Chuck's Blog Of Everlastin Funky Luvin

When The GM Is Away, Chuck Will Act This Way

2007-04-06T14:43:00.000-04:00

Let's hope I don't get fired over this.

Like An Animal...

2007-03-31T15:21:00.000-04:00

The More Things Change The More They Stay The Same

2007-03-07T21:05:00.000-05:00

Listen up! Al's Got Words!

2007-02-14T00:40:00.000-05:00

GET FUCKING!

Meh. (January Edition)

2007-01-24T21:25:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I feel like it, sometimes I don’t. Not that anyone cares; but right now I’m in one of my “Fuck a Bunch of Blogging” modes. There are more interesting and worthwhile things to be found on other pages anyway. Mine is the slow road.

Don’t take this as one of those “nothing’s going on” posts. I haven’t been sitting on my ass or anything. I’ve got angst, thoughts, and stories to tell, but 90% of them are in my personal journal and not suitable for your delicate and sensitive palates. Come February this place may light up like the dashboard of my new car. I wouldn’t count on it if I were you though; I rarely do something because someone else expects it of me. (I think we all know why.)

I guess that makes me selfish.

Lots Of TV and No Lunchie Makes Chuck Something Something...

2006-12-27T22:15:00.000-05:00

Due to the current Lunchie deficiency in the apartment, I watched both volumes of KILL BILL over the last couple days. (Beats using my own tears for lube, that’s for sure.) I'm just confused by Beatrix though. Is she Pro Life or something?

Oh, who am I kidding. You’re still trying to get that mental image out of my head, aren’t you?

I'm Not A Poet And Boy How We Know It

2006-12-26T15:50:00.000-05:00

Working a mid really sucks, especially when I have to open the next morning. Waking up at 9:00 isn't so bad, but I feel like my entire day is wasted because of it. I say this because what I've come to consider as my time (1pm - 5pm) is spent at work doing nothing. In the last couple of months business has slowed to a trickle and several hours may go by between customers. On the days I'm scheduled to work a mid I spend more time telling people how to find Big River than making coffee. When I actually get a chance to do the job I was hired to do I usually have to deal with the, "I really don't like coffee," people. (Skip right past the obvious question of why they would come to a coffee shop and ask for coffee. I can't figure it out either.) These people usually are lousy tippers too.

It's next to impossible to read at work. I've found that I get fairly irritable when I get interrupted too often. So if the phone rings or a customer walks in...

See? This just happened.

Some lady in what has to be her early 40s came in and wanted to buy some ice cream and check her e-mail. No problem, except there was a man and his two small boys already on the store computer. The man didn't buy anything himself. He simply came in and asked, complete with the all-important word please, if he could look up something for his son. The computer wasn't being used, the store has been a ghost town for weeks, and I couldn't think of a good reason to be an asshole so I said, "Go crazy."

When the lady came in she looked at me with what appeared to be a half-lidded glare of condescension, so you can tell we got off to a great start. She pointed accusingly either at the man or the please limit your computer usage to 20 minutes sign and demanded, "How long has he been here?" He may have been on for 20 minutes for all I could remember, but I wasn't about to kick off a non-customer for another non-customer. I just asked what kind of ice cream she wanted.

No answer.

She just stood at parade rest and stared at the computer. I offered to let her use my computer since it wasn't doing anyting important. "No, that's ok," she said. For some reason she wanted that computer. No other computer on the planet would do. The Perky Piranha Customers Only Computer and only Perky Piranha's computer could fulfill her needs. Eventually she got fed up and left. All of this took place over, maybe, 3 minutes. And of course the guy and his kids left shortly after she walked through the door. I wanted to put my fist through the microwave.

People are fucking bizarre. I really pitty those who think I'm weird. I know I'm pretty fucked up but I also know there are crazier people out there. That lady just made the list.

And now the shop isn't a ghost town. Now there are six people hanging out. All of them were polite and tipped - not well but they smiled as they did it which, to me anyway, means more.

What I was trying to get at before all that stuff happened was that one of the things I find very difficult to do at work is read. We're not allowed to sit even if we're drowsy from watching all the tumbleweed blow by. If I'm going to read a novel or something that doesn't have frequent breaks, I have to be able to allow myself to give it my full attention which means sitting and not being at work. So I need something shorter and less involved.

Essays tend to be too long, short stories too, and I get tired of reading the news every day because papers are written in such a boring and perfunctory manner. That's one of the reasons I like message boards so much. They're often very brief conversations. Sometimes they provide useful information...most of the time they don't. Much like work, however, the message boards I read have been drying up and they just aren't so fun or interesting any more. So I've been reading poetry.

I came across this poem today, and thought I'd share it with you because, to keep this short, I really like it. That was the entire point of posting and it got a lot longer than I wanted it to. Hey, at least it passed the time. Woohoo! Two more hours till freedom. So here goes, then I'm out.

The River of Life by Thomas Campbell

The more we live, more brief appear
Our life's succeeding stages:
A day to childhood seems a year,
And years like passing ages.

The gladsome current of our youth
Ere passion yet disorders,
Steals lingering like a river smooth
Along its grassy borders.

But as the care-worn cheeks grow wan,
And sorrow's shafts fly thicker,
Ye Stars, that measure life to man,
Why seem your courses quicker?

When joys have lost their bloom and breath
And life itself is vapid,
Why, as we reach the Falls of Death,
Feel we its tide more rapid?

It may be strange - yet who would change
Time's course to slower speeding,
When one by one our friends have gone
And left our bosoms bleeding?

Heaven gives our years of fading strength
Indemnifying fleetness;
And those of youth, a seeming length,
Proportion'd to their sweetness.

See, Holly? I'm Tryin Here.

2006-12-23T23:30:00.000-05:00

If you’ve ever had the misfortune of chewing on a Ferrero Rocher or sinned against the gods so heinously as to be forced to actually swallow the fucker, then you know a misery I wouldn’t wish upon anyone. Well, maybe select few but it’s a short list. My first encounter with what I now call “Shit Balls” was when Barker brought some back with him after our first Christmas in college. I remember Andy and Shane didn’t seem to care. Come to think of it Nathaniel probably brought them down because whoever gave them to him couldn’t stand them either. I imagine it was one of those cliché “pass the fruitcake”-type things you see on sitcoms each year. I look at what goes in them, factor in Italy’s crushing victory over France at the World Cup, and still can’t figure out why I can’t stomach them.

Long story short, I’ll never forget the vile shit-taste of those things and renew my vow to avoid them like meatloaf, tofu, and ADPi.

Anyway, the point of all that was to remind you (*clang* as *ring* if *jingle* there *jangle* was *ding* a *ping* chance *annoying* you *motherfuckersoutsideeverygoddamnstore* could *justfuckingSTOP* forget *bling*) that it’s Christmas time and that I’m always irritable this time of year. You need some reasons why? Just read my post from last year. Much of it is as true today as it was then. If you don’t know how things have changed, you haven’t been paying attention and need to either call me and “catch up” or simply admit that you don’t give a shit and get fuckin. I don’t need to hear you do it - just do it.

I went to Florida for a few days and it was fun. I’ll recount all the sexy/nonsexy details later. Then again, look at the immediately preceding post and you can see just how far a promise I make here will get you.

So I'll keep it simple and vague.

There is a lot going on even if my days aren’t filled with activities that produce a measurable result. There’s stuff gong on “up stairs,” if you’ll bother to catch my meaning. Just because I’m not running to my keyboard every time a synapse fires off it doesn’t mean nothing is happening. Maybe I just don’t want to waste your precious interweb experience by whining. Ya ever think of that? No. No you didn't.

Like I said, Christmas is crashing down all around us and I’m feeling about as cheerful as an abused pit-bull. So don’t let my moping ruin your fun. Take a good look and see why I wouldn’t have been much fun at Erin’s tonight. Consider it my (and mostly my employers’) gift to you.

*sigh*

I miss you all like a Pat Robertson misses the camera after a long day of filming Satanic Children's Bukkake…

WORK!!!

I meant when he gets home from work. Like the 700 Club.

Silly me. They're so similar.

I’m going to Hell.

Two Quick Things

2006-12-07T17:36:00.000-05:00

First: if you didn't know about this dude, edumicate yourself. I saw a thing on PBS (I think) about that cat and he was one cool dude. I know he could have taken those Wright Brothers in a fight. I almost wish he had gotten into fisticuffs with them. That'd really have been a historical treat. Too bad about the way he checked out.

Second: Yep. A good read. Just goes to show that you shouldn’t believe everything you read. Except, of course, for when I put it in my major author paper an say I told ya so more than 100 years later. If I could high-five ya, Jules baby, I would. But I’m trying to keep my keyboard clean.

I'll have that update I promised tomorrow. At least that’s the plan. Work as been a fucking dog this week and I don't feel like being overly poetical right now. Besides, you have some reading to do.

A Follicular Predicament

2006-12-02T16:25:00.000-05:00

Stay with the present course and aim for a full Dreyfuss or go for something that makes me look a little less homeless? As much as the Depardieu appeals to me. I'm thinking the Hurt is more my thing.

I'll have a real update of goings-on later in the week. For now, consider the situation and avail me of your wisdom.

I await your admonishment and/or distress.

Nothing Is Happening

2006-11-15T16:38:00.000-05:00

Seriously folks. Not a damn thing.

Terribly Horrifying Freedom

2006-10-30T14:32:00.000-05:00

"This message is being sent to confirm that all credit card information has been removed from the World of Warcraft account *******, effectively canceling its recurring subscription as of October 27, 2006 6:57 PM UTC. The account will not bill or renew any further unless new payment information (credit card or game card) is manually entered in."

It was a great two years but it's time to get back into things that actually matter. I made some good friends and I intend to be in touch with them as much as possible. (I shit you not when I say that I got two phone calls from people, one of whom I never gave my number, asking me not to quit.) Holy hell...another one is calling me now. The irony.

What it really came down to was the realization that, somehow, the relationships I had formed through a game had come to overshadow those of my "flesh and blood" friends. Perhaps it was easier when Rhys was living just down the hall, but when the call came for a Wednesday evening beer came, I went. Somehow the desire to excel at something that ultimately doesn't matter, something with no tangible final product, created a situation where our schedules didn't match up. That's just dumb.

Now it's time to get some shit done. Call it unassailable optimism or going 'round the bend, but I still feel as though I've come out ahead somehow. I now have Reason, Logic Express, and Ableton Live on my computer. I plan on dabbling in music again. Chances are that I won't get as involved with it as 3 years ago, but it's fun just to fiddle around sometimes (pun only slightly intended).

Daylight-Savings Time 1 - Chuck 0

2006-10-29T05:48:00.000-05:00

I forgot about that stupid thing...again...and got to work an entire hour early. If I were the grumpy type, I'd have been pissed. Don't believe Lunchie's lies. I'm really one of those cheerfully annoying and upbeat individuals in the morning. If I'm grouchy, it's probably because I just don't like you very much at that point in time anyway. My mood really doesn't depend on the amount of sleep I've had, although there is plenty of evidence to suggest that my sanity level does. But really, there's nothing you can really do about something like this but smile and let the night auditor get a good laugh at your expense. I also made it a point to run over to the kitchen and let them sink their teeth into this piece of comedy gold. If anyone deserves to laugh at the lazy cracker next door, it's those guys.

It's the little things, ya know.

Sorry Rae Rae.

2006-10-17T13:02:00.000-04:00

Yeah, I have been working. They've got me on a pretty consistent weekend schedule now. Last week we had the Chattanooga Head Race and the shop was under siege by Universities flavored Clemson, Duke, UTK, GA, and GA Tech. Oh, and their parents too. Amanda tells me that there was a line of 20 people at 7am before she even opened the door. When I got there at 8am she was ankle-deep in receipts. It was a really fun day. Seriously, I had a blast. This weekend is Dad's birthday and next weekend is an even bigger regatta.

Anyway, that's my excuse for not coming to Nashvegas to visit. Believe me, I want to but it's looking like it's going to be a while. Especially since Dad called me a couple nights ago to inform me that Aunt Blanche is going to die soon...very very soon. So there is going to be a memorial service in Ohio that will require my attendance...unless I'm working. No condolences, please. Members of my family tend to live as long as they like and die when it's the decent thing to do, so there's no need to be sad. Any excuse to get the family together is a good one.

I'll try to get up there as soon as possible and have something better for you next time I update.

Goings On

2006-10-04T14:42:00.000-04:00

It's no coincidence that my lack of updating has to do, in large part, with the lack of significant events of late. Sadly, the only real achievements of mine in the last month or so has taken place in a virtual world, and I'm not going into that with you. I'll just say that things are dragging on as usual.

The new job and I are getting along quite well. I'm not getting enough hours but the entire point was to get me out of the house anyway, so I won't complain. Some of the people who work in the hotel, just a couple really, are not very pleasant. But I'm having fun and making a couple bucks so it's a great gig even though it is punctuated with brief moments of actual "work." I'm still no closer to figuring out the larger problem even though several people across the country have made efforts to nudge me in certain directions. But like most things I think the solution will reveal itself in time and forcing it isn't going to help much. If not, it's a good thing I like the smell of coffee...I may be doing it for a while.

You'll notice a couple new additions to the List-O-Peeps over there to the right. Don't take their sudden appearance to symbolize any spectacular events. It was never a snub that their names were absent for so long. At least I hope it hasn't been perceived as one. It dawned on me a couple days ago that there was no reason for them not to be there other than my own laziness. So there they are. I have righted a wrong, so quit yer gawkin. We're done for now anyway.

No Witicism To Be Found

2006-09-19T11:20:00.000-04:00

I hear your thunderous applause. Though you are miles away, your elation reaches me even here. You're shocked. I know it's hard to believe. I'm shocked my-own-self. Employment? Get the fuck outa here. Aaaaaaah well. It was a good run while it lasted. We'll always have the good times. Remember the time I sat at home all day playing World of Warcraft? Or the time I sat at home all day and watched TV? Oh! Or the time I stayed up all night playing World of Warcraft then took a nap on the couch in front of the TV? Where did the time go?

If you haven't heard yet I'm at The Perky Piranha, a tiny coffee shop attached to the Marriott Hotel across the street from the IMAX. It's no Stone Cup but it sure as shit ain't no CyberLAN neither. And thank the great Java Demon for that! The tips are decent, the pay is good, and I'm not going to fuss too much over the hours. The benefits are pretty hot too. Cheap hotel rooms? Hell yeah! Free coffee? Yes please. My coworkers are pretty cool, so I think I'll be getting on just dandy there.

I think the best part is that it gets me out of the house before the rest of the planet begins to stir. Waking up in the dark and seeing the day begin beats the shit out of waking up with the sun in your face and the day half over. And it seems that since the freaks come out at night, of course, they come to my place of work to perk up in the morning. I've met some "interesting" characters this week and those are just the hotel employees.

This will prove interesting...I have that feeling.

Do As I Say And You Live.

2006-08-25T15:10:00.000-04:00

Ableton (Not Exactly) Live is done. Not that you knew it was in produciton or anything. To be honest, even I didn't know I was doing it until it was mostly done. It's funny how that happens sometimes.

What it isn't: Anything special. It's just straight up mixing, as Jesse would say, "With the training wheels on." Ableton did all the hard work, I just put it together. No tricks. No effects...well maybe a tad bit of reverb and delay at the very end of one song. But there is no fancy shit like mixing James Brown over KMFDM.

What it is (credit where it's due):

1) Halogen vs Nash T - On A Bridge
2) Quivver - Space Manoeuvers - Part 3
3) Trafik - Your Light (Luke Chable Vocal Mix)
4) Unkle - Reign (Way Out West Mix)
5) Chris Carter - Panorama
6) Deep Dish - Say Hello (Dylan Rhymes Acid Thunder Remix)
7) Shiloh - All Those Things
8) Imogen Heap - Hide and Seek (R3volve Mix)
9) Digital Witchcraft - Fingerpaint
10) BT - Ferris Wheel (Love Theme)

FYI, you will probably want to change the file name and ID3 tags yourself. I was in a hurry to upload it for some people and didn't take the time to fiddle with putting my name on it. Anyway, I hope you like it. Comments are, of course, your moral and social obligation to me.

Almost Homeless

2006-08-02T16:07:00.000-04:00

Wash, rinse, and repeat. It’s pattern and repetition. It's something, I think, we all desire in some form or another. If it’s going to work every day and paying the bills, for you, that’s glorious. If it isn’t, go out and fucking find it. For me, the meaning is everything. It isn’t the What or the How, it’s the Why. Why keep the lights on? Why take the shit job? Why talk to that girl over there? Many times I spend so much time thinking about the Why that I completely miss what’s happening.

It’s been three years of distraction tacked onto seven magical years of illusion and misdirection. I won’t say that my long tenure at UTC has been time wasted. In some ways it has been, sure, but out of all that shit I got a few things that made it all worthwhile. But the big one is a marketable trade or something to sell. I didn’t get that. I take that back. I did get that…maybe…I just don’t think I’ve developed it or even recognized it fully yet.

Contrary to the popular view, I haven’t been spinning my wheels for three years. It only seems that way, and believe me, I know - I’m living it and it has sucked. I’ve always felt that big decisions and big changes are painful. I can just see your eyes rolling and the word “DUH!” forming on your lips when I say that breaking away from the patterned responses we develop is incredibly difficult. It can be conscious or unconscious. (Well no shit…) Well, kiddies, most of the time we don’t make it even if we want it really, really, bad. But it does happen, maybe once or twice in a lifetime, or more if we’re lucky or incredibly persistent.

A few of you know I’m on the raggedy edge of something big. It’s much bigger than just that, too. It’s a step in the direction of a dream I had in 3rd grade. The whole thing seems foolish and even silly, but it’s absolutely terrifying which is how I know it is both a big deal and right. If you aren’t afraid of the dark in some way, why keep the lights on? If you aren’t a little nervous in the interview, you don’t need the shit job that badly. If your balls don’t jump up inside your body and knock your heart into your throat when you’re talking to the girl, you don’t like her enough. It’s why we can’t go from A to C without first hitting B.

I see this move as a step in the right direction. Both ideas are a little too uncertain for me to talk about very openly, and I apologize. But when I know more, have a better understanding of the details, and when the picture seems clearer, I’ll be more open about it because I’ll have more to say. The Why is sorted out, so my eyes are open. I can see what’s happening in front of me now.

Where I’m going with this is that I’ve made some big decisions and, at this point, it’s all just a matter of breaking out of some of my patterns. Once I do that, the hard part is done.

Minutes Later

2006-07-25T14:52:00.000-04:00

HOLY FUCKING SHIT!!!!!!!1-1-2-3-5-8-13-21-!!!!!!!

Like Band Camp - Only Not So Much

2006-07-25T14:39:00.000-04:00

I call him Freddy. I met him yesterday in the parking lot behind Stone Cup. After the afternoon ritual of drinking $2 espresso, reading Dostoevsky, and tooling around on the interweb, I went back to my car and there he was dangling from my driver-side mirror. As you may or may not have guessed, Freddy’s a spider; no bigger than the size of the nail on my pinky toe. The words “bad ass son of a bitch” don’t even begin to describe his tenacity.

The first time I saw him, I didn’t think much of him. He was merely a blip on my consciousness. “There’s a spider on your driver’s side mirror, dude,” and that’s it. You can imagine I was surprised as hell when I got back to my apartment and he was still there. I guess he had something to prove. But again, I underestimated Freddy. I figured he’d be gone off to do what spiders do the next time I got in the car.

I was wrong.

As I was driving along at a zippy 45mph across Veteran’s Bridge on my way back to the apartment, not 10 minutes ago, I saw something flying around my window. I thought it was just a piece of junk, or dried bird shit, or something that would soon be behind me…but no, it was Freddy. He was dancing around on a line of silk, flapping in the breeze, like he was having the time of his fucking life. I shit you not, he waved at me as if to say, “You can’t get rid of me that easy, motherfucker!”

Of course we became friends. And like all good friends, I’ve got his back and he’s got mine. I brought him into the house so he wouldn’t have to deal with all the dumbass Guptas, er….garden spiders, out there. We’ve got bugs a’plenty in our apartment anyway that are just begging for Freddy to snack on their innards.

So Jesse, sleep well. We’ve got the teensy, weensy, widdle spider FROM HELL on our side. Should you wake one morning and see the words “Fuck You” in a spider’s web, that ain’t no bitch named Charlotte, it’s my boy Freddy and he’s delivering a message for me. He’s such a mensch. He’s one kickass spider, and you shouldn’t squish him – not just because I’ll kick your supid, arachnid-hating, ass, but because I want you guys to be friends. I think it’s important you do.

After all, you share a room now.

Now you fucking tell me...

2006-07-02T12:12:00.000-04:00

You scored as Journalism. You are an aspiring journalist, and you should major in journalism! Like me, you are passionate about writing and expressing yourself, and you want the world to understand your beliefs through writing.

Anthropology

100%

Journalism

100%

Engineering

92%

Sociology

92%

Philosophy

75%

Mathematics

75%

English

67%

Theater

67%

Linguistics

58%

Dance

58%

Psychology

58%

Chemistry

50%

Biology

50%

Art

33%

The Mnemonic FM

2006-06-26T13:10:00.000-04:00

When I was 12, I had a small, brown, Panasonic clock radio in my bedroom. I don't remember how long I had it or how I'd acquired it, but it sat on a chair or a plastic table next to my bed. It was about a foot wide and half as deep and weighed maybe two pounds. On the top of its earthy, puke-brown, casing were three tiny buttons to adjust the clock, one button about the length of a thumb for that great gift to mankind called snooze. Three switches on top selected AM/FM, Alarm On/Off, and the Radio/Buzzer alarm features. The green, digital, display was so bright I had to turn it away so I could get to sleep. A large knob on the right side of the box adjusted the frequency, and a tiny black knob on top for the volume. Don’t ask why I felt compelled to describe it, kuz even I don’t know. Anyway, it now sits on my parents' kitchen table where it's permanently stuck on 91.9FM, WUOT - National Public Radio. REPRESENT!

I’m gona flash back to when E V E R Y O N E listened to MC Hammer and Vanilla Ice - except for me. It was before my peers at Jefferson Middle picked up on Live and Nirvana. As I recall, it was before anyone had, and that was the beauty of it. Nothing was cool yet, at least not in my mind. We all know I tend to either shoot ahead or lag behind contemporary thinking but never comfortably settle into it. Back then was the only time I remember being totally free to choose what I liked on my own terms. I didn't know a damn thing about popular music or culture back then and still don’t today. And it all stretches back to those puerile days where my only exposure to music outside of NPR was that little brown radio next to my bed. I used to dial in to 94.3 or maybe 98.6 for a couple hours while trying to fall asleep. I did it every night for about three years. They never played the stuff I could see on MTV in the afternoons. At least that’s how I remember it.

Every time I go home, I see that radio sitting on the kitchen table. On Saturday mornings, Dad makes eggs and we listen to Car Talk and Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me on NPR. Most of the time we don’t talk, we just listen. Sometimes I think back to lying in my bed at midnight when Monty Python's Always Look on the Bright Side of Life would come on while the late-night DJ tagged out and the early-morning dude came in. It's one of the reasons I love that movie so much - not only because it's good comedy, but because of the song. Sound is the second best trigger of memory next to smell; those were good times.

Recently I heard a snippet of a song they used to play that jostled a loose bit fruit floating around the jello pudding I call my brain. It was a cover a song by 70’s band, The Five Stairsteps, called Ooh Child. I'm sure you know how it goes, and if you know what group did the cover, I'd appreciate if you would throw that knowledge my way. Then again, it could all have been a dream. Anyway, back in those days, it used to come on between 10 and 11pm. I remember a 10-15 minute break from music where the female DJ (with a voice so sexy it could turn one had to imagine she cut her teeth in the phone sex biz) would divulge her opinion on one thing or another or tell a story. She never took calls, if I remember correctly. She just talked and I fucking loved it.

It's an obscure memory, I know. And I don't really know why I got started on this, but I'm glad I did. It makes me sad that the radio has gone to shit. It makes me very very sad. I’m sure there are those out there who said it went to shit long before the 90’s, and I don’t think they’re entirely wrong to think that way. But I really do miss that brown radio and affect it had on me.

Addendum

2006-06-17T15:21:00.000-04:00

I'm adding another event to that special week of childlike joy and wonder...and joy. So now, it's looking something like this:

July 10th: Vienna Teng - Belcourt Theatre - Nashville
July 15th: (Muthafuckin) Walesharks - Georgia Aquarium - Atlanta
July 15th: BT - Eleven50 - Atlanta

A Proposition - Not Sex For Once

2006-06-05T14:02:00.000-04:00

I'd written something about my inner child being eaten by a mastadon in what was now my 5th attempt at updating. I've been convinced that I don't really get excited about anything any more...until I read about THIS AWESOMENESS in the newspaper. I found myself saying, "HOLY LIVING FUCK! I GOTA SEE THIS!.

And so I shall!!!

Is 7/15 enough advance notice for you? BT's playing at Eleven50 that night too, if you need added incentive. Admission is free if your name is Cara Cox. *Wink wink nudge nudge tweak nipple tweak nipple*

Tell Your Sister, You Were Riiiiight...

2006-05-29T17:08:00.000-04:00

Just goes to show that I'm not the only one who's right all the time. I should really give you guys more credit. What can I say? You know me better than I know myself sometimes. But really I think the other 24% shines through that anthracite lump in my chest cavity most of the time. I'm the kind you don't expect to shoot up his place of work, I guess.

You Are 76% Evil

You are very evil. And you're too evil to care.
Those who love you probably also fear you. A lot.

How Evil Are You?

Know What? Fuck It.

2006-05-15T15:30:00.000-04:00

It's really none of your business, so why should I thrust it upon you? I mean, seriously...what the fuck was I thinking?

I know I said I'd slice myself open, reveal the hamster that drives this machine, and wax emotional about the whole Mike and Amber thing. but you know what? Fuck it. That was none of my business in the first place, and it felt shitty that Amber decided to involve me. And that's about all I'm going to allow the internet to know about it.

That was the phone call I "had" to make, but decided to just say FUCK IT and not to.

But I did learn something from the whole Episode That Wasn't. I learned something about myself. I found the one thing that has been and will remain consistent with me until the sun goes nova and blasts the universe to electrons. And I'm not telling you what it is. Sorry. This one's for me. Maybe I'll talk about it some day. Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, it's pretty cool.

And really, it's none of your business anyway.

A Psudo Update

2006-05-12T14:39:00.000-04:00

I'm sorry, you guys. I know I've been lax on the updates. The thing is, me and Words aren't exactly getting along these days. I can't say one thing without wanting to say all things. Right now there are too many thoughts crowding around my brain and my fingers just can't keep up.

On the corporeal side - not a whole lot is going on. Moved in with Jesse, for the most part. Things are going well so far. Working on graduating. Not so sure about finding a job. I’ll spill my guts on that later, other more pressing issues are on my mind at this time.

On the emotional side - heavy shit. If you're one of the few people I haven't told yet, Amber is dating Mike now. Yes, Mike Hannarhan. I'll be posting my thoughts on the whole thing soon enough. But for now, I'm not going to say anything other than I love both of them very much and in no way feel betrayed or anything like that. Hell, I'm as happy as I can be for them. I am upset because of it, but not for the reason you may think. I've spoken with a few of you about it, so maybe you know...but there's more to tell. But before I get into that, I have a phone call to make.

I have a feeling that Words and I are going to work things out. We just need a little time.

Until we meet again.

Where Do You Begin?

2006-04-11T14:38:00.000-04:00

At times I imagine myself coming home as someone else. I don’t mean my apartment, which I don’t think I’ll ever consider a home. For me it’s just a place I spent some time. UTC Place was more a home than the Cardo, regardless of how nice it is.

What I mean, specifically, is going home to Oak Ridge as something I’m not, which is to say a successful professional of some kind or - teacher, doctor, lawyer, entrepreneur, whatever. Imagining the small talk is easy. “Hey, it’s been a while. What are you doing these days, Charlie? Oh, that’s interesting. Do you like it?” You get the idea. The thing that bothers me is that I can see myself fitting into these rolls. I am quite content with the knowledge that I literally could do anything if I put my mind to it. I could have been a teacher, or a doctor, or an astronaut, or musician, if I had wanted to be those things.
Some people knew what they wanted to do when they were 3 years old. BT wanted to play music all his life. Harlan Ellison wanted to be a writer for as long as he can remember. Jesse’s wanted to direct even in the womb. These are the people who achieve the kind of success Americans admire above all if they have the courage to follow their dreams. In cliché form, “The American Dream.” I get the impression that people like that are constantly working towards their goal. Even though they can be distracted by their jobs, a sudden crisis, or any of life’s disruptions, they are working towards something. No chasing a dream, hunting it, tracking it until they get their shot and can either watch it go or take it and mount the head on their cabin mantle. My point is, they see it. They know it’s there.

I’m not one of those people. Maybe you’ve known it longer than I have. Sometimes I get the impression that’s the case.

I’ve always been a little off kilter, a little out of sync with the norm. It isn’t that I lack passion, or ambition. It’s that I lack a sense of direction and finality, yet continually feel the pressures of both. Dr. Althouse observed last semester that my interests are in line with the doing of work than the final product, and I’m inclined to agree. I guess this explains my tendency to half-ass a lot of what I do. I simply lose interest after a while. If I set goals at all, it seems only with the purpose to begin a journey. It doesn’t matter a whole lot to me if I finish or not.

The only failure of I attribute to my educational experience is that I will be 25 in May and no better equipped to deal with the professional world than 10 years ago. And I’m not certain it’s my fault. I can say that I’ve bettered myself, but how do you sell that knowledge? How does that pay for a cheeseburger or keep the rain off your head? My specialization is a lack of specialization. I’m latex – bendy. “You can do anything,” is a great attitude to have, but the only way to prove it, if you believe in it, is to do it. Good inspiration, but light on practicality.

So, I’m sitting here wondering what my first job as a college graduate is going to be. How will I get it? How long will it last? What will it be? What will that first trip home be like? “Hey, it’s been a while. What are you doing these days, Charlie? Oh, that’s interesting. Do you like it?”

Like Summer Camp. Only Not.

2006-03-27T13:15:00.000-05:00

My Stone Cup routine usually breaks down like this:

I go in, get a latte or some chi and then sit down and read for a bit. Sometimes I'll strike up a conversation with someone, but most of the time I keep to myself and bury my face in Dostoevsky's ravings or Shakespeare's or some other pretentious crap. At some point I ether get drowsy or my mind starts to wonder, so I give it up and bust out Ye Ol' Powerbook o' Well...Er...Power. (Yeah, that's what I named it...just now.) I either update this thing or fool around with Ableton for a bit, finish my beverage, then pack up and leave. But today, I think I'm gona try something a bit different. I think I'm going to go back to the book after this encounter with technology.

But first, a bit of my own ravings.

See, I have become the thing that so many wise and foresighted people have feared. I am a slave to technology. I spend too much time on my computer, in front of the TV, in this digital space. My will is broken. I have little shame in saying it, because...well, I guess it's just the nature of addiction. It's everywhere, and I can't get away from it. Laptops, iPods, DVDs. Fuck, I heard the words, “You can read more about it on our blog,” on NBC Nightly News. I hate that fucking word! You cannot get away from it. Having a portable computer makes it even harder. I don't read as much as I should. I hardly read before I go to bed any more. But I am checking My(PatheticAndEmo)space , Face(SlightlyLessPatheticYetEquallyEmo)Book, and at least 3 message boards. What's wrong here? When the fuck did this happen?

When I was 11, that’s when. The Fuller's down the street had a Nintendo, and I wanted one too. My parents caved in when I was 11 and got one. Oh, the fucking technology! Dad always said, and still says, that technology is a tool. They are used for work and not for play. Bullshit! I say, they're for both. Don't get me wrong. Video games worked wonders for me. I have hand-eye coordination you gota see to believe. I attribute most of my "exponential learning curve" Rhys once mentioned video games. Digital puzzles if you ask me. And best of all, I can rub it in your face when I pound you into the ground with ANY character in SF2. Yeah, anybody. I always was good at them, and I imagine I will be good at them until I grow up or run out of quarters...whichever comes first. I still feel like I am misusing it most of the time. Thanks, Dad.

The best (and worst) part about World of Warcraft/Warcrack/Warsmack/DaddyNeedsHisFix is the social element. Any game that lacks a social element is not a game, it's a puzzle. Sure, puzzles can be social, but they don’t require it. Don’t give me that shit about single-player games. They’re no fun without your friends there to cheer you on. Example: Metal Gear Solid – Jesse – Shane’s House – 1998 - ‘nuff said. The real danger of the WoW rests in your ability to be social without being social. As in, "Sorry I can't go drinking with you, Rhys. I have a scheduled raid tonight with my guild." I have friends in the game, much as I have friends from the BT-Network and in this "real world." It's weird and a bit creepy, sure, and though their bodies are absent to my senses, these are real people I’m talking about and no less worthy of my time than anyone else.

WoW is like summer camp. Everyone is drawn together in a common interest. Your world becomes compressed. With the formality of establishing common ground out of the way, you wind up in the company of certain people and you learn about each other and become friends. But everything begins with that thing you have in common. As different as you are, that one thing brings you together. That one thing is everything.

Then you are forced to go home, and spend the next 9 months looking forward to summer so you can see your friends again. That's what WoW is like. That's what Daria's NYE-E party is like. That's what Edward's is like. That's spring break trips to Magic Wok. That's Katelin and Erin coming to visit. It's Cofer passing through town. It's BT in Atlanta with Konrad.
It's people drawn together in a common interest and they are thrown together, tossed around a bit, and come out friends. For us, that one thing has long since faded to memory, but enough of it is still there to keep us together. That makes us truly blessed. That's the stuff that fascinates me and I look for it constantly. Thus the video games.

My computer, and technology in general, is meant to be a supportive crutch to make life easier. But for me, I think it's a crutch that props up my shyness most and not my work. It allows me to meet people with little risk, knowing the one thing we have in common is a mutual interest in something virtual. Honestly, I have some idea what is at risk and I think about it perhaps too much. (I imagine it has something to do with rejection. Cause for future musings or dead horse. You be the judge.) Technology is a thing that is supposed to help you, but in my case I fear I've let it hold me back. I love reading and I don’t do it nearly enough these days and I'm all about being social. That's why I joined the rowing team. That's why I did 100R. Things that bring people together and require them to work together are the things that build friendships. It's what we had and no longer it. It’s the reason I find it so hard to get my ass away from this computer and go looking for that on thing in strangers.

Calling In All Favors.

2006-03-21T23:25:00.000-05:00

Remember that mixer I got you for your birthday? Remember how much you treasure it still? Jesse, if you love me, or ever loved me at all, you will buy me this. That is all.

Last Week and Stuff in Peanut Armour

2006-03-19T16:23:00.000-05:00

Was sick for 5 days of my spring break, which sucked ass. Missed Cara's party 'cause of it (Sorry baby. I makes it up to you, I swears it, precious!). Was confined to the house by overweening parents and allowed outside only for the purpose of walking the dog. Watched a lot of TV. Saddened by politics. Didn't care some dude with a difficult name to pronounce, let alone spell, died in his prison cell in Holland. Slept a lot. Ate my first home-cooked meals in months. Read nothing. Spent a lot of time with the folks. Formulated the middle, ending, and characters of my short story for creative writing. Didn't write a word of it down. (It's all up here, baby. *clunk clunk*) Ate Magic Wok on my last day in town, and earned a new nickname from Betty: "Professor."

Dad let it slip that I decided not to teach. Better was maaaaaaaaad at me. She's afraid I'm going into theatre like some of you dumb fuckers. "Teachers earn the highest respect in my country," she said. I almost said, "This ain't China," but decided to just smile and nod, like we always do with her. Yes, Betty, we're good kids. A lot more human than you would like us to believe, but yeah, we're good kids...when we're sober.

I'm about to start writing my 4 page paper that's due tomorrow. It's going to be about Shakespeare's Richard II. I like it for a buncha reasons. I remember Rhys talking about Death of a Salesman and how you read it over and over again and keep finding more and more layers and shit. Kinda cool to look at something and see stuff that's buried way down in there. Richard II is about history, and people, and politics, powerlessness and blah blah blah. I should start on the paper now, wound up as I am...

So fuck it. I'm gone, bitches.

Fuck Me, Kate - A Play in 69 Acts.

2006-03-06T11:53:00.000-05:00

There are good days and then there are bad days. Friday and Saturday were good days. Sunday was a bad day, only because of the hangover. (Rhys, thanks again for lunch. I owe you one...and that case of beer. Don't think I've forgotten.) But back to the good stuff.

My old friend Kate came down from New Hampshire with he boyfriend, Justin. Sort of a relationship test drive, I guess. You guys probably never met her, but we were on the rowing team together and she was the only female member of the "Chuck's Fantastically Awesome Drinking Team And Shit." Of the 4 members of the team, she and I were certainly the most mature. Mike has moved to Nashville and hasn't been able to carry one an intelligible conversation with me since he left. Andy...well, when his unit got called to Iraq, he transferred to UTK so he wouldn’t have to go...so fuck a bunch of him. Yeah, I'm still in touch with quite a few (mostly former) members of the rowing team, but Kate is the only one who was old enough to be my drinking buddy on a regular basis.

I'm gona get all Barker on you guys here, but I've got a really good excuse for calling Kate my "sister," even if it is a little roundabout. See, unlike Barker, our mutual affection didn't come as the result of a strikeout. (Damn, that sounds harsh, but has some truth to it. Sorry buddy. I wish you many fat and happy children with the new bride. Put in two for ol’ me.) If anything it was pretty much agreed from early on that we were sort of into each other and all I had to do was make a move. Hell even something as stinkerific as "Hey, wana make out?" would have done the trick. And here comes my goodly excuse: I cared too much about her to subject her to my company. Ok, quit looking at me like that. It isn’t some idiotic plea for sympathy. It’s the God’s truth in the name of the father, amen. And in my mind though, I believe it was the absolute best decision I've ever made.

Here's the thing, and I think I've stated it previously but I feel it's worthy of repetition - after Amber I've had a serious problem with trust. No, not sharing my overly squishy emotions with the women folk. Hell, I'm an asshole because I have the bad habit of being brutally honest with complete strangers and ladies get no special treatment there. I don't trust myself, see. That's the problem. I passed up what could have been a great relationship with Kate because I could not be trusted to do the right thing as turned around as Amber left me. Head up my ass? Perhaps. But…

Remember Christina? I think that entire episode speaks for itself. If you were around, you get the idea. So if you hear me speak bitterly about her, you have to realize that I hold no animosity towards her at all. I can cop to it. It's all redirected anger at myself. See, I could hook up with her because I didn't care very much about her. Our entire time together nothing grew, which is why I had no qualms dumping her on Valentine's Day and felt like such an asshole about it later. Ah, guilt! It's also why I kind of subconsciously sabotaged any chance I had with Jen. I don't think I can take being with someone I don't care about, no matter how much I’d like to fuck them. And at the same time, am terrified as hell of screwing over someone I do care about. So, this is why I've been content in being single for what...3 maybe 4 years now? Hell I can’t even keep track any more.

But all this is why I was so pleased to have Kate back for two days. I'll never forget the night before she left, when we were on the stairway to her Lockmiller apartment and she was crying like a baby. She told me how lonely she was and how she was afraid she would never find someone. It sort of speaks to the loneliness I’m feeling now, but for her it was kind of different. It always is different for other people. To see how happy Justin makes her was an overwhelming joy for me. It really was great. It says there’s hope for me, but most of all it was a confirmation that I was correct in that original assumption that it was best to deny us our immediate gratification for the greater reward of an enduring friendship. And let's face it, I love being right.

Meh.

2006-02-26T16:03:00.000-05:00

There isn't that much happening, these days - at least not with me. I wake up every day, I go to class (sometimes) and then I go home. That's about it. I eat now and again. I sure as shit don't read as often as I like. I spend way too much time on my computer, and I'm afraid I'm slipping into my CyberLAN slump again.

I've spent quite a bit of that time sorting through all that tired bullshit I've been talking about of late. You know, what to do after college and such. I still have no answers, and I'm beginning to wonder if I ever will. I don't know if I've said it before, but I think I'm just naturally discontent with everything. A prime example is that I can't stand using "I" so damn much...especially to start a sentence. I suck. Damnit...

I really like it when my writing is more external. Like when I'm talking about the things I'm doing. But right now, I'm not doing anything. At least not anything worth talking about at length. I just feel dull and inactive and terribly, terribly, lame right now. Ah well. There's always whiskey, I guess.

And speaking of lame: it's been almost 3 months, Cofer. Get off your ass, bro.

What the Fuck is You Rambling About Today?

2006-02-17T12:10:00.000-05:00

Call me a voyeur. Call me a dropper of eaves. Call me a cactus. I really don't care that much in the end, but I should tell you, there is some crazy shit to be exposed to just by sitting around listening to people. For instance - as I sit on the couch at my home away from home, there's a 20-year-old kid at a nearby table talking to his preacher. I call him a kid, because he looks like he's still in high school. He's not what I would call big, but he's tall enough and looks like he's been in a fight or twenty, like a mechanic. In fact, that must be it. He reminds me of the guy who was in my graphic arts class and worked, for a time, at the Shell Rapid Lube, near the Buffalo Grille in Oak Ridge. I wonder whatever happened to him. Anyway, from the bits and pieces I've picked up, he spent a little time in prison for stealing a car and he's talking to his preacher about redemption and all that stuff. Now that's some heavy shit. I think politeness compels me to say no more about the ignorant bastard's conversation. Still, I find myself thinking, "FUCK! This guy's lived a Life!"

So, I'm down to 6 hours of school now. Economics was going to take far too much work and dedication for me to care at this point. And as I'm not going to get my teaching license, why get the accreditation to teach economics anyway? Fuck it. I'm having far too much fun with Creative Writing and Shakespeare, and I think I'm better for it. As much of a struggle the whole poetry thing has been, I have to say that I really have come to enjoy poetry. The stuff I get, I love. The stuff I don't...well, I tell those wanky pretentious fuckers to eat one.

Dr. Braggs (or Brakk as Lunchie calls him) says that everything that has been written about has already been written, which is pretty much the only point of disagreement we have. There's plenty of stuff that hasn't been written about, we just aren't conscious of it yet. Yeah, there are a zillion love poems, a billion poems about death, at least one about fathers (kuz I wrote it), several about pain, some about pets, a lot about sports, and far too many about fuckin grass or leaves. The trick though is to use fresh language and to look at things in a different way, and that's what makes it interesting. I can agree with that. It makes sense. But this "everything that can be said, has been said," shit just doesn't fly with me. I think it forces you to assume that everything that everything that has been experienced has been experienced too. Ya know what? There isn't enough Science Fiction poetry. Come on, Unkie Harlan! I think that would be some interesting stuff.

Dostoevsky 2 - Chuck 0

2006-02-13T19:00:00.000-05:00

This message is coming to you at the usual time from the usual place. I'm in the living room of my adopted home, Stone Cup. I spend entirely too much time here, but it's just a much better place than my creatively stifling apartment. That place sucks, and I can't wait to get the fuck out of there. As Cofer noted on Super Bowl Sunday, I'm a dirty fucker. It wasn't as bad as it is now, and I have precious few excuses really, but I've always had a tenuous grasp on the understanding of what is considered "clean" by most standards. In the interest of true confession, I didn't wash my hair regularly until I was in middle school. But none of this really explains why my apartment is a fucking hole.

I think I know why, though. I think I've got my finger on the throbbing vein of my discontent here in the Scenic City of Goddamn Awesomeness - I don't wana grow up.

Ok, keep the fucking platitudes to yourselves. You know who you are with your, "Nobody wants to grow up," bullshit. I'm not twelve. What I'm getting at is that I don't know what to do next. Think of me as Brad Pitt, sitting in the bathtub, in Fight Club. That's what I'm talking about. If things go as expected, I'll be out of school in May or August. I'm not going to teach, so how do I pay the bills? Dad told me last night that his company is looking for people to do research for them. I could do that, but I can tell you now I'd hate it. You can square the hatred if I have to live in Oak Ridge. Cube it if I have to live at my parents’ house. I'm thinking of taking the two grand I've got squirreled away and running off to Europe for a bit. No idea where, or what I'd do while I'm out there. Anywhere but here.

Still, that doesn't answer any of my questions. Running away from the problem isn't going to help. If it's one thing I never picked up that everyone else seems to have, at least in some way, it's foresight. I think my way around is more Pavlovian. Stimulus and respons, that's me. Plus, I have very little internal motivation. I hardly do anything unless something or someone drives me to it. (Again, no platitudes, foo!) As The Watson says, “Things are complex.”

So, I'm trying to figure all this shit out and have school pilling it on day after fucking day. And now I've gotten so far off track that I didn't even get to Dostoevsky. To give the short-short version, I've started up The Brothers Karamazov again. He vanquished me the first time, but I'm back, bitch! And originally, in the title of this offering of rambles and babble, the score was 1 - 0. But a few minutes ago, some random dude came in with the same book. I mentioned the co-ink-e-dink, and he said he started it a couple years back but never finished it.

I'll get you this time, you commie fuck.

Anything But Work!

2006-02-08T00:15:00.000-05:00

I'm just avoiding my paper right now. I'm just idiotic like that. I enjoy writing these papers almost as much as avoiding them. Oh happy day. Real update in the not too distant future.

Update, you bitches. You know who you are.

Damnit, Jim, I'm a Doctor Not an Idiot!

2006-01-30T20:07:00.000-05:00

Rachel and Casey seem to have gone on Blog Strike or something. I keep getting a 404 error. Fix your shit, ladies.

Foremost is the poetry in my Creative Writing class. I just read everyone's submission, including my own, in the order in which they are going to be read and reviewed. I can say with all the hubris of my being that mine lands squarely in center of the pack. There were a couple that I really, really, liked. The first was written by a guy who's taking the class for the 3rd time, and the guy's got some talent. His poem was about walking around drinking and ogling attractive European ladies. I ask you, what's not to like about that? The other was written by a girl I know, about her ambivalence at playing her guitar after her teacher/boyfriend left her.

Yeah, I hear your screaming. What about mine? I'll post it after it's been work shopped to death in a week or so. Nothing but the finest (shitty) poetry (equally shitty) for you guys, I say.

The poetry I hated (and I mean wipe my ass with a pinecone before sullying my ass with those words type hate here) was the whiny life sucks poetry. You know what I'm talking about. "I'm in pain and I'm not going to say why. I just hurt." Someone call these fucking crybabies a whambulance, kuz nobody gives a shit, sugar. At least tell me why. Your girlfriend cheated on you, your gramps died of an inflamed hernia, you've got a bad case of camel toe, your dog's having puppies....SOMETHING! You gota give me something. You hurt? So do I. But what you haven't told me is why I should give up 5 seconds of my time to stop and care. If you're going to write a poem about emotions, you need to at least use them in the process. You have to touch them in some meaningful way. It's a risky thing to do, and (I hesitate to use the word...) "work" of that sort risks nothing.

I never feel more cheated, artistically, when I can tell someone isn't even trying. You don't have to be perfect, or even good. I used to read Dragonlance novels for crying out loud! But you have to say something a little thoughtful. If you can't do that, play Henry Miller and say nothing, but make it so interesting I can't stop reading. This is Creative Writing not How To Write An Episode of NYPD Blue 101. I understand finding creativity is difficult, that's why I steal as much as possible from people more creative (nice driveway). Hell, my entire poem is really a poor Harlan Ellison impression in poetic form. But at least I did it in a creative way. And that's how I can sleep at night.

I keep getting distracted by people, here at the coffee shop. So I'll stop here. I think next time I may get into why I love hockey so much. And don't worry, Rhys, I want to get back into DJing and getting me laid isn't going to expedite the process.

...then again, it just might.

A wise man once said, "Take my poor spelling you pisspots!"

2006-01-19T20:15:00.000-05:00

It happens all the fucking time when I post. I start off trying to express a simple and straightforward idea, and it turns into an epic about growing up stupid and apathetic. Yeah, I was a recalcitrant little shit in my younger days and we all know it. So why talk about it?

I dropped my Gilded Age class with Dr. Ward. He called me a pussy, and I think he's right. If I'd give up some of the stuff I probably should, I could handle the load. But, honestly, I'm too damn lazy to put in the effort it takes to take a class as good as his and put in the effort it deserves. So, isn't realizing and admitting that fact just as mature a thing to do as changing my wicked ways? (What a poorly constructed question…) Yeah, you're right...I should be ashamed of myself. Oh well, too late now. As the fictional Will Barton would say, "Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke."

So, here I am at Stone Cup updating ol' Bloggy McBlogerson and not writing poetry, as I should be. I have to admit that I've learned far more about poetry in the last several hours than I ever have before. The thing about the art that nobody ever explained to me is that it is about the words and feelings and not the form. Realizing that does a lot to ease my concerns about Creative Writing. I like words, especially the way they sound when put together in interesting ways. "Bone holster" certainly ranks among my favorites, and it works on a poetic level with the long Os matching. Plus the imagery works in a ton of different ways, which is just gravy. Feelings though, I'm much better at covering those than really paying much attention to them. That's probably why the class browns my undies. It's going to be excruciating, making it work the way it should, and it's going to take a lot of time to do it right.

That's really why I dropped the history class. Fuck you if you can't handle it, Dr. Ward. I should have quit Shakespeare, but that's my relaxation class. Econ and Creative Writing are my fuckers. So, if I use this place as a sounding board for a verse or two unworthy of your affections...well fuck off. Just be sure to encourage me as you rip my shit to pieces.

Love ya. And take my piss-poor poetry, too.

Just So David Isn't the Only Nerd...

2006-01-06T07:20:00.000-05:00

I have no clue what this means, by the way.

Cultural Creative

88%

Existentialist

50%

Postmodernist

50%

Materialist

44%

Romanticist

44%

Idealist

38%

Modernist

25%

Fundamentalist

25%

What is Your World View? (updated)
created with QuizFarm.com

There's A Needle in My Chest!!!!

2006-01-04T18:20:00.000-05:00

I didn't do enough reading over break. My goal is to finish Run with the Horsemen by Friday. I don't think I can say it enough. I love Ferrol Sams. (Perhaps the following comparison doesn't lend itself very well to the topic at hand, but it's entered my mind and so must be stated for the record. And with that out of the way...) I’ve got to say that, though they are not as interesting to look at as...say, a "zeppelin race,"... Mr. Sams and Ellison are in a "dead heat" for my literary affections. I know I've said this before, but every time I finish reading something they've done I find myself saying, "Damn that man can write!" (And don't get me wrong...I love "zeppelins" too.)

If you don't know what I'm talking about...fuck off.

So, 2005...

As Daria aptly put it, "it was a dog." Yeah, it was a real bitch alright - generally unhealthy all around in my opinion. For sure it wasn't my best series of moments. Looking back, I realized that I was sleeping. I'm talking in the Frank Herbert sense, here. Dune, motherfucker. 2005 was a bad trip, man, and I'm glad it's over. But like most miserable experiences, I'm better for having lived through it. I think I'm awake now. I've got to hand it to you guys. You kept me sane, if only just. I was close to the edge, but youz guys pulled me back and I owe you one. Don't take this as an insult - you guys are John Travolta and I'm Uma Thurmon. (Think "fiction," the kind with pulp.)

Going into Edward's Bar and Bar, I had two toasts in mind that I will leave for you here. You're a bunch of smart kids and I'm confident you'll glean the significance of them without going into detail or mentioning particulars. But the problem, I find, with making a toast is that you can only give one, and for overly sentimental assholes like myself it's like Sophie's Choice. (That and they are generally reserved for the host to give, so I suppose if I'm to give them I'll have to host parties myself...or marry Edward. Ok...) You all mean the world to me and I'd glady lay down in traffic for any one of you if I thought it would do you any good. Usually when I say something to that affect I'm drunk so you don't take me seriously. Rest assured that I've got 18oz of espresso and steamed milk coursing through my capillaries at this very moment so you can tell I mean it...assholes. Ok, without further ado, I offer you toastage in:

The Witty Form
Let's have champagne for real friends, and real pain for sham friends.

The Sentimental Form
To true friends...

...and less need of them.

Happy Jews Go To The Movies Day.

2005-12-26T00:55:00.000-05:00

I don't know whether I coined the phrase myself or if I stole it from someone funnier. History leads me to believe the latter, so don't even think, my dear friends, of giving me any points for owning up to it...not that you would anyway. The thing is that I don't feel very funny these days - I don't think I've been funny for a long time - which is why, in stark contrast of this day of holly jollies and ho ho hos, I tender this depressing-ass introspection, all Hawthorne style and shit…well, less morbid, perhaps. It's been a long time coming.

Let's get the really hard stuff out of the way first.

As you all know Amber broke up with me about 3 years ago and I'm still pretty raw about it. It wasn't a big deal, or so I thought, until I went to visit her back in March. Everything was cool until the second night when she carelessly related something our mutual friend, Jennifer, told her. From then till now, I've been a bit of a mess, while I was there I was a lot of a mess. And oh, what good friends you are; how much better you know me than I know myself. You've known longer than I have, but you kept quiet about it. That's both sweet and fucking lame of you all. But I'll get to you later, right now I'm trying to talk about being lonesome and miserable 9 months out of the year.

Like Peter Stormare, this was my big guy in the shower - my "Oh Nancy." This year, I've come to know myself so much better, and honesty compels me to admit that I don't like myself very much. Thinking that way makes it hard to smile and even harder to make others do so. I'm trying to turn that around, but it's hard. I've lost the art of conversation. Somehow it got up and walked away. I used to be able to walk into a room, grab the mood by the bloomers, and make it my bitch. Now, I'm just trying to keep my head above water. I can smile while I'm doing it, but I've got to work at it.

I'm going to be 26 by the time I graduate, at least that's the idea, and I still have no idea of what I want to do with myself. Remember back when you were little and someone asked what you wanted to be when you grew up? I never had an answer. Not ever. Some people wanted to be doctors or policemen or cooks. I never had a dream job or anything like that. My fantasies have always episodic and always taking place in the present. It's only been recently that concern for the future has taken root in my mind. I wonder why that is. Why only now?

Well shit. It's been 3 hours since I've started, and see what you get? I think I've said all I can for now anyway. I hope you've found this little romp through my mental state at least somewhat entertaining. I hope your holiday has been more enjoyable than mine tend to be. More later. See yall soon.

Study Break.

2005-12-12T03:50:00.000-05:00

I'm just going to assume it was Casey who called me at 4:30 this morning. You sounded drunk and Jamaican or German, I really have no experience with "doing voices." You were also speaking waaaaaay too loudly into the phone which is why I couldn't understand what the fuck you were saying. I heard, "my friend," a few times, but that's about all I got out of the conversation. Sorry for hanging up on you, but it was 4:30 in the morning. And if it wasn't you, Casey, I apologize. Whoever it was, the accent sounded pretty cool.

So, you know this paper I'm writing? It's painful. I've got all these words and thoughts floating around in my head, and none of them want to come out. This has been the worst final week of school ever. It seems like my brain went on vacation a week before Thanksgiving and has refused to come back. Thank God Jesse and Cofer were around to eat sushi with me last night, I don't know what I would have done. Oh wait...yes I do...Taco Bell. But having friends around always makes eating a lot more entertaining, which makes the food that much more enjoyable. Nabe wasn't on form last night, the sushi wasn't all that great, but having friends made it all worth while.

For those of you who care, I should be in Oak Ridge by Friday. My last day at CMS is Thursday, and I can't say I'll be too happy to go. From what Chirsty tells me, I'm practically guaranteed a job with Gear Up next semester. She was telling me that I could keep doing the in-school thing, or switch to the after school program and have seven or eight kids of my own for a few hours every day. I've got to say that the concept appeals to me, but looking at my work load with school next semester makes me hesitate.

I realized just now that these words are coming out all wrong. I can't even think straight any more. Fucking finals. Gime a break, would ya, World? Just this once, I'm asking nice. Aaaah, fuck it. Back to work I go. Maybe I'll be able to say something worth reading tomorrow.

KHAAAAAAAN!!!!

2005-12-09T12:38:00.000-05:00

Happy Birthday Rachel. Game over and such. Sorry I couldn't go to Chicago and stuff. I hope you're having fun with K-to-tha-C. Tell her to update her damn page and shit.

Oh God, my Latin Final melted my fucking face off! I think the prof. even talked me into taking the 2nd part next semester. Why do I do these things to myself? Oh shit, history final in an hour. Time for some crammin.

I Put On a Good Show

2005-12-07T08:02:00.000-05:00

So, at that party I mentioned, Kelly says to me, "Chuck, you're a cool guy." Bullshit. I just put on a good show. And that's what I said.

Self-deprecation, folks. I'm great at it. Know why? Kuz I'm so fucking humble? No. Because I don't give a shit what people think of me, which is so bizarre when you take into account how goddam shy I am. Ain't that just weird? How the hell did I ever make friends in the first place? Oh right, high school. Things were easier then.

Or were they?

Watch this space for future ponderings.

The Things We Do As We Do Them

2005-12-05T19:26:00.000-05:00

So, Rhys calls me this afternoon around 4:15 and says, "Hey, let's get some beer." And I was just okie dokie fine and dandy with that jive. So I wind up at Lunchie's pad, and there's this chick there named Lisa or Linda or something close to that, yall know how horrible I am with names. And we go to Taco Mac and everything's cool and shit. I get the impression that the chick ain't too fond of me, which is cool and all, kuz I don't really care all that much and it takes time to get to know people and shit. So that's that.

And it just so happened that Jesse gave me Bad Santa, which I dutifully returned to the video depository (suppository is more like it). On the way back to my crib, I decided to stop by Amigo's to check up on the "fiddy-cent taco crowd," and ran into Trashley and company. Apparently there is some partyage of some sort taking place tonight and I'm somehow invited. Needless to say, I think I'm going.

Here's to you, here's to me, may we never disagree.
But if we do, fuck you, here's to me.

----------------------------------

Drunken Update - 5:10 a.m. 6 December 2005

I spent most of tonight talking with Kelly, who almost none of you know. Rhys knows her, perhaps only because he met her tonight for the first time. Fucked if I know if that's the case. Anyway, here's the deal. Kelly's into me, and I'm not so much into her for anything other than friendship. The fact remains, however, that we are good friends. And as such, we've got each other’s backs when we arrive in situations to which any patterned response is proven futile, i.e. a Sigma Chi fraturnity party.

Now, I'm all for fraternal brotherhood. Hell, I would have pledged Phi Delta Theta if dad had let me, way back when. But as things stand, I didn't. I can't exactly say I'm better for it, but I'm certainly not the least bit remorseful now for having that door closed to me. The fact is, that things being as they are, the Greek type ain't my crowd. So, thrown into unfamiliar waters, I look for things I know. And I know Kelly, so having her around was very comforting tonight. In fact, having Candice and Ashley as well, was quite nice. Fuck, do I gota say it? Any familiar face in that house o'horrors woulda been a comfort.

I met a decent amount of new people tonight. Be fucked if I can remember most of their names. I remember a dude named Jeff, an Eric, a really cute 18-year old, and thus not in my narrow scope of prospective love interests, named Emily (who I've met before along with her friend, What'shernamewhoIseeatStoneCupfromtimetotime, at other parties but never spoken with), and perhaps a Matt. Faces I remember, but I suck so hard at associating the names with them.

So we wound up at this frat party around 10pm, and it was loud and the DJ sucked. Simply put, I could have mixed the guy out the door and into the next fucking county. Fuck his music selection. It was brilliant. Not a single track he laid down was excluded from any top 40 list from the last 3 years. The guy knew his crowd...but not his equipment. Play, pause, play, pause. The same shit Jesse and I were doing back in 1990 with the nad pad. And this is what kids are getting down to? To what depressing depths have our fraternal and sorrel institutions been reduced? I ask you, when will the actual leaders of the future (sadly) come to the realization that they've been dooped. They paid how much for that shit? I'd do it willingly free of charge if only they would but ask.

But that's another rant all together. I'm seriously going to drop those poor Greek fuckers a mix CD and say, "Listen, I know you guys like your grooves and shit, but if you ever decide to pretend to get your rave on...I'm your man." At least I wouldn't fuck around on the only part of DJing that requires a modicum of...oh, I don't know...manual dexterity? Perhaps a little vision? Fucking assholes charge money for what they do? You lazy no talent fucks!!!!!

Right. ...As we do them...

So I met a bunch of decent humans this evening, and I've found that my definition of decent has slacked a little. I see this as a somewhat good thing. It doesn't bother me so much that OhWhat'sHerName hooked up with OhFuckThatGuy'sName as it may have in days past. I see it as a sign that I've loosened up a bit, and no matter how much it may eat me up that I can see now how bad he's going to treat her in the not too distant future, I'm not going to get upset about it. College is supposed to be about fucking up a lot, right? At least that's the prevailing attitude. So, sex can be....well...just sex. And people can randomly hook up at parties, and that can be that. There doesn't always have be profound meaning to it. This is a growth moment, of sorts.

And here is the thought that both disturbs me, and fascinates me. Remember when we were watching Sports Night the other day? Remember Dan's line about being in The Zone? You know, "I'm not in the zone. I'm down here with the rest of you." Yeah. I think about this acceptance, and think. Is this the acceptance of truth or a compromise to reconcile myself with the world? Have I existed on a higher plane of consciousness than the rest of you pathetic mortals, or did I just have my head up my own ass. Well, reason leads me to take a stand with the latter and that I just need to have another beer and chill the fuck out. But there's a part of me that wants to believe the former. That part, that I think all people have, that makes us want to feel special. Not so much to be special, but to feel special. We want to be different, or significant, or noteworthy in some way. We want to matter in some way, and there is something there.

That's my sticking point. That's where I trip up when trying to figure out what the fuck is going on with the order of the universe or whatever it's called these days. Life and how to deal with it, maybe. Be fucked if I know; philosophy ain't my bag. But how do you know what you are and are not? And once you have an answer to that, how can you trust it? Is what we say we want really what we want in our greasy heart of hearts? Can we ever transcend selfishness and be truly selfless?

Questioned to be answered when sober...

This has been a drunken and rambling update to a previous thought.

Is There A Point Here?

2005-12-01T13:05:00.000-05:00

I don't know how you feel about studying history, but for the love of God's erect penis, pick up a copy of Seven Myths of the Spanish Conquest by Matthew Restall. I'm rereading the first 5 chapters before I get started on the only term paper I have to write this semester. And I've got to say it's going to be my favorite.

Ok, quote time:

"Does this ambiguous relationship between myth and history, or their fusing into mythistory, undermine the quest to find truths about the past? In pursuing that quest, do we run the risk of following in Plato's footsteps and replacing old myths with invented truths or new myths? Are our truths really convenient fictions? They may often be just that, but we can still examine the context and purpose of such fictions. We can compare truths of the conquistadors to our truths about them, and as a result achieve a better understanding of the Conquest - even if that understanding does not pretend to be the truth in an absolute sense. Historical conclusions are not infallible, but when they are well evidenced and carefully argued they deserve to be taken as telling us something true about the world. We can question the truth claims of an historical narrative without going so far as to relegate it to merely one fiction among others. There are always multiple narratives of any historical moment, but that does not mean that as interpretations they cannot tell us something true."

I don't know about you people, but I've been thinking that since Mr. Grey's 7th grade geography class. I was obsessed with Caribbean stuff then. Yeah, mostly because I was playing this Pirates game on the old 386, but I was down with that shit. That game taught me the difference between a Sloop and a Galleon. The interesting part about that of my life was that I still hated to read back then (although it wouldn't take much longer for that to change), and when dad forced Treasure Island upon me, I retched. I'm all about that shit now, even though I haven't picked it up again...yet. Maybe over Christmas break when I'm at home.

This has been an educational session of rambling.

It Really Is Amazing.

2005-11-29T19:11:00.000-05:00

I shit you not. For some reason I stared and stared at that page for hours last night. Or should I say this morning around 4am, when it became apparent that the whole sleeping thing wasn't going to happen? Poor, unsuspecting, Terence. You know, one of my CMS kids. He hated me on 7 hours of sleep...he must be dreaming a grisly death for me as he sleeps through his 3rd block English class right now. Hell, what do I care? As Will Barton would say, "Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke." (Hurry up and read When All The World Was Young, you jerkoffs.)

I don't know what it is about winter that makes me lonelier and hornier than other parts of the year. Then again, it does help explain my bad mood last December. But still, it just don't make sense to me. Yeah, I made mention of myself and sex. Did you see that coming? Bet ya didn't. Think back, as far as you possibly can. Now try to conjure up a memory of me talking casually about sex and myself when I wasn't joking. That's right. Pretty fuckin rare. (Doomcock.)

Awww, it's nice that you think different. You guys are so sweet, sometimes. But really, I can cop to it; I'm quite the prude. I've known for a long time. It's not my fault for having principals. It is, however, my fault for having totally unreasonable expectations of how other people should live up to them. That's not some sudden and profound realization, mind you. And no, Lunchie, this doesn't have anything to do with our conversation on the trip to Ridgevilletown. I had that little epiphany quite some time ago. But, it seems, only now I'm coming to actually accept it and deal with it. Holy shit, I may be growing up.

You know, I always wince a little whenever someone, like my dad, comments on how mature I am. I'm not mature, you fuckers. Listen to the way I talk...and write. I'm probably one of the most immature people you're likely to meet. I just put on a good show. That's why I'm so awesome and shit. Yeah, these two fingers, ladies.

I'm wading into the deep end here. And I want to go in several different directions right now, so rather than losing any more focus than I already have, I'm gona pull out. Yeah, I'm getting all rhythm method on yall. (Jesus, see what I mean?) I won't go into particulars just yet. But I will. Maybe even at length. We'll just have to see, now won't we?

Ah, the interweb. Not nature's suction cup, but certainly humanity's largest depository for angst.

And porn. Can't forget the porn.

It really is amazing, I shit you not.

Backsliding and Maybe a Grin.

2005-11-17T17:54:00.000-05:00

A long one. Don't say I didn't warn ya.

To answer your question, Mr. Cofer, I'll be at Le Foreignareo as well. And if you are tempted to stay the entire weekend, Mr. Dixon shall be flying in for the annual turkey massacre on the 19th. That is, he arrives on the 19th; the slaughter and fiest to come on the traditional final Thursday of the month. He has requested we go drinking at Big River. How can anyone say no to that? Shut up, poor people. Shut up, alcoholics. I'm talking about people with money and not struggling with addiction, so piss off.

If you didn't know already, my Great Uncle Lester died a couple weeks ago from injuries sustained in a car crash. Specifically, his 96 year old spine was broken at the neck. It doesn't suck so much that he's gone. He was 96 for fuck's sake and a pretty healthy dose of leukemia. His doctors said something else was gona get him first. But a car crash? That's some bullshit. But like I said, I'm not so upset that I'll never see him again, or that I never got to say goodbye, or that we didn't get to go to a hockey game like we had planned. I'm upset because I couldn't go to the funeral.

I swear, every damn semester, it's like my profs. get together and try to find the worst possible moments to ask the most of me. I can understand the end of the semester, but 2 weeks before Thanksgiving? For everything? I think not. Bah. I think it's just frustration talking. Forgiv-inus ah-prease. I can feel myself backsliding into the same shitty mood I was in a year ago. That's bad news, people. I'm starting to have trouble focusing on schoolwork, or just about anything for that matter. My most lucid moments come at CMS when I'm trying to bludgeon some knowledge into the heads of 13-15 year olds.

I swear, the angrier I get with the kids in 1st block, the nicer I am to the kids in 2nd. Those first block kids just don't want to learn a fucking thing...and yet, they somehow magically expect to become billionaire basketball players and rappers. Rappers... I've got nothing against Rap music, except to say that I don't like most of it. Although last weekend, I wound up at some random party in Germantown with Rhys with a couple guys freestyling over a pretty amateur-sounding beat, and it was actually quite good. But these kids, they just don't have the damn thinking skills necessary to rap about the Handi Snacks their mommy packed in their lunch.

There are two boys in 2nd block who are close friends. How close are they, you ask? They're so close they share the same thoughts; at least that's what their History homework reveals upon cursory observation. Now, I'm in Ms. Jones Pre-Algebra class and when I saw Dominique writing something that didn't appear to have any numbers involved, I leaned over and noticed it was History. Apparently, last Wednesday, whoever the History teacher is, gave them a reading assignment to do for homework and to answer some questions. Curious and evil space monkey that I am, I of course took the paper, told him to put his mind on the abstract concepts of mathematics, and ran my eyes across the paper. Oh, and how nonplussed I was to find Patrick's name at the top of the page.

You gota love a cheater. Hell we've all done it at some point or another. Don't get me wrong, I dont' like it. But let's be honest folks. If you're gona do something wrong, at least have the gumption to do it right. Classic example: "What was one method the British used to bring Colonials to their side?" "They used propaganda," is an acceptable answer, even if it falls well short of eloquence. Hell, these are 8th graders, why do I expect Middlemarch? But when you have two papers, with the exact same words, a sentence like, "they used proper gandas," just sticks out like...well...a thing that sticks out. You can imagine their embarrassment when I showed Ms. Jones the paper. We got a good giggle out of it and she was going to send them off to ISS, but I managed to get her to let it slide and I'd talk to them about it after class. I just told them that 2nd block was for Math and if they wanted to work on History, they'd better do it on the days I wasn't around, because I may not seem like much, but I have strange and mysterious powers.

In 1st block, most of the kids groan and slump helplessly when I come to help them out. Most of them don't raise their hands any more when they have a question. Oh! How these powers of mine are mystical and fantastic! I can tell from their posture, their silence, and their empty stares that they are stuck. They need my help, they're just too dumb to ask for it. So I go over and they pretend not to see me. They ask for Ms. Jones. She'll "help" them by telling them what to do; give them the answer. FUCK THAT NOISE! They loathe me for it, and I eat that shit up. Yeah, I could just hand them the answers, but that doesn't help, it teaches them to do as they are told. And the shouldn't do as their told! They just need to know how to act irresponsibly responsibly. I set myself as your example. But you know me, they don't. So, the more they resist, the harder I push. And oh, how I push. "What are you thinking? Why did you do that? Gime the reasons. I DEMAND YOUR REASONS!" Show me you've got brains people and the hamster hasn't keeled over. Sometimes it's a fight, but they get it done. A few of them have even figured out that if they learn it, when I come by and look at their screens they can look up at me and say, "No help needed here.” The most satisfying part of this week was Sam Jackson (I shit you not, but sadly his middle name is Jefferson...yeah, I asked) didn't even look away from his screen. He just extended his arm and gave me the fuck-off-shooing motion with his hand and said, the one thing I'd been waiting for since my first day:

"Hold on. Thinking..."

I’m the fuck outa here.

The Wheels They Just Keep A'Turnin

2005-11-08T15:44:00.000-05:00

Today was a much better day at CMS. I helped a couple kids who missed class yesterday figure out what the hell was going on in 1st block. I goofed up quite a bit. I bet the think I'm an idiot. But 2nd block was a bit better. As fate would have it, the same guy I thought was being lazy last week is in fact just...well...behind. He's in the 8th grade, but he's old enough to be a Sophomore. I spent pretty much the entire class helping him with his homework, most of which consisted of simple addition and multiplication of positive and negative numbers. He is supposed to be learning how to plot points on an axis...he needs to learn how to add and subtract. Talk about feeling helpless. I did manage to get him through it with minimal help at the end. He can do the work, he just needs to be able to do it faster and without help. Poor bastard.

Ok, I can't keep my damn hands off this laptop. I hate to be all hyperbolic and shit, but it is too sexy.

For your listening pleasure, check out Imogen Heap. She writes some killer shit. The album is damn fine.

The Power Is In My Hands...Well, My Lap.

2005-11-08T01:15:00.000-05:00

Yes, kiddies, it has arrived. My lovely powerbook of extra-uber-sexiness. Oh God how wonderful it is. It is perfect in every way! Oh how I can stream all my music from my computer here in the apartment. Oh, how I am going to set it up as a server. Oh! OH! OOOOOOOOOH! I'm in heaven, even though my (Great) Uncle Lester died this weekend, which sucked something major, and even though my Latin test raped me. I have my Powerbook, and all is right with the world. (Kinda sad how material things can lift one's spirits. Well considering where I was, probably a box of kittens would have done about the same.)

More ramblings at another time. For now, I enjoy my new toy. WHEEEE!

Silly Casey, Demands, Scary Shit, and Bitching

2005-11-04T00:20:00.000-05:00

Few things about other people, then back to my Chattanooga Middle School adventure:

1) Casey, honey, it's called the Prostate. You don't have one. Only works when we're sporting wood, but it's a valve nonetheless.

2) I agree with Rachel. Some of you bitches need to update more often. Once a week at least. That's not a request.

3) For those of you not in the Nooch, a girl at UTC was gang raped in her campus dorm room fairly recently. Lots of bullshit going on right now. More on that later.

Ok, back to the happy stuff.

Day 2 at CMS was just fucking lame. I arrived at 8:45 in a good mood and ready to give it another shot. During Home Room, The Voice came over the intercom announced that it was a half day and that the entire school would be watching Star Wars. Any misbehavior would result in immediate transfer to the In School Suspension ward. I got that warm, vomity, taste in the back of my mouth.

I swear to God, herding cats is easier than trying to get 18 8th graders from one room to another. I caught 2 kids trying to ditch. They tried to ignore me. Poor bastards never saw what hit them. (No, it wasn't my righteous and mighty back-hand.) I manage to lead them up the stairs and proceeded to move them past the door to the auditorium. One of them posed the obvious question, "where are we going?" Calmly, I replied, "ISS." This produced a very satisfying outburst of this isn't fairs, I'll behaves, and other pathetic blatherings. "Ok," I said, "what's my name?" One of them knew it, even though it took him a minute to fight through the fog of his memory. "And you're going to remember me, right?" They replied in the affirmative. "Ok, balance the following equation and you can see the movie: x-3=3" (Easy right? They've been doing this for weeks.) More complaints that struck with all the weight of a marshmallow hurled by Casey. (I bet you throw like a girl.) "I guess you guys need some more practice," I said, "Let's go." Oh, how they hate me now...but they'll remember me, come next week.

Sorry kids, you don't ditch class. I made sure to make that clear to them...giving them something productive to do with their time was just icing on the taco for me. The day was still a waste of my time, and the residual frustration from being exposed to ignorance, apathy, and general recalcitrance just shit in my Malt-o-meal today. And that's just the fuck-o who decided it would be a good idea to show a school full of rabid pre-teens a movie. I can handle the latter two, but when combined with the first, I get twitchy. I don't think I'm gona do too well on my Latin quiz tomorrow.

"Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy." - Ben Franklin

The Mind-Numbing, Pants-Shitting Kind.

2005-11-02T03:35:00.000-05:00

Early yesterday morning, I started working as an in-school tutor for Ms. Jones' 1st and 2nd period Pre-Algebra classes at Chattanooga Middle School. I don't know what was different about this particular classroom, but I wasn't feeling it. Ms. Jones seems into it and all. She even runs a pretty tight ship. Her kids were pretty well behaved for being the day after Halloween. But something about my whole day there left a bad taste in my mouth.

Maybe it was the way she talked about the kids, or the subtle look of disdain in her eyes when she spoke to the class. Maybe it was the look of confusion on the kids' faces when I said, "Balance the equation," or "You can't have an expression without a variable." Maybe it was the kid who tried to pass off a sporting goods catalog as a magazine as reading material. Whatever it was, it has left me terrified. I'm putting my money on the last one...and if he tries that shit again on Thursday, he's getting Asimov's Martian Way or Orwell's Animal Farm. (Ya know, I don't really give a shit if all you read is Robert Jordan, so long as your brain is doing something other than contemplating how you'll look in this year's Nikes. Actually, I take it back, I do care...but first I have to get you to be able to read Robert Jordan. You see my point.) You're going to read something of substance, you little shit...and don't think I'll hesitate to rip your head off and shit down your throat if you just pretend to read. Remember, I used to do that shit. I'm wise to the game. Hell, I invented it.

Back to the point: Me. Terror.

At this point, I've stalled out. I still can't make up my mind. Student teach? Yes or no. Right now, I'm leaning towards no. But at the same time, it's the only thing between graduation and me.

T H E__O N L Y__T H I N G.

It isn't a question of the work. That’s the easy part. I think it may be a question of maturity. Of course, I really can't think straight any more. The last couple years have really fucked my head proper. I've achieved such a propensity for doublethink; I should be an agent of the Thought Police. What's an incredibly sexy, semi-literate, pedant to do?

I'm beginning to think that I am just naturally discontent with everything. No job will ever suit me, because nothing satisfies me. A good part of it, at least in my mind, is that the world in which I live is one I neither planned on, nor wanted 8 years ago. I never suspected that I would possess the depths and breadths of knowledge I now enjoy. That same wellspring of awareness fills me with power that, at the same time, I am powerless to employ in any meaningful way. My hunger for knowledge is a symptom of some deeper need. It pops out from time to time. Just enough to let me know it's there, but never enough to be locked down or recognized as such, until it's vanished. I can only guess at what it is; the more I live, study, and contemplate, the more troubled I become that it doesn't exist. Some people know it at an early age, others later, and at least a few spend their entire lives looking.

I wonder which one I am.

You?

Sometimes You Just Have To Smile

2005-10-28T03:29:00.000-04:00

Turn the volume up. Sit back. Relax. Enjoy.

The Rambling Continues

2005-10-26T04:42:00.000-04:00

There are times when we know we are alive, and times when we merely think we are living. Certainly if one draws breath, moves about, and spouts off a phrase or two, they can at least in some small measure be considered alive. At least that is what passes for living these days. The other day, I went up to Huckleberry Knob with Dad. It’s spitting distance from the Cherohala Skyway that crosses the Tennessee-North Carolina boarder. (About 2 hours from Oak Ridge.)

The Huckleberry trail is a short one; about two or three miles round trip. Fall is my favorite season, and being on top of that mountain and seeing all the (sadly muted) colors on the trees on the surrounding mountains was breathtaking. If only it had rained more this year the colors would have been spectacular. For two hours I stood in the same spot and turned circles. I heard the wind blowing over the grass, making the sound of the surf lazily rolling to the spongy beach sand for prolonged moments – continuous, uplifting, healing.

I experienced then something familiar and comforting. I could feel my feet take root in the ground. I could feel the cold air enter my body and come out again warm. Gravity then reversed and I could feel the weight of the mountain working its way into my shoulders. I began to wonder what would happen if I could stand there forever. What parts of me would be worn off first and carried away on the wind? Do mountains feel cold or wet or lonely? In that question nothing else matters. Everything doesn't seem so bad any more. I belong here, in the South. In the mountains. This is my place. Not Chicago, Seattle, or New York. Tennessee is my home, it's in my blood. Though I may leave it for a short while, I will always come back to it.

Far too often, I find myself wondering what’s next. I mean next on that unwritten list of expectations that we all have. Where is all of this leading me? Honestly, I never planned on getting this far in school. I had it all planned out when I was 10 years old. I was going to finish high school, join the army or air force, go career, fly the A-10 Warthog or wield an M-16 in combat, blow some shit up, get married, buy a dog, have some kids, retire, and do something else. You know what I’m talking about; follow in Daddy’s footsteps, but in my own way; on my own terms. After all, he went to college and finished. I always sucked at school and I didn’t care back then.

I never really wanted to go to college, anyway. I hated reading until I was 15 (ain't dyslexia grand?), at which point most people have decided to attend college. The more foresighted among us had already taken the SAT or ACT a few times by that point. Me? Nuh-uh. I didn’t want any of that jive. Fuck that. I had better things to do on Saturday than fill in bubbles answer irrelevant questions. Like what, you say? I don't know any better now than I did then. Fuck it…a growing teen needs his goddamn sleep!

Don't look so shocked. Yeah, this isn’t the stuff I talk about normally, but sometimes the fingers start to wiggle, the eye twitches, and you realize there isn’t a good reason not to talk about it. So why the hell not, eh? I guess next time I’ll say something about why I’m at UTC and not in Iraq or Afghanistan right now. Don’t get me wrong, I like it here doing the whole intellectual thing, but I just don't feel like I belong. I didn't want this life, and now that I have it, I'm looking for a way to use it. Teaching will be great, but I'm not ready for it. Not yet. There is something else out there for me, and I need to find it before it fades away.

Please don’t take any of this to be a doom and gloom type post, because it isn’t. From time to time you have to take that hard look in the mirror and say, “No bullshitting, man. What’s the deal?” I’ve been doing it for about 3 years now, but I think I’ve just now found the courage to open my eyes and face it. And of course, I’m confronted with the question of whether or not what I am seeing is reality or merely a reflection, warped by imperfections in the glass.

Obsession

2005-10-21T04:06:00.000-04:00

I'll start flipping the Church the bird in a minute. A couple things:

First, I'm so happy to have found this. Oh, Vienna Teng...how I love ya. Sure, Shane thinks your music is, "too slow," for his taste. Well, he's just a shit-kicker. Don't you pay him no mind.

Second, I told Jesse today that, "When Harlan Ellison talks about Science Fiction, he's talking about this movie." That movie, friends, is Serenity. However, I'm afraid that I'm going to have to retract that statement of pure adoration. After seeing it a second time, it's not half as good as the series was. The movie tries to do a little too much and falls victim to the typical Hollywood fuck-ups we've come to expect. If the movie could have been 3 hours, I think it wouldn't have been so bad. Fucking, idiot audiences...ruining things I like. I have a feeling that I'll be picking up the Firefly series on DVD this weekend. Granted, I watched 2 Episodes on Tuesday, and 12 on Wednesday...but it's good. Oh, it's good in a way the Holy Sorkin can not touch. Yeah. I went there. So, Serenity - good: Firefly - the shit.

Ya know, I didn't mean to segue quite like that, but I think it makes for an interesting transition into my beef with da Holy Church of the Big Guy. I don't mean to say that Aaron Sorkin is on the same level as God, but I think you guys are smart enough to catch the metaphor. The sacred and profane, people. That's what I'm talkin about. I'm certain that at least one sphinker tightened at the suggestion that maybe Mr. Sorkin ain't that cool. Hell, he's a hack! Fuck The West Wing. Fuck it in its stupid ass.

This must be what it feels like to go insane.

No, I love Sorkin. But that doesn't mean I can't love Joss Whedon too. Oh, I can hear the cries of relativism now. Fuck off, you! It all comes down to taste, really. Some people's taste is more exacting than others, and that ain't so bad. But it's when you start stamping your foot and shaking your fist in my face, screaming that Whedon couldn't write his way out of a pay toilet and that Sorkin is the most gifted writer ever, that I begin to have a problem. Oh buddy, it's a big'un too.

But you know what? I don't have enough space here to rant properly. I'll just say this.

Have a little courtesy, people. Don't wave your dick in my face and tell me it's the only way to salvation, kuz it ain't. And by your dick, I mean your faith. Because, in my mind, it's a little too close to a wang you intend to turn on my soul and that don’t sit proper with me. I don't think like youz, see? My taste is more exacting. I got deez ideers of ma' own. Follow? You ain't gona change my mind, you're just gona piss me off. If the 700 Club tells you, "that just means you're doing a good thing; it's natural for people to get angry when you speak the truth," I'll tell you that's just the sweat from God's nuts to your mouth, ain't it. I'm not pissed at all evangelists, just the ones that think they're gona get blood from this here stone.

Well, that was an ugly mess of incoherent thought. I think I may say something about my scatter-brained approach to thinking next time. Maybe not. We'll just have to click on the conveyer belt and see what the ol' blind man has for us...unless my taste buds are outa wack, I'd venture a guess it'll probably be a bunch of shit.

Jesus, I’m starting to think and type like a character from Firefly. I need help.

Yarrr. There Be Evangelists Here.

2005-10-18T03:15:00.000-04:00

First of all, Casey, if you think I’ve touched on any of your “faults as a human being,” you’re wrong. You’re a unique, beautiful, honest, and loving person. So you’re shy. So your courage rests on shifting sand. So you’re a little naïve. Guess what. The same is true for me. You’ll find your own way, just as I will find mine. And that holds true for everyone. We all find our own way. And if you can find a point in the untidy mess of my last post it’s this: you shouldn’t apologize for searching, deciding, and testing your way.

Now, you should apologize when you act like a dick. So recognizing that fault in myself, no matter how righteous I may feel, I owe you an apology. And here it be.

Sorry for being a dick. Now, show me your valve.

So, this morning at 6:30am as I left the apartment I kicked a rolled bundle of papers someone left outside my door the previous night. I figured it was one of the newsletters the apartment manager leaves now and again. I threw it in the door and went to class and didn’t think twice about it. That is, until I got back.

Upon entering the apartment, I kicked the bundle again. My somewhat dulled sense of cleanliness compelled me to pick it up, and my curiosity demanded I open it to see if I was being evicted for my roommate’s inability to take out the trash. But no sweet eviction for me. No no. It turns out that they’ve found me. And to think I was rid of them for good when I sent Shane packing.

Oh what folly! Those bastards at Southern Adventist University have found me! I suspect it was that sweet girl from G-19 who begged to use my water closet last Sunday when she locked herself out of her apartment. She wound up hanging out for a bit while she waited for her roommate to get back with a key. She seemed like a nice enough girl. But, I’m afraid that I have to lay this accidental violation of my personal privacy on her doorstep…not unlike a bundle of evangelism bound with irritation instead of a rubber band. Oh misdirected anger! Oh foolishness!

I probably shouldn’t blame her. But how else would they know where I live. Was I the only one to get this shit? It doesn't really matter. I’ve decided to let the event itself slide. However, like the proud pedant that I am, hungry for all words printed, I read the letter from Dr. Sheffield and the attached pamphlet; "What the Bible Says About Prophecy."

I’ll tell you about what I read in the next update. You’ve suffered enough for now. Go. Recover your strength. For next time we delve into Chuck’s spiritual beliefs. God help you, kuz it ain’t gona be pretty.

To Casey McAcrtressness Esquire III

2005-10-13T23:48:00.000-04:00

I love the study of history. I love it because most people take Henry Ford's view that it's, "just one damn thing after another." What a bunch of stupid fuckers. I'm not delusional enough to think there are any inherent lessons to learn from history. Nope, nu-uh, wrong-o. History tickles my balls because it's not just a field of study, it's a perspective. It's like studying the mind through past actions. It can be applied to everything. Nothing escapes the all-seeing eye of the historical perspective.

Yes, smartass kid in the back?

But what about the things that aren't recorded?

You weren't paying attention. History is a perspective, not just a study. Yeah, we read a bunch of old documents. We look at old pictures. We talk to people who were there; people who lived it. We dig up shit. We run tests. We do all those things and more. But that isn't my point.

My point is, we remember. If we don't remember, we don't learn. And so, our recollections of past events are vital to shaping our present and our future. This doesn't just apply to the foundation of Ah-mer-ick-ah, as you may have thought back in 7th grade, or continue to think Mr. President. No, nu-uh, wrong-o, Wall of Shame. It applies to us as well. We have a personal history, and it's recorded in that pudding in our skulls. Our nerves have memories as well. That's why your golf swing continues to suck. If you feel, you learn. If you think, you learn. But only if you remember.

Yes, skinny red-head in the front who's attentively taking notes before she moves to Chicago?

But what the hell does this have to do with me?

Everything, baby. You forgot! For that brief moment you took a stand. You stood up and said, "This shit is ridiculous. Fuck you!" You made your point. You showed how a seemingly self-less act of human love and compassion could be twisted and corrupted by political bullshit. I'm there with ya, sister. It's bullshit. Believe me, I know.

Oh, but you took it back. You apologized. No, no, no! NO! NOOOO! You don't apologize for your thoughts. You don't apologize for having a heart; for being human. You do NOT apologize for having an informed opinion. Not ever! Wall of Fucking Shame, sister!

When you do that, it's like you said nothing at all. You forgot that we can be anything we want to be at any moment. We don't always see the world as what it is, but as we want it to be. You forgot that hard words are needed. Sometimes they are the only thing that can penetrate our prejudices. Sometimes they the only thing that makes us face what we believe; to face how we see the world. Hard words make us confront ourselves. And if we have our eyes and hearts open, they make us better. But, most of all, you forgot that “those people” would, quite unapologetically, crucify you for thinking those thoughts, let alone writing them. And you apologized? To them?

I've got my own little tirade against the Church coming. I've been mulling over it for about 10 years now, and I think I got all the words in place. You felt you had to apologize? You think someone may have been offended. Baby, you ain't seen nothing yet. And I ain't one little bit sorry for thinking it, either. Know why? Kuz I remember, baby.

The Only Cure Is More Piano.

2005-10-11T22:10:00.000-04:00

Well, I sure talked about it enough, perhaps it's time to pony up and let you decide for yourselves. So, without further bullshitting, I present to you ANWR - Stall Tactics - Epiphany. In my own defense, I haven't used MLA citations in over 5 years, so before you unlock the pillory, remember - I'm only super human. (And the APA or Chicago styles are far sexier.)

Also, be sure to check out this chick, Vienna Teng. I caught her on PBS the other night and was enthralled. Dare I say, transfixed? No? Ok. Spellbound, then. Talented. Female. Asian. On PBS. Just by her description, I bet Shane would go cock over collar for her. As for myself, since L.A. has fallen through, I’ve considered a road trip to catch her in Raleigh, NC on Saturday. If anyone is interested, let me know. I’m just insane enough to do it, but not so much so to want to foot the bill for gas all by myself. Plus, a 900+ mile round trip drive would probably be a bit lonely.

Couple things for those of you how give a shit about these kinds of things. (I'm looking at you Lunchie.) While I haven't given up on The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich my progress has slowed dramatically. My preferred selection for the water closet at present is The Selected Poetry and Prose of Alexander Pope. Pope is close enough to "poop," which isn't my motivation for picking it up at all. Nor does it easy on the (brown) eye. Sure, planting that little euphemism in your delicate minds is reason enough, but also I happen to like his pastorals...and his Essay on Criticism is the cat's balls. (We also have the same birthday. Go figure.)

I've also acquired Ellison's The Glass Teat which is everything Lunchie hoped for and more. It's good. Oh, sweet Bible-thumping Jerry Falwell, it's good!!!! I was moved to tears in Stonecup this evening. Chapter 13 broke me. Needless to say, I was a bit embarrassed by the random coffee-drinker who came to pat me on the shoulder and say, “Hey man, it’ll be OK.” Maybe I am overly sentimental. Or maybe the world’s just fucked. Either way, I swear to the aforementioned Falwell that if I wind up teaching about the late 60s and 70s, this book is going to be required reading.

Now, this was the somewhat – sorta - happy post. I’m just warning you guys. The bombs may start falling very soon. I won’t blame you for running for cover. Remember, duck and cover.

Argh!

2005-10-10T02:46:00.000-04:00

The wrost part about blogging is having nothing to say sometimes. Actually that isn't true. I have a ton of things to say, but so little time and energy to do so when I sit down to type them out. For that matter, I doubt that I have the ability to fully articulate these thoughts properly; and even if I did, there is more than just a little chance that you would mistake it for something else entirely. It's more than a little bit frustrating.

And it seems as though I am not going to LA next weekend.

YOU'VE GOT TO FUCKING RELAX!!!

2005-10-03T22:19:00.000-04:00

Perhaps I really am a prude. I am awfully uptight. I used to think I was simply being a caring person prone to an unusual amount of worry. I’m wound so tight most of the time and take so many things so seriously; I do come off as a prude a lot of the time. For example, today in my English class we turned in our first big research papers. I got so carried away with the actual writing of the paper that I allowed a number of procedural concerns fall by the wayside…like the MLA citations. Sure I did them, but grudgingly. Chicago and APA are far superior in my opinion. I’m sure I’m overcompensating for something… And I’m digressing.

What’s chafing my ass is our next assignment. Because our class has devolved into more of a social gathering than an actual class, the cheese has fallen of Octavia’s professional cracker. (Who is to say it was there to begin with?) Our next paper is yet another argumentative paper, only this one has to be based entirely on disreputable sources. And while I can see the sense in such an exercise, I can’t help but feel that this exercise in satire will be lost on my fellow students. Shit. I doubt many of them know what satire is. My point is that this assignment may confuse some people. At the very least it may plant the idea in their head that it may be ok to cite the Onion as an authority on something other than satire. No, the irony does not escape me. I’d just rather not be in the situation that allows it to exist.

So what’s the deal here? I wasn’t always like this. We all have our days, I guess. Cold comfort, that. I think I am having one of those days, today. I worry too much.

After class, I came home to eat, study, and relax a bit. Or perhaps try to relax. Anyway, I was reading my assignment for American Intellectual History and found I wasn’t really reading, but thinking about Jen and what’s going on between us. (I haven’t a fucking clue by the way. Things have been kinda icy after Friday.) So, of course I started to worry. Then I realized I have a ton of reading to do for Wednesday, and I started to worry about that. And suddenly I was struck with the stony cold of lonesome. I wanted to be around people I trusted, people I love.

But that didn’t happen.

I wound up at Stonecup, half hoping Jen would be working tonight (She wasn’t…I’m such a fucking woman.), the other half hoping some espresso would help me focus on my reading. I had my assigned reading with me and Run With the Horsemen by Ferrol Sams to break the routine. I managed to get an assigned chapter out of the way and popped open Sams and was having a gay ol’ time. Jesus I love his writing. And wouldn’t you know it? People started talking to me about books.

You guys know me. Normally I don’t mind talking to people. But today was different. I was lonely and wanted to be alone. That’s some emotional bullshit, my friends. I didn’t really feel like talking, and I didn’t really feel like reading either. I wanted to be around people, but not to interact with them. I worry too much. This was about the time Jesse called to see if I wanted to see a movie with him, but I’m just having one of those days. Normally, I’d go, but not today. It’s been a strange fucking day, filled with even stranger and yet familiar feelings.

I worry too much.

In Which Reality Sets In And I Shit Myself.

2005-09-27T05:15:00.000-04:00

I'll get to the goods in a moment, but first the business of the day.

Latin is fucking my shit up. I'm studying maybe 3-4 hours a DAY, and it just isn't flowing. I've got a test on Wednesday and my Underoos are brown with proof. It seems that each week I have to pick a class to neglect in order to get all my shit done. There isn't any balance at the moment, and it's depressing as hell. But on the bright side, I have my Rhetoric and Comp. class three times a week to cheer me up.

Today, Octavia (aka Hot English Teacher) gave back my first draft for my paper on ANWR, which was little more than freewriting. Nothing close to the 4-5 pages she requested, but it was better than nothing. Ya know? It was about 7:30 in the morning. I always get to school around 7am on MWF because my day is so short that I like to get a head start. It makes me feel productive. We were sitting on the cement benches outside the library and it was pissing down rain just a few feet behind us. I gave her the draft I worked on this weekend. She tucked it into a foulder and said she would get to it later. She stood up as if to go, then sat back down and said, "Ya know, I think I'll read it now." I went back to reading the Harlan Ellison that Jesse so kindly lent me. I guess she was half way through the 3rd page when she turned to me and said, "You know, I really like reading your papers. They're easily the best I get and great for breaking the monotony." It was quite possibly the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.

On the last page of the draft she handed back was written, "Charles, you're a confident writer and thinker and you show it in all of your work." I find it odd, because if it is anything I am not confident in, it's writing. Thinking is no problem. I do it all the time. Writing, boy...I don't know. (That's when Bartlet decided to kick my ass, by the way.) I have ideas, but they always come out wrong when I write. Something strange happens between the formation of a thought, that thought passing to the blind man on quality control of the conveyer belt of shit running through my head, to what shows up on the page. I think it. I write it. I come back to it. I hate it. Jesse and I were talking about it the other day. There is something up with the way I view structure. Maybe that's why Latin's so hard for me. I know it's a part of my dyslexia...but if you ask me, it's a bullshit, cop-out, of an excuse. I've never had trouble before, so I don't understand why it would suddenly be cropping up now. Or maybe I'm just realizing it now... I want to write well, and I want to do it all the damn time...

Bah. I'll quit boring you with my masturbatory introspections and will cut to the good stuff.

I swear to the Flying Spaghetti Monster that someone is fucking with me. Or maybe it's the Spaghetti Monster, Himself, who's doing the fucking. Anyway, I feel like I've been hit over the head with a mallet. I'm serious. I'm delirious; in a daze. Her name is Jen and we met under some pretty bizarre circumstances...but not bizarre enough to bother leaving here. But the story in brief goes like this:

-Met 2 weeks ago for the fist time, but wasn't really paying attention.
-Met Friday at a part and spent a lot of time talking, flirting, and making me feel generally uncomfortable. I was too stupid to get her number.
-Called my friend Samantha (her former roommate) to get her number. Called Jen that night. Talked for half an hour.
-She called me Sunday, spoke briefly...went back to watching West Wing with Rhys.

Tonight, after Fiddy-Cent Tacos with Jesse, I went to Stone Cup (her job), had a latte and studied for about 5 hours. She would come over and chat for a bit then have to run off and do the whole job thing. It's really weird. We hardly know eachother, but it's like we've been friend for a really long time. It literally feels like I'm talking to a Ridge Monkey. And I've gota say...Wow! Not hard on the eyes at all.

Any of you curious types wana meet her, we'll be hitting up the show on Friday night.

Pray I don't screw this up.

Inspiration Ensues

2005-09-24T06:35:00.000-04:00

I met a girl tonight...in a manner of speaking. The chase begins anew. Let's see what happens....

"The true source of our sufferings, has been our timidity."

2005-09-22T04:04:00.000-04:00

That little tidbit of motivational quoteage comes from good ol' John Adams. I came across it a couple days ago and it's the kind of thing I would run around quoting as if I'd known it for years, but then I realize that anyone who knows me, even a little, would see right through it. That's pretty much my daily struggle; trying to keep my shit original, or at the very least to be honest when I'm ripping off someone else. Ah, who am I kidding? I doubt there is an original thought in my head. Well, that whole "oven baked," thing is all mine. (Besides, I don't think anyone else would have the sack to claim it.)

Here's my thing though. You all know I've been down here at UTC, doing the whole teaching thing. Well, now I'm not so certain that it's going to be my gig.

I remember that at some time in the last year, I was over at Rachel and David's place in Ft. Wood. Adam was there for one reason or another, hanging out and drinking beer and having a laugh or two with the ol' chummy chums. For one reason or another, he asked me the question all education majors love and hate equally. "What the hell is wrong with you?" (Or simply, "Why do you want to teach? I hear it sucks.")

My answer was by no means original, and I fessed up to that fact shortly after. I was reading WHEN ALL THE WORLD WAS YOUNG by Ferrol Sams at the time, which is by far my favorite book ever (Sorry, Mr. Miller, Mr. Follet, and Mr. Frazier). Now you guys know me. Tell me if this sounds like me:

"There are two kinds of people in this world: those who give to other people and those who spend all their lives taking. Or planning to take. Either by bulling around on one end of the economic scale or whining on the other. I'm not a taker. I'm a giver. Some folks are born to serve and others to be looked after... I was born to give and to serve, and the world had goddam well better know it and get ready..."

Of course, I paraphrased, but eloquence ain't my point. You gota ask yourself, "Is this the Chuck I know?" Of course you say yes, because you're all good friends. But is that honestly the first thing that ran through that cerebral jello pudding you call a brain? Yes? Ok, good. You know me better than I thought you did. But the fear still lingers in me that you actually DO think of me as, "sweetly racist," as "Uncle Bastard," or any of the other rascally yet endearing nicknames I've taken. Because that sure as shit ain't the case, brother.

It was around the time Amber dumped me that I realized teaching just wasn't doing it for me (more on that emotional rollercoaster later). But oh no, I'd gone too far to turn back. Can't change your major in your 4th year. You've done so much, you can't turn back now. What a fucking tool. I think of myself back when I was a sophomore in high school and I want to slap myself. Now I want to slap myself when I wake up some days.

Tonight, Jesse and I made some rockin spaghetti and watched Three Kings. We spent about an hour chillin and talking about the stupid stuff we normally talk about. And we got to talking about Harlan Ellison, my second favorite writer (Sorry, Mr. Miller, Mr. Follet, and Mr. Frazier). He put in a CD of some lectures Mr. Angry Pants did at MIT so I could, "At least hear the man's voice," before I died. And I'm glad he did.

See, the thing about Harlan Ellison is that he's an angry, angry, man. But he is quite possibly the most honest and humanistic writer I've ever read. The man oozes compassion - and so do I. I just push it down. I've been timid, see? I push down my own compassion, honesty, and love to put on the mask of The Bastard - The Racist - The Tiresome Jackass. I do it not because I am often found wanting for ideas or creativity; no, nup, wrong, nuh-uh. The following aren't all the reasons, but I do it, in part, because people tend to confuse honesty for frailty; compassion for vulnerability. Anyone who grew up in Oak Ridge knows that weakness will get you fucked with your pants on faster, and harder, than if you're caught lying. At least that was my experience. The biggest difference between Mr. Ellison and myself is that he wanted to be a writer his whole life and I just realized it about a year ago...and I was too chicken-shit to admit it. (That, and I suck at writing...and I'm not as angry.)

So what's the deal?

I've decided to explore the whole writing thing. I think I've got a fairly decent start. You probably don't know that I started keeping a real journal around the time I started rowing. (I begam scribbling at 1:15pm on 8/16/03.) So all the juicy shit about Christina is in there. (More on that later.) I'm gona finish my teaching degree, or switch to history and graduate next semester. I haven't decided yet. Either way, I'm getting the fuck outa dodge at some point and I'm going to see what I can do with my words. If I have to fly to Europe and fuck my way across Paris, I'll do it. If I've gota join the Army like I'd planned before I met Amber, I will.

I was never very uncertain about my future until now. And I sure as shit can't let myself be cowed by it.

I'm not joking...and don't call me Shirley.

2005-09-19T15:25:00.000-04:00

For that matter, don't call me Jesus either, Holly.

I forgot how terrifying it is to blog. It's strage. I never have anything to say. Seriously...nothing to say. Well, I guess I can fake it for a while.

So, I've got this english teacher. She's about my age and she ain't hard on the eyes. It's pretty cool, because I'm repeating the class from way back when I was a sophomore and an idiot (I got a C in the class...what bullshit). Anyway, every day of class is fun because 1) I think she's under the impression that I'm a freshmen and 2) we always wind up having some random conversation about stupid things.

Take last friday for instance. We had to turn in a topic and thesis for our first "big" research paper. 4-5 pages. Argumentative. No problem, right? Well, for some reason, I got it into my head that I didn't want to argue 3 points on my issue...just two. And wouldn't you know it? She calls me up after class to talk about my thesis. "You can't argue two points, you can do one or three or more...just not two." Well, duh. But of course I had a point to make, so I went on and on about how it doesn't make sense that for one and three to be acceptable and not two. Boy it just isn't fair. I wonder how the number two feels about that.

Anyway, I'm not sure if I'm creating the impression that I'm an idiot or what. I have no game, people. It doesn't really matter at all. It's school, and this is my 6th year and I need to do something to break the routine.

Well, that's my little slice of bullshit for now. Maybe I'll post something stunning some day, but I doubt it.

Someone put shit in my pants!

2005-09-17T18:35:00.000-04:00

Well, screw a bunch of Angelfire. It isn't that I don't like them or anything like that. I just wanted a chance, and we all know I'm lazy, so I just decided to take the quick and easy route out of Lamesville. No HTML to get in my way here. No sir. Nice and simple, so I can let the blind man in my head take a vacation and let the shit-train roll on through.

I'll post again some day, but this is more of a place-holder. Just getting your attention. Just letting you know I'm still alive, and will be blogging yet again.

So for now...

Piss on your grave.