Crew party, or what I remember of it

    Never, even after the worst of my injuries, have so many people checked on me to see if I'm okay.
    This isn't my first time drinking, by any stretch. Back at home I've been drinking since I was a wee lad, thanks to my mother's Irish family, insisting I be acquainted with alcohol since a ripe young age. But tonight I've had a little more to drink than I've had in a while.
    For the sake of moderation, I've not had more than three or four drinks at home. It keeps me from getting hangovers or involved in regrettable affairs. But tonight was special; I was celebrating with my cast and crew. Our show launches in two weeks, and for the occasion we all got plastered. This is, to be honest, my first time really drinking socially (outside of family gatherings and my roommates chilling on the porch), and I'll have to admit, it's fun.
    If you know me well, you know that I'm always thirsty, so if I don't think about it, which I wasn't, this kind of affects my pacing. I ended up having all of my drinks in about an hour and a half and didn't start feeling drunk until right after I finished. For being clumsy and loopy, I'll give myself credit for having enough sense to at least stop when I knew if I had any more I would probably black out or at least do something incredibly stupid. I was still drunk enough not to have any awareness. For what it's worth, I still followed all the rules they tell you; drink lots of water between drinks, eat, count your drinks, all that good stuff. A little rundown of what I had:

• 2 shots vodka (it was that weird lemon-flavored stuff for cocktails so it tasted like cleaning fluid)
• 1 glass Champagne (toasting the show)
• 3 glasses Merlot
• 1 Fat Tire (our director Patrick at one point declared it was too hipster and started drinking PBR)
• 1 Sam Adam's Oktoberfest (tasted nothing like October as far as I could tell)
• 1 Pabst Blue Ribbon

    I'm not entirely certain about exactly how many glasses of Merlot I had or if I even had that last PBR, so my count is somewhere between 7-10 drinks. Anyway, checking an online BAC calculator, my BAC would have been somewhere around/slightly below 0.2, which is a fair bit higher than I reckoned at the time (go figure). According to Wikipedia, I was in the range for, and fit the general description of, Lethargic drunkenness:

Lethargy (BAC = 0.09 to 0.25%)

• Sedation
• Impaired memory and comprehension
• Delayed reactions
• Ataxia; balance difficulty; unbalanced walk
• Blurred vision; other senses may be impaired

I remember taking a nap on the couch during the party so I'm sure I was pretty lethargic.
    It was still a lot of fun, whether or not I was entirely there. I remember it all fairly well, considering it all. I talked to people a lot more than I would have otherwise, including our assistant stage manager Anna who looks just like Anne Hathaway. I don't know if I was being loud or if I was just trying to talk over the music, but I'm pretty sure I mumbled a helluva lot less, even if I did stumble over a few words ("I think you look like Anne Hathaway even when you're sober. I mean when you're sober. I'm sober. Not right now, but when I am"), and I distinctly remember picking up an absurd British accent for a while. Patrick claimed I didn't sound drunk, bless his inebriated soul. He's a really awesome director, I'll give him his due credit for picking a group that really gets along well and for personally being a cool guy.
    He definitely had a way of making me feel good about myself last night. I was saying something about not being able to act, and he turned it around and gave me some confidence. Now, I still don't think I can act, and he didn't convince me I could even then; all I can do is react, and honestly I can't feign emotion, I just have to trick myself into feeling it. Anyway, he told me I had a "movie aesthetic", and that my only problem was projection. It was stupid and meaningless, but I still appreciated the honest drunken thought.
    Apparently this is just the first of three crew parties for the production. Next time I'll try to pace myself a bit better, eat more, and for goodness sake dress better. It was more fun than expected. Hopefully I didn't do anything stupid, and next time I'll be sure I don't.

Half-Assed Review: Louisiana Story

    The Pulitzer Prize, as far as I understood it, is supposed to be a distinction of quality and innovation. Of course, this isn't really a subject that piqued my interest, being a bit more of of a film geek/engineer type, but in my futile effort to become a well-rounded person I've still taken the occasional dabble in Pulitzer winners to get some good taste. While all that written fiddle-faddle hasn't done anything for me, the Pulitzer Prizes have offered me a delightful loophole with their Music prizes. Thanks to them, I can still indulge in the pretentious pleasure of having Pulitzer-level taste without having to read a damned word. Music is purely aesthetically dependent; except for songs, which are really just poetry set to music, music has no message and has merit regardless of the historical context. By design, music can reference nothing but music (with some interesting exceptions, but that's another issue), and can have no political motive (again, with some exceptions). It's comforting to put on a record an not care about the composer's political perspective, life story, or the audience he was trying to move. Maybe my taste is pretentious, but I still like George Crumb. Most of his work is ambient and experimental and decidedly unlike anything your used to, but even his most discordant piano-mashing has a peculiarly beautiful quality to it.
    Reading through the list of winners, I found the perfect overlap in taste: The 1948 winner was for the soundtrack to the film Louisiana Story. Honestly that simple film association was enough, but in the past year I've also grown a bit fond of Louisiana. I've learned not to have high hopes for anything from the 40s, but the potential historical and sentimental meaning behind it seemed worth the 80 or so minutes it took to watch. If nothing else, I was wondering, compared to, say, The Princess and the Frog, how would they portray Cajuns and Louisiana in this film?
    Unsurprisingly, both for the era this film was produced and the nature of movies themselves, it was a wee bit idyllic, if not downright stereotyped. There was a mighty strong smell of the Great American naturalist coming out of the protagonist, what with his bare feet, affinity with wildlife, and friendly demeanor. Besides that he did live in a swamp, go hunting on a daily basis, and carry magic charms, which is probably about as stereotypically Cajun as it gets. The acting wasn't too great either, in typical 40s fashion (though to give credit where credit is due, the character of the protagonist's father was performed impeccably). But what the film did absolutely right, as far as my fantasies go, was whenever the Cajun family was in the home, they unapologetically switched to speaking French, without so much as a subtitle to explain them. It wasn't bothersome though; even without understanding a word of French, you can still understand the body language, and nothing essential to the plot is told in French (as far as I could tell).
    Speaking of the plot, there's really next to none. The best way I can describe it is, it's like There Will be Blood if nobody got hurt and they all lived happily ever after. The film plays like a documentary without a narrator. Things happen, and in the end, things happened. Regardless, Louisiana Story is a charming flick. It's not in my top 10, and it's not in my required reading list, but I recommend it if you happen to have identical taste as myself.

Espresso espensive

    To celebrate my first full day back in Charleston, I ate out. Nothing fancy, but for lunch I had a few hot dogs at the hot dog stand on Glebe St., and for tea I had a scone and root beer (actually I didn't have tea at all). Later in the evening I was feeling a bit gloomy so I went out to the nearest coffee shop and got an espresso to cheer me up. Today's total meal budget came to $11.76 including the little tip I left at the pastry shop. Keeping that accounting in mind, I'm disinclined to eat out regularly, but I've got a soft spot for the espresso. If it weren't so expensive it'd make it into my routine two or three times a day. Alas, the most reasonable espresso in town I've run into is $1.60, which would come up to $24 a week and about $96 a month, if I actually wanted to have my coffee at Caviar and Bananas. Assuming I had my own espresso machine the cost per double would probably come to about 30 cents, but I'd also have no excuse not to indulge on weekends, so I would still end up spending $27 a month on coffee if I kept up the pace and didn't over-indulge. Sadly, that would be an enormous luxury cost, seeing that my income is currently slightly less than survivable until I manage to sneak in a weekend job. This is why I'm making a habit of budgeting everything in my mind now. Still, my parents have been enormously helpful even as I approach the age where I can be rightfully brushed off as a deadbeat. Hopefully my GPA will go up enough for me to accrue some state scholarships and get out of this college debt trap.
    Obviously I haven't updated my diary in half a month now. Personal issues got in the way and the things I had to vent were private and completely unrelated to Charleston. So things have been duly vented to their proper audience. The best outlet has been doodling with my friend Shelby over the break. We see each other so rarely and she always cheers me up. Now that we've both doodled ourselves out on each other (that didn't sound suggestive at all), I'm ready to come back and face the world.

Rainy, dreary, beautiful day

    It rained all day. It's still raining now and probably will most of the of the night, on and off. This was the most beautiful rain I could ever ask for. There's a certain quality about the weather that heightened every possible sense. The soft drab gray sky and mist only accentuated the green trees and red bricks. Dead leaves and worms also start to release their odors on these sorts of days; all smells seem to mix in with the water and spread everywhere. Sounds become more vivid too; the clouds form an acoustic ceiling reflecting and concentrating the sounds of traffic, airplanes, and of course thunder. Last, but far from least, the feeling of raindrops, today only tiny beads of mist, tickle and chill my skin. This sort of day is the peak of prolonged physical pleasure. I'm not exactly poetic about it, but this was really the most beautiful day I've seen since I've moved here. There's nothing else I have to say for today. Just that it was beautiful.

First day of work

    For the one or two of you following this to check up on my studies, I did go to class and it was still a bit of a waste of time. After a certain number of weeks race discussion kind of boils down to the same four or five arguments sequentially invalidating each other, like rock-paper-scissors. In turn I basically have nothing original to do and certainly no hope for infallibility. By the end of the semester at least I might come up with something brilliant and original, but for my first paper (due on Thursday) I'm just writing off of the suggested topics list.
    After class I was just sitting outside of Simons waiting until I could begin work, and Robert came and offered to buy me lunch so I wouldn't be working empty. I really hate being broke right now. I really appreciate the favors but I feel so in debt. At least we're all friends and there's nothing formal and nobody keeping score. I really appreciated him doing that much, I felt really good having some meat in my system for the day.
    Well, I got to work exactly on time, and got on board immediately cleaning the shop. For those who didn't know (I can't imagine who since everyone who reads this is friends with me on Facebook), I work for the Theater department in the scene shop. It's a really nice workshop with lots of nice saws. I feel really comfortable there; there's not always enough work for me to perfectly squeeze in, but everyone's pretty relaxed and when there is work it's fun stuff that involves power tools in some capacity. My first job after helping clean up a bit was to cut out a set decoration with a jigsaw. I've never used a jigsaw before, and my cut wasn't perfect, but it was really fun and felt good to use.
    After that, I slept, and when I woke up, tried to help Robert put up his wall again. turns out that he didn't bring the staple gun because of something I said. Confusion sucks. We tried tape, it failed, we gave up.

Today was too long

    Social events, I have decided, are not my thing.
    I skipped my 5'o'clock class to go to an Anthropology department potluck. I hadn't skipped that class so far and I was hungry for something that wasn't variations on rice. Unfortunately for me, rice is the staple grain of billions of people in hundreds of cultures, so a proportionate amount of the food served was variations on rice, even if much better than what I can make. One of them even had cinnamon and was sweet, and another was almost a stew with spinach. I scarfed the whole buffet indiscriminately. It all tasted good.
    After that I went to see Toy Story 3 with Alex and Mary. Alex didn't know Mary and I were coming, but he gladly wedged himself between us in the seats. I doubt there was any though into it, and I don't care who sits next to whom since I was going to just watch the show, but I was really offended that he went ahead an butted in like that. Not that he butted into our group, no, we went to him, but when we went to sit down he directly separated me from my original company.
    Back at home, more writing, more slacking, a few conversations.

More of a continuation than a standalone entry

    So I slept in most of the weekend. I wrote and played games too (especially Syberia and Psychonauts), but mostly slept. Must have been exhausted. Anyway, since this is more about my life experiences and thoughts than videogame criticisms, I'll spare you my self-indulgence and spread a little of something I know you'll all love: Hate for anime nerds.
    First, to clarify, I don't hate anime nerds. Anime is actually pretty great, and if you care, a few of my favorites are Tengen Toppa Gurren Lagann, The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya, Metropolis, and almost everything by Studio Ghibli and Studio 4°C. TV shows aren't generally my thing, so if I do watch a show it's usually just a one or two season thing, like FLCL or Death Note. And nerds are really excellent too. Even the most obnoxious guy with a Eureka 7 shirt I've met has been completely friendly, if a bit loud. No, the disdain is for one very specific subgroup of anime nerds: Women.
    Again, this is just a generalization that honestly only pertains to the vocal minority, but loud they are indeed. Somewhere on the intersection of feminine insecurity and social rejection rests this seemingly benign group of long-haired, bespectacled women with plain faces and a slight hunch who are absolutely revolted by any deviation from their ideal conditions. Naturally the world is by design less than ideal, so these ladies are always wearing some sort of sneer, but when something specifically irks them, however benign, they explode like someone just tried to eat their children.
    I'm no regular member, but every so often I like to show up for the anime club here at the College. Every Friday at 7 in Stern 206 we gather and watch whatever show the club officers think would be fun at the time. Although the purists insist on watching with Japanese audio and subtitles, it's still a really relaxed event, and it's fun because instead of getting really engrossed in the shows, we all make fun of how incredibly stupid the stories and characters are. It's a perfect immediate and involved experience; everyone can join and shout out, and you'll always get laughs if you do.
    But back to those women I mentioned before, they're always lurking in the front rows (because they're too hunched and short to see over people), waiting to scream at the audience if they get a little too loud for their liking, grumbling and groaning through every witty quip and comeback. This Friday in particular, before the meeting started everyone was playing around with Nerf guns, shooting windows and quoting movies while aiming at each other. Nobody shot each other, even with the foam bullets, but it was still fun. Until someone decided to aim his Nerf revolver at one of the club officers, who went into conniptions and threatened to throw him out of the club if he dared shoot anywhere near her and put the entire left side of the room in a bit of a nervous mood.
    The attitude extends outside of club hours. In fact, some of the well-behaved ladies in the club transform into irritable bitches the other six days of the week. My first encounter with this personality at this school was a while before the club even started meeting. This particular character seemed nice at first; a little self-deprecating and awkward, but me and my friends started encountering a nasty pattern. She was a complainer, which wasn't a problem in itself, but oh, whenever anyone offered help, or advice, she got furious. She was grown up, she would shout, and she doesn't need anybody patronizing her or acting like they're better at anything. Her insecurity was astounding.
    Now, aside from encountering this at the anime club, there isn't any immediate reason for me to specifically associate this attitude with anime nerds. It seems like anybody with mommy issues and a social stigma could be an überbitch. True, but there's two specific reasons I do. First, again because I've experienced this almost exclusively with anime nerds, and second, because anime seems to glorify this behavior. If you've watch FLCL, Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya, or the show we watched this Friday, Toradora, you've seen what I'm talking about. Absolutely maniacally ungrateful and angry women with distorted perceptions of reality, and most of all no social tact. In the shows it's funny: Tiny, nearly insignificant little girls manage to coerce a small army under their whimsical command. In real life, it's disgusting. Unattractive girls lash out at innocent fun and well-intentioned help.
    Anyway, even with some enormous bitches venting hot air into the room, the anime club is still a lot of fun, and I recommend coming. If you show up a little early, a lot of the members get together to play Uno or Magic: The Gathering, and most of them are just fun to talk to anyway. The most you have to lose is a half-hour before you can decide definitively if it's fun for you or leave. Fridays at 7 in Stern 206. Be there.

Some people wash the dishes to put off the laundry

    I came to a revelation about myself today. Class got out early, so I was just sitting around waiting for my next class to start, and I started doodling. I like to draw, but I never do, because lately it's been hyped up as a big responsibility. I need to draw everyday so I can refine my skill so I can illustrate. It's very very important. I have to illustrate. I must, and it's urgent, because I like to. Feeling duty-bound to enjoy myself really takes the fun out of it, so I don't. But now, I was sitting around, goofing off, thinking about all the important papers I need to be writing, so I decided it'd be more fun to draw people instead. I've concluded by now that, left to my own devices, I'm not exactly professional artist material (maybe with formal training I could be), but for my own purposes I sure ain't bad at it. Anyway, the big revelation was this: I'm lazy. And not even in terms of work ethic, no, this is a personality trait. Working's no fun; I won't do anything except for pleasure. So getting this idea worked up in my head that I have a duty to myself to draw or write regularly is doing nothing for me. Everything worthwhile I do is to avoid something that isn't fun. I remember in high school, I thought my biology class was so boring, so I ignored the class and read ahead in the book. I may have failed the class, but I learned a lot about how immensely cool fungus is, and I still got accepted into every college I applied to, so clearly I gained more than I lost.
    A lot of what I'm saying people already know. They use it on children as a super-effective reverse psychology. But I still need a little reminder every once in a while, to chill out and enjoy my fun, and most of all slack off. That said, I'm getting tired of writing this. I'm going to go write my paper on the crusades instead.

The legend of the Cel-Ray

    I had a hankering for a milkshake. I don't know what came over me. Probably some sort of misinterpreted malnutrition combined with nostalgia for readily-available junk food that came with living in college. Whatever it was, an uncontrollable desire for milkshake took hold of me, so I collected what little cash I had and headed out.
    Suddenly, as I walked out the door and the warm air hit me, the milkshake that had been haunting my appetite transformed into a hot dog. Every other day I walk by the hot dog stand on the way to class, and each time I hold my wallet close and walk on, knowing that the two dollars cash I have to serve a higher purpose and if I saved it I wouldn't be sorry. My foresight finally payed off, it seemed, until I approached the hot dog stand's regular territory on Glebe St. Empty. It hadn't occurred to me, but apparently the stand isn't on campus on Thursdays, least not as far as I found.
    My stomach panicked. As far as it was concerned, there was only one thing left on earth that could satiate me was a hot dog from that stand. I'm completely sure there's lot of hot dog places around town, but in my mind there was only one place that would do. I started to wander around, barefoot in the heat (because I always take off my shoes when my plans are foiled), wondering what to do.
    Then, while I was walking east down Wentworth, I slowly recalled the original purpose of my quest. A milkshake! But this provided an even worse problem than I had thought about when I stepped out the door: Not only do I have no idea where one can buy a milkshake in Charleston, let alone where for under two dollars. Some dazed mental detective work told me, however, that the last time my family visited, we passed some fast food joints on Meeting. Maybe, just maybe, if I head far enough north I'll find something.
    Walking the length of the peninsula isn't exactly an odyssey, but it's still a good long stroll, especially when you don't know how far you're going and your body is whining for sweets. Somewhere past Mary there was a pulverized dead animal on the side of the road, and I remember thinking it smelled really good. I also noticed I was talking to myself in the weirdest accent. Obviously I was going crazy so I started walking a little faster to get wherever the food was sooner.
    This may come across as a bit racialist but something became immediately apparent when I finally did find the restaurants I remembered. The moment I saw Church's Chicken across the road from KFC, I realized that everyone around me was black. As far as I'm concerned, race is an artificial distinction, but clearly my ideals don't pertain to Charleston. This was seriously the black neighborhood. But anyway, looking into the horizon, there was nothing else in sight, so I knew I wouldn't be getting my milkshake today.
    Walking back was a bit facepalm "duh" moment for me. When I got to Spring, I noticed I was next to a nice big Piggly Wiggly. I live a bit off Morris and all this time I've been shopping at Harris Teeter because I thought it was the closest grocery store. Well whatever. I'm big on the pig so I decided to at least go in and get myself one of those cards they give out to customers. The Pig Card, it's called in their case. Well, once I was in there it seemed like a good idea to at least look for some ice cream, which is pretty close to milkshakes, but nothing was particularly cheap so I was about to go until something amazing caught my eye. Hidden in an odd shelf between beer, salmon fillets, and Swiss cheese, sat a nice little display of Dr. Brown's sodas, and at the very bottom was a brilliant product I had never heard of before: Dr. Brown's Cel-Ray celery soda. Even as my body still longed for either a hot dog or a milkshake, my pride couldn't let me leave the store without purchasing this odd new find. No flavor, no matter how vegetable, can challenge my adventurous sense of culinary courage, so I forfeited my two dollars and bought a can of Cel-Ray and some cream soda I love.
    If you want to try it, it's not bad. It's weird, kind of like a sugar-coated salad, but it is a soda and it's not like there's any textural issue. It's just celery flavored water except really sweet. There's probably some sort of cultural aspect about it that I don't get, but to me it's just another too-sugary drink. On the other hand, it has opened me up to the possibilities of celery seed flavor. If I ever work up the income to cook regularly I'll have to try it.

    Not much else happened today. I studied and worked on my papers, and attended a presentation on Jews in the Roman empire for extra credit. I noticed that they had open bottles of wine for you to serve yourself, and after the fact I was kind of ashamed of myself for not taking some. Yuki also attended the presentation and we agreed that the entire presentation was kind of silly and didn't really express its point very well, even if it was well supported.

    Finally, while I was at the presentation, Robert made a video. It's so brilliant I'm actually going to share it here.

Little to-do about little to do about

    I've been having vivid dreams lately. Last night I had two in particular that stand out in my memory. In the first one, I was in a raft with two young women, floating in a calm lake. One of them wanted to play, and asked me to spin her by her ankles and fling her in the water. Although we were just on a raft, it wasn't hard to stand up and run about the boat without throwing it off balance, so I grabbed her and started to spin. But then, as I was gaining speed and she started shouting with glee, the water began to fill with fish and the water became rough and we started to get tossed around. The water began to boil red and swarms of fish started to swirl around the raft. She asked me to let go and throw her into the water, but I instead dropped her into the raft and tried to protect them.
    The next dream I had I was in a house alone with another woman, a strange but familiar amalgamation of several different girls I knew through high school. The house was falling apart, and water was pouring in everywhere; there was an inch of chilly water covering the floor and pouring down the staircase. Outside we could hear tanks and artillery fire, destroying the house with us inside. But she wasn't afraid, and we took each others hands and. . . Played mancala. And I don't mean that as an obscure sexual innuendo. We played mancala. I don't even know how to play.
    I didn't actually tell you my dreams to make some sort of symbolic point. I wish they had an obvious symbolic point; as far as I could tell they were just totally arbitrary subconscious nonsense. I just thought it would be fun to tell you so you could throw out your interpretations and tell me what's going on in my life.
    Anyway.
    Once again my school day was regrettably incomplete, thanks to my rice cooker which inexplicably failed to turn on when I went in the other room for 20 minutes. Without my lunch, I'm useless, so I ended up opting out of my first afternoon class again. I feel really bad for it, but at least I had lunch.
    On the other hand, if you consider what I actually had for lunch, you might think I would have been better off skipping. I'm not sure if I can entirely disagree with that sentiment. I made a pot of rice, with just enough soy sauce added to keep from boiling over, then melted in a slice of Swiss cheese, and mixed the concoction with marinara sauce. The end product was not unlike lasagna, and even if it won't win any culinary prizes, I still give myself kudos for inventing yet another alternative college meal. This morning was similarly inventive; I had cream cheese on my toaster waffles with lemongrass green tea. My diet has become paradoxically diverse and imbalanced at the same time. So far all the normal side-effects of a new diet haven't struck, which is slightly worrisome for what it implies about my normal diet.
    In my World History class today, we almost managed to get to the ancient Greeks again. We briefly covered the collapse of the Minoan civilization, and discussed the Mycenaeans and their collapse. One young woman in our class argued that because of the nature of the Minoans, with condensed cities and constant trade with other nations, they likely succumbed to disease, and showed how a particular Minoan fresco could symbolize this. While we all generally agreed that was a fair possibility, although there isn't specifically evidence supporting it, Dr. Piccione explained that her interpretation of the fresco was invalid in light of other information, specifically that the fresco that she was showing was only an incomplete portion of a wall-sized painting, and that it was painted several centuries before the Minoans disappeared. Unfortunately, there's a lot of antagonism against this particular student in the class, and she got very upset and ranted for the validity of her points.
    Although she is very stubborn and insecure about being wrong, I love to hear her arguments. She's the only person who really argues with the class material at all, and really does bring up legitimate issues that wouldn't otherwise be covered by the course. Unfortunately, most of the other students can't see past the bitterness, and everyone laughs behind her back like she's the biggest jackass on campus. She's wrong, a lot, I agree. She weighs too much importance on realistically trivial factors and puts far too much stock in the validity of her speculation. But dammit she still asks in the first place. The best anyone else does is know the material ahead of time, which is intellectually meaningless. Well, to give myself credit, I like to argue with the professor's more presumptuous statements in my head, but I just don't bring them up in class because we're still about two and a half millennia separated from the crusades and we only have four classes left. I'd like it to be as speedy as possible.

Not much new

    I got the job.
    I went to class. It was probably the most boring class I've had so far.
    All is well.

Worries and solutions

    This morning well before my classes start I dropped by the post office as soon as it opened. About three weeks ago a fiasco began where the post office began forwarding and reforwarding my mail ad apparent infinitum. This is particularly important because it was my SS card (social security, not Schutzstaffel), and I can't legally start working my scene shop job without it (something to do with workers compensation and their liability). This whole missing card problem is singly responsible for a great deal of lost wages, so this is a bit of a beef I've been gaining with the local post office. Last week it appeared at my family's house, so they responsibly gave it priority shipping with tracking confirmation to ensure that it not only was sent quickly to me, but very directly as well. Well, the 2-3 business days passed by and I didn't receive so much as a note, so I checked the tracking information this weekend and found an alleged note was left on Friday. Suspecting a mix-up, I asked the folks in the downstairs apartment, who insisted they haven't gotten any mail in my name. This case was starting to become very mysterious indeed.
     So back to this morning, to solve the great mystery of the missing mail I headed straight to the source. After arriving promptly at 9 in the morning, I told them my situation, and asked them if they could tell me what happened. I ended up spending the next hour waiting at the desk while they scoured the entire building looking for my bright-red envelope. No luck, it was probably taken out again today by the carrier, and I would have to come back tomorrow if I didn't receive it. With assurance that they would resolve the issue as soon as the mailman returned, I headed out, already late for my 10'o'clock class. With all the stress that came with the morning, along with worrying over the weekend, I took to bed.
    With the power of inertia, I successfully excused myself from leaving the house for nearly the whole rest of the day. At 4:30 I dragged myself up from my nap to finally get ready to start my day for my 5'o'clock World History class, still exhausted. For the first time in weeks, the lecture was not on Egypt. Finally, eight classes into a course with only 13 classes, we have begun to mention the ancient Minoans.
    After class again I chatted with Yuki, and ended up following her to the library, where we both bumped into Yuki. I got on one of the computers and found that I had a message from an unfamiliar name on Facebook. Someone had my mail! Thanks to the internet, one responsible citizen was able to achieve what a half-dozen postal workers could not: Bring me my mail. For all the flack it gets for hurting privacy and consuming lives, Facebook isn't such a bad tool after all.
    Now that everything is settled and fixed, I can sleep easy. Which I'm about to go do.

Weekend Special

    This weekend I time traveled. I got the idea from Alex, who did the same on Friday: I went on my Facebook account and I went down my wall, all the way down my wall, back to the day I joined. I've had a Facebook account since about October of 2007, the fall of my Junior year of high school. So much happened between then and now that I all but completely forgot. A lot of direct references to embarrassing episodes in high school, a few subtle hints at some petty crushes. Not much profound, but all little pieces of my life, some sweet, some painful, that I should never forget.
    The most wonderful thing I rediscovered was my history with Shelby. Shelby and I met and became friends back when we were freshmen and she was really the only person who consistently made high school worth going to five days a week. We always loved making art together, whether it was good or not. She modeled, I took photos, we drew cartoons together on little sticky notes. She's been like an awesome twin sister to me since we met. Our lives have branched their separate ways in the past few years, but she's still always there to talk to me when I'm having trouble, and to my credit I still can cheer her up when she's down in the dumps. Shelby, if you're reading this, you're the best.
    Other than my sentimental Facebook spelunking, my weekend has been relatively unproductive and uneventful. I drew an angry gorilla and a man with an epic beard, and read a bit about the crusades. Now it's getting late, so I bid you all a good night. I'll post again tomorrow.

Disclaimer: Although this was written on International Talk Like a Pirate Day without using the proper vernacular, by the time anyone reads it, the day will be over and nobody will care anymore. On the bright side, while I was time traveling on Facebook, I did change the language settings to Pirate, so the holiday was not forgotten.

The Triumphant Return

Hello again, I return from my voluntary and abrupt hiatus to talk about myself, the egotistical devil I am. Unfortunately, I will not be catching up on all my lost time, because it's simply not practical to fill in, and it's not like anybody will read weeks of exposition anyway. Anybody who does read this will have been more or less filled in on the gaps personally already.


School was pretty typical today; my Intro to Theater class had a short quiz on Oedipus Rex and a long review on Greek theater. I have no love for Classical Greek mentality or their arts. Logic was review aswell; nothing new was covered, just old homework. Nobody said anything interesting or clever or even vaguely humorous. I ended up playing Sudoku on my computer, and doing tragically badly, I'm ashamed to say.

    As class was being let out, I noticed the girl in front of me was drinking what appeared to be tea with diced apples at the bottom. It seemed peculiar, so on my way out I turned and asked her what it was. She turned up to look back at me, and I think I finally understand what people mean by the expression "her face was glowing." Some uncanny radiant glow was beaming off her and I almost had to squint a little bit. Her eyes weren't actually that big, but they sure seemed like they were; they were such a bright shade of blue or green or whatever color they were, they sparkled over the rest of her abnormally perfect complexion.
    "Actually it's ginger!" she proclaimed with unbearable glee, "It settles your tummy!"
    "Yeah, I know, I really like ginger actually." I noticed she had a little mustache. Details, but the dark band of fuzz above her lips settled my suspicion that fuchsia isn't her natural hair color.
    "Mm-hm! And it adds a really nice bit of spice!" The word "spice" came out so sickeningly cute I honestly couldn't say whether I thought it was attractive or disgusting. I asked her if was just regular tea, which it was, and after the worlds most enthusiastic sales pitch I said that I would definitely try it sometime.
    My opinion on her is hard to settle. On the one hand, Organic, Natural, Environmentalist enthusiasts annoy the hell out of me because the loud ones are so bitter and judgmental. When I went to school at ULL I had several classes with hippies that would be enraged with anyone who so much as joked about Big Oil or even made a satirical argument in favor of genetically modified vegetables. The antagonism I feel from these groups is so overwhelming that I get headaches whenever I'm within 50 feet of a white person with dreadlocks or bamboo clothes. On the other hand, while I have no reason to doubt that her love for herbal medicine is at least partially ignorant or misguided, there is absolutely no other reason I can find to dislike her. Every negative trait she seems to have is an overabundance of something incredibly good. And in the words of Sonic the Hedgehog, "balance makes me want to hurl." I suppose I have no rational excuse not to, so I will try ginger in my tea, and I will talk to her again. Maybe she will persist to be unbearable; maybe I'll warm up to my Hippie brethren.

    So after I got out of that, Alex and I went to Liberty to have lunch with two of the Japanese exchange students, Yuki and Yuki. This was actually my second time going to Liberty, the first time being at orientation, and I have to say it's all bad at all. Anyway, to clarify some confusion, let me explain who Yuki and Yuki are. Yuki and I have World History together from 5-8, and we sort of became friends when we started talking after class one night. She has a very plain style, mainly blues and grays, but she has a very pretty face and hair and a very sweet personality. Yuki, on the other hand, I just met today. She has slightly bleached, long straight hair, and wears stylish Japanese clothes with all its black and gold and unnecessary chains and zippers; kind of an understated version of what you'd see in a book of Harajuku fashion (or what you'd see in an ad for Claire's). I didn't talk to her so much but she has a much better American accent and a relatively bubbly personality, which is a little more comforting from my loud American perspective.
    We didn't talk about much or anything important, but I left lunch running late for German and with a greater appreciation for Japan and the people it produces. I found out that becoming a flight attendant in Japan requires a lot of training and is highly competitive. Dedication to service like that is very inspiring, especially coming from lazy America where people feel like serving others makes them less of a person. The inferiority complex here is astounding.

    So German. By now the class is spoken almost exclusively in German and I can only barely understand the gist of what our instructor is saying. There's a big difference between studying on your own with the textbook and Livemocha and actually listening to a fluent speaker tell you what to write about in another language.
    Anthropology was nothing exciting. I learned a little bit about Patrilineage and Matrilineage and how they're important and watched a video about eunuchs in Bombay. The connection was lost on me.

    When I got out of class, Alex told me it was sprung on him at the last minute that Rose, the girl who lived in our apartment over the summer to help pay for rent, was coming over to stay the night or maybe even the entire weekend with her sister. I don't mind having them stay over, but I was pretty skeptical about two women I barely know squeezing into our living room without me really having time to think about this or prepare.
    All the worries aside, they arrived, and it wasn't too bad. Rose and Alex's mutual friends came over, chatted, and went out to get food. I wasn't hungry, or in the mood to have dinner with five other people, but I decided to join them for a walk to keep a good number and to get some air. Charleston sidewalks are just not quite big enough to walk with three people next to each other, so we nicely divided into three groups of two, and I spent our little trek alongside Rose's sister Olivia.
    Talking to Olivia was actually a bit of an eye-opener for me. She's my age, which made her slightly more identifiable, and has as much trouble as me finding her academic calling. When I asked what she wanted to do, she told me she wanted to direct film, but she's afraid to major in theater because she doesn't want to get stuck in one specific path when she doesn't even know if she's going to succeed. That really struck me, being on my third major and still contemplating another change. The worst thing is, I also know exactly what I want to do. I love film. I want to make animated and live-action films, maybe directing if that's how to do it. But I'm afraid to do theater because I feel like it's too focused and I'll miss out on all the stuff I could learn if I settle on a major. It's a totally irrational attitude. Fortunately, before I make my final leap into a major, I'm going to be acting in a play this semester, and find out if it's really the thing for me.

    When everybody finally settled on a place to eat, I went home. I've been with people all week and I didn't want to prolong my social anxiety for another hour and a half. Robert came out of his cave, complained about the unexpected guests which it turned out nobody told him about, and we went to CVS to grab a buttload of soda, apparently to feed the hummingbirds or something. We sat around, chatted about life, and I went to my room to write and go to bed before the mob returns.

First day of class

School

Today I went to my first class here at C of C, Philosophy of Race and Racism. Unsurprisingly, the class is taught by one of the black professors, Dr. Anthony Williams, and he's a really cool guy with a smooth Detroit accent and a good sense of humor. To my relief, he has high expectations but next to nothing in the way of rules; no strictly mandatory attendance, flexible deadlines, but still lots of assignments (we're expected to write at least thirteen papers this semester, between one and twelve pages depending on the topic). One thing that does worry me a mite is that there are four required books for this class, but my broke self should be able to afford them just fine online, seeing that they're just regular books I could find at Books-a-Million, not expensive textbooks. The cost of buying so many books aside, I look forward to reading from so many different perspectives.

Unfortunately, this was my only class for Tuesday, so to balance my schedule I went to the Addlestone Library and read the American Philosophical Quarterly (Vol. 47, No. 1, if you care). There was this absurd article about First Person Privilege that argued that there is nothing that can be felt by a person that cannot be observed by someone else, and that first and third person perspectives are essentially the same. Or at least that's what I got out of it, honestly I didn't follow the author's logic too carefully, it seemed to take particularly irrelevant issues far more seriously than need be. The thought and devotion that goes into the craft of arguing for or against the metaphysical absurdity of part-time zombies is baffling, but it's all still great fun and I'll probably be spending the rest of the week making up an absurdist argument against (or rather, to annoy) the entire field of epistemology.

Work

Good news, Harris Teeter might hire me to work in the deli at night. There's definitely an opening and I seem to be the only person to specifically inquire. I'll go and follow up whenever I have the chance, which will probably take a while. My schedule is pretty packed until Thursday, and even then I have a bit of stuff going on.

I did rather want to work in a hotel, but honestly the sandwich making skills I can learn in a deli probably totally trump whatever professional connections I could make in a hotel. Not to mention deli slicers, which are the culinary equivalent of table saws, which are awesome.

Life

I've pretty much covered everything  for today. Alex lent me his noir novel, Lucky at Cards by Lawrence Block. I haven't even started it yet though because I fell asleep shortly after he handed it to me. I needed the sleep so I've no regrets.

Alex and I are having a party on Saturday, mostly for everyone to meet new friends and introduce their friends to their friends friends and all that social networking stuff. I'll try to invite one or two of my classmates, assuming I'm lucky enough to even get in a conversation with anybody in the first place. I'll do fine, I'll make friends and I'll do well here.

More stuff got done

 Work

No news here; my intention to go out shoving applications and résumés down people's throats was thwarted my a sudden downpour of rain after my morning appointments. Some ancient flood god has it out for me. I'll just have to be even more persistent next week.


School

I talked to the Philosophy department head, Todd Grantham, and we just talked for a couple minutes to see who my adviser should be and he told me a bit about the Philosophy club, which sounds worth getting involved in if nothing more pressing gets in the way (here's still hoping I actually get involved in the campus TV station).


Life

I went out in the rain to buy some milk, and managed to get to East Bay and follow it the wrong way all the way to Calhoun instead of Harris Teeter. No regrets though, because I did find some new stores I haven't noticed before and I stumbled into a beautiful neighborhood. I ended up buying a somewhat expensive tin of loose leaf Earl Grey. The price for luxury, however, sometimes is worth it. When I got home, wet and tired, I had the best cup of tea I've had in a long time.

Alex and I haven't played Starcraft in a while because his work schedule is leaving him too tired lately. It's just as well, this gives me more opportunities to practice and actually beat him. Which I don't. Instead I'm drawing comics and pictures of RVs in space.

So, not much going on today. Maybe I'll accomplish something worthwhile tomorrow. Or maybe I'll just clean.

Yesteday was skipped because I slept through most of it

School

Whenever I finally got the energy to drag myself out of my room and get out, I dropped by my adviser to inquire about a north campus class that she found on my schedule. We got it squared away and replaced with a three hour night class. I've only had good experiences with those, so hopefully I can look forward to more.

I also finally officially declared my major later in the day. With any luck, my upcoming advising session will get me into some more interesting courses I wasn't allowed to take before. I was a bit hot and tired when I filled out the Major Declaration form, and I think I may have rambled a bit much on the questionnaire (and made some direct slams at George Lucas).


Work

Things are less than hopeful in this department, at least immediately. I did not receive a call from Barnes and Noble and when I dropped by they were terribly busy so I simply gave them my schedule and left. I planned to drop back by later but by the time I made my résumé dropping rounds I was dripping with sweat and had spilled Gatorade on myself.

But I did indeed go out into the world with my résumé, boldly (or at least I'd like to imagine so) presenting myself to a bunch of hotels. The response wasn't encouraging, but I'm hopeful. I don't think I can very much afford not to, otherwise the stress would be awful.



Life

My day started out feeling awful for lack of sleep and evolved to feeling awful from too much heat and finally into feeling awful from too much sugar. For some reason I was inclined to drink lots of orange soda today and I definitely crashed pretty hard. Out of laziness I spent much of the afternoon playing Immortal Defense, which has the dual qualities of being very zen and very nerve wracking. It's really a straightforward tower defense game but the graphics and story transcend the gameplay an make it something unique. I'm looking forward to playing their next game when it comes out.

Also, just to feel productive, I published one of my old draft posts on my other blog, All But Wasted. I have a lot of old junk to post, hopefully I'll get around to it all. Some of it doesn't even need to really be edited (assuming I keep my current standards of quality).

All things squared away

School

Today I payed my first of four school payments, which started out with a moderately exciting trip to my local bank branch for the first time (where I learned that Chatterjee is an Indian name). The cashier's office was, unsurprisingly, somewhat packed, but the line moved pretty quickly and my stay was short. All matters financial are at present squared away.


Work


Although I still don't have a job, aside from the imminent possibility of some work at Barnes and Noble, I have reached a substantial checkpoint: I have officially written my resume, immortalized in .pdf format to perfectly preserve its carefully picked font selection.



Life


Not too much going on, just catching up on reading. Alex and I had some creative epiphanies and have gotten some work done on our project, and I've grown to be annoyed with all Greek philosophers and their obnoxious sense of perfection.

A sweaty day indeed

School

Nothing of note has been afoot, but allegedly all my financial matters are in order. No way to tell for sure except to wait for something catastrophic to happen.


Work

Job hunting went off to a bad start when I misremembered my directions and ended up walking all the way down to the aquarium. Sweating like a horse and unwilling to brave the outdoor public water fountains, I wandered, dazed from dehydration, into a few private docks until I nearly walked into the side of a moving truck, which sobered me up just enough to get oriented. My bearings in order, I stumbled home and downed a half-gallon of water.

But the day was not a complete loss. Shortly after I got back and started reading Hark, a Vagrant, my roommate, who will henceforth be known as Alex, asked me to go with him to pick up a package I ordered. I have my packages delivered to his P.O. box because at the present I don't trust my neighborhood completely enough to let anything more than bills and greeting cards be delivered to my door (the dented, stripped frame of a bicycle locked to my fire stairs serves as a permanent warning to all who get a little too trusting). While we were out, we dropped by the financial assistance office for Alex to deal with his own loan troubles, and while I was in the area, I decided to drop in Barnes & Noble to follow up on my application. The tall, friendly gent at the front desk said he'd review my application and, four minutes later, told me I can probably start working on Thursday. It's just a rush job, and there's next to no chance I'll be staying on board longer than a couple weeks, but a couple weeks will tide me over until my bills and other dangerous things start coming in, and I'll have time to get a real steady job that accommodates for my student schedule.


Life

Remember that package I said I ordered? It was an HDMI cable so that I can hook my computer up to my TV. Once we got home, Alex and I pulled up YouTube on the big screen and watched Sex Bomb.

Again with the loans

School

Today I woke up late after a truly epic Starcraft match the night before and after having my daily oatmeal and shower, headed off to the Financial Assistance office. Student loans have been an ongoing issue at this school, thanks to some unnecessary red tape this school wraps around its process. Rather than determine my loan qualifications from the get-go, the school checks my qualifications one at a time, leaving me with a two or three day wait between every checkpoint, between which they determine if I applied for loans, then how much loans I want, then whether or not I qualify for the loans I asked for, and then once again if I don't qualify for those loans, how much of the loans that I do qualify for I actually want. And then apparently there's another behind-the-scenes investigation where they totally ignore everything we talked about and invent new, totally unrelated values and tell me to suck it.

So today when I discovered that my loans no longer covered tuition, needless to say I was a little frustrated, but like the responsible person I am I went to the Treasurer's office to set up a payment plan. Tuition is due on the 15th of this month, and if I don't pay my classes will be dropped. Being a little short on cash, and with multiple bills coming up, I assumed that if I got on a payment plan it would postpone my bills long enough for my bank account to fatten up a bit. As it turns out, the first payment is due on the 15th of this month, which means that I'm still left scraping the barrel until I have a steady job, only 75% less than I would be if I didn't set up a payment plan.

Work

Still unemployed, thanks for asking. A résumé is a tricky thing to write when your combined work experience is as unfocused and patchy as mine, but I'm applying wherever I go until I have one I like. With any luck, a hotel will hire me and let me work a night shift.

Life

After clearing away all things school, I went on a hunt. A friend recommended an obscure little place called Hope and Union, a local coffee shop hidden in an unassuming house in a mostly residential area up the northern part of St. Phillip Street. From the street, the only identifying marker is a very plain sign reading "COFFEE", and on the door, in a small, lowercase Garamond style font, read "hope and union". Like most businesses around here, it's set in a slightly modified Charleston house, so entering was a little intimidating; I felt as if I was walking in uninvited in someone's home while they were having their afternoon cup of coffee. My presence was unusual, but not unwelcome. Everyone seemed to know each other and acted like a real person you'd want to know. Usually when I go in a small business like this I feel like a complete outsider, and I get the sense that the service is just an annoying duty that comes with getting to hang out with their friends all day. But then, most independent coffee shops I've been to are run by hipster 20-somethings with fake dreadlocks and tattoos of assorted pagan symbols, and find ways to smoke weed in the back undetected. Hope and Union, on the other hand, was run by a clean-cut man probably in his mid to late thirties, and when I went in he was talking to cop about funny calls he took on his patrols. While I was waiting for my cup of coffee to be hand-prepared on the spot (not poured from a carafe or squirted from one of those coffee jug things they use now), I got to hear a hilarious story about a man in his thirties driving to Myrtle Beach with his girlfriend, who stopped right on the Arthur Ravenel Jr. Bridge and called the police because he was too terrified to cross.

Even with the homey atmosphere and distinct lack of indie pettiness, the place is pricier than it's worth. By Charleston standards it's not extravagant, but for a poor student from Aiken, $6.75 is beyond my morning coffee and croissant budget, and I'll probably stick with oatmeal and tea. Still, next time I want to impress my friends and look like an informed local, I know where to go.