U: Legend of the Potachos

This is the story of two people who fell in love without realizing it. They had been side by side for a very long time and never seen each other in such a light until one night, they met up in a bar and were brought together, and they found out they had more in common than they thought; and they belonged together. Now they're inseperable.

Those two people's names? Potatos and nachos. This is the legend of the Potachos.

Though I did not partake in potachos, knowing of their mere existance has profoundly changed the way I view the world. Last night, when they were revealed to me, was an event indeed.

I had been having a stressful couple of days. It was at long last the final day of classes of the school year, but the work was not done for me. I posted on thursday night how stressed out I was working on my articles for Sceneandheard. I wrote one review that night, but had not even listened to the other CD the whole way through. Tired, I settled into Sal's class inhaling my coffee. Mansoor, interested in the folk-rock-sounding Bryson. He proceeded to do a little critiquing for me, noting Bryson's finger-picking techniques and, in his opinion, limited vocals (given that his voice actually gives out and cracks to a wheeze by the end of the CD, it's a valid criticism.) The review wasn't such a big deal, it only needed to be like 200 words. My big problem was my article on the Church -- the background I'd gotten on it was bollocks, and it was due at the end of the day. Meanwhile, I had a test in Sal's class and after that, only two hours until Jody's.

Someone up there, and I suspect it is not the big man himself, but someone up there likes me. Time got on my side as the copy editing final didn't take me very long (admittedly, not a great sign,) so I took the opportunity and cold-called the Reverend at his home. He gladly opened up to me and unleashed a few of his sermons, gave me some backgorund on who he was, basically, plenty enough material for an article. I sat down, went over my notes, popped in the Bryson CD, and let 'er rip.

From Stephen Douglas' class, I remembered the cardinal importance of a good lead for a feature article, followed by a proper outline. I master-crafted my lead, but forewent the outline for lack of time, relying as usual on my natural intuition for storytelling, much as I am showing now.

After only a couple of hours of straight typing (and lunch) my article was complete at 840 words, just a dash above the wordcount he requested (my trademark - I'm a wordy muthafucka and you should all just deal with that.) Satisfied, I headed over to Jody's class to catch a couple presentations and call it a day.

I got home just after 2 and decided to go to the bank, tagging along as Eric returned a DVD to Blockbuster. On the way, we had a discussion and are working on a new Redneck project, which we may be writing soon.

In the meantime, I finished my last review, had dinner, etc. The event of the night was a gathering of the secon-dyears at Monaghan's, a place I'd personally never drank, although I'd been inside years ago when I applied for a job as a dishwasher (which I obviously never got.) I got there at about 10:30 to find many people were already around; Amanda and her fiancé, Tammy and her boyfriend, Deanna and her boyfriend... yep, I definitely belonged at that table. Okay, Ed was there too, but he was drinking water (square.) Mitch and his girlfriend also soon arrived, making the count 2 couples to every single-person at the table. it was at times difficut to stay comfortable.

Nobody knew how the night was going to go. There had been a lot of hemming and hawing beforehand about "Oh I don't know if I want to go, probaboy won't be anyone there, what fun is there in that blah blah laaaaame..." but I did my part to marshall this thing, telling people "Just fuckin'... come already." I mean, if there's alcohol, how bad could a thing be?

And you know what - I was right. Friday night was the best night out I've had in a long time (and really the only one I've had in like a month, so take that how you will.) We all got in an argument about my drink of choice, which has all year long been Gin & Tonic. I was forced to go on the defensive against allegations (baseless ones!) that gin is a drink for old ladies. This was in response to the fact that I declared Rum to be "a drink for women and pirates" which, if you think about it, is true. for one thing, the only person drinking rum was Amanda. For another, rum is a drink for women and pirates! Yo ho ho! The only OTHER people who drink rum are lame teenagers who don't know enough to try other things.

Okay, so I"m biased, because I don't like rum. But all I really meant is that women enjoy rum more than men do, potentially because it's sweet or whatever (I also don't care for rum butter lifesavers.) So they're trying to convince me that gin is for old women, but I countered, saying gin was the main ingredient in martinis, the drink of James Bond. THEN someone says "James Bond was gay," which is just absurd, so that's how I know I won the argument.

The night continued and I did my best to stay on the curve of conversations, entertaining and lively, cracking wise about pirates and potachos, among other things. It was actually a really good night, and I never actually felt awkward, even after the table was evacuaated en masse by all the couples but for Mitch, (and thne joined by Andrew and Melissa -- yep, there were 5 different couples throughout the night. Just saying.) and even as Mitch forced upon me my fifth G&T of the night, which I took a walk with, eventually going to get to know friendly people from the course I hadn't had the opportunity to talk much to. After all, alcohol is a social lubricant, and man I was viscous. Or something? That sounds more gorss than I'd intended.

Eric, much to my chagrin, is channel-hopping like mad. It's annoying, but I put up with it because, well, he can be touchy when he's got the remote (which is always.) Thankfully, he's vowed never to read this thing, which is a good thing for me, since I'd rather not discuss it with family.

Anyway, the night faded out when the lights came on (actually quite long after that happened,) Amy qouted my favourite one-liner ("Butterface") and everyone decided to go to someone's house, which I interpreted as a cue to call it a night. I got home just after 2, put on a DVD (Lost in Translation) and went to bed.

It was cold today. Hopefully someday soon it gets a little more tolerable.

We're not as far as you think, you and I.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

T: Tomorrow for inaction

So I'm in a bit of a bind. A predicament, if you will.

As chronicled in this blog, my editor tossed me headlong into the world of internship, assigning me a number of articles due for the 30th (tomorrow.) It's annoying, because when I applied, I mentioned that I wanted to start April 2, and in effect I started several weeks before that. Never mind the fact that I had a tonne of shit to do in order to pass my classes, and keep up the occasional Sheridan Sun article. Now I've got to write articles for a real website, due tomorrow.

Two of them are CD reviews. Not hard, I've listened and now I just need to write up the review (no idea on the wordcount, errg.) The other article involved an interview. The dude was pretty tight-lipped but I'm going to call him tomorrow hopefully. I don't know. My point is that I certainly don't have all this stuff well in hand. I don't think I have 750 words worth, I'm a little annoyed with the way this entire thing has come out, but whatever. Whatever, man! I'll do my best, what I always do, and that's... write. I'm going to make this guy's story interesting, hopefully. I mean, it's not even the length of Douglas' short feature article. It can be done. I'm just worried about the timing. I have very little time left to write this article. I have an exam to write for Sal tomorrow morning, and then the newsroom is closed virtually right afterward.

Right now, though, I'm experiencing the very reason I have been saying for weeks now that I'll be working still from Sheridan's newsroom... Eric just finished a 15 minutes walking-around-singing-pacing-weirdo session. I couldn't handle that all day while trying to get things done. I mean, all I'm doing right now is this blog, and I'm finding it tough.

It was a nice day, too... it was a fairly fun farewell party in the newsarium, where I was constantly defeated at Jenga (I don't exactly have the hands of a surgeon but I did all right.) Relaxing... although if I knew how stressed I'd feel later in the evening, I probbly would have used the time to write. I don't know, I just deal with this crap poorly.

I can't even finish this thought. I've got to go write at least one of these things. It's going to be a long night.......

Ecch. Keep on rockin'
-Scott

S: Spinning further out of orbit

So the year is basically ending for us second-year journalism students. Next week we all go off to be interns and be all journalistic. This week, we say our goodbyes.

I've personally been avoiding big shows of sentimentality. It doesn't quite jibe with my persona as a cool-yet-hyperactive outsider intellectual. Okay, I know that's like three different personae, but I'm a complicated individual and I can be all three if I wants. No big speeches. No tearful farewells. This is, after all, the age of MSN and Facebook -- there are no true goodbyes.

In any case, as we go along, I've just been trying to pick up and put together the pieces of what my life might be. For months, anytime I could remember having a dream, I'd be chased by something or other in it, or else otherwise running frantically. So I decided to check a dream dictionary to see if they had any insights on what "chasing" might represent, and, well what do you think it told me?

To dream that you are being chased, signifies that you are avoiding a situation that you do not think is conquerable. It is often a metaphor for some form of insecurity...Alternatively, you may be running away from a primal urge or fear.

Well, duh. I was hoping for something more insightful. Something I do not think is conquerable? Very deep, Freud! Insecure? Me? Gee whiz! Yeesh.

Last night's dream, in particular, had me on the run from a veritable monster squad, commanded by Jason Voorhees, and comprised of Dracula (taking orders from Jason??) the Creature from the Black Lagoon (or as I called it, "Some Lagoon") and maybe Frankenstein's monster...

To dream that you are followed by a monster, signifies that grief and misfortune are in your immediate future. Monsters represent parts of yourself that you find brutish and ugly. You may possess some fears or some repressed emotions.

Well, good grief. Looks like I'm running away from my repressed brutish emotions. At the end of the dream, I thwarted the vampire by using a pencil as a wooden stake...

To see a pencil in your dream, indicates that you are making a temporary impact in a situation. It may also suggest that a relationship may not last long.

Of course, is there any form of dream interpretation that is inherently positive? I mean, it wouldn't be psychology if it weren't a downer. It's a good thing I don't particularly believe any of them, otherwise I'd feel bad.

I was reading a summary of 1001 Albums You Must Hear Before You Die. Now, I'm a bit of a music guy, and a huge fan of lists, so this looks like a book I'd be interested in. At 1001, it looks to be an extremely thorough cross-section of pop/rock albums of the last 50 years, with a few crossovers like Thelonius Monk, Sinatra and Ravi Shankar. The biggest disappointment to me is the omission of both of Weezer's great albums (their "blue" album, and Pinkerton,) while a number of unnecessary albums were included. On the other hand, the people who put this bad boy together really did know what they were talking about... there's the exact proper amount of Aerosmith on there (three albums,) a healthy dose of Beck (he also gets three,) and, most perplexingly to North American readers, every single album ever recorded by Dexys Midnight Runners (again, three.) So I think I'll pick up the book, because it looks like a good read.

It was a good night. I went to a bowl-off and really hit my mark, although it wasn't terrific. The guys and I all sat around watching an old Wrestlemania. I always forget how non-fans think of wrestling... it's just such a different perception, and I've never been able to look at it from the perspective of a non-fan, even when I wasn't watching during the earlier part of this decade. I finally got dad my T4 from HMV, so my taxes will finally be in order.

Things look to be falling into place. Naturally, I hope not to jinx them by saying that. The only thing left is the weather, which has been unwelcomingly chilly despite the sunshine. Looks like I split up the coat too soon. Sigh...

Keep on rockin'
-yr Scotto

R: Really nowhere in existence

It's one of those days, man. It'd be nice if people actually read this damn thing so that I could know my frustrations were getting out there. Errgh, man!

I just want to relax, but the entire world is tense, seemingly. Even my fuckin' dog. I was really upset today when I found out that I'd lost my umbrella on the way home yesterday (I hate losing things, and I seem to be doing it more and more lately.) My brother's stompin' around, wearing an indeliable grimace. My back is sore. It's spring, so mom is obsessively cleaning. The dog constantly wants my food. The brothers are in a feud over who has to do what when the phone guy comes over tomorrow. Dog won't stop pacing around. I have to be surrounded by it all and it's really irkin' me because all I want is to lie back and relax, man!

Plus there's nothing on TV, so Eric's downstairs watching Mercer while I hide out in my room and gawk at American Idol (not a fan of Mercer, or CBC comedy in general.) I'll admit, I watched every episode of Idol's first season, (I was a huge Nikki McKibbon fan) but as the years have gone by and I've watched less and less to the point where I didn't watch at all last year or the year before that. This year, a couple of people actually caught my eye. The first was Sundance, who was voted off seemingly eons ago. The second was Chris Sligh, who has this really nice, unexpected, genuine voice, and good humour. The last, obviously, was Sanjaya, although I wrote him off at first, he later re-appeared as someone who sucks and gets votes (in the "Vote for the Worst" tradition.) I don't think that he realizes that in order to perform as a singer, you have to hit notes, instead of just make noise -- Andy Samberg's impression on SNL this past week was dead-on, actually. The dude was quite bad and V4TW is clearly the reason he's stuck. Combined with the fact that he's cultivated this weird following of teenage girls, he's seemingly untouchable. I don't know, I probably shouldn't be admitting to watching this crap, but hey, there's nothing else going on and I'm in exile. Meanwhile, Gwen Stefani is guest-coaching, and, not made up or acting in a music video, she seems like a very sweet, likeable girl. That's odd.

I've gotten started on my articles for Scene and Heard, which is exciting, I suppose. I mean, we're virtually at the end of the semester now. All that's left is a pizza party, and one exam on Friday, then all my time and effort goes into trying to squeeze 140 hours of internship out of a month of working from home.

That's the weird thing, man. I signed a contract today that binds me to provide material for my friend's magazine, which is something I could potentially get paid for (you know, if the magazine gets made and sells.) Now THAT's weird. We all just kind of laughed and thought "...does this mean we're going to have careers?" There's a thought that kind of snuck on me, quite unexpectedly. Hrm.

Anyway, my typing has helped coax me out of my frustration. I just don't wanna, you know, let abstract matters get between me and being in a good mood. The weather's gorgeous, school's almost over, I'm getting opportunities, and after 14 or 15 cups of coffee, I'm on a hot streak at Roll up the Rim to Win -- my free coffee won me a doughnut.

Life has small pleasures you should enjoy.

Keep on rockin'
Scott

Q: Masked in light

Part of the reason I was struck while reading about suicide was that a thought occurred to me.

Being a young white male, I am apparently the most likely demographic for suicide. Add in that I fancy myself a creative type, and it seems like a recipe for disaster. I have never contemplated suicide (although I know I can be melodramatic a lot of the time,) inasmuch as I've never reached for a bottle of pills or tried to devise a crude noose to sling over my shower curtain (which I doubt could support even my meagre weight anyway.) But most people, I think, have a fleeting thought, during a moment of extreme distress, where they wonder... where's that aspirin?

For me, that thought is always instantly dispelled by the thought of my own funeral. I know it's morbid, but that's a really comforting thought, thinking people would be very upset. I imagine at least a few not related to me. Ideally, an ocean of tears would be shed, bemoaning the sudden, tragic and perplexing loss of a life not fulfilled, y'know? He had so much to give! He had so much potential, the world was his! The women go through boxes of tissues, and moan, "And I never even let him under my bra!"

Alright, that last part is probably extremely unlikely, and at best, highly doubtful. But my point is, I would hope that, if I die before my time - whether by my own hand or in some tragic accident - everyone shows up and is devastated. Like, is that too much to ask? Oh, and I want to be cremated, I'm already on record with that with my family.

If I live to be a hundred, or thereabouts, I hope nobody's all that sad at my funeral. Because, damn, I probably had a good life, or at least a long one. I just want grief if it's totally unexpected. If I die at fifty from a heart attack, use your own judgment.

In Sal's class, we were talking about what a cliche it has become for quotes to be used where people forecast their own death. It happens all the time, who doesn't ge that sinking feeling, "Oh God, something bad has happened!" I've worried a friend of mine was dead just for not showing up to a coffee shop. So occasionally it's completely right, after however many times of being wrong. And it's viewed as terribly ironic. I don't want anyone to point out the irony if I die immediately after writing this entry. It's a weird coincidence, and that's that. Hopefully, I don't die.

(People used to chant "Please Don't Die! Please Don't Die!" at wrestler Paul London when he used his high risk maneuvers. He's still alive, I suspect fate isn't that easy to tempt.)

Today was a good day, unexpectedly... you know, when you get up and it's rainy as shitforce, and you're at school early without anything much to do, you get a bit bummed, but the day progressed. I had a Philly Cheesesteak Wrap which, despite being from the always-over-expensive Baja Flats, was an exquisite meal. My friend's magazine is forging ahead nicely -- in fact, I submitted a potential column that was very well received. And the rain, that horrible thunderstorm, cleared up and it was a pretty nice day for a few hours. I had my first Iced Cap of the season. Get ready Tim Hortons, to suck a shitload more of my money out of my unprepared wallet this summer.

Tammy and I were talking about fake breasts. If anyone out there has felt a fake breast, please let Tammy know, she wants to know how that feels. Me, I was never that great with breasts to begin with ("Most guys aren't," lamented Tammy.) I bemoaned how long it's been since I've been introduced to one, although nobody seemed that sympathetic. The conversation moved on.

Leaving on that, you can tell, I think, where my mind's at. Yep, it's spring.

and so keep on rockin
-Scott

P: You love me I'm not your type

So I thought I'd pay the blog a visit to get a few things out of the ole sack-of-topics.

i'm coming to terms with the fact that I am not a conventionally compassionate human being. I read an article on vegetarianism the other day that would have been very disturbing to your average reader -- that is, a pro-vegetarian article that severely villified the meat industry and exposed its evil ways -- but left me wanting a cheeseburger. I don't know, maybe I came to terms long ago with the fact that the meat business is not a pleasant one. The article bemoaned that most of the cows were not properly sedated when killed. Well, how do you think they got meat in years past? They certainly didn't sing them lullabyes. I just happen to believe that the consumption of meat is a longstanding facet of human nature that needs not be changed. All things in moderation.

There are worse things in the world... like smoking.

No disrespect to my vegetarian readership (which I'm sure, proportionately with my gynormous following anyway, is vast,) but I don't think I could date a girl who made it a point of morality not to eat meat, because we wouldn't have anything in common. Not that eating meat is my entire personality, but it seems like NOT eating meat would be her entire personality. Health, I suppose I can get behind, because hey, who doesn't like health? And a lack of taste for it would be perplexing, but acceptable. Of the last three girls I've been, uh, associated with*, one didn't eat meat for that last reason (apparently, although I could swear I saw her eyeball a meatball sandwich in Subway once,) one kept halal, and the other, well, let's not even get into.

*I don't say "dated," because I only technically dated one of them -- my history with the opposite sex is a well-recorded series of disasters.

I have a number of vegetarian friends and acquaintences. I like them, but none have ever successfully convinced me, most wouldn't try (those are the ones who know me well enough.)

My other moment of deep compassion (and that'd be sarcasm,) was earlier today when, studying the suicide of writer Daniel Jones, I just rolled my eyes, exhausted at the writer's lengthy, tedious dissertation on his death. Yeah, that makes me look real sympathetic. Call me unattentive, but the 30-plus-page diatribe really wasn't working for me. I took no interest in the assignment and, I'm sure my memoir teacher would be glad (again, in the sarcastic sense,) to hear I really phoned in my response. Fortunately, I have done my best to hide this blog's existence from everyone, and for the most part succeeded.

Anyway clearly there is something wrong with me. My fingers are giving me the "you're typing too much" tingle. It's been a long weekend. After 14 losing coffees, I finally one a free one at roll up the rim to win... I am such a sucker for promotion. I drank way more coke when they had "under the cap" prizes -- even though I prefer cans for pop-drinking. So yeah, I'm psyched for the free coffee. Maybe I'll even wait in line at Sheridan for it for forty minutes (and then, being the Sherida Tim's, it'll be terrible and not worth it at all.)

It's going to rain tomorrow... ech.

Well keep on rockin'
-Scotto

O: On things you might not believe

It's hard to believe I fucking stayed in tonight. I'm going to be a bit mad at myself for that one for a while.

It was a friend's birthday. We're close, but only when we're around each other, if you get the meaning. Though we joke around a lot and have fun while we're hanging out, there never seems to be an impetus from either of us to make much contact. Still, I should have gone. My nebbish nature, however, made me less than enthusiastic about the whole ordeal; it was short notice, I didn't know who else would be there (she has, to say the least, an expansive and eclectic group of friends) I couldn't get a ride, etc, etc, stupid bullshit. Last May, when it was my birthday and the movie screening, she was one of the two cast members who didn't show up -- and the other one was out of the province. And her brother was there. I felt slighted, but that's not why I didn't go. I just didn't have the energy, which again, is bullshit and stupid. I haven't been out of the house for an evening in like a month, Risk not included, I kinda did want to go. But nah, I just sat on the couch watching a mediocre-at-best episode of Saturday Night Live.

It's all on me; I didn't like the feel of the situation, which isn't to say I didn't like the idea of getting out, seeing people, knocking a few back, etc etc, just that I still haven't shed that fucking awkward self of mine completely. How stupid, man! Ridiculous! I can't get out and see my friends because the stars aren't properly aligned! I can't even properly express or explain that notion, because it doesn't make sense!

So I'm sitting here on the couch, it's well after 1, and I had to record this thought in the blog or else I wouldn't sleep. I don't even have a guarantee that I will anyhow, but I knew I wouldn't at all otherwise. I could see myself tossing and turning, pointlessly thinking "What a shitty night this turned out to be! I'm an ass!" I gotta alleviate my self-loathing just a bit.

As you might imagine, my 2006 taxes are a bit of a clustrefuck. I finally came clean to dad that I was never paid for my brief Tim Hortons stint, and thus didn't get a T4 from them. My fear was that he'd make it a big thing, whereas at this point it doesn't matter to me, but he shrugged it off anyway. As it is, I've got to find my HMV form to go along with several from Sheridan and one from Classic Bowl. Income taxes were apparently implemented during World War I, like Daylight Saving Time, and those two things, you know, are two things that just don't go away once they exist, even after outliving their relevance.

I was reading up on American Idol at Vote for the Worst. While I always suspected a certain level of chicanery going on with the production and presentation, VFTW has really convinced me of its cause. It acts as a brilliant x-factor i an otherwise sterile and overall rotten competition. Still though, that Sanjaya kid is bad news. Whatever, I'm not watching anyway.

For the record, you can't "Laugh out loud out loud." Obviously, that's redundant. Ergo, see now how stupid it is to type "lolol." Maybe you could get away with "lol, lol," but again, so needlessly repetitive. That's why the early pioneers of the internet were clever enough to give us graded acronyms like "LMAO" and "ROTFLMAO!" You cannot "LMAOOO!" because your ass can only come off once, just like when you laugh out loud, it doesn't get any more out loud. Not to mention that, let's face it, most of the time you're not even laughing out loud at all! Liar!!

That's why I tend to type "Haha" or some variation. It's a harmless onomatopeia to express the emotion humans typically call enjoyment.

I'm tired of staring at the computer screen. It's off to bed. I'll gladly sleep in tomorrow, although I still can't believe what became of this waste of a night.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

N: Investment tips from a clown

Man, what is Scott Williams anyhow? And who does he think he is? He ain't even close to having an answer; why ask? Like I'd have the answer!

It's the end of yet another week in the life of Scotto. Um, absolutely nothing of note happened today, or in any recent day, which is frustrating. I am finding, mind you, that being a reporter is a very difficult matter, which is something I maybe haven't had to face with my previous journalistic experience.

It's not true that nothing of note has happened; I only mean to say nothing of note has happened to me, the one person about whom I truly care to write in this blog. Apparently, my friend Jimmy's bid for Vice-Presidency of the Sheridan Student Union was unsuccessful, which is lame, because I'm pretty sure the girl who won was a real bitch. I mean, we exchanged only a few words, but sometimes, you just feel that way. And what can you say? She won, do I not have the right to call her a bitch for no reason? It's my site, and nothing's ever stopped me before.

Meanwhile, my other friend Amanda has apparently been successful in fostering a) enthusiasm and b) resources for an upstart magazine she's plotting, a magazine aimed at the oft-overlooked (considered by many to be mythical and nonexistent) female geek market. Aptly, it would be titled Geek Girls. And in a few short days she's managed get much reassuring feedback, tips on how one goes about starting a magazine, and a means to a bankroll from an extremely enthusiastic friend in the publishing industry. So she's accumulating the necessary components. The crux of this endeavour is in reaching the necessary audience (as I mentioned, by all accounts they are a rare breed,) and in her own ability to take care of business. Most people who want to start their own magazine, I'd probably dismiss it as a pipe dream. Having worked elbow-to-elbow with this girl for over a year, it is my belief she is that rare person who doesn't half-ass things like this (things she cares about.)

And y'know, unlike most things people get enthusiastic about, this doesn't sound like the stupidest thing ever. That is to say, I don't think there's an ounce of stupidity in it. Working as a freelancer is crappy gig, and you don't get wealthy working for someone else. You get stability (unless you're a freelancer) but you forfeit your ability to succeed. Being entrepreneurial you open many more doors. And no, I didn't learn that in Mrs. Irvine's Entrepreneurial class all those years ago -- nobody learned ANYTHING in that class -- that's just common sense. It's a risk, but it's a damn worthwhile one.

I got this job offer - if you can call it that - to do piecework for some website. I'm not certain how they found me, but my resume is out there, so it's not hard to figure. It wouldn't be good money, but as I'm not making any money now, it's an option well worth considering for me at this time. So I'm figuring on doing that eventually.

Fridays are a weird day. After Sal's class, always an interminable-seeming affair, no disrespect to him, many of us cram into S301 for the Friday postmortem. More often than not, Mansoor and I are joined by Joe, maybe his girlfriend Amanda, the other Amanda, maybe Haasim, and any of the other various characters we've added to our little cast, and about three dozen first-years, some of whom I know (and am on a first name basis with,) and some of whom I've never heard of.

For a few weeks, I was quite vocal, but in my "autumn years" (or weeks, whatever,) I'm sitting back and letting it go. Maybe I have some wisdom to impart, but maybe not. It's been a really long time, by now, since I last actually laid out a paper, so most of what I have to say is highly speculative. But let's not forget, I'm one of the finest damn layout artists the Sheridan Sun ever did know. If I can't call myself a great reporter, I've at least got that.

Following that, we march over to Jody's class, where, on a Friday afternoon, it's difficult to pay attention to anything, let alone the third or fourth presentation on movie quotes. I'm not sure how that became such a popular topic, no disrespect to the presenters but they had to know the lack of diversity would hurt them, at least with the audience. Aimee gave a presentation on clowning... sorta, since she brought in an actual clown to give a lecture/do shtick. It was funny, and that's where the title of this entry comes from, because as part of the routine, the woman (whom I would seriously have liked to get to know, there's something sexy about that big red nose,) asked my name, my age, and if I'd gotten an RRSP, because "If you put $25 away each month, you can retire when you're forty." Which is worth considering, as soon as I start getting $25 to put away each month.

Jody, afterward, mentioned she had no idea I was 19 (which seems preposterous to me, because I sometimes feel like I stick out like a black republican or something.) We also got back our recent assignments, and I did, well....... let's just say my presentation clearly had a profound effect on her, which is mind-blowing for me, but I can get behind that if she wants to give me an impossibly high mark.

But marks are mere gratification. I've done well for myself, but if they don't translate to a career, they ain't that practical. I've got to move forward and focus on my more pressidng assignments. Last weekend, my editor claimed he would be sending me some CD's, but they have not arrived, which is irksome.

I want to write a "Howl." Something cathartic that really lets it all out. I've come close, maybe, but then launched myself backward from it, maybe not having the stomach for as deepgut thought as Ginsberg engaged. I think it's in there, though. The burden of resentment I have at the world around me is bubbling over to a point where I cannot contain myself much longer. Maybe it's going to be more a project than a mere spontaneous creation, albeit one that is done spontaneously (whee for contradiction.) I can just feel it under my skin -- and to quote Dylan, I've got a head full of ideas that are drivin' me insane.

We're young. The future is ours for the destruction.

Keep on rockin'
*Scotto

M: More secrets than you could tell

It's funny that, as you move along in your life, the events that, early on, seemed so significant and life-altering, become smaller and less significant. That as you move futher along and examine the tapestry of your life, the smaller threads tend to blend together. I've been hving flashbacks lately, which probably speaks to how boring life has gotten on this end.

I'm listening to Aerosmith's 2001 album, Just Push Play (which spawned the hit single, "Jaded.") I haven't listened to it in years, and only recently crammed it onto my iPod. However, listening to it brings up some serious memories. You know how certain songs bring back certain places, moments, emotions. Well, I bought this album during the Grade 8 Quebec trip way back in 2001, and it became the soundtrack of a very angsty, miserable summer.

Many of the events of the time seemed earth-shattering, and for the life of me I couldn't tell ya why -- or even what was quite going on, either in my life or my head. As we all know, life goes on. And that's something I don't think I grasped back then, nor do I seem capable of grasping to this day. But I ain't that awkward creepy kid no more.

For the record, while it's not a terrific album, Just Push Play was a good effort, with more good tracks than bad. The good tracks aren't great, and the bad ones aren't terrible, it's like a 3 out of 5, all things considered. Better than Nine Lives before it, not as enjoyable as Honkin' on Bobo (an album entirely of blues covers) after it. Steven Tyler said it's among his least favourite, which is understandable, but they were trying something new which is usually difficult for a band that had been active for nearly 30 years at the time. I do not, however, approve of their oversaturating the market with compilation albums with singles on them. It was nifty back in '94 with Big Ones' Walk on Water & Blind Man, but despite singles like Girls of Summer and Devil's Got a New Disguise, they haven't had a legitimate hit record of original material in over 5 years. Thankfully, the rumour is they've been back in the studio to record a new album for fall 2007; I'm excited for that.

Today was... such a mind-numbingly tedious day it'd be a crime to even attempt to detail it. Haasim and I did some very good work on our PowerPoint presentation. We all listened to a tax guy give insights on running one's own finances. The weather fluctuated like hell (although since I was inside anyway, what does it really matter?)

It was so refreshing this morning when it was like, all warm and stuff. Then it had to get extremely rainy and cold. Dreary, relaly. Yep, that's spring.

This has really been one of the most atrocious entries I've ever done, in terms of how boring I'm finding it to write. They can't all be gems, I suppose, but something utterly fascinating had better happen tomorrow, to erase the shadow cast by this morose little bit of business.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

L: Never making the connection

It seems sometimes that all the recent tohughts of my life spiral around a small group of matters, related and unrelated, joining them. I really should have posted at some earlier point in the past two days. It'll be difficult to keep straight, and I'm going to end up babbling... which of course is what I always do anyhow, so there won't be any discontinuity.

The notion of a generational catastrophe is one I've already broached in this blog, and it's one I happen to believe in. On Sunday, I was reading over Time Magazine's Entire Population of the Year: You. Now, I was kind of sold on the idea, I thought it was neat, because hey: we've done some pretty nifty things with the internet. But reading the article over, I was less and less sold on the notion that "You" was truly deserving. It all just seemed like a massive accumulation of bullshit.

Yes, Wikipedia and YouTube are immensely popular, as are Facebook and MySpace, but aside from encouraging shut-ins, what do they amount to? I'm on Facebook, primarily as a means of stalking my friends. I'm on YouTube, mostly because I made a movie and would like people to see how poor quality it is. I frequent Wikipedia, really because I'm just too damn lazy to crack a book. It's not changing my life, nor that of anyone except those rare YouTube and MySpace celebrities who are lucky enough to get interviewed by Time magazine.

So I'm still wondering what my generation means, and if it's this, I'm a little nauseous, but attempting to put myself at ease. It ain't easy. Another recurring theme is my ongoing fascination with the beat writers, to whom I discovered numerous connections when composing my long feature article for Stephen Douglas' class. The article's on mature comics. R. Crumb was an acqauintence of the beats in San Francisco, and Alan Moore counts William S. Burroughs among his influences (well, who doesn't?)

Jody told me yesterday that she was having flashbacks (or as she put it, "visions,") of my presentation, which was encouraging for my mark, certainly. When I wrote about it here, I made a number of typos -- I'll let you to pick them out.

There's an ongoing joke among my friends that I seem earmarked for greatness. I tell them, I'm modest, because if I'm not, then once I realize how awesome I am, the whole damn thing will be ruined. I mean, for me to explain it like this, it already sounds pretty fuckin' egotistical, but this blog being an exquisite exercise in narcisism to begin with, that I think can be forgiven. I think people expect something from me, I've no idea what it's going to be. I came up for this really funny idea for a play where one of the main characters is painted on the wall. I think it's the funniest idea I've ever had, but I'm pretty sure it's funny only in my head.

Today was my "Office Olympics" day. I'll explain: in the episode of The Office (US) entitled "Office Olympics," manager Michael Scott leaves for the day (along with Dwight,) so Jim Halpert, bored with his paperwork, begins arranging a series of "Olympics" based on materials from around the office... boxes of paper snowshoe racing, doing laps holding cups of coffee, that kind of thing. The whole matter gets really carried away, but the final event is interrupted with Michael and Dwight come back. Despite seemingly getting carried away with distractions, Jim recounts at the end of the episode that it was "just another day at the office... I finished my paperwork and closed two sales. So, actually, it was more productive."

I knew I was going to be bored today. It was kind of like test-driving what my internship would be, because I was sitting alone in the newsroom (well, in company of the busy first-years.) I tried to arrange a lunch with a friend who had taken the day off, but she was adamant against that, because she had shit to do. So bored, I went all the way to the mall for coffee, becayse I've lost faith in the Sheridan Tim Hortons. The one at the mall isn't great, either. I should have probably gone to the one across the street from the mall. So eventually I got back to school and got down to business, trying to get interviews for my first sceneandheard article. Then I spent like an hour doing a crossword puzzles, the jumble, and word search, because that's become my habit. Then I ate lunch, which is a process in and of itself because I had to go all the way to the microwave and take care of the meat (I've become somewhat particular in regards to my sandwiches these days, or maybe just routine,) buy a Coke, and then wander upstairs seeing who was around. It was after talking to Jess that I realized I should probably be writing my long feature article. So I set to work on that for a few hours, hitting 1800 or so around 5:30, not even halfway through my potential content but a mere 500 words or so from the wordcount target. So I got a lot done today.

The thing is, while the original pitch for the article was pretty narrow, when I factor in the many suggestions he gave me last week, the article could very well be a book. Okay, that's exaggerating the matter, but the point is, it's a cumbersome fuckin' article.

A cumbersome article I should probably finish writing, as it's due tomorrow. 500 words isn't such a big deal, but it's making them come out in the right order, I'm finding is the problem.

So I'm gonna go do that, I'll settle my angst with the universe later.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotts

K: Our generation is headed for disaster

This entry may or may not be a lengthy discourse on the subject of the title. Stay with me.

I had run the typically standard spectrum of performance anxiety by friday afternoon. Even though I had solidified my presentation's topic weeks earlier, I hadn't seriously thought about it until the night before when I jotted down a very brief sheet of bullet-point notes on what, exactly, I was going to say during my ten minutes in front of the class.

For Jody's "Arts for Journalists" class, the assignment was, in groups or as a solo, to discuss... something and its merits as an artform. Puzzled, I went back to the well, opting to turn a new audience onto something I had great success with years before*. After getting the OK from Jody that we are all adults and prepared to hear a little casual profanity, I told her the focus of my presentation was going to be Jack Kerouac and the Beat Poets.

*It hasn't even been THAT long; in truth, less than two years. Time flies.

I then proceeded to ignore any preparation for the presentation while I tended to more important matters; mostly crossword puzzles.

About 9:00 on thursday night, I began a refresher course in order to arm myself with enough knowledge to effectively communicate my point to the people. After the first week of presentations, I noticed a great deal of focus on powerpoint presentations, video clips, and other theatrics. I formulated a plan to make myself... unique. After all, it would be a grave disservice to the ideals of the beat writers about whom I was discoursing to make it a matter of rigid presentationality and power-pointitude.

So during the two hours between Sal's class and Jody's, the bulk of my presenation began to ferment within my mind as I recalled my long out-of-practice improv skills to take me between the already-outlined points. My stomach was a knotted clump, as it often was back in the day.

I arrived in class and sat anxiously through a number of presentations, some of which I gladly didn't follow immediately, including Dave's spirited acoustic performance of Woody Guthrie's "Deportee," as well as "Streets of Laredo" and a song he composed himself, all of which got a rousing applause (the last of which brought the house down completely.) Following that were presentations on noteworthy films, a particular band, and establishing characters through props and costumes. With three sheets of paper in hand, I went to the front of the room and plugged in my iPod. After a brief technical snafu, a very particular tune began to play over the speakers. Jazz music -- more precisely, because I don't own any actual jazz records, the soundtrack to Einstein's Dreams. I'm not sure if this is the actual series of events, or if I'm mixing things up, but essentially it happened like this;

I grabbed a dry-erase marker and scrawled all in capital letters on the whiteboard, and asked, "Can anyone give a definition for this word?" The word in question was "BEAT." After a brief hesitation, Leo chimed in from the back by saying, "Like, musically, being on the beat." "Right." I wasn't looking for any particular answer, I wanted to get the idea across that the word was a multi-faceted one, with many interpretations. Dave piped up next, with one of his usually lengthy tangents.

"Well they were a groups of writers, you know, beatniks, in the 1950's, who comprised a scene of new york poets and..." et cetera. Flatly, I told him, "Dave, do YOU want to be doing the presentation?" An awkward laugh was elicited from the class. I moved on. "Anything else?" Justin, also in the back, added, "Being defeated, like, beat down." "Yes!" I said enthusiastically. The point had been reached. The word meant all of those -- even Dave's unfortunate interjection. I noted that it could also mean up-beat and beatific. I neglected to mention the notion of "beating off" because, hey, not everyone loves masturbation jokes (or so I might've thought.)

"I don't really want this to be a presentation," I told them, either after the beat discussion of right before it. "More like a conversation... where I walk around the room and you all pretend to listen, and also I'm holding paper which I may or may not be reading off of." Only occasionally glancing at my notes (which were left purposefully vague,) I delivered the bulk of the presentation off the top of my head, which may have had the effect of making me seem like a rambling fool, but for the most part the audience seemed enrapt. I'll confess, though I was walking among them, behind my sunglasses (which I had worn for effect, even in the dimmed classroom,) I hardly noticed them. I went on to describe, briefly, the lives of Kerouac, Ginsberg and Burroughs, the paradoxical notion of three men comprising a "generation," and how this compared with my weeks-earlier assertion that poetry was a "dead artform" (or, as I was humourously misquoted, "a dead earthworm,") by comparing previous and modern poetry to the works created by these particular people. I noted the "Howl" obscenity trial and the influence the group had on future artists like Dylan, the Beatles, the Clash, etc, etc. I read first from "Marriage" by Gregory Corso, which got a slight reaction, and then from my signature piice (in that I invoke it whenever humanly possible,) Kerouac's "Mexican Loneliness," a comparatively obscure piece that struck me like a lightning bolt when I first read it. I paced around the room, reading directly from the sheet for the most part, for while I had read it over quite a few times, it is a relatively involved piece, and difficult to commit to memory (especially in as short a time as I'd left myself.) I began to stumble over a few words but recouped right in front of what I consider the key phrase in the poem, the one that causes peoples' ears to perk up -- "...masturbators fuck pillows." I paused (inadvertantly, actually,) an a significant laugh was had. God. They were listening. I continued, and ended the poem virtually on that note.

It was long (I went through about 15 minutes of music during the course,) and it may have been rambling, but I felt good. Better, perhaps, than I had felt in months or years prior. I got the same rush I got when on the stage back in the day, and while I was never much of an actor, it was always a thrilling experience when you hooked an audience. My one regret, and it will huant me forever after, is not engaging in deeper discussion after the presentation, during the allotted question period. I was tired of talking, and I think people were tired of listening *(it was very nearly the end of class) but I really would have like to hear peoples' thoughts on the poems. I'll never get that, and it'll bother me probably forever. My other regret was that I had meant to include a projection of names for people to look up (I frequently invoked that phrase -- "you can look him up, I don't have enough time to go over him.") and since I didn't, people might not get the proper spelling of "Kerouac," "Ginsberg" or "Ferlinghetti."

Well, whatever. I think I did what I set out to do, which is stick out in peoples' minds. You can daydream through a powerpoint presentation, you can nod off during a cuecard reading. Even without the benefit of a computer, (which Jody had decreed to be closed,) it's not hard to drift off into one's own subconscious. But hopefully that's a little more difficult with the use of physical motion, casual language, and a few well-placed expletives.

So I don't know. It was a mess, but a memorable and enjoyable one, I hope.

My point, with this entry's title, is that while the members of the "beat generation" were essentially a branch of what is called by Tom Brokaw the "Greatest Generation," who by and large defined the world they defended in WWII, (or shaped it, as the beats did, with words and ideas,) my generation is quite frankly a mess. We get too much information too soon, to much responsibility, too little credit, too little discipline and have far too great a sense of entitlement. There would be something great about my generation if we didn't already think that -- so we're really just arrogant, spoiled into perfect little consumers by the corporations established by our fathers, the baby boomers. (I mean, not literally my father, but somebody's. Kershaw's, maybe.) We're a pretty good generation, and we're bursting with potential, but it looks to be dying on the vine. Time will tell if it was all for nothing. We're trying, but being thwarted by outside factors and our the limitations of our conditioning. We're going to save the world, or destroy it at last.

On that highly upbeat note, I'm gonna beat it.

It's saturday night, St. Patrick's day, and I'm sitting here. I prefer, however, not to think my life is lame. Just that I'm saving my coolness for someone special. Hope you're out there, hope your life is going well.

Keep on rockin'
-Oh That Scotto

J: The gulf of dislike is impassable and eternal

This entry's post from... hm... some play.... if only I could remember what it was called or who was in it.... hm..... hmmm....

So things are going well. Not terrifically, and certainly not altogether smoothe, but well.

After the initial jubilation at getting my internship, the constant questions of specifics began to assault my brain. The problem with working under an editor whose only contact is distant, there's sometimes the use of vague language that trips you up, so miscommunications/misinterpretations/misunderstandings are common. I'll never actually meet this guy, it's a little like Dr. Claw. I'm asking a lot of questions now so that I know my responsibilities when April begins. Unfortunately, my desire to get the affairs in order may have caused me to jump ahead in the schedule. That's where one of those misunderstandings occurred.

But I did something about my stress that is totally out of character for me. I talked to people about it. I conveyed my fears and anxieties to my friends, and through that, relieved the burden somewhat, and even reached the conclusion that, no matter how annoying I was with questions now, it would ultimately ease things up later.

Add to that a verbal misstep during the day when, examining this week's page proofs for the Sun, I mused that fancy headlines don't seem to catch peoples' eyes, and the girl whose page it was had snuck up directly behind me. I attempted to account for what I'd said, but I don't know if she was buying it. I have this habit of not always being able to express myself around girls I haven't gotten to know.

So yeah, it would've been nice to have that moment back, but I'm really more concerned with not making my new editor think i'm a blathering ninny who can occasionally write a good article. Oh hell, if my articles are good enough, it shouldn't matter that I'm a blathering ninny.

It was a gorgeous day outside, contrasting with the dreary landscape of my consciousness. Spring is lying in wait, ready to burst forth any moment. But it is still biding its time.

I need new shoes. After the soaker I gave myself on the weekend, my shoes still are not in great shape.

I'm starting to get a little better. In fact, I made quite the step forward in my quest to cure myself of nervous stomach reactions. Because you know, it's no fun being victimized by your own body. I made quite a statement a few years ago at Grandad's birthday. A very colourful statement, all over the toilet at that seafood restaurant. I knew I had a problem then and there, but haven't been so driven to prove I could overcome it, until this year. A formerly prolific vomitter, I'd proudly gone all the way through the year (or at least since the early hours of New Year's Day,) without giving the technicolour yawn, when Dad called last night. He said he wanted us to go down to the hotel and have dinner with Grandad, before he goes on a trip. This is something of a tradition for us to do, and while he doesn't usually take us to dinner on tuesdays, the occasion warranted it. By this point in the year, this was the ultimate test. And?

Passed it. Nailed it. Flying colours. Okay, there was a brief uneasiness about me, but it went away. We arrived, headed off to the restaurant in shifts (it was down the road but we couldn't fit all six into the car,) and settled in to order. Everybody ordered the same thing, which was a first. Not true, actually. We all got the steak sandwich (which is really just a steak covered in mushrooms and a couple slices of baguette, not meant to be eaten as a sandwich,) and the others all got fries, but I got kettle chips to be different.

So that's a decent-level victory, although it was not as simple as that, not a pure victory, as I did it with the aid of a little pink placebo. Maybe it's not a placebo, but it might as well be, because maybe I just need to feel like I've assured against any nausea. I needed to take a pill I felt would work. So no, it was not a truly pure victory, but it was a means to the proper ending -- a clean dinner with family. I'll take it.

I still don't think I can eat a proper meal in a restaurant with friends. I'm not even willing to try at this point. So don't worry kids, I'm still weird. And I like it. A few weeks ago, the night of Sears when we grads were all re-uniting, Ana asked me about my, uh, condition. It's nice that she cares so much, and a little weird. Like she's fascinated by it, maybe because she feels she can relate. Maybe she can. She asked me what I'd do if I had to take a girl out to dinner, if I weren't willing to eat with her. And the answer is I'm not sure, but I doubt I couldn't get around it. After all, the odds are good that if I weren't confident I could eat with a girl, I simply wouldn't ask her to dinner. After all, it's not like she's going to ask me out (believe me, whoever she is, she won't.) It's kind of a "I'll cross that bridge when I get to it" (and I should be so lucky.) After all, there'll always be drugs. That'd really test their mettle.

But in any case, I've made another step in the right direction.

Let's go somewhere nice and not have dinner. (I miss you.)

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

I: Acquainted with the world

A short one tonight. It was a good day... a pretty great one, actually, but I'm burned out lately on shallow film critics over-thinking simple action movies that only want to be entertaining and bloody.

But the big news is that I got my internship, which is awesome. Obviously that was the main source of stress for me over the past three or four weeks and it has very suddenly been lifted.

On Thursday, I was asked to submit a few articles "On Various Subjects" for the editor of Scene And Heard to read over. I mulled it over, and, after something of a delay, send in four articles: A review of "50 plus one ways to improve your study habits" for a topical criticism, an article on National Novel Writing Month (the re-written version that appeared online last October, not the extremely similar original version for a year prior,) my article on the Canadian Action Party to prove I could write news, and the x-factor, a review of Clerks II from ComiXtreme to add a little spice and flavour. I figured that with such disparate material, he wuld either see how adaptable I am, or that I can't actually be consistent at all, and thus he'd make an easy decision either way.

I refrained from checking the Sheridan e-mail for the whole weekend, partially because I didn't want to make my whole weekend about that. It's very Scott of me, actually, to have put that off. Habit and laziness overrule necessity and good sense. But all was well today when I finally checked and got a very enthusiastic repsonse from the editor. I immediately stood up and announced it to the class, while I beamed with pride. Haasim even remarked that there was no longer a "dark cloud" over my head.

The road to the internship was a long and winding one that took me through several dead ends and miserable low points -- meaning, I was getting nowhere and taking it badly. As of the end of reading week I had nothing going on and was getting distraught, but on the following monday, Mansoor, awesome dude that he is, recommended I check it out. I liked the site and tohught I'd be a good fit, and seemingly they agree. I owe Mansoor a drink for that, I think.

I'm glad I got this, because it was the internship I was intending to get, and had been telling people I was going for.

Anyway, that's the big story these days. And it's only Monday. This automatically makes it the best week so far this year. Less than one month left of classes, and only a month of internship after that. Wow.

I didn't sleep so well last night, tossing and turning. Maybe it was the remaining Standard-Time in my system. Maybe I need new pillows. Maybe Ishouldn't drink like six cups of pop while I play Risk if I have to be at school before 9 the next day. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

The Burj Dubai (a very, very tall tower under contruction in Dubai) threatens to be the largest... thing... on Earth, in keeping with Dubai's obivious Napoleon complex, compensating for the fact that they are a small country in a part of the world nobody wants to go to, with a terrible civil rights record.

Even if Burj takes the record, CN Tower will still be World's Tallest Freestanding Structute Whose Construction Did Not Cause a Riot at $1 Million in Damages. Look it up.

Good night and keep on rockin'
-F. Scott A. Williams

H: Someday the cans will kick back.

Today is to be the day I finally eradicate that "to-do" list that's been buzzing around my head all week. The problem is there's an issue with my home work environment that's causing a lack of concentrational ability.

After the blackout, we went about our business and eventually went to bed. however the next morning, I noticed several, ahem, telltale signs that the house was colder than it was supposed to be. During the blackout, the furnace had indeed turned off. Sitting in the cold, by meagre candlelight drinking rum (which I never even do, because I don't like rum, so that's weird) I mused to Brandon "You know, back in the 1900's, every night was like this," which caused Brandon to pause, and remark, "No it wasn't." And since I wasn't all that serious, his simple reaction caused me to laugh for like three minutes straight.

So it was cold that morning, so I figured the thermostat must have been reset. So I fiddled around with it then went off to bowling, where I learned that you an do perfectly well and still feel like you're off. But that's a different story. When I got home... actually I at first went out for comics, my first walk down there in months. But when I got home from THAT, Eric told me that the thermostat had in fact not kicked in at all, despite my fiddling, and that something was indeed wrong. after a lengthy probe, which included mom coming home early, it was learned that the furnace seems to be broken. Mom came up with a novel temporary solution -- keep the ovens on and open. This from a woman who once called, swore she had left her curling iron plugged in, and that I drop everything to stop her from accidentally burning down the house. When I went to stop this impeding doom, I found that the curling iron was -- like always -- wrapped in its own cord, way across the washroom from the outlet.

So this morning I set out for the mall, and disproved Eric's theory that they had taken their free internet away. I was in the midst of typing this very entry when I ran into Daniel, someone I've known for years, and with whom I used to bowl. I don't mention his last name because for now I'm on a kick of not mentioning full names -- many people seem to find this place via google-searching themselves (or maybe other people) and I'd rather that weren't so common. So we talked. He's actually mellowed out quite a bit, in University, and seemingly got it together.

The conversation, however, dragged, and while I'd wanted to get some real work done, I needed so say "I've gotta go" in order to leave the conversation, rather than just turn back to my work. On my way home, I stepped in some not-so-solid ice and trudged part of the way with soaking wet shoes, and another part -- unbelievable as this may seem in this climate -- barefoot. I'm weird, but that's cool.

Last night was Risk, the first game in many months for me. We weren't a complete party, though, as CB couldn't get into town. So for the first time it was just me, Pat and C.F. playing through an unusual game (where I did not get Europe, for once,) and making the usual jokes. It was halfhearted and nobody was even eliminated when we decided to call it a night at a comparatively early 1:00. The other guys had to work in the morning and it's now Daylight Savings Time.

Prior to that, dad had scored an extra ticket to 300 and so I got to come. Review to come to Interneta soon, and it will be quite positive. I've been studying the negative backlash it's been suffering, but I think those people are over-thinking it. Richard Roeper liked it, and while my opinion of him has been frosty in the past, with Ebert still out of commission he's pretty much North America's #1 film critic. Basically, if you're looking for something to hate about it, you'll find it easily because you weren't going into the movie to like it anyway. And also, that makes you a douche.

So that's where this rambling entry ends.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

G: It's cooler where the air is thin

So I suppose the lead of this entry (lead is newspaper-speak for "point") is that there was a brief blackout. Well, I suppose that depends entirely on your definition of "brief." Usually, when the power goes out, it's for a brief instant where the lights flicker and the computers reset. It's inconvenient, but we get on with our lives. That's really brief. Two and a half years ago, the power went out across the entire northeastern part of USA and the area from Toronto to Windsor was without power for 12 hours solid. Compared to that, this was quite brief.

The power went out shortly before 9:30, as suddenly as it ever does. Brandon thought it'd be back on any minute. We all did, but it remained out for a few breaths and Eric and I caught on. After securing flashlights, we headed upstairs and set up the radio and some candles. Eventually, Brandon joined us, saying that if we weren't up here, whe would've just stayed put (in his pitch-black room) waiting for the power to come back.

So the three of us hung out, which is not something that happens a lot. I mean, Eric and I are constantly holed up together, and I'll often stop by Brandon's, and every once in a while Eric and Brandon go somewhere. But the three of us very rarely actually sit down and chill together.

The topic turned to our cousin, who is about to become Mr. Cousin, a married man, much to our general chagrin. The better part of the blackout was spent running that down, and musing that, if I were to discuss this with him, her likely response would be to cut off communication between us, which would probably hurt me, and him even worse. Maybe that'd be a splash of cold water, or maybe he's so hypnotized with domestic bliss that he'd sacrifice his flesh and blood.

Eventually, a friend of Eric's (who had earlier lamented that he was supposed to hang out with another friend who had no-showed, which was fine because he wasn't in the mood,) showed up and told him to "grab your coat!" I'm sure that this girl is lifting his spirits, possibly with spirits (we were actually drinking quite a bit during the blackout.) She was also introduced to me formally for the first time, and she shared an explanation, that she'd heard a kid had gotten trapped in the electrical field and the whole thing had to be shut off to save him.

Not long after that, as the candles burned low in liquid wax and I grew weary of the late night Q107 playlist (and besides, they never said anything about any blackout,) the lights returned after 2 hours of darkness. Brandon and I resumed our regular lives, and I noticed that it seemd our boarder had been in his room all along, which is a shame since it would've been a neat bonding experience.

I later heard an alternate theory, that someone drove a car into a power line. Somehow more plausible, and less reliant on fantastical "sciency stuff."

The internship-getting process has been a bit of a humbling experience for me. It reminds me of the days of grade school when I was the last guy to ask a girl to dance, and thus end up with a girl the other guys would ridicule (and, supportive as they were in Grade 6, swore I could do better than.) But, at least it was a girl, complete with long hair and soft roundish parts. And whatever internship I get, I'm gonna grab by those soft roundish parts, and never let go.

Hrm. Given that metaphor, maybe there's a reason I haven't been to second base in years.

(Haha, sorry folks, since I've been reading Foley's latest book, I'm very into analogies these days. I'm sure it'll pass, like a Test world-title push. Oop, there I go again!)

Presentations were interesting in Jody's class. And by interesting, I don't necessarily mean that they were interesting, if you ctch my drift (although some were.) they were interesting primarily for the sliding degree of how much I felt like I was in Grade 12. I mean, the Writer's Craft-esque history of fairy tales (my GOD how many of those did I sit through back in the day!) was one thing, but the whole other was Tammy and Jess' rendition of Commedia Dell'Arte, which involved some mild audience participation on my part, when Jess, as Columbina (and simultaneously Isabella,) took a seat in my very lap. I keep my glasses case in my front pocket, but I won't tell Jess, maybe she'll recommend me to someone.

All in all though, the presentations were solid, every one of them. I've even been inspired to write, although not anything big. I haven't actually written, but I got a couple funny ideas I like that won't require too much energy to execute. Short things, probably my best bet by this point.

Anyway, my lack of computer for much of the evening has left me lethargic, so much of what I'd intended to do faded out, not that anything was all that important. It's friday night. Wee-hooo.

Hey, Carrie-anne, what's your game and can anybody play?
Keep on rockin'
-Scott

F: Who brainwashed us?

I've got a pretty heavy to-do list these days. That's the thing about getting me in a good mood; it causes my to-do list to pile up, because I'm most active when I'm miserable. Yes, I'm a really screwed-up person.

For what it's worth, my good mood from last night extended into this morning when I picked up a particularly encouraging e-mail regarding a potential intership. The quest for a placement has been a great source of stress for me of late and, well, that should be obvious on this blog. Today I finally got a tug on the line (to use a fishing metaphor) that was very intriguing and had me buzzing all day.

Throughout the entire affair I have to say one thing, and that is that I have gotten a tremendous amount of support from those around me who seem to be aware that this has been difficult for me. It's like the Beatles sang, "I get by with a little help from my friends." I'm not there yet, but as I told Denni, "Being behind schedule doesn't mean I'm off track," to summarize after I very rapidly rattled off a list of reasons why I was not totally fucked, despite missing the late-February target-date.

Woah -- Scott doesn't think he's totally fucked up?

Yeah; I must be in a good mood.

So, probably to the detriment of my review for "Arts for Journalists," which is due tomorrow, I've been devouring Mick Foley's latest autobiography.

On the subject of brainwashing, I note the recent "You disappoint me" anti-marijuana commercials, which by I'm sure no small coincidence, look like they were drawn by someone on dope. Which to me, sends the potential message that if you smoke up, your shitty doodlings will someday become shitty PSAs. This lame stab at cultural/drug commentary was followed by a Taco Bell commercial wherein two lions on the serengeti pontificate on the pronunciation of "con carne," with one suggesting it must be pronounced like you were "Ricardo Montalban." As you might guess, the commercial makes the lions sound like a couple of stoners, and you tell me which is the more effective commercial. I want a taquito.

I should probably get to work on that big review assignment I have due (potentially) tomorrow, thus cutting this pleasant but unremarkable entry short.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

E: Brothers in arms

The readers of this blog -- provided there are any -- have long had the benefit of observing my own mental drama play out on their computer screens, over and over again, as I zig zag back and forth on the bipolar scale from hating life, to loving life, and back again. Okay, maybe I never strictly "loved" life, but I've been pretty tolerant of it at times.

The past several weeks have been rough and I can promise they will get no better, at least not for any particular reason, in the near future. With my flagrant emotional swings I'm hardly the paragon of stability, so to promise that would be like selling snow in Venezuela. Whatever that means.

That in mind, let me recall last night when, in a fit of frustration, I stopped writing and started, well, hating life. And it was not a dull groan of "(sigh) I hate life." It was a sort of howling "Auuugh!! I hate liiiii-hiii-hiiiife!!"

Melodramatic as I am, I usually manage to get on with my life after these episodes. It's not healthy, but it's the best I've got. And it was after a day of solid contemplation today (for there was little else to do) that I came to terms with that.

It started with a dream. In times when I have not written, or in this case, cannot seem to write, my dreams often become more vivid, or so I believe. Last night's felt like it contained a cast of thousands. It was populated by people I know, people I go to school with, people I've seen around, people I've met briefly, people I've never met at all. But all these people were, for the most part, background faces. The stars of the dream were abstractly drawn generalizations, combinations of groups of people who were more representatives than actual characters.

Like many of my dreams, (and perhaps about this I should see a shrink,) it was about a chase, or a hunt. We were in a dark labyrinth tower. Yes, both a labyrinth and a tower, it was both. It was a game of paintball, but in actual fact, laser-tag. Again, both. I broke away from the team to try to find my way to the next level, because the objective was to capture a flag at the topmost level. I ditched some of my gear to climb up a small ladder, and watched from the upper level as my teammates were rounded up and "executed." I continued my ascent, confident that I had gotten enough of a headstart that I could win this thing for my team. But as I searched for access to the upper level, I got lost and even wandered out of bounds. When I finally found my way up, they were waiting for me. I froze with fear. Bang. Game over.

Don't ask me what it means, because I have no idea. There was so much more to it that I can't even describe because it's only left a vague impression on me, but this one was vivid. And I woke up feeling quite good.

A lot of my dreams have me running someplace, usually away from someone. I attribute that, probably incorrectly, to something Stephen Wright said in Jim Jarmusch's "Coffee & Cigarettes;" "I like to drink coffee before I go to bed, that way I dream faster." That's a paraphrasing. I drink a lot of caffeine, which may explain why my fine motor skills are not always terrific (as in, it's a little embarrassing when I play a game on Wii and the cursor keeps jittering.) Maybe that's why I dream fast.

My friend Jimmy came to me with a problem in the middle of the day. He's attempting to run for Sheridan Student Union VP, but he needs a certain number of signatures, and was looking to be about 12 short. He'd already gotten everyone in the program he could, plus various randoms in the hallway, but he was lacking the confidence to approach the necessary number of people. So I grabbed him and we set out, and I started talking him up to virtually everyone we saw. Before long, Jimmy was doing the talking and I was just there to nod along. It's funny because, on my own, I couldn't approach people at that level either -- particularly that most of them were girls -- even for something as simple as getting them to put down their signature. We're quite the team, maybe we should hit the bar scene together. Nah, I forget: I hate bars.

As the day went on, the newsroom emptied out after the uneventful story meeting. I swear, I don't even know how we fill a damn newspaper sometimes. Eventually, Jess and I went up to Stephen's Magazine class, which we were both dreading... the point of the class was to get interviewed on the progression of our final feature story, the outline for which we'd only handed in the day before. The outline was something else: I had to come up with a new idea on the spot simply because I hated mine. and it was particularly tough because despite the existence of an assignment sheet, I had no idea exactly what he was expecting. Apparently nobody else did either when, in the "bad omen" on the century, he walked in and declared "Everyone failed the outlines." He then attempted to lighten the mood by using the word "shitheads." It uh, didn't take.

The upsetting thing is, the class started at three but I was still there at 5, waiting. I didn't even realize how much time had passed when I finally got up and left, even though my "interview" hadn't come. It wasn't something I felt I needed to hear, even though I did. (Sometimes what is true and what you feel are completely different things.) So I packed up my gear and, very slowly, tiredly, made my way home... where I was told I'd missed a ride to dinner.

Not that that was catastrophic or anything, but I hate that it happened. I would rather have left a half hour earlier -- when nothing was going on anyway -- and been on time. Who wouldn't?

So I was disgruntled, but the evening has proceeded relaxingly. I don't do homework anymore, I usually find sufficient time during the day to complete most assignments in the newsroom. I had some more material for this entry, concerning mundane things like jeans and bathing, but this entry is running a bit lengthy and hey, I can bring them back at a later date if I really feel like saying them.

My point though, is that I needed to recognize that I lead a bit of a charmed life. I could be pessimistic -- believe me I have, and will likely be again in the not-too-distant future -- but for now I've got perspective on things, and it looks like things are going okay, so, for the trillionth time, after the trillionth freak-out, I'm saying once again that, hey, I'm doing okay.

And if I'm still a little blocked when it comes to writing, I'm not going to sweat it. I should probably take a long break. At least that way, I can dream incredibly fast things.

It was an old Chinese proverb that said, "The longer our nights are, the more our dreams will be."

And it is I who says keep on rockin'
-Scotto

D: What makes you think you're awake?

So really, even if global warming didn't exist, wouldn't it just plain be a good idea to behave as though it did? I mean, if carbon emissions aren't having the drastic effect we think they are, that still doesn't mean they're having some sort of magial positive effect. It's kind of a stupid thing that people so often develop a fatalist (futilist?) attitude about global warming. Maybe as someone who spends his entire life stressing out, it's odd to see people take a "Why worry?" attitude.

After all, why is it so easy to get people scared to death of everything else? for God's sake, we all bought candles and water for Y2K didn't we?

Ecch, it's one of those nights. Whatever it is that's haunting my brain is not coming out, and that's scary.

I got no escape.

I'm actually kind of afraid.

And nobody's listening.

Shorter than most entries. I'll leave you on this note: a terrible idea for a pickup line...

"I hurt my dick; wanna kiss it and make it better?"

God forbid I should lose my sense of humour.

My brain will not be in working order any time soon, so this will have to do. For god's sake, I can't even write proper full paragraphs!

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

C: It doesn't rhyme with anything

So apparently my 3-year-old cousin is Christ.

We were having a family dinner tonight, and across the room, the wee ones were having one of those delightfully absurdist kiddie conversations where they sohuld some random phrase back and forth at one another; in this case, Cameron continually yelled at Alli, "You're MY mommy!" and she'd yell back, "You're my mommy!" Then my brother got involved, and asked if he was maybe the dad. Cam then proceeded to proclaim, "No, you're the mommy!" Eric, wishing to have his manhood back, asked, "Well then who's the daddy?" Defiantly, Cam declared, "You're my mommy... and God's my daddy!"

Of course, we all had a good laugh. It was kinda sweet, because the kids grow up without any real father figure. And also, that water-into-wine thing could come in handy someday.

It's the kind of story you maybe send into Reader's Digest and make a few bucks off of. A few years ago I contemplated making up "cute" stories and sending them in, which my dad, paragon of honesty he is, discouraged. Apparently he sees some distinction between "true" and "could be true." I never have, which is maybe what makes me such a natural writer. Or just a pathological liar.

It's been an excessively dull weekend. I finally got around to reading DMZ, which Mansoor lent me over a week ago. I was impressed, and I see what the hype is about, but it's not much better than your usual Vertigo affair... a realistic take on extremely unrealistic circumstances, like Preacher, like Y: The Last Man, like Fables, like Bite Club, all the best Vertigo books.

I went to revive my SNES earlier, having defeated Mario 64 and looking for new old challenges. The problem was, uh, it wouldn't work. I feared the worst, as I tested all the cables, and it looked like, after a decade and a half of faithful service, my beloved SNES might be calling it quits. Thankfully, all it needed was a napkin to wipe out some dirt and grime from the interior, and it was good as new. Ah for the days when video game console maintenance was as simple as blowing in the cartridge... my cousin had to replace his PS2 no fewer than twice.

Like I said, dull. So dull, in fact, that I did a memoir-writing assignmentthat was due two weeks ago. I've been avoiding that class because, well, I can very easily. It's so simple to tell oneself, "Oh I'll get to it later." Interestingly enough there is an extra-credit assignment I could probably contribute to on, of all things, procrastination.

The memoir was on something that I glossed over on the blog when it happened, as it was early on in this site's existence and I was not yet accustomed (as I would become during Grade 12) to divulging my every thought and feeling on this page. So I had to go back and re-live it and really examine what it meant, at the time and in retrospect.

It ain't easy kids, but... if you do nothing, nothing does.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

B: Essential balance

A quick one tonight, I think. One of those boring Friday nights where my only agenda is to sit around and mull over how lame life has gotten.

I guess, in my heart of hearts, I didn't really expect to go to Toronto today. Call it a hunch, but I somehow figured that it just wasn't gonna happen, even though all the ducks were in a row for it. It's the end of the week and, after accomplishing virtually nothing this whole time, I wasn't in much of a mood to start being active. In any case, however, I woke up, shaved, and said, "Looks like you're going on a trip today," until it was decided I would not.

So I went out for lunch anyhow, because goddamn I hate lazing around the house all day. So I went on a bit of a journey... ha ha, but here's the thing. Though the weather was comparatively mild and temperate to yeserday's apocalyptic flash blizzard, that meant that all the land was flooded with icy water and slush. And my shoes, well, suck. So they spent the rest of the day sitting face down on a heating vent, the blow-drying equivalent of slow roasting.

It feel like I walk around most of the time like I've got a lot on my mind, and the fact is, I do. In fact, anything that could conceivably be on my mind at any given moment, is, and at times like these, it starts to get heavy. So I walk around like I've got this massive burden on my shoulders. I hate that I'm now the guy who hasn't got an internship yet at this point. Frankly, my already-not-so-healthy opinion of myself has taken a hit because of that. Because I know it's primarily my own doing, but also I've been dicked around all month by Home Workshop, where I'd still like to work, but which was rather misleading in its initial call for interns. And another place -- a daily free commuter paper which shall remain nameless -- that got back to Amanda in a timely and friendly manner, doesn't seem to have acknowledged my e-mail at all.

When the topic was broached over lunch-ish meeting on Thursday, when we got to the details of my failure (thus far,) I began to get that old feeling of nausea. That certainly don't make me seem so sympathetic. It's here that the blog seems to slip a bit into pathos; and while I ought to be relaxed and at ease for the moment, man, reading week has proven to be too little too late for me, as I plummet further and further from rationality and sanity. I'm back at my old "Nobody reads this, time to really bitch about everything." Because since nobody's reading, who's going to complain? (Okay, so the hit counter suggests somebody's reading, I'm skeptical.)

There ain't going to be much positivity in my life in the near future, I don't think.

Granted, my natural state ain't supposed to be sunshine, but I can only withstand so much before the ole psyche buckles and I become... well.... this. Lonely guy on the road to nowheres.

I can't articulate it, so maybe the frame's been properly drawn by my unfocussed, disjointed, paranoid, self-loathesome rant. I don't like where I'm heading.

Maybe tomorrow night I'll have something going on so that I can -- at least for that moment -- forget this nonsense.

Keep on rockin'
Scott.

A: There's no such thing as over-caffinated

I start this month with the presupposition that I won't do 26 posts this month, but we'll cross that bridge when we get there.

It's been a weird day, even before it became today. I was tossing and turning last night, unable t oget to sleep. It was around 5 AM and I'd been jostled out of another disturbing dream (involving The Office, an old folk's home, and a train wreck,) and couldn't put myself back down. So I started reading "Leaving Home," a play I'd been assigned weeks ago for Jodie's "Arts for Journalists" course. I didn't get far, because it is an excessively dull play and ultimately did the trick.

I went out to hang with Amanda today. It wasn't such a bad day when I set out, a bit windy or whatever, but there was no snow in the driveway. We chilled, talked, went around and did a bit of shopping. Well, she shopped, I, uh, browsed. Actually no, I saw a really cool blazer that I marked out for, but didn't buy, because, uh, I don't buy shit; I'm cheap. I also coerced her into buying the first season on How I Met Your Mother on DVD, which is a hilarious show I urge everyone to watch.

By the time we were done, it had been a blizzard out there. I got home and hung around the house for the rest of the day. Eric's been sick on the couch, doing his regressive thing. He's sick, yeah, and don't I know it. Also his back is sore (*likely from spending every night on the couch) and he probably thinks I chew too loudly, and that the tea I make him is inferior. Then again... I made him tea.

I tried to say out of the basement for as much of the day as I could, because, damn. I mean, I've been keeping at arm's length from the guys all week, because I'm trying to have a vacation here, but now I want to really be away from him, because I don't want to get sick. A reasonable request, I think.

I didn't even really have dinner. I ate a late lunch, and then some popcorn after. I'm kinda all wonky today and the weather's not helping. The climate seems to be transforming into that of planet Hoth. The wind is blowing snow from every which way. Thanks to the world being a giant ice ball, I don't know if my escape plan is going through tomorrow, which would be upsetting. We'll see.

Pretty huge Interneta update earlier tonight, so go check that out.

I'm done tonight. Hopefully my brain shuts off like it's supposed to.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott