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Journal | Archives
Well, first, about The High Dive.
I'm sad that there aren't any other pretty bars like it near campus. You have to go out of your way to avoid the slut factories here. The atmosphere at The High Dive is calming. Low lights, candles, clean, ‘classy’, and plants-with-red-lights-strung-abouty. A very nice venue. Hadn't been there since two years ago.
And so being one of the first people there, I grabbed a seat by the bar and waited for a good amount of time, it seemed. I actually put my head down a few times and almost fell asleep, even as people continued to come in.
Antibalas finally came on and performed quite well. I'd only heard two songs of theirs prior to tonight, so I didn't know what exactly to expect other than something that possibly made you want to dance.
I think I would've liked to dance. I know that I can dance better than practically everyone else there, especially the ones that looked like they were trying to get their feet out of the mud or didn't know exactly what to do with their hands (a higher ratio of guys to girl, if that adds reasoning to the shitty dancers). Hell, even an old lady was moving around at the very front of the stage.
But I can be terribly self-conscious. I still walk to class always thinking that someone is analyzing me critically based on how I look or walk or whatever. I try to stand tall – literally, as if I actually have good posture – but usually go back to a slight slump because maybe it'll draw too much attention? I dunno. I need to get into better shape.
Whatever. The best dancer was a cute girl who I didn't mind watching. She had good moves.
Next Friday will be the first time that I go to a concert with friends for once.
So there's a new Old Navy in town that's probably been around for…many months. And near the front of the store was exactly what I went looking for: scarves.
There was brown, blue, and grey. I picked the grey. It's perfect for me. Plain and dull. I really don't know if I'll ever use it, though. Depends on what this winter has to offer.
(They were playing some nifty '80s music in-store. I miss the '80s now.)
I wonder if my general lack of calcium these past seventeen years will have a terrible affect on my health as I age ungracefully.
My right feet has had weird sorts of pains the past few weeks. They come and go. And I'm starting to think it's a stress fracture. From what, walking?
The downward spiral is starting.
He did this funny voice, saying, ‘Aww, hey dude!’ and knew some Greek cuss words. And Beau used to play Hi-Town DJs' ‘Ding-A-Ling’ in his car, and we'd sing along to the chorus – always amusing. And Mark would try to break his crazy records for most Bon-Bons ate in one sitting. And Nick and I would exchange punches to the shoulders to see who'd back down first; one day, Mark, Nick, Kirk, and you, Andrew, all descended on me at my locker. You bastards were smiting me, in fact. Billy and his ingenious ’Smite Kaiser’.
At lunch, mostly during freshman and sophomore year, we'd throw berries and acorns as hard as we could at each other. And go down to the pond sometimes. (Even though it was off-limits. What rebels we were, eh.) And we'd always sit by the 86er. The Elevator, a buried Mega Man, and The Crotch Tree were waiting behind the cafeteria.
I remember buzzing off dip when we skipped the Christmas assembly bullshit. And there was the credit cards and cigars. And Seth came up to me asking if I wanted to buy weed, because he'd heard that I was a regular smoker.
And I had the biggest crush on Nicki Audo. For two or three years? And then on Susan Bradley. I had a shot with Susan, actually. I think. I was a loser. Still am.
(I dressed tacky, too.)
What's happening, Andrew? Why am I thinking of those horrible four years at Glenwood? Am I just getting old? I don't want to relive those days exactly, but it'd be nice to have moments like them now. To be less aware of things and more immature.
You threw soda on me once, I think. I think you were just joking. But I retaliated by throwing soda back on you. Like a whole cup full. And you got up all pissed; Pat Mahoney was on ‘my side’, though, and did the stand-off thing for me. I'm sorry. (Remember when he broke that kid's jaw in 8th grade?)
And we'd rip shit up in physics, Andrew: while some of those pinnacles of academic achievement cheated on the tests, you, me, and Joel rocked the show with our natural intellect. AD actually thought I wasn't too smart until senior year. Hah.
High school feels like it had a wider variety of quirky moments than college. That's sad.
I miss those smites now.
A comment Andrew left:
So i've been at work since 8, it's now 10, and i have done nothing at all, i had a cigarette and checked my email, kaiser, how do you do this everyday over the summer, i just might kill myself if this was an everyday thing, however, in my boredom, i did find out that jenny reynolds was the hooter's girl of the week for wqlz
Ah…pure empathy, for once.
I'm not sure how I do it, either. Five summers of this and…as far as work goes, if I just take it day by day, the time disappears and summer is eventually over. It's an unfulfilling and wasteful mindset. There was a lot I could've learned or done in those empty hours. Same goes for campus, I guess.
Since you won't face that often, I think you'll survive. (For the record, though, the average time of me doing nothing is roughly 50%. Some days are just lazier than others.)
But you more fully realize why I don't want to go back to Springfield to work for the state. It'll do more terrible things to my mind in the end.
Who's the webmaster of CMT? Their site looks a bit shitty. I can make improvements. For a fee.
(Hats [or tops?] off to Jenny! She's a sweety. We should stop by and congratulate her if we're in town at the same time? Or just get fried fish.)
Watched Spicy Clamato perform tonight (an improv comedy troupe, for the UIUC-impaired). I wrote a line of dialogue before the show and tossed it in the hat, and it was later used as a bowling cry: ‘Can I fit this condom over my head?’ Teehee. During one of the earlier acts I shouted out ‘porn’ but the then-currently performing guy confused it for ‘corn’ and I was sad.
They're all good and fun, though. I need see them more often; the last time was first week of freshman year.
My nickname for them since freshman year has been Spicy Chlamydia.
I left my good eyes on the table.
I'm not comfortable giving presentations in front of a class. Even in high school, where the classes were small and I was acquainted with everyone. (Oh, that terrible day I had to go first in composition to give a presentation on my term paper. It didn't occur to me that I could actually be called first, so I didn't prepare. I mumbled and fumbled and worried along for eight minutes. Pulled a D for that stunt, surprisingly.)
Today in eng199 my group had to present info on who we were working with and what we hoped to accomplish. Many people skipped, which helped to ease some worries – fewer critical eyes and ears (including the two girls that were sleeping).
WinXP acted like a bitch, hanging as it tried to open my Powerpoint presentation; not a smooth start. My talking wasn't smooth, either. No stuttering, thankfully, but a bit of hurrying. The all-important eye contact was made, though. And then threeish minutes passed.
I was much more nervous a few weeks ago when I went to tap a girl on the shoulder. She wasn't necessarily a stranger by any means, and I decided to make a surprise appearance. But my heart progressively dug through my chest and almost ripped out of my throat as I got within inches of her.
It could be the shirt's fault – not my mind's – because I wore the same one at both these instances.
Yes, the shirt is responsible for my insecurities and such.
It took just under two months to finally get a copy.
Goodness.
I'm growing my beard back. It won't be Amish, I can almost guarantee that much. But I'm getting frustrated with shaving every damn day – too many cuts, expensive blade refills. Besides, it's been over a year now. Semi-classical Kaiser aesthetics. Bad era.
And a lady at Meijer let me get new olive oil and kidney beans. The chili is complete, and it's fairly good. (Thanks for the recipe, P-L-diddy. I modified it by marinating the ground beef with Worcestershire and black pepper for 30 minutes; I don't know what impact it had on taste, but it killed the browning ground beef smell.)
An old man watched me try on a dress shirt in front of the mirrors by the sport coats at Goodwill. He watched and smiled, and that disturbed me. I thought then that he was mentally undressing me or that he wanted to molest me or do other unsavory things. I had a confused smile on my face, though, because I had trouble buttoning the dress shirt; hopefully it didn't play into his thoughts. Another guy came and stood next to the dirty old man (perhaps his son?).
‘Is this a left-handed shirt?’ I asked, still struggling with the buttons.
‘If the buttons are on the opposite side then that's a women's dress shirt,' said the younger guy.
After an ‘Oh’ and an embarassed look, I promptly took the shirt off. Dan walked by shortly thereafter and I relayed the story to him. He told me that, firstly, he was wearing a women's dress shirt at that moment, and secondly, he found out indirectly – through some girls saying something like, ‘Yeah, that looks right. That's how ours is’, and then noticing the buttoning of other girls with dress shirts – that left-handed shirts don't exist.
So I bought it. It's nice, it fits, it has a girly collar (but that's okay). I'm a size 8, if you're curious.
We stopped by Meijer afterwards, and I gathered necessities for chili and general eating. Came back home, realized that my olive oil and kidney beans weren't in any of the bags, so I called Paige to see if I could check her car, in case things rolled out. But, it turns out the bagger didn't bag them, or didn't put them in the cart. Meijer has $4.50 that isn't theirs, and I'm upset.
After checking the car, Paige showed me a baby squirrel she found earlier. It was so cute, but it was very weak, too – internal damage or sickness maybe. It didn't move around too much, and seemed unable to support itself in the bucket we put it in.
With the aid of Edith Rose, the sweet little old lady in the house on the corner of 5th and Springfield, we put the squirrel in a more ‘secluded’ area and kept a crate over it to keep things away. (Paige called animal control, but the operator said the only two options to help save it would cost money – more than it was realistically worth.)
The outcome probably won't be happy.
Edith wasn't quick to let us go; methinks she doesn't get many visitors. But her husband is still alive, from what I could gather. She invited us over anytime, to look at African art or talk about our travels (her husband went to Bangladesh once, during one of the really bad floods). I'll take her up on the offer if I don't have to go alone. (It's more of a comfort issue, not that I think she's a psycho in anyway.)
Later that evening, Ryan showed me the proper way to use chopsticks. I couldn't tell if the taste really was different than using a fork (something about using different parts of the mouth to eat food off a chopstick as opposed to pulling it off a fork), but I'll give him the benefit of the doubt. Chopsticks are fun.
The grand finale was Andrew's party, which had a much lower-than-expected turnout. It was a peaceful gathering. Part of the time was spent flipping through channels with Pete and Dan and laughing at infomercials of breast lift-up tapes and the corny choreography of Carman (the Christian singer and performer). And then there was Kyle, possibly the stupidest drunk I've met. He didn't quite grasp that: one, Dave lived in the apartment down the stairs, and two, that I was one of Dave's roommates. Among other things. It was fun to laugh at him.
In none of the 19 hours awake did I actually do work, which leaves me a bit screwed for today, and the rest of the week, if today isn't fruitful. But I might as well enjoy wasting my time with friends instead of wasting my time on the computer.
I'll leave with one of a few funny little jokes relayed by Pete:
‘How do you turn a six-year-old boy into a girl?’
‘Bend him over’.
Haha.
(That's wrong, I know.)
…at this moment is to move right to digital editing. Reel-to-reel tapes, mixing consoles, and the filter machine are all fun little things for the sake of goofing around. Not so friendly on the composition side. Too much planning involved. Makes brain hurt.
A ladybug flew onto me today as I sat under a tree on the quad. I made it my pet. And watched with a bit of fascination as it cleaned itself on the tip of my finger, licking its front legs and wiping its head and face (or maybe it was just scratching an itch?). Humans are the only animals that don't have an inherent need to clean themselves, I think.
I scooted the ladybug onto my pants, after which it found shade under my shirt and napped, then I went back to reading Cat's Cradle. Poor Newt.
My butt started to hurt from sitting on mulch, so I stopped reading after 40 pages, released the ladybug, and lied down on the grass. The sun wasn't exactly friendly to my eyes, but it was nice nonetheless, to feel my skin tan, to feel the sun moving its position, to hear the wind fly through the trees and feel it blanket my body, to hear the birds talking.
Well, I didn't necessarily hear the wind or birds for a while because I had Bane playing in my CD player. (Not really at-peace-with-nature music, but it worked for that duration.)
The ‘Down with the [Minnesota] Vikings’ protestors circled around twice during this time. I think they were protesting the viking symbol because vikings were ‘pillagers’? Whatever it was, they succeeded in being amusing. I hope the ‘Down with the penny/We've got too many’ guys come back this year.
(I don't think I can ever become vegetarian, though. I need more veggies, yes, and Red Herring is fairly good, but…can't deny juicy, tender, tasty morsels of flesh. But more power to you, Klara – tofu and futon shopping await.)
Is today Gay Pride Day? Or was the rainbow flag and singing and gathering just…a casual event?
I had to call Ameritech today because, out of laziness, I put off calling tech support two weeks ago to get a working SMTP server address. So I talked to this lady who gave me a long answer to my problem. She offered to reset my account password, because I'd forgotten. I also asked for my username (forgot that, too) – she asked for my last name, then gave it to me. And then…
—Your name…what nationality are you?
—Well, my name is Arabic, but my family is from Bangladesh.
—Oh…
I was taken aback. What was that shift in her tone a response too? The mention of an Arabic name, or a genuine ‘Oh, that's interesting’?
Ah well.
I miss my three cups of tea and little snacks – and then breakfast – in Bangladesh. I also miss the pollution. Sigh.
Those three tests today – in journalism, music, and compilers – were a little too easy. After consulting with Dave, I know that the compiler midterm wasn't nearly as acey as I thought, but a B (worst case: C) for 1–2 hours worth of studying is a great deal. The others, definitely A-quality.
Minimalism in studying pays off. So does keeping up on a semi-regular basis.
And after sitting outside on this pleasant night while drinking a mocha on the corner of 6th and Green and listening to another installment of funny little stories from Paige and Dan, I feel good.
I have a set of concerts to look forward to:
—Pedro the Lion; Oct 25; Courtyard Cafe
—Wilco; Oct 27; Foellinger Auditorium
—Gwar; Nov 3; The Canopy Club
—The Detachment Kit; Nov 19; The Highdive
I've never been in much of a concert-going mood, mainly because I wasn't interested in the acts that came around. But my musical interests are [slowly and] continously expanding, and things change as the end approaches.
(Gwar is totally for novelty purposes; I've never heard one of their songs.)
And a list of things I should read this semester, out of fun (also, because I spent money that maybe shouldn't have been spent):
—Cat's Cradle, Kurt Vonnegut
—Epic of Gilgamesh
—The Pornographer's Grief, Joseph Glenmullen
That last book was a definite impulse buy. It was the first time I'd been in Babbitt's Books, and the book sat against the wall in the ‘featured’ (?) area, screaming out to me. The more conscious purchases that day were Perspectives on Power (Noam Chomsky) and The Gay Science (Friedrich Nietzsche). Since those require a bit of thought, I'll have to take them in small doses.
I'm rambling.
Of the few new items added to Espresso Royale's menu this year, peanut butter mocha caught my attention. The sign said ‘Coming soon’, though. (According to the bilingual Frenchman, the original peanut butter flavoring left oil rings, probably due to the fat, and maybe that was unappealing to customers? I don't remember the last part.)
So today, after spending an hour or so sitting on the quad, absorbing the cold and trying to study, but more often than not just being distracted by life – all the people walking around; the girl on the cellphone complaining about some fat and ugly girl; the two Hare Krishnas that always seem to sit outside playing some elongated, double-sided tabla and shaking a tambourine; a hoboish man playing a mini piano quite well (to which he sometimes sang along) – I went to Espresso Royale.
I wanted to be bold and try something new. I presented my Coffe Club card (stamped ten times and worth around $40) to Kristin (who apparently didn't recognize me from last week) and asked for a medium peanut butter mocha. Sans whipped cream (because they ran out, those pricks).
The taste was interesting. Peanut buttery, yes. A bit fatty, too. Gritty. Actually, maybe they used real peanut butter. Peanut butter is good.
By and by, the little sips I took became more and more unbearable. I eventually shuddered with each one, though I think that was purely psychological (but you can't not associate taste with something).
I drank half the glass before quitting, at which time I promptly placed it in the dish tray: I've never wasted such a huge amount of mocha.
I attended to my bladder after disposing of the mocha. In the corner, next to the toilet, was a blue bucket. Inside the bucket was a black plunger, with its accordian-like suction area. It looked like a penis sticking out. It was fun to pretend that I was staring at a carnival mirror distorting and enlarging things beyond practicality.
I'll no longer veer from vanilla-strawberry (or the less regular Irish creme-raspberry, or the more old school Amaretto) flavors. And I'm content with what I was born with. Change isn't always necessary.
Unless it comes to my study habits… Six hours wasted, while three tests and a newspaper column wait with crossed arms and a stern glare. ‘You won't be prepared tomorrow’, they tell me. I'm starting to believe them.
I took a drink from a water fountain in the music building after a brisk walk from the apartment. I lift my head – still savoring the bit of water left in my mouth – and turn left. Through a bit of a quirk, the left corner of my forehead slams against the brick wall next to the fountain, spreading warmness, annoyance, and hurt into the region. I'm just thankful no one saw it. It really was a stupid thing to do.
It's nice to have all these Bears fans drive through and walk around campus. Adds a bit of variety, but not really since they wear Bearsy things. And lots of Urlacher jerseys.
Aside from studying, what should I do tonight?…
So after hanging out with Paige and Dan again tonight – going for coffee, watching Death to Smoochy, having victims of projectiles-thrown-from-the-upper-floors banging on the door again (though unlike last night, it wasn't our fault) – Dan and I go driving around somewhat. We stop by his house, out by Parkland College, and he gives me a Pedro the Lion and a Fugazi CD.
Back to campus. To IHOP, to a waitress that obviously needs sleep (unless handing us an order that isn't ours while chatting as if it was the right order is just a glitch).
And then he drops me off at the apartment. It's roughly 4:30 AM. I unlock my door and open it, but it stops. Someone bolted it. Great.
I start banging on the door, yelling in for Derek or Dave. No response. I spot a guy walking to his apartment, so I go and ask if I could borrow the phone. I call and let it ring. Two calls spanning 30 or so rings. No answer. Fantastic.
Oregon computer lab is open 24 hours, right? I could go online and hopefully find someone awake to crash with. Smart idea.
I walk across campus, bladders filling with each step. My thoughts are now with finding the bathroom before going online. And then the scenario of what I'd do if no one was available. Stay at the lab and do homework until God knows when? Fall asleep at the computer?
Not that any of those thoughts mattered, because the lab was closed. Hands began to grip my bladders harder to the point that they started to ache. Walked down a couple of streets to the first gas station; closed. Walked across the street to the next one; open. Release that energy.
I made a last-ditch effort to wake someone up from the payphone. Ten rings. Twenty rings. Thirty rings. Forty rings? Finally, a nearly incoherent and practically unresponsive voice answers. He can't identify who he is, not even a simple yes or no to ‘Is this Dave?’ I give up asking who and just ask if he can unbolt the door. ‘Yeah……bye’
Back across campus to home, arriving at 5:20.
This is all broken because I refuse to try and make things more eloquent. I've been up 21 hours now. I have much studying to do whenever I wake up (if I can even fall asleep). I'm sore. My eyes hurt. I thought yesterday would be a turning point of sorts. It still can be, I suppose. Today (yesterday) was a very good day for the most part. And most of an assignment was finished. And it wasn't a dull night just sitting at the computer the entire time.
I'll shut up.
…keep the window closed. Or things might get wet.
And amuse yourself by watching people run and slide in the grass puddles on the quad.
