Ten: The answer is in the question

It's been a very tiring week and I'm glad it's over. Except the immediate future doesn't promise to be all that relaxing, so thinking about how unrelaxed I'm going to be just makes me more tense and causes me to be unable to focus on things. Julie told me today I overthink things. This is not inaccurate.

I was sitting in the lecture hall before class Wednesday night, eating my sandwich as usual, when it occurred to me I'd hardly said anything out loud at all that entire day. My friend Claire didn't show up for Shakespeare and I just got into this pattern of... quietness. I spent a long period between classes studying for my history midterm, noting down dotjots about various figures and events noted on the study sheet. I'm really bad at studying, but mostly because I tend not to take courses where studying is all that important. History is the exception there. Last year, when I took philosophy (still not sure why I did that) I studied my ass off for the final and nailed it. History remains to be seen. (That sentence goes in the "great possible album titles" folder.)

Anyway, I had been mute all day sitting in class waiting for American Lit to begin. The usual gang came in and sat behind me and started talking. I have a bad habit of eavesdropping, because I'm always right there and they just go on the way friends do - this is a guy and two girls. So, the guy starts going on about this guy he knew who went out and bought a Clash t-shirt, and the guy doesn't know much about that band, so he engaged this friend in conversation, asking "What's your favourite Clash song?" And the friend was just like "Oh I don't know, I jsut like the colour." And the guy went off for a while about how lame it is to wear a shirt for a band you don't really like. And I agree. I own exactly one band tee, The Clash London Calling, and it's because I love that album (everybody should.) I remember wearing that around White Oaks once, and Beth, who tried to harass me as often as she could, asked me what my favourite Clash song was. I paused for a moment and said "Um, I guess Death or Glory. Maybe Clampdown." This elicited no response off her.

Anyway, I happened to be wearing the Clash shirt under my overshirt that day, so I thought it would be funny to unbutton my shirt and leave the room and come back in and see if they noticed, but... well, the moment never arose.

Anyway. We were talking about Frank O'Hara, and we wound up doing some group work, so I actually interacted with these folks a fair bit, talking about the poem "A Step Away From Them." Who knows if they'll acknowledge me next week (or if I'll acknowledge them? It's a two-way street.) but at least it broke my streak of silence, because I got oddly animated during that discussion.

I was exhausted when I got home that night. And in trouble. My Midterm was the next day and frankly my studying was bollocks. So I made the somewhat foolish decision to get up early (only about a half hour later than my usual time) to kick around the Pratt Library studying for about an hour before my tutorial - sacrificing sleep for study-time. In fact, skipping the tutorial was on the table at one point, but by the time that was due to begin, I felt I had covered all my bases, and plus, I didn't want to miss the chance to talk about Maus.

The midterm was daunting but I had covered enough bases that I breezed the multiple choice portion (which was a blessing in and of itself. I probably got 7/10 at least,) and then the essay question was a kind of general question about Hitler and race and everything. Pretty big topic there, although at the end I still had like 5 minutes left so I dropped in their weird anecdote from Film History about Fritz Lang meeting Josef Goebbels... I'm worried I might lose points for getting somewhat off topic but in my sleep-deprived brain, and I stand by this, it seemed like a nice touch.

Today I slept in again. My bed is suddenly super-comfy and super-inviting these days, it's agonizing to have to leave it. This morning was rainy and dull and I just wanted to lie there forever in a half a dream. But no, I stepped out into the gray, wet world, like usual. It was an uninteresting day. Some presentations in Shakespeare, usual lecture in Can Lit. and by the time it was done, the sky had cleared up and it was nice, if a little windy.

Again, I find myself needing to get my priorities straight and find myself some motivation. Some days I think I just suck. Some days I think I don't give myself enough credit.

Tonight I dunno what to think.

More stuff to go over later. Keep on rockin'
-Scott

Nine: Her mission is destruction

I should make this quick but I should also make it thorough. I don't update as often as I like lately to because between having recently discovered F*** My Life, Sporcle.com and continuing my quest to finish off the backlog of Questionable Content (I have stalled in the mid-800's) I have enough boredom killers on my plate. Also I'm supposed to be doing school or whatever.

When I was a kid I used to be a geography buff. Particularly political geography - when I was in grade 5, Matt Fairley, Matty Oh and I won the Geography Challenge (I think it was Matty Oh - it was definitely Matt Fairley.) This later blossomed into my overall aptitude for trivia but for a while it was geography. Dad always points out how I learned to read from the illustrated atlas (as in, for kids. Lots of fun descriptions of faraway places, neglecting to mention the political turmoil that is everywhere.) My latest fascination has rekindled this - on the aforementioned Sporcle, they have a game where you attempt to name all 195 countries of the world in 15 minutes. My first try, I got 110, which is respectable. I've been able to expand this to about 170 through reinforcement (after all, they tell you all the ones you missed afterward.) The toughest area is Africa, with island areas like the Pacific and Caribbean also proving tricky, and until you get them memorized, the former USSR and Yugoslavia (after all, my illustrated atlas was circa 1991.)

A friend was recently telling me about his life and the various romantic possibilities that lay before him. There was a number of girls who seemed to be making overtures, but he suspected ultimately that he would hesitate and vacillate until all his possibilities dried up and he was left, like before, with nothing. I asked him then if he'd ever read QC, because frankly his life was starting to uncannily resemble it (so much more if you know who I'm talking about.) He said no, but apparently I had intrigued him to the point where he checked it out. And then I'm pretty sure that's all he ended up doing all weekend, and has by now likely surpassed my bookmark.

For my part, I spent the weekend quietly reading Maus for history. I've read it two or three times before, but it's a good read. Had to buy it at Comic Connections because it was out at the library (I sometimes suspect, in cases like these, that someone else in Oakville has a similar curriculum to me and is visiting the same libraries.) I also watched Empire Records at Amanda's behest. She was eager to know what I thought. It was okay, had some funny moments and some nice characters. But seeing it for the first time in 2009 is not the same as 1995.

Monday I woke up and got back to school. I was inexplicably pissed off all day (perhaps stemming from the fact that I'd enjoyed my vacation so much.) A lot of little things that aren't supposed to bother me were really grating my nerves. I'm starting to lose tolerance for other peoples' conversations. At first I was thinking I was just jealous because they had someone to talk to and I almost never do, but then I decided, equally or more likely, I just think other people are generally assholes. This person was going off on "pity awards" from the Oscars, like Heath Ledger, and why he was glad Mickey Rourke didn't win. He (or was it she? Can't remember now) failed to impress me with this attitude. Invoked in me a sense of sadness from lack of priorities.

I've long since ceased to feel any true investment in the Oscars - which I had even when, like today, I haven't seen most or any of the nominated films. I haven't seen either Milk or the Wrestler. I only know the performances from the trailers. From what I can tell, Penn gave a really weak, Queeny, Jewey, faggy, stereotypical performance, whether Harvey Milk was like that or not. Rourke gave a decent, if very by-type, performance as a tough guy on the brink of emotional exhaustion. Or something. This is just from the trailers though - let those who actually saw both be the judges (and they were.)

About Heath Ledger though... come on. Best Supporting Actor is hardly the place to be making a stand about the integrity of the Oscars. It's a variety award. You get it for playing a comic relief or a crazy villain - your Javier Bardems, Antohny Hopkins, Chris Coopers, Cuba Gooding Jrs... Joe Pesci, Kevin Kline. It was a perfect role for this sort of thing, a place to establish an interesting, unusual, spellbinding character on the edge of a larger story. Would he have won the award if he were still alive? Does it matter? Who gives a fuck? He's not. And frankly, I think he probably would have, since they went ahead and nominated Robert Downey Jr. for his crazy-ass blackface comedy role.

But like I said. I have long since passed my fascination with such matters into a mere passing curiosity. I don't root for particular pictures much, I just observe with curiosity who does win. The fact that someone sitting behind me in my Film History class felt the need to go off like that underscores how different I am from so many of these people. Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, and all.

I ran into my old TA Adam (he often buzzes around Innis, my homebase, and the homebase of Cinema Studies) and we talked a while on the Oscars, he opined lowly of Danny Boyle, and then another classmate came by and they talked at length about films I have not seen. Thanks guys. My own fault I guess.

Tuesday I slept in. Felt half-decent all day, though. Go figure.

Tomorrow I have a History Midterm and I am not happy about it. Half multiple choice, half essay. G-Ulp.

Maybe I should've cracked the books harder over the break, but I was sick and easily distracted. After tomorrow I'll be considerably de-stressed and hopefully motivated to write some papers.

Hopefully.

Oh, Lord.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

Eight: Marry the Pie

This, was my advice to Joe, after he told me what his girlfriend did for him on Valentine's. She made him dessert, some kind of brownie-pie concoction, drizzled with chocolate and/or some kind of syrup. If it doesn't work out with Viki, he should probably just marry the pie.

Tonight I will probably be staying in and feeling good about it. Despite my broken pledge (there's still time, sure...) with regards to my history paper, I feel I have made good use of my Reading Week. Tuesday being the main exception, but every day but that one has been spent in part at least with a friend, or multiples. I can rest easy tonight.

I spent the bulk of Thursday, when we last saw our hero, recuperating from the massive, sudden, intense cold I had incurred sometime between Tuesday night and Wednesday afternoon. I already told you the details of my convalescent period on the couch. It was grim, I tell you. But as we know, the next morning I woke up with pretty much only a sore throat remaining of my woes. They doubt you ColdFX, but I know your ways. You won't give your blessings to the non-believers, and so I am sanctified. Or something.

After grocery shopping and a hasty dinner of chicken nuggets, (my appetite wasn't up but then again I probably should have eaten more,) I found myself at WOSS to see their latest Sears play, Love Diatribe. I arrived just in time to catch the girl at the door to ask me "Student or adult?" I smiled and said, "What do I look like?" She said I was borderline and charged me for student. Woooo. I went and sat next to CB, amongst my fellow grads.

It was an enjoyable show. The play itself was kinda what I get in mind whenever I think negatively on the idea of live theatre. Very stagey is all. I know that seems appropriate when you consider it is, you know, a stage play, but I just think it isn't quite in line with some of the previous successes that school has had, dating back to Einstein and Twelve Angry Men (or the more comedic takes like Dandy Dungood, which admittedly you need someone like Chris and Pat to do effectively.) Still, the performances were generally strong, particularly Sam Hogan and Jeff Lyons as the overbearing elderly parents, and the young girl who played Frieda, who was part exchange student part mythical creature. Or maybe I misunderstood the play (deliberately.) Well. Whether it will do well at Sears, I couldn't say, because the entire process of Sears judgment is far beyond my understanding. They've done some really good shows that went on. Then again, I also understand some sihtty shows went on as well. Capricious as the adjudicators.

It was kind of like... when I was young, when I was in Grade 7 and I went to see Sometimes I Wake Up in the Middle of the Night, in which Eric had a monologue, and I was there to see the one person I knew and was too far removed from the other castmembers to notice them. Even though it's often been the case that I don't know a lot or all of the participants (particularly last year's) this was the one I've felt most distant from and that issue certainly isn't going to improve itself. I figured last year would be the last one I'd see, but I wound up at this one because it became part of the plan (and admittedly, I did know two people in it.)

The plan, of course, was bowling. It had been in the works for some time, back to a few weeks ago when, mind idly wandering during a lecture, I wondered how I was going to even spend my reading week, whether anything would happen. I decided I needed to make it happen, and to make it happen I would enlist the bowling alley. And yeah, everyone pretty much balked at my initial idea to have it on what was technically Valentine's Day (although it was good enough for Allan, it seems it would have a different effect with a group of dudes,) everyone was keen to reschedule for Thursday, let's go see the play first, and off we go.

So after the play, we hung around a while, congratulating the people we knew, chatting up the fellow grads... Cassie, Laura and Kate, and Janessa had also shown up. As did Hetherington, who invited himself along to bowling. We caught up with Rosser a while. He's getting married in a matter of weeks (I asked him, will he be keeping his own name?) Finally, after extending invites to come bowling all around, we headed out. The six of us (me, CB, Chris, Pat, Adam and RyLai who wasn't at the play but we picked up after,) was a good number, as it worked out to $10 apiece for the $30 lane fee plus $5 each for shoes. When we arrived, CB got a mysterious text saying "Chris I don't know if this is your number but if you still want someone else to bowl I have a $5 coupon at Classic Bowl." It was Cassie. CB explained that we had a "full lane" (which is somewhat more polite than saying "We could have you along but it would be less convenient.") It was a good group, although I joked later to Chris that given the choice, I'd have swapped Adam out for Cassie. (Earlier, she had referred to the situation as a "sausage party," which despite accuracy, has absolutely no positive connotation.)

We got down to business immediately. I, bowling with a 10-pounder (comically undersized compared to what I used to roll with) opened with a strike and that continued as the theme of the night as pitchers were bought freely and repeatedly, until Feria, my old pal the barmaid, cut us off at 3 (which amounts to roughly 3 drinks each.) In the entire first ten frames I left exactly one pin standing, with 5 strikes, ending up with a 204, which is significantly better than my usual performance in non-league play, and even well beyond what I usually did in leagues. I was just kinda on fire, dedicating my performance to the possible butterface with the nice bosoms on a nearby land (and her semi-thuggish boyfriend.) Pat, Chris Ferg and RyLai all kinda middled, and Adam and CB had a tight race for last. I had instituted a bed (still not sure why they agreed but why ask why,) stating that the last-ranked should buy the first-ranked a drink at the bar. In the end, Adam prevailed, and CB owed me a drink. After the first game ended and our time dwindled, we hurriedly speed-bowled, which resulted in a couple instances of us hitting the guard for the pins (something Val & the managers detest.) We didn't get shit but we laughed our asses off.

A few nights earlier, CB had asked if I had wanted to get a drink, but at the time I was out with Robyn. Oddly enough, if he had texted me rather than MSN, he would have found that we were at the Tim Hortons nearby to his bar and I wouldn't have minded a quick one. So when I got home and learned of his offer, I texted him back saying we'd get one later that week, and it just morphed into a plan for after bowling. Everyone was keen to go along with it, as the entire gang was eager to cap off the Big Lebowski theme of the night with White Russians (excluding CB for reasons not related to his driving. He had a shot of jack.) So we went to CB's home bar, the Stout Monk, where his favourite waitress was done for the night and we were left in the care of Blondie McGee. After a round of caucasians, (general consensus: a good drink,) we switched it up a bit. CB, Pat and Chris got beers and the other three of us got G&T's. Pat and Chris also split a plate of nachos. However, there was a mis-communication when Chris very clearly and explicitly said they wanted the cheap nachos and ended up getting the $14 "Monk Nachos" with all the fixins.

We talked life, school and Lost, until Pat tried to arrange the bill with Blondie. We had arranged this cockamaimie scheme according to which of us had paid for the pitchers, wherein each of the other three would be paired with one and pay for part of their tab. The intention was to get three bills, but when Pat attempted to convey this arrangement to her, she got this weird look in her eyes. As she walked away I looked over at Pat and told him, "Dude, there's like a 50% chance you just ordered us another round." Pat felt confident that the message had been properly sent, but sure enough she turned up with 5 more White Russians and another shot of Jack. Well, what could we do? We drank them and asked for the bill - this time, CB was enlisted to help draft them up.

Then it was over to Pizza Pizza (since McD's was closed) so that hungry persons could get eats. That place is designed for drunken/high adventures, I tell you, they're open until 2, and who else is ordering pizza at 2? Pat debated whether or not he actually wanted to go back for another drink, while Adam had a pizza to himself. I promised him, "Adam, I will give you $2 if you can finish that by yourself right before my eyes." He did not, but partly because time ran out. Finally it was time to go. CB, who'd good and sobered up by this point, (it's important to know one's limits and capabilities,) dropped us one by one, with me at the end to advise him in his intentions on breaking the Platinum Rule (Bro Code article 83.) Of course, this only applies to "co-workers," verbally, so... who knows.

But you know, it seems like thoughts of romance have been flitting around many of my friends' heads of late. Maybe it's the time of year. It was just Valentine's day, it's cold, dark, lonely, people get bored. A friend just asked me to survey his Facebook interactions with a girl to see if it seemed she was into him. I decided she probably was, but had best not dawdle. I couldn't see his side of it (irony: when it comes to reading other peoples' wall conversations, you can never see what your friend wrote, only what the other person wrote to your friend) but she seemed to be playing it cutesy enough that he had a good chance. So I advised capitalization.

Then a little while later, I thought about it, and while my opinion didn't change, my perspective did. After all, when it comes to these matters, I have a terrible track record. I mean seriously. I practically need a signed affidavit from a girl before I can believe whether or not she's into me (except those delightful cases where I've just met the lass that night, in which case, I err on the side of go for it.) What do I really know? But Friend, if you're reading this, know that I did not act merely out of ignorance. I told you what I honestly believe, and I told you what I always wished someone would tell me when I get in these situations. Just to go for it and worry later. Lay it on out there, because a little short-term awkwardness is generally better than the alternative, of not knowing.

Anyway. I woke up today and got comics, then went and hung out with Chris Ferg to see his long-awaited EuroDoc. There's some good stuff in there. It was nice to get the objective details on what went down during that trip.

I have no idea what, if anything, I'll do this weekend. But I feel good.

See the world how you like it,
if necessary, marry the pie,
and keep on rockin'
-Scotto

Seven: Where the enemy sleeps

Man oh man. I can feel reading week slipping through my fingers. It's Thursday. not that the week has been a loss at all, except that at one point I had the absurd ambition to actually write a paper. Go figure.

I've been ill, a little bit. Tuesday night I felt myself getting stuffed up a bit and took a Cold FX. Actually, it was an extra-strength Cold FX, right before bed. This was like dropping a hydrogen bomb on my sinuses. I spent most of the night kinda drowning in my own snot. It was nasty.

And this, this is what you've come here for.

Feeling basically all right the next day, I met up with Joe at Sheridan. we talked school, life, music, friends, the usual various topics that come up when we're around. At one point, Anthia, a girl we'd known in PJour who is now a year ahead of Joe in Broadcast, came by and taped us for some b-roll (or as I still call it, Bileski-roll,) and then we went to see Nathan and catch up with him. As we wandered the halls, I ran into my old friend Steph, aka Peaches, the original SWP stalker, who has been enjoying first year Print Journalism. I haven't seen her since I was first-year in Print Journalism. Things seem to be going well for her.

I went home and started feeling ill. I started by doing my usual routine of going about my business when I feel under the weather, but the urge to curl up on the couch was simply too great, as I bundled myself up in layers of hoodie, touque, bathrobe and blanket to to feel cozy, drinking tea and watching Lost. And popping more Cold FX.

It was a tumultuous sleep, I'll tell you, but once I zonked out, I zonked good and when I woke up the only thing that seemed to be wrong were sniffles and a sore throat. The sore throat persists. Usually when you're sick the worst of it comes at the beginning of the day, when you've been asleep and stewing in it all night, so I take that as just another piece to add to my collection of evidence that ColdFX is magic. After all, that's only one day into a course of it. Consider by comparison my mom, who was sick all of last week (and I reckon therefore the reason I got sick.) I'm not 100% better, but I feel capable of going bowling tonight, which is good. It's been a bitch to get this thing organized, and I'd hate to bail now. The guys seem pretty pumped.

So today I'm just kicking around, trying to get back to normal, popping ginseng. I ought to be in ship shape if not by tomorrow then the day after. Maybe I'll do some writing... maybe I'll work on that paper...

Most likely, I'll play some Guitar Hero.

You know how it goes. Thanks for having me into your home.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

Six: Tuesday's Gone

Ah yes, it's been a whiles... time to go back a few days and try to remember every little goddamn thing in my life over the past few days. The things I do for you people. And what thanks do I get? Where are my kudos? Sigh... well it's a labour of love.

So I got up Sunday around 11:30 after my long Saturday night hanging out with Chris. After showering and puttering around in preparation, Eric showed up, which was unexpected. We caught up a little, and then went over to Grandma's for her 80th birthday. There was some drama regarding whether my cousin Kris and his fam would show up from Windsor, and ultimately they did not.

It was nonetheless a busy scene, from about 1 to 5. Legions of family members I'd not seen in years showed (did not speak much to them) and many others I hadn't seen in perhaps ever, such as my mom's dad's side of the family. They were the most eager to chat me up on account of their rare presence. Oddly enough, aunt Sharman, usually quite keen to talk my ear off, didn't say anything to me. I felt somewhat disappointed, even though I'd have squirmed my whole way through it. The place was positively crawling with kids. The baby boom that started about 5 years ago has left such a legacy. Apart from my direct cousins, the only one I know off by heart is my mom's cousin Aaron's daughter Reece (who is half Asian, so I always get brought to mind of Jon & Kate Plus 8. Just a little racist? Perhaps.)

Throughout the whole time a slideshow of old photos was playing, with thoughtfully chosen music nobody could hear over the conversation. The big moment was a presentation of memories, which we were all asked to bring along - a written down memory, a photo, or (and this was repeatedly stated,) a poem. I got the feeling that the "poem" option was directed at me, as about 6 or 7 years ago I went through a phase where I was writing poems left and write for such occasions, until I had done just about everyone and was running out of subject matter. I decided to bring it back for this occasion, because I've been studying and practicing and improving. But when the time came, I was too nervous and not all that fond of what I'd written. I mean it's nice and sweet, and I meant it, it's just not... up to my personal standard. So I didn't read it, but I did put it out for people to read, and it got some positive remarks.

B and I walked home around 5:30 and then a few hours later (after an improvised dinner because the whole birthday deal was a lunch thing) I was at the Fergusons' for a Risk game. It was me, Chris, CB, RyLai, Cary and Kyle Chapman starting around 11:20, with the Office season 2 as the background. It wa sa pretty basic 6-man game, with Kyle beign first out, then CB, and then everyone being simply too tired to proceed around 2. The game was also disrupted by some tactical errors on my part. That's my MO, really, in Risk as in life... I simply can't capitalize on a good thing, never know what to attack. I vacillate. I'm Hamlet.

So I went home around 3, got up the next morning and bummed around, mostly reading the entire backlog of F*** My Life for about 4 hours, before getting a call from Robyn (I had called her earlier.) It was hangout time. We spent about 2 hours sitting in a Tim Hortons talking life, poetry, family, love, the nature of perception of reality, and pie.

Today again I managed to avoid doing anything resembling productivity. Tomorrow this may also be the case, as I will be meeting up with Joe. Last night I fell asleep on the couch around 11 and woke up around 2 with a sore back. It has been that way for the entirety of the day. I thought I was through with this. Life sucks. Blahhhh.

What happened to that paper I was intending to write.... hrm.

Keep on rockin'
-Your own Scotto

Five: How do I make it work?

It's late but I have been putting off writing for a while and I hate that. I've got Grandma's 80th birthday tomorrow so I don't want to feel compelled to add that on top of everything that's happened since Thursday (which admittedly isn't a ton, but it's some.)

I spent a bit of Wednesday night feeling kinda sorry for myself. You know how it goes. I go through these perfectly explicable phases of sensitivity, you know, you've seen. That's me. For no particular reason (maybe it was the Sylvia Plath) I was totally bummed out about my life after AmLit. Then I got to Union station and found a familiar friendly face. Becky, whom I hadn't seen in weeks or maybe months. Just what I needed. We caught up and mused on the inconvenience of running into people on the train you have nothing to say to. You have to be able to fill a train ride with conversation, which we could. Things seem to be going well for her, and it rubbed off on me a bit.

Anyway, I was feeling ragged the next morning and none to eager to go to school, but for whatever reason I was compelled to get up and at 'em. Since Thursdays are a different schedule from the rest of the week I've struggled somewhat to adapt. It was cutting it close when I decided I was going to go all the way to the mall for coffee (and a doughnut) to catch the bus. Not bright, in and of itself. I hustled my ass to the Tim Hortons. It was quick goings except as they were getting my order an elderly lady came up and pestered my cashier about warming up her coffee. And I just wanted to punch her in the face and scream "As we speak a bus is pulling away from this mall and I gots to be on it! Hurrf!" Except it's generally considered impolite to knock old ladies down, even over matters of punctuality. Well I was very tense until they finally gave me my drink and I bolted. Well, I made it, but just barely - it was one of those scenes where I'm rushing toward the bus stop, coffee held aloft in one hand, out of breath, pained expression on my face... I don't get a lot of exercise these days. I had to count out my change while the bus was in motion, always fun.

I went through the day with a sense of boldness after having reconciled my ridiculous desire for coffee with my need to be on time. I dislike Thursdays because I have to go to a tutorial, and then to a lecture for the class the tutorial is for. So basically, we talked Hitler for 2 hours.

Glossing over the next couple days, Friday I finally typed up this long-ass poem I'd been scrawling in my notebooks over the past week. I'd write in giant chunks between classes or on the train or before bed, in my little gray notebook where I typically practice doodling. It was written across four pages in one paragraph each, stream of consciousness. I tied together all these stray lines I'd collected over the weeks, most of which I figured would be different pieces. It wasn't my usual mode of tightly-crafted rhythm and rhyme, this stuff was free verse. I usually complain about free verse because I think poets who write predominantly in free verse are lazy. This isn't the case, clearly, but I just feel the confessional free verse explosion of the late 20th century (Ginsberg, Plath, onward,) had a negative effect on the medium. Like, if you want to write rhythm and rhyme, you go be a pop songwriter. Well, bah. I was perusing the previous issue of the Hart House Review (a campus lit mag I have submitted a few pieces to - fingers crossed...) and after clicking a few random selections I found they were all giant blocks of free verse text. Basically, prose poetry. A prose poem is good, but I hate the idea that all of these writers are making their writing the same, and worse yet the idea that mine might not be accepted because it does not fit that mold terrifies me.

Anything can be good. I write in every mode that interests me - rhythmic free verse, prose, stream of consciousness, sonnet, A-B rhyming... anything can be good. Leonard Cohen, e.e. cummings, Ginsberg, T.S. Eliot, William Carlos Williams, Robert Frost, Dr. Seuss. All great, diverse writers, all worth emulation. Modern poetry bores me. There were some good writers visited us in the seminar last year, none of their stuff was giant self-indulgent blocks of text.

So, I've written these giant self-indulgent blocks of text. Because gosh darnit, everyone does it, I might as well once. It unloads all my self-deprecations, my nervousness about meeting girls, creating poetry, art, the city, other peoples' relationships... it's a very sprawling work, laden with a shitload of metaphors and symbols, a large portion of which pertain to fish.

I stayed up late last night with B. watching Friday the 13th Part 3-D. It's one of the better ones because of how ridiculous it is, but you can tell they had no idea how powerful they would ultimately make Jason, because you can actually hear him grunting with strain at points.

Today, coffee with Amanda as per usual. Wedding talk, work talk, school talk, Scott's loneliness talk, the usual routine. Manda had had Valentine's date with Bryan the night before, at the Keg, where they paid with a gift card, leading to an amusing scenario where they had to provide a tip having completely forgotten to bring cash.

I was supposed to hang out with Robyn (it being Reading Week, the theme of the week is "see as many people as possible") but as often happens, things got pushed around. Another time...

I ran into this girl I used to work with at HMV, a fellow temp, who works at Shoppers. I'd be lying if I said I hadn't realized she worked there. I find it amusing to chance upon people I know at their workplaces, when possible (and when I am bored.) Later that day, I went to pick up some Swiss Chalet, and I ran into Robyn's younger sister working there, who is quite freakishly similar in her mannerisms and dispositions. I once witnessed them have a conversation and it was terrifying. Anyway, she asked me what I was doing, and I said "picking up some dinner," because goddamn I simply cannot turn off the charm and wit. Then I told her to tell Robyn I said hi (who knows if she actually did) and went home and ate chicken.

Because neither of us had anything to do, and he had to watch his dog, I hung out with Chris Ferg tonight. I went over to his place, had a few beers, watched some How I Met Your Mother/Always Sunny in Philadelphia, caught up, napped a bit, ate biscotti... good times.

That brings up about up to speed on the last several days.

My aim is true. Keep on rockin'
-Scott

Four: Who do you want to be tonight?

Oh, SWP. you understand me better than anyone.

So a couple nights ago - Sunday, by my count, when the last post was made - I was feeling kinda stressed. It's hard to express exactly what was bothering me at the time. Some of it is easy to explain, some of it is the usual, and some of it is so irrelevant that if this were another site I wouldn't waste the energy trying to explain. Fortunately, I think Blogspot can manage the bandwidth.

What's easy to explain is the school situation. I had to write up a "prospectus" for my history term paper due today. Like everything related to school I'm not really on top of this. Last Thursday in my tutorial some guy turned to me and asked what I was planning on writing about. I said I had no idea. Then I improvised and said I was thinking about doing a paper on the economic climate in Weimar Germany that allowed the Nazis to ascend to power. He thought a moment and concurred that was a very fertile subject. I was pleased with myself that my short-notice bullshitting skills, while slightly rusty, are far from gone. So Sunday night I was all "bugger, I've got to do this shit and I've got jack." Yesterday I took care of business by climbing aboard the computer, researching every book I could find with Hitler and the Economy as subjects (turns out, a fair number) and hunting them down at Robarts. I love the Robarts stacks. They're fucking creepy. It's such a cliche of librarianism. Alyssa, if you still read this, I bet you really dig those stacks. Now I've got about 7 hardbound books on Nazi Economy sitting in my locker at Innis (there's $10 well spent!) waiting for me to pull out juicy quotes.

So one prospectus down, one other one to go (although this one is called an abstract or something. Fuck inconsistent nomenclature.) This would be film history. I e-mailed my TA about a week or more ago with a potential topic and she just... never got back to me. And I was so caught up in all my other shit (or, you know, nothing) that I didn't e-mail her again to check. So I'm going to type this thing up, slap some partial bibliography on it and call it a day. I was having a talk with this guy I know who is in both Film History and Contemporary Europe and he seems to have similar habits as I do, although he seems to have it better in hand. I am a very secret fuckup.

On top of this, Shakespeare. I really gotta finish Lear (or at least find a good scene to analyze. Goddamn.) Kinda under the gun on that one, too.

Next week is going to be a pretty busy reading week. But finishing up that History prospectus and finding all them books really helped ease my stress. In my panic I turned to the sweet release of MSNing someone you've not spoken to in a while: in my case, Robyn, who was, thankfully, all too glad to hear my vaguely-outlined pleas. Her solution, which I liked, was that we should hang out at some point over the break. And so we shall!

I'm relieving my stress somewhat with writing. I've been putting those random lines of poetry to good use by stringing them together into one very, very large conceit about fish (that is, a lengthy prose poem about commitment, loneliness, creative and sexual frustration, city life, and... fish.) It's been so gratifying to just pour all this shit out onto the page. I actually enjoy the process of creating this one. I do about a page every day or so, to a planned five (maybe less.) Anyway, this is all good pen-to-paper stuff, which is the most gratifying form of writing in my view.

That'd be the "usual stuff" - the creative frustration, the schoolwork, the pining for human interaction. Nothing out of the ordinary for SWP.

The irrelevant stuff comes into play when I explain that Sunday night I was engaged in the battle for the life of a dog. Not my own, or even a real one - Vincent, the dog from Lost. See, there's this game we play on forums, Hurt or Heal, where you list a bunch of characters (in this case, from Lost) and they get 3 points. You then have to post that you HURT them (take a point away) or HEAL them (add one.) You can't post twice in a row, obviously, and I was desperately going back and forth with this other guy, as I tried to save Vincent. I was up at about 7 points but he wouldn't let up, and I knew I would eventually lose because I was getting no support and I didn't have the time or energy to sit around refreshing my browser to see when he would hurt the dog again. Eventually, yesterday, due to my commute, he seized the opportunity and killed the dog. It hurt to lose, but it was a load off, I guess. Like I said, it was kind of inevitable. The deck was stacked against me. I just really wanted to save that dog.

Meanwhile, this situation with my monitor has got me bummed. My dad was willing to go to the extreme of buying me a laptop to just clearcut the problem, since he couldn't get a video card to work with this motherboard. Well, ballz. So it's either $500 laptop (of which I'd pay about half and feel guilty) or have my dad re-install my old motherboard, let my computer go back to its previous slowness, allowing my monitor to have a valid resolution. I don't know why I talked myself into delaying the laptop, which is objectively a good idea. In this day and age, desktops - for home, if not office - makes less sense. It's just that, well, I've got this computer, and it works okay except for this one thing, why spend $500 I don't really have, nor does my dad? You get the idea.

I was walking by WOSS the other day (yesterday) to pick up a book at the library and drop a movie off at Blockbuster, when I ran into Guthrie. He seemed very glad to see me, and glad to briefly catch up in a stop-n-chat about my recent U of T exploits, correctly surmising that I was commuting, and noting that he was glad to hear I was doing what I am. That made me feel good.

So... there. I've let all that stuff out. Pretty good scattered blog entry without any real point to it. Just like the good old days (which my or may not have ever happened.)

With that in mind, keep on rockin'
-Scott

Three: I can't account for it

A quick one tonight. I'm considering going to bed at a relatively early time and I thought, how remiss would I be if I didn't try to bang out a pointless entry, like in the olden days? These days, I sit around and wait for stuff to happen, so time drags on between entries and I end up summarizing everything anyway.

This weekend wasn't much of a weekend. There's some sickness going around, mom's felt ill since Friday. Max is going senile, walking in circles intermittently all week. Me, losing patience for the things I wish weren't so. And procrastinating. Nothing special.

Saturday, after seeing Amanda, and everything else, dinner at dad's. He came over afterward to fiddle with my computer. There was this whole thing with a motherboard and a DVD burner and it was all over my head anyway. It amounted to him spending three hours re-wiring my system. To entertain myself while he did that (since I would normally have spent those three hours on the computer, doing nothing in particular,) I played Guitar Hero 4 - mostly songs I thought dad might appreciate; Hotel California, Ramblin' Man, Sweet Home Alabama (at which I lost, on expert.) Around that point my wrist got tired and I decided just to watch episodes of Flight of the Conchords on OnDemand, which he seemed to like, actually. Never can tell when dad will respond to something. Odd tastes.

Anyway, eventually things get sorted out, but now the resolution on my monitor's out of whack because I need a new video card. This is why people say "If it ain't broke, don't fix it." Whenever something gets fiddled with on my computer, one or two other things also suddenly need jostling. One problem after another. "Don't get a car," advises Julie. I laugh. Like I needed another reason not to get a car. I'd still like to get my G1 very very soon. More pressing matters, though.

I have a lot on my plate and not a lot going on. Every tiny insignificant thing seems to stress me way out of proportion. It's hard to articulate - oddly enough, a word I had to search my mind for all day. Articulate. Go figure.

This is the kind of stuff that causes people to withdraw into themselves, but I think it would be nice if I don't do that. If I stand my ground and take every goddamn thing as it comes. Yes, I will write out my prospectus for my history paper, and we'll fix my computer up and do my reading and before you know it it'll be the break and I will be able to refresh myself. Something tells me I'll need more than a week to recover my sanity, but a week will have to do.

Friday night was weird. I hardly slept, and when I was, I had this ridiculous dream about this girl I used to know (haven't spoken to her in what seems like years.) We were lying in bed - which was in the middle of a mall - talking. Just talking. It reminds me of a line in Half-Past (a new one) which Cary loved, "Are you such a prude that you don't even want to get laid in your own dream?" Apparently so.

Things are bad and good all at once these days. There's potential and there's pain. Life is contradictions my friends. If I don't go to bed soon I won't have gone to bed early at all. I bought a new iPod dock. I hope it works.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

Two: Safely returning home

I think my new coat may have magic properties.

I exaggerate. Admittedly, it's a really good-looking coat, fits perfectly, is warm enough for the recent temperature downturn, was reasonably-priced, and found in a store I had previously loathed. That's a great collection of attributes right there. More than that, I... I think girls like it.

There's no one incident to prove this, but you can certainly say that it makes sense that looking less like a hobo would be appealing to the ladies. It could also be that they're responding more to the new attitude the coat has given me. Walking around in that coat makes me feel like a nicer, more affable person. One who no longer carries the baggage of 6 years of frustration in his giant pockets. No longer walks with slumped shapeless shoulders. A man with some modicum of pride and self-respect. And you know what they say... fake it 'til you make it.

Interlude: I love gin so much. In the right proportion, a Gin & Tonic (or Gin & 7-Up in this case) will cause you to get drunk without even realizing it's happening. Not unlike the magic Kool-Aid at ArtSci Halloween. That should tell you a bit about how to read this entry.

So this coat. I'm walking around feeling all self-confident and stuff. In places like the GO train and TTC I keep noticing girls' glances shifting my way, something that really didn't happen with the old coat. I'm having vibrant conversations with people in my classes (Film History) I had previously only nodded and waved at. The big case I've got though, was in American Lit.

Now, I've kind of got a love/hate thing going on with AmLit. I really like the class - the readings are uniformly good, the prof is insightful, and I somehow don't even mind that it takes me until 9:45 to get home (thus thwarting my desire to watch Lost) nor that I have to eat my dinner (usually a BLT, about which I've recently become self-conscious) sitting in my seat before class starts. But the problem is that the seat I have chosen as my territory is adjacent to these people... they're really nice, and they're a small group of really good friends, and they have their friend conversations right behind me, and I just want to turn around and go "Hey, I have some thoughts on this!" And occasionally I do, and then feel like a douche for doing so. So what I'm getting at is that I feel isolated - them behind me having fun, me in my deserted row, alone and quiet, eating.

So this past week I'm half of a BLT deep when this girl sidles up. The row is empty and she chooses the seat one apart from me (unless you know someone, or seating is super-tight, you never sit directly next to someone. Besides, I was using that seat's desk for my sandwich.) I glance over, and she's well... cute. Pretty. Hot. My dark-haired/light-skinned/red-lipped type (this is what always seems to catch my eye but is by no means the only thing I like.) Well, lucky me, I think, even though I've got nothing to say and no cause to talk to her. The lively conversation behind us picks up in volume as the prof starts reading the attendance.

"I can't hear him," says the girl.

I'm not sure why she said it. It was a valid observation - the room was getting loud - but did it need to be said? Did it warrant a response? After my initial shock that someone had struck up a conversation with me (although it's been known to happen, just not normally in this place and time,) I came up with a short riff on getting him a nice big sound system, or a bullhorn, or something.

It was a good class. We looked at Howl, which brought back all kinds of wonderful memories from Grade 12 (and I mean that in all sincerity.) We listened to a reading of it and got good and deep into the meaning of the poem as far as its construction and its being a representation of beat writing. Rayter opined that it was the most widely-regarded (or best) poem of the latter-20th century, noting some compared it favorably with the Wasteland as the best poem of the entire 20th Century - expressing doubt about this, but noting it anyway.

Of course, for my money, the best poem of the century may have been "This is Just To Say" by William Carlos Williams, but that's subjective anyhow.

So after class I resumed conversation with this girl, not accidentally, and she indulged me a bit about the piece before we got to talking about the final and stuff. And then we went our separate ways.

Look, I clearly don't have a lot going on, what did you expect? A moonlight serenade?

I don't know why this innocent conversation with a new acquaintance should mean so much, and I certainly don't mean to objectify or obsess over this one girl (whose name I did get, but will not reveal over reasons of objectification and obsession) but all the same, it's progress. It's interaction. I spend so much time on the train, leaving and returning to school and home, it's a miserable feat to try to forge a real human interaction sometimes. I'd been in a rut when it came to this class especially. So maybe I'll never see her again (that much I doubt since we're in the same class and all) but it was a nice moment.

Another possibility is that I am simply losing my grip on reality altogether. On Wednesday night I had to call my brother Eric because at some point I became obsessed with the idea something bad had happened to him, and needed to hear his voice.

This week died a slow, agonizing death. Thursday was pretty brutal because I had to face the harsh realities of my History class' upcoming midterm. After grocery shopping, I was relaxing as per usual with popcorn and the Office, when Cary messaged me (which he relatively rarely does) asking whether I was in Oakville that night (an odd question, since I wouldn't be anywhere else, I don't think.) He said he was too, a remarkably subtle way of trying to hang out. I was torn between my desire to actually do something and the fact that I had class the next morning. He said he had a dentist appointment the next morning anyway, so I said fuck it, I'll come over for a few hours, what's the harm? So I got there just before 10.

Cary, not long ago, floated the idea of doing Half-Past Eight PM in Hamilton. He actually first attempted it in first year, but lacked casting resources. After I re-wrote the play and it was not accepted into the Vic Drama Festival (potentially because I am not technically a Vic student,) I think he got the idea to try it for one of the various drama things that happen in Hamilton over the summer. Sure, I says, and I sent him the script. And after some stalling, he tells me a few nights ago he's filling out the application. Wicked.

So we spent last night going over the script and hammering out the dents in the script, awkward workings, continuity errors, that kind of thing. There are a number of references to High School in there and he wanted to make the timeline more vague so the play would be relatable, so it became ambiguous as to whether they were talking about high school or University (there are also a number of allusions to university already in the script - Perry's fiancee is in school, apparently a Grad Student, and the girl he cheats with also mentions it.) Some other stuff. Basically we went through it line by line and read it aloud to get a sense of what worked, what could be improved, etc. A little workshopping session. It was productive and fun. Eric, the person with whom I have collaborated most over my lifetime, has always seen me as averse to criticism, that I hate having my ideas altered in this way, that I'm defensive. I think he's thinking of a very different time, long before we even created Sewerman, where that was the case. Eric and I co-wrote about 8 issues of that series and only occasionally did I ever get emotional about criticism. My alternate theory (which Eric naturally denies) is that Eric isn't very good at giving criticism, that whatever he does to make it hurt less (because he really does believe he has a soft touch) has the opposite effect. I've learned to deal with it, but he can be unintentionally harsh.

It's hard working with someone, and I do it as little as I can, but it was obviously important Cary get some input there where he felt it needed. And he had some very good suggestions and some very valid concerns about dialogue and staging. Beyond that, we also talked about what the characters were like ("secret Jews," he jokingly described many of my characters' dialogue,) why some jokes worked, and why some of the big overhauls were improvements. That being the replacement of the John Lennon/Ghost character with Elaine, who didn't exist in the first play but once I decided she needed to appear, I burst with comedic possibilities.

It should be said, Cary also seemed to appreciate the coat, although he noted there had been some benefits to looking like a hobo.

We wrapped that up just a bit before midnight, and I stayed up only a little later than I usually do, getting out of bed the next morning with severe reluctance. Another day, another tutorial. A presentation on Romeo and Juliet, a CanLit class or Lorna Crozier, a sandwich, a train ride home. During CanLit, because the TA was speaking so passionately about writing and poetry and everything, I began to feel creativity stir up inside of me. As the lecture continued along more conventional lines I grew irritated. I needed to escape. Suddenly everything was a poem and I needed to write it down!

Eventually, but not until getting to the train, I let it out by finishing off one of my oft-referenced "stray starting lines" in what is a rare but far from unheard-of case of me writing a free verse poem (about half my output in Poetry last year was free verse but I much prefer to work with rhymes when possible/appropriate.) It was a good release and got some real stuff off my mind. Not that I'm through or truly satisfied, merely... appeased for now.

After getting back to town I wandered long and far to the comic store and back, sans bus.

Time to crawl into a nice comfy bed.

Keep on rockin'
Scott

One: Explode out of the gates.

You know, I really did think I'd get to noon last month.

I don't know what's up with me lately, other than I simply cannot muster up the energy to update SWP on as nearly a regular basis as I used to. It isn't that I don't feel like complaining about life, it's just I'm so drained that I can hardly justify sitting down at the keyboard and trying to hammer it out. As a consequence I tend to talk at length to myself (or to the dog) when I'm at home about how much life suxx0rz, the way I normally would SWP. I ought to cut that out. There might be people out there who need my shit to get through their own days.

The weekend was kinda flipped around, with a family gathering on Saturday night and coffee with Amanda on Sunday morning. Having seen my brother's new coat I decided perhaps the time had come to get my own. Amanda was thrilled at this prospect because she had unaffectionately nicknamed my coat the "hobo coat." It has attained a similar mythological presence amongst my friends - Cary called it simply "The Scott Williams coat." Chris Ferg once sympathetically tried to assure me he didn't think it was all that sketchy.

Anyway, after recapping all of her various wedding planning updates (most often the lead-off topic for our conversations these days, followed by her work and then whatever I've got,) we went and poked around the usual stores, with the unusual advent that I actually intended to buy something. I didn't really know what I want, but I did know what I didn't want, which is a bright-coloured ski jacket, or anything with a furry hood. So we wound up at Danier leather, where they were advertising 50% off just about everything, which sounded sweet, and leather jackets are cool. The one caveat is that 50% off a leather jacket is still really goddamn expensive especially to a guy without an income. Hrm. I was getting despondent when Manda dragged me on into H&M, a store where I vowed never to return to after one very uncomfortable shopping experience about 3 years ago.

Well, that's where we found it.

I was skeptical at first. It was a good fit and a nice style, but it didn't really look all that warm. Amanda advocated it though, and insisted I try it. I had to admit I did like it, and in the end, bought it with the expectation that if it was not warm enough I could just return it, since I'd know within the month. That day was not the best test case since it was over 0. I figured I would wear my hoodie under it (as I had with hobocoat anyway) and possibly not shovel the driveway or anything too much in it. A few days later and many degrees colder, the new coat has held up its end, so it looks like the old guy is officially in semi-retirement, to be called into action only when direly necessary.

B. went to see Taken last night so it was just me and dad for dinner. He had recently converted three out of four of the old Spring Valley Lip Syncs to DVD, so we spent the evening perusing those. What that is, is back when we'd spend every summer camping at the trailer in Mount Forest (Spring Valley Park,) one of the annual activities was the Lip Sync, where people would, you know, get dressed up in costumes and do routines and stuff, mostly to old pop songs and such. They used to get brought out on a regular (even constant) basis to make the family sit through, usually feeling like a real drudge just to see the one or two segments that involved a family member of ours. Eric did it the most, three times, most notably as part of a Sonny and Cher bit with a girl who was in heels about two feet taller than him (he was like eleven at the time.) That year, my brother Brando and I did School's Out, which was basically us just us goofing around with prop guitars for three minutes, in rocker-type attire. The idea that B. would've ever gotten up on stage for any purpose is by now completely unbelievable, but it was a different time. The next year, (which we don't have on DVD... yet) saw Eric and I team with our friend Jon and another kid, Rob, to do Gump, Weird Al's spoof of Lump, where Jon was dressed as the title character and had a bench and everything. It was fun. But the highlights were always the Rutherfords, Brian and Crystal, siblings who had a knack for coming up with impressive, lively dance routines (Love Shack, Dance with Me Henry) that were way more fun to see than anything else presented. Sadly, Brian is no longer with us.

It's February. This month is no fun. Already I have to start considering where I'm gonna be at in March. Very busy, is where. Very stressed.

The future just don't look so bright these days.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott