I saw this playground, aprivately owned playground, a church playground I think. Well, it had, like, a yard of chain on the lock! A playground! Well, this in itself is pretty odd. But then you see that the fence around the playground is maybe three and a half feet high. Real smart. "Hey, how are we going to keep kids of our ten feet high steel-on-concrete monkey bars?" "No problem. We'll put a little fence around it." "Right! And if the kids try to climb it, we'll chain up the lock!" Let's hope idiots still go to heaven.
Most girls in Raleigh are pretty thin. Not only are they thin, but they're also pretty frail. Frail and weak. So this was the conception I had as the average girl. Now, I spend my summers in New Bern, considerably more rural than Raleigh. I spend the majority of the time chilling in my "crib". But, for onereason or another, I got out of the house. And when I did, I met some New Bern girls. And I was very surprised to see that they were all EXTREMELY MUSCULAR! Sure, the southern accents I expected, but every girlI met was just really buff! They could have beat me up easy. Now, this feeling of physical inferiority drastically affects my normal sexual magnetism (HA!). No, I didn't bring home any fly honies tonight.
I was telling my good friend Brendon this. I was going to church the other day, probably a Sunday, and I was late. Not my fault, of course. But anyway, I was worried about the scorn I was sure to receive for arriving late. So, I walked into the building, and I looked into the sanctuary. Oh good, I thought, the choir's singing. Now I can sneak into the back unnoticed. Success! But just as I was heading for the door, Jesus walked around the corner. He wasn't really Jesus, of course. Just some shmuck dressed as him for one reason or another. At least, I think so. But still, he scared the hell out of me. Literally!
Today was the fourth of July, and you know what that means. Yep. Only 5 months and 21 days until christmas. Put, perhaps even more significantly, on this day in 1776, the Declaration of Independence was signed, stating that the people of America desire to be no longer ruled by Great Brittain, and was signed by the ENTIRE AMERICAN POPULATION! Well, actually, it was a small group of upperclass white male adult land owners, but I didn't inhale. *Little known fact*-the original declaration of independence was signed in Pennsylvania in 1689, but didn't arrive in Brittain until 1964 (Fed-Ex). However, the Pennsylvanyites (back in 1689) had a hard time deciding who the king would be (there were only two people at this time), and the new found government quickly ate itself. 17 minutes after the D of I was signed, the Declaration of Redependence was sent. However, it was misaddressed, and reached my house three days ago. (I believe so, any way. I haven't checked the mail since the mailbox bit me). But any way, we were celebrating our Idependence today with the traditional Englishman sacrifice. Those Brits have the highest pitched screams. Then we sang the traditional American Songs, like "Yankee Doodle", and "Damned if I'm Gonna Wear That Hat!" And then we all went outside and watched the fire works. If we stayed in, we might have gotten burnt.
Here at Tripod, they give me lots of free services for running a website, in exchange for the advertising space. Among these services is a tally of all of my hits on the previous day. Yesterday I had twelve, before 5, and before that I had twenty. Now these numbers make me feel good. But I can't help but wonder, how did these people find me? I've given my address to two people, and the only person who actually made it to my site is Brendon. Now, I know Brendon hasn't given the address to 19 of his friends (he only has 2), so how are the rest of you getting here? And do you keep coming back? I really didn't expect anyone to be reading this crap unless I personally asked them to. So please, if you are not Brendon, send me an E-Mail immediately. I want to know my audience, so I can cater to you, and make more advertising dollars. Coming next week: 98 Degrees pictures:)
As you may or may not know, I spend the summer here in New Bern, North Carolina. The people here are more polite than those in Raleigh; all the adults are addressed with a "Miss" before their name. (Miss Mary, Miss Kim, Miss Ralph) And, let me tell you, everyone here is EXTREMELY christian. But despite the citywide conformity, they still consider themselves, as christians, a very selective group of people, as indicated by posters saying such things as "We, as christians, are a very selective group of people", and "We're those christians satan warned you about." I find it hard to believe that this poster would have a large target audience, considering there are probably very few non-christians will be in the church to read the sign, and probably fewer who have been conversing with satan. It's kind of sad, really, to see boys from some church youth group walking door to door to spread the word of God onto a comunity whose children's first words were all "Jeus". I actually confronted one of the said boys about this, and he answered, and I quote, "We found a jew once, but he wasn't home."
Now, I am no fan of Brittany Speares. But I feel that she does not deserve all of the ragging on that she gets. People will say "She can't sing!" And then these people will go and listen to their "Kid Rock" and "Limp Bizcuit", or even RAP! Oh, right, a lot of gorgeous voices in there. Let's face it: if all good songs had to be by good singers, we'd all be listening to nothing but Frank Sinatra and Celine Dion. (Big fan of the former, not the latter) And then people will say, "All her songs sound alike." Big deal. Half the songs in the 50's had the traditional Duke of Earl base line, and they're classics. Brittany's transparent songs actually make them more fun. Whenever I hear one chorus, I sing the chorus of a different song, and get acool harmony effect. She should do this on a CD. The real reason we don't like Brittany is the fact that she is so popular. She dominates our radio and MTV (which I can no longer tolerate). This is not Brittany's fault. It's the fault of whoever decided that the music industry should cater to twelve year old girls, as I have often told my good friend Brendon. Bottom line, give Brittany a break. At least she's not ugly.
I just got AOL Instant Messanger, also known as AIM, which I don't think is fair. The A in AOL stands for America, but in AIM it stands for America On-Line, while I and M each get one word to represent. I would call it AOLIM. But that's not today's observation. (It's not even mine, but Nick's, from several months ago) I'm complaining about the IM users. First off, they're lazy. Sure, you're talking to your friends in "real time" and it's supposed to be convenient and all that. But my friends have no regard for spellig and grammars. thejusttypeassfastashteycanadnsednitttoyuo And what's with all of these abbreviations? I don't like the feeling that everything I have to say is so cliche`esque that I don't even have to type it in for the shmuck I'm talking to to get it. "lol", "roflmao" It's as if i'm drawing a predetermined conversation from a hat. I thought the point of communication was the exchange of ideas. If you're so sure I already know what you're going to tell me, why are you here? And don't these guys always show up at the most inoppurtune times? I'm busy working at my site, and I-- oops, hold on. Okay, I'm back. Anyway, I'm working on my site, and I hear the beep. So I look in and find the pressing message "whassup" (the mandatory greeting of all people under thirty as determined by the Twelve Year Old Girls) "not much" "me neither" Incorrect responce as a result of 2 second attention span. "so what's new?" "nothim" You wait a second to see if he's dead. Close. BEEP! Arg. Open. "what ya doin" I'll tell you what I'm doing! I'm talking to a moron! Except, before you can finish typing this, "brb" and it's too late. Close. BEEP! Arrg! Open. "back" Jesus, I wish you could slam the internet like a phone, because there is no way to end these conversations. You type in "g2g" Close. BEEP! ARRRG! Open. "k" AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH! Ofcourse, I'm complaining about one of my only readers, so I should stop. I won't whine so much tomorrow.
It's hard to remember the date when you don't go to school or anything. Today's Chawkservation is a movie review. I saw "The Patriot" yesterday. A very powerful movie, I thought. It moved me, but with the kind of emotions that weren't valid, if you know what I mean. There was little in the movie that was actually important to me, but every one was crying, so I had to, also. It was a long movie, and it seemed like it. But not in a bad way, it was a movie that you wanted to keep on going, because you're afraid the ends coming up, and you aren't ready. If you follow me, good for you. If not, meh. It's rated R because of the violence (no sex or bad language or drug abuse or cannibalism or satan worshipping). I thought the violence was necessary for the movie to give the right impact, though it made me whince. I'm not giving any of the plot away, but this movie gets my reccomendation. If you're gonna see it, see it now, because the video won't work.
I love hamburgers. They are my favorite genre of food. Now the other day, I went to Wendy's with my cousin, Katy. (she had money) Wendy's is a great burger place, because of the fresh food. (I think I read that somewhere) They give you rectangular burgers, but we can overlook that. Anyway, we both got frostees. Now, everybody likes frostees. We ate them as kids, and now we eat them faster, and they give us headaches. Weird people dip fries in them. But frostees have found a place in the heart of every red blooded american. (Except Sam Davidson of Clayton, a small town near Phillidelphia) But it's time that we realized the truth about frostees: They're frozen yogurt in a cup. Think about it, you know I'm right. We all thought it was a genuine Wendy's creation, unique to that restaurant chain. And all this time, Wendy's has been brainwashing us, drawing our attention away from the fact that it's just soft serve, and that old fat guys aren't appetizing. And frostees are more filling than milkshakes. A 99 cent small is enough for me. And I consider myself a pretty big icecream eater. Kudos to anyone who can eat a biggie, because that's about 3 quarts of icecream. Have you ever tried to drink one through a straw? If you have, you're a moron. Trying to get those huge frostee molecules (about 3cm in diameter) through one of those straws takes so much suck power, you're losing more calories that you're gaining. And the cheek surgery's gonna cost more than 99 cents. If Dave Thomas was rational, he'd realize that frostee straws would have to be about the thickness of paper towell rolls. But I'm taking up too much space. More on Wendy's tomorrow.
This is a continuation of yesterday's Chawkservation. So, I'm at Wendy's, right? Well, at Wendy's they sell three different salads, a chicken salad, a taco salad, and a "Delux Garden Salad." Now, the "Delux" salad is the cheapest, and it also has the least stuff in it. So, exactly how is it "Delux"? I mean, it's the bare minimum amount of salad material possible at Wendy's. There is no normal salad, but there is a "Delux" salad, with the least stuff in it. Maybe there used to be a regular salad, but it wouldn't sell, because it was just a carrot stick. (The "Delux" salad comes with a plate) Speaking of Wendy's, I did this funny thing there, once. I went up to order my food, and I said: "Yeah, can I have a Bacon McCheeseburger, some Chicken McNuggets, a Biggie McFries, a small McFrostee and, um, a biggie McSoda." "What kind?" "Um, McSprite. And could I get some McNapkins with that?" "Get the McOutta here!" "No, but seriously. Can I get a whopper?"
And now, the thrilling conclusion to my three part Chawkservation on fast food. McDonalds likes to add "Mc" to all of their foods. i think it's a good idea. But, you know, McDonalds has really created a technological monopoly in the field of Irish named american fast food. You know, no one else can legally establish a dish as theirs by adding this "Mc" to it. They'd have to use another irish name add-on. I can see it now. Burger 'o' King. Home of the 'o' Whopper. Except you have to pronounce it in an Irish accent, like Bulrgar 'o' Kang. Walcome to Bulrgar 'o' Kang, what can a doo folr ye." "Yeah, can I get Cheesy 'o' burger, soe fries--" "No flries. Famine." "Oh, that's right. Well, just give me a medium whiskey, and, uh, what do you want, Johnny." "I wanna go see Wiley 'o' Riley, the wee leprechaun with the big red shoes."
You've all read my lament on AIM. (7/8/00 I think) Well, tonight I get a message from someone I don't know. How she got my name, I don't know. But when I discover some mysterious chick wants to talk to me, I don't ask questions. Turns out she's from Georgia (it took me a while to figure out what "ga" meant. I thought it was one of my friends misspelling "gah" again) I was talking to Gina at the time, who wanted to harass the girl. I was impressed by how this girl just dove into a conversation with someone who didn't know anything about her. It caght me off gaurd, but it was a refreshing change. What was nice, is that my reputation didn't preceed me. She couldn't tell what I was wearing, who I hang out with or my sexual orientation (three of my biggest obstacles to getting girls). We had a pleasant conversation. She'd say something. and I'd come back with a witty, usually overly sarcastic, occasionally randomly bazaar, responce. (you know what i'm talking about) What I thought was funny, was that, at the end of the conversation, she thought that she had scared me, I suppose by means of her "silly" statements. My readers know that this is a joke. I think that this girl is considerably older than me, or atleast pretends to be. Hopefully, I haven't revealed my age on my site anywhere. The point is, I have renewed faith in AIM, for making it so easy for a loser to meet a girl. Something I forgot to put on my site: my AIM username is ColonelSchmuck.
Well, faithful readers, I got a surprise today. I was IMing my good friend Brendon and my girl friend Gina and my gay friend Danny. I noticed that the Georgia chick was online again. I told Brendon and Danny to IM her, and to drop somewhere in the conversation certain signature phrases and topics of our conversation last night. It was just a little fun. Brendon, being an idiot (ALGEBRA I), identified himself as my friend, and ruined the joke from the beginning. This is irrelevent, however, because Brendon managed to find out her age. You can imagine how surprised I was to find out that she was 36. I was expecting 13, 14, 17 tops. And when someone tells you they're 36, they're either male, or lying. Or both, in the case of a premature presidential candidate (Gore). I figure, she's maybe 45. But you could understand how I could misjudge her age if you listened to our conversation. She lacked the conversational formality of a bonafide adult. She was flirty, and girly. You know what I mean. (She identified herself as a "Dumb Blonde") But she could have been Brendon's mom. So AIM has moved down a notch on my scale. Or up a notch, now that I stop and think about it.
I ate too much seafood and vomited. That's all you're getting today.
Please excuse my apperant lack of effort in yesterday's Chawkservation. I was feeling a bit under the weather. But I'll tell you about it now. It's not like you're doing anything for me, so stop getting so picky. Anyway, I went to the beach yesterday. The beach is great, and, living in New Bern, it's about 45 minutes (menus) away. For those of you who don't know, the beach is a lot like a swimming pool, except it hurts. And you always feel crappy on the way home. But, on the plus side, nobody cares if you pee in the ocean, because they know that the ocean is made of 95% fish pee. And how about that dress code? I mean, in school, it's, "Oh my god! Becky, your bra strap is showing!" But, on the beach, every one's perfectly comfortable jumping around in what is essentially a couple wet headbands. Because modesty doesn't apply when it interphere's with practicality. And don't we fellas know it. However, unlike most of my heterosexual male bretherine, I've got a significant handicap in the field of girl watching. You see, I can't swim with my contacts, so I'm pretty much as blind as an ox out there. (I actually swam in the wrong ocean once) What this means is, until I'm 8 cm away, I can't tell if a chick is 8 years old or 80 years old or 800 pounds, or possessing any other charectoristic divisible by 8. Yessir, I've gone on quite a few wild goose chases, only to find out that it was really a dingo disguised as a wild goose. Add this to the growing number of days that Chandler didn't bring home any fly honies.
As many of you already know, the new X-Men movie has recently come to theatres. I know what you're all thinking. "Chandler won't want to see that. He's too tasteful to watch a childish, plotless action flick" you say. "And because Chandler won't watch it, I, too, shall abstain from viewing this overhyped display of thoughtlessness, and follow in the example of Chandler, who's charector and tastes I greatly admire. WWCD." Well, faithful readers, you will be pleased to find out that you are completely wrong, once again. While I would normally show little interest in a modern big budget cinematic adaptation of a comic series (Batman & Robin?), I am not ashamed to say that I can't WAIT to see the X-Men. You see, I loved the X-Men dearly when I was but a wee lad of 8. Oh, you know I had all of the action figures. Except Nightcrawler (BAMF). Wolverine was my favorite, of course, being the coolest, and I thought Rogue was really hot (still do). My friend liked Gambit, who was still doubtlessly cool, but did not have his own series, like my guy. And, man, we'd ALWAYS watch the cartoon on Saturday mornings on Fox, and then we'd go be X-Men for awhile. While Spiderman was my actual favorite Super hero, it was more fun to be Wolverine, with my signature phrases, such as "Bub", and "Snikt", the sound I made as I unsheathed my adimantium claws. But I had long since forgot about X-Men, selling all my cards, throwing away my pajamas that I had for 6 years (started getting tight), looking at 3 demensional girls. But my hidden love for the X-Men, for all Marvel comics, was revived by my very good friend, JK. JK wore a shirt one day, that said "Snikt" on it. Of couse, I recognised the term, and the nostalgia commenced. One day we spent Biology class reading from one of his Fat Comic books, that rich kids can afford. Magneto ripped out Wolverines Skeleton! Can you believe that? Can you believe they sold that to me when I was six? Never the less, I can't wait to see the movie, and when I do, you can be sure I'll review it on this page. Good night! BAMF!
*see ish #364
Today is a noteworthy day for me. For the better part of a month, I've been wondering who goes to my site. i'll check out my account, and see numbers like 88 hits, and I'm thinking, who are these people, and how did they find my site? So I've been asking people toi E-Mail me, trying to figure out what kind of people go to my site. And today, I got my first E-Mail. I didn't know who it was from, ofcourse. I opened it, and it said:
your site is pretty kool
it'll be wick when yuo've added more
I almost cried. I was so glad to be getting some kind of responce from you shmucks, I didn't even notice the lack of punctuation. So today, a heartfelt thanks goes out to kell, who gave me new motivation to try for a wick site. I'll have something funny here tomorrow.
I spent some time in chat rooms the other day. If IM is bad, the chatrooms have their own level of hell. Because there is no curtesy at all. Probably because, when you're talking to someone in Idaho, you're not worried about seeing him in school the next day. People come in and deliver there little sound bites (this room sucks!) and NEVER offer any good conversation matter. I try to greet them. You know, try to give the room a more personal feel, ask about their name, really just try to get them to stay. It doesn't work to well. Because you shmucks have no commitment! You'll drop out once it fails to entertain you. I've actually stoked up nice conversations in small rooms, and got to know this lady from the mother land (Ireland). But there's no taming those big rooms. And people rarely use the conversation piece presented b the NAME of the room, but I can live with this. Now, some of you may have noticed that I've got a cool AIM "remote" at the bottom of each page, and apparently, I have my own chatroom. If you promise to meet my chatroom etiquette, you can go there. There probably won't be anyone there, but I'll try to drop in whenever I'm online. (Usually, about twelve to three AM) Be ready to tell me how you got your screen name.
Well, it seems I was meant to be born about '65. Because all the chicks that I pick up online are in their 30's. It's happened everyday I've had this AIM crap. But i just cannot seem to snare any teens. Am I too dry? I'll let you decide. Anyway, I told my Chatroom friends the 12 yr old guy and the 30 yr old biker chick I'd mention them. But you've heard enough AIM laments. On a lighter note, i just found out that I'm going to Busch Gardens on Sunday, and all that that implies. I'll be going again with the marching band on 8/2, which is cool too. For those of you who haven't been to such a roller coaster park, . . . (cont. tomorrow) (I'm running out of ideas)
Alright, here's what me and my friends did last year at Busch Gardens. On the roller coasters, there is a specific spot along the course of the ride where they take a picture of you. (They take several quick pictures, each focusing on a different car) As you all know, I'm always interested in using these type of public displays to their creative peak. i mean, anyone canmake a funny face or something, but that wasn't good enough for me and my friends. And because we rode each roller coaster a number of times, we had time to think of many different things to do, most of which I had forgotten. But one the funniest ones I can remember, is when we did the YMCA across the line on our car. Then we did the monkey thing. (See no evil, Hear no evil, say no evil, smell no evil) But the most fun one was the bats. You see, by doing some midway games, we obtained these cool blowup bats. But they wouldn't let us take them on the rides. So, of course, that's just what we did. We had to deflate them, and smuggle them onto the ride. During the ride, we blew them up. And at the end, we had a great picture of four guys triumphantly whomping the people in front of us with inflatable bats. The inflatable bats of FREEDOM! However, I couldn't afford to buy a picture, so you won't see this display of patriotism. But the next time I go with my friends, not this Sunday, but soon, I'll try to get someone to buy a copy, and I'll get Brendon to scan it and add it to my site. You guys deserve to know what me and my friends really look like.
Well, faithful readers, (both of you), the day has finally come. I can't think of anything funny to write today. My reserves are spent. So I'll whine about AIM some more. Okay, so people are IMing me. People I don't know, mind you, not my friends. And, of course, I'm glad to accept. You know me, always willing to meet someone new, and all that jazz. What I don't like is the fact that EVERY conversation is EXACTLY the same. "Hi.:)" "How's it going?" "fine u?" "not bad" (pause) "so . . ." Like i'm the one who ought to have something to say! Like the conversation is dependent on me! I think it's standard protocol for the IMer to have some kind of conversational topic, and the IMee chooses whether or not to participate. But that's not how it works. So I've gotten into the habbit of bringing up side topics. "Have you ever had a Frostee at Wendy's?" You know the schpiel. But never once has the IMer been willing to carry on with this small talk. By introducing a topic besides "What r u doin?", I've created a significant amount of cognative dissonance in the minds of these Mad Chatters. (That's the name I gave to them) They're subconciously thinking "Hey, this guys talkin about different stuff. He's weird." And, of course, they accuse me of being trivial, or arbitrary. I think we can all see the holes in that accusation. But I'm a nice guy, so I can overlook this, if it brings me closer to any fly honies. Oh, and a shout out to my friends I met on line last night, Megan and Sara.:)
This will be the final entry in my Chawkservation journal. Well, we've been through a lot together, haven't we? It's been a wild month. I hope you've enjoyed my site, because it's over. I'll miss you guys, though I really don't know you. Except for Kellie, who has been the only feedback. I love you Kellie. I'd like to give a shout out to all of the buds I met over the net, because I won't be talking to them again. Bye Lillian2468, whom I played truth or dare with. Goodbye Dreama7130, whom I thought was black. Goodbye MJS4ever, who lives in Wisconsin. Goodbye Cute Suger Plum, who I forget what we talked about, but you're on my buddy list. Goodbye trambopoline8j who hasn't talked to me lately b/c I made fun of her name. Goodbye Ekmbry, the only guy I could stand, even though he was twelve. And a special goodbye to Psycho Cutie658, who stuck around for the longest time. Thank you to all the people who came to my site. I wouldn't have kept it up without you. I hope you liked it, and I hope you'll come back again. I may be back some day. Check back after awhile. Don't E-Mail me after 7/29/00 please. Goodbye!!!!!
I cannot apologize enough for my lack of writing stuff lately. I just can't put in as much time as I could over the summer. I'm on late on weekends and EXTREMELY EARLY on weekends. It's wild. A quick recap on the events of my life over the past couple of months:
In early August, I started marching band camp. Before you start poking fun at my marching band ventures, let me remind you that any stereotypes you hold against marching band members were artificially created by a movie you aren't old enough to see, that you thought wouldn't affect you, but has obviously instilled in you the criticism of marching band members. I met up with my schmucks that I hadn't seen all summer, and a good time was had by all. Due to some genetic anomaly, our drum major has an awfully good looking little sister, who was admired by all, with hilarious consequences. We went to Busch Gardens, and quite an inuendo was experienced. I've got to tell you this. Forget the brief summary.
It started last year on a similar marching band trip to a similar theme park with a similar name. Extremely similar, in as much as it was the same. I've already told you in a previous entry about the pictures that they take of you on the roller coasters, and how my friends and I had planned to take the perfect shot this year. Well, we were at Busch Gardens, and the crowd was astronomical, by which I mean large. We had time only for one more roller coaster, and we had yet to take the glorious photo. So we decided it was time. We played four games of guess your pitch in order to win three inflatable bats. That's a lie. The inflatable bat was the consolation prize, and we all lost intentionally in order to win them. The plan was simple. We weren't allowed to take loose items onto the coaster, so, ofcourse, that's exactly what was decided must be done. The cars were in rows of four, so four of us would preform the traditional YMCA in the front car, and four of us would whack the other four with the bats from the cart immediately behind, as the picture was being taken. But the bats had to be smuggled into the carts. The plan was to hide each person's bat in his respective pants, and, during the ride, to inflate them as quickly as possible. After the ride, they would be deflated, returned to their respective pants, and smuggled off of the ride. If all went according to plan, they would not know about the transgression until it was over, and we could all purchase a photo depicting the glorious occurence. If all went according to plan.
We started the 22 story ascension before the ride began, and as soon as we were out of eyeshot, the schmucks behind me whipped out their bats and blew like there was no tomorrow. Just as we approached the top, the coaster stopped. I felt the first qualm of uncertainty. Surely noone saw the bats. This must be rutine. The guys behind did not keep such cool heads, as they deflated like there was no two minutes from now. And then the authority, 3 teenage girls in this case, started climbing the 20-odd stories of stairs beside the coaster, the real anxiety began. They're gonna catch us! Abort! Should we jetison the bats? Should we lie? They're gonna throw us out of the park! Mr. Jenner's gonna eat me for lunch! (no exagerration) I decided to pretend like I didn't know the guys around me.
But the fuzz was surprisingly cheerful when they finally got up to us. "Alright, who has the bats?" "Um . . . we do" "You guys!" So she confiscated our bats and let us go on with the ride. That's when we pulled out the REAL bats! No, I'm joking. But wouldn't that be funny?
So we ended up with 2 rows of YMCA's. If Brendon will scan it, I'll post it. I've got a rather dissapointed look on my face. But in retrospect, I'm glad it happened. It makes for a good story.
I've got to catch the bus in five minutes, so this is going to be short. Today's Brendon's birthday, but since I'm in the middle of recapping the past two months, we'll pretend it's my birthday. My birthday started on the trip home from Busch Gardens. The guys all chipped in and got me a small coffee and some prepackaged doughnuts at a rest stop. It was great. When Jacob fell asleep, we but balls of paper in his mouth. I'll see if I can get the picture from Hoss. I then partook in the first intellectual conversation I've EVER had with these guys in the wee hours until we got back. I suppose they were too tired to act stupid. But I shouldn't talk, because I'm the one who wanted to make the Ice Ice Baby music video. Shoot, I gotta go.
New Business: Brendon got a CD-RW for his birthday, and suddenly the price of CD's for Chandler drops 19 and a half bucks.
Old Business: So where was I? Right. Well, band camp dragged on for another week and a half and nothing interesting happened. Wait, something interesting did happen. Mr. Jenner, our band teacher, announced his resignation. I'm going to hate to see him go. We've got a sub during the school day, but he's still teaching marching band.
Well, we started school, and this year has a lot of promise. I've got two periods of math this year, and my french teacher is surprisingly nice for a retired Romanian communist military leader. I'm tearing it up in band class, and by "it" I mean my lips, which God never intended to play the notes that they are expected to. No, I've just lost my range from playing third part all last year. James is in my C&C class, so we're gonna dominate this year. I eat lunch with Nick, because Brendon has band that period, and I've decided that the rest of my friends are morons. And my chemistry teacher has the funniest speech impediment. Yes sir, the year is looking good.
10/6 & a half/00
Can somebody tell me what the deal is with dancing? I mean, I don't want to seem like a square, but why the emphasis on this ritual? What makes teenagers think that a social event should involve jumping up in down to the tune of pulsating music so loud that you can't hear anything. Am I supposed to be proving my charector with spontaneous rhythmic movements? And it's always so cramped and hot and headache inducing. Why do we think that it's fun. Is it because we're touching people? Is it the basic sexual outlet for modern youth? I mean, I suppose dancing can be fun, in as much as it's a make-shift performance, comparable to singing with your friends. But no, it's not about actually having fun, but about being cool, trying not to look stupid. In this respect, I have less fun dancing with some hot girl than I would dancing with, say, Hoss. But anybody who's anybody goes to the dances. People talk about it in anticipation for the preceeding weeks, and in retrospection in the proceeding weeks. "So, are you going to the dance." "I am like, so going." "Who are you going with" "Oh my god I don't know!" Oh no! Better get a date! Or else all of your friends will hate you! And my god! Can the dances be any more like dry sex? Christ, you know I'm talking about. And anyone will do it. It truly sickens me to see these four and a half foot tall girls moving like four and a half dollar prostitutes. And the music just encourages it. They know what the kids want. That not true. They tell the kids what the kids want. Everyone in highschool is in such a hurry to prove they aren't a kid, they'll accept the sex inducing music as a means of showing their maturity. Ha! If we had any class, we would want nothing to do with it. We would sit on couches and have fun, like my friend Nick suggested.But maybe I just don't understand it. Maybe I AM square, or whatever the term is today. All I know is that I don't get a kick out girating to extremely loud music that I don't even like, and I'm going to stop going to school dances until my opinion changes.
Our computer is in a room of our house that is not particularly well insulated. We're experiencing some uncommonly cold weather here in North Caroline, and I'm freezing my everything off. If you catch any typos, it's probably because of the mittens. I usually like cold weather. It's so brisk; it makes you feel alive. There's something about cold weather that feels so clean, if you know what I mean. Unlike hot weather, which feels like you're in somebody's mouth. Good things happen during cold weather, like Christmas, and ugly people putting more clothes on. I am very well apparelled for cold weather because I have this great trenchcoat. However, when I wear it, everyone thinks that I'm trying to be badass. Everyday some schmuck will come up to me and say "Ya got any guns under there? Haha!" Oh, funny. Relating me to a member of the trench coat mafia. I swear, I could just KILL somebody. No, not really. I suppose I get the jesting because it's a black trenchcoat, and, indeed, numerous "badass" people at my school wear one. More than anything I'm glorifying the fashion of the forties. I got black because it was cheaper, and now I see why. But the trenchcoat is Really warm. I swear, it's better than these crazy multicolor jackets all the guys are wearing. You know what I'm talking about. And the trenchcoat is the only thing that can keep me completely dry in the rain. It's great. Well, it's time for me to go, in as much as I'm missing too many fingers to type anymore. I'll see you around.
Pshoo! What a week. Yesterday we performed our African Folktale for C&C class. We missed a few lines, but thanks to my outstanding charisma we'll get an A. I wish you could have heard the script. It was about an extremely fat woman who melted away. And all that that implies. I want to tell you about this girl named Jackie, but I'll have to wait until I know what in the wide world of HELL is going on with us. Oh! In marching band practise yesterday, Brendon got stung by a bee and his lip got all swollen up. So he went home. I don't know whether or not it went down, or if he'll be able to play the Sousaphone at tommorow's contest. I'm going to Nathan's after school today, for those of you who like to keep tabs on my life. I think today is his birthday, too, so happy birthday Nathan. You haven't died for a year, good job. He'll have his party later. Zoiks! I've got to go. See you around.
Quite a weekend. I saw my school's production of A Midsummer Night's Dream on Friday afternoon, and I was quite impressed. Then I went home with Nathan and we rented a couple videos. I had a marching band contest on Saturday, and we got a trophy big enough to be a flute player. On Sunday I went over to Brendon's house, and we filmed another scene of our movie. And Brendon rattled off a list of lame jokes and made me cry. Monday was a teacher work day for us, so we went to the North Carolina State Fair, which had conveniently opened last Friday. We went to Matt's house before hand, and had some nice clean band fun. Then we went to the fair, where I was determined to spend less than fifty bucks. So I only bought one pound of fudge this year, and I only ate half of it in a single sitting. I didn't go on too many rides this year, which is just as well, because fair rides aren't so much fun as they just make you want to vomit. However, I did some funny things on the Gravitron, and an all around good time was had. And we had a lot of fun making fun of signs, which had humorous lemonades suggested, such as "ONION LEMONADE" or "LEMONADE with cheese or bacon" and the like. We ran into a couple of Brendon's chicks, who hung out with us for most of the day, and even got us to sing kareoke. I took the lead on Breaking up is hard to do, but keep in mind that this was after yelling for eight hours, and I really couldn't hear myself. I ended up spending $45 bucks, and so I was very pleased with myself.
Have you noticed that you only get keen insights on days when I didn't do any thing? When I'm busy, you just get a summary. Meh.
There are several different means of getting cookies. You can buy prepackaged ones from Nabisco, you can get nice ones from some places, like bakeries of whatnot, or you can make them yourself. If you make them yourself, you can make them from scratch, you can use a mix, or you can bake them from readymade dough. If you take the latter of the three, you can either use the slice and bake, the break apart and bake, the dough that comes in a kind of sausage-looking package, or the industrial size 5 pound tub of chocolate chip cookie dough. And out of the seemingly infinite means of getting cookies, the tub is my favorite. Because I love cookie dough. I used to always plot ways of swiping it unnoticed. I'm a Pillsburgular. It used to be so hard to swipe it with out a trace from all other packaging methods (believe me, I've tried), but the tub just lets you scoop a spoon (finger, tongue, whatever) into this vat and pull up instant gratification. And nobody notices one spoonfill missing out of 5 lbs. It's a dough lovers dream come true. So thanks, Pillsbury, for beating the system (my parents) and making it possible for a guy to get his daily allotment of cookie dough with out adverse consequences. Now I've got to go, because I'm experiencing severe abdominal pains.
Sorry I haven't written lately, guys. I don't like to write unless I know what's going on, and I'm surprised I wrote as much as I did. I had the cookie schpiel in reserves. It has become increasingly apparent to me that a lot of you think that I am Jewish. Maybe it's the big nose. Maybe it's my use of the words schmuck, and schpiel. Maybe it's my wit, for Jewish people are very witty. But for the record, I'm not Jewish. I'm mostly Irish. I've got really hairy legs. (I get them from my mom) The favorite college football team in my household is Notre Dame. (the fighting Irish) And I can pronounce all of my r's with l's, and replace my e's with a's. And I like potatoes. And I've been oppressed by the Brittains all of my life. (telletubbies) I look good in a green suit. My uncles have very hairy backs. And they quite often get pissed drunk. So if anyone finds these charectoristics Jewish, well, sucks to be Jew. Oh, my friend Katie wanted me to mention her. Katie.
Guess what! I just got a much simpler domain for my site. Now you can just type in www.chawk.org and get to my site. I know, I'm not really an organization, but I couldn't get .com or .net. Unfortunately, if you get to my site via that method, you get this namezero toolbar at the bottom of your window. If you can deal with that, cool. But you might want to keep the conventional method. Sorry. I cooked this really cool stuffed beef for french class. I'd give you the recipe, but that would require me doing stuff. Jackie thinks I look like a monkey. You guys need to covince her otherwise. Send her an E-mail telling her how much I look like a notmonkey. email@example.com Tell her I look like Ben Affleck. Yesterday was pajama day at school, and I wore these flannel pants, but they had a huge, gaping hole in the croch. Does crotch have a t in it? Oddly enough, today is the first day I've ever written the word crotch. Today is also dress to impress day, and I'm wearing very nice clothes. Let me take a picture for you.
Sorry, I couldn't get a picture that I liked. But I wish you could've seen me yesterday. It was culture day, and so I dressed scottish. Let me tell you I was the only guy at school in a kilt. Now, the kilt really ought to make me feel insecure and feminine. However, I felt extremely manly in it. And I've got great kilt legs. My legs are exactly the kind of legs you would expect to find under a kilt. Jackie laughed at me, but that is to be expected. She still insists I look like a monkey. But I think she has a thing for monkeys.