Another Ending

I'm ending this blog (for a while) as the pace of the semester increases. I think I've written a lot of material that will be enjoyable to revisit in a some decade's time. As I take leave for now, I wanted to leave by recording what I've always considered my most brilliant observation.

Having your shoelaces untied is a lose-lose situation. You look like a dork
continuing to walk with your laces untied, and you look like a dork bending over to tie them.

Until next time, take care of yourselves, and each other. And remember to have your pets spayed and neutered.

(On-)Edge-wood, Hotlanta

I've heard Southern U.S. economic/population boom is primarily the result of affordable air conditioning, making the region livable. Our air conditioner broke down yesterday and I'm ready to leave.

It's on life support. I walked in the house yesterday and felt it was significantly warmer. Nothing that could be characterized as "cold air" was coming out of the AC vents. Shutting it off for a while and turning it back on, cool air came out for long enough to give me false hope. Suddenly, the breeze turned noticeably warmer. Something is wrong. The landlord is still in Ireland until next week. I'll be able to escape to Decatur this weekend, but I feel bad for my roommate.

At college, the cheap bastards turned the central air on about three weeks after it should have been. I remember many a sweaty night. I would spend my free time at the library, which reliably always was the first (and for a time interval only) building to be air conditioned. Unfortunately, the generously air conditioned school buildings aren't across the street where I live now, and I'll have to go home at some point. But I may just be working some long hours the next week.

Inept School Nurses: The Impetigo Incident

For my entire elementary school career, I didn't see the school nurse as a healer or care-taker (entrusted with our physical health), but as a gate-keeper. Her office and a sufficient temperature were enough to grant me a one-way ticket to an afternoon of cartoons and mommying. But by high school the nurses knew better. They pretty much never sent anyone home. Unless you had some exotic disease. And even if you did, they might not recognize it...

I used to wrestle in high school. One of the things that came of that is that I've had all manner of exotic sounding skin diseases, but impetigo, a bacteria-induced rash, was what my coach considered the plague. If anything that might be a rash appeared on any of us, it was usually identified as ringworm (not so bad but much more common), and we got a lecture of the dangers of impetigo and bodily hygiene; the poor soul with the actual rash was shunned like a leper.

One day of sophomore year season my regular sparring partner Andrew came to me with a taped-up knee, telling me he'd be sitting out of practice for a while: "Hey T.J., the doctor told me I have impetigo. I think I got it from the wrestling tournament we went to. Because we've been practicing together so much, you're probably going to get it."

Oh please. With a fifteen year-old's self-assured invincibility, I was utterly confidence in the strength of my immune system. But the next night, while on the telephone with a friend, I realized I was unconsciously scratching my neck...

Impetigo looks worse than it actually is. It itches and all that, but actually looks like scabbed-over mosquito bites. The rash was running all down the right side of my neck. Did Andrew knee me in the artery?

Andrew sat to my right in geometry class. My rash was impossible to hide. He teased me and told me to go to the nurse, which I did. My rash matched his. Without a doubt, I had impetigo.

The nurse took a look at my rash with raised eyebrows and a lowered forehead. "These look like flea bites to me!" No no no!!!! I thought! Logically, I knew it was impetigo, but already a high-schooler's vanity and low self-confidence were taking over my brain. Yes, I did have a cat, maybe it was fleas! I felt so dirty. By that time the first nurse had already called the second nurse over to confirm that, indeed, I was flea-infested. I walked out of the nurse's office in shock...and out of a school of 1,700, Andrew was randomly walking by at that moment. "Hey, what did she say?!", he asked. "Uh, nothing..." I said and walked quickly past him...having impetigo was a battle scar, having fleas placed you in the company of street derelicts.

"Screw that!" I though, "Mom, you have to take me to the doctor!". My doctor walks in the examination room, took one look at me:
"What do you think you have?", asking me to verify my knowledge of medicine, as if I was in residency under him.
"Impetigo?" I answer...
"Yup" was all he said, bored. I was just glad I didn't have fleas.


Epilogue: So, I got some cream and the rash went away in a few days. Andrew had said the school nurse was equally unsure, joking that she likened one patch to poison ivy, one patch to spider bites...by next year I'd graduate beyond the skin diseases, popping my ankle one January evening in an attempted throw (it was a "Hail Mary play" to break a tie I was in...big mistake) which landed me in crutches for a week, a hard ankle brace until March, and a soft one for two years after, any time it rained.

A Tangle of Correlations (or Causations?)

What I Don't Have: A List
(1) Money
(2) Car
(3) Girl

OK, so (1) implies (2), that's for certain. Also, (2) may imply (3). Finally, (1) implies (3), but no (3) means more (1), so there's a circular relationship.

Laugh Lines: David Letterman

From The New York Times "Week in Review"...

Here’s great news: one of the President’s daughters, the lovely Jenna Bush, is getting married. ... It’s going to be an expensive wedding, and I guess this is no surprise: the $3 billion contract is going to Halliburton.

Have you folks been following the Michael Vick story about the dog fighting? ... He pleaded guilty and he faces a year and a half in prison, and I was thinking, now, wait a minute, shouldn’t that be a year and a half times seven, really, when you think about it?

Happy 200th

This is my 200th blog posting. Because I will soon take a blogging hiatus (due to summer's end), to commoreate the occasion (and to regulate traffic after I leave): Google Bomb!

TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513 TJ0513

Stacking the Deck

As The New York Times editorialized today, The Washington Post did a story highlighting The Presidential Advance Manual, which I could not fully do justice, but is essentially a guide for pro-administration organizers to combat protesters.

My view of the current administration is that surrounds itself not only by "yes-men", but in "yes-crowds". Certainly, whoever wins the election next November will do the same, it's less apparent now because the candidates need to talk to anyone whose ear they can grab.

It all just strikes me as so phony. Our elder statesmen should not be surprised at the level of cynicism in my generation, particularly when they've so much contributed to it.

Science and Religion's Common Ground: Incest

The Bible is explicitly incestuous in the story of Lot, whose own daughters slept with him.

The Bible is implicitly incestuous in the creation story. Where did Cain's wife come from? OK fine, so God made more people? Fast forward - the Bible is implicitly incestuous in the deluge story. Afterwards, all that remained on Earth was Noah's family and a bunch of animals. God didn't say He was making any more people, but rather told Noah's family to go forth, "be fruitful and multiply" (Genesis 9:1). After the first generation, incest was inevitable.

Evolution is, I'm guessing, also incestuous...as that little group of primates broke off, I would think there would be substantial re-mating until other members of the group's former species were similar enough as to mate and produce viable offspring.

Science or Religion, whatever story is true, face it: we're all distant cousins. Think about that on your honeymoon.

Cutting the String

Call me sentimental, but I have difficulty pulling loose threads from clothing. The little string appears so pathetic and fragile that I find I just don't have the heart to cut its lifeline and toss it to the cold floor, where I imagine essence of dog feces and dead skin particles remain from others' foot trackings (a cruel fate indeed). Eventually, I develop an emotional attachment to the string, which is, after all, part of the shirt. I can't just abandon it. Eventually, I view it as just part of the shirt - knowing there's a loose thread near the right pocket gives me comfort finding it's still there when I when I next wear the pants. It gives the clothing article "character" and evokes a feeling of comforting familiarity. This coupled with that I'm quite resistant to change.

Such generosity has gotten me into trouble in the past. Once as a young boy playing in a stream, I witnessed a tiny worm on me struggling not to be swept away by the current. Compassionately, I helped the little worm to my thigh, above the water.

However, that worm (and its "friends") turned out to be leeches. I was covered when I emerged from the water. That was my first - and last - episode with these parasites; I haven't gone swimming in steams since.

Back to the clothing: Admittedly, there's also a risk-adverse element to my decision not the pull the string. I imagine (and lesser variations of this have happened in the past) that I would pull the string, but the thread doesn't break, and instead just keeps unraveling, and unraveling, and unraveling, and unraveling...

View from the Wicker Bar

In case you don't live in New York, the Wicker Bar is in this sort of swanky hotel, the Seton Hotel. I used to go there quite a lot, but I don't any more. I gradually cut it out. It's one of those places that are supposed to be very sophisticated and all, and the phonies are coming in the window. They used to have these two French babes, Tina and Janine, come out and play the piano and sing about three times every night. One of them played the piano-strictly lousy-and the other one sang, and most of the songs were either pretty dirty or in French. The one that sang, old Janine, was always whispering into the goddam microphone before she sang. She'd say,

"And now we like to geeve you our impression of Vooly Voo Fransay. Eer ees the story of a leetle Fransh girl who comes to a beeg ceety, just like New York, and falls een love wees a leetle boy from Brookleen. We hope you like eet."

Then, when she was all done whispering and being cute as hell, she'd sing some dopey song, half in English and half in French, and drive all the phonies in the places mad with joy. If you sat around there long enough and heard all the phonies applauding and all, you got to hate everybody in the world. I swear you did.

Beyond "The End of the Universe"

Comedian Lewis Black claims that The End of the Universe is apparent at a street corner in Houston, TX (South Shepard and West Gray, I hear). There, one Starbucks coffee shop sits across the street from another.

But I now know that the true end of the universe is in Atlanta, GA, in the Edgewood Retail District, where there are opportunities to buy Starbucks coffee in not one, not two, but three locations all facing into the same squared off district: the Barnes & Noble, the Target, and the Kroger (not just bags of coffee beans like at the grocery store - I'm talking fresh drinks).

What madness is this?

School's...in...for...Autumn!

Maybe I'm corny in the 6 year-old in a 26 year-old's body sense, but I love the first day of school. There's something special about it. A buzz in the air. All new paper and supplies. The actual moment of first walking into class is like Christmas...it's like coming downstairs to see all your presents, except in the academic sense, your "presents" are your fellow students taking the class with you this semester. What will Santa bring me this year, Mommy?

And so, I'm off to what may could be my last-first day of school ever. Most likely I'll take one more class in the spring semester (which will certainly be it) but Spring semester first classes are not exactly the same as Fall, with that buzz that reminds me of waiting for the school bus in a warm Norwalk morning, bright white new sneakers, fresh haircut, belly full of a special breakfast my dad made for the occasion (most likely Egg McMuffins, scrabbled eggs with bacon/ham/Kielbasa, or Entenmann's Raspberry Danish Twist) thinking the possibilities of what the next year would bring, new friends I'd see, and excitement there'd be. And in a slightly different way, I'll get to capture this again, today, for at least one more time.

I'll miss this when it's gone.

Uncomfortable in my own home...can I yet call it "home"?

I should be unpacking after yesterday's move, but instead I'm procrastinating online. Partly it's because I'm really sore (in the muscles) from yesterday's move, but also party it's because I feel that on some level I won't be staying long.

But that's crazy talk - I was to put as much time as possible between now and the next time I have to move an apartment (although I'll have to help the two girls who helped me yesterday - or at least offer my help - probably in March and then in May). I admit, I worried a bit too much. We finished ahead of schedule so much that I even turned my keys into the leasing office, something I hadn't planned on doing until tomorrow. Driving the truck was OK, at least I didn't break the truck or get into an accident - I can't afford someone else's medical bills. I did almost lose my own finger (twice!) unjamming the back door. It was a bit scary. We were wearing out as the day progressed, but if the move-out took three and a half hours, the move-in was done in maybe thirty minutes...then we spent then next hour and a half unpacking. Not quite done, and I don't even know where my towel is to take a shower tomorrow, but I have all of tonight.

I have all of tonight, because I don't have cable in my room and so have nothing else to do - I'm too uncomfortable still to go out into the common room and spread out. I still feel like I'm in the guest room of some stranger's house (ironically, that's exactly what I am). I still don't know protocol and don't want to come across like I'm taking over the kitchen and more specifically the refrigerator; I can tell right now I cook more than the other two combined, and I don't want to appear like I'm colonizing the food storage areas.

I'm afraid of using spreading my presence too much into common areas, or not keeping the bathroom clean enough, or being too loud, or other things that I'm sure I'll worry about in the upcoming weeks. I certainly won't be free-riding on the public good of cleanliness; the house is so clean now it's obvious who the dirty guy will be pretty soon if I let anything go. I mean, I think I'm pretty clean, but this house is like, museum-clean. Not a crumb on the floor.

I'll just need to get a bit more settled in...Well, school starts tomorrow. At least everything is the same there.

'Le Move'

Today is the move. May God have mercy on my soul...

Fin

Last Days in the Apartment

A couple of my brother's friends from the block stopped by to offer condolences when I was home last, little George, who I didn't even recognize at first, is now going to be a senior. Senior year of high school was a happy time but paradoxically also a sad time - in the back of your mind, everything that happens is your "last". Your "last" first day of school. Your "last" Thanksgiving game. Your "last" concert/wrestling meet. Your "last" 'March 12th' at school. Finally, your last day of school. I shouldn't have used quotes at all...it really is your last.

This has been on my mind since yesterday afternoon, as I continue to pack up the apartment for tomorrow's move. Last night was my last dinner in the apartment, my last night sleeping there (I'm crashing at a friend's tonight), and so this morning was the last time I will wake up in what has been my home for two years. I'm about to go have my last breakfast.

I might post an opinion soon at http://www.blogger.com/www.apartmentratings.com (zip code: 30308). Currently the score is hovering at 22% approval...I'll probably knock it down a bit. The place has a great location - behind the grocery store and down the street from the MARTA station, but that's all it has. For the rent I'm paying, it's certainly overpriced. Oh well, you live and learn, and in the future I'll know better.

I'm nervous and excited as I get ready to begin this next chapter of my life. This is T.J., from the Savannah Midtown, signing off...

Schopenhauer on Self-Image

I intend to spend the bulk of the day packing as much as possible of my apartment for Saturday's move. I was unaware how much stuff I had accumulated over two years until now that I am laying it in front of me. I never liked my boss at the Census, but he often remarked - and was correct - that "moving is hard because 'stuff' just accumulates". All my 'stuff' is at this point more an asset than a liability. I wondered yesterday if my renter's insurance was still valid, if I could burn everything. I wouldn't even have to be compensated; I'd benefit in not having to move it.

Speaking with Anthony, who's renting out the room that I'm moving into, I told him that I didn't have much stuff, that I liked to minimize my life. Actually getting my stuff into boxes, that statement is going to require a revision. He's a foreigner (Ireland), and I worry he's going to think I'm a typical American, naive in what I consider a frugal lifestyle having claimed such. Moreover, will he be a hard-drinking Irishman who thinks I'm an effeminate dandy when I show up with my numerous boxes? I found comfort in Arthur Schopenhaur, who wrote that in regarding others' thoughts towards us:

...[W]e shall gradually become indifferent when we acquire an adequate knowledge of the superficial and futile nature of the thoughts in the heads of most people, of the narrowness of their views, of the paltriness of their sentiments, of the perversity of their opinions, and of the number of their errors. We shall also become indifferent to the opinions of others when from our own experience we learn with what disrespect one man occasionally speaks of another as soon as he no longer has to fear him or thinks that what he says will not come to the ears of the other man; but we shall become indifference especially after we have once heard how half a dozen blockheads speak with disdain about the greatest man. We shall then see that whoever attaches much value to the opinions of others pays them too much honour.

The solution is to repeat this countless times as I pull up the Budget Truck on Saturday, like a Zen mantra.

There's treasure everywhere

There was Married...with Children random almost spin-off episode where a very young Matt LeBlanc likens something good to "being right up there with finding money on the street" (or something to that effect". Man, truer words where never spoken.

I'm not a creep. The best is finding, say, a quarter....good gain for me, no meaningful loss to the guy that lost it. Probably he cared about it less than a poor starving grad student, anyway. Up until I started grad school, my rule was always "bend down for quarters, but nothing less". I had my dignity, after all. But over the last year I've gotten poor enough that I've gotten over my "pride". I'm down to picking up pennies - but only if noone's looking. If insurance doesn't cover my oral surgery I'll probably be at the point while I ask for people's pardon while I pick up the pennies at their feet.

One day I was walking down North Avenue and a guy was frantically walking up and down the street - he had lost his entire ATM withdraw. He didn't know how much he lost, but if he didn't find it, someone had a payday. If I found that money I'd of course want to give it back, but I know most of the North Ave. pedestrians are likely the type that wouldn't.

I got the idea yesterday (while picking two pennies off the ground outside Publix) to start making a log of where I find money on the street, and how much. Google Maps now lets you add your own points, so I could display the data graphically. Maybe I'd see a pattern of where the most bountiful "hunting grounds" are, and I'd be curious to know what makes an area more lucrative for loose change. Could it be the income level of an area? Or the types of stores around which loose change is dropped? Differing levels of foot traffic? Even time of day could matter.

However, as long as it's only me making records, the points in which I find money are probably going to be most strongly related to my regular walking routes rather than any other factors...still, I think it'd be an interesting little side project. I think I'll start when I get to my new place. Unless the cheaper rent frees up enough cash that I don't need to bend down for that penny anymore.

More Dreams...

Much worse than nightmares are really really good dreams. All dreams end, and reality is much longer-lasting than any dream. Nightmares are a relief to wake up from, while it can be emotional devastating to wake up from a really good dream.

I still recall the Christmas I got a Super Nintendo system, and how much fun I had playing it that morning. Then I woke up and in a panic started tearing my room apart looking for some shred of evidence that it wasn't just a dream, as it slowly dawned on me that it was still about two weeks before Christmas.

I remember sitting on the bus that morning, trying to fall back asleep, hoping I could get find my way back to my happy dream world. Unfortunately, you can never return to the dreams you want you. Sometimes, dreams are so much preferable to our reality. By the way, I didn't get the Nintendo for Christmas that year.

Again, last night I dreamt of my brother. In this dream, I was home in Norwalk, and suddenly appeared around the corner. I was initially freaked out, because I understood then that he was dead, but then calmed down a bit. I guess he was a ghost, and was able to be around the house, interacting with my family and me. It was basically as it was before, except now he had the ability to turn invisible (I think I asked him at one point if he was, like, haunting the house, and he sort of just shrugged his shoulders and said he didn't know). No except me, my mom, and Eric could see him; Becca was over at one point and I was trying to explain things to her, but she didn't believe me. For "proof", I called to Scott to bang once on the wall if was there and twice if he wasn't (not the most logical command). Suddenly, the door of the room flew open, and there was a loud bang on the wall. Becca just sat with her jaw open.

Even if he was dead, I was just so happy that we could at least talk and interact, which was the only real important thing, anyway. I asked him what he was thinking doing what he did, and he said he took nine alcoholic drinks so he wasn't really thinking. It was more like an "oops" moment, because with him still around, there weren't really any consequences. I figured I could just live at the house and hang out. I was so happy...in a sense, it was another "second chance" dream. Truly, it was the happiest dream I had in a long time.

And waking up this morning was the hardest wake-up I can remember. Even last summer, when I did my dream journal, there were countless dreams where I was so happy to get second chances because my dad was alive. That was five years after his death. It hasn't even been three weeks after Scott's. Methinks there are lots to come...

And I wonder if Scott has substituted for my father for the moment. I wonder what it would be like if they're both in my dream at once?

Pre-Move Depression

Today I started taking my room down for Saturday's move. The walls are becoming bare and white. The anxiety over the new living situation is being supplanted with a depression.

As it always is. I didn't want to leave home to go to college that summer of '99, until all my trinkets were put away in boxes, so that my room was just bare walls. Then I couldn't wait to get out of there. There was nothing left for me.

Moving is hardest when we have an attachment to a place. Packing up helps to severe the ties; to show us under the comforting decorations we've added it's just four walls and a carpet, cold and uninviting, like a hospital room.

The place we move into is the same, but we think that we will be there a while, so we put a poster on the wall, and suddenly, it's not so bad anymore...

Get off my plane!!!

In boredom, I spent the afternoon watching Air Force One. The movie is unnecessarily nationalistic. Two guys (at least) take a bullet for Harrison Ford; well, one takes a bullet, the other take a missile from an enemy fighter. And they're heroes? Well, Harrison Ford is a good guy, but I think promoting dying for someone just because they're the president of the United States (and literally no other reason) as valor is not a good thing. But I could see why if you're the president you'd want to promote that. I dunno. It's a fun popcorn movie, but a little too rah-rah-rah for "Mr. President" (the office not the man). Gag me.

SICK Syndrome (Stress Induced Comfort-Killing)

In college my long-time roommate remarked to me once that I don't get sick very often, but when I do, I really get sick. This is one of those times.

Since yesterday morning, I've been sick as a dog. Body aches, out of breath feelings (noone seems to understand these things when I say I feel sick...are they exclusive to me?!?), but also runny noses (my grandpa told us we're backwards 'cause our nose runs and our feet smell...). Together, it's only slightly worse than the "stress headaches" I've been experiencing...they were bad when I first went home (the night I first found out about my brother, I could feel my heartbeat throbbing my pillow), then went away but had come back towards the end of my stay in Norwalk, now only supplanted my this illness.

I don't know where it came from...maybe the two plane trips on Tuesday? I think from all the stress I've been under has decimated my immune system...this morning I joked I have developed non-HIV AIDS. Even when I used to get terribly sick, it was just these 'one day' things I'd always bounce back from after a night's sleep...what's wrong with me? Maybe I'm getting old...

When 90 degrees seems cool...

Yesterday it hit 103 Fahrenheit in Atlanta; 110 with the humidity. Today it will be just as bad. I hope to crash with a friend this weekend, for whom utilities (particularly electricity) are included in the rent (i.e., fixed-rate). Turn on that air, baby!

Those global warming induced mild winters don't seem so great now, do they? I see the reinforcing cycle that could play out: global warming makes it hot, we burn out ACs, fossil fuels are used to produce electricity to power the air conditioning, more global warming occurs. They should put me in a documentary.

I walk to the MARTA and am drenched in sweat within two blocks. Vultures are circling by the time I get to the station. I pass the bleached bones of my neighbors, who unluckily had lived only a few blocks further.

I'm dreading the move next week...pushing furniture in this heat will probably be the death of me. *Thankfully*, it will cool ten degrees to a little over 90; I actually am looking forward to the relief.

When I moved into my New York City walkup, it was incidentally in the middle of a heat wave. Moving in and out of the DC dorms was always during the ungodly uncomfortable Washington summers. Because I don't have a fixed lease in the room I'm moving into (it's rather informal), I'd like to exercise a little foresight and see if I can plan my next move (and all future moves given most lease terms are for twelve month terms) for a more agreeable season.

Adam's (and Scott's) Song

I never thought I'd die alone
I laughed the loudest who'd have known
I traced the cord back to the wall
No wonder it was never plugged in at all
I took my time, I hurried up
The choice was mine, I didn't think enough
I'm too depressed, to go on
You'll be sorry when I'm gone

I never conquered, rarely came
Sixteen just held such better days
Days when I still felt alive
We couldn't wait to get outside
The world was wide, too late to try
The tour was over we'd survived
I couldn't wait till I got home
To pass the time in my room alone

I never thought I'd die alone
Another six months I'll be unknown
Give all my things to all my friends
You'll never set foot in my room again
You'll close it off, board it up
Remember the time that I spilled the cup
Of apple juice in the hall
Please tell mom this is not her fault

I never conquered, rarely came
Sixteen just held such better days
Days when I still felt alive
We couldn't wait to get outside
The world was wide, too late to try
The tour was over we'd survived
I couldn't wait till I got home
To pass the time in my room alone

I never conquered, rarely came
Tomorrow holds such better days
Days when I can still feel alive
When I can't wait to get outside
The world is wide, the time goes by
The tour is over, I'd survived
I can't wait till I get home
To pass the time in my room alone

- blink-182

First Dream...

And the dreams have started....This morning, I had the first with my deceased brother in it. It wasn't quite as freaky as that of my first dream of my father after he died...when he came in with blood-red eyes, sat us down in the living room and short of shrugged his shoulders at us asking how he was. There have been many since. At less than two weeks since my brother died, it's starting much sooner (and incidentally, the ones of my father have never stopped...).

In high school, doing a Columbine-style shooting, but I'm one of the accomplices...the other two are the killers from Gus Van Zant's Elephant (a movie I wanted to show to Scott)...I didn't really kill any students, but because I had seen the movie and already knew what was "supposed" to happen, I was pointing out to the other two what they were "supposed" to do (I was directing them in a way). Eventually, the police and SWAT team showed up and I knew I was dead (i.e., they'd gun me down)...I shot at them from the windows with my assault rifle to stall them. Suddenly, the blond killer shows up like at the end (and I knew the other was "supposed" to surprisingly kill him then) but, I shot him first (multiple times as he was thrown against the wall) although after about three shots the dark-haired killer joined in. I then told the the dark-haired killer to go tothe couple hiding in the kitchen (eenie, meenie, minie, moe). I later heard two gun shots, confirming how I suspected that movie would have played out. Suddenly the SWAT team was about to break through...I lost my weapon and convinced the (gullible) SWAT leader I was an innocent student, but knew they'd figure out sooner or later the truth of my involvement. They left me to attack the dark-haired killer, and I then stepped into a side gym and plotted my escape....perhaps knowing it was a dream, I got the idea I had the ability to will myself wherever I wanted to be...I thought about home, and my brother...the room got dark, I saw myself falling into a black hole, and found myself at the corner of Ambler and George in Norwalk. Instantly, Scott in his Jeep turned the corner.

Scott drove me to the house, we went upstairs into his room. He looked maybe five years younger than when I saw him last. I somehow became convinced all this was the product of time travel, that I really had gotten a second chance to save him (sort of like a reverse The Terminator or in Back to the Future where Marty wants to warn Doc about getting killed) because it was really several years in the past (prior to today). But, I was so overwhelmed with emotion, I just began to cry, balling my eyes out, and grabbing his legs (he was sitting) not wanting to let him go. I think he was a bit freaked out by my reaction. At some point, I became aware that he had been time traveling, too, and was aware of many parts of his life, including the future (it was all very Slaughterhouse Five). So, with choked voice I asked him if he knew what would happen to him in July, 2007, but he said he didn't know, and I was unable to tell him...I was just too choked up. I just tried to beg him to take care of himself, but he slowly and increasingly became distracted in playing Super Mario Brothers 3 on his Gameboy (I also was momentarily distracted when I saw how fun the game was). I became worried (and then convinced) that is death would be inevitable, as I just couldn't get through to him. I then woke up to a sense of increasing dread as I realized it was all a dream, and he was gone forever - and I really didn't have my one chance to save him.