a tad less creepy.

Thank you,