Hair There Everywhere

I'm not cutting my hair short. I was really planning on doing it, turning my curly mass into something Ashton Kutcher-esque. But the fane--the fans love it. I have at least one person a day comment on how beautiful/lovely/awesome my hair is. Today, three people--three perfect (even moreso when complimenting me) strangers--casually said how much they loved my hair. The same Gap customer has come in three times now, since I began working two weeks ago, and said how much she enjoyed it. And really, I sometimes like my hair too. I always considered it my best and only good feature. So, popular concensus has struck the gavel--my hair is guilty of being fun and appealing.

Sorry, I needed to pick myself up. It's been a long day--worked from 7AM-3. It's really awkward seeing customers on the street, when I'm not wearing my cemented (more like demented) grin and blue tag. What do I do? I usually smile, casually, as if we'd met at a party sometime or something. Ha--Gap a party. I'm not hating working there as much as I used to hate it, schlepping the wares of a company I didn't really believe in. The all-gay cast I'm greeted with every day is fun, since they're much more flamboyant/amusing than myself. A manager asked me today if I'd give him permission to clone me. Psychologically, I only enjoy doing something if others think I'm doing a good job at it. So, I'm enjoying it so far.

Last night, I went to see L'Auberge Espagnole (Fr., "Spanish pudding") at Piper's Alley. Aside from the $8.75 ticket cost (can you BELIEVE IT?!?), I really enjoyed it. The film, "written" by the protagonist, chronicled his year of studying abroad in Barcelona and living in a beautiful apartment with 7 other students, all hailing from different European countries. Ok, so it was Real World Catalana, as one reviewer penned. But it was fun, the cinematography was inventive even compared to American cinema which, I'm afriad surpasses that of the French almost always (A French Matrix would not have been as popular; you go to French cinema for the plot), and I'm determined to study abroad at some point now. One of London's many universities has an outstanding journalism school. Theo, of course, became despondent when I told him about the idea.

Another night of hanging around the apartment and watching movies! Blah.

Singing and Assassinating

I hadn't seen my parents in weeks, I think. So, I was relieved when they drove down to Chicago to spend the day with me. We traipsed around the Loop, bought tickets to see "The Lion King" in early June (eh...), ate at the Italian Village (eh...), and saw "Assassins" at the Merle Reskin theatre, as performed by DePaul's highly-touted Theatre School. I was thoroughly unimpressed with their rendition of the little-known Sondheim show; the cast lacked talent and conviction, which just made the two-hour-long production drag (no intermission? yeesh.). To quote my mother: "I didn't not like it...I hated it." Personally, I love the unusual musical--Bob and I saw it together several years ago--and I'm hoping Loyola gives this show the justice it deserves when they perform it this fall.

After playing around on Metromix Friday night, in search of shows to see with my family, and standing in line to buy "Lion King" tickets Saturday afternoon, I became quite upset...no, angry, about the fact that I didn't see "tick, tick...BOOM!" this week. Bob said I'd have to give him head for him to take me to see it, and my parents weren't very excited about paying $30 a piece to see a musical they had no knowledge of. I'm just upset on several levels about this. Things/people/relationships change, I suppose.

Theo should be 1/4 moved in by the end of the day. That is good. I haven't seen nor spoken to many of my friends lately. That is bad.

Things that are sad.

(In order of least to greatest)
1. I've watched or taped the past several episodes of American Idol.
2. I tried to vote for Clay last night, but the line was forever busy.
3. I spent about an hour online, trying to figure out when auditions for the next season will be held.
4. I'm not going to class tonight, so I can watch the final episode.
5. In spite of my obsession, I don't even think these gentlemen are talented.

Sex and the City night tonight (after AI, of course) with Theo.

Are television shows italicized or in quotations?

Untitled

Aside from a lot of bickering with Theo (I just wasn't very nice at all), I didn't do much this past weekend. Most notably, my friend Tim invited Erin and me to accompany him to a film premiere downtown. He was involved/invited because of his membership in the CYSO, whose performance with one of the film's violinists was amazing. The film, Together, chronicles a young Chinese violinist's relationship with his father and his struggle to achieve success. I really enjoyed myself--a free CYSO concert featuring an acclaimed Chinese violinist on a $5 million Stradivarius, free food, free foreign film, a free ticket to see it again at the Esquire next week, and some time to catch up with a few good friends.

I had my first summer session class this evening. My Intro. to Microeconomics class is taught by a bumbling older man. Six hours a week with him, on a topic I have little interest with, will not be enjoyable.

Speak Gayish?

Last night, I had my first shift at Gap. Never before have I heard the Gayish language utilised to such an extreme--the staff at my store consists of gay males (in its entirety) and females. I'd never really thought much about it, because it's so obvious--gay men speak in their own dialect. There were moments last night when I thought I heard one man talking, but really it was someone else--they all speak the same. It's indescribable--somewhat feminine, but without the grace and timbre; a lisp (or sybilitic "s") is almost always present; words are presented with even emphasis and exaggeration; strangely enough, sometimes a slight Southern twang is evident, even if the speaker has never been south of the Union. I'm inevetably going to hate work, because I hate redundancy and I'm generally restless. But, I will refrain from writing about my job ALL THE TIME, because another journal I occasionally read focuses only on the author's work-related happenings. Which is boring and uninspired.

I just watched the "Dawson's Creek" series finale (I taped it). After not watching the show since Kevin Williamson turned the writing reigns over to someone else (I used to really dig him), it was certainly interesting. Since when did Dawson's father die? Since when did Jen have a baby? I did cry--because Williamson, who came back to write this final episode, wrote it so that people would cry (death of main character, everyone seeing each other for first time in years, Joey making decision, etc.). Joey's final decision really bothered me--I have never been a Pacey fan, and she even acknowledged that Dawson was her soulmate!--but I suppose I "get" the whole Dawson-being-alone-forever thing. Blah.

I never even see Theo anymore, it seems--he just comes to our apartment late at night, falls asleep, and then wakes up at 6AM or earlier. Quite upsetting.

Little India

After taking care of some administrative issues at Loyola, I decided to take a trip to Devon and Western. The shops and restaurants surrounding this intersection are Middle Eastern-oriented. My goal was to purchase a sari for my room (which will be Indian-themed, I think), but I simply couldn't do it. I felt uncomfortable enoug walking down the street, as I quickly noticed I was in the minority--a middle-cass European male. I felt like I had stepped into some forbidden world--even though no one said anything to me, nor did I receive any raised eyebrows or disheartening looks, I felt guilty for having an interest in their culture. I don't know. Needless to say, I didn't purchase a sari, but I did see some beautiful fabric, delicious-looking food, and a dead body being wheeled away by some funeral directors in an alley. I will hopefully get over this, and be able to go back soon.

And now, a brief American Idol commentary--because I'm watching that right now (wireless Internet what?)--Clay Aiken has a great voice for musical theatre, and I'm sure if he doesn't win, he'll get a great contract on Broadway or something. Rufus (? I don't know his name) is alright--he just sweats a lot, and that makes me uncomfortable as an audience member because I'm worried about his health. Kimberley, as I watch her right now, has a great voice--if she's trying to bring back Aretha-style soul. I don't know who will win, nor do I care. (That doesn't mean I'm not going to watch the final show next week, but...)

Must eat food!

We Have Achieved DSL

In a process that was more problematic and involved more squabbling than necessary, Theo and I set up the apartment's DSL today, and the superfluously-complex wireless network. I'm pretty pleased with it, myself.

I hadn't kissed my mother on the lips in years--but yesterday, it just sort of happened. Oedipus comments aside, I'd have to say that my mother and I share a unique relationship. She's become more and more of a friend over the past year or so. I still have some work to do with my father, but hey, one out of two ain't bad. M-day was uneventful--big dinner with grandparents, etc. She's found a new job, actually--she'll be working with a group of doctors doing the same thing she's done for the past 20+ years. The good thing about the privatisation of the situation is that she's going to be able to pick out all of her new instruments, choose with whom she works, and doesn't have to worry about all the things one worries abou when working for a huge corporation. Let's face it--doctors don't go out of business.

Speaking of jobs, I work at the Broadway/Belmont Gap this week, on Thursday and Friday. I'm sort of scared, but I think I'll be alright. There are just so many new policies...most of which I cannot discuss because of our confidentiality agreement. I will say this: "we" are trying to establish a trademark. I don't think it's working so far, but if any of you think you know what it is, comment.

I've now seen all of Christopher Guest's films, enjoying each one.

I'm on a big Nina Simone kick--after TMLMTBGB did a play commemmorating her, and then after watching some of the horrid Bridget Fonda film Point of No Return, in which Simone plays a key role, I've grown to love her voice and music. Her earlier work was great--so controvertial ("Mississippi Goddamn") and jazzier than her later work, with the doo-wop backup singers and all. She was a great musician. It's only a shame I've discovered her so late in the game.

I'm reading Ex Libris by Anne Fadiman right now--it's a book about the love of books, in comical essay format (my favourite). I really like her style, and I can see myself in a lot of the things she writes about. Next up--Salman Rushdie's Fury.

Oh, and Loyola has given me a jaw-droppingly massive financial aid package. My mother actually called me crying, she was so happy. So, that eases a lot of tension in our family. So, all is good, for now.

(Untitled)

My day was blessed with a call from a woman at the Gap corporation. After my interview on Friday went well, she offered me a position at the Broadway and Belmont store. She also offered me a raise in pay--almost $1.00 more than I was making at Spring Hill. So, I was excited, and hoping to make some more money by selling my textbooks back at Loyola. But, instead, I left mortified--I paid over $400 for these books (two Jewel bags full), and received a paltry $31.00 for them. So, it's been a mixed day, in retrospect.

Nothing much has happened in the past week. The Billy Joel/Elton John concert was sublime. I've always been a meek Elton John fan, and I never was really familiar with Joel's work. But there were times during the four hour-long spectacle that I thought, "I'm witnessing history here." I doubt I'll ever see a better concert again, and I know I'll never have seats that great--we were probably forty feet away from John's turquoise sequined suitcoat (at the All-State Arena, that's quite an accomplishment). I'm quite thankful that things worked out the way they did.

Zoe, Theo and I saw TMLMTBGB on Friday night. Zoe and Theo got along surprisingly well--I was impressed. I, being the klutz that I am, spilled nearly an entire pitcher of water everywhere when fetching a glass for the three of us. Fortunately, Jay, the Neo-Futurist I have an insatiable crush on, came over and told me he'd done the same thing the week prior. My nametag? "Water Boy." Ack--cannot go back for at least three months.

I was hoping to begin painting this week, but I don't want to buy the paint supplies we already have at my house. So, I'll probably wait until next week, and balance my painting and working. The apartment, by the way, is great. With over 1300 square feet, I sometimes get lost here.

I have to figure out what I'm getting my mother for Sunday, and my father for his birthday on the 15th. Well, my food is ready--chicken with baby artichokes. I'll probably post again when I have DSL (Friday).

Ma maison!

After several days of shopping, worrying, and arguing with Theo, I have finally moved in to our new apartment. My parents and I completed the task in about 5 hours, which included moving things from West Dundee and my former place of living. I had fun, for the most part.

A few things are still wrong with the unit--my shower does not work (it's being fixed even as I type this from Loyola's computer lab), the toliet seat is broken, and my kitchen still smells like gas. But, those are pretty minor issues, I'd say.

I woke up at 6:00AM this morning to study for my Cultural Anthropology final, which may have went very well or very badly--I cannot gauge it. I have an English final in 30 minutes, and then I'm going home to do some more dishes, run a load of laundy, and eat. Then, I'm going with my parents and some family friends to see the Billy Joel/Elton John concert--a matter that has been smitten with controversy, complications, and the like.

When my parents and I went to my former place of living, I found condoms and lube on my Ikea chair. I realize that the likelihood of sexual relations occurring in my chair are slim, but still...those things, when not belonging to me, are disgusting. My parents looked around the apartment one last time and likened it to a "trailer home." I didn't say anything.

I may not be posting frequently until May 9, when my DSL will be up and running. I hope everyone at Loyola fares well on their finals, and that everyone else enjoys the pleasant spring/summer weather that should hopefully be arriving soon.

Oh...one more thing. Theo and I are planning a housewarming party for late June or early July. Cost of admission? A teacup and saucer. E-mail me if you'd like to be invited (boyinbrownshirt@aol.com).

Shit.

I woke up early this morning so that I may write a 1000-word essay about the biology of war (it took me about 10 minutes to even figure out how to phrase the topic! Agh!) for my philosophy class. But, I really don't think I'll be able to write it--I'm having a block. I've had over a week to write it, and the past week specifically has only been filled with free time. Why do I always wait until the last minute to finish things? And even now, when it IS THE LAST MINUTE, I cannot seem to pound a paper out.

In other news, Madonna's new album American Life is satisfactory. She's getting kind of preachy, but I still like what she's doing.

En Masse

This is what I've been doing since Monday.

The Background

I was late for class on Monday, and felt no need to hurry. I walked down Cornelia on my way to the El, and saw the typical "For Rent" sign--a sign that will forever be etched into the back of my head. (Flourescent orange on a black background does that to you.) I called the phone number, and spoke to a woman who told me about a 3-bedroom that was available for $1175. (The price was eventually dropped to a more amenable sum.) I liked what I heard and set up an appointment with her for the next day.

Tuesday came--I went over there around 1:00, and met with the on-site managers (of sorts), Carol and Larry. They're in their 80s. Carol doesn't know how to stop talking. Larry has been through a lot, and rarely makes sense. They took four hours of my time on Tuesday, mostly with chatter.

The Apartment

That's alright, though--the apartment is stunning. The building was erected in the late 1800s, and its age reflects itself nicely throughout--clawfoot bathtub, original doorhandles and doorplates, two beautiful built-in fixtures (a grand hutch in the dining room and a mirror in the foyer), and high ceilings and moulding throughout. We have a living room, two large bedrooms, a smaller bedroom which will be used for an office, a dining room, kitchen (WITH LARGE PANTRY, WITH WINDOW IN LARGE PANTRY, AS IN A SEPERATE ROOM), private deck, huge bathroom, and a deep closet in almost every room.

I immediately fell in love with it, and insisted on Theo coming down that day to see it. He loved it too. I called my parents, and they came down, security deposit in tow, looked at the apartment, liked it too, and it now belongs to Theo and I.

The Xavi

On out way out, my parents and I were accosted by Xavier, our new downstairs neighbour. I'd already heard horror stories from Carol about his anger in regards to the fact that we're paying $150 less a month than he is, for the same unit, but he was very nice. A 46-year-old gay man, he resembles my Uncle Roy in most every aspect, except the fact that he makes about $700,000 more a year than my uncle. A chief lighting specialist for Lightology, a lighting design company named by Architectural Digest as "the" place to purchase light fixtures, Xavier has used his knowledge of lighting and his well-filled bank account to give his apartment a complete makeover (which really makes no sense, since he will not get anything in return for pouring lots of money into his apartment).

We chatted for about an hour. He then invited me to his cocktail party he was throwing on Saturday. I agreed to be there, with my Theo in tow.

The Aside

Basically, we live with a lot of middle-aged, upper-class gay men. And that scares me, and Theo some as well. Theo kept exasperatingly asking me, "What are we getting INTO?!?!" when I told him about Xavier. Most of the building's tenants have been there for more than five years. Which is unusual for a metropolitan apartment, and means that they really like the building. Most of these people are treating their apartments like condos, which makes it hard for 19-year-old college students to fit in, style-wise.

The Party

We walked around the block once or twice, upon getting there. (My new apartment is only a few blocks west of my current living space.) We were nervous. Eventually we went in. I grabbed Theo and I a drink (Martinis--are they SUPPOSED to have the olive brine poured into them? I was confused.) from a bartender Xavier hired. I gave him a tour of his apartment, and I don't think he liked it. (My decorative taste centers around symmetry and themes. Every room should have a BASIC theme and centralized colour scheme. Theo...I don't really understand his design strategies. But, he hated Xavi's place because each room has a theme.) We met some of our neighbours, and two of them actually took us to their apartments and gave us a tour. One man, Dan, I really liked. He is an interior designer/furniture businessman (or something), and his unit was gorgeous. The other two gentlemen we met had just moved in two weeks ago, so their apartment was still white.

Everyone has nice furniture, though. Fuck.

Sleeping Pills and Chocolate Milk

These are just a couple of my cravings. Or rather, addictions. I've taken one every night since last Wednesday. It's so much easier to pass out to Philip Glass, in a blue pill-driven state of delerium, than sit around and wait for my body to naturally fall asleep. I don'tlike chocolate milk, by the way--I was just making a reference to a Rufus song.

I hate how popcorn just disappears. Once you lose track of it, after it falls from your hand, it vaporizes.

It was such a beautiful day today--I drank two venti Caramel Frappucinos to commemorate the weather, and my lack of sleep. Theo slept over again last night, and had to wake up at 5:00AM this morning. I took a sleeping pill before I jumped into bed, and yet I still was unable to fall asleep. So, when my alarm went off, I was in no mood to go with him to Evanston, where his car was, and drink coffee and study all morning. So, instead I missed my first two classes (GR!) and I've been trying to make up for it since. So far, I've:

1. Almost finished Alice Sebold's Lucky
2. Almost finished my research for my fieldwork project
3. Started cleaning/packing up my room
4. Worked on Saul's composition piece that some of us are performing
5. Washed my bookbags

Oh! Praise Jesasa--someone has been found to occupy my room for the summer. I don't remember her name, or who she's acquainted with--all I care about is that

a. I get my security deposit back
b. (for her sake) she never finds this journal.

I hate the smell of fish more than I hate the smell of rotting animal feces.

To conclude, I leave you with a quotation from comedian Chris Rock, on the current state of the world:

"You know the world is going crazy when the best rapper is a white guy, the best golfer is a black guy, the tallest guy in the NBA is Chinese, the Swiss hold the America's Cup, France is accusing the U.S. of arrogance, Germany doesn't want to go to war, and the three most powerful men in America are named 'Bush', 'Dick', and 'Colon'. Need I say more?"

Mass in the key of Shit

It wasn't that bad. I don't know--I'm really critical, with good reason--this is the first time I've PAID to be a part of a choir, and in reality, my high school's choir (even in its wekest days) was more impressive than Loyola's only audition-required ensemble. The same archetypes apply to all choirs--the really bad singer who asks everyone how his/her performance was, the diva who's just too good to be a part of an ensemble of this low caliber, etc.

More to come--have to go get Theo.

Singing/Dancing/Begging

So, after seeing "Chicago" with Zoe and going out to Clark's with Zoe (who I really like) and her friend Derek (whose company was also fun), I decided to walk home. Basically, I felt confident in my physical appearance today, and what better place to display my prettiness than...walking down Halsted! Of course, no one approached me. (Unlike last Sunday's trip to the Jewel...scary.) I should rephrase that--no one approached me in a sexual way.

While I was strolling down Cornelia, betwixt Halsted and Elaine, a frantic middle-aged straight man excitedly asked me where Belmont and Western was, and if this was the only Cornelia and Broadway intersection in Chicago. I said I didn't know where Western was (because I didn't really know), and that this was the ONLY Broadway and Cornelia in Chicago (a fact I'm quite sure of). He asked to use my phone--I said no, and good luck. I walked away.

I was sort of following him, by default--he was walking east, as was I. He turned around and decided to explain his "story." It was something about him moving here from Massachusetts (he had an accent) a few days ago, and his friend who had his luggage was at the police station at Belmont/Western. He needed $18 to complement the $82 his friend had for bail money. So, I gave him a twenty and was on my way.

No, no...I'm not that stupid.

I gave him $5 and sent him on his way. Why did I do this? I definitely asked myself this question on my way back to my apartment. I reasoned with myself for a bit, and realized that if someone needing oney is going to give you a well-thought out story, that seems remotely plausible, either he needs the money for legitimate purposes relating to his tale, or he's just a very clever performer and deserves a small payment for the momentary excitement brought into my day. I've only done this twice before--once with Erin in an unknown, scary part of Chicago (GREAT story--a total sum of $8, I think, was awarded), and once with Zoe and Tripp back in February (Sad story about his son or something--that only earned him $1). All three used props, and were desperate-sounding. I like that. I don't feel better about it afterwards, because I soon realize that I've wasted my hard-earned (ha!) dollars.

"Chicago" was better than I expected. Of course, I would have done a lot of things differently if I directed--like cast sopranos as soprano-singing roles and altos as alto-singing roles--but if one looks at the whole show holistically, it was quite well done. Applause.

Dreadful choir concert tomorrow. Apartments on Sunday.

L.O.V.E. and You and I

I can honestly say I've never been more tired in my recollectable lifetime than I am today. (With the exception of my second day in London.) Judging from what I can hear outside my bedroom, I don't think tonight's "slumber" will be much more productive than that of recent nights. Why should I have to travel back to the suburbs to get a decent night's sleep? I'm having trouble focusing my vision, even. Which was not good, as I visited two potential living spaces this afternoon.

I liked one, and could tolerate the other.

Between apartment viewings, I spent my afternoon reading through my archived journal entries. It's strange, because as I read them, it didn't seem like I was reading about myself--many of the topics that earned the right to be published had long been forgotten. To add to my fatigued depression was my writing style--I saw something in those entries that I rarely see nowadays. How has my writing ability declined over the course of a year? I simply don't understand.

Must try to obey the sleeping pill that's shouting orders from my stomach.

"America," Allen Ginsberg

America I've given you all and now I'm nothing.
America two dollars and twentyseven cents January
17, 1956.
I can't stand my own mind.
America when will we end the human war?
Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb.
I don't feel good don't bother me.
I won't write my poem till I'm in my right mind.
America when will you be angelic?
When will you take off your clothes?
When will you look at yourself through the grave?
When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?
America why are your libraries full of tears?
America when will you send your eggs to India?
I'm sick of your insane demands.
When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I
need with my good looks?
America after all it is you and I who are perfect not
the next world.
Your machinery is too much for me.
You made me want to be a saint.
There must be some other way to settle this argument.
Burroughs is in Tangiers I don't think he'll come back
it's sinister.
Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical
joke?
I'm trying to come to the point.
I refuse to give up my obsession.
America stop pushing I know what I'm doing.
America the plum blossoms are falling.
I haven't read the newspapers for months, everyday
somebody goes on trial for murder.
America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies.
America I used to be a communist when I was a kid
I'm not sorry.
I smoke marijuana every chance I get.
I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses
in the closet.
When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.
My mind is made up there's going to be trouble.
You should have seen me reading Marx.
My psychoanalyst thinks I'm perfectly right.
I won't say the Lord's Prayer.
I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.
America I still haven't told you what you did to Uncle
Max after he came over from Russia.

I'm addressing you.
Are you going to let your emotional life be run by
Time Magazine?
I'm obsessed by Time Magazine.
I read it every week.
Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner
candystore.
I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library.
It's always telling me about responsibility. Business-
men are serious. Movie producers are serious.
Everybody's serious but me.
It occurs to me that I am America.
I am talking to myself again.

Asia is rising against me.
I haven't got a chinaman's chance.
I'd better consider my national resources.
My national resources consist of two joints of
marijuana millions of genitals an unpublishable
private literature that goes 1400 miles an hour
and twenty-five-thousand mental institutions.
I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of
underprivileged who live in my flowerpots
under the light of five hundred suns.
I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers
is the next to go.
My ambition is to be President despite the fact that
I'm a Catholic.
America how can I write a holy litany in your silly
mood?
I will continue like Henry Ford my strophes are as
individual as his automobiles more so they're
all different sexes.
America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500
down on your old strophe
America free Tom Mooney
America save the Spanish Loyalists
America Sacco & Vanzetti must not die
America I am the Scottsboro boys.
America when I was seven momma took me to Com-
munist Cell meetings they sold us garbanzos a
handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the
speeches were free everybody was angelic and
sentimental about the workers it was all so sin-
cere you have no idea what a good thing the
party was in 1835 Scott Nearing was a grand
old man a real mensch Mother Bloor made me
cry I once saw Israel Amter plain. Everybody
must have been a spy.
America you don't really want to go to war.
America it's them bad Russians.
Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen.
And them Russians.
The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia's power
mad. She wants to take our cars from out our
garages.
Her wants to grab Chicago. Her needs a Red Readers'
Digest. Her wants our auto plants in Siberia.
Him big bureaucracy running our fillingsta-
tions.
That no good. Ugh. Him make Indians learn read.
Him need big black niggers. Hah. Her make us
all work sixteen hours a day. Help.
America this is quite serious.
America this is the impression I get from looking in
the television set.
America is this correct?
I'd better get right down to the job.
It's true I don't want to join the Army or turn lathes
in precision parts factories, I'm nearsighted and
psychopathic anyway.
America I'm putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.

Berkeley, January 17, 1956

Words Fail Me

SARAJSOLEM: Damned straight, dog.

Moment of the Week

So, Theo slept over last night. We went to bed around midnight, because he had to work today. He fell asleep before I was even finished taking my contacts out, and when I came in the bedroom, he shot up, and loudly asked, "What? Brian, what? What's the matter?" Apparently, he had been dreaming or something. Then, as I tried to fall asleep to the sounds of "%()@&$)*@&%#ITH (HAHAHAHAHAHA) @)$(YHFNWKH$*##*%$@," he shot up again. "Dukie?" he asked. Duke is his dog's name. I laughed for quite some time.

I forgot to mention this. My field work site, for a Cultural Anthropology project (going to a "sub-culture" and figuring them out or something), decided to close, in the crucial week before the ethnography (essay about findings) is due. I had done some observations prior to this week (more than I figured I'd do), but I still needed so much from them. Oh well. I'll figure it out, I suppose. (Which will involve me scrambling to Scotch-tape bullshit together, no doubt.)

My life is quite screwed up as of late, thanks to my involuntarily-altered sleep schedule. After yet another long night/early morning of #(#Bjpie8*)@$&_(NJuih389h on Tuesday, my alarm went off at 8:45AM, and I was in no shape to go to class. I missed a quiz and getting two graded papers back. Everything is so fucked right now.

Plagiarism Alert: Code Red

How is this April? Someone help me understand, please.

After debating whether or not to go to school yesterday, I decided to go simply because I knew I would get my graded philosophy paper back. So, the class begins, and my professor announces that she's quite angry because three people in my class plagiarized other sources in their most recent papers. She said she would hold office hours instead of having a class period, in case the guilty parties wanted to see her. Of course, everyone in the class (myself included) feared that we were the plagiarizers. So, after realizing she'd have a class of thirty students lined up at her office door, she decided to go into the hall, and take brief meetings with anyone concerned about the status of their papers.

I was worried as hell. First, I chose to include a few outside sources, and may have forgotten to cite them. PLus, my topic was one that was rather unusual in itself, so I was even more concerned. To top this off, she made a comment about one of these people just starting here, and that she wouldn't want to ruin the rest of their academic career.

So, I went into the hall. She asked me if I was sincerely concerned about my paper. I said yes, and explained reasons one and two. She said, "No, no. Of course it wasn't you." She showed me my paper. Apparently she really enjoyed it--she told me she didn't write many comments because "when I'm interested in something I read in a student's paper, I forget to make comments." I got a high A. Whew.

The rest of the day was alright--remember how I used to complain ad nauseum about my high school choir? Well, I'm in college now, in the "best" choir at Loyola, and we're absolutely horrible, thanks to the lack of interest my director shows in fixing obvious problems. So once again, I'm embarassed about my choir. I thought collegiate choral ensembles were supposed to be "good." Oh well. I'm not going to do this next semester.

I spent my evening with Zoe--and had a great deal of fun in doing so. She loaned me two books that I've started plowing through. We're seeing "Chicago" together on Friday.

Today, I'm ideally going apartment shopping.

Well.

It looks like I'm going to have to censor the content of my postings from now on, upon learning that my father now reads this journal. My father, ladies and gentlemen. I found my journal in his "Favourites" file. So, yeah.

Long weekend. I saw Far From Heaven, ate at Cornelia's, went apartment shopping, went to lunc with my grandfather/family, visited "The Scene" with Theo and Mike, bought some socks...I think that's all. I'm tired. And my apartment is bustling with alcohol and loud people.

And it's a Sunday. If they want me to "keep my word," what about their "words" to uphold the "quiet hours?" Yeah...no. Not going to happen.

If anyone's looking to live in Lakeview, and have their own bedroom and bathroom for a small montly fee, and is deaf and blind, contact me and disregard everything I've ever posted here about the apartment.