v22: A short while to cool down

Wibble.

Writing is as much the way a word looks and sounds as what it means. More on that... perhaps never, but it's an interesting thought.

First, however, the weekend. I haven't posted since thursday, which means I haven't been able to provide any to-the-minute analysis of how I feel about the end of the school year. I know this development must shock and dismay my loyal Pres-heads* so this will surely be a lengthy post.

*"Pres-head": Def: A fan of "Scott Williams Presents." Etymology: portmanteau of "Presents" and "head," I told you I'd come up with a name for you people sooner or later; and if you think that's a weirdly egotistical thing to do... where is it you think you are?

On Friday I awoke to sounds of the alarm. I'll note at this point that unlike the past, I am in the practice of turning on the alarm even on those days when I know I am in no danger of being late for anything. Weekdays I prefer not to waste my energy and solitude, so I usually set it for about 9ish. Even on days when I haven't been to bed until 2 or 3, 9 feels like a decent amount of sleep. Plus I can lie in bed for as long as I want listening to music, which by that point of the day on Q107 isn't crowded out by the interminable rantings of Derringer. Not that I hate Derringer, but his show is so much talk. At 9, they play the 9-2-5 workplace superset, and usually the people cobble together a pretty good dreamlist of classic rock songs.

The plan was to pick up toothpaste in the morning and hop on down to the newsroom at my leisure to do Roy Wilson's final grammary-type quiz. Aaaaas it so happened, someone in the class saved their test over the file we were to download from the network (the dastard!) effectively ruining it for everyone. So I had to hang around an hour or two to go to Roy's class, do the test, and leave. Whatev's.

The day proceeded fairly uncontroversially. I did, however, find myself down at Casa Ferguson, as is not uncommon. We concluded it was probably going to be one of those boring nights sitting around watching someone play video games, despite the desire for freedom. So Chrisbrown, Cary and I were sitting, trying to brainstorm. At one point, Chrisbrown says, "we've got all night, nothing to do tomorrow, no school, a minivan and a full tank of gas. We could be doing anything."

In response to which I, whilst casually flipping through a Time magazine, blurted out, "we could go to Niagara Falls."

Lightbulb.

Before I continue, however, it must be stated that the three of us did not wind up at Niagara Falls. However, we were seriously considering it for quite some time and in fact were actively trying to recruit some of the others who are in town for the trip. After our first tries were unsuccessful, we became less enthusiastic. Note that it didn't help that the entire plan would hav been to drive the >hour to the Falls, see the falls, chill for a brief moment, then turn round and drive back, just to get outta the farking town for a night. Whole process would've probably taken in excess of three hours, bringing us back to Oakville circa 1 or 2 AM. During which the temptation would have been somebody saying "this is lame, we should have just stayed home." Hopefully nobody would have crossed the threshhold and actually said that.

As it was, we gathered up the usual gang - which was the three of us, plus Chris F. and Patrick, going to SuperStore, getting snackfoods (which included an unfortunate mixup involving diet Spritz Up and who-is-mixing-whose-with-what, which ended up being nobody with nothing.) And indeed, the ultimate outcome of the night was that we sat watching Cary play some game, while trying to amuse ourselves with secondhand stories of canine-dead-cat-molestation and prank phone calls (listening, not making.)

That was not, however, the big story of the weekend, which was Saturday. Got up at the usual time, and piled into the car along with my brothers, dad, and Deb. Mind, usually on Saturday morning, the only order of business is to go bowling. The extra personage could be accounted for by some very strange reasons indeed. Deb had work to attend, and Eric and Brandon were set to attend a Transformers convention, at which Brando was set to show some of his "FanDubs," cartoons he persoally translates into English from Japanese and gets amateur "voice actors" (sometimes including myself,) to record. Of course, he does not actually speak Japanese. He just guesses what they are saying based on his knowledge of the story, charcters, and universe.

Anyway, this left me on my own at the final day of regular bowling until fall. Well, not totally alone, the Hanleys were there, and they brought an unexpected visitor: my old friend Jon McGrath. McGrath and I were great friends in Grade 7, and were on good terms through most of high school, until he moved away. Actually, that was after I'd stopped having classes with him, and indeed begun the eventual process of replacing all my friends. But I never thought anything but well of him, he was a good guy. Still is. Just hard for me to hang out with anymore. So we didn't say much, but we had some fun, nice to catch up. Had an okay morning: 150, 120, 185. Wildly inconsistent.

After that, Dad and I picked up Deb and it was off to London. Months ago, I had agreed to go to the Pepsi Zone finals in London, because I have a general policy of agreeing to any tournament I qualify for, because they tend to be quite rare. (Of course I broke this last week with the "Bowler of the Year" tournament, but I explained that last week.) So it was the two hour drive to London, where lunch and laughs were had. And I bowled unimpressively for the first three games. I chalked it up to a mix of fatigue, unfamiliarity with the Huron Bowl lanes, and my general inconsistency as a bowler. The scores were 138, 137, and 137. That's right, virtually the same score in three straight games. Impressive, if it weren't that I was signed to the tourney on an average of 146 (which, by the end of the year, rose to 149. 146 was what I was working with, however.) Things started to turn around at the halfway point. One of the other Classic Bowlers' fathers gave me some advice I'd already thought of and dismissed. Hear it from an outside source was enough to make me reconsider. So simple: take one step right. I did, and began to kick ass, taking home a 199, and two roughly-average games in the mid-140's.

Afterward, we visited with my aunt, uncle, (see Easter) and cousin Laura, who was moving out of her U-Western pad. My dad has always had a special place for Laura. I think it's because he never had a daughter. I know he has Brandon, but he'd make an ugly girl. I can't really guess how dad rates as an Uncle. Sometimes he seems to intimidate her. Just an observation. I had plenty to observe, too, because I didn't do much talking. In addition to being bloody-right-well worn out from bowling 9 games in a single day (a personal record that shall stand until the end of time, as I expect never to try to double it,) I seem to lose all conversational ability when my dad's side of the family is around. I just don't ever feel like talking. Once when it was just mje in North Bay, I went for a car ride to BlockBuster (or something) with my cousin Evan, and found out I had absolutely nothing to say to him, despite him being essentially a good guy. But that's me: I only seem to talk under certain circumstances. People in my class will recall my sheer lack of social interaction during the first months of the year. People who've been to parties with me, too.

We got back around 7, and I'd meant to call someone, but here begins a perplexing and frustrating saga that will take a while to conclude; that of Emily, the new boarder. I got home, and she was on the phone. No big deal, I thought at first, but it went on for well over an hour. And when at last I could make the call, there was nobody to answer. I don't know if they'd been there earlier and I could have cought them, or if I just would have found our earlier that they were not present. In the end it didn't matter, the night was slipping away, and I had to spend it... not doing anything, with Eric unconscious on the couch and me watching TV from the computer. Not an unusual arrangement.

Today I woke up, sore no doubt from the previous day's exploits. I hobbled down, got my comics, came back, looked after Emily's pug Dolby (not going to make a hobby out of that,) had dinner, and now this. Sunday's unevenful.

I'm upset with the universe. I feel like crap on a plate, I've got a lot to do and have no motivation. On the plus side, POGs can now be found on your supermarket shelves. Unfortunately, I saw no cool jagged metal slammers, so I don't think I'll be as into it as I was in Grade 2. Scott: 1, Corporate-funded Nostolgia: 0.

That's all. I'm kind of in distress, becoming reclusive, but I'll work on that. Also, need to find work.

Mwerf.

Keep on rockin', kids,
-Scotto

v21: Thou wouldst be king

Sometimes it's hard being a stubborn ass who dislikes using the telephone.

Not only do I not like picking up the phone or dialing it, I'm finding it difficult to even answer it since we got caller display. If I don't see a name I recognize I put it the hell down -- and that happens fairly frequently. Why the very moment I stepped in the door this afternoon the damn phone starting ringing. Bloody solicitors. I'd like to grind 'em up into sausage.

Such a peculiar day. As per usual, I was awakened bright and early, and skulked down to the ole G-Wing for the Mythology exam. Dispatched in about an hour, rambling about Odysseus. Went home, dropped off the Mythology book, picked up the usual notebook (not that I usually use it and indeed have recently scrawled some of my more... esoteric creations within.) Watched "Network" in the newsroom, weeks after Haasim had lent it to me (and hopefully I see him tomorrow, or else I'll have to hold onto it for the summer.) Good flick, Lumet is such a talented director with virtually any project... except the Wiz. Even he couldn't make that good (and yes, I've seen it. Nipsy Russell, however, is the man.) This was done while eating one of Tim Horton's new chicken salad wraps. Apparently you can get a wrap made of any sandwich, but they're pushing the chicken salad, which works for me because that's my sandwich at Tim's. It was as messy as the usual sandwich. My favourite part is the ice cream scoop used to dish out the chicken salad. As former cafeterial servant, I'm well aware of the multitude of applications of the ice cream scoop.

Chaotically, I finally got past my last big hurdle in the school year, my Globalization presentation. It was all kind of a blur as, not wanting to be "stiff-as-a-board-and-half-as-interesting" guy, I animated myself as much as poissible, possibly to the point of incoherence. Mansoor had advised me beforehand of the dangers of "standing there, reading," and I knew I couldn't let that be me. All the same I didn't have much in the way of impressive visual aids, so I had to rely on what I naturally have: stage presence. I had to go up there and look like I knew it all of the top of my head and was prepared to rattle the facts off like it was a normal conversation, in the process making hand gestures and eye contact to the point where what I was saying was engrossing enough that it didn't matter whether or not I covered all 8 of the P's - just that I had thoroughly engaged. Not sure what Mike Walsh had to say about it, he was a little stonefaced the whole time, but I don't think we hit much turbulence. And there were other groups - not naming names - contrasted with whom we seemed positively electric, and I think that helps.

Whatev's. I'm not worried.

Things are shaking up. I'm done school effective tomorrow (and ostensibly today, if not for my lack of willingness to get Roy's test out of the way.) Bonnie's moving out, to be replaced by Emily. Nice girl, owns a pug. Should work well.

Tomorrow, I at last get to sleep in, which I haven't been able to do regularly since the end of strikage. And I'll have to start looking for work soon. We'll see how that works out.

The post ends on an unfocussed note, much like my current state of affairs. I'll get the next one straightened out. In a greater sense, I've got a fair bit to get straightened out.

Keep on rockin' you out there,
Scotto~

v20: Just one heartstopping moment

Funny day.

I mean, yesterday was indeed a "long fucking day," and today wasn't much shorter, and yet I found myself more relaxed, more at ease, and ultimately more successful.

I schlepped out of bed nice and early to arrive on time for Mitro~*'s class. Today was the big Investigative Journalist presentation. From the moment it was announced, the lightbulb in my head pointed the way toward RD Reynolds' and Bryan Alvarez's "The Death of WCW." I'm not sure why, but that immediately struck me as opportune for this project. And when I found that it was to be done in partners, I knew I could count on nobody to stand by me in this decision but Joe, with whom I've often conversed on the subject of WWE. In fact, just before delivering our presentation, we made small talk about the impending ECW PPV, but that's of no interest to you (as if anything here written has to do with anything people are interested in! Hah, moving on.)

We delivered the presentation, one of only a handful to be done without PowerPoint. I myself have only used PowerPoint on a handful of occasions, the most notable being for Mary Lynn O'Shea's class, and a previous one being for Grade 12 English. I usually prefer not to go with the crowd on PP presentations, and I think that, despite the generally bland strategy of merely standing and reading our notes, ours stood out, mostly because it was a unique subject. Whereas, despite my immense resepct for my peers, I couldn't sort out the various scandals uncovered by their respective reporters, my selection was decidedly esoteric. And had the unintended but highly welcomed side-effect of winning Mitro~* over. He seemed to beam with glee as we delivered the presentation, not even questioning us, other than asking me the condition of Bobby Heenan's health (he had throat cancer, but is in remission.)

I felt good about that. I have a history of missing the mark in Mitro~* classes, but I think we got as close as we were going to get with that. And a few people (three if I recall,) asked about it afterward. So if it struck people and they didn't tune out, I did my job.

I was less satisfied with the job I did on the ElectroPublishing website presentation. I mean, for starters, how does one effectively "present" a website? Just click all the links and talk vaguely about them. Add to that the fact that Dave's and my website wasn't particularly inspired... a straightforward news site with an emphasis on content and navigability than on graphics... something bound to lose us marks, especially since we didn't follow up on the whole "logo" business, which was kinda necessary.

The funny thing is, Dave and I (mostly me,) were still working on it literally moments before presrnting it. And if you think I'm exaggerating, consider that I showed up about 10 minutes late.

What happened was that after Mitro~*'s class, I was going to grab some lunch, then catch up with Dave and work on it. Going to. Then I got to Mr. Sub and ordered my usual, (small roast beef on white,) and the woman merely told me "sorry, I have no roast beef." Why was it necessary to italicize the "no?" Because that's just how she said it. Right like that. And at that instant, I stormed off, declaring "I must have roast beef!" And went on a trek - the laaawng way round - to the Mr. Sub at the mall. I enjoyed my meal there, and on the way back, I was sent back in time. How you ask was this reality-bending feat of chronal-transversion accomplished? Two words:

"Hey Chuck!"

I know that sounds insane, but many, many years ago, that was my nickname. The origin has something to do with the fact that, when I was in grade 4ish, I thought my name spelled backward would be pronounced to sound something like "Chuck" (it really isn't,) and amongst my group of friends, this became my alter-ego. As to why names were being spelled backward for nicknames, you'd have to ask my old friend Daron, or as he was once known, "Nora." Not sure where the "d" went.

The voice in question was that of Carolyn Jones, whom some of you though by no means all will remember from high school. It was one of the classic "best friends growing up to be completely different people" when I used to run with Daron Webb, Drew Van der Jagt, Carolyn, Denise Marler (I know, sounds insane,) and Laura Hussey, who moved away years upon years ago near as I can figure. What happened was that in grade 6 I had to get new friends, (and subsequently in grade 7 and 8 as well,) and the Chuck nickname fell out of usage, even when I sat near Carolyn in grade 7, and walked home every day with Daron in grade 8. And I think I went nearly the entirety of high school without speaking to Carolyn once, nor having any reason or desire to, given the group of people she was hanging with.

Aaaanyway, what this long shaggy dog story amounts to was that because I went on my Lord-of-the-Rings-like quest for a roast beef sandwich, I wasted a ton of time that would have been better spent trying to get my website in order with Dave. And he watched in awe as I linked, framed, re-linked, hunted down broken images, etc etc, at a record-breaking (if it weren't totally asinine to keep records of such things,) pace.

And now I'm a little bored and tired. It was a decent enough night, with general goodwill and levity over at Dad's, and a heated discussion over whether vampires were undead or living. I still say undead, but tempers flared over that one, I shite you not. That's how weird my family is sometimes. We have hilarious arguments over stupid trivial crap. You might've guessed, given... well, me.

So for the rest of the week, it's just a little more to worry about. I'm past the last curve and down the stretch I come. Or some other horse-racing metaphor. The point is, I'm close. Better not jinx it by dwelling on it.

So hope I provded adequate distraction for the night.

Keep on rockin'
The One True Williams

v19: An occasional sympathetic ear

Long fucking day.

Not that it was particularly eventful. Indeed it was spent primarily glaring at a computer screen and trying to sort out the disarray that is my life and schoolwork. But it was just long.

I awoke and did the usual morning routine, foregoing breakfast just so I could arrive at school, "almost on time." The next several hours were spent sorting through whatever stories we had to plug into the pages we had to lay out - which did not always necessarily fit into the traditional modular design of your everyday tabloid-sized paper. Oh, and there was one that was completely illegible. It caused such a mess, unreadable and certainly not something we could be bothered to print.

And then there was the mind-numbing repetitiveness of trying to work on my website for Electronic Publishing. I am exhausted with that, because Dave and I don't particularly communicate well. Every time he speaks I feel the need to interrupt him and interpret whatever he is saying back to him, but intelligibly - and failing. I have no idea what he thinks we are doing on this assignment. All I could do was take my stories and put them into the template. It's going to be a mess to try to present. I don't even understand why this involves a presentation. There are too goddamn many presentations.

I'm getting high blood pressure just thinking about it. In fact, I wrote a story for Roy about the Heart & Stroke Foundation today, because I just had to put it off for weeks even though I did the interview that very week and could indeed have forgotten about it before the massive hellstorm of work I've been enduring.

If I seem lost, adrift through life over the next few days, it's because I've given up. I've been harrassed from so many angles that I just can't muster up the strength to deal anymore. I'm shutting down, I think, for the next few days. running on autopilot. Hitting cruise control. Going into screen saver. Other sorts of metaphors of that nature. I'm exhausted, and I have every right to be.

And of course my allergies have kicked back in. I hate this. Fuckin' Dr. Leith shooed me off my shots last year and now I'm some poor sap with a runny nose and a sore mouth. what the hell is that, anyway,t hat feeling when the roof of your mouth is scratchy? I hate that. Goddamnit I've wanted an occasion to say that for years, and now it's out there. I hate that sensation, whatever the hell it is, associated with allergies, when your mouth is all scratchy. For some reason I long ago got into the habit of trying to scratch it with my tongue, which is insane, and only exacerbates the issue. Fuck.

I just want these goddamn final assignments to be over with. It's like waiting for surgery. You know things will be fine afterward, but it's hard enough just sitting in anticipation.

Whatever dude.

I'm sorry I ran out on our conversation earlier. I felt like a tool when what I left for lasted only a few minutes, and you'd gone when I returned.

Feh.

The post has deteriorated. I think I actually made myself more bitter throughout the course of its writing. A pity. I still feel I haven't cleaned my slate off for the night, but I'll rest my hands now.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

v18: not knowing how to drive

The title of this post was taken froma poem by Gregory Corso entitled "Last Night I Drove a Car." I found it appropriate, because I had a dream last night that I stole my mother's car and drove with a friend to the mountains, then the car broke down.

And while I'm constantly raving about Kerouac and will often think about Ginsberg (particlarly "Howl," but he has many other wonderful poems,) Corso is not to be sneezed at. Unlike Gins or Kerouac, I think I could write like him. An attainable level of quality.

It's been a strangely chaotic weekend; the kind I relish to return to my computer and summarize. Part of the reason I've enjoyed this blog is that it's helped me immensely to practise my storytelling skills in times when I am otherwise creatively devoid. And boy have I got a lot to say; so go get a snack or a nice cold beverage. This is gonna be a long effin' post.

The events of the weekend were to center on a gathering at Casa de Lauren Wing. Her parents, unfortunately, had to abandon her at home for Florida, given that she had no up-to-date passport. Her misfortune became an opportunity as Mr. Scott Conorton would be returning this weekend to visit, and a get-together was demanded.

Thus, the call went out to many of the usual gang. On Friday night prior, then, I got the request that "come on, Scott, is the movie ready yet?" Perhaps it was, or could be, as all I needed to do was to get Kyle to burn the DVD. However I carried no small amount of reluctance for this weekend to be the premiere of the "film" (as it was never actually shot or transfered to film, I can only use "film" as a synonym for "movie.") The problem being that there are some who would not be attending; some castmembers, some longtime hangers-on, whom I'd promised would see the movie whenever I finally got to showing it, but would not be there last night. But pressure mounted. I knew it was far too convenient to pass up. It was my best option, and there was no way I was going to get through the night alive if I said "No," flat out. So I acquiesced, saying, "Yes. I'll talk to Kyle and if he can burn it for tomorrow, it will be shown." Indeed, I lost sleep over this, my nerves were wracked.

BY the way, the computer just froze on me, BUT I managed to successfully utilize Blogspot's "Recover Post" function, which has taken me back in the story a little. So if it appears as though I gloss over a few upcoming details, I'm sorry, but it feels to me like I've already discussed them, when in fact I haven't. It might help me be brief.

It is also at this point that I will continue this post in Microsoft Word: although I generally prefer not to take this precaution because I don’t feel the same writing vibe in Word as the BlogSpot field, (hence I’ve never been too active with other blog formats I’ve used, except to post things I’ve written not-yet-ready for Interneta.) However, this is necessary. The story is long and I need to get through it, and Word is better at recovery that Blogspot. Moving ahead…

I was unsurprised and even amused yesterday morning when I got back from bowling and was told to call Kyle, and he related to me the Poltergeist-like tale of the challenges he'd encountered in trying to burn it, ultimately being unsuccessful. I laughed. As I had only reluctantly agrred to show the movie, I was perfectly fine. Serendipity, sometimes, laughs with you, rather than at. The events of the night would hardly lend themselves to theatrical exhibition anyway: other events would take precedence.

Saturday night began when I got home from my dad’s for dinner. I had procured a spot in Chrisbrown’s van, as usual, but had neglected to mention I wouldn’t be available before 7:30ish, instead merely advising him, “gimme a call.” This he did, and there was no reply. Shame on me for lacking foresight. I returned home and was given an MSN message via Chris Ferguson to “come over here.”

“Well I can’t,” I say, “I’m waiting for Chris Brown.”

“He’s here.”

“…oh. I’ll be right over.”

And so I was, but our departure was delayed by hamburgers, as Chris and Cary F., Doug, Patrick and Nate (a friend of Cary’s I only knew vaguely from his being at Cary’s even more than me,) all enjoyed a barbeque dinner prepared by Cary’s dad. Having already eaten at dad’s I declined. Chris was irked at the fact that we were officially an hour late by the time we hit the road. Funnily enough, the “guest of honour,” so to speak, wouldn’t arrive until much later than our group did.

Well, Conorton finally arrived, with Neabel and three New York friends in tow: Tyler and James, the latter of whose first order of business to was to hand out nicknames – mine being “St. Patrick’s Day,” Chris Ferguson’s being “Skeeter” and Sonya Lafleur’s being, most perplexingly, “Amy.”

My mooching was not in full effect. Most people who have partied with me – ie, mostly the people at the party and several others scattered who could not be with us – have probably noticed by now that I just don’t pay for drinks. I have elevated cheapness to a lifestyle. I thought for a while that I had actually bought into the Keg at Conorton’s New Year’s bash, but then I remembered that it was actually Kyle who chipped in for me, and I am unsure if I was ever called upon to pay him back. The point is, I usually don’t make a big deal about drinks: I take whatever I can be given. However, increasingly throughout the year, I have developed a dislike of hard liquor, in particular rum, which was the dominant drink of the night. So my only imbibing was of a vodka and Coke, which I even couldn’t enjoy, despite a previous appreciation for that drink. I spent the rest of the night with Coca-Cola, even making a run with Kyle to Mac’s to make sure we were well-stocked; after all, there was much mixing to be done, and CB and I were just “enjoying” Coca-Cola. (In case you don’t get why that’s a joke, it’s because that’s a frequent slogan of theirs, merely putting “Enjoy” in front of their product name. Screw you, it works.)

It was amusing, actually, to keep my wits about me amidst the drunkenness. I can usually keep pretty sharp, but I wouldn’t be able to appreciate the antics of other drunks: for instance, Patrick’s insistence on explaining the (apparently very complex) metaphor behind “set sail with Captain Morgan / and never leave dry land.” In addition, he was quoting Boss Nass (“yousa be tinkin’ yousa betta den da Gungans?”) and insisting (and having it rudely disproved that) alcohol made him impervious to pain. I think he saw something, though, that sobered him up in a hurry. Also he learned a valuable lesson – at a party, make sure to knock.

The sobriety began to pay off however, around 11 (*rough estimate,) when I was given an unusual task. As I was chatting with the inebriated Chris Ferguson, Nate (whom I’d previously mentioned I only knew casually,) came and sat between us. Sensing that I was the more together of the two of us, he entrusted me with an important duty.

It seemed that James, upon realizing that he was not the only black guy at the party, had warmed up to Nate (who, I have neglected to mention to those who don’t know him, is black,) said warming up happened to include a very personal request that they “chill,” and a very definite hand-brush against the derriere.

“If you see any cornering going on, I need you to bail me out.”

“I can do that,” I agreed, thinking it would liven up my night and be an interesting challenge. I was right.

Not long after, I was sitting with Nate and some others in the living room when James appeared and took Nate aside. I hung around. It was very clearly requested that Nate “show James the basement.” I pounced – “no, actually, Nate’s gotta help me out.” “The website!” interjected Nate (I knew, somewhat, that Nate’s business was websites, but didn’t, myself, put it together.) We began to talk shop and improvised a deception. At a very drastic moment, I took Nate out of the house to “clear his head” and work this out. We went around the block and discussed strategy.

Fiddling with his phone, Nate said, “I’m going to very suddenly get a call from my girlfriend – which I don’t have,” intoning a very crafty deception. I’d have been for it, too, had I not seen the fatal flaw.

“You know he’s going to ask someone about that,” I reminded him. Most people wouldn’t know, but if he asked Chris Brown or Cary, who weren’t in on the rescue mission, he’d be toast. So the solution was clear: get Chris Brown and Cary in on it.

When we returned to the party, there was a calamity. The smoke alarm was going off and I had try and pull Mr. B and Cary aside to let them know, while everyone was trying to deal with the smoke alarm. As soon as it died down, we got them outside and let them in on what was going down. They agreed to take the job, thus relieving me somewhat. However: in the chaos of settling the smoke alarm and getting people in and out of the house, Lauren’s dog, Odie rushed right out the door. Already having my shoes on, I jogged after him (or her?) to the parklike area across the road. He ran further. I began to creep softly so my presence would be detected as non-threatening. He went on his way, occasionally stopping to sniff a post or “take care of business.” Once or twice I came close, but the canine continued on its way. At last, I was within chasing distance well into the park. I hooked around in front of it attempting to shepherd it back in the direction of the house. Instead, it stopped at a tree to sniff and I was able to grab its collar decisively, thus effectively rescuing Odie.

Chrisbrown and Cary were right behind me to safeguard the dog (which was bad, since it left Nate in peril: “here, let’s find our shoes,” says James, “we’ll look for the dog together.”) At last, Odie was returned – Lauren was in tears, at it had already been an emotional night for her, for reasons I’ll not go into (as I don’t quite get them, and have enough respect not to pry.)

James was now deflated on the couch, but still called Nate to his side. I kept my distance, both to keep from arousing suspicion, and hoping one of the others would act. They didn’t, and so I intervened – “Nate, you’ve gotta come to Mac’s with me to get a coke.”

As I walked with Nate – who was unjacketed in the cold – he explained to me more of the things James had recently said to him, including further requests he “show him the basement,” and that they should “chill, just the two of us.” Most disturbing was James’ inquiry as to why I was “so protective” (?!) of Nate. Shudder. Upon arrival at the convenience store, we even contemplated purchasing a porno mag just to give a visual aid to get the cue across to James, while avoiding a seemingly inevitable confrontation between the two (the propositioning of a straight man by another dude is one of the most uncomfortable and dreadful conversations imaginable.)

The fates intervened on Nate’s behalf after a few more saves by the others. Some of the grade 11 girls, particularly Lauren McAllister, had arrived by this point, and Nate was able to spend much of the rest of the party with his arm around her, and thus the crisis was averted. My job done, I spent much of the night in a rather self-congratulatory mood. Little of note happened for the rest of the night.

However, all in all, it was as high on drama as any party has ever been. There was every type of romantic and intra-friendship chaos imaginable, apparently. None of it spectacularly earth-shattering, but the sheer volume is staggering. Though I enjoyed myself (especially for the anecdotes it has provided me with, long though they may be,) its potential for destruction means that those not in attendance (and don’t think you weren’t in my mind at some points, because after the aforementioned business was settled I had a lot of time just to be thinking,) weren’t missing much. Just chaos was all.

At the close of the night, and all the goodbyes, we loaded up the Brownman’s van, and after dropping off Patrick and Chris, the rest of us (Cary, Doug, Nate, myself, and the aforementioned Brown,) drove to Milton to drop Neabel off. God bless Mr. Brown. The man deserves credit, because he scarcely ever complains about being a designated driver. Whether it’s restraint on his part or a true lack of desire to complain, it’s still commendable. He’s noble. The guy has been doing us all many favours over the past year or so, and deserves recognition. We tease him to hell, but the truth is that he’s more a stand-up guy than even some of my other closest friends.

After Milton, I simply got home, wrote someone a quick letter, and passed out around 3:45ish. I was awakened this morning by mom, who insisted upon grocery shopping. I had been invited to the “Bowler of the Month Tournament” at Classic Bowl (as I was awarded “Bowler of the Month” for February,) but declined, knowing that Saturday night would be a late one, and the last thing I’d want would be to get up at 8 to go bowling. Plus I had a suspicion – not more than a hunch really – that mom’d put off the groceries until Sunday. How right I was.

And thus, that covers my weekend. It’s funny. I didn’t post on Friday or Saturday because my mind was a torrential mess. I was so focussed on schoolwork and other angst that I felt that any post I’d write would be uninspired and ultimately a disservice to myself and my readers. It’s good to take a day or two off once in a while and let things refresh themselves. This post has been more than four full pages in Word. And I didn’t really go that deep into “how does that make me feel?” or “blahh life sucks.”

Though I’ve spent most of today writing this, the rest of the day will be devoted to some serious home-workage. It’s gonna be a hellstorm of assignments being taken care of this week. Prepare for plenty of bitching.

But as of right now, I feel pretty energized.

Keep on rockin’
Scotto Williams

v17: Ballad of a Broken Gambler

There's something I've always wondered about the Beatles.

Despite always being credited to "Lennon and McCartney," by the end of their run almost none of their songs were collaborative. Whereas they joined their abilities on early tunes like "Please Please Me" and "Can't Buy Me Love," by Abbey Road, it was common knowledge that "Come Together" was a Lennon tune, and "Oh Darling!" was a McCartney Tune (George Harrison, underrated as a songwriter, had two of the best tracks on that album, and Ringo actually wrote and sang "Octapus' Garden," with help from George.)

My question is this: while most of the songs involved the playing of all four Beatles, how did certain songs even get recorded? Specifically, I'm wondering about "Maxwell's Silver Hammer." If you were Paul McCartney and you wrote "Maxwell's Silver Hammer," how would you explain to john Lennon that you wanted to record a song like that? I can easily understand the thinking behind "Oh, Darling" and "Come Together," and "Silver Hammer" is not really a bad song, just an incredibly weird one. I can even understand how songs as weird as "I Am the Walrus" and "Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds" got through, because they were weirdly brilliant. But "Maxwell" is too conventional to get by on that level, but too weird to just have been a matter of "okay I have this song about a genius murderer and his hammer." Did Lennon not object? I'm surprised it didn't happen more often, like Paul would come up with a song and show the music to John and John would go, "No Paul, I'm not playing on this one." Or maybe it was just an unspoken agreement: whatever it is, it gets recorded. Respect each other's creations (even though they, John in particular, would diss one another's compositions years after the breakup - hence my wondering.)

It's not important, I was just listening to Abbey Road in the car on the weekend and was wondering. If I were to interview Paul McCartney (God willing,) that would come up.

Anyway, folks, mark April 20th 2006 down on your calendars as being the most perfect day yet this year. Not only did I escape the Globalization project (for this week,) it was just impossibly good. Gorgeous, to begin with: I didn't bring a jacket at all today and that move, despite some early-morning chilliness, paid off in spades. And I was just on today. I was doing shtick in the newsroom, I was in such a mysteriously good mood (despite what could have been my imprending doom in Globalization; it wasn't.) I don't know what came over me, I was just in one of those moods I haven't been in much in the last while, and especially not toward my schoolmates. Even Joe, Haasim and Mansoor rarely encounter that side, let alone anyone else at school.

I had a random flashback today, to something I know I didn't cover in this blog, and even only vaguely reference for Guthrie back in New York. It was the third-ish day, I think. In that tiny little off-Broadway theatre. I just remember looking at that cramped in, tiny little hundred-seat house and that minimalist set and thinking "man, this is where it's at." Sure, it'd pay shat and it's virtually hopeless to end up even that close to the great white way, but it was just such a cool little environment. Hard to say what made me think of it: I was talking to some girls in Mythology and they mentioned they were technical theatre production, and I guess that made me sentimental for the olden days of yore.

The cursor has merely blinked at me for the last few minutes, so I'm guess that means I've run out of material for tonight. Stay well, the world is warm for you.

Keep on rockin'
He who is Scott

v16: Warmth in the void

Working on my Globalization project is the kind of thing that can drive a man to drink. Fortunately, that might not be totally inappropriate, as the project is on Ireland.

I'm convinced this project has become the source of uch physical suffering. I guess it's to match the mental suffering. I hate, hate, hate, hate, hate doing this project. I can't even properly express it. My back is sore, my muscles are worn, my throat is dry and scratchy.

But it's the next item on the agenda. After polishing off my "Sirens" piece for Mythology, that became the next most pressing issue. And boy, is it pressing. I can't help but dwell on it, but to type it is only contributing to ths pain I am feeling.

Early this morning, on a break from Mitro~*'s class, I ran into Adam Brown at the Pizza Pizza. This caused me to do a double take as Adam Brown is a goddamn Grade 10 at White Oaks Secondary School.

Granted: my appearences ther ehave not exactly been sparse since my graduation. However, my reasons are simple: I still have numerous friends there, and it's on my wany to and from class. Adam Brown just goes with his little twerp friends to eat our food and possibly, in the most offense part I can think of, clog the Tim horton's line (I've seen plenty of high schoolers on their way back from Sheridan with Tim's cups. Jerks: the line's already long enough.) From there, it was the usual news-assignment meeting, then a pointless session of E-Publishing (since my partner and I already spoke that day, and it was just a work period,) so I left early for home. I did a little writing until Dad came, then dinner.

It was such a lovely, misty, warm night, one could feel the carbon dioxide exhalations of the blades of grass. I went over to the library to fetch some books for the Mythology project. Once that was done, it was so nice I used returning them as an excuse to get out again. I also got a graphic novel for later.

I'm currently reading Huxley's "Brave New World." This is unusual for me as I don't normally use my literacy, and when I do, it's on something obscure. I tend to not read well-known classics because many of them have reached the point where reading about them is the same damn thing. Like 1984, for instance. I'm sure it's brilliant, but I already seemingly know all of its secrets. However, Eric happened to have a copy of "BNW" and I happened to need something to read over the weekend, so I started it, and have been enjoying it. I wonder where his copy of "The Trial" went, because I never finished it.

So thankfully I've managed to use this writing as a distraction from the laborious construction of my Ireland P8 write-up. It's working like a charm, but I'll have to face facts eventually. Thankfully, it'll be over with soon and that's one more hell I need no longer inhabit.

Myrrgh.

That's roughly how I feel right about now. But I'm optimistic. Things'll be gettng better not long from now.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

v15: The man comes to take you away

The world can be a pretty topsy-turvy place sometimes. You think you've got a handle on it, and then suddenly everything is shaken up.

Not in a bad way, at least, not recently. It's just that, a year or two ago, even as recently as a few months, I never expected I should see Eric back in school, let alone sitting on the couch doing actual homework. Far be it from me to detail the sordid affairs of his recent life, but I've alluded to them to those who have known him, that things did not turn out well after a few years of high school. Now he's in the "adult ed" center (where many classmates proclaim him "too smart to be there," probably true,) in an english class getting more-or-less the same English class education I did a year ago at this time, minus the actual Guthrie and compressed into 6 weeks of very long classes. It gives hope, it does.

The guy hit such a rough patch it was questionable if he'd ever get his life together. Somehow, he just managed to turn things around. He's writing again, which is fascinating. Like me, he fancies himself a writer, but wasn't too active in practicing the old axiom of "writers write." The most he did was when we'd write a Sewerman together, and those were few and far between. For his english class he had to compose a short story. and while the structure of it didn't thrill me, stylistically he was in a whole other level. That's why our collaborations have historically been well-liked, since we complement one another.

Speaking of collaborations, I was thinking today about "Maim in Vain." It wasn't really that bad, you know. It was a shame that my friendship with Josh nearly ended, and was indeed quite heavily damaged, because of it. There were times, it's true, that he and I quarrelled. There were arguments with deep-reaching implications extending beyond Maim. There was one shoot in particular where I was frustrated: not with the shoot itself, but with my family's demand that I be somewhere else, with them. And I don't know if I ever properly thanked Mr. Kershaw for letting us use his office, but I did my best to seem appreciative, and he acted cordially enough. But none of that is important. What we have left is a DVD. And thinking back on all the "Quixotic Behaviours" and "Awaking Realities" and "ReMembers" and whatever-the-hell it was Zoelle and Beth made was called, I don't know if they hit the same notes as "Maim." We didn't try to swerve anybody too badly. We followed through with the story, such as it was, included as much of the characters themselves as possible, and at the end, what happened was not a mere accident, a Shyamalanian twist. It was coming from the beginning, and lines like "serious as a heart attack" more than accidentally foreshadow it.

Not to diss the other videos. Not all of them, anyhow. I mean, Kyle's was hysterical. And Ana was in another dimension altogether - I mean, there's a reason she is where she is now, and that's because she understands the camera better than anyone I've ever met (myself included, that goes without saying.) And I know a lot of people who have handled cameras. Only when the characters were talking and behaving as themselves in "Maim" did it not feel like a CommTech video. Every shot in "QB" looked better than that level. And she's only gotten better. I hope I have.

The collaborative process is not one, I've learned, that is to be entered into lightly. I'll admit that I'm not easy to work with. There are people I respect, mentioned previously in this entry, with whom I may never work again simply because of the bad experiences we've had. It's questionable. Never say never, but I ought to grow up a bit.

It's been one of those uninteresting days that has me talking about anything to avoid trying to summarize it. I mean, nothing happened. I got up early so that I could get everything done and make extra time for nothing to happen. My legs are sore, and yet nothing happened. I hung out with Joe and Haasim while nothing happened. I finally organized some work for my Globalization project, due this Thursday, but nothing happened.

I had a Cadbury Cream Egg, which is good since I was worried I wouldn't get one before the end of the Easter chocolate season.

Such a lovely day was today. The weather has exhibited symptoms of perfection.

As the man on the lawnmower traced his path behind me, I imagined he was chasing after me, and thus ran in a mock-panic from him, for all lunching students to observe and hopefully laugh.

Keep on rockin'
(Scott)

v14: This is my chance to feel alive

I haven't got much of a sentence to open this post.

Today's been a fascinating study in how a seemingly chaotic series of interlinked events can thread together to form the tapestry of reality. Take for instance how I was hoping just to skip on out of class after I was done handing in my story (more on that later,) and hand off my duties to Amanda, my colleague as news layout editor. However, she found herself, back against the wall, forced to take an interview at about the time we'd find ourselves at the Oakville Beaver. So I had to schlep on out there with Denni, squeezed in the back, not even fully able to buckle the seatbelt (though I'm usually very pro-buckle, I sucked it up.)

After we got back, I thought, "well that was fun, but I want to go home." So before packing up and going, I gave a casual glance to WebCT, for no good reason... I wanted to confirm, I suppose, that my next Photo assignment was due when I thought. And I suppose it was a good thing I did, since I found, along with many others in the class, that the due date for the photo feature assignment had been moved up, and hence, a 20-minute scramble between many of us to assemble many of our pictures into the appropriate 2-page spread.

Had I blindly packed up and left class, I never would have done that. Hell, had I not been made to stick around and do the "Beaver run" as Denni calls it (...dirty?) I definitely would not have gotten it done, and I'd have been screwed. I have too many projects due to stop and worry about a missed photojournalism assignment.

So from here it's a matter of organizing, preparing and prioritizing. Know what I need to get done, when and how. I believe the Globalization presentation is next, which is nerve-wracking. Tomorrow is dedicated to my attempt to organize something having to do with Ireland. Erin and Melissa may also have to be involved. We'll work it out.

So I wrote this story, about the Canadian Action Party's attempts to get Canada out of Afghanistan. And as noble as it is, I just couldn't believe how childishly fanatical the CAP is in its attitude toward Americans and foreign relations. And here I am trying to take these standard-issue press answersw they gave me (since I found several of them, verbatim, elsewhere on the net) and cobble them into a working article that is about something, not just a gussied-up press release for this minor party that has no seats.

So for all the bluster they have, I curtailed them in the article by reminding readers in the last paragraph essentially that "The Canadian Action Party runs a platform of nationalism, opposes free trade and has no seats in parliament." This prevents me from feeling like a complete tool.

So look for that article in this week's Sheridan Sun, available this Thursday at newsstands everywhere... so long as you're on the Sheridan campus.

Hope all's well in your place. I'm getting comfortable, gearing up for the end of the year. I've thankfully gotten to the crisis-management phase of my panicking... everything's gotten so insane that I can suddenly see every shard for itself, not the blur of constant movement.

If that makes any sense.

Keep on rockin'
Scott W.

v13: Fast asleep or rockin' out with the band

This is my 500th post. It will almost certainly not be a happy one.

It's hard to explain, but I depressed myself mildly, and that was clearly not the intention, when conversing just now in the car. I'm sure it didn't depress the other occupant as this person was apparently gladly hearing my somber tales, but I've got the pangs of guilt not only for hving related the story, but also for the contents. Neither of which I should feel guilty about, but it was the type of story that made me look like I was aiming for sympathy, and I don't wanna be that guy. Not anymore (I spent grades 8-10 living like that, it's not good for the soul.) No matter how happy someone seems to hear sob stories, I should try to keep them to a minimum, despite having a decent bank of them. Or at least regular stories that I could twist into sob-factor.

Instead of leaving the car and thinking "that was a nice night," I left the car thinking, "why did I end on that note?" I shouldn't have. Don't wanna be a bummer.

What it was was that I got ahold of Robyn after returning from North Bay, and we went out for coffee. The conversation manifested itself in the form of what I did this weekend, then cake and pie, then creamcheese, then cartoons from childhood, and then at last, romantic inadequacy. I went into the bank for some of the more amusing stories I have in that area, but it was not productive. I shouldn't be so tempted to relive past failures. However, that's ever so much more interesting than the successes, of which there are few. Hell, even in my successes there is failure. not to produce a result, but as a human being: my one great success story paints me as a homewrecker, making excuses like "she was pretty sure he was cheating on her." That doesn't exactly give me a free pass. I don't know how much longer I can leave that as my last "victory," since it's a pretty heelish one.

Yet I currently abstain. I spent my high school years fawning over unattainable (by me,) girls, at the moment I am fine to be solitary. Let's leave it at that. I am too obsessed with my own problems.

I just can't put my finger on it, what's wrong with me. Head, heart or other.

Whatever. Not gonna dwell, as I said. In my experience, time is the best cure for such ailments.

In all, this hypothetical introspection may just be, as usual, my way of procrastinating. I have a story to write due tomorrow that I haven't exactly completed, as well as a number of other projects within the next two weeks. Many of them are with partners, and though I despise group work, I never want to be the guy they point at and say, "he's the reason we failed." Nuh uh. I may be irresponsible, but not for others. I'm too desperate for approval to let that happen.

Anyway, I want to thank Robyn for giving me exactly what I needed - a night away. I was so thankful to have such a wonderfully esoteric conversation and therefore escape the dull mundanity of my weekend.

Sorry to leave you like this, but you all ought to know better than to epxect lightheartedness every time you visit SWP. Maybe you'll get it occasionally, but that's gotta be some kind of rare treat.

Thanks for sticking it out. Happy 500th to me and keep on rockin'
-Scotto

v12: A lonely traveller's musings

It has been difficult over the years for me to speak about the experience of being in North Bay on this blog, as I've been numerous times under differing circumstances. The tradition is that we come for Easter and Thanksgiving, spending most of a day in the car, a full day here, and then most of another day driving home.

On two recent occasions since beginning this blog, have the specifics been different. The first was January 2005 when Grandma died. The second was Grandad's subsequent 80th birthday, which we visited for, and during which I reached a breaking point with an issue I've been battling for some time.

It's as plain a place as I've ever been, particularly when the weather is grey. Here, I feel so far-removed from civilization as to become unrecognizable to myself. That is, between the physical separation from my usual surroundings, the whole day spent in the car (4 hour drive at best,) and the change of routine, I scarcely feel like myself here in North Bay. It does something to you. You have to learn to live with it, I suppose. Maybe it has to do with being near family; that side of the family, who don't see me often enough to get a true sense of my personality. I'm just finding it difficult to act like the Scott you probably recognize.

I'm also yawning a whole lot, which is weird. I keep getting this half-yawn caught in my throat, trying to hit some sweet-spot in my lungs that will finally satisfy my need to exhale deeply. It's utterly absurd. And I'm tired as hell.

Of course, that's really all there is to do here, is sit around and be tired, waiting for the family dinner. In years past the place was abrim with excitement, don't get me wrong. In the days when I was very young and my brothers and cousins Evan and Laura were not much older, there was much fun, absolutely. Times changed. They grew up, and then I did. The cousins, from whom I drifted to the point where it was impossible to maintain conversation, moved away to Vancouver for Evan after University (where I believe he works in video games,) and Laura to London where she is still in school.

In a twist of irony that I find particularly painful, Laura is visiting her boyfriend's family in Oakville, whereas I am here in her childhood home.

It's also interesting how markedly different my dad is from his brother Alan. Dad remains his regular, somewhat boistrous self, paragon of jokes and chatter, whereas Alan is softspoken and more passive. He's a nice guy, friendly, but subdued. He has a gigantic HDTV, dad doesn't watch any at home. He praises Michael Buble and other crooners, dad prefers to keep the station on Q107 in his car/home (and the name Buble means nothing to him - which is the way it should.) They have the type of warm yet distanced relationship you might expect a pair of brothers to have after decades of only seeing one another a few times a year. I don't expect I should ever be so fortunate with mine.

Grandad remains saturnine when thinking of the past, or when shown the warm embrace of his family. It's just that every time his voice hits that sad tone and his eyes get a tad foggy, I am reminded of a quote I read in Neil Gaiman's brilliant "American Gods," which was along the lines that older men who lost their wives scarcely live long without them. I'm not sure how true this is, mind you: Great-Grandpa Wood lived nearly 5 full years without his wife (and she died when he was 96!) However, he wasn't so dependant on her as Grandad was on Grandma Williams. She was a raconteur, to use Writer's Craft lingo: grandiloquent even in illness, she would spin stories and talk for hours. In years past, she and Grandad would visit for hours into the night and she would share her memories, rarely calling on Grandad for more than the confirmation of a fact (as in, "in 1979-- was it 1979, Joe?" "Oh yes, 1979..." and she would continue.) Now, he speaks more, but without the heart. And he leaves much sooner because he hasn't got the material. It's a sad reminder of what we've lost.

Eric and I went out today, despite a chill in the weather. We just sat by the "beach" in a park as there was truthfully nothing for us to do.

I never feel good in North Bay. It just stifles the lifeforce out of me, but I come out of my own sense of honour. It's only two weekends out of the year, I can stomach it even if its means missing all of my friends who happen to be in town over the long weekend. Most of them will be home permanently or on whatever semblance of permanancy they can muster. Then we'll have four whole months.

As far as I can tell, Kyle Sanderson has finally burned Half-Past Eight PM to DVD. If true, this is incredible. I'm speechless. I have no idea what I'll do once the entire ordeal is done with and I no longer have to worry about giving updates. Aside from vomit with relief, I mean.

That's my take on today. In the car I thought of some topics which may be used in future blog entries, or on Interneta for rants.

Hope this entry didn't depress. It's just the only honest way to characterize my current situation. Happier things tomorrow or at any rate in the near future.

Keep on Rockin'
Scott//

v11: A Nation of Orphans

I have so much on my mind these days. And given that I am unrestrained by length or content, you'd think I'd just pour it all out.

But i'm lacking the energy, the drive to do that. Sure I could bitch for the seventeen billionth (more realisitcally, 497th) time about how I've got too much schoolwork. Sure I could muse about the past or summarize my day, but I haven't the desire.

I got up. I went to class. I fell asleep during a video on the Trojan War. I ate lunch. I hung out. Globalization happened. Mike Walsh is nutty. He kind of reminds me of a hyperactive version of the Del Preston character in Wayne's World 2. "I had to beat them to death with their own shoes."

Haasim and I spoke today about this very blog, thus proving the old agade that this is in fact the most popular site on the internet (*not true, but close enough if I say so.) that I receive strange adulation and recognition for doing little more than talk about myself for over a half hour a night. It's basically been the only thing I've been able to talk about since October, the phenomenon of the blog. And if people don't stop talking about it, I'll never get over it.

But he turns to me today and says "I was reading your blog recently and wow, you're pretty full of yourself," jokingly, obviously. I mean, I'm the one constantly eferring to myself as "self-centered" and a "narcissist." That's how I must appear through this blog, but, y'know I never purported to be a pundit or a newswire. It's just me and I always feel the need to address this when it gets brought up, because I don't want people getting the wrong idea. Don't say self-centered like it's a bad thing. Having this place to release my negativity into the universe has done wonders for my ability to behave myself in social situations. And as usual, I invite usage of the "back" button if it gets a little weird.

Weird, like, if I were to start talking about a dream I had last night about me and a fellow classmember (not to be named,) racing around in a beaten-up car without brakes or a roof, swerving all over the road in pursuit of a story (good lord, school has officially invaded my sleep.)

It is, I suppose, officially "gorgeous" out. And I say this not only in terms of weather but in terms of the people you see in public. The girls in particular have replaced the long sleeves, jackets and sweaters with the sleeker, lighter, obviously more revealing apparrel. I say this not as a creepy stalker guy as Sonya LaFleur recently believed me to be, but as a mere casual admirer of the form.

As is customary for the Easter weekend, I will be heading tomorrow to North Bay to visit the family. I'm not extraordinarily happy as it means I won't be seeing all the gang here in Oakville, but it is an obligation I made myself not to miss any of the two annual trips, which I have ever upheld. My cross to bear. There are worse things in life than a rare visit to the family.

Ah-he-hennyway, I think that about covers it for tonight. I could go deeper in depth about this article I'm working on with the Canadian Action Party, but I don't have too much to say right now.

Hoping the weekend goes off without a hitch. Don't despair if you don't hear from me until Sunday: its means I've been bored to paralysis. (My joke about northern Ontario.)

Keep on rockin'
Scott

v10: The riverbed makes a very good road

In Grade 5, when I was in Peer, they did an entire unit on slavery. Now, I have numerous fond memories of that class, but I never understood its practicality as a learning environment.

I'm not entirely sure where the myth that I am/was a gifted student began. My "gift" begins and ends with my ability as a writer. I suppose that means if you think I'm not such a great writer, then I'm not gifted. And to those of you who have praised my work, then perhaps I qualify. But I've never been an exceptional student. I'm notorious for finding the easiest and most beneficial way to do any given assignment. In a particularly self-absorbed Guthrie journal entry (although that was their nature,) I praised myself as "a different kind of smart."

I've often thought that everything I have gained and accomplished, I owe to charm. Come on: who else could write so narcissistically about himself on a nightly basis and have people tell him it's good? I'm full of it, clearly, and that's what's gotten me as far as I am. Great men challenge their limits. Good men, like me, do as well as they can with the limits they know they have.

Today was a strangely charmed day. No major obstacles, even in Mitro~*'s class. In fact, when I told him what Joe and I are doing for our assignment - the authors of "The death of WCW," his eyes lit up. He's a total mark, dropping names like Bobo Brazil and "Whipper" Billy Watson, we had a pleasant conversation. Kent dropped in a plug for UFC (charlatan!) and David chimed in with a remark about Brantford's "Killer" Kowalski, but I was the one who precipitated the whole discussion, coming back from the break. Fewer than 8 people were in the class.

Then over lunch, I watched some Futurama on my Mac, and found some ideas for my Newspaper Writing assignment. It's hard, in that class, when we are concurrently working on that and the newspaper. I guess that's why we haven't been doing the weekly assignments like we did toward the end of Jarrett's first semester.

Speaking of whom: I re-read some old posts and damn was I ever hard on that guy when I first met him. Although I came to write fondly of him as a good guy, easy marker and overall pleasant teacher, I never retracted the statements made about him. I hereby do that. And Mitro~*: if you give me and Joe a good mark on our final assignments, I'll afford you the same courtesy. Maybe Haasim was right.

My arms are tired so while I would love to make this a nice long post (although it already seems substantial,) I have to cool it for tonight. I had to go to a bowl-off, and although I kicked major ass, (155, 147, 212; F'NA) it has left my left arm worn, and my right arm with sympathy tiredness. I can't explain that.

It's one of those nights though where I could've kept typing for a very long time, just to read my own words (the online-bloggage equivalent of talking to hear one's own voice,) and am indeed filibustering the end of this very post, just for that express purpose. And to use the word "filibuster."

Keep on rockin'
Scott Williams:
He of the golden brown cowlick.

v9: There are very few beautiful things.

Take that title as you will.

Today's a funny day. I don't mean to be constantly bitching about my life and "feelings" (although I don't care if I do, I just need to recognize that I don't wanna bring down my dozen+ readers all the time,) but i'm bored, lonely and isolated. BUT, BUT: I feel fine, almost happy. Hard to describe. Just the weird paradox that I had to be here in the newsroom at 8:00 AM, and effectively stopped working before 11, but have hung around under the impression that I will eventually be needed.

During this time, I have: run home to grab my security card, played a quick game of "soccer" (really just kicking the ball around with Joe and Andrew,) made a pizza pocket in the caf, and gone home again to let my, dog out, make another pizza pocket, grab a Cream Soda and, perhaps most idiosyncratically, write poetry. In my spare time I've been compiling a new collection to go along with the other two on Interneta. All this comes along with huge expanses of sitting in front of the laptop with nothing to do. Curse all those who do not update. I say this realizing that I myself did not write a post last night, but I've given you all so many hours of free enterrtainment (or more accurately, distraction,) I've earned a night off every now and again.

But that brings me here to this blog. I don't usually write in it during the daytime or at school (which is, by necessity, during the daytime,) but I've been so bored all day that it has come to this.

I was stricken last night with an inexplicable cough/sore throat. The popcorn and Coke I was guzzling probably didn't help, but I woke up this morning and was fine, so I guess it was just... whatever. I need to get back on my high-Vitamin C plan, which faltered after a month or two when Real Canadian Superstore failed to stock red Kool-Aid jammers, the source of my powers.

The past two days have been pretty eventful, scholastically. I mean, Mondays and Tuesdays will be when I am most active in my role as "Layout Editor" guy. Yesterday, we trucked it on down to the Oakville Beaver office to get the skinny on next issue's advertisements... fun. And today, well, as I mentioned, I worked for about 3 hours on this week's paper, and have been hanging around ever since.

I'm much happier thinking about this than I am the numerous assignments shovelled onto me in the dying weeks of Semester 2.

Soon I will be free, but until then, keep on rockin'
-Scotto

v8: Selfish like a dream about oral

The world is a cold and distant place to live. I'm not there right now, I've tumbled into a dimension far removed from the bustling streets and faces, whether pleased or distraught. A place of blank stares and deaf ears. A place where inspiration's wings fail to take flight, only sinking when flapped with all its might. All shots out of focus, all ground quaking in the name of preventing me from solid footing. Every time I've got a grip, or so I think, I'm torn away, and plugged into a mundane greyish-brown murk, stimulated but not illuminated. In the dark, alone.

I wrote that last night, in an entry, not intending to post it at that moment. I was suffering a severe attack of what I have dubbed "writer's anxiety:" I had an excess of things I could, should or would have liked to be writing, but I couldn't bring myself to start at it. And that above is what came out. After I wrote it, I started back on my wrok, and came up with a nifty product. I was very happy.

In the interest of preservation, I will explain today. I'd hate to think the blog is becoming too hypothetical and not active enough.

It began with betrayal; or at least, might as well have. Ma's been seeing this guy, Tim. Now, I generally don't care to interact with my mother's... gentlemen. She didn't get off to a good start with Frank, who is not remembered any more fondly by Eric and I than we spoke of him while he actually lived with us. Wally was a good guy, once I got to know him. He was friendly, smart enough, nice enough, tolerable. Tim, well frankly he weirds me out. I get such a weird vibe from him. He stands, hunched over, trying like most to catch our interest by sharing whatever interesting conversation he can muster. He seems to have a deep well of it, but that's not a strategy I've ever responded to. The point is, he hasn't been around long, and hopefully I'll figure exactly where to stand on the issue before much longer.

BUT there was just a little drama - in my head, mostly - regarding our trip out to Palmerston. According to mom, the plan was "always" to bring Tim along, and that was whyshe rented the van, so we could all fit. This stands in interesting contradiction of what happened a few weeks ago when I told her -- and despite what she says, I most assuredly had this conversation with her -- that Kris would be coming to stay with us, and that we should try to arrange it so that we bring him back when we go to Palmerston. And at this, she said something along the lines of "oh... we shoud get a van." Perhaps not those words, but the gist of it was that at tat point, it dawned on her, we ought to rent a van.

Flash forward a week or so, Kris has arrived and Mom pleads ignorance. And now she claims that the purpose of the van was Tim coming along, and that Kris' presence was a strange co-inky-dink. Oh, and she also happened to not tell us Tim was coming until the day of.

That ranks just a notch below my dad not telling us he planned to keep us in North Bay an extra night a few years ago for Easter, until we were actually there: despite North Bay being boring and my having made other plans.

It is at this point that I note that Kris is my cousin, my mom's sister's son, who lives in Palmerston, where we were going for my cousin Elizabeth's (Kris' sister,) birthday.

So, with a car loaded with Mom, Tim, my brothers, myself, Kris and Grandma, we undertook the 1 1/2-2 hour drive to Palmerston. Brother Brandon, Kris and I jam-packed into the back seat. Mom, pretending she didn't already know or forgetting she did, making remarks like, "well you'll be comfier on the way back." for what purpose? I don't know.

I guess Tim was well-received. I deliberately didn't speak to him, nor my mother if it could be avoided. Just because I'm a moody teenager like that. It wasn't a dramatic freeze-out. Just a rude one. Strangely, he spent a lot of time speaking with my Uncle (by marriage,) Jurgen, who is generally anti-social and withdrawn. It led to an awkward moment that I don't think I'm at liberty to discuss since it involves the complicated emotional backstory between Aunt Marjie and her husband, but whatever. It was admirable that they hit it off. He used to talk with my dad a lot about computers. Nobody liked to talk with Frank. Wally seemed more interested in being liked by my aunts.

I think I've blogged more than sufficiently for today. The day went off without a major incident - apart from the one alluded to above, which was actually kind of major - but it was generally one of the better family gatherings, I think.

Now things are back to normal. The chaos posed by Kris' presence has subsided and all we need to do now is clean up and let the routines get back to normal. It's a nice night out, the kind where I don't mind walking the dog, as I get to admire the stars set beside the dim yellow streetlights and breathe the crisp, cool, clean night air.

Keep on rockin'
From Scott

v7: Shivering at dawn.

The explanation for this post's title is as follows:

I think it's tonnes more exciting to watch a sunrise than a sunset. Watching a sunset makes you feel humble, like the day has ended and you can either be proud of your accomplishments or regret your lack thereof. But there's something defiant about being up so late you see the sun rise. This has only been the case with me a handful of times, and I went to sleep immediately thereafter. The first was on the bus home from (where else,) NYC, when I had to confront the fact that I could not sleep on a bus for an extended period. Oh sure, I was miserable and incoherent, but that was part of the experience. I wish I'd bought something better to eat at that time. In fact, I wish I were eating something right now, as my entire eating schedule was thrown off today. More on that later. On the ride home, I had to write the journals I'd neglected at that time for Guthrie (which probably explains why I did not discuss the trip in detail, and re-reading those entires they were not particularly good so I feel doubly bad. For "more," see early May 2005.) So I wrote those, taking extended breaks in between to not overstress my hand muscles. In fact, reading the entries, my handwriting - which is illegible to begin with - becomes more and more erratic as the entries go on, and the grammer and complexity of thought noticably decreases. Perhaps it was not wise to write the first one after midnight on a busride home after you've been up since 6ish, but them's the breaks.

The next occasion of staying up late was at Steph's, when she forced me (with her, it's always force, hah,) to stay up beyond my previous "record" (not including the aforementioned bus,) which was the evening of June 30th 2005. So she just kept me conscious until about 5 that morning, about the time dawn starts to creep on the horizon.

The third and ultimate one of these was at New Year's, when the sun had again crested by the time I went to sleep. Now, I know that many people reading this, or potentially reading this, or not reading this at all but people I know, routinely stay up until 6 or later, but I've recently become more of an "early to bed/early to rise" type of guy. Not that I've become "healthy, wealthy and wise," but it helps. But I do enjoy a good all-nighter when appropriate. When you stay up to some absurd hour, and it is not a frequent occurrence, there is a strange feeling that accompanies it. An excited, nervous, anxious, paranoid rush. I was incoherent on the bus home from NY I vaguely recall trying to phrase some wisecrack and being advised by Conorton, as he would often, that I shouldn't keep talking because I'd failed miserably. And before he could finish, I blurted out, "ahhh I hate myself," recognizing how I'd embarrassed myself. Laughs were had. That was the only fragment of a memory I retain from that particular night.

So I got the shivers. The excitement. The victory. It'd be nice to have again, when the time is right.

I have a thing about nighttime. I'm not sure what it is, but as a writer, I prefer it to daytime. This will become patently obvious when you read what I've been working on for the past few weeks/months (more consistently in the former and more accurately the latter.) I think it has a lot more potential than daytime, so I use it a lot.

Moving on to today, I feel quite good. In fact, it's the strangest thing how positive I feel at the end of this day. Not that anything especially good happened: I got up, went to ElectroPublishing, avoided paying attention (my later success in creating an Image Map provides evidence that I don't need to listen at all,) came home, had lunch/breakfast I'd forgotten after sleeping in, played video games, went back to class, did my feature proposal (an off-the-cuff remark I did about doing it on Coca-Cola turned out to be a legit idea,) and left for home around 3. Now, about this time, given the earliness of my earlier lunch, a grilled cheese, I was starting to get peckish, and I knew I had nothing at home. So I stopped off for a Chicken Salad sammich at Tim's. I devoured it happily and was full. But this put me off for dinner at 6, which I didn't eat enough of, and now I am hungry again. So hmp. I'm all outta whack, but otherwise good.

I was talking to Leslie, my overlord at the paper, about my story last week. It didn't make it into print, nor on the website as far as I can tell, and she, baffled, tells me, "oh, okay, we'll get it into this issue, becuase it was a good article and it's still relevant," etc etc. And she used the phrase, "good article" like three or four times, which was a huge boost for the ego. Either she was trying really hard to be reassuring (not unlikely since I did my best to look upset: and I kinda was, since I need reassurance, so it all works out,) or she seriously thought it was a good article, which I guess makes sense. So, being the layout editor, obviously I'm going to get it into next week's paper. And happily, that solves the problem of my not doing a story this week. Technically I'm still not; but at least I get a story printed. Okay, so it's just one story, a week late, whereas Mansoor routinely got three or four in while he was working on the paper. Well, that's because he's insane. It was because of his zeal for news that we got into a bit of a mess with what leads we were pursuing this week; but that's boring school stuff I don't wanna talk about.

And that was today. I came home and basically played Sonic of and on between 7:30 and 11. It's pretty weird, since despite owning a Genesis as a kid, I was always a Mario guy. Still am, but I'm still pretty proficient at Sonic. They both have their advantages, but in the end, Mario is the total package. That's why PSX focussed on RPG's: because they knew they couldn't match what Nintendo had with Mario. (Don't get me going on Crash Bandicoot.) It was a stroke of luck that the RPG's took off and became more popular. And XBox for their part focus on the shooters.

And I haven't spent a whole evening sitting playing video games in as long as I can remember. It was so awesome to feel like I was in Grade 5 again.

I hope this was one of the more itneresting posts. I chose to write it instead of writing something else, and I don't regret it.

Because once again I feel quite good, without explanation.

Keep on rockin'
Scotto

v6: Shelly's bleeding on the floor.

It's a beautiful night. I'm going to go out for a walk later, just around the block, to enjoy it. The clouds have rolled in and tucked the stars away under a purple blanket. In the distance outside, the roar of the highway sounds like the lapping of waves in a nearby ocean. Somewhere in the town, a girl jogs, excited, bundled yet warm of heart. The air is soft and cool on her skin, moist and invigorating. She lives, at least for tonight; dreaming of a better way.

It was a weird day. I showed up to Globalization feelign strangely stressed out and unwilling to face the world. I didn't want to put up with people. And as I walked off to break with the gang, I began to limp, to top it all off. I don't understand my mystery limp. It's not a usual sort of pain, but it happens. It was different, less unbearable than it was a month ago. I was distraught for some unknown reason. The world was picking on me, no idea why I felt that way.

Then we get to the caf and just as my bitching reaches critical mass: Jell-O. For the very first time, I've seen Jell-O in there. And as soon as I got that Jell-O, man, my day started to brighten up. Suddenly the lecture made sense and I was game and we got out early and I went home and made supper.

Until something interesting happens, I think the trend is going to be toward shorter posts. I did long-long-long posts for a while, and then in March htey became less frequent altogether, so this month I'll probably balance it out by doing shorter posts. Because while I may feel I have less to say, I'd never abandon my fanbase by disappearing for an extended period.

I am going to go enjoy this peacefully still night.

Go in peace and keep on rockin'
>Scott

v5: Proudly directionless

I had a dream last night.

I was escaping, on the run, fleeing the town in the night. I had gotten to the edge when it occurred to me that I should probably be working. Then, in the dream, I remembered that I haven't worked at the bowling alley for months now. An interesting dream for several reasons, one being that the bowling alley was literally situated at the edge of town, where Oakville meets Mississauga. Another is that it was Tuesday night, so I actually would have been working. The most fascinating to me is that later that day, between classes, I saw Natasha, who used to work the counter. She told me she'd quit and was working at Danier Leather. Fascianting.

It is at this point that I note that I had been writing this post earlier when Opera had a rare seizure and I had to start again. There was much but nothing of note. The day wasn't terribly worth summarizing, and what I had was a strange musing about beatness and how it had recently been reawakened within me between some conversations with Ms. A, and an unrelated re-reading of "Howl" that reminded me that as good as I think I am (and I do have a rather high opinion of myself, I'll not lie,) I'm not there yet, if indeed I can unlock it inside myself. I've got quite a ways to go, and a lot of personal tumult to clear up.

I had this idea. As soon as I am done with school, I'm going to stay up late one night scrawling on endless sheets of paper until I can simply not continue. Whatever is created will be. And it can't be at the computer. That's not right. I have to physically remove myself and write, pen-to-paper. Though the computer has helped me organize my thoughts in scripts and stories, this inspiration must occur in ink. Part of this activity might take place outdoors, in a parking lot, in a field, in an alley, under a bridge, somewhere. There's no rational explanation for this, but the unconscious is hardly a rational thing.

Aside from that, my world is rocksolid for today. Nothing to shaky. I acted as news layout editor for the first time today. I think it went well. I heard no complaints. Denni and Leslie seemed to be having it.

I'm breaking out.

Hah. I'm glad.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

v4: Quartz coursing through the veins of time

Get up tomorrow morning and start the whole thing over again.

I don't know if I'll be able to do it much longer. I've got to keep myself going somehow. It's only three and a half goddamn weeks. I should be able to pull it off, but every day, every day I awaken and wonder how I'm going to do it. How am I going to drag myself through this day and just not lose it?

Overdramatic? Probably. I'm incredibly worn out and yes, given to melodrama. In my personal affairs I tend to be more reserved and inwardly drawn. Here I let my freakish insecurities out into the universe. You all know the drill. Scott's insane, this is his brain talking.

I'm just getting to the point where it's becoming difficult for me to even get up and go to Sheridan on a daily basis, thinking about how much time I'm going to have to spend there this month. I just think about it and groan. Oh, to be free, free of restraint and responsibilities of being a journalism student. I know that in terms of essays and lectures and work it's much less daunting than most University courses, but psychologically, it gets to you. And I'm the type of guy who is highly susceptible to psychological warfare. It's incredible the way they guilt you and chide you and anticipate your mistakes and downfalls. Maybe I'm just seeing patterns where none exist, as I tend to do (in spades.) Maybe it's just the teaching style, but the way they get you is they hit you with the responsibilities.

They say great with power comes great responsibility. Well, Stan Lee said it and it's been quoted ever since. Werll I'm starting to have great responsibility without any power whatsoever. And it's not great. And I don't know what I'd do if I had power.

Pardon me, I'm rambling and I don't know what my point was supposed to be. It was not an overall great day but it was as good as a day is going to get this week. I'm not a fan of the sudden April-esque turn of the weather. I got to go into school later than usual because of where today fell in the work cycle. This will never happen again.

I hate to sound quite the downer, I'm just dreading "tomorrow." Nothing in particular about tomorrow, just the idea of "tomorrow." On the upside, I finished something today. You won't see the results for a while, but it's a pretty significant project for me. I'm happy about it, becuase we've been talking aobut it for a while, and I had a pretty prodigious false start that was aborted due to lack of being funny. Now I think it's got the required comedy. I'm happy.

So I have a good deal of grief, but I can find my pleasures. It's one of the unbalanced posts that tries in vain to understand an incomprehensibly abstract situation. Three and a half weeks. 13 "Tomorrows." Three issues of the Sheridan Sun. Or was it Four? Whatever.

Keep on rockin', I hope you're more sure of yourself than I am,
--Scott

v3: Soapstone heart beating wild vibrations

Welcome back to the most popular site on the internet, regardless of what hit counters say. Even your mom loves this site, whomever you are. But she'd never tell you, it's a secret affair that continues between her and this site.

Life, I'm enjoying. It's weird, being a perennially beat sadsack, yet enjoying life despite its faults. I can indeed enjoy life for what pleasures and small allowances it gives. Small victories I appreciate. Large ones, I think, would overwhelm.

Consider the tory I wrote for the Sheridan Sun. I stressed in a way I never had before for something school-related. I had my heart ripped out, my soul rended apart by the claws of a press agent for Ted Montgomery and the OPSEU. I strained for research at the last minute, writing the story in two sessions: between 11 and 11:30 last night and 8:30 and 9 this morning.

So I hand it in to Leslie and when I come back, suddenly I'm called upon. I ask, as a way of guarding myself, "so how bad is it?" She says, "it's good" and tells me a few stylistic errors I fell prey to, as well as incorrectly guessing what OPSEU stands for -- I randomly guessed "Ontario Post-Secondary Educators Union" when in fact it refers to "Ontario Public Service Employees Union." It heartened me.

So later, I decide to leave on a high note by volunteering to do News Layout instead of newswriting. There are a few reasons for this: One, nobody else was volunteering to do it. Two, I did well in roy's layout class. Three, I am deathly afraid of doing any actual journalistic work... out of concern for the fact that I just don't feel up to conducting interviews and doing research. I can't bring myself to do it. So I took a job nobody else wanted, and you can't fault me. Maybe it involves more conventional work, but I'm noit going to spend as much time outside of class, and that's my big deal.

I am, however, starting to lag in effort in actual classes. Of course, to begin with, I only ever put in a certain amount and am no longer faking it. I'm doing the same amount of work I would have otherwise. And I still have no intention of doing the Sports Photojournalism assignment. It's just not feasible for me. So my photo mark is going to take a hit. And despite my numerous furniture shots, I doubt I can handle the feature assignment, but it's much more likely than the sports. We'll cross that bridge when we get to it.

Another little bit of reassurance: I had a lengthy back and forth with Haasim about the possibility that Mitro** might be reading this blog. and for a little bit, I was deeply concerned that he might be. And considering how closely that came to my ordeal with the press agent, it shattered me as I instantly believed he WAS. So I fretted for a bit and posted a rather reticent diatribe about "the truth at the time" etc etc... and I stand by that, but was still afraid he'd somehow encounter this blog and thing worse of me for it.

I saw him today as he was editing some entertainment stories. We made friendly chit chat as he asked what my story was about and I happily explained what I'd learnt about arbitration, and he seemed pleasant about it. He really is a nice enough guy, like most people, but it's my own hang-ups that prevent me from excelling in his class. I've got oh-so-many hang-ups to choose from.

Thought back to April Fool's Day. I was never one for April Fool's. I'm not innovative enough for that. I posted a joke in my MSN name, where it usually reads "Scotto Williams Presents," it read, "Scotto Williams Loves You (April Fools.)" Worth a chuckle, I suppose, but not technically an april fool's joke. Then I got an idear. Unfortunate that I didn't realize the potential of my resources for April Fool's jokes (although I wanted to play one on ComiXtreme last year,) but next year, I hope I remember the potential in the resources I have before me.

Nice enough day. Pleasant. At peace with the world.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

v2: The longer the night lasts, the more our dreams will be

Chinese proverb.

It's funny how the universe goes sometimes. You don't know your way, and then as soon as you depart down your path it takes you twisting and turning in directions you never thought possible, through emotional highs and lows, in circles of conventional logic, until at last you reach your destination; miles away from where you thought you'd be, and only millimeters from where you started.

I'm speaking of my recent experience trying to write for the Sheridan Sun, an article about the arbitration process. I told you yesterday there was some major shit going down with that story; shit I will now share.

So what happened was that I, being a major tool, volunteered to do a story about the arbitration process. Pretty decent assignment, I thought, but when I sat down to get it all figured out, I became overwhelmed. I decided I'd talk to the OPSEU local about it. That's when things started to get bizarre.

I waltzed into the OPSEU local 244 and introduced myself, breathlessly, "I'dliketotalktosomeoneaboutthearbitrationI'm herefromtheSheridanSunnewspaper." So luckily I was within earshot of the Union local chapter president, Doug Law, who tells me, "I actually don't know anything, there's been a press blackout. They're not telling anybody anything, and they haven't told me anything." So he gives me the number for the president of the OPSEU and says he doubts I'll get anything out of him either.

So I begin to laugh at the turn of events. The story I was dreading having to write had turned, I thought, into some Kafka-esque absurdist nightmare about secret motivations and a shroud of secrecy. I tell Leslie, one of my editors, what Law had told me, and she agrees that that's an interesting and bizarre twist in the story I ought to pursue.

So I fire an e-mail off to the OPSEU hoping to get this "press blackout" explained. I must have laid it on a bit thick, too, because I got a rather tersely-worded response from the press agent for OPSEU saying, (I paraphrase:) "I don't know when you spoke to your Local president--" (which, I reiterated, was that very morning,) "--but the blackout was lifted as soon as the teachers went back to work. You can read about it at our website. Oh, and a word of advice, as you are a journalism student: journalists who threaten sources don't get stories."

I made some vague references to it being "in their interest" or "preferable" or something, for them to tell me why they had set down a press blackout -- which I had been told was the case -- and that was taken as a threat. Um... yeah.

So the story ended up being about four or five short paragraphs about the arbitration process. In a newspaper it will probably look longer. I don't know.

Now, I'm okay with it now, but when that asshole press reporter fellow sent me that e-mail, I was crushed. Imagine, for Arrsted Development fans, Tobias sitting in the shower with the washcloth crying after losing the commercial in "Top Banana." that was how I felt when that arrogant press guy sent me that letter. Did I deserve it? Maybe I was a bit uncouth and that needed recognition. No need to be a prick.

So thankfully, I have completed my first assignment, but not without a cost. My self-esteem. Well, I can grow that back. I always do. It's just fragile as ever, though.

Anyway, that sums that story up. Life will be more interesting later this week, possibly.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

Addendum 12:09:: I find that lately I'm not including the small details that flee my mind after they're gone. For one thing, I keep neglecting to mention the weather. Remarkable. For another, today was "Spring Forward," which I love despite the havoc it wreaks with the circadian rhythms. I actually lay down and kind of half-napped for about 20 minutes this afternoon. Weird.

Well I've gotta get to sleep and rst up. Early day tomorrow,

KOR again-SAW

v1: Something you can sleep off

Not much to say tonight. I mean, I know I didn't post at all yesterday, but I'm lacking in energy and so am going to make this decidedly quick.

I mean, there has been some major shit going down with my story. And by shit, I don't mean "stuff you'll find terribly fascinating," I mean literally that: shit. Embarrassing, mortifying, gruelling shit. I fucked up pretty bad and you can expect to hear about it tomorrow, when I have more strength.

The big deal for today was that my cousin is over for the week. He came down from Palmerston via Guelph GO bus, and we walked out to meet him at the station. He'll be staying until next sunday. It's going to be an interesting week to say the least (for me anyway,) because it means that I will not be going out much (even less than usual I mean) in order to hang out with him. The last couple of times he's been over I haven't hung out with him like I should; last time was the funeral so there wasn't time. The time before that I kept running out to make my movie. Before that, there were other things I had to attend to. So over the last year or so I haven't hung out with my cousin as much as I used to; and that's quite a bit considering he used to live with us when I was in Grade 11.

So it's going to be exhausting... I mean, I'm exhausted right now.

It's a little sad that I've had so many thoughts slitting about my head in the past two days and yet I sit here too lethargic to express them. I'm tapped out.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto