Chapter 16: The world beside us

It was not going to be a good day. I had this feeling from the get-go. However, I intended to persevere, and could not have known what I was looking at. It was one of those miserable days upon which this blog thrives.

It began, as many days do, with a dream. For whatever reason - and it could be a variety of things - I'm remembering my dreams more and more lately. I don't care for it, because a bad dream often sets a tone for the day. I prefer not to believe that there's anything more to dreams than my subconscious playing around with me, but if a day is bad, it feels the worse if it began with a bad dream than if it began with no memorable dream at all. And this was a nightmare.

I don't have nightmares often. I've had off-putting dreams, disturbing dreams, confusing dreams, dreams in which I was running from something dreadful, but not many I would consider legitimate nightmares. This was very different.

The day was bad before it began, before the previous one ended. I dread going to sleep on Tuesday and Thursday nights, because I know how little sleep I'm actually going to get, because a) I stay up fairly late, b) It takes a while to fall asleep and most importantly c) Unless I hit that very sweet spot, I'm likely to be disrupted in my sleep, by my dream or some other subconscious feeling. On nights like last night, it's not that I get 6 hours of sleep, more like two bursts of three hours. Around four, I was jolted from my sleep by a very quick sliver of a dream.

There was stuff leading up to it. There were snippets from a (non-existant) episode of How I Met Your Mother. There was some driving. There was some laughter. We were in a hotel lobby, possibly in the mountains. I don't know who "we" were, but there was a group of us. There was a man outside, an older man, pacing back and forth, agitated. We all got a very bad vibe from him and proceeded to barricade the door. I was in the process of this, of moving a table over to the door, when he burst in and overpowered me. He chucked the table across the room and grabbed at me. He gripped my face in his talons, gouging at my eyes, and then he said something. I don't usually remember dialogue from my dreams, more that I remember impressions and feelings of words, what they were like; but this was eerie. It was in the voice he used, that gritted-teeth, snakey tone. Grinning menacingly, thumbnails in my eyes, he growled, "...Dirty little bitches..."

I've been repeating that phrase to myself all day, somewhat fearfully.

It was with some reluctance but physiological necessity that I returned to sleep, and dreamed innocent dreams of nothing in particular, only to be awakened around 6:30 by the usual means. It was a cold gray November morning, and although I was still a little weirded out, the day had potential.

For the second day in a row, the shower misbehaved on me. We've had this problem in the past, it's apparently easily fixed but super inconvenient at 7 in the morning when I need to get to the train. No time to deal with it, I showered upstairs, probably to mom's chagrin as she had been using the mirror in there to curl her hair.

I had almost gone to bed the night before without taking the garbage out. I did so, but really wanted my sleep, so I asked Eric to replace the garbage bag for me. He barely flinched and I took that to mean he'd get to it. Well of course he didn't and although it was the most minute of tasks, that irked me.

The time between 7:30 and 8:30 passed in its usual way, waiting on a cold platform for a train, sleeping in my seat with my jaw agape, attempting to be patient while getting on the subway. Stopping off for coffee so I'd be conscious during the philosophy tutorial. I'm going to miss my monthly pass, because it allows me to get off at Queen's Park, dash to the Tim Hortons in the adjoining complex, and hurry back to the train so I can take it to Museum. Now if I want to get coffee, my addiction, and a convenient amount of change for my bus ride home, I'll have to go all the way to St. George and walk. Brr.

I had actually done some philosophical readings the night before, mad as that sounds. Of course, we spent the entirety of the tutorial going over the one essay he'd brought up two weeks ago, and I spent much of it in a daze not ameliorated by caffeine.

He gave back the brief papers we'd handed in several weeks ago, summarizing one piece of writing on skepticism. For my summary of Chisholm's Problem of the Criterion, I got an A and a "clear and concise." Fair enough.

Over the course of the last two days, I have gotten five assignments back in four classes, varying wildly in quality of mark. Yesterday, I had my Astronomy assignment returned. I did fairly well all in all, except that I got 0/6 on the last question (because my brain was fried from working on it all day and I just wasn't going to put effort into it, apparently,) resulting in a mark of 29.75/40 which is a respectable B but like much of that class for me, a missed opportunity.

I buzzed around E.J. Pratt for a while, getting in requisite face time with a public computer. I also managed to finish "As I Lay Dying" literally a moment before the tutorial began, and we went over some of the characters and how they are presented. The TA then gave back the essays, which he prefaced by listing various improvements that could be widespread. for my admittedly tepid argument on how the books present parental relations to children, I got a B and a note that I should look more into the words used and metaphors and other literary devices employed in the texts rather than merely the events of the stories. True enough, although this advice would've been immeasurably valuable beforehand. He also praised my grammar and said I was obviously capable of better work which was either a bona fide observation or bullshit encouragement. I'll take this to heart on the next essay, if I can remember.

I was, however, feeling a bit let down at my mark. My head slumped. Dirty little bitches. I went to make a sandwich for lunch. The contents of my lunchbag (an uber-practical yet hardly fashionable plastic baggie) had gotten turned around and when I lifted it, the bun tumbled out nearly to the floor. It had been mysteriously smushed lengthwise in my bag, an unusual occurrence. "Not my day," I mused. I didn't know the half of it.

Cinema studies was next. After a pep talk on the upcoming midterm, we got down to business by getting into groups and being assigned various shorts from the screening to discuss. The four of us, dominated by me and this girl Shiela, who comes off as being like 5 years older than me the way she carries herself, like she's got herself together, discussed "Mothlight" and "Fuji." When asked by the TA, I explained my thoughts on those pieces as meditations on the medium, how "Mothlight" drew my attention for the first time to a fact I already knew: that films are static images on a projector. She seemed to enjoy my thoughts, and even moreso what I had to say on "Fuji,"where the animator already had live-action footage but rotoscoped it into animation to explore the potential of that medium. We were vibing, and this stuck in my head later.

She returned out shot-by-shot analysis. A scene from earlier was repeated when she gae us a preamble detailing how high marks are very hard to come by here at high n' mighty U of T, and A's are unusual (of course, I'd already seen one that day, but it wasn't really a really major paper.) She ran down the list of things people generally did wrong and concluded with the feel-good message that "You have a whole year to get this down, don't worry about it." I didn't think I did very well on that assignment, but I could not have braced myself for the actual result.

It was unprecedented. Mind-blowingly bad. I passed, but just by a hair. I've been humbled. I was a fuckin' cocky guy, in my head anyway. I'm not some re-re who don't know a pan from a tracking shot. But I suppose I just haven't acclimated myself to the University way of thinking on style analysis; I handed in a shitty paper and got a shitty mark. And you know, I know it's shitty, I haven't even read her remarks on it. I don't want to, because it will cause me pain. Emotional pain.

I've gotten bad marks before. Mitro~~* was known for harsh marks, at least in his first year. I know what it is to do badly, but I never saw this one coming. It put a dark cloud over my head for the rest of the afternoon, which consisted of a sullen trek to the GO station and a forlorn stare out the window as the train crept back to Oakville, I contemplating my miserable failure, which was not technically a failure but only barely, and only technically.

I'm a sensitive kid sometimes. I've done a good job in recent years letting shit roll off my back, and yet I'm still capable of taking something like this almost personally. Was it that bad? I wanted to curl up and implode.

I began to wonder about my place, in the world, at the school. Was this it? Shoudl I just call it a day and pack up and go? What do I really need with a University education when I've already gotten my post-secondary papers?

I sulked around the basement a while, contemplating my obvious dead-end. I had really wanted that mark to bring a little sunshine to the gray afternoon with the disappointing-but-fair mark in English. Instead, it took an already-unpleasant day and stuck a giant black turd ontop of it.

Eventually, but very, very late, dad arrived and we got dinner. Deb wasn't coming home, and her sister was staying over; also, Eric was (and still is at this moment,) busy volunteering on a film shoot (he's being a grip,) so it was a weird dynamic. Deb's sister asked Brandon what it was like when he was working at STRIDE, and what he was doing now. He explained, in riveting detail, that he works 15 minutes per day running a site that catalogues online gambling, and makes 20k per year. The rest of the evening was spent with me explaining my situation to dad. We eventually came to the conclusion that you win some and you lose some, and you learn less when you're winning. I know it hardly sounds inspirational, but it did me some good, put things in perspective, and made me realize exactly how motivated I was to tackle the midterm next week. I want to show those fuckers. I think that's the right attitude.

We went out a bit, browsing stores. I kinda wanted to see if anywhere had a Wii, knowing they wouldn't, because it's only a month (less!) until Christmas, and those fuckers sold out weeks ago. That was the final bit of unpleasantness for the day.

I've been on my own all night, which is nice, but I could use some company, and I don't mean my brother. Friday nights can be really miserable. I could use a stiff drink.

Changing gears. Can you ever truly eat your weight in something? As you ate, your weight would increase, no? Okay I know, people don't mean it that way, but it was an odd tohught that occurred to me the other day. Pizza 2 Go is a joint in the Union GO concourse that sells slices with a pop for $2.50, a great deal in today's marketplace. The slices are really good stuff too, when they're on their game, but sometimes seem a bit small. You can get 2 slices for a buck more, so on a whim I did that the other day. I never felt so bloated with pizza in my life by the end. I was glad to satisfy my curiosity... skinny bastard I am (I know, it's not bad to be thin, but a little muscle'd be nice,) I just can't put away two of those slices, which are certainly larger than a take-out pizza, but not as big as say, the slices you get at Pizzaville.

Apart from the thing about my astronomy assignment, that's the only thing about yesterday that seems relevant. Well, not quite. I met up with Amanda for coffee before school, and we talked about the usual stuff - her life, my life, school, her job search, people we knew, literature, etc etc. Later that night, I hit the 50k mark in my NaNo project, which is not terribly astonishing. It was a tremendous amount of writing, and I may have sacrificed quality of schoolwork for it (evermore apparent after today) but ultimately, it's my story, so it's kind of a boring story, that kindamakes me look bad, with some occasional funny asides (like this blog.) I already had it in my head, almost completely intact, because I lived it. Even though I disagree with the notion of banning a genre from the challenge, I can see where they're coming from. In a way, it's too easy to write some long-winded boring tome, rather than something fresh and exciting. Then again, approximately 90% of NaNo books are Fantasy, and unless your name is Gaiman.... ahaha, I kid, I do.

Life will correct itself before long.

If your heart beats it's the only sound.

So in case it doesn't, please keep on rockin'
-Scott Williams,
a man who could use a drinkin' buddy.

Chapter 15: Footsweat, footsweat, footsweat, freeze.

And then she told me she was 24, and I didn't know what to say.

I spoke briefly - okay, at considerable length - last week about some girl and whether it was important to mention my age compared to hers (provided she was 18 going on 19.) I concluded it probably was, and tonight I found out why.

Today was going along swimmingly for a Wednesday. I'd stopped for coffee before Philosophy, which I'm usually too lazy to do, and was awake and alive for the entirety of it, even nearly to the point of following the lecture. The pattern of consciousness continued through English and into film study. I was indeed, alert and cognizant throughout the entirety of the day. Although some of the short avant-garde films we watched were decidedly disturbing (one, "TOUCHING," consisting primarily of strobed images of a man holding scissors to his tonuge, and a robotic voice chanting "destroydestroydestroydestroyestroyestroyestroystroystroystroy") we also got to watch the stirring animated short "Ryan" and the classic "Duck Amuck." It was a pretty good day.

Prior to the poetry class, I sat around with some classmates. There's this girl, she's Persian, and she wanted input on her latest piece. Much as I hate helping people, how can I say no to a girl who barely has command of the English language? I tried to coach her around the subtleties of word-choice and why plucking random words out of the dictionary wasn't likely the best way to learn. It's been suggested she write in Persian and work toward translating so she can better express herself, but she's reluctant to do so.

After talking similie and metaphor, we did some workshopping. I seemed to be on a roll all afternoon as, since the pre-class gathering, I'd been verbally sharp and eloquent, perhaps unusually so. Not just when giving feedback, but in bantering, in conversing. I don't know, amyb eit was annoying to other people, but I was surprisingly verbal for a day when I often might be dead on my feet. I gave the somewhat startling suggestion that one girl start her poem with her third stanza. The suggestion came on her like a bright light. More workshopping followed this, not always as tactfully.

I walked to the subway with my friend from that class (Admittedly, I've buddied up to a few people, but this has become routine.) We were talking poetry, as you might imagine, when we came to a Tim hortons and she asked if we might make a stop. I said sure, although I'd already been in (twice) that day, so I won't get anything. I explained that coffee's become a necessary addiction given my level of tiredness most mornings, and I was going to have to note this in my schedule for next year since it didn't look like I was moving out. She said she had lived in rez once in B.C. and didn't care for it. I asked when, and she said "Ages ago." If this were a comic, a giant "?" might have appeared over my head. I explained that was my very subtle way of trying to estimate her age, and she said, "I'm 24, didn't you know that?" I shrugged. She hadn't told me, and as you might imagine, unless told otherwise (and there have been a few,) I expected most of the people I met to be in the realm of 18. I spent most of the last two years around people in their mid-20's but didn't take her for it. Although she had a more wisened tone to her voice (in a friendly, hopeful way,) I hadn't figured. I tried not to seem too put off about it, and I wasn't, but it did shift the way I see her. not in any significant way, but a way nonetheless. She said she had already figured my age, and I then asked whether or not I mentioned Sheridan. I hadn't.

Then again, one of my best friends turned 26 today. It happens.

Due in part to the Tim's Stop, I had about 5 minutes to get to the train. I picked the wrong corridor and ended up at the front of the train, where, well, everybody is. I actually traversed more than half the cars in search of an open spot. I waited, as per usual, approximately 7 hours for a bus (okay, more like a half hour, but it's all the same by this point of the day,) came home, ate, and wrote this.

I have no other thoughts to tonight. I must rest my wrists for ten minutes and commit many, many words to paper (well, a .doc) before bed.

Jai guru deva, om. Nothin's gonna change my world. Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

Chapter 14: A pocketful of fish

It was one of those unusual days. Off-putting and weird. Given how bored I'd grown with the blog I may just be grasping at straws, but maybe I needed this. As the title suggests, today involved, but did not revolve around, a pocketful of fish.

It began, like most days, with a dream. The details of the dream have faded by now, but there are some strong points I can recall. The bulk of the dream concerned a triple-date. I was going someplace with two couples and had asked along this girl. This was a girl from my past. I've been writing about my life for NaNo (technically against the rules - shh!) so she must've settled into my consciousness. I raced around Union Station searching for a single rose for her. Whereas in real life, after a while she wanted nothing to do with me, in the dream she was merely totally uninterested in me. In fact I had lost track of her and gone off on my own adventures before returning to try to impress her with the stories of the adventures I'd just had.

There was far more to it, like I said, the details faded as all dreams do despite the feeling remaining. It was the most romantic dream, downer as it was, that I've had in a long while. It was the first dream I've remembered in a while, and the first in much longer where I remember feeling something.

I got on the train, reading through Faulkner, and the day proceeded in a haze. I had a crappy fast food lunch and was in kind of a funk through the lectures. There was a funny moment during Astronomy. Ray J. hates people talking during class but something was going on so he asked what was going on back there. A faint voice replies, "I'm trying to listen, but these assholes won't shut up!" This was followed by a protracted silence, followed by Ray jumping right back into the lecture, followed by laughter.

With nobody sitting in my surrounding three seats, I read more Faulkner on the trainride home, but put it away shortly after Long Branch. Some kids, young teenagers (*so weird for me to say that, like I'm an old man) about 15, came on and took those seats. A ticket-person came on, for the second time that day, but one of the kids nervously explained he'd lost his wallet. Given this had come up before the ticket guy even got there, I believed him, and the kid got off with a warning. I was just trying to sit there, not paying attention, but they were doing card tricks and stuff. Eventually I got involved. The train stopped on the tracks, between Port Credit and Clarkson, for about 15 minutes, as tree had fallen. It stopped again after Clarkson, possibly to let a VIA train pass. The driver explained "we got a red light" and while one kid, younger than the rest and visibly annoying to even them, the poster child for ADHD, bemoaned how trains didn't have red lights, but I figured it had something to do with the switching station.

We didn't get back into Oakville until about 4:30 and I didn't get home until 5. I've been putting off various forms of homework all night, and in fact, all my life.

I'm not very motivated for school these days. What can I say? When was I ever?

Oh yeah, the pocket full of fish. At Union, they were giving out individually packaged salmon entrees. Not terribly exciting, but I took one and may someday eat it. I'm the only one around here who likes fish.

Originality is in us all.

Keep on rockin'
Scotto

Chapter 13: Your head is there to move you around

It may be a testament to my lack of energy these days that more and more titles are just song lyrics lazily transcribed. Blame school. Blame writing. Blame me.'

A short one tonight.

I didn't do much of anything on Sunday. I sat around watching TV and writing reviews until dinner, and afterward indulged in a little CFL. I'm not a fan - in fact I find football uniquely boring - but it was a bit of a favour. Tim was apparently really jazzed about the Grey Cup game and wanted to pretend it was as big a deal as the Superbowl, which it's very clearly not. So we sat with him a bit, pretended to care about one team or the other (Winnipeg or Saskatchewan) and had a Caesar or two. That's a drink with a kick. It contains clam juice.

Today, I somehow crawled out of bed and was almost feeling energetic. I couldn't capitalize on that, however, and fell asleep, well, basically everywhere I could. It was a distinct reminder why I don't go to school on mondays often anymore, although if I could energize myself I might get something out of the lectures. My angst lies in philosophy and a conflict of literacy. If I weren't constantly reading books for narrative, I'd find time to do the readings for philosophy. I feel rather behind.

As for Narrative. I had one of those moments while reading "As I Lay Dying" on the train. People used to ask me why I don't read so much, and I'd explain that whenever I read, I just end up getting ideas to write and then getting distracted. I've been pretty good about this so far this semester, but I had one of those moments and had to drag myself across the pages before eventually scrawling down my ideas. I may not be getting enough out of this book.

Wisely, I plunked some change into a public terminal at Union to check my e-mail. I had a hunch. I had tried to arrange coffee with Amanda for that afternoon, and sent her an e-mail, and figured she'd probably replied with an affirmative or negative. This, despite my noting that "I have no idea how I would know" if she couldn't make it. I suggested I might just show up and see if she does. She sent me an e-mail, which I should not have gotten, explaining that this rather dreary, grey day seemed to her and Brian the best day to go to the zoo. Well that's fine, but I'm not made of free time here.

I raced against time on the TTC to get a coffee of my own at Queen's Park and make it back in time to catch the westbound train, which I did in consierable time. I'm getting good at this. I did end up going to the mall on my own, not expecting Amanda to show up (and she didn't,) reading Faulkner.

As I noted, not much happened over the past few days. This evening was mostly TV watching and a certain amount of writing. I need to devote some serious time to homework tomorrow. I suck at time management. This has been true since at least Grade 7. I've never made much effort to fix it.

You can't hide, and I can't run. Keep on rockin'
-Scott A. Williams

Chapter 12: If the shoe fits, eat it

I don't know what that means, but I think it's funny.

You know you spend too much time in Toronto when , as you walk into Oakville Place, you pass a man standing outside (presumably waiting for his taxi,) and instinctively give a rapid head shake to indicate, "No I don't have change."

Despite only being at school for about three hours yesterday, one of which was lunch, it felt like a long day. My first tutorial was cancelled, presumably because we handed in an assignment (that's Boyle's MO,) so I didn't have to go in until 11, which meant being on a train at 9:30, which meant sleeping until 8, which meant awesome.

In the tutorial, we talked about "As I Lay Dying," into which I was about 50 pages. Stewart (the TA) just kinda shook his head at us and proceeded. There was a great deal of biblical discussion, as the book has some significant religious overtones. Or are they undertones? I can never remember in what direction the tones were supposed to be going. Either way, they're religious, and significant.

The two people in the tutorial I know were both absent. Afterward, I was in the subway and met someone else from the class, a girl whose name may be Alison or Alicia or maybe not. We had had one brief conversation, last week, before class. She seemed very studious, quite serious, she was wearing a polo shirt from a Catholic Secondary School where I assume she went. During our brief prior conversation, I had made one of my typically deliberately lame jokes (most of the things that make me laugh are incredibly stupid.*) She didn't laugh, and I hadn't really expected her to, but she looked at me quizzically until I explained, "That was a joke." She nodded, suddenly comprehending, and then explained, as though it were some gene she lacked, "I don't get sarcasm." Ah to be so wide-eyed.

*An example of such a stupid joke came on Wednesday in Poetry. We were passing around our latest compositions. Someone had written a poem about a Sax-player. Reiby asked, "Are you a sax player?" and the guy said yes. He then asked, somewhat excitedly, if anyone else played an instrument - a very Guthrian tangent - and some chatter was heard. Some of the girls beside me conversed, ("I used to play the piano," "I was a flutist in high school" etc.) I turned to them and said "I used to play the woodblock." Some laughs, more at what a ridiculous thing to say. I've made a reputation out of my inexhaustible supply of ridiculous asides.

Back to Alison or Alicia or something else. We met in the subway. I'd gotten there just in time to see it pull out and she arrived a moment after. I asked her, "Ever have one of those days where if you'd just walked a step quicker, you'd have caught the subway?" She agreed, it happens, and we talked on this subject a while, before going onto the usual first-time conversations betweens students. "What are you taking? How do you like U of T? How about that TA?" etc, etc.

She mentioned, in due course of the conversation, she was a second-year, life-sciences student. She said second-year, as if to underline it. We learn as much about people by what they tell us as what they're saying. She chose to say "I'm in second year" because she is a second year, and a life-science student (I do not know what that entails,) taking a first-year English course. She first asked me if I was a first year and I said yes, but did not add that I had spent the last two years doing journalism at Sheridan, which I usually do, to put myself in the proper context. She probably thinks then that I'm a year younger than her, and less experienced in the ways of the world. We build people in the contexts of what they say. The note about Sheridan didn't fit much into it. I don't always mention it, and some people don't learn until they get me on Facebook, and even then only if they're paying attention.

I don't know why this stuck in my head hard enough to write such a long paragraph, but it did. If it hadn't been such a weird interjection, "I'm a first-year, but I'm 20, and done all this other stuff," I'd have mentioned, maybe so she wouldn't think she would have anything - age or experience - over me. I have many friends who are younger, and many who are older, but you want to make sure people understand which you are, because that does guide the relationship to some degree. If I never speak to this girl again - likely - she'll have a mistaken idea about me. I can live with that, but I'll correct it at the first opportunity that presents itself.

She seemed studious, serious, the kind of girl I'd have sat across from at a Reach tournament. Ever since hearing what a particular honors student did with Jeff A many years ago, I've had this peculiar association with serious-seeming girls in my mind. If pressed, how far would they go? The notion of corrupting a studious, serious, ordinary-looking girl is weirdly appealing. If they want it at all, then maybe they'd want it more. If they want it at all. I've certainly known my fair share of studious girls - fun though they were to be around - who had little interest in the physical (mine or otherwise.) She was weird. She didn't care much for emotions, for romance, and seemed to have to push herself to get as close to me as she did. I'm not talking about Alicia-or-Alison-or-whatever-her-name-may-have-been by now. I've segued into someone else, you know who it is. It bothers me that I occasionally still wonder about her, years after the deal went bad. I was asked last weekend what had truly happened, and I could only sigh and say, "Man, I don't know. We were both weird, and then it was September." Had it been six months earlier, things could've gone well. Can't live in a could've.

So I bummed around Innis, eating and going on the computer, for an hour before the Film tutorial. Another quiz on the reading I meant to do but didn't. I really mean I meant to do it -- I bought the course reader and everything. More unwanted commentary from Master Douche. He says how Schindler's List affected him more than Night and Fog and I'm thinking, "Schindler's List was fiction, douche." There are walls in his brains, unscalable and made of fortified stone, stubborn, douchey. When he says things, I groan at how badly he misses the point, embarrassed that the TA has to struggle to find the words to explain what he's not getting (and not going to get.) I doubt his mark will be very favorable. Maybe he's reading this; hopefully, hopefully not.

I walked to the subway with a classmate, one who takes the subway West, not South, from St. George. I was very early for my train and wasted 50 cents in a wasted effort on Austin Powers pinball. I used to be very good at it, but then I kept going by and someone would be on, and I stopepd coming, so I must've got out of practise. It was pathetic, I felt bad, and it ruined the afternoon, briefly.

I'd forgotten that episode, however, by the time I got to Oakville and went for comics. Running in the cold, my iPod started behaving oddly (digitally blipping out) during a Steely Dan song. I was irked, this is an expensive piece of technology that is only a year old and may not even have a warrantee. The blipping went away after a while. I'll be vigilant. I arrived at the comic store at the hour, quickly got my stuff, and waited eight minutes for the bus, lucky timing I suppose.

I got home in time to order pizza, we ate, I wrote for a few hours until South Park came on. At 10, I went over to Chris' for Risk. Pat had had his wisdom teeth out and was apparently too tired to stay up all night playing, so he didn't show. CB was missing, presumed asleep. We watched nearly two full discs of How I Met Your Mother season 1 while we played with guest players Ryan L. and J. Edgar. I wonder how they feel about being "guest players." I don't know. At least we've asked them back - there have been people we've asked once and never again. Something about the usual four seems most solid, but more and more we can't all get together.

James spent most of the game on a campaign for Asia. Unusually, I did not end up with Ukraine and opted to try a new strategy of getting Africa and South America, with much success. Ryan, who was based in North America, had a one-turn truce with me on the border while we all took Edgar out (after all, nobody gets Asia. It's a sure way to lose.) Chris had Europe, as well as Australia (rare case of having two unrelated continents.) VOnce Edgar was out, we just kept card-attacking China until the big set was traded in, by me, and shortly after Chris' 2:05 alarm, "shit went down." Well, not as severely as it should have, first I broke up his European monopoly, then he broke up my African one, and then I called an end to my truce with Ryan and got Africa back and disrupted North America shortly before 3:00 when we called it a night. I came home and, after sating my craving for microwaved pizza, crawled into bed, and slept until noon.

When I put it like that, it's not so hard to see how it felt long.

Saturday posts are rare, but it's the 24th and I've only done 12 of these bad boys. I don't think I've ever done 30 posts in a month, but I don't think I've ever been as low as 15 either. A testament to a) how exhausted I get from travel, and b) how tedious life is.

But I'm gonna live this tedious life as long as I can mange.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

Chapter 11: You've made it this far haven't you?

Well, maybe you've been brainwashed too.

That was the title of an album... well, the album by the New Radicals, which were the pet project of a performer/producer/songwriter named Gregg Alexander. Their hit was "You Get What You Give," which was right in tune with the optimistic late-90's pop-rock scene. There might also be a future pome in that title.

Despite this introduction, I must admit, it's only the sentiment I'm interested in... I'm a bit past the New Radicals, who were among the various late-90's acts I was craving a few months ago (along with David Gray, Goo Goo Dolls, Chumbawumba, and Sugar Ray to name a few.) At the moment I've kinda got into a Steve Miller kick. I wouldn't buy an album of his, except maybe a Greatest Hits I suppose, but he had some great tunes, beyond The Joker. "Take the Money and Run" or "Jet Airliner" will often come on the radio at just the right time.

The weather - as tedius a topic as it is - has dominated my thoughts the last few days. It's hard to cold a candle, or so they say, in the cold November rain.

Both in English and Philosophy did the professors muse about the decreased attendance tdue to inclement weather. Inclement meaning, it was a rainy bitch on Wednesday. They both noted it was "The first rainy day," which I'm not sure the accuracy of, but you couldn't deny it was especially severe. As is increasingly typical, I paid not so much attention during those lectures. The key to those classes is the tutorials. Are the tutorials. Effing verb tenses.

Clearly, people were not interested in showing up for these early classes in the rain. however, by midday the rain had not levied, so there wasn't much anyone could do if they didn't want to come to the screening, since it's kinda essential (but don't try to tell Ronnie that, 'cause he's missed like three. I hope he's not reading this, but then, I hope there isn't anyone reading this most of the time.)

In film, we've been talkin' documentaries. The screening started with a 30-minute short called "Night and Fog," a French doc about the Holocaust. If there's one thing I like to see after my hastily-assembled and eaten sandwich, it's grainy footage of Nazi ovens at Auschwitz. Well, no, that's sarcasm you silly guy, it put me very ill-at-ease. There was some terribly graphic stuff there, attesting to the inhumanities of the Nazi regime. There were heads in a basket, charred remains and mass graves. Those of us who are terrified that civilization is teetering on the brink, comfort yourself that none of this is currently going on; not here, anyhow.

This was followed by the comparatively optimistic full-length feature doc Bus 174, about a 2000 bus hijacking in Brazil, focussing its attention on the disenfranchised downtrodden youths on the streets, driven to disparation. I walked, dazed, out into the gray, moist world. I was really turned around.

The hour between those two classes was spent trying to figure out how to get thirty-or-so copies of my latest piece for poetry. I was gonna print at Innis, but the computers there were all taken. So I headed, in the rain, down to the EJ Pratt library, widely praised for its cool glass interiors. It's a favourite place of mine, but printing there is 15 cents rather than 10 at Innis which is also the price of a photocopy. I already had one printed copy, so I just went to the basement at Old Vic and made copies there.

In class, after a brief workshopping, we had a speaker, Maureen S. Harris, who read a few of her works. I asked her a question of moderate thought about her feelings on prose compared to verse (as she read a piece that started out as verse but morphed into a prose poem.) That took us to the end of class. I walked with a friend in the rain up to St. George.

It was a kinda miserable day for bus riding. Everything was damp and gray and dark.

Today was a relaxed day, although flurries flew in the air and formed slush on the ground, which later became ice. It's the first snow of the season. After class, I actually walked home from the station, stopping off to talk to Amanda for a while, and get coffee, as per usual. I don't do this too often so that it doesn't look like I'm taking too much advantage, but at the same time... I like free stuff.

I've been bumming around the house all night, avoiding doing what I've set out for, apart from grocery shopping. I should've gotten more done, but these things happen.

This is all I know. My reality for tonight.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

Chapter 10: I was nothing but the slickest

It was nice and warm today. Not overly so, I suppose, but nice as one could expect for mid-Late November. I took yesterday off, ostensibly because I had a lot of work to do. I'm still a bit behind, but far less so than I was on Sunday.

After sleeping far longer than I'd intended but clearly no less than I needed, I began to set about my business... raking leaves. Okay, and then after that, I got some reading done, and set in on my very rough Astronomy assignment, due the next day.

It was after a little while looking at that blinking cursor and re-reading the requirement that I realized... the damn thing was impenetrable. I found other, less-homeworky ways to fill the afternoon, with at least a small amount of shame.

Meanwhile, Eric was upstairs shooting a brief film scene with some people from class, and apparently getting into numerous disagreements.

In the middle of the afternoon, I went off to Sheridan to meet with Scott C. about his idea. He pitched me a solid idea for a sitcom, and I encouraged him to keep working on it, because an idea is just an idea until you've got a damn script, no? I saw the potential; the concept is basically based on his life so I advised him to make sure he's done with his job before he pursues it. I assured him that I'd give input whenever he wanted, and basically do anything short of writing it for him.

I stopped off, briefly, at the Newsroom, to relive my olden times. I talked with Nathan a while, and he seemed to enjoy being Roy. Things are going along well, it seems. One girl, whom I'd worked with a fair bit as a mentor last year, was also there, but we didn't talk much beyond a recognition. He said I should come back anytime, and maybe I will, if I can ever wrangle up some free time (to be sure, though, I'd already have been out of class by then anyway.)

I finally tackled the assignment late that evening. It wasn't as hard as my lack of work ethic originally made it out to be. It required some intense research and some serious mathematics in the second part, but I ultimately put it to bed, shortly before getting to bed myself. I woke up this morning, after sleeping later than I'd intended, ready to go.

Of course, in my readiness, I managed to walk out the door and catch the bus without loading my assignment into my actual backpack. Derp! I realized this on the bus en route to the GO station. Knowing it was too late to go back (cheaply and without missing any of my classes,) I began to consider my options. As I grabbed a less-than-usual quality slice from Pizza 2 Go (somewhat disappointed at this particular slice,) I began to think the day was not going too well.

As soon as I got to Innis, I went on the computer and e-mailed Brandon. hoping he'd get it in a timely manner, I asked him to go on my computer (which I'd left on,) and send me the file so I could print it off. I nervously sat through a lecture on Documentaries hoping he'd get it.

After class, instead of rushing right to Convo Hall (which is already about a 10-minute walk, so I'm basically always late in Tuesdays,) I stopped back off at the Library and found, much to my delight, the e-mail had been received and followed successfully. So I printed off my project, paying $0.50 for the privilage and making small talk with the girl at the front desk about my sweater (the one with the thumb-holes.) Thereafter, I ran off to catch the bulk of a lecture on Stars, and then hand in my assignment. Well actually, because I knew it'd be a wait, I went off for coffee (big fuckin' surprise!) to stall. I missed my train, but caught one not much later.

Is time moving faster, or am I getting tired?

Only a matter of weeks, if you can believe it (I cannot.) My first semester at U of T nears its complete-itude.

My mom was at a town meeting for this room-renting nonsense. Afterward, she was approached by someone claiming to be from the Sheridan Sun, asking her opinion. She said, "Oh, my son was there last year," and this gentleman asked who I was, and she told him. He seemed to know me, which narrows down the potential of who it is, to probably being Jimmy. The idea of Jimmy interviewing my mother is somewhat odd, as most of my friends have never even met my mom.

I'm... out, for the night. We'll see when we see each other again.

Keep on rockin'
-El Scott

Chapter 9: Neuroses are funny things

Time was, I wrote in this blog obsessively. It didn't matter if nothing interesting happened in my life - and it still doesn't. I was utterly in love with the idea of coming home after school, sitting down in the evening, and recording my every available thought here for the millions (or dozens) of readers to peer into.

Given that we are more than halfway through the month, and we've only got nine entries, this is obviously no longer true, at least not true for the time being. I'm roughly going every other day, and it shouldn't be surprising. The only thing that should be surprising is that I still do this. Three and a half years, that's over 875 posts, have come and gone. I'm still carrying on the way I did then. I don't know who's reading, although I know people are reading in Hamilton, Toronto, and Korea. And I know that occasionally, people will do google searches for themselves, which makes me wish I operated more as a roman a clef; but that would seem dishonest. You found yourself here. You know me. Use this knowledge however you please.

So I'm just staring back in awe at this monolith of a blog I've built up. It's overwhelming. So much baggage, so much joy and misery, everyone I know, everywhere I've been and every job I've had and everything I've seen, all here in white and black. And I don't really intend to stop now, no sir. I've always said this blog, it's a very long story with me as the main character, and while not an interesting one, a damn true one, with occasional penis jokes.

That, I wrote last night, Saturday evening, around 10. I was in a kind of mood for ruminating on the blog. It probably comes from the fact that I'm writing a story that is comprised primarily of the facts of my life, so I've been wrapped up in my head a lot this past month. NaNo, you know.

The week ended, as all my weeks seemed to, like the groan of an old man easing into a hot tub. By Saturday afternoon, Friday seemed so distant. It wasn't much of a day. Half-conscious, I attempted to contend with the very large philosophical discussions in my first tutorial, the all-told summary of Mrs. Dalloway in my second, and a summary of narration communicativeness (et cetera) in my third. I also learned that I managed, without reading the chapter upon which it was based, to get 9/10 on a quick quiz in Film last week (on Ozu's use of style in Tokyo Story,) so I'm pretty sure tht's the class I'm going to concentrate on most, as if I wasn't already.

Saturday morning, I let my alarm go off, and took care of my dog around 9. Once that was taken care of, I was about to hit the snooze alarm when I said, "Fuck it, I've earned it," and just shut it off. I think I say that to myself a lot lately. I slept until noon, around which time Eric and I went out to the mall, which is in the early phases of Christmas season (with the notable absence of Santa,) had a lunch, checked out Coles, and then I bought my present for (groan,) Fake Christmas.

Hard enough to believe, but it's the fifth go-around since our first Fake Christmas in 2003, and we have yet to come up with a catchier name. It's also known, by my mom, as "Our Christmas Thing" and occasionally just, "The, you know, thing." I bought, as per usual, a box of chocolates because I'm lazy/cheap/uninterested in wasting the effort on something interesting. Besides, they're good chocolates at Purdy's. As far as I'm aware.

The afternoon proceeded in front of the television. 5 O'Clock rolled around and it became necessary to get things moving. Earlier in the week, I had been contacted by an old friend who had had an idea for a TV series and wanted to discuss the possibility of collaborating. For years now I've had a reputation as the go-to-guy for these sorts of things and was glad to hear him out. It was only a matter of arranging the meeting. He was going out for the night to a friend's, and wanted to see if I'd tag along so he could pitch me the idea there. While it was a nice gesture, I was more in the mood to hang around the house last night. We rescheduled for tomorrow.

We ordered pizza from Pizza Pizza, seemingly the last place left with a "x minutes or it's free" clause. They upped it from 30 to 40 over the years, which is cheap but probably good for them since they had about 7 or 8 minutes left on the clock when it arrived.

I did some writing (the main reason I wanted to chill around the house) and whatever-else, when sometime after 11 I got a "Hey, wanna come chill?" from Lauren, back from Western (as has been the norm, but apparently not anymore.) So CB and I went over to her place, where Pat and Chris already were. We actually made two trips as I'd neglected to bring any booze, so we ran home and I grabbed my gin, a can of 7-Up (I prefer tonic but we were in a pinch) and How I Met Your Mother on DVD. We watched a few episodes, eventually CB left and we all settled in. Pat needed much sleep and so conked out on the floor (and later the couch in the other room,) the other three of us sat up late in the dark on the couches talking, as Lauren claimed herself insomniac and wanted company. So we didn't get to sleep until, oh I didn't see the time, but it was likely 4 or later. During that time, we talked in drunken circles the way people do late at night when they are, as I was, soaked in gin. I can't remember the exact details, but people do tend to focus more on the downers (relationships, other bummers) in these situations.

I woke up the next morning in a dry, bleary-eyed haze, wrapped in my sweater and a thin bedsheet (more for the sake of coverage than warmth.) I had that hazy headspace of a man who really appreciates a glass of gin, although managed to evade a hangover. It was about 9:30 and Pat had to get going, so the three of us drove off into the day.

The bulk of the morning was uneventful, but around 2:30, we went out for Fake Christmas. It was a hectic afternoon, punctuated by all the little kids running wild and having fun with each other. Cameron is positively obsessed with Spider-Man (and Venom, particularly.) It's kinda cute, really.

After dinner, we selected our presents. Eric had planned to pick his own gift, a bottle of liquer, and despite being the last to choose, managed this. I was second last and ended up, perplexingly enough, with some jugling balls. I might've taken it a bit hard, being so taken aback by it. Why juggling balls? Someone (my aunt, I believe) had chosen that gift, even though we're none of us kids. I may have seemed pouty a bit, but I didn't try to swap them out (Fake Christmas is more or less the game called "Yankee Swap" or various other games,) because down inside, I was amused. It wasn't so amusing when Tim insistently gave a lecture on his history as a juggler, but when little Aaron (my cousin's young son, about a year and a half old,) became fascinated by them, I saw a sort of innocence. I don't personally expect great gifts - last year, I got little jars of jam - I guess the point is to wind up, in this case, with something richly absurd you wouldn't actually think of wanting. I may be the only person who could have gotten the juggling balls to appreciate that.

After a lengthy session of sitting around, we left a little after 7 and my brothers and I watched wrestling all evening. I'm here now realizing that I've gotten two or three posts worth of material out, when these days it seems rare I should get any at all.

There's hope. That's always what's left, and it's what feeds our souls. I recently told a good friend, who confessed to feeling down, at the end of a conversation, "I hope you can enjoy the night. The world's too nice a place." And I mean it. My God it seems impossible to believe, a lot of the time we can't help but feel the kicks to our ribs, but surrounding us all in an infinite sea of hope and wonder. Grim as the gray sky may seem, not to sound too fuckin' cheesy, I have to believe this. It seems to me the only way we made it this far, that the world has some inherent good with any bad you can see. The sea washes away the grime from the air.

There may be a poem in that - which would be good, as I've got one due this week.

I'm taking tomorrow off. Mondays, being non-essential, are a good time to take care of some very pressing business, including but not limited to a dire assignment for Astronomy due the next day, and the remainder of Mrs. Dalloway (which both Alyssa and Aunt Lori confessed were among favourites. It's a pretty neat book.)

Sometimes it's hard to believe there's a world outside my head.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

Chapter 8: Consider the ground beneath your shoes

Per my usual idiocy, I'm loaded with caffeine and will be up late tonight, not sleeping, and thus miserable tomorrow morning. I suck sometimes.

It happened Wednesday, when I was just plain dead in philosophy. The person next to me didn't seem to mind, she was reading Metro. That said, I seemed to be up and at 'em by the screening, which is good, since it was Psycho and I was very interested in seeing it.

Tuesdays, they used to sell Pizza Pizza in the subway for the United Way. I liked it was a reliable and cheap way to get a lunch. However, I was dismayed this past Tuesday to find they had gone. Moreover, Wednesday, United Way people were just hanging around asking for change. What a cocktease. No way.

After the screening, as I was walking up to Old Vic, I spotted a girl with short brown hair and glasses. Now, short-haired brunettes aren't uncommon around campus. They're almost as common to see as Asians - hell, there's some overlap. But I gave a yell anyway:

"Alyssa?"

She turned. It was indeed her. Though I'd met up with her a few times this year (not since September,) this was the first time we'd run into each other. As it was a gorgeous, temperate day (about 14 degrees, possibly for the last time this year,) we sat on the steps on Old Vic and talked, mostly her about her burdensome academic career. Well, it happens, don't it?

After that, and poetry, I went to Union and waited for my train home. I got a seat on the train, alone, when into the car came Ryan, who mentioned he would be there after a few weeks of not. I was beginning to feel like I'd been stood up. We sat and talked, and his dad gave me a lift home. Nice guy.

Today I slept good and late, got well rested (my sleep is becoming more and more extreme,) and did some reading before going to school where I had an unusual encounter. I was sitting in Astronomy before class with some friends (well, a friend and her friend. Well, I had just met her the week before.) Scattered around were flyers for some event, written all in some Asian language, which I referred to as "Korean." Friend asks, "How do you know it's Korean?" I said, "Well, I don't... it's that or Chinese." After a pause, the girl in front of us, a fine studious-looking young woman with a nose-ring and a laptop, turns and says "It's Chinese." My attention piqued, she elaborated by showing the sponsors on the back, "Chinese Restaurant" and so forth. Dismayed that she couldn't explain the actual meaning of the card, I asked, "So you can't actually read it?" She rolls her eyes and replies, very sarcastically, "Yeah, because I'm Chinese." (She obviously wasn't.) With that, having put me in my place, she turned around, and I sat there, twiddling my thumbs.

I'm not sure where I went wrong, it's been a while since any conversation I've had, even one so minor, has gone so far off the rails. Rather than pay close attention to the lecture, I spent a lot of the remainder of time trying to think if there was any way I could salvage the situation and let it roll off. For once, my faculties failed me and I had nothing. What was I going to do? Irk her further by putting another lame remark out there? Apologize for thinking she read Chinese? Apologize for her not being Chinese? I don't like leaving conversations like that.

When I got back to Oakville, I decided to go for comics. As not unexpected, it took a long while, and I didn't get back until nearly 6, as I had to walk home from the bus station, lacking quarters. On the way, I stopped off to see Amanda (and get more coffee. Time was, I couldn't stand more than one a day. The addiction grows.)

After grocery shopping and some TV, and a quick paper-writing, here we are.

And here we are.

We sure are.

If nothin' else, keep on rockin
-Scott

Chapter 7: It's not so easy to forget

Not much to say tonight, but as I've not been seen in a while, I'll say it anyhow.

Yesterday was beautiful. It was gray, it was foggy, the rain clung to the air like a moist atmosphere; by all accounts a dreary day, but with the fresh sauna ambiance and the temperature at equilibrium between warm and refreshing, it was beautiful.

I only had two classes, but I also had to return a DVD of the silent movie (Death's Marathon) to Robarts. On my way out of philosophy, something unexpected happened.

I got the "opposite shoulder tap." And I fell for it.

I haven't gotten one of those in years, and when it happens it's almost certainly flirtation, which is... well, it's fucked right now. I'm a little fucked, but fine. it's a good problem to have. From the beginning of the year, I was meeting many women, planting as many seeds as I could, and by now I'm seeing if there's anything to, I dunno, harvest. I like talking to women at this point of my life. It's the only way of demonstrating how far I've come in 4 years or so. time was, I couldn't really talk to any woman, even platonically (unless I was bitching about some other woman.)

I was late, because of Robarts, for my train, and read my book at Union after an unsuccessful attempt to win a prize at the arcade. From the GO station, I walked home in the fog, cheerful and optimistic. I spent a great deal of the evening working on my write-up for Cinema Studies, which tookj a while but was mostly reproducing what I'd done on Saturday (which was on lined paper) and then doing a brief write-up. Not a big deal, but we'll see how I do. I'm always uncertain. I can't help but doubt myself.

Sunday was Remembrance day. I didn't really observe it, although surely there were various expanses of time during hich I wasn't talking. I kept losing my poppies, and then getting embarrassed at passing a veteran selling them and not having one on, so I'd buy another one. It's kind of depressing to me that someday before long, all the veterans of WWII, the only really good war, will be dead.

How did I get 30 hits yesterday? What is that about? Inconceivable.

Today was not much. I woke from a very comfortable sleep and went to school, learned some stuff and came home. Did some writing. The weather was terrific, although not as transcendant as yesterday, just conventionally nice, bright and mild. For November, that's as great as you can dream of.

As I said, not much to report, but that's the usual. Bedtime now.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

Chapter 6: All I have to do is swing and I'm a hero

I came to the conclusion recently that no story is told chronologically. If you're worth any damn thing as a storyteller, the bulk of the story will play out through relevant background info that is revealed through due course of the story. Consider that great sitcom, How I Met Your Mother, which has used retroactive storytelling often enough for it to become a trademark. Me, I've made it a trademark of my own, and I'll relate this weekend's events, as I often do, by starting at the end and working my way back to the beginning.

I woke up this morning with a start. Well, I suppose I wasn't going to wake up with an end (albeit here I am, beginning at the end,) but that's the funny way the english language works. I was shocked by the realism of my dream. I haven't been remembering dreams much lately. I usually take it to mean I haven't been expressing myself creatively, which you could indeed say.

In the dream, I was presented by my snickering brother a magazine, which contained a short article on me, and a piece of line art depicting me riding my bike in the snow (which I don't do.) The article's author explained that "Whenever I need a good laugh, there's one video I can always look at." The video in question depicted me candidly (but in a very public place) finding a particular item discarded on the ground and stashing it in my backpack, which in reality I did, although I later put it back. The article mocked me for being oblivious that I was on tape, being seen picking the item (which was of an absurd and private nature) up, and maknig off like it was no big deal. I can't comment on the dreamm much further without embarrassing myself by saying what the item was. In Dora: An Analysis of a Case of Hysteria, a Freudian case study we recently read in Narrative, dreams are (as in all Freud's writings,) referred to as "a wish fulfilled." If this is the case then somehow it was my wish to be caught at something embarrassing. I prefer to think that dreams are less rigid in their origin than that. They can be a wish fulfilled, but they can also be fears, anxieties, hang-ups and fascinations. Dreams, as far as I see, are fluid and undefinable. you can't pin their nature to anything because they belong to that intangible fabric of the consciousness we understand so little. All I know is that I was exposed and it felt real.

Shaken from my very comfortable sleep, I decided that it was a good time to get out of bed, it being shortly after 10 and the dog needing his food. I had been wiped from the day before.

It began with meeting Amanda for coffee, which we haven't done in a long while, with my school and her work schedule. We talked on the usual subjects, her jobsearch, my school, our friends, etc etc. She is still plugging away applying for real jobs (something that might be considered a career.) Her fiance is trying to keep her from being sucked into the world of Tim Hortons corporate, and hopefully that works. We browsed around the stores a while before coming, as we often do, to HMV. The only people working were Jules (who was, I believe, a temp when I was, but more experienced and now full-time,) and some newb. As Amanda paid, I asked Jules how things were going, and how Coop (the manager) was. She explained he had just had surgery, which was surprising to me. I told her to wish him well for me and we went on our way. Cooper and I always got along well, even when he was reprimanding me for some jabroni mistake.

I had to leave early. Earlier in the week I'd agreed to go to Tornto and meet a classmate at the library to do a project. The project was a shot-by-shot analysis of a 4-minute segment of a 1913 silent picture by D.W. Griffith. I was a little irked because I could have done the project from home and didn't see what schlepping all the way to Toronto on a Saturday afternoon would really accomplish. Somewhat irked at the fct that I'd gone along with it, I kept reminding the guy I didn't know how long I could stay, but we'd "try to get as much done as possible."

We got started around 2:00 and, after viewing it all the way through once, began to go through each individual shot and note the details. Once we got into a groove, there was no way I could really disrupt it, and we spent maybe 2 hours before the project was complete (although a write-up still must yet be written by tuesday.) All in all, we accomplished a lot and I was pelasantly surprised at how productive the afternoon was. I came back to Oakville in a good mood and ready for dinner.

The bulk of the rest of the evening passed in front of the TV, much to my dismay. I helped a friend pick up some alcohol early in the evening, and thought about going out to the pub but was flat-out too tired from the round-trip. I did a little writing and went to bed by 2 or so.

Today followed the same pattern of laziness, and we have a mountainous cache of dishes begging to be done. We didn't really have anything to prepare for supper, so we ordered wings from that wonderful restaurant down the road. We went with dry BBQ, which was a worthwhile experiment but not one likely to be repeated, y'know?

My life has gotten so terrifically uninteresting lately. It's amazing to have settled back into this level of tedium. How dare I even muddy the good linoleum of the Internet with this nonsense? My best anecdote of recent memory involves getting home late and finding pizza had not yet been ordered, then blowing a fuse because I'm always the one who has to order. What the hell? If that's your biggest proble, buddy, you've got a pretty sweet life.

It gets easier every day, I suppose.

I'm considering applying to write at this general interest mass blog, as they seem to be hiring and haven't had a new post on comics in months, and that would be, as they say on their outline, my "area of expertise." I don't need another damn thing to occupy my time, but I'm qualified and it pays, and that'd be sweet. Damn sweet.

I'm gonna burn the rest of my energy tonight writing, actually.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

Chapter 5: I think I'm gonna stick around for a while so you're not alone

I meant to write this entry last night, and had started it, but it seems to have evaporated. And that's fine, since I'm not terribly in love with the idea of writing one post over the course of two days, but still... I did have stuff written. And this business of writing a post about two days is getting old.

Wednesday was a pleasant day. Despite the length and the rushing around, I always make peace with it because of the content. While I was finding it somewhat difficult to get ahold of the philosophy lecture, and the Narrative period seemed like a write-off, things usually get moving after lunch. Admittedly, I've formed a bit of a bad habit. The last couple weeks, the movies have been somewhat dry black & white foreign films with subtitles. I'm already very tired and find that format to be somewhat soothing, so in both cases I fell into a half-sleep for maybe as much as 10 minutes toward the beginning. However, my brain realizes this and prevents me from falling totally asleep by snapping me awake, and I'm attentive for the rest of the film, albeit with the crusty taste of stale Coke in my mouth. I've mentioned this to Eric and he said that tiredness is certainly not the ideal approach to watching a film, and, well, duh.

The film in question was Ozu's Tokyo Story, which was as mellow a film as I've ever seen. It was just so calm I couldn't help but be soothed into slumber.

From there, it was down to Old Vic and Poetry for the end of the day. As he read some poems and gave examples of word choice, I got a very sudden rush of inspiration and started scrawling what could be my next piece down in my notebook. We did a little small-group workshopping. When asked about the somewhat unusual rhythm of my third piece, I noted that I'd totally grabbed it from Bob Dylan, to much enjoyment of those around. Struck by this, one girl asked me if I "Thought in music" or something along those lines, and I didn't know what to say... so I just assured her I'm not insane.

This was followed by some larger workshopping, where I decided to read out my first poem, which had already gotten some notoriety. I mentioned that I'd gotten some conflicting feedback and wanted to get a larger sense of it. I took it as a good sign when the prof noted, prior to my reading, "I liked this one." So I read it, and as expected/hoped for, it got a laugh at the end. Being that it's called "For a Stalker," someone asked if it was autobiographical, and I said, "No comment." Laughter, murmuring, that means yes... and I just think, it is and it isn't. It really isn't, but sometimes I can't separate real events from my imagined interpretations - how I think things might have happened. I believe that's schizophrenia. I also joked, "I also can't say which character I am." Uncomfortable laughter. I signal that I'm joking, but hey, you never know.

The general feedback is that the ending is really strong, but some of the rhymes and rhythms are kinda weak, particularly in the third stanza. I'd generally agree, and all the feedback was pretty fair and helpful.

I walked with a friend to the subway, and we joked around about what degree we were getting feedback.

But either way, I got home and chilled out all evening.

Today, all I had was Astronomy. It was pretty dreary and chilly out, that nasty November way. Waiting outside the auditorium I struck up a conversation with a girl about this. When randomly approaching someone, you never know how they're going to react. They could just dismiss you and go, "Yeah. Sure." Or they might really be looking for someone to chill with. Me, I always find it good to know people in class, so a lot of the time I'll channel the spirit of my father and start the random stranger conversation. I mean, how else does one meet people in a class of several hundred people?

I set out on my way afterward. At Union, I passed by a busker. Now, I pass these people several times a day, but rarely pay them much mind. I wasn't going to give this guy a second either, when I realized he was singing "Leaving on a Jet Plane" and for whatever reason it struck me and I felt really good. So I took wahtever random change I could spare - some pennies and dimes - and dropped it in his guitar case.

"Thank you," he said, "This song's a bit old for you isn't it?" I told him no, it'd been covered a few years back, but I also knew the John Denver version. He explained that it was originally by Peter, Paul and Mary (I knew thy did it, but didn't know they were first) and that it was good I knew the Denver version. He asked if I was a musician, and I said no, just a music fan. He nodded and philosophized, "It's the best drug. It really flows through your veins... like that stuff," he gestured to the cup of coffee I was holding. I told him to keep up the good playing and he said thnaks and I was on my way. I rushed off and managed to make the train with only a few minutes to spare.

There was grocery shopping and some TV tonight, very relaxing. I also polished up my essay for tomorrow. I'm really hoping it doesn't suck.

I'm taking care of business, one thing at a time. I'm doing my best. Time to call it a night.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

Chapter 4: An ever-growing thing

A quick one tonight. My fingers are killin'.

I took yesterday off after all. It was a pretty ballsy move on my part but one I'm proud of. The truth is, my alarm went off at 6:45, and I thought for a minute before I came to the conclusion that I felt like utter shit and couldn't possibly haul my ass out of bed and down to Toronto that day. I had done too much over the weekend and would benefit from a day off. So I slept until 9 or so and then went about my business. After coffee, I cracked open the books and pored right through Descartes' first four meditations. I jotted down my ideas for my essay and of course did all my other writing. It was a big day and I was damn proud of what I did. I even dropped a message to a friend from class to see if I missed anything, and she assured me I was better off sleeping.

Eric was away all day, as after school he went to Toronto to see a taping of The Hour. So I made dinner and nearly got my ass blowed up on the BBQ. Okay, I didn't really, but I did have trouble with the propane tank, in that I had left it on when I thought it was off before lighting the damn thing.

Today was an average tuesday. Cinema studies, Astronomy, lunch of the way in, dinner with dad when I get home... writing in between. Hell, I even wrote my "frist draft" (which will probably be very close to my final draft) of my 4-7 page paper comparing Dora to Pride and Prejudice. It needs to be bulkier, and there's time for that. I've really gotta start knocking these projects back. hopefully I've got time on the weekend. Otherwise, I could take another monday off... (probably not. Extenuating circumstances!)

Everybody always wants to know "what is the world coming to?" Am I the only one who wants to know, "What has it come from?"

For reasons that shouldn't be hard to discern, I've been feeling good all week. I've got a good energy about me and that shuold probably last a few more days, maybe a week. Then I might be back to my bummed old self, so I'm enjoying this while it lasts. I discovered why my shoelace felt so long. There was a hidden notch I'd missed while lacing it, and going back to it shortened the lace considerably. I wish I'd thought to check while I still had both aglets. I briefly considered handing in a poem called "Sympathy for a Busted Aglet."

Even the chill ain't got me down.

Man, life can be good, even when it ain't really. You've just gotta know what to appreciate.

Fingers sore. Haha. Keep on rockin'
-Yer Scotto

Chapter 3: A long road to hoe

This is a story about three people and their journey toward waffles. Of faith, of perserverence, and of chocolate syrup.

I walked in the door around 6:45 this evening, alleviating my mom's worries and getting a good late dinner. The story of how I came to this state of affairs is a long one with several unrelated tangents, like all my stories.

Saturday started out as an unassuming day. I woke up around 11 to a very excited dog. As mom had gone off for the weekend, it fell to me to feed the guy his breakfast. He was so pumped for the meal - which occurred about 4 hours later than it usually does - that hes slipped and slid across the linoleum floor and appeared to re-injure his leg. He wasn't walking on it for a good deal of the day.

I had been invited sometime earlier to a casual evening of dinner at Joe's, and had fully intended to go. Not counting the Starbucks gig, which I enjoyed, I haven't seen Joe or any of the old gang in months. However, circumstances changed and I was forced to, somewhat reluctantly, tell Joe I couldn't make it. Despite all the activity of Wednesday night, Cary was now hosting himself an official birthday event at his place in Hamilton. Although there should naturally have been a berth of time to negotiate the two, the fact was the logistics weren't stacking up in the favour of Joe's. I had even considered blowing off Cary's, but something was urging me (*it could have been people.) I knew, or at least know, Joe will intend on hosting another get-together and I most certainly intend of making myself available, but things are not always clear-cut decisions. I say this because of how this thread of the night resolved.

So I went to dad's for dinner. He served an amazing lasagna and a lemon merangue pie, so all in all it probably wouldn't have been sporting of me to miss. We went home around 7ish and I inquired of CB what his plans were as far as transport. Apparently, he had to run an errand (picking his brother up,) at 10, so we'd have to go do that and then book it on out to Hamilton. In all tihs it turns out there would surely have been time for me to have gone to Joe's, but these things always seem to be revealed after it's too late, which is what makes them funny.

In the meantime, I did some writing and some grooming, icluding clipping my nails, which led to my most massive hangnail ever when I tore a fairly sizeable chunk of flesh off with the nail, causing momentary bleeding.

So CB, Chris F and I all piled up in CB's van and, after taking care of the aforementioned errand, screeched off in the direction of Hamilton. We arrived to find various acquaintences of Cary's (housemates, classmates, etc,) engaged in Guitar Hero II (not III, which was odd as they had it.) I wa sstarting to bond on that level when one girl simply came by and turned the TV off. "Okay, I can take the hint," I shrugged, and the other player agreed. time to socialize, the house was filling up with people.

It was fairly boring not really knowing anyone and being in cramped quarters. Alex K., Cary's former roommate (previously mentioned as "the guy you can count on" at the Halloween party,) and I spent a lot of time talking, particularly when several lady-friends of his arrived and I couldn't muster up enough conversation to compete on the same level as one partygoer, generally acknowledged as "the life of the party." I scowled and mused to Alex that I hate the guy who has to be "the life of the party." As he did his routines and dazzled onlookers with bits and anecdotes, I stood there, wondering why I was stuck in my own head. I hate "that guy" so much because I see in him what I know I can't be. I can entertain a small group of people, sure, but in a crowd like that, I'll never be the guy everyone's paying rapt attention to. I'm not writed like that and frankly, it tears me up inside.

What also bothered me was that I had met the guy several times, (if I remember correctly,) but when I tried to mention this, he brushed me off like I was retarded.

The point on which the evening pivoted was when I said to Alex, "You know, that guy's gonna go home tonight and get a blowjob from some chick he meets at this party" (I was a bit inebriated so my natural crassness became prevalent,) "And me, I'm just standing here like a schmuck."

Alex shrugged, "Maybe he will, but," he gestured to his friends, "It won't be from any of these girls here. And they're the most attractive ones at this party." I agreed, they were.

This didn't make me feel any better, but ended my sulking somewhat. I say the night "pivoted" on this point because from there on after it became very different.

I drifted, somewhat sullen, into the kitchen where basically everyone there I knew was hanging out. I met a couple of girls and introduced myself, as my ultimate goal in any situation like this is to meet girls. I asked one if she was an artsci, (as one might typically do when one is at these functions,) and she said, "That depends, if you think ArtScis are pretentious, then I'm not one." I laughed, "Well, there's Cary..." Naturally, she couldn't deny, she was an artsci, after I told her I didn't really think there was anything wrong with that. We got to talking, somehow or other, about Grade 5, or Grade 7, and how different boys and girls were at that time. It was hard, she said, being a girl at that age, liking boys but them not having much interest.

"Oh I had interest when I was that age," I told her, recalling an incident I had documented for my NaNoWriMo project only a day before, "But it was the girls who didn't have much interest in me." Now normally, this would seem like a lame and counterproductive thing to say, but I'm going to be honest, I've found tht cool and self-deprecating is a good strategy, so long as it doesn't come off as straight up pathetic.

She clung to me a while, and what most of the group in the kitchen saw was she and I going out back for "fresh air." I guess everyone could fill in the blanks however they pleased, but you know me, my stories rarely have positive endings (and whether this one does, I'll leave to the imaginations of readers and to those who know.) Cary particularly had some words to say privately on the matter, and I took them as encouragement even if they didn't sound utterly positive.

Whatever did happen between me and this very nice girl, it probably started to occur to people around the second time we went out there. Maybe I was just showing her Orion's belt, as it was a clear night and the constellations were illuminated. I've always wanted to use that most cheesy of pickup lines, showing a girl constellations - and hey, I am in astronomy. And anything that wasn't made clear by that outing was probably spelled out when (on the welcome advice of her friend!) we made our way to the back steps for the third time. I'm only saying this because that's what was there for people to see, and I still won't elaborate beyond that, even if she did later on apologize profusely to Cary for "making out with [his] sketchy friend." (I take exception to that, as I'm an not Cary's sketchy friend.)

The evening wound down and it came time for people to heda back to their places, and we Oakville people to pass out on various couches. The girl was headed out and became sick. Eventually she was walked home. I wished her good health, and a good night's sleep. Cary related, laughing, some of the conversation from the way home. I found it funny, too.

I'd been preparing to fall asleep on the couch when I discovered a blanket at the foot of the bed. Thgat was good, but I needed a pillow. One of Cary's housemates came by handing out blankets to all the uncovered unawake people. I asked him for a pillow and he brought me a few more blankets, which I fashioned into a pillow.

CB had to leave early the next morning. I would have gone with him, but was enticed to stay by the notion of waffles, which Chris and Cary planned on getting at the Mac commons. I also didn't want to get up early, but ultimately that wasn't avoidable, as I was up from the time CB left until Cary finally got up sometime later. And after a brief cleanup, we did go for waffles, getting Jasdeep to pay for them on his meal card, which I thought was a nice thing to go along with.

We got back to Cary's and watched Knocked Up, which he'd gotten for his birthday. By this time the question was starting to dig at m of when we could get home, and after a 2 hour movie you really wanna get going. We finally got on a bus after 5 PM and caught the 5:40 bus to the 6:08 train back to Oakville. Over the course, Chris and I discussed some of the better pizza places in Oakville - which was hard for me as I had only eaten the waffle that whole day. We also talked movies, and I explained the circumstances under which I'd seen Garfield the Movie several years ago.

I got home, tired, and ate what was left over from the dinner mom had cooked. I've spent the bulk of the time trying to relate this story (taking extra care with the subtleties and subtexts.) I have a buttload of writing and reading to do, much of which will sadly be delayed until tomorrow afternoon. I keep thinking I could take Monday off, but no. Even though I don't get any material out of it, it helps me get going on things, even if I'm only there physically and not mentally.

Back to the real world tomorrow (even though we don't always get along.)

It took me one year, 11 months and 3 days to get back here.

Take care and keep on rockin'
-Scotto

Chapter 2: There's someone in my head but it's not me

I worry too much. I don't worry enough. I worry about both of these things.

There are times when I can be excessively laid back and feel unreasonably confident in the future. There are times when I feel extremely jittery and nervous and concerned someone's going to uncover me. I'm a wonderful cavalcade of neuroses. I'm a cocky motherfucker who thinks he sucks.

Freud would have a field day with that last sentence.

I downplayed some of what happened yesterday, primarily because it didn't really happen, it just was. I got yet another assignment back, my Astronomy midterm test. In theory I didn't do so badly on it, at least the short answer portion (as we didn't get the multiple choice portion back.) However, because I misread the instructions (which accounted for what appeared to be a mistake in the marking scheme,) I suffered badly. There were 4 questions at 10 marks each, but you were only supposed to answer three and naturally I answered all four in my overzealousness. The sheet provided for this by saying if you answer all four, only the first three will be marked, and of course the last one was the one I aced. I got 5, 8 and 5 on the first three, so if I'd skipped 1 or 3, I would've gotten 23/30 instead of 18. Weak. (To show I don't really suck that badly, I just learned I got 17/20 on the multiple choice, thus giving me an all-things-considered respectable 70, when I should have an 80.) Disheartened at this knowledge of my own shortcoming, compounded with various other recent similar weak performances, and leftover bitterness from the weird ending of the previous night, I slunk back to the subway, alternately scowling and pouting.

This is all negated, of course, by my current discovery that I'm right on the average, so I'm not that far off, since I know I should've done better. It was my own arrogance in doing every question presented me, rather than read through the dirctions, that led to my downfall. In the words of Townshend et al, I won't get fooled again.

Today I woke up very reluctantly, attempting to finish Dora on the way to school, and had a conversation before my philosophy tutorial with another guy comparing notes on how tired we were. It'd been a long week and my body was out. I derived very little from the discussion because of this, on whether or not we can know anything and all that Descartes stuff. I was eager to... go.

In between tutorials, I swung by Innis (my go-to place for random computer lab usage) and, on my way to the Narrative tutorial, grabbed a sandwich from Wymilwood to keep in my backpack, as I'd neglected to pack my own lunch. It was the foreseen problem that I'd be too lazy in the morning to gather up all the materials.

This class proceeded well. I had a few thoughts on Dora, the notion of associative logic (as opposed to deductive or any other kind) and dream interpretation. Afterward, the girl I sit with and I went down to the TA's "office" (which is in fact just a table in a cafe called Butters at one residence off Devonshire.) I wasn't very sure of myself (this is not surprising to hear, I'm sure) and as the deadline is fast approaching for this essay I had only that day arrived at a topic. I wanted to bounce it off him and see if I could mine him for ideas on material. He wa svery receptive and thought it was a good idea, pitching possible ways to look for the connection. It's always good to make sure the person marking your work thinks it's a good idea beforehand (this lesson, I learned years ago in Commtech.) After getting through this discussion pretty quickly, he also thanked me for my participation throughout classes. Much of the class kept quiet all through the class, I was one of the few who seemed to actually be there and get stuff (whether what I was saying made sese or not, I can't even remember.) As I left I joked, telling him it was because I'd heard that all the marks are based on participation.

I felt good because ofthis; like for the first time in days or weeks, I'd done at least one thing right and someone had noticed. It seems silly or insignificant, but the truth is, I'm one sensitive dude. I guard myself pretty well, but shit gets to me a lot, and a few kind words from someone who partially has authority over me often helps.

I last found myself in Film Studies tutorial. This is probably th emost productive of all tutorials since we re-watch key scenes from the movies we watched two days earlier and the TA goes over exactly what significance they have to the lesson. It's not hard to see, but it helps to have it pointed at. The sound in "A Man Escaped" is obviously significant, but in ways that never occurred to me.

I'm sure I've commented on this before, but every week it feels fresh. There's this one guy who seems pathologically driven to be heard. My friend in that class mentioned there's one in every class, and I think she's right. As I was entering, I passed a dude who was leaving who sneered and muttered, "Try to have a good class." I said nothing in response, it seemed like a total non-sequitor. As he moved on, he noted, obviously "That was scarcasm." It was unreal, is what it was. The guy behind him just shook his head and shrugged. "I don't know what to tell you."

The guy in my class... compulsive arguer, chronic commentator. Like I said, needs to be heard. His normal speaking voice is like my outdoor voice (and at my average, I consider myself a pretty clear speaker.) Or really, my stage voice. When he mutters, it sounds like a regular conversation; he knows he's being heard, but pouts at the fact that he's toning it down. He raises his hand to make absurd remarks, deride the film we watched, or just hassle the poor TA (they have enough troubles!) Of course, I don't think he usually does raise his hand, and there were frequent instances where someone else was called on, but he spoke anyway. He has a habit of missing the point and won't let go of an argument until the other side concedes. When the TA moves on, he mutters his point to himself - which, as I've mentioned, is loud enough anyway that everyone can hear. He's also prone to side-conversation.

With my history, he's probably somehow reading this right now. I'd fight him, if I had to. I don't fight often, but when I do, it's for something I believe in. I'd be in the right.

I was tired enough by the end of the day that I fell asleep, head sloped, jaw agape, on the grain. Not in a subtle way, in the kind of way people gawk at. When I snapped awake (and this was only for the duration of about a station or two) I was embarrassed, whether anyone had actually seen or not (of course, as is usual, a girl was diagonal across from me, so she probably noticed.) I walked home, stopping by Esso to see Amanda. We may or may not be meeting up on Sunday.

After a quick dinner with dad (he had to work) and some writing, followed by some nothingness, I went out to play Risk with Pat and Chris in Pat's basement. I introduced them - finally - to How I Met Your Mother. They really dug it, especially reacting to the Barney character. The game itself was pretty lively, with Chris and I (through no actual intended planning) having Pat on the ropes before he decided, probably with good reason, to call it a night early just after midnight.

Amanda and I had this disagreement a while back whether Risk was less "geeky" than Dungeons and Dragons. I'll admit it's far from the hippest scene out there, but it's not quite D&D. D&D involves a level of fascination, attention and interest that is classic geekiness. Risk is more casual. I bet I could get a jury to agree with me.

Great quote from a Kerouac novel: "I'll be damned, the universe disposes of its own evil."

And me? Hah. I've got all the time in the world.

Keep on rockin'
-Your Everlovin' Scotto

Chapter 1: Defibrilator

These are the Adventures of Frida Kahlo and Amy Winehouse.

I wrote a note and stuck it in my pocket. "Remember the feeling of being bummed." I've been kind of down the last few days, except for a few-hour period of notability when I was virtually in a different dimension. Wednesday was kinda harsh to me. I schlepped my ass around campus from one class to another and just felt like a shade of myself. Pale, grey. I went from a lecture of Descartes in Philosophy to one on dream interpretation (*as in Feud and Dora) in Narrative... which also included a Halloween-themed screening of the Thriller video, largely muted except during the big dance sequence. There was a girl sitting behind me dressed in a Link outfit complete with a large sword (of the cardboard and tinfoil variety... awesome, really made the package) and a guy sitting down the row from me dressed as Paul Stanley. Well, not really dressed as Paul Stanley... he had silver face paint and a black star over his eye, and then was just dressed like some guy, with a casual shirt and stuff. I don't know, I think it's kind of funny to think of Paul Stanley relaxing at home with a newspaper in a pair of khakis and his Starchild makeup.

In film, we watched a couple interesting flicks... a short documentary from Luis Benuel (really, a mockumentary of sorts,) about a poverty-stricken region of Spain. Then, a very dry French flick called A Man Escaped. I fell asleep briefly in the beginning but was able to re-catch myself and plug back into the film. Ultimately, it was not hard to follow, or to note the significance of sound in it (as today's lesson was on sound.)

The last class of the day, poetry, was surprisingly a downer as I was just off a beat, if you catch my drift. Getting back my poetry analysis, I felt like a bit of a fuckup, a totally incompetant dude, just totally incapable of expressing myself in this thing. A shmuck. I got a not-half-bad mark, too, I just wasn't very proud of myself. I was just a little low from then on for a few hours after that. But it was a long night.

A lonely traveller, I sulked down to Union and had dinner there at Pizza 2 Go and boarded the train. I sat, sulking in silence, as it sped on in darkness. When it got to Oakville, I got off and then just stood in line at the Oakville GO station. I had to get to McMaster. So I bought a ticket to Aldershot, and would board a bus from there. I ran into somebody I knew from Grade school, obviously on her way to a costume party in Toronto. When the train arrived, I was alone. By the time I got to Alershot, I mean, alone. Nobody next to me. Nobody on the mid-level of the car. Nobody on the upper level, nobody on the lower. It was the Scott Williams private car, where he was sitting listening to the Doors on his iPod.

That station, in the darkness of 7:45 PM, felt like the edge of existence. IN reality, it's more like purgatory, a place between, barren and unpopulated, sure... but connected to other places. I got onto the coach bus, accompanied by only one other person, and watched the streetlights roll away.

We pulled into McMaster just after 8. I asked the driver what I'd have to do to get back to Oakville the next day, and she explained how simple it was (here again I prove how simple I am,) and I went off on my way. This encounter will prove to be irrelevant soon.

Here I began to feel the panic of being alone in a strange city and having no idea where I was supposed to be. Frantically I searched before finding a pay phone by a Mr. Sub on the corner of Main and Haddon. Cary had advised I borrow a cell phone and I was going to take Eric's, but at the last minute thought, "I'll be fine." And I was, but I would've been a lot finer with a cell. I called Cary and got directions to his house where I dropped my crap and unveiled my costume, the best I could do on less than 2 days notice - Pro Bowler. I had one of my old bowling shirts (the gaudiest one, with my last name printed on the back,) and a Bowlerama cap, and a wristguard.

Cary took me to the venue, a place called QQ's, which was a nice little basement-type venue with plenty of Cary's buddies, and... me. I got a few introductions, "This is Scott, my friend from high school, he's here to help." I basically chilled a while until I was needed. Around 9 people started filing in and of course, began wanting drinks. So, I joined the various people behind the curtain, although it was early yet and one of Cary's friends, a girl named Kara (or something similarly spelled) asked, "You don't need to worry, why don't you go hve fun?" And I guess I shrugged and said, "I don't know anyone, I'm cool doing this." And to be honest, as odd as that sounds, that's the real truth. I hate being some jabroni trapped in a crowd of strangers (which oddly enough, I am for a lot of the week.) Behind the bar, I felt a buzz. I began to get to know people by who came repeatedly for drinks. There was a Devilled Egg girl (you know the pun,) a guy in safety goggles and a Beaver cap, and then some troublemakers.

Available for consumption were "bitch keg," which was a mixed drink of punch and vodka, a non-alcoholic drink, and of course, beer in a keg. I don't know if the keg was tapped improperly, but there were symptoms of that... at first we were getting a ton of foam, and then the demand for beer started to outweigh the ability to supply, as it was slow-goings on the tap. So we had to put all the cups for beer in a line, and the line got long. So when people would ask for beer we'd try to sell them on something else. There were a couple guys, I guess understanishably, who weren't content to wait for their beer. After all, it was hot and noisy and crowded as fark in there. So this tall Jeff Bentley lookalike dude in a Blues Brothers costume starts making noise, and is joined by a stout fella in a terrorist getup. I don't know. Maybe I was charming enough to diffuse the situation but it was, as they say, touch-and-go. By this point, after being on my feet for extended periods and beset upon by these rabble-rousers, I sought breaks as often as possible.

I knew a few people at the party. Cary's old roommate Alex was there in a great visual pun "The Guy You Can Count On." Chapman and Nate were there, Cary's brothers from other mothers. Eventually I met a couple girls dressed as Frida Kahlo and Amy Winehouse, who were talking astrology. I told them I was a gemini and we mused on that for a while. Then, more drinking (I had been nursing a few cups from the bitch keg all night,) some dancing, and a raucous version of Bohemian Rhapsody that really tied the night up. Last I remember I was telling Amy Winehouse to "stay cool."

Somehow or other - and lord I can't recall how - I ended up going home, even though the plan had been to crash at Cary's. Kyle was good enough to give me a lift back to Oakville (after I called home, woke up my mom, and asked her to unlock the door.) I collapsed, legs sore and worn out, into bed around 3, and slept until 10.

Today was pretty nondescript. Astronomy, coffee, sandwiches, reading, train, etc, etc...

I just need to chill out. Oh, and to figure out what I'm gonna do for my Narrative essay.

Y'know, if it ain't one thing, it's another.

Keep on rockin'
-Your Scott