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| butcher, baker, candlestick maker. | 06.21.2005 | |
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 well, my junior year is in the books. better it, than me (a walled-in mary lennox i am not). and now... i'm back to phrensick. did you miss me? if you did miss me (which would be sort of creepy); you didn't miss much. i was sort of out of it all year... i didn't even celebrate the winter solstice. actually, i didn't even notice that it had passed. weird. hmm. yeah. ok. onward! so, junior year (or "year eleven" for all you numbers freaks out there) is the year when our school suddenly snaps back into gear and is like "f[beep], we need to get these kids ready to graduate. wait, how do we do that? oh yeah! mrs. utterbirth... I.C.U.P.N.!!!" ever since secretgarden (err, "kindergarten." for everyone who didn't have an elementary school run by a bunch of pansy germano-phobes) we've had this on-again, off-again program called ICUPN (individual career understanding and planning) to help us choose a career path. i guess. while in secretgarden, it was as simple as having career-oriented coloring books, featuring: a rich man, a poor man, a beggar man, a thief... a doctor, a lawyer, an indian chief... a construction worker, a police officer, a soldier, a cowboy, and a ymca-employed personal trainer with limp wrists and hecka sweet dance moves! throughout our schooling, the ICUPN program would emerge randomly... while sometimes being forgotten about for years at a time. each time it did surface, we'd complete some sort of random assessment of our interests and skills and then turn them in to be "safely filed away"... no doubt in some sort of time-capsuled-humidor... you know, in the event of a surprise german attack. fast forward to junior year. and, uh oh! time to dig up those ICUPN files! in january, our guidance counselor, mrs. utterbirth, met us in homeroom. in the past... we would occasionally make fun of her name... but then she would just get hella pissed and yell at us... screaming "deal with it. i'm not about to change my f[beep]ing name, again!" she once told us that her previous name, mrs. butterworth... was, as a high school employee, a "nightmare"... possibly because of her rather mrs. butterworthian appearance. and, according to 'the smoking gun' website, her name was ORIGINALLY mrs. butterwertz... which probably sounded way too german... and high in saturated fat. mrs. utterbirth explained that at many schools they pass out these high-tech surveys where you fill in circles to answer questions about your future plans and preferences and then PRESTO some kickass computer prints out several potential career "fits." however, mrs. utterbirth continued, our school is unable to afford such a rad survey... (possibly because of our anti-u-boat security measures... and something else she muttered about an old lawsuit with the band alice in chains...???) anyway, *luckily* for us... mrs. utterbirth's son, chad, is an undergraduate at ithaca college in new york... who's (get this) majoring in high school career-counseling!!! apparently the pancake doesn't stray far from the syrup. and now, for an independent study project, this chad kid agreed to design a "career assessment questionnaire" for us. then, he would analyze the results and let us know what professions may suit us best based on how we answered the questions. basically, instead of a special computer which would draw from a limitless selection of job opportunities... we were putting ourselves at the mercy of some dude who is three years older than us and settled on the same profession as his mother. mrs. utterbirth held up the surveys and screamed, "ICUPN time!" and handed them out. they were still warm... as if she'd had a copy machine wheeled into the hallway and hot-potato'd them right to us! when we actually got these "magic questions"... i was sort of disappointed. here are a few of the questions: * how tall are you? (don't be shy!) * what is your weight? (remember: honesty never got anyone the profession they want) -- i think that was a typo or something... * what is your favorite color? and, if different, if you could be any color... what color would that be? * are you smart? * how many years would you like to go to college? * what economic class would you like to be in as an adult? * are you good at basketball? like... really really good? * are you attractive? like... really really attractive? * are you good at starting businesses? * what is your favorite depeche mode song? * how much would you like to travel: lots, not a lot but some, a little bit, never, or all of the above? * have you ever considered doing what your parents do for a living? if yes, what do your parents do for a living? * what interests do you have (that could be fudged on a resume to look like skills)? * if this ink blot was in the shape of someone performing an occupation that you'd like to do someday... what would it be in the shape of? when we were done filling them out, mrs. utterbirth had a copy machine wheeled in, and we made two copies of our surveys (to have three copies total, for all you numbers freaks out there). one was for us to keep, one was sent off to the bastion of academic research that is ithaca college, and the last was for the school to "safely file away"... from the germans. two days later, (a remarkable accomplishment of both chad's efficient deep analyses and the united states postal service), i found out that my job-matches were: "indeterminate." apparently, the fact that i'd never heard any depeche mode songs skewed my score. argh... anyway, i've got to go celebrate. today is summer solstice! the greatest of all june holidays!!! sorry dad. |
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| 5:34 am | xander said this. | |
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| cult-status-attempt be damned! | 06.15.2005 | |
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 so, apparently "taking a sabbatical" doesn't mean just making an appearance at church to appease your hyper-zealous christian friend. on the contrary, it seems as if i've fallen down an eight-month-deep rabbit hole... and, an explanation is warranted. it all started in mid-october of 2004. we (xander, kidnap, and i) were hanging out together for like the first time since the bush/dukakis presidential debates of 1988 when we were pre-adolescents living on the same suburban street. it was a high school halloween party. you know, one of those way early ones that are born out of the sheer convenience of someone's parents being out of town. anyway, we were all together... in the same state of mind... and for once it all started to make sense... almost as if we were all separate facets of one all-encompassing personality. and at some point in the evening, i don't remember the exact time... but i do remember looking at the clock and noticing that it was a few minutes to twelve. intriguing, i foreshadowed, i wonder if anything will happen at the strike of twelve. just then, the song "love will tear us apart" by the post-punk-pioneering joy division came onto the stereo. a grandfather clock began striking twelve. suddenly, a six-foot tall, demonic-looking bunny walked into the party and told us that the world would be ending in "28 days, 6 hours, 42 minutes, and 12 seconds." personally, i wasn't all that freaked... what with that being nearly a month away... veterans' day maybe... which, would give me plenty of time to come to terms with the world ending. in fact, i remember lauding the bunny for giving us a reasonable notice; i wouldn't want the world to end with me "socializing" at a high school party. obviously, the next few moments were awkward. the bunny didn't really have much else to report--and really didn't fit in with the party's vibe-- and as far as the people at the party: how do you react to a giant, evil rabbit passing on such pessimistic news while you're trying live out one of those "memorably obnoxious nights" from what will become "the best days of your life"? and, since it is currently the day after the "flag day," the jewel of june's holiday calendar (sorry dad), it turns out that the devil-in-a-bunny-suit was full of brown, spherical crap! ok... ok... although you may claim that you would've called out that bunny before one could spell "gyllenhaal"... i didn't... and was tricked into taking an eight month sabbatical as a result. and phrensick plunged into internet obscurity faster than a dislodged jet engine descending back to earth. after the bunny-shaped demon left the party, we followed soon after... disillusioned. xander, as if the bunny had sprinkled sand in his eyes, would continue through his school year in sort of a hypnotic state. the kidnap kid, disappeared completely. and as previously stated, i got rabble-roused into taking a "sabbatical" to rediscover my direction in life. (for the record, i was about eighteen percent compliant with that bourgeois process.) so, since phrensick has failed to become a cult phenomenon as a carcass... we're back!!! i, sui generis, am back at the helm. xander's school is out for the summer and ready to return. and, the kidnap kid... well he's somewhere between dead and tupac. which, as of now, i would venture to be right in-between: like one of those gratuitous mortal kombat-character back-stories... hiding out in the "outworld" waiting for a chance at redemption in the "earthrealm"! whatever. regardless, we are happy to be back. |
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| 6:24 am | sui generis said this. | |
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| technically speaking. | 10.15.2004 | |
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 a few years back, devry university conducted a study on whether or not devry universities should conduct studies—or just continue using the burger king model in the development of franchising out their colleges in every even remotely urban area in the united states. unfortunately, due to the fact that many of their “students” take the better part of a decade to complete their respective “two-year programs;” as of today, no one has gotten around to completing the study. but, let’s not fault the good man. the entire industry of technical colleges hasn’t gotten around to a whole hell of a lot in the last twenty-five years. i’m not even sure if they’ve even aligned themselves in the sort of way that would deem the term “industry.” which is strange, you know... considering how often their advertisements bark “cutting edge,” “immediate,” and... well, “up to the minute technological advances.” now, i’ve never attended a technical college. i’m sure they’re... great. it’s definitely just the commercials that i have a problem with. for example, in one: a confused, but ridgemont-high-attractive, high school grad talks to her older sister about how her parents can’t find an affordable, yet promising way for her to further her education. then, as they walk through the hallway of the technical college that her sister attends, the girl comes up with the idea that maybe she, too, could attend that school. throughout the rest of the commercial, the older sister—also reaching the same “epiphany”—rattles off all of these facts and statistics about how great, affordable, convenient, and flexible her school is. now, does that make sense (???). what’s sad is that all of their talk about “advancement” makes me nostalgic. every commercial for some “cutting edge” technical college makes me think i’m waiting for knight rider to resume. and, i’m not talkin’ syndication. come on now, it’s a commercial. for a technical college. that’s. what. they. do. or, should. take a look at this: commercial “a”: there’s a young, attractive woman sitting at a computer the size of a small room, wearing this headset (that makes her look like she piloting some pre-apollo mission) with a futuristic helmet that appears to be helping her transmit some sort of fantastical communication feed to neptune. in the background, a handsome young man is calculating the balance of some ledger on an abacus. my proposed correction on commercial “a”: there’s a young, attractive woman (without barrettes in her hair to accentuate her bangs; oh, and without bangs). she types onto a modern looking computer complete with a flat-screen [color!] monitor. and as we pull back from the close-up, we recognize that she is working at mcdonald’s! through her chic microphone-headset, she calls out for two double cheeseburgers and a side of GUYS! (but she means FRIES) she blushes as the handsome young man behind her chuckles while programming the post-modern infrared oven to heat the requested order. cut to black. the words “get real.” then, “...educated” appear on big block font. “devry university.” sold? commercial “b”: a nurse walks down the corridor of a busy “emergency room.” doctors pass by carrying m*a*s*h-like prop attempts at “medical instruments.” and everyone, for some reason, is bulkily dressed like on-runway air-traffic controllers. the woman turns into a hospital room. randomly, the room is full of near pre-historic medical equipment that even third-world countries outdated a decade ago. (are these the hot, new technological advancements’ instruction these schools promise?) my proposed correction on commercial “b”: there’s a nurse. wearing a comfortable white nurse’s uniform. she walks down a busy emergency room corridor. and, it’s one that actually looks like (or, get this, IS) a busy emergency room corridor, and not one that through lighting and poor set design appears to be a busy kmart aisle. then she turns into a room. it isn’t a hospital room. it’s just her... in front of a green screen. she stares directly into the camera and says, “hey, we really fucking need nurses.” cut to black. “devry university.” that’s it. so, if you are “considering a degree in a field of high demand” be wary of the following: 1. if it’s 4 am, and you’re watching television commercials... don’t make any big life-altering decisions. no good idea in the history of good ideas was ever conceived under these circumstances (except, maybe, tony totino inventing the mini pizza roll). they’re targeting you. because, if you’re up that late at night... clearly you’re not going to a job “in a field of high demand” at 7 am. 2. if it’s 4pm, and you’re watching television commercials... see #1. 3. college costs more than three easy installments of $99.99. if something sounds too good to be true... you’ve just been suckered. then again, if something sounds too bad to be true—such as the time when your ninety year old grandmother slipped on a grenade and fell down two flights of stairs directly onto the family dog, checkers... the dog was killed instantly. your grandmother died a few minutes later from a dog rib to the jugular. the dog’s blood then ruined your brand new carpet. and two weeks after you pulled it up and threw it out, you realized the diamond from your wedding ring had broken off and was somewhere in that carpet. which, now, was somewhere in the landfill... ... then, you need to get out of the house. and judgment can wait. |
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| 4:36 am | sui generis said this. | |
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| i think i’m turning japanese. i really think so. | 09.24.2004 | |
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 i write the investigative features for our school newspaper, the daily mountain lion reporter. i wouldn't consider myself: a journalist, an aspiring journalist, interested in journalism, or easily blackmailed into doing journalism. but, here i am. i hate the school newspaper. and, i think it hates me. at the first meeting, my inquisitive nature pissed off the editor-in-chief. i was wondering about the name of the school paper, the daily mountain lion reporter. i was just curious since the paper, which contained very little non-gossip “reporting,” came out not daily—but, once every nine weeks... roughly. and also, our mascot was a bulldog. not a mountain lion. after all of the angry stares, i was told that there were two rules for the daily mountain lion reporter. (1) don’t talk about the daily mountain lion reporter, and (2) try not to plagiarize. so, i was begrudgingly writing my article on a water main break at the junior high. which, i was surprised to discover, the jr. high janitor held me personally and directly responsible. (a couple of years back, i refused his pleas to run for the seventh grade student council on a platform to update the aging water piping in the school.) anyway, if you’re wondering why i’m now in this frustrating position... here’s the scoop: it all started a few months ago when i was the gossip columnist for the daily mountain lion reporter. a position i hated (but, was earlier blackmailed into doing). one of the hottest girls on the track team (according to this kid kevin), michelle jameson, heard a rumor that some kid had painted a portrait of her... wearing nothing but her track uniform. as time passed without anyone stepping forward, michelle began to get more and more angry. soon thereafter, the principal became involved because this is high school... and that's what happens. after taking over the investigation, the principal turned his attention to the advanced art 401 class. they had been studying a unit on "capturing the active woman." at that time, the painting was recovered from the wall of the art room. though the subject of the painting was indistinguishable because of its cubist technique, the title of the project “michelle jameson, pole vaulting” seemed to convince the principal. several eye-witnesses identified the painter as a student of asian—possibly japanese—descent with straight black hair, dark eyes, near-perfect to perfect skin complexion, wire-frame eyeglasses, and long nimble fingers. . . or “kevin,” as he is known to his peers and “the junior picasso,” as he is known to advanced art 401 instructor ms. hayworth. despite the eye-witness testimonies, our principal was afraid of bringing the issue “as-is” before the PTA due to some previous “incidents” where the PTA branded the principal a racist. so, during (what i considered at the time to be) a chance meeting at the urinals in the auditorium bathroom, the principal convinced me to come forward as the paintings auteur in exchange for him letting me quit the school paper. after michelle found out it was me, she was as pissed as a racehorse. she spit in the direction of my shoe, but missed. then, she had a startling change of heart. she told me that she wouldn’t leak my guilt to the new writer for the daily mountain lion reporter gossip-beat (whomever that might be), if i would take her place as the investigative reporter for the paper. apparently, she hated journalism and wanted the f[beep] out. then, throwing the cherry on top, she spat “and, with YOU as the investigative reporter... maybe YOU can uncover the truth the next time someone tries to—“ “—take advantage of an ATTRACTIVE female athlete?” i interjected, trying to pull out a smile. did it work? well, she blushed! but, then she said: “well, i don’t know about that... maybe according to that cute kevin kid!” [giggle, giggle] her eyes began to sparkle. mine narrowed. |
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| 4:00 am | xander said this. | |
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| italian sassage. | 08.31.2004 | |
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 the other night, a friend and i got into a wicked spat over which was better: lasagna or lasagna with black olives. my friend, who has never had lasagna with black olives, was nothing short of screaming at me about how lasagna with black olives would “probably totally rock” and that i was “[quite frankly] a [racial slur] for not thinking that it would be better than just plain lasagna.” i, on the other hand, never even tasted lasagna until the better part of 1998 when a girlfriend finally introduced me to it. as convenient as it sounds—yes, i was dating an italian at the time. but, she was an un-suave italian. so, as others with un-suave italian friends surely know, without the butter-smooth hand gestures and chilled, ultra-cool monotone, our relationship ended with her making flamboyant gestures towards the door while barking fast-paced itanglish... something about how she thought i’d just thought that sex with an italian would “probably totally rock” and that i was “[quite frankly] a [racial slur] for not thinking it would be any better than just a plain american.” anyway, this little, fiery italian never made lasagna without black olives. it dated back to when she was growing up in italy and black olives were added to lasagna, in particular, to keep herons away. apparently, there is some sort of lasagna-loving heron, indigenous to italy, that will invade your house like a heat-seeking missile unless black olives are added. even weirder still—like the herons—my italian girl hated the olives... and would pick them off before eating it. therefore, i haven’t had oliveless lasagna and think that plain lasagna would probably, totally rock! |
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| 6:12 am | sui generis said this. | |
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