Archive for February, 2005

I saw the sun tonight

Posted in Blog on February 25, 2005 by trevorgregg

3 A.M. and still going strong, as in the lost days of my youth.

Today, today was a lurching gear shift. I know I’ll have to pay off the sleep debt I’m wracking up, but at least I’m getting things done. It’s better to have the wind on my face again.

Important things are taking shape, friends.

To start with, I’m looking at the back of a very tattered cardboard Miller coaster. Written on it is a work of genius. Strange to think about, but I’ll wager one in five genius ideas are initially inscribed on a Miller coaster. They’re definitely my medium of choice for recording epiphanies, with graph paper a very distant second.

I wonder, though… when the genius came up with the disposable beer coaster… what’d he write his idea on?

Stay on task.

The genius idea.

What we, and by we I mean The Illustrious Three, is a test. An event, a competition the likes of which hasn’t been seen since the filthy bearded Visigoths swarmed the walls of ancient Rome.

We call it, for want of a better name, The Kickassathon.

This event seeks to test the merit and mettle of modern human beings; a competition that will weed out the riffraff to see who, indeed, is the best. The best at what?

Life.

Keep in mind this event is still in the design stage, but frankly it’s too important not to share with you all, even if the details are a little hazy at this point. The Kickassathon will take place early next quarter, and will be filmed and documented extensively for the purpose of constantly reliving the glory. Ten contestants will compete, chosen from a pool of worthy applicants. One will win.

Here are the events:
1) General Knowledge Test. Like the S.A.T.’s, but even more comprehensive. This will be an academic, cultural, and trivial tour-de-force crafted by my own malicious and vindictive hands. Please bring a number two pencil, and be prepared for subjects such as geography, history, Simpsons trivia, calculus / differential equations, Master P lyrics, flammable substances, current events, chemistry, physics and Saved By The Bell. Pardon my boasting, but ye will bow before the wrath of my multiple choice fury. I can’t wait to write it… oh, you hapless bastards.

2) Chess. The game of kings. Opponents will be selected randomly, and a standard bracket tournament will ensue. One minute or less per move.

3) Freerunning, probably on campus or downtown. Runs will be scored for style, difficulty, and creativity by our panel of elite and venerable judges. See http://www.freerunning.net/

4) Run a mile. Simple enough, the fastest person wins.

5) Drinking. An unbiased and calculating bartender will mix drinks of his or her choice, making ten identical drinks. Each contestant drinks up. Last man/woman conscious, unhospitalized, and barf-free wins.

6) Poker. An hour long Texas No-Limit holdem game, whoever has the most chips at the end of the hour wins. All contestants start with the same amount, and cannot buy in for more.

7) Artistry. Contestants can choose one of three formats – Poetry, Drawing, or Music. Whoever demonstrates the greatest talent, creativity, and originality wins.

8) Half-Gallon Ultimate Fighting. My personal favorite. Opponents will be selected randomly for 1 on 1 bouts, 1 minute round. Gloves, sparring helmet, and footpads will be warn, for everyone’s protection. What’s so hard about that, you ask… how will anyone ever win, you can’t knock someone out with gloves… The contest isn’t till knockout, it’s till surrender or puking. Puking will probably be first, since you have to pound a half gallon of whole milk before the fight begins, and a pint between each round. Good luck taking a hit to the gut when you’re full of dairy despair. Standard tournament bracket format. No shady shit; kicks, punches, takedowns, etc., nothing else.

9) Pimpin. Contestants, accompanied by a supervisor/judge, will seek to obtain the most phone numbers possible in an hour downtown on a Saturday. The supervisor will ensure that no pre-existing friendships or relationships are used to ill gain, and will keep track of the relevant multipliers, such as hotness, icecoldery, shamelessness, and degree of physical contact. Admitting you are asking for a number for a contest, or violating the no pre-existing relationship rule results in immediate forfeit.

10) Cooking. One kitchen. One big ass set of ingredients. Ten cooks. May the best chef win.

We feel that these ten contests best quantify the spectrum of human abilities, from physical stamina, to intellect, to creativity, to alcohol consumption. These are the things that make us who we are, and after this event, one of ten will be able to say that yes indeed, I am a better human than you.

During our excellent brainstorming binge, we came up with many more ideas than this. These ten, however, we felt best represented the variety we were looking for. A few that didn’t make the cut this time around, but might make Volume 2…

1) No sleep. Whoever stays awake the longest, in a room with no entertainment (no cards, no TV, no books, only a couch and some water, maybe a loaf of bread) wins.

2) Parallel Parking. Guess who vetoed this one.

3) Build a hut in 2 hours, the best shelter wins. Fuck yeah I love this one.

4) Artistic destruction of a watermelon, whoever does it the coolest wins, with no limitations.

5) Yomama Catchphrase, the remorseless game of shit-talking from Henry’s house that one time.

6) Street Fighter 2.

7) Interpretive dance.

So that’s the contest as it stands now. Start training. Any man, woman, or child can apply. Everyone will compete equally, without regard to sex, religion, weight class, economic status, or age.

I can’t wait.

This is where I put in a tantalizing, yet apt sentence; a smooth and seamless transition to the next topic I wish to discuss with you. You read on and suddenly find yourself miles from where you started, yet still fascinated and completely absorbed.

Things are strange lately. Dark visions, nightmarish landscapes filled with broken spirit, dirty dishes, and failed midterms cloud my mind. This weekend will be consoling, but in the end will bring me no closer to me goals of responsibility fulfillment. This weekend we get the fuck out of dodge, with screeching tires and The Doggfather bumping we head north, back home to the bay, the promised land. Friends, clubs, fog, and the San Francisco skyline. I can’t wait. If I can keep the hyenas at bay for one more day, those snarling rabid bastards with their quizzes and their powerpoint presentations and their lab reports, I can get across the county line by sunset and tear ass to the haven I call The Yay. Responsibilities will be shirked, hip-hop will be enjoyed, and I’ll probly even see the folks.

During one of my brief and fitful sleep sessions this week, I had a terribly vivid dream. Those of you who know me, or perhaps even from reading through this ongoing psychotic episode I keep writing, know that my mind is a weird ass place to be. Let me tell you, kids, when the lights go out and the lids go down, that’s when the strange shit really gets going; the after hours party makes the daytime freakery seem as harmless as the Icecapades, or warm laundry. I rarely dream in any kind of structured way, it’s usually just images and sounds and feelings in a chaotic, fractured spasm. I’ve awoken convinced that my brain resides in the exit chute of some kind of subconscious woodchipper, where people throw all manner of crap, like Betamax tapes, or old school Sci Fi comics. How else could I dream about learning rowing, ninjitsu, and pottery at an academy hidden many miles underground, beneath the Yucatan peninsula, headed by husband and wife duo of Latrell Sprewell and Bea Arthur. Sprewell insists on being addressed as The Abbot, and part of our training regimen, after the one handed pushups and before the weightlifting, is fixing broken printers. What? That’s the kind of shit rattling around my skull from four AM till whenever that atrocious god damn alarm beep starts.

Anyway, the other night I dreamt I was at this camp, with some friends. A huge, sprawling campground centered around a lake, like a sort of undeveloped Lake Tahoe region. Some of the people in attendance had superpowers, including myself, and some didn’t. I was particularly pissed off at my superpower, which was being able to communicate with animals by making weird buzzing noises through a styrofoamy plastic… thing… like a harmonica made of packing peanuts. What a shitty power. Nate was there, and was an exceptionally good swimmer or something. Various other mutants were present. Anyway, blurry things happened, but at some point we (me and whatever fucked up friend amalgam was with me at the time) met these chicks. One was normal, the other was blue. I don’t think she had superpowers, but she was blue, which I suppose is just as good a superpower as being able to fucking talk to a bear or whatever. I’m not talking like Intel-commercial-dude blue, more of a healthy blue tint. Imagine looking at a strikingly attractive, very tall (she was taller than me, that’s weird) girl through a bottle of Windex. At a camp. In the woods. With mutants. The normal girl, who was just normal and thus completely uninteresting, hits on me and I shoot her down. Politely. Then me and the blue girl hit it off, and

(you thought I was gonna say something filthy, didn’t you. You dirty, dirty sinner, you should be ashamed.)

I fall hopelessly in love with her and we get married.

What the hell?

It’s not so much the dream that weirded me out, but the wake up. Put yourself in my shoes:

Your alarm goes off. You hate everything in the world, you hate every scrap of material in existence, every life-form, every star, every molecule. Most of all you hate that sound. You swing your arm and smack something, and the sound goes away. The hate doesn’t. You roll over and realize what’s missing. The trees. The talkative deer. The whole of reality.

It’s a terrible thing to wake up and realize your alluring, loving (though mildly blue-tinted and tall) significant other does not exist, and that the advanced emotional bonds you forged were in fact just your neurons tweaking. Then you realize you have to get up and go listen to a lecture on Fourier series and LaPlace transforms. Without the blue chick. Then you realize Quint ate the last poptarts, and the house smells like he pooped in the heater vent again even after you told him not to; after you said Quint Please Don’t Poop In The Vent and put up a sign that says Quint Please Don’t Poop In The Vent God Damn It. And you can’t even complain about it to the chatty forest creatures because you no longer have your styrofoam thing. Or your superpowers.

Fuck, I hate mornings.

More to write about, but my exhaustion overtakes me. Wearing a suit and tie just takes it out of me. At first I thought it was the whole career fair ridiculousness extravaganza that wore me out, but no, I think the half-windsor just cuts off much needed oxygen to the cortex.

Peace.

umbabarauma, umbabarauma

-T.

p.s. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: If some shit goes down like in the movies and I get turned into a zombie, it’s totally ok for you guys to kill me. Remember it won’t really be me, it’ll just be a zombie that looks like me. I just wanted to make sure you guys know that.

R.I.P.

Posted in Blog on February 21, 2005 by trevorgregg

The last great American died yesterday, by his own hand.

If it were any other man, the masses would be frantic with condolences. A tragedy, they would say. A loss to us all, a shock, a waste. But not our man.

The newspapers pull on their kit gloves; for them, as for the rest of us, a death in the family is disconcerting. They write nervous articles, trite and timid, weak eulogies for their psychotic and felonious uncle, the one they’d never invite to family barbecues but who always showed up anyway, the one they told their kids to stay away from. Their sighs are not so much of sadness, but of relief.

Out in the big dark, there are those like me. Rabid fans and disciples, drinking hard and trying to untangle the words to do Our Hero justice. Typing away with beers in hand, trying to explain to the blank-faced morons why the deceased was so much better than they are or can ever hope to be, at everything. Seems like worshipping HST is a mandatory requirement for self-righteous internet writers, that green, greasy scum at the bottom of the literary barrel. You can’t really blame us though, what else can we do. Our idol is fallen.

I remember, when I was younger, wondering how so many hearts could be broken when a famous person died. Yeah, I liked Nirvana. Princess Diana, she seemed like an alright gal, even though I never knew her. For me that was the point; I never knew them. How can someone who you’ve never so much as shaken hands with ever truly influence your life? Perhaps now I begin to understand.

To read a good writer, not just a writer with talent or originality or marketability, is an almost unparalleled form of intimacy. You read Robert Ludlum and you get to know caricatures, puppets dancing on a stage, you enjoy yourself, and then you go home to your boring job and your plain wife and your bullshit life, and so does the author. You read HST, you get to know a person, a living, breathing, reckless, remorseless, all-powerful human being who backs up his every impossibility and boast with reality. At least you did until yesterday. Now, now all you get to know is a memory. That’s better than nothing, I suppose. Better a memory than a myth. That’ll be the truly dark day, when people stop believing that a creature so audacious and so dangerous could ever have existed in the wild.

I don’t have any anecdotes, any stories to share, though I wish I did. I envy those whose quiet night at a bar turned into a legendary encounter. Lord knows how many smoke-filled, shadowy dives across the Midwest were graced with that snarling, profane presence. How many copy-cranking hacks are telling their friends about that one heart-pounding, split-second meeting at a press conference in Phoenix in 1985, bragging in hushed tones. You fuckers. Now they can turn their fear safely into admiration. His breed is extinct, and now we can all rest easier in our own dim, pathetic ways, since he’s not around to make us look bad. Those of you with the brilliant luck to have met him… what can I say. Jealousy is too small a word.

Badmouthing those too gun-shy or too small-minded to revere Thompson like they should is just the start of it. I understand; loving HST and his writing is a strange and dangerous thing to do, like juggling ninja stars. It’s not for everyone. I’ve gotten a lot of weird looks myself, from people who respected me and thought they had a handle on things, people who smile and nod when I tell them my favorite authors. Right up until the last one on the list, the best one, the Man Himself. You ever want an argument worth winning, kids, tell your English teacher that Hunter Thompson is the most important writer in American history. Raise your hand, tell her (or him) Emily Dickinson was a crazy bitch and Mark Twain was a racist and The Scarlet Letter is more effective than prescription pills for curing insomnia. Tell her that Amy Tan is a spineless whiner, that Thoreau deserved every second of his jail time, and that Song of Myself is the shittiest, most masturbatory poem in any language ever. Roll up your sleeve and show her your Gonzo tat, give her the finger, steal her car, and drive south at 120 mph till you hit Honduras. Why?

Motherfucker it’s the right thing to do.

At times, though, it’s worse to meet someone who likes him. There’s some movie, some teen piece of shit set in the 70’s, where the characters talk about Fear and Loathing in one scene. I can’t remember what movie it is, Providence something, whatever. Anyway, I’m watching this movie, and I see the character whip the book out. It’s me, so of course I start screaming and clapping like a chimp with a twinkie up its ass. My noise dies down eventually and I realize the thing that these two fuckmooks like about the book is the drugs. The book is cool because it has drugs.

I hate you
so much.

The next pothead that walks into my room and gives me that droopy-eyed grin when they see my F&L poster is losing teeth. I might not weigh much, but me and a firepoker could do wonderful and terrible things to that junkie fuck.

It’s not about the drugs.

Hunter Stockton Thompson was and is my hero, above all others. Hero is a word that gets whored around so much it’s lost almost all of its meaning; I trust you’ll look past its worn exterior, and see into the beating, red heart of the concept.

Why, you ask. Why indeed.

People talk about living to the fullest. Find me a man who has lived a fuller life. People talk about taking risks. Find me a man who has taken more. People talk about fighting for what you believe in. Find me a man who defeated more enemies for his causes. I’ve never known a man so absolutely fearless about everything. The kind of honesty required for a life like that, to never let anyone or anything stand in your way… He was the most honest liar I’ve ever encountered. If I had a dustspeck of HST’s courage I’d be long the fuck gone, doing better things than grinding away a rainy monday mourning a hero, dreading my exams, and drinking keystones.

A teacher once told me she hated Thompson’s books because she could never support an evil protagonist. How can you not. Fear and Loathing taught me to root for the villain, because sometimes villainy is righteous. On the Campaign Trail taught me that ruthlessness in prose and in action is as admirable a trait as kindness. The Great Shark Hunt, The Rum Diary, all the rest… They taught me what it means to be a person of substance, not just of morality. Rooting for the villain… person of substance… fuck. That’s not even what I mean. It takes a better writer than I am to explain it, I suppose. It’s… his characters, and himself (the line that separates them is thin at best), are like monuments to a greater way of life than you or I know of. When your every action and your every written word are scathing insults to the mundane masses, to the mediocre hordes…

Think of it this way. Let’s invent a believable American 67 year old, and compare. Our invention is named Mark… or Hugh. I like Hugh better. Hugh lives in Kentucky, where he was born. He was good at writing, at sports, and did alright in school. He got a few speeding tickets in his twenties, but has never been arrested. He served a few years in the Navy, and became a certified accountant on the G.I. bill after his tour ended. He married a woman named Joan, an assistant manager at a Motel 6, and they had a couple of kids. Hugh pays his taxes, he doesn’t smoke, and has a good life insurance policy. He’s 5’10” and drives a 1996 Chevy S10 he bought from the dealership his nephew works for. He got a pretty good deal. He spends his weekends fixing up the house he and Joan bought after the kids moved out; it’s small and the floorboards creak, but it’s just right for them. He’ll paint it, probably yellow, and fix the fence when spring comes around. He likes the Colts. He’s never been to another country, although he went to Los Angeles once, just after he got out of the Navy. He’s got a bad left knee, and his wife talks too loud. Accounting, well, accounting pays the bills, and he’ll retire soon. Then he can go fishing more often. Hugh votes in every election, and wishes Joan would let them get another dog. Hugh died yesterday.

How can you tell which of these men lived a better life? Honestly, with so many criteria and variables and values at stake, how can you even begin to compare one man’s life to another? Who is to say that one of these paths is better than the other?

I am. Hunter Thompson wins, without question. Compared to Hugh, and compared to your sorry ass. To travel the world, writing a sports page in a ragtag Puerto Rican newspaper, getting beat up by the Hell’s Angels, devastating Nixon’s devious ass with your political commentary and insight, smoking and drinking and shooting things and never, ever, ever being afraid of anything, be it man, woman, beast, or authority figure. That is the better life; that is the fucking high road. Those of you who hold contentment and ease above idealism, who see nothing but mischief and trouble where there’s defiance and glory… Enjoy your lives, you meek and defeated bastards. I’d rather go full tilt. I’d rather emulate the man whose words cut to the heart of our rotted, gluttonous politics. Not like the mumbling, apologetic soundbites you see on TV, I’m talking about writing that rips those corrupt demons to shreds, like fuckin Wolverine versus a piƱata. Better to live on a compound filled with peacocks, automatic weapons, and typewriters deep in the mountains than a tract house filled with snack foods, cable TV, and broken dreams. Better to take your own life to punctuate it than wither away, gray and regretful and lost.

I really would’ve liked to have met him. Why couldn’t you have held out just a little longer, you old bastard.

Perhaps the only real tragedy out of the whole mess is this:

The only man on Earth qualified to write a eulogy for Hunter S. Thompson died yesterday.

Goodbye, and thanks for everything.

-T.

Posted in Blog on February 21, 2005 by trevorgregg

It’s five AM and my hero is dead.

HST July 18 1939 – February 20 2005

Shit.

-T.

Saturdizzle

Posted in Blog on February 19, 2005 by trevorgregg

Don’t be alarmed, but I may or may not be posting wearing nothing but a pair of snazzy boxers.

It’s that kind of morning.

Pretty soon I’ll clean, I’ll dress… head out into the front room to try and track down the other 22 Keystone Light cans that are not currently in line of sight… Just a typical Saturday, although we both know I prefer the a-typical Saturday.

Last night, after the aforementioned keystones and a brief but intense free-for-all involving the torturous electrified flyswatter I received for my birthday, we went downtown. After plowing through the crowd of faux-punks, emo scum, and high school sophomores that crowd around The Dwelling every weekend, we made it to everybody’s favorite establishment: McCarthy’s.

Not that much to be said about slo’s olde Irish pub, except it has two magnificent qualities which raise its status from Dive to Awesome Dive. The first, and probably the most impressive, is that McCarthy’s, a tiny hole in the wall with a capacity of like 35 people, is the number one Jameson account in the U.S. That means that the patrons of this tiny ass bar buy more Jameson whiskey than the patrons of any other tiny ass bar anywhere in the entire country. That’s god damn impressive, especially considering if I stretch out and lean forward real far I can stick one foot out the door and both hands on the bar, thus spanning the entire width of the joint. And I’m not that big.

The second and equally important quality is the jukebox. Fuck yes, McCarthy’s jukebox, fuck yes. I’m not talking The Cars, or The godforsaken Beach Boys, and there’s only one Beatles album. I’m not talking the Police or The Cure or, now that I think about it, any music younger than I am. My dollar bought me Johnny Cash – Folsom Prison Blues, James Brown – The Payback, Lou Reed – Sweet Jane, and a Waylon Jennings song. How awesome is that. Stick your head out the door and in the hazy distance you can hear Get Low bumping out of Mother’s for the 46th time in one night, or Jermaine Dupree that fucking muppet with dreadlocks whining out his newest song from The Library. That’s when you shake your head and come back inside. And buy another beer. Which they serve to you still in the can.

At one point, with my collar up and the rain pouring down as we marched home from girl’s house at 3 am, I asked Nate:

“Nate,” I says, “Does my desire for fairness and reason in a relationship preclude me from ever being in one again?”

“Ideally or in practice?” He asks.

“In practice.”

“….Yes.”

A hard thing to hear under the misty orange lights of Mill St. at Ungodly O’Clock, soaked and sobering rapidly, but strangely not as hard as one might think.

We then went back to planning the Magnificent Pirate Adventure (coming Spring ’05) and discussing more important things, like the feasability of putting a bottle rocket launcher on one of our two robots, and baseball hats.

I forgot to mention my defining slo moment of the day: One black guy in the entire bar at Reggae Night, and he worked there.

I’ve been rudely interrupted mid-post. bbl.

-T.

Such a crumbling beauty

Posted in Blog on February 17, 2005 by trevorgregg

This, ladies and gents, is my kind of afternoon.

It’s raining like a bitch, and I’ve got nowhere to be. One of those days where you can choose your company with care, and for me it’s Faulkner, it’s Johnny Cash, and it’s Milwaukee’s Best. Draw the shades, kick it down to one light, and tell the American Public to go fuck itself. Hopefully the moat in the front yard, which conveniently borders the bog we call “lawn” will keep the riffraff out. Better bolt the door just in case. The house is its typical rotting white, and the kitchen smells like burnt quesadillas again. It might not have that dirty poolhall mystique I wish it did, but it’s home, right?

I think tomorrow I’ll stop kidding myself and just go to F&P, buy a pitcher, and read till the room spins. That’s actually a genius idea. They need places like that; coffee shops without the coffee or the brown knapsacks or the vegetarians. Tiny places with dim lights and a jukebox full of Tom Waits, where I can get that same sociable atmosphere of reading near others and yet not be distracted by flaring, homicidal urges brought on by overheard conversations of the spoken-word chai-tea Ani DiFranco crowd. It gets hard to read when I spend my time wondering if, when I kick the long-haired ass hat behind me through the plate glass window, he’ll manage to land without spilling his latte. I wonder if your knitted beanie is any kind of defense against a concussion.

I guess the technical term for a day like this, a brief, wide-eyed gasp of relief, would be a respite. Granted, the world still looms. Raabot Itself is decided un-functional, and let me tell you: buying parts for a complex robot at Radioshack is like buying replacement organs at the Ralph’s meat department. Responsibilities, that dark and filthy word; they hang around my neck like dead albatrosses. Ah fuck it, it’s raining.

A girl I know asked me an interesting question today:

“Trevor”, she says, “why don’t you have a girlfriend?” A thousand embittered, sarcastic retorts came to mind. They lined up in my brain like shitty actors at a WB teen drama (trama? new word? ) audition; all clamoring and dancing and flapping their arms in the hopes of being chosen. Not today friends, thanks for coming out though.

“Well… me and the ladies just don’t get along that well.”

“Why not?”

“You’re the girl, what are you asking me for? They started it.” We laughed, me forcibly. She remained as confused as before, but I had maintained. Some questions don’t have answers. Some questions don’t deserve answers. A question like that… that’s the kind of strange shit you’d see in a Trivial Pursuit Psychologists Edition, right between “What does this inkstain look like to you?” and “Have you ever considered that there might not really be bugs all over you?” It was obvious from the question, however innocent she meant it to be, that there was an implication of fault, of failure. Not necessarily mine; that’s why she asked, after all. Still, between the lines it reads: to be single is to be incomplete. My response, also hidden cleverly between lines, reads: my ass.

It’s hard to be offended by a genuine question. A lot of people manage it, but still… When their tone carries the humble weight of authenticity, I try to keep the wolf in his cage. Not that she would do the same if I asked her why she can’t do a pull-up or why she thinks clothing is an accurate gauge of personal character, no matter how genuine my tone. But hey, it’s me. Always striving to be the better man. Keepin that higher ground.

Why don’t I have a girlfriend?

Why don’t you take an accordion on a deer hunt?

Because all you leave behind is a lot of noisy baggage.

Time is a-wasting, and I’ve got many a chapter to go before the sun sets and I have to go handle my shit. See you cats later.

-T.

Hysterically useless

Posted in Blog on February 15, 2005 by trevorgregg

Word.

Yesterday was Valentine’s day. Yep. Someone asked me why I didn’t write a funny little “oh i hate valentine’s day” post. Because hating Valentine’s day has become even more cliche than enjoying it, that’s why. Because the whiny cashier at the mexican restaurant spent fifteen minutes telling me how she’s boycotting Valentine’s day. Listen here honey, spending your evening with a quart of Chunky Monkey and the first season of Ally McBeal does not give you the towering moral superiority one might expect. Granted, Valentine’s Day is retarded in all its aspects; it ranks somewhere between Groundhog Day and Saint Renfrew’s Day* in the grand scheme of American Holiday Idiocy. However, the fact that you couldn’t goad some equally drab, uninspired sophomore named Tim into paying Hallmark five bucks to prove his undying love to you doesn’t make you hot shit.

(*St. Renfrew’s Day – March 6th: St. Renfrew, an Austrian monk born in 1342; the patron saint of lost socks, and volleyball.

It can be tough playing both sides against the middle. The bile rose just as high when I saw some prissy hot bitch toting around a bunch of roses; tottering around in Ugs with four inch heels and adding just a scosh of haughty to that vacant smile, carrying around her flowers like an Aztec soldier carrying some hapless Spaniard’s scalp. Better hurry home and put your boyfriend’s dignity in a vase before it wilts.

That’s what Valentine’s Day is really all about, the things that make love and dating so worthwhile: ostracism, failed expectations, wasted money, and cute pink envelopes.

Just another Monday to me.

I had an entire other tirade prepared, sharpened to a deadly edge by the hours spent walking around campus with my hat pulled down and my headphones on high, but I think I’ll save it for another time. There’s only so much mysoginy I can dish out before the bricks start coming through the windows.

I’d like to tell you about my fascinating and adventurous weekend, but I didn’t have one so that’s out. This weekend was a straight-up no-chaser old school video game binge. I’d rather not incriminate myself too much, but let’s just say the fresh air and I spent very little time in each other’s company.

Things are in a state of tense idleness right now… I’m poised above some kind of fearful precipice, but I’m not sure of what nature. Probably academic. Fuck it. I alternate wasting my hours playing guitar and reading The Sound and The Fury, which accounts for the sparsity of updates. Time to go get nothing done. Peace.

-T.

Go shorty

Posted in Blog on February 9, 2005 by trevorgregg

Happy birthday to me, bitches.