L: Let gravity do its work

SWP: The talking cure.

I don't know what it is about me that keeps my priorities out of whack. Things that should honestly depress and bother me (as they would normal people) tend not to affect me as much as minute bullshit. I place so much emphasis on problems of a very inconsequential nature (in the grander scheme) while larger, more metaphysical issues, I let pass.

The Buddhists say, only fools are constrained by time and space. I'm still not sure whether I am. If I dreamed last night (feels like I did) I can't remember it.

Before the weekend I found out the extent of my Granddad's illness. It's not the sort of thing that has much of a positive outlook. Dad and Deb went up to North Bay over the weekend to see him. Sunday (I assume they had returned at this point) dad sent a bizarre e-mail noting not only how gaunt Granddad looked, but also the food they were serving him wasn't appetizing whether you had an appetite or not, and that true to his nature, Granddad would rather people not force small talk on him. Every Christmas since forever, dad has us call there and say thanks and make small talk, and I can tell he's as impatient with it as we are. A few weeks ago, after the dinner we were supposed to have gone to with him, Dad suggested we each send him an e-mail saying what we were up to. I didn't, knowing that nothing interesting was going on in my life, and we're due to go to North Bay only a few weeks from now anyway. That was when I thought we were still on an unlimited timescale. Now I don't know.

I have a hard time explaining my thoughts on the subject to others. My detachment about the subject seems very callous in comparison to the solemn attitude other take, and I don't feel right playing solemn, and I'm not sure Granddad would want me to. I'm not sure - maybe he would. Whether he goes in a week or a month, I love him and will miss him and I want everyone to know (obviously, else I wouldn't be saying it here like this.) It's just hard to articulate on the matter.

Today was a fairly unremarkable day. I got up and went to school. Lear in lecture. I feel like I know that play back to front now, although the lectures are to some degree quite stimulating. Skipped CanLit after handing in essay. Down at the front of the class I ran into the other girl who presented last Friday. She smiled and made some friendly remark about me being done early (I had mentioned it to her when it came out we were in the same CanLit class too.) I hadn't so much as peeked at the essay since writing it. Probably could've used the opportunity, but didn't want to burden my mind after the mental burnout I felt last week. Let's just rip this band aid.

I don't know why I fixate on every girl who makes small talk with me. It's a big school, you sometimes find yourself conversing. My thoughts tend to drift between a myriad of girls I see at school - some of whom I've spoken to, some not - and the various ones online, the ones I end up finding have a habit of being far away or otherwise unavailable. There was an odd incident last week where I answered a Craigslist ad for the first in in a while. Get write-up, mostly about her philosophy of living and what she wanted. I sent a vague response illustrating how I might fit the bill. She send a pic with a suggestion of MSN. I send a pic back with my MSN address, as well as a stupid joke about how good her picture looks (and really, it was startlingly good) and how I still don't trust people to be who they say they are. She never responded, even to a follow-up sent a week later.

I mentioned this to Manda, late in our last meetup, and we came up with a few possible conclusions. In no particular ranking:

-She found me unattractive
-My letters went to spam folder
-She thought my joke was stupid, or it made her paranoid
-My joke unwittingly exposed her as a fraud (wouldn't be surprising considering how too-good-to-be-true her ad was.)
-Lastly, she met someone more interesting, and forgot about me.

Well whatever. The thing I've learned over the last 3 1/2 or 4 years is that women come and go, and for any multitude of reasons. The trick I can't seem to master is making them stay for even a little while.

I hung around campus longer than usual today. Had to get a copy of Timothy Garton Ash's The File, which has thus far proven to be a surprisingly decent read. I usually tear through nonfiction a lot easier than other stuff. Whether something historical like Devil in the White City, a memoir like this, or somewhere in between like On the Road. Maybe I should've at least tried to read Homage to Catalonia. So in all this book-getting, I got a later train. Waiting at Union I started up the Metro Sudoku, but had to go before I was done it. When I took my usual seat, I saw girl doing that same Sudoku (not odd in and of itself.) My eyes kept shifting over to her as the train kept a'rollin. She was a quiet-looking mousy girl. Cute, with an uncharacteristic nose piercing, a nondescript stud. Glasses. Thin. Quiet brown eyes. I kept stealing glances until I realized who she reminded me of - whose visage she invoked despite the eyewear and miscoloured eyes. Oh how your memory lingers.

Well whatever. A quiet day. An unquiet mind.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

K: Feel the same in different circumstances

In some ways, freedom is boring.

Here I am, left with no responsibility in the world until exams, except to put forth the minimum effort I can manage. No longer stressing about the multitude of papers and assignments on my desk, free to enjoy this glorious (admittedly, today, rainy... yet refreshingly so,) spring of 2009. Yet, I just find myself tied up in boredom. I've perhaps forgotten how to relax. Maybe I never really knew. So I'm slowly getting momentum back on my webcomic, I'm catching up on reviews, I'm running another mafia game. Writing more books in my head.

Last night I had kinda wanted to see Cary in Much Ado About Nothing. He seemed very proud of the production they were doing and I'd hoped to enlist CB in getting down to the Hammer but he was MIA on MSN. So I didn't. I guess on that note, it's been a long while since I've seen Cary in anything. (That said, it's so much ado, and really, about nothing. Har har.) So I spent the night watching Alec Baldwin on SNL (a rerun of an episode I'd missed) and playing vaguely pornographic computer games.

Manda and I were tlaking yesterday... about a lot of things, really, but one of them was dreams. Both of us have been having freaky dreams lately. We chalked hers up to the progrssion of her life from young unmarried to soon married and looking to start a family. Mine I blamed on stress. I never seem to remember my dreams when I'm truly relaxed. Of particular note was my time-traveling Run DMC dream a few nights ago.

Last night was another. It was actually that rare dream where you wake up for a little while, then drift back into it, and it can be said to be the same dream. I don't remember where the disruption was in the narrative, but a few of the key points were that I was hanging out with my brother Eric in a place that vaguely resembles Innis. In a room down the hall thre was a party with a bouncer. I watched as two of my friends from U of T - Rosie and Martina (whom I don't think I've mentioned on this site) went past the bouncer. I went up to the bouncer and surprisingly, my name was on the list. Then they grabbed me once I was inside and said they needed to tell me things. Then I think I woke up.

Sometime later as I drifted back into sleep, I found myself with my brothers and my dad. dad had just returned from North Bay (where he actually is this weekend,) with news about Granddad, who has been ill. The news he gave was somewhat unrealistic, but I guess that's what dreams are about. Then the interesting part. Ever notice in dreams how you r brain can utterly rearrange reality, and make you accept things that in your reality you know are not true? Well my brother B. and I then went to find my mother. Not our mother, mind you, just mine. And of course it wasn't my real-world mom, but some other woman, who had left me in the care of my real-world mom, who may or may not have been this lady's sister. Anyway, we had just recently been reunited, and it was my birthday, and she was running the bakery at a Tim Hortons (the one at Bloor and Bedford, where I go every weekday morning whether I need it or not.)

I was also just reminded of a dream from the night before Run DMC where I was frantically trapped on the subway late at night. It was a lot more interesting when I had the details, but all I've got is mental pictures.

Anyway. The weekend has been notable for its boringness. Trying to wrench relaxation out of it. I'm a little bothered that I probably won't be working this summer, although I'm more bothered about how much it's going to bother my parents. (Then again it's none of my mom's business, she works at Tim Hortons for crying out loud. Wait no, that was just a dream. Fuck.) At least I'll be in school (probably.)

Still, one interesting thing has happened this morning. I was out for coffee, on my way back, standing on the corner of Leighland and Trafalgar, when I see this guy rushing up to me. A glance reveals it's Lawrence, a guy I went to grade school and high school with (at least, I think high school... he may have floated around a bit.) He asks me what I'm up to lately, and I say not much, life is boring, in school, looking for work, blah blah. I ask about him, and he tells me he's gone straight - quit drugs, quit drinking. Part of AA is that you've got to make amends to people (as depicted in an episode of Seinfeld,) and he apologizes to me for stirring shit up with me back in grade school. I tell him I vaguely recall the sorts or events he was referring to, and say that it's all water under the bridge. Nobody had any idea what to do with their aggression in those days and I'd be lying if I said I never stated shit myself. Still, he told me it was part of a path that led him to the decisions later in life that brought him here. I told him it was good to make a new start for yourself. We shook hands and went separate ways.

It was nice. Very uplifting, and I wish him the best.

That's about it for today. I think I'll make a sandwich, then play vaguely pornographic computer games until I decide it's time to maybe draw something or do something else.

The world is my burrito.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

J: If you don't stop those self-defeating lies you've been repeating

(...Since the day you brought me home.) I know you're strong.

Yeah, that's a Weakerthans lyric up there. A few weeks ago Cary namedropped them on his blog, which got my curiosity up. He recommended a few songs, a few of which I downloaded, along with others he did not mention (in sum total, five, all enjoyable: Aside, Left and Leaving, The Reasons, Civil Twilight, and Plea from a Cat Named Virtue, whom which I've drawn the title.)

I'm feeling pretty good right now. It was a gorgeous day, nice and warm, good for walking around. I've got some good stuff ahead of me, and all my stress is now behind me. I feel quite proud for having survived, I'm just relieved it's all over with.

And I mean, I know the score. Everyone goes through the same March Massacre, and really, there isn't much worse about what I've just gone through than your typical undergrad. But this is SWP and I've got to feel everything 75% more intensely than your average person. It's a well-documented fact I don't deal with stress well. If you've been following this blog (and clearly I needn't even ask, if you're reading this,) you will no doubt the thrilled with the conclusion of the month long epic that has been my March.

So Wednesday, I came home early. I hung around Innis all afternoon as usual, so as to keep my options open but by 5:00 I'd basically decided I was not going to AmLit. The paper was in, I wasn't interested in the lecture topic, and I'm so good about attending lectures I owe myself the occasional skip (at least, when you consider how often some people skip.) I dedicated the evening - the parts that did not concern Lost - to organizing my Lear presentation, which I've had on the docket since February, but had neglected, gathering bits and pieces of material as it came. Scraps.

Thursday, a fairly nondescript day wherein my TA did not point out I hadn't appeared in two weeks (not surprising, except in my frenzied paranoid brain.) I was paired with another dude to discuss the French student revolt of May 1968. This topic is not new to me, having seen Tout Va Bien, last year, where "May '68" is basically a refrain. It didn't take long for us to distill the article, and then we got to talking, about literature (which, as an English major, I should be far more interested in than I am,) and film. Particularly, he asked if I'd seen any Bergman (yes.) I don't know why this conversation is noteworthy except that, well, I'm never that talkative. Prior to the TA's arrival, we were talking about the class, particularly the imbalance of Germany versus all other nations in the curriculum. I defended, saying that the first half is basically the Germany story, which bleeds into the USSR story. I'm English by descent, but that doesn't mean I want to hear more about the UK than about Germany. Another girl concurred, declaring, "I like Hitler." Laughs. Me: "Don't say that too loud."

Thursday night, the last thing I had to do, writing my Shakespeare essay. At this point I'm pretty exhausted, and just relieved that I have one class where I can hand in my essay on Friday when it was due Monday and not lose any marks. I really felt engaged with the material (Nature as a thee in Lear) but I may have gotten too soft and wound up in the realm of the abstract. It's either my best essay, or worst. Or in the middle. Who the fuck knows. I sure don't. It was writted fairly quickly (I like to think the ideas came gradually and were well prepared to be written) after the Office. So that's under 2 hours between 9:30 and 11:30.

So I woke up this morning after an erratic sleep. One of those dreams where you're more tired upon waking than you were when you lay down. It was pretty frantic, dizzying. I couldn't possibly recall the chaotic plot (if it can be said to be) of the dream, but I will summarize the craziness with the following phrase: "Time traveling Run-DMC." Which of us were time traveling and for what purpose, I can hardly remember, but there you go. Let your imagination run wild - mine sure did.

My head is a very strange place to be lately. Actually, I'm not sure that's a recent development. So I got up today, abuzz for the prospect of a new day. The last things on my list. I was on the subway daydreaming about my presentation when a guy across from me, seemingly out of nowhere, grabs the crossbar overhead (the one you hold onto when there's no seats) and starts doing chin-ups. I've been commuting for nearly 2 years now, and I've never seen such a thing. This city can still surprise.

So I got to the classroom, and was the first to arrive, right before the girl who was the other person set to present today. She saw me arranging my papers and asked whether I wanted to go first. We flipped for it. I won, and volunteered to present my scene first. It was earlier in the play anyway, and I wanted to get it over with.

The presentations were different in tone. Whereas she had meticulously-written cue cards, I mostly went off the top of my head (having mostly internalized the scene) winging it as I read over the scene, occasionally referring to my notes, repeating myself, rambling, mumbling "where am I going?" at points of uncertainty, and occasionally making humorous asides. I spoke mostly on the theatrical effect of the scene, noting that at first I had my doubts, thinking "Okay, so here's a guy talking about the weather report for two pages." Laughs. Then as I'd re-read, I realized the scene was of vital importance to the play as written by Shakespeare. Not only that, but it was an excellent performance piece (which in my dry occasionally recitations, I butchered.) 20 minutes went by alarmingly quickly in this way, and I closed with the theory that the Fool is Cordelia.

The conversational trend continued afterward, as a random girl from the class approached me to make small talk as we walked in the same direction but not, ultimately, to the same building. Whether there's potential or not, it never hurts to get chatted up by a random girl, even if the conversational topic is the presentation I'd just done.

So I felt great for the rest of the day. Walked out for comics. Spent the rest of the evening kicking around and enjoying the now-unlimited (at least for a few weeks) prospects of relaxation. It's good to be free.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

I: You've got me, who's got you?

Ugh. This week has not been a relaxing week. Strictly speaking, I should be working right now, writing my Shakespeare essay, or working on my presentation, or some such. But I'm not. It just doesn't look like I'm going to tonight, and I'm chalking that up to a need for relaxation.

But let me explain.

One flaw I will acknowledge - and so will Eric whenever he's given the chance - is that I tend to shift the blame for things off myself and onto external factors. I tend to be wildly erratic in this sense in that whenever I do feel the need to blame myself for something, I tend to take it pretty hard, so perhaps blame-avoidance is a defense mechanism here. Anyway, my brain, being the insane type that invents elaborate fictions (keep in mind this is what I intend to harness to make a living someday,) often tends to see patterns between things that are completely unrelated and irrelevant. Such was the case this weekend when, boo hoo, I waited a long time for a sandwich, even longer for a haircut, and had my debit card mysterious canceled to be replaced by one with a chip. Mild inconveniences, or a subtle plot to destroy me? Only that sleepy-eyed girl at Tim Hortons knows for sure. I chose to interpret it, however, as though it was. The world against me.

Well naturally all this shit was still on my mind Sunday when I received a delightful e-mail saying I owed about $7.50 to Robarts for a book on the Weimar Republic. Now, it's finals season, I have taken out something like two dozen books from Robarts and Innis libraries, but I have been sure to return them all within good time. Especially since I decided not long after that I didn't want to write on boring Weimar Economy after all, but on sexy propaganda films. So naturally, my basement had been purged of all Weimar/economy-related books (there were about 7 or 8.) And fuck them for not believing me! Of course I returned them all. They must have lost it somewhere along the way and figured I was to blame. But I would burn that 14-story concrete library to the ground before paying that $7.50 for a book I didn't owe. It didn't help matters that it was Sunday, and the library was closed, so I couldn't call them and yell.

So naturally, I'm giving in an irritated yet sober second thought the next morning before leaving for school, when a typically paranoid and self-deprecating thought jumps to mind. "Man, it would suck hilariously if it turned out this book was under my couch." So for shiggles, I check under the couch, and sure enough, a nondescript black hardcover book is discreetly tucked away under there. Fuck!

Well, that's my bad, and now I will gladly pay up. I'm the first to admit (except that everyone loves to point it out for me) that I'm a very cluttered guy, but I always took pride in managing that clutter well. I can usually find things in it pretty efficiently, even when they are not prominently displayed. It's not hard to see, however, how I left a pile of books next to my couch and somehow one got swept underneath. Could blame mom for at some point re-arranging shit. Could blame Max. I won't though. That was me, and I'll pay the fine.

But for the real proof I've been working against myself, we go back again to Sunday night. I've spent the day rounding up quotes and proofs to use in my Canadian Lit essay about the Diviners and In the Skin of a Lion, how they use representations of history and blah-blah - oddly similar to my AmLit essay but anyway. So I set down around 8:20 (after aobut 20 minutes of procrastination and hesitation) and start furiously hammering away this frankly kickass essay. After a break at 10:00 for Flight of the Conchords, I finished it up by 11 and was actually, for once, proud of the result. This came as some consolation to me, as I'd totally neglected my Shakespeare essay, because my Shakespeare Prof has instituted a "grace period" (which may or may not extend to Friday, more later,) making it more appetizing to do the essay that was due on the same day but would lose marks if it was a day late.

So the next day I go into class and everyone's just kinda sitting there like always, and attendance isn't up any remarkable amount. So I turn to Jane, a nice gal I've met recently, and I say "has she already taken essays, or is that later?" and she just looks at me like I'm crazy (I am) and says, "Dude, the essay's due on the 30th." Suddenly my mind flashes back to the instant where she took a vote on whether we should push back the due date of the essay, despite that meaning we wouldn't get it back before the exam. I vote emphatically yes to prevent exactly this from happening, and then, smart guy I am, forgot to write it down. I then proceeded to spend the next couple months bitching because I had three essays due within two days and life sucks.

After the obligatory "Holy shit you're right" moment, I laughed and told her it was funny, in a sad kind of way, and she admitted, at least I could revise it if I needed to. I've never been early on anything. But that doesn't change the fact that I somehow let myself believe I had it worse than I did, perhaps because the idea of being stressed was more appealing.

This is where Lit's "My Own Worst Enemy" cues up. It's just me, as usual, feeling more comfortable in misery, making shit harder on myself than I ever had to. this is the most extreme example I've ever felt and it's hit hard. One chestnut I often drag out on this site is that I am the engine of my own suffering, and here I am living those words literally. What is wrong with me?

Why am I so obsessed with, so willing to be put-upon? Why does it feel more natural to see myself as a victim in the grand scheme of the world, or betrayed by my own nature? What the fuck! It's really all me. Not to have a massive existential crisis about it or anything.

So as a result, I am chilling out tonight. I don't care that it's putting me even further behind on both aspects of Shakespeare. I'm tired of putting up with my own bullshit (although this may just be a grand attempt at justification for more bullshit.) I need a break. Three papers in three days would've been a remarkable accomplishment, but I'm only human, and I'm a little fed up with myself. So I need to meditate and realign my shit.

Last night was productive though. I'm not sure whether I mentioned this before earlier in this entry, but as I said, initially had a very boring topic lined up, which I replaced with the seductive, sensual topic of propaganda, which you may have figured out, overlaps heavily with my Film History course. It has nothing to do with the paper I wrote for that class (and so this is all on the up-and-up) but thanks to Thompson and Bordwell, as well as the Innis Library in general and King's reader, I had a ready-made starting point to write a fairly coherent, engaging paper, which may or may not satisfy the needs of a history paper and then some. (Or it could be utter crap? I never seem to know anymore.) So at least the papers I am writing seem good to me, unlike the previous two, in which I was deeply disappointed.

So, that's the report so far. Um, also, life sucks blah.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

H: Know the difference between bad and evil

Ah, Sunday afternoon. My longtime nemesis.

I've been having kind of a Kafka weekend. There's been a lot going awry, some more dire than others. There have been some good things, but they have taken considerable design.

I ought to be writing my Canadian Lit essay. One of the books, I have not finished reading. I'm not sure there is time, nor that it is important for me to do so. Of the three remaining essays I must write, this proves to be the easiest, because by this point in the semester, the themes we have been studying have wrenched themselves apparent. I have gathered all the excerpts I intend to use to support my point and now all I need is to find my point. I have a good idea what it is, something to do with the changing nature of history, but I haven't got the thesis yet. My film paper last week barely had a thesis. I will suffer for it, I know.

This will be nothing 3 hours or so of continuous typing cannot solve.

It would've been noble to spend several hours getting into this last night but we all know that was never going to happen. If I had not gone out last night I would have stayed at home clicking refresh on Facebook every ten minutes. If I was feeling pro-active I would have maybe thumbed through my books but still done no real work. Motivation, thy name is not Scott.

Yesterday morning I went down to the mall to meet Amanda for our usual. I got to the Tim Hortons counter, ordered my coffee and a breakfast sandwich. I stood there 20 minutes or more as people came and went getting their food and drinks while nothing resembling my order came. Hardly a look was even cast my way from the blank-eyed teenage girls who worked there. It took me a long time to even get angry enough to stat muttering passive aggressive sarcasm, but deep down I was fuming, wanting to cause some kind of a scene. Eventually, I repeated what I was waiting for and went off, perhaps too hungry to eat.

The day continued to be frustrating when Manda and I went to HMV and, as I was buying some 2/20 movies, when I inputted my PIN number, a notice comes up saying my card has been canceled. What the--?! The obvious conclusion is that someone has stolen my info and has been using my vast fortune (note: fortune may not actually be vast) to go on a spending spree. TD, presumably alerted to this, possibly shut down my card as a precaution.

Hoping for the best, prepared for the worst, and biting my nails in panic, I left Amanda to go across the road to the TD Branch, where I had to wait a while before a friendly client service fella told me that the most likely issue was that they were replacing debit cards with variations that have chip in them. So he tossed my card aside and gave me a new Phantom 2040 card with all the superpowers that implies (note: none.) Thanks for the heart attack, Chet - you couldn't have called?

The day continued along this theme when it came time to get a haircut, and I kept getting the runaround. I guess this is the price I pay for having, seemingly, the most popular barber in the place. I've been going to that place forever. Years and years ago Dad and I would come in and sit down and just take whatever barber was available. This was the practice I used for many years, and never really thought twice about it, until two or three haircuts in a row where I kept getting the same barber, Andrea. She was not like the older ladies who typically work there. She was easy to talk to, a nice girl, and of course, not bad-looking. So she became my barber on a continual basis, and these days it is as usual as not for people to go in and ask for particular barbers. This created one awkward occasion where several barbers stood idly while people like me waited for the ones they wanted.

Well, she was really busy today, and rather than betray her (as my jealous instincts had told me to do,) I waited. I waited while two little girls and one little boy took their turns, causing me to muse, in my head, about how that was not the way it was when I was young, that at that age I would have jut taken whatever barber I could get, and do you really care who does your hair when you're 8? Whatever. I was just bitter at having to wait.

Chinese food at dad's that night. Dad has discovered (perhaps through me?) the joke where you say "...in Bed!" at the end of your fortune. I looked at mine, smirked, and said, "No way am I reading this out loud for you to say that." I handed it to him and he laughed. The fortune? "You have the ability to be very persuasive. (In bed.)" Har har!

But anyway, after the craziness of the day, I was due for something good. CB and I went out to see Watchmen. It was pretty damn excellent. For the most part, the places where it deviated or expanded upon the original text were effective. It was a great movie, although I'm sure Alan Moore would disagree. Well, that's his business.

After the movie, we went out to Chris' Stout Monk, for drinks and talk. We talked about the olden days and girls and metaphysics and Lost. The usual topics. It was a good night.

I went home and crashed and we now have this predicament today where I really ought to be getting my work done, but alas am not. How in character.

I've been watching videos from a ukelele-playing girl (not the one who was on Scrubs, although she's awesome too.) I don't know what it is about girls with ukeleles that seems so irresistible to me lately. Maybe it's because they seem so comfortable with small instruments, so they'd probably be more inclined to work with me. Zing!

On that note I should probably finish this one up. I have to make myself some dinner, and also my brother's. Maybe I'll kill two birds with one stone by preparing enough of something for two people.

I've been thinking of expanding my internet presence. I used to have Interneta (which currently exists as a collection of links to other sites.) I have pledged to use this blog only for what it as always been - lengthy, pointless entries into the annals of my existence - but I feel like I might benefit from having a central place once again to post writing, reviews, and other updates on things I do.

Something to consider.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

G: Take a look, you know the way

I don't know where I'm at these days.

Yesterday was a stupid day, but perhaps that has its roots in Wednesday night. I got out of class early that night, and managed to catch the earlier train, although that involved some running. So I got home and, for the second time ever, watched Lost in its regularly scheduled timeslot. Late that night I had some meaningful conversations - one with an old friend, one with a new one.

The one with an old friend was due to it being her birthday. It's always a time for reflection. A few months from now I too will be 22. I don't know how I feel about it. I thought for a while that I'd just feel the way I did when I turned 21, which was plenty better than I did when I turned 20. I have my doubts. I have many doubts.

My other conversation was meaningful only in that it did not go so well through no fault of either me or the other person. I'm not sure she realized it went badly, but I was definitely left with an unpleasant taste. I've been talking to this girl... me and my everlasting quest - and she was telling me what she'd been up to, she went and saw a band, and she was really excited about that. I get it, I love certain bands, and when something like that happens for me I want to talk to lots of people about it. So I indulged her, even though I don't really like this particular band, and didn't know anyone actually did. She mentioned she'd gotten the group to sign her LP, which is pretty cool, but a bit of a conversational dead end. So the subject switches, the ways they sometimes do, to the topic of writing. She's a writer, I'm a writer, it's a pretty fertile conversational topic I figure. After whatever chit chat we made, I mention to her perhaps the best news I've had in a long while, which is that the EAS is doing Half-Past Eight PM in Hamilton this summer (although I did not describe it in such specific terms.)

In response to this news, which I consider to be the main good thing I've got going on lately, she said nothing. Rather, she asked me if I wanted to see a picture of her with her signed LP. I said sure, but I was really thinking, back to the drawing board. I mean, I can never write anyone off, and she's essentially a nice girl, but it kinda bothered me, she just said nothing about it, even congrats, as if I hadn't said anything or that the point wasn't important or interesting.

Maybe it's reasonable to think this is a good reason to lose interest. Maybe I'm too picky. Either way, the conversation has caused me to reflect a bit.

So all this lasted until 1 AM or so, which I rationalized as being okay since I didn't have class until noon the next day, so I tend to sleep later. The thing I forgot to take into account is that lately, I bragged to a friend who has been having sleeping problems (it makes me sound like a dick, but it was more in jest,) that I've been having some of the best sleeps of my life recently, and most days it's damn hard for me to get myself out of bed. So here's me, in bed, hearing my alarm go off an hour later than usual, rolling over and thinking "Oh, I've got time." And before you know it, it's 11:45. Yep, fifteen minutes before the class for which I was supposed to get on a train at 10:30. Go me.

What's worse is, it was a tutorial, which I'd missed last week too, so they've clearly noticed. I spent all day feeling like a stupid guilty mofo. My head's just been all over the place these past few weeks. I have no idea when I intend to do these next couple papers, I suck.

Oh yeah, and I had to go to Toronto anyway to get books from the library. Double-suck.

So that was basically what was stupid about yesterday. Eric came home later than night, and we got on as well as we usually do when he's only around a short period of time, which is quite well.

Hmph. And today wasn't much of anything to write home about anyway. Mostly it pertained to dog messes, more pointless classes, guilt and self-doubt... rethinking basically every paper I've already written and wondering if the next few will be any improvement, if I'm a prisoner of my own shortcomings, if self-improvement is really withing my capabilities.

I've just been feeling it all lately. All the angst, the guilt, the depression, the directionlessness, the futility, the frustration. All the anxieties anyone my age ever has, some nobody my age has, some I should've gotten over years ago, some that nobody ever has. I'm in a negative headspace lately and this is not conducive to the writing of papers.

I just feel so trapped in this worthless mode, this routine, this rut. And I'm stressing over these papers that in the long run mean almost nothing, but may signify a greater trend of ambiavlence toward my own destiny. It's a slippery slope.

Seems I'll find any reason to hate myself, some days.

So, you got problems?

I try to be sympathetic to the problems of others. I just feel guilty having to express how much more stressed out I feel like I am. not like it isn't my own doing.

There is something else that isn't my doing at all, of course.

I just found out my Granddad is sick. What is is and how bad, we don't know yet, but generally speaking, when peoples' grandparents fall ill, well, how many different outcomes are there?

We'll see.

I hope for the best. I'll be seeing him soon, and we'll know by then exactly what we're dealing with. Until then, strength.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

F: Everyone have a look around please

Some days it is exhausting work being the engine of my own destruction.

A short one today. I haven't got a lot going on, and I've been burning myself out on schoolwork lately, not that this is any shock. It's actually exactly what I was prepared to happen - a miserable conflagration of essays and presentations. And me, sucking badly as ever at time management and preparation.

To that end, I took Tuesday off. I'd forgotten how refreshing it is to take a day for yourself, even if you don't sleep in much more than usual. I went out for coffee, read my sources, and spent all day pondering the French New Wave, going from enthusiastic to utterly convinced I had nothing to say on the matter, and back, repeatedly throughout the day.

I didn't even get started writing until 8 PM (big shock) although once I started into it it was fairly easy just to keep going. At 10 pages, pretty much everything was game. Honestly though, it's yet another 73. That's my number, I'm resigned to it. I don't have the effort to go beyond it, for the most part. I just hope it's not less than that. It's not a great paper as far as I can tell, but all the ways I thought might improve it also sounded wholly stupid. But that's me for you.

So I wrote from 8 til about midnight, glad to reach the midway point of page 10 right at bedtime and saving myself once again from an ill-advised all-nighter. The handout said "at least ten full pages" but fuck 'em. There was enough filler already. Yeah, I'm not proud of myself.

Still, I'm in a good mood today. I was walking down Blood with a big ole grin on my face, sun high in the sky, ice cream cone in my hand. Life, sometimes, is good for its own virtues. I'm at ease and not totally feeling overwhelmed for my next few papers (yet.) It's a good midway period. I just have.... well, still a shitload of stuff to do.

Ahem.

The frustrating/amusing thing is that the more I have to concentrate on these school projects, the more prevalent in my mind others projects get. An idea I had several weeks ago for a play. A novel I half-conceptualized about 2 years ago. These things weigh in my brain more and more when I'm trying to think about Truffaut and Bazin and other things.

I guess none of it's really important anyway, including this entry.

Ah well. It's a gorgeous day.

Keep on rockin
-Scotto

E: This is where our understanding ends

Scotto: Pathetic or awesome? Some days I have no idea.

It's been a busy weekend, and one that has me wondering, to some degree, whether I suck. I don't think I do, but part of me still doubts it. Still, there's been some good stuff.

For instance, Saturday morning, rather than meeting Manda (for she had wedding-related stuff) I went out to get comics only to find there were none to get. Not even Amazing Spider-Man. So I went home and actually got caught up my reviews. I may be turning over a new leaf - or just engaging in a one-time catchup for the sake of procrastinating. Hrm.

So in the process of all this, Cary shoots me a text saying it's official, something I had assumed was all but concrete: Half-Past Eight PM will live again, this time on the Hamilton stage. Reactions from the governing parties had apparently been very, very positive, but he wanted me to keep it on the dl until it was all sorted out. And now, apparently it is. So of course, basically everyone I know is obligated to come see this show. I'm psyched about it. Score one for "Scott does not suck."

When I saw RyLai on Wednesday night he mentioned people were all coming out to Toronto for his birthday a few days later (Sat night of course) would I please come. Now, I have a policy that I show up anywhere I am asked, especially if it seems like I'm wanted, which is what led to me going to a somewhat awkward apartment-warming party before second year at Sheridan. So although I had some misgivings - despite some overlap, RyLai's friends are not mostly mine - I was glad to come along. I made arrangement to meet Chris Ferg on the train in the accessibility car. We caught up on stuff.

At Union we stopped off at the LCBO, and then McDonald's for some food for Chris. He saw someone he knew, who mentioned that he was going to a show at Sneaky Dee's (made famous in Scott Pilgrim.) The fellow in front of us in line, a "Hipster Doofus" (Chris' words, quoting Seinfeld,) with shoulder-length scraggly hair and tiny John Lennon glasses, turns and says, "Sneaky Dee's? Man, I had my first drink there 25 years ago!" He mentions he's a musician living in LA, in town for music week, and we should fuck wherever we were going, because going up to the Royal York was like "a license to print pretty girls," and guys who looked like him even were getting serious action. I told him I'd rather meet pretty girls than print them, but to each his own. He managed to say an awful lot while waiting for a cheeseburger.

We walked up Yonge. In the Yonge-Dundas area, we were accosted by a guy who claimed to be from up Northm having just arrived and unable to pay the deposit for his hotel, and hey, would we wanna buy some weed? I politely declined, but he was persistent. Somehow we managed to shut him down. I didn't even really have any cash on me anyway.

It seems to be the week for random meetings in Toronto. A few days ago... Tuesday or Monday I guess... I was waiting for my train when I noticed this dude in a gaudy pink jacket talking to this girl... but they weren't standing close enough to look like they were acquaintances. He comes over, and I pause my iPod to eavesdrop as he brags to a nearby dude (also not an acquaintance of his) about how Union Station is the perfect place to meet women - outlining his incredibly unlikely, Barney Stinson-esque plan, wherein he claims his cell was dead, and asks a girl to borrow one. So as he fake-calls someone, he inputs his number into their contacts under something cryptic (like "Go Train" or something equally unappealing) and when they call him, quote, "Instant date." I dunno. It seems to me to be missing the step where, you know, you can't actually trick a girl into going out with you? Assuming this random enigmatic number doesn't already raise red flags, in my experience (which I'll be honest, is perhaps not nearly enough to judge) you need the girl to actually be interested in you before she'll go out with you. But hey, who am I to disbelieve this Axe-smelling fella and his magenta wondercoat?

Sketchbomb.

So Chris and I arrived at Neill-Wycek, the first to do so. We hung around while people filed in. The usual suspects, who are all nice people, but not really my friends, and Lauren, who is my friend. And one of them, dating some girl from York who knows Conorton.

It wasn't all that long before I became the Odd Man Out of conversations, hanging in the corner quietly observing, feeling ever more awkward. Briefly, this was defrayed by Ryan's roommate Rebecca (whom I've met briefly once or twice, including before karaoke.) I mentioned my tenuous connections, and she sympathized, noting, after all, the only person she knew was Ryan, whereas everyone else in the room had lifelong friendships.

Well, of course, eventually the Ryerson people showed up, so then I became doubly awkward. So it really wasn't the same at all. Oh, and her boyfriend.

Luckily, I did have an out. Given the limited sleeping space in the place, I volunteered to leave early, catching the last train at 12:43, since fuck, I can't sleep on a hardwood floor, and why put others out? I doubt I was missed anyhow.

Anyway, before I left (which I delayed until the party was due to move to a bar/club) Ryan, drunk as I've ever seen him, delivered a very straightforward speech about how much he fucking loves everyone in this room. Man, I remember turning 20. It was a fuckin' bummer. He said if, when he gets older, he could be as cool as me. I told him he was already cooler, so why worry? (Objectively, I would say, he is. He's probably never had to spend the bulk of a party in the corner with the mops.)

It was just... it was not a good situation. I didn't hate anyone there, I just felt like a total clod, couldn't make any socialization happen, went home feeling sorry for myself, woke up in the same state. Did, however, manage to budget my time so I could get to Tim Hortons in time to catch my train. I really wanted a cheese croissant.

So I woke up this morning and met up with Manda. It was the usual hangout, but by the end I think we were both very reflective. I was obviously in self-pity mode, given what'd happened the night before, and she wondering if this was it for her, as far as social interaction was, due to other reasons. I don't have any answers, for either of our situations.

Although karaoke and involvement with Half-Past Eight PM seem to be the best options right now for me. I should probably try to keep from being morose.

She also told me the thrilling story of her fiance's friend, who is apparently somewhat shallow and picky when it comes to girls. So he gets set up on this blind date, with a girl who is apparently a nurse, who lives with her mom to make ends meet. When he comes back, he reports he's not that into it, because the girl is apparently a bit of a chubbster. Well, whatever, right? Not the end of the story.

The next night - the next night - this nurse is awakened by back pains. Her mom takes her to the hospital, where the doctor tell her, a nurse, "Yeah... you're going into labour." She was fuckin' preggers, and had no idea. Go figure! And she was a nurse! Sounds improbable, but my sources don't lie.

Beyond that, I can hardly even remember what I did today, just let it slip away like I have a habit of doing. Procrastination, let's sing it together. A few more points in the "Scotto sucks" column. I ain't got much to say for myself. I've got problems. I am a problem.

Well, at least I know I'm not pregnant.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

D: Acceptances and resignations

It has been a busy, blurry few days since I last checked in. And I'm sure that, in that time, I have had many thoughts that might might have seemed interesting or important or in any way relevant at the time I had them, and they would have been recorded in great detail had I the wherewithal to do so in that time. Unfortunately, time has passed and I have forgotten and/or lost interest in whatever I may have been thinking at the time. And so, alas, we will have to go without knowing exactly how I felt on Wednesday when I ordered a cheeseburger, fries and coke, and was asked whether I would rather have a bacon cheeseburger or a double cheeseburger. (Hint: something along the lines of "Just give me what I asked for, dickhead.")

Yes, I have been one busy cat of late, although not as busy as I ought to be. Tuesday night I sequestered myself with my keyboard, intending at last to write my essay, which should have been written much earlier, and which was due the next day. I sat there, with my poetry books open and my my notes out and spent about 90 minutes on false starts before finally settling into a rhythm and completing it in about 2 hours 15 minutes - the entire session extended from 8-12, and I had been prepared for some kind of all-nighter. Well that's one essay down.

And? Well it's not my best work. Although when I read it I can see what I am trying to say (which often I have found it hard to express) I also find myself somewhat clumsy in construction (perhaps due to my tendency to ramble here on this blog) and talk dogmatically (I keep returning to my points like drumbeats for the benefit of readers who forget what my thesis was.) I wouldn't be surprised to see this essay get as low as a 65 or so, from my objective opinion of it... but history tells me it'll most likely be a 73. I wish I'd tried harder, but I tried my hardest under the circumstances, so I guess what I'm saying is that I wish my hardest was harder. I'd make some kind of double-entendre but at this point I'm not even sure that sentence can be applied to anything other than a sex joke, so really, the joke wrote itself and really isn't all that good. See? I ramble. Some find it charming. You must, after all, you're reading this.

I sleepwalked through Wednesday. It was a terribly uninteresting day for the most part, punctuated by two rather interesting moments. The first was at the very end of my Film history tutorial. It was a lively discussion, which was no doubt pleasant for poor Natalie who sometimes seems put-upon to get us talking. The topic was Latin American "third" cinema. I wasn't personally all that vocal, didn't have much to say, so I let the usual rogues gallery take up the debate, all coming at each other from all sides. It all sorta became white noise to me until the obviously-very-politically-active girl a few seats down from me (who often gets in a few agenda-related barbs and had been quite active already) piped up. Natalie asked whether it was possible for entertainment, art, and politics to come together in a single film. After the obligatory (and accurate) reference to Michael Moore from one guy, this girl fires back with the delightfully condescending foreword, "I'm sorry guys, but we're all film students here, right? I don't know how many of you saw that horrible film Iron Man..." and then followed with some bizarre patchwork configuration of the words "American, nationalistic, propaganda, patriarchy" and possibly some other activist buzzwords I was too busy forming my own opinions to remember. Might've snuck "misogynistic" in there too.

I don't mean to make fun of people (actually, I totally fucking do,) but when you're so up your own ass in ideology that you can't see a movie about a man who wears an iron suit and fires lasers* at terrorists as just that, you have problems. I don't know if there's some kind of void certain people feel inside that can only be filled with ideologies, the way some people fill the void with food and/or popular entertainments (latter category for me.) Amanda busted my chops a few weeks ago for having some kind of hierarchy of geekdom - that I look down on people I consider too excessively geeky. I kinda stand by that, because excessive geekdom can have a serious negative impact on your personality and ability to interact with others. Relying too heavily on socio-political terminology has the same effect.

*Repulsor beams, actually.

And while I was busy nearly pissing myself suppressing laughter at this self-righteous devil woman, the class ended so I couldn't get in a rebuttal (which would have consisted of the words "Um, wha' now?!")

In AmLit, after handing in my essay (which seems to have been in line with others' in the realm of personal disappointment, as the folks behind me commiserated) we watched Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf, which appears to be a movie/play about a couple who gets their jollies off by inviting people over and totally fucking with them. It was pretty seriously fucked up. Good times.

I just invented a drinking game. Watch Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf and take a shot/sip/whatever everytime a character is seen ingesting alcohol onscreen. You will get plastered.

After class, I got a text from RyLai saying he was out of class. This seems very odd if you're unaware of the context, so let me smarten you up. A few weeks ago I inquired about Ryan's karaoke adventures, but hadn't followed up. We talked about it over reading week and were going to go the next Wednesday, but he got ill and I was feeling anti-social. So earlier this week he pops up on MSN to ask if I thought I'd be down for it this week. I figured, hell, I've been laboring over these essays and everything. This is as good a time as any.

So it was all set. So then the usual people he goes with - his roommate and sister - had to cancel for reasons of school and unknown respectively, and his friend from down the hall canceled at the last minute in favor of oven pizza and The Wire on DVD. So it was just the two of us, so much the better for my first time out. After a quick stop at his sister's place to pick up his busted laptop, we went down t othe bar... and holy crap was it packed.

I mean, it was just a little hole in the wall place, but it was all full up, we had to stand like clods by the bar waiting for a table to open up while we picked our songs. A douche in the back lingered at his table while his female companion signaled repeatedly she wanted to go, and he just sat there douchily. Finally two seats opened up at the bar and we sat there all night pulling G&T after G&T from the waitress, waiting for our turns, with a make-out couple to our left and a creepy barfly dude who wanted to see my ID to the right.

After about an hour, Ryan's turn was up - he did Presidents of the United States of America's Lump, which caused the table of girls (presumably on a girls-night-out) to sing along. Good times. A little later was my turn. Neither of us came in with any idea what to sing, and the strategy of flipping through the book until you find something that sounds good is a very reliable one (so goes the story of the time I did Huey Lewis' Power of Love and tore the fucking house down at the notorious WOSS tough crowd.) So I ended up doing Come on Eileen by Dexys Midnight Runners, which was a fun choice. Because it was so busy we both only got one each, although if we'd gotten seconds, Ryan would've done Frankie Valli's "You're Just Too Good to be True" and I'd have done Ice Ice Baby, partly in response to a (by then long-gone) dude who did Insane in the Membrane by Cypress Hill, prancing around in his tight white pants that were much-discussed by the two of us. (The upside to that, I reasoned, was that all the ladies knew if he was circumcised.)

Anyway, it was a good night. It was the last night for the fellow who runs the shows (well, he's got a replacement) so that explained the unusual crowd. He took to the stage to do Sex on Fire by Kings of Leon, which he apparently always does, but it's dead-on, far beyond karaoke and well into tribute. He was also called up to help a guy with Hey Jude, which is a great song, but not for karaoke. There are a number of guidelines you should follow, some of which I will now impose on you...

1) Keep it under 5 minutes. Other people appreciate your guts, but they have turns too.
2) Avoid repetition. Most songs have choruses, but some choruses are more tedious than others. "Na, na, na, na, na, na, na, Hey Jude" gets a bit tiresome.
2a) Likewise, try not to do songs with excessive instrumental breaks. Most songs have some form of these, but some are worse than others.
3) Know the song. You don't need to know all the lyrics, but at least know the rhythm. It's always unfortunate when someone gets up there and realizes they don't know the song as well as they thought they did. Worse is when they don't realize it for themselves or can't admit it - like the soul who got up to do L.A. Woman, breaking all of these rules by being totally off beat the entire way through. Nobody boos (for it is forbidden and/or verboten) but Ryan and I were grumbling through that one.
4) Get creative. Nobody's* really a good singer there anyway, so pick something outrageous and have fun with it.

(*Except for the people that are.)

Other highlights included a fellow who did a really great Brian Johnson on Thunderstruck, a sweet old Lady doing Georgia On My Mind, and as Ryan and I walked out to catch our bus, the barmaid (we later debated this term) doing What-Cha Want. Oh, and one dude did Sweet Jane, which is actually an excellent karaoke song because you can sing it at any pace you want - after all, Lou Reed does.

So we left around 2 AM and caught the bus from the bar to Ryan's dorm. I had intended to leave very early, around midnight, to take the train home, but everything being so crowded I just decided to stick around and crash at his place. He told me there was a bed free at his place. I asked him why, and he gave some very cryptic responses, until I eventually put 2 and 2 together and felt kinda bad. I had met the guy whose room it was once, very briefly, when Ryan and I went to see Quantum of Solace, and he seemed like a very nice guy.

Anyway, the long and short of it is that I got up the next morning around 10, we went and got coffee, and then I went to class. Today was pretty uneventful, although I feel good after actually doing something for once. This will probably become a regular thing. I should've started doing this months ago.

It's late and I've laboured over this entry for a while. There were some other points of interest and hopefully I have the energy to recount them tomorrow night, or that I still remember them when the time comes that I finally write my next entry.

Keep on rockin
-Scott

C: Feel it all

It occurred to me lately that life - specifically my life and specifically now - is about conflicts between wants and needs.

For instance: I want to see Watchmen. I wanted desperately to see it this weekend but it's not in the cards. This want is so particularly strong that it is very nearly a need, but sadly, crumbles in comparison to my actual needs.

Like, I need to write my AmLit paper. I need tow rite five papers and prepare a 20-minute presentation over the course of the next three weeks. I need to stop bitching about it and do it, I need to stop procrastinating. I should probably stop writing this very blog entry and get down to it.

I need (read: am obligated) to go to dinner with my dad tonight, at a restaurant. It should be okay, except for my weird restaurant thing. I bought Gravol, it should be fine. I also have a family birthday to go to tomorrow, so I'm not long on time in general this weekend.

One thing I wanted to do was go down to Toronto and sign up to be an extra in a movie. It's the Scott Pilgrim movie, which had Innis all in a buzz for a while because the notice for the casting call was sent out to basically everyone who has a CINSSU class. Sadly, I don't have the time to schlep all the way down to Toronto and wait around to get my picture taken just for the sake of $10/hr for 8-16 hours 1-5 days this summer. It would'a been nice too, but, well.. sacrifices, yeah?

So last night, my last act of freedom while I sequester myself to my obligations, was going to see Joe and Viki at the ESC. It'd been a while since their last show and I try to get out every month or two. This night was different because Joe and Viki went on last and second-last, whereas first and second were Morgan David and Cecil Eugene (who has a great name that I will someday steal for a fictional character, SHH.) The main thing about Morgan David - and this is nothing to do with his songwriting, instrumentation, singing or techno-ambient background, but when he sings, he stands at this control panel (controlling the aforementioned ambiance) while a guy plays keyboard behind him, so rather than having any business of his own (like say, playing the keyboard or strumming a guitar,) he just stands there and sings at the audience. It was a little distracting although his songs were quite good. Cecil was also very good, especially his guitar technique, and his songwriting was quirky and fun, especially "What if I Wrote You a Song?" (or something along those lines.)

Joe and Viki's sets were good, blending some of the usual suspects with newer material. One song I can't recall having heard before from Viki was Again (I think that was the title) which she prefaced with an excerpt from Nirvana's Heart-Shaped Box, which was very effective on piano. A surprisingly good showcase for her vocal range. Joe's main showpiece was Twenty-Two, which is a good newer one that involves some guitar acrobatics, the difficulty of which made him averse to performing it live... which I suppose is his own fault since he wrote it. It's a really unique sound he gets out of that guitar when he plays it, very moody and well-suited to the piece. Between the early Window EP stuff and his current (SDIL?) material, you can sense a growth in his songwriting technique. The recent songs have a different quality to them, more focused. And this isn't a knock on the earlier ones, nor saying that the new ones are inherently better, just an observation (a fairly obvious one) about his developing skill. Every Message Sent is a particular recent favourite, which was not played, to leave room for Lucky *(which Joe prefaced by noting it was the millionth-and-one time we've heard them do it) a Kara's Flowers cover, and just one Window song, Stargazing.

I had to take off, due to the late extension of the show, otherwise I'd have probably headed back with the rest to Joe's. I've gotten fairly friendly with most of his friends who come out to the show, and yet obviously I'm not really... a part of them. You know how it is with friends-of-friends. Cool kids though.

So I got a lift to the Clarkson station just in time to be 40 minutes early for the train. Not wanting to stand no a train platform for that length, I decided to go exploring. I came out the other end of Clarkson and realized that was where Scooter's Roller Palace is. About a year ago, Robyn had her birthday there, and I didn't come because I didn't think I could get down there on my own, and now I am embarrassed to find it would have been ridiculously easy for me to do so, as I had my ticket back in the day as well.

Anyway, what I really wanted to find was a Tim Hortons so I could get a cheese croissant or something. Across the street was a Metro with a Tim's inside, but it was closed up for the night (just the Tim's, Metro is 24 hrs.) As I was returning, hungrily, to the station I saw in the distance another Tim Hortons sign, and ran toward it. It was farther than I'd anticipated though, and was severely winded from sprinting msot of the way there. And when I got there I found one server slowly tending to a group of like 4 people, and my thought was "Do I even have time for this?" so like that I turned around and walked out. Hmph. And then I was fairly early anyway. So I saw this pen in the escalator terminal at the station, and there's a ton of graffiti there anyway, so I started writing slogans. Cheesy things that used to be/will be my MSN names over the years...

"EVERYTHING IS SOMETHING EVEN WHEN IT'S NOT"
"TRY NOT TO BLINK"
"EVERYONE'S FUTURE IS SOMEONE ELSE'S PAST"
"YER HEAD WON'T EXPLODE IF YOU SMILE"
"I'M WITH YOU IN ROCKLAND" (this was going to be a complete line from Ginsburg's Howl, but I noticed the camera after a moment and got paranoid. "...where the faculties of the skill no longer admit the worms of the senses.")

Got back to Oakville at the expected time and went to bed around 2... more later, off to dinner.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott

B: Yer head won't explode if you smile

I do not cope well with stress.

I hide it decently from those occasional friends I have kept from high school, because I never have anything to be stressed about with them. I have ruined at least one major friendship in my life as a direct (or at least indirect but close) result of it. I spent the first two years of high school as a mopey loner (even amongst my friends) because I was stressed out by the anxiety of being attracted exclusively to girls with whom I had no shot (and wouldn't have been good with anyway.*)

(*I occasionally wonder if parts of my life would've taken a different path if I had spend those years finding and focusing on available girls who might actually have been into me. This probably involves the intervention of a completely fictional character, though.)

Of all my close friends, probably only Amanda has truly seen me at my worst. Joe might have some idea, having been around for some of the more colorful moments of Sheridan. I talk about it here sometimes but if you haven't seen, you probably don't know. I whine, I pout, I feel like hitting, I do pratfalls of frustration, I scream and moan, I think dark thoughts. I do not express myself well in these cases. It's not a side of myself I'm proud of and I've done my best to beat it over the years, but it still comes up.

March 2009 is already and will continue to be a very stressful time. I shouldn't really be writing this. I shouldn't do anything except work on essays. And yet here I am,. being a bastard of a procrastinator, feeling sore about the way the day went. I don't know what was even that bad about it, other than not being able to think about anything other than how much I suck and how screwed I am due to my own fault.

After a few unmemorable classes, I met with my Film History TA to hammer out some direction on this whole "Film History Paper" thing. She was glad to indulge and very helpful, totally reversing my previous belief that she thought my proposal outline was a load of bullshit. That's one essay accounted for, four to go.

I had another appointment with an AmLit TA I'd never met in a building where I'd never been. I arrived at that building (UC) at 3:00 only to find I was completely unable to find the room where the meeting was supposed to be. So I raced around the building a while before I finally found a stairwell labeled "A" and climbed up to the third floor, where I found a distinctly TA-looking guy sitting quietly. He asked if I was Scott, and yes I am, so yeah. I told him I was not as far along as I'd hoped to be in the essay-writing process, but I talked over some of my ideas, looking into the influence of the past on the writings of certain poets we'd studied. He seemed to think it was a worthwhile prospect so I noted it down, got his e-mail, and got on my way. That's two.

I just suddenly got deja vu, including me writing about getting Deja vu. My dad got me a new computer case *(well, his old one, which is standard protocol) which is too ginormous to go on my desktop, so now I have twice as much space to clutter up (ironically, perhaps due to his comments as such, I have actually tidied my space for the first time in a long while. Not completely but to some degree.) The only problem is I need to re-install my printer and scanner drivers and uh, I can't find the CDs. Crap. I thought I had them kicking around somewhere.

I got to AmLit. We were looking at the provocative poetry of Pat Parker. We did some group work, it was... not great, but okay. Then near the very end of the class, I'm waiting patiently to talk and getting into some of my ideas about her work. I started in on my thoughts, the prof seemed to agree, then went to someone else. Frankly, it bothered me, and I can't distill exactly why because I haven't done a very good job of recounting the scenario... it had happened earlier that day in the film history tutorial. That brings me back to my initial thought on stress and how bad I am with it. I tend to bunch up all of the things that are bothering me, draw connections between things that have none, take offense to otherwise innocuous slights... in short, like many people, I just get pissy sometimes.

The title of this entry was "Yer head won't explode if you smile." I was walking to the subway yesterday when I saw a homeless dude with a sign saying just that. I took a few steps further, thought about it, stopped and smiled. I backtracked and gave him a buck for the sheer feeling of being cheered up in that way. He smiled back at me, and had about 4 teeth visible in his mouth. Good times.

Today, I passed another homeless guy. Still feeling uncharacteristically charitable, I asked him if he wanted the free doughnut I'd just won at Tim's (3 wins in 10 days, approximately 2 per day.) He said no, because of his teeth. Homeless people and their teeth? Equally likely, he can't buy crack with a free doughnut. I have such great faith in humanity.

The lecture, complete with being cut off, ran longer than usual so I had to take the later train. The whole affair was a bummer. And so, we're back at the beginning.

Someday I'll get ahold of myself.

Or not.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto

A: She's afraid of the bees

You know what's hard? Writing a choose-your-own-adventure book.

I shouldn't even be broaching this topic. I should be all focused and stressed out and everything, but instead I choose to distract myself through any means possible. Today I had an idea for a Choose-your-own-adventure style story (which I'm calling "Choice & Fate," because CYOA is actually copyrighted.) just to write as an exercise. After laying out the various plot threads I wanted to occur, I realized how intricate it had to be. My concept is actually slightly moreso, because in conception, it has the potential to be one of six different scenarios (hence, I see it as more of a website project than as an actual book) with two getting a more privileged treatment.

Yes, I'm bad. Not a bad person, but I'm a bad student. I'm a prisoner of my own sloth. Some of the blame falls on my TA's for telling me how bad my prospectus/manifest/sneak previews were. Then again, that really just splashes back on me for making them bad in the first place. Anyway, this ordeal has done its part to kill my motivation, which wasn't that high to begin with, and now I just want to write a choose your own adventure story.

I am incapable of doing things I am supposed to do, aren't I?

Nondescript weekend. Watched DVD's, hung out with self, and Amanda as usual. Thank goodness for her because otherwise I'd flat out have no human interaction (real human interaction anyway.) Today was one of those many days when I got all somber about having nobody to talk to while conversations raged all around. I met this girl in the library last week (I'm always meeting girls but never feel capable of doing more than that) and she was in my Canadian Lit class, so today I was mysteriously in the same row as her (or maybe I'm just that good of a stalker. Well, she told me she always sat in the back, and there I was.) She saw me, gave this... pleasant look of recognition? I don't know how to describe it much less interpret it. There was a time when I saw potential in every girl who looked at me. These days I just see dead ends. Maybe I'll talk to her again a few times, maybe Facebook, maybe not. (Not that I need to point this out, but she's cute.) I told Amanda over the weekend that my current philosophy is that everyone eventually meets someone, except me. I'm willing to be proven wrong, and not by the fact that lots of people don't meet anyone. That's not comforting.

It's not for lack of trying. My forays into the world of online meeting are decently chronicled. I've met a number of nice girls (and one very naughty one.) Some with potential, except for geography. Something weird happened late last week, which is that two attractive, interesting girls sought me out, which has never happened. My previous experience was that the types of girls who seek me out have few other options. Okay, admittedly, one of these girls is in a wheelchair, but she seems cool. The other one, maybe a bit of a hippie, but still cool. And then there's the one in Oakville, very cool, yet always working.

Well, I suck at meeting people online and I suck at meeting them in person, except at parties where I am awesome at it. I liked the atmosphere of Sheridan where it was possible to get to know people, even if not everyone I got to know there was, um, my best friend. Per se. It was just easier, you know? More comfortable.

I do this to myself.

...more later. Someday. Keep on rockin'
-Scott