Category: Conspirators

July 24, 2003 /

Did I say six of seven? Because officially, it turns out to be twelve of twelve. I generated an entire point release myself! I am Bug Barbecue!

Abruptly and without transition, check out Ken’s two–part account of his trip to Lollapalooza. It’s extreme!

“I, Ken Moore, the person you all know as a calm and not easily excited person, was jumping around and loving every second of it. These guy are the saviors of rock and roll.”

It’s great stuff, and I wish I could have been there, and I’m very glad Ken’s writing regularly.

July 18, 2003 /

A 24-exposure roll of film lasts me about a year, not because I take about two pictures a month, but because I take about eleven pictures in two spurts ten months apart. The roll I just got developed ends with pictures of the Chicago trip, and begins with pictures from the end of GSP last summer. In between are a couple of great shots from SETC, which I’ll have to post soon.

The one I want to put up right now, though, is a special treat for a few proud conspirators. Remember, those who understand this, that we are sentinels, templars, proud emperors of an age gone by. Remember what we did. Remember what we were. Remember, and treasure this in your secret minds, the single hallmark I left behind me in Rodes 2.

The DBC was here

June 1, 2003 /

Today is the day I plug Mindy in the blog. Mindy Mindy Mindy! Mindy is a frosher, only she’s not because the year is over, only she still IS because that’s who she is in my head. And yes, Mindy reads this and wanted to be name-checked like Emily and Strother and whoever else. Congratulations, Mindy: approximately five more people have now read your name.

What I really (still) want is for all my friends to get blogs, or Livejournals, or their own sites, or something. The presence of my crew on the interweb is disappointingly low. I want to check in on them and read about their love lives and be fascinated by the way they think, especially when I’m exiled to Richmond, but they stubbornly persist in their absence. Get blogs, all of you! I promise to link you if you do!

Oh, that means I should talk about Sara. Sara is a (former) frosher with a blog! You could all take a page from her cyber-book, other friends.

I’m still going through the sum of all my belongings, sorting and repacking things for the great exodus to Louisville, and yesterday I found three items of interest. The first is a piece of paper from last summer, on which is scrawled the following:

If I die, and somebody goes to a vanity press or something and has a posthumous collection of my work published, and it’s not called Destroy the Evidence, I shall be very angry and want an explanation.

And you know, it’s still true.

The second was the package of pictures I took in Brazil, all twelve of them. It’s very strange to me that it’s been four years since I was there. I slept on a mattress one inch thick in the same room as Tiago, the world’s biggest Goons and Hoses fan, and ate a lot of beans and rice and lost probably thirty pounds. I started watching Dawson’s Creek for the first time, and was surprised to find that I liked it, and pined for home and Erika too much.

I had an incredibly sweet host sister named Joana, who tried to reach out to me any way she could: we played Quake II together, and she introduced me to cocoa in condensed milk. I saw a giant Jesus and many, many streetside orange vendors. I went to Mass with my host grandmother, who spoke no English at all but who smiled and patted my hand the way my own grandmother would have. I took showers that froze me, burned me and gave me some nasty electric shocks.

Along with the blue acrylic painting I bought at an art fair (still one of my favorite possessions), those pictures are the only souvenirs I still have from Brazil. The Rio pin I used to have was lost with my first bucket hat, fall term of my first year at Centre; I think the futbol calendar Tiago gave me is packed away somewhere in the attic, probably for a long time. It was a very self-centered time for me, and I wish now that it had been otherwise. I should have learned some Portuguese, I should have thrown myself into life there instead of trying to live here in my head, and I should definitely have played less Pokemon.

No regrets, though. I Went There, and I Came Back.

The third thing will have to wait, probably for quite a while, as I want to make it a part of this site and I’m going to have to write some code to do it. Right now I have to lug bags of potato chips over to Emily R’s house for a pre-Chicago Trip meeting. My life is filled with travel.

May 27, 2003 /

I want the last two shots to be the last Idiotcams© from in Rodes 2, but there’s a problem: apparently I spent all of senior week adding to the Plastic Mullet Series.

Yes, I am aware that thanks to the Fox network, mullets themselves have jumped the shark, but I still find the plastic mullet itself (which turns out to have belonged to Lisa all along, and which she ended up donating to me) a singularly baroque object. It possesses a level of absurdity above and beyond that of the standard mullet picture. It is, in short, a higher calling.

That I might better answer its siren song, I present to you Plastic Mullet Extravalooza 2K3! This unprecedented collection not only the mighty Darren at last, but new inanimate objects and the only girl who’s ever seemed happy to be wrangled into the headdress. If you order now, you’ll also get Jon’s whole entire dang family, not to mention a couple of Lallys (elder and younger). To top it all off, this one-time-only special captures the elusive Evan and–yes!–my own sister!

Back to bittersweet angst soon, I promise, but right now I’m going to have to glory in the possession of this much dirt on so many people. I hope none of you ever want to run for office, guys. I own you.

May 25, 2003 /

This is how I graduate: the only Centre commencement in living memory on which it has rained, in alphabetical order yet in the middle of the pack, ending up shivering in the library halfway to the auditorium, which was in neither the sunny nor rainy day plans. Our baccalaureate speaker was a fervent liberal and our keynote speaker a stolid conservative; hackles were raised at each and both. I tried to dry the rain off my glasses and found that polyester robes don’t soak up much.

My apartment has been messily slaughtered, furniture shoved and stolen and hidden mold revealed. One more time I’m the last one to move out. The walls are bare, and most of what I own is in piles on the floor. I’ll never live with Jon or Amanda or David again.

I said goodbye and soon to many, many people, and went to my uncle’s house to see Ken, Jon and Emily one more time and to be astounded by the generosity of my family. I fell asleep sitting up before we came back here. I’m going to pack all night and leave in the morning, which I was explicitly told not to do.

Those of you who know me from my first Governor’s Scholars Program will be gratified to know, I hope, that I brought an umbrella onstage with me at the ceremony. As we were leaving, I ended up facing the wrong way and didn’t notice I was supposed to be moving for several long seconds after the rest of my row had gone. I jumped and cursed onstage (at my own commencement) and scrambled out. I was so flustered I forgot the umbrella.

On my way out to meet my family I stood for a few minutes on the stage in Weisiger. That was the first place I found myself on the first day of GSP, here at Centre; I stood in the dark, having come in out of the rain, and wrote about quiet stages on a chalkboard. Later that night, Milton Reigelman would point it out in his opening convo speech, and I would feel a strange mix of shame and pride at having something I’d written read.

This is how I graduate: I am bone-deep nothing-left weary, and I have miles to go before I sleep. I know my time here is done and I am satisfied with it, and I’m ready and willing and glad to go. I’m hurt and hollow, childish and scared. I want desperately to put off the deep wrench I’m feeling, because it means I’m really leaving home.

February 17, 2003 /

“Y’know, your journal… you’re gonna be able to look back on it and have this collection of deep thoughts and significant events. I’m gonna be able to look back on mine and see ‘boogers are funny. I’m tired.’

And y’know, I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

–Stephen

That’s pretty accurate, actually, except I don’t think the stuff in here is terribly deep, and I’ve left out some significant events because I didn’t think they were interesting. Sometimes I wish I had more of the comic impulse that makes Stephen’s blog such a great read. Y’know, more booger jokes.

I guess I do significant events, though. Today ten years ago my dad died.

I pretend not to place great importance on round numbers, though this kind of gives that the lie. It’ll really be a more significant number next year, as that’ll be the anniversary that marks half my life without him; I was eleven. Mom’s probably going to be moving out of Richmond this summer, maybe down to our family land in Casey County, maybe not. All three of her children will be in college, a statistically ridiculous idea for a single mother and a teacher that she made happen anyway. 1993 was a very bad year; 2003 is shaping up to be something glorious.

All I have time to write about, lately, is big things and being tired. I want to try and remember the stupid little funny parts. My dad bought me my first Calvin and Hobbes book; he would have appreciated the boogers.

November 4, 2002 /

Emily R kind of got lost and I was worried she’d be the second Fifth Street shooting victim, but allturned out well even though I didn’t get to see her. I didn’t have to build a set, but I did spend an awful lot of time taking clothes off and putting them on in different configurations.

And the dance was in the dining hall, of course, and the punch was bad, and the band was awful, and it was the most fun ever. This would have been about the best weekend ever, actually, if it hadn’t been for the Emily panic (which was not her fault) and another situation that came up with some mutual friends and a mutual not-so-friend (which is his fault) and made Sunday night suck a little.

But, y’know. Audrey.

Speaking of which, cam = best mullet yet!

Today I have spent a lot of time investigating and applying and not doing my homework. In this, it seems, I have something in common with ETS:

  • “Complete the Authorization Voucher Request Form found in the Bulletin.
  • Mail the fee and voucher request form in the CBT envelope to the address printed on thevoucher.”

A curious proposition, to say the least, as I’m filling out the voucher request to get a voucher. These are the people who wrote the tests that will determine whether I’m allowed into gradschool! Trust!

(I can’t believe I’m linking to “Wonderwall”)

November 2, 2002 /

I think that as of this week I have reached Critical Busy Mass. I’m scraping together the stuff towork at the family biz for my winter internship, to take the GRE (I’m so poor it’s free!), and of course figure out if and where I want to do the grad school thing. And that’s the long-term stuff. There’s also still the play, and the other play, and the job, and the other job, and I just remembered I have to run (literally) down to the flower shop to pick up a corsage. Yow!

I’ve pretty much had to quit running, thanks to the frigid weather (I have no cold-running gear) and the fact that what used to be my afternoon time slot is now usually filled with other stuff. I’m keeping the weight off with sheer nervous energy, I think, but I miss it. The exercise, that is, not the weight. It’s too bad Halo doesn’t burn calories.

Today: Corsage! Build set! Visit Emily R from Richmond! Hang out / eat / dance with Audrey! It’s a mad house.

In the middle of the street.