You gonna let some assistant coach from Metropolis teach your boy how to play football?
- Holly Harold, "Facade"
"Super"
Apparantly it's Super Bowl Sunday, and apparantly, there's going to be a tiny, two-person party here on Tuxedo Square.
As usual, I have no idea who's playing. I don't even care about the commercials this year. Brent Jones, Part II's having a super bowl party without me. He said I could come, but I can't make it, and upon reflection, I'm not sure he really meant it. That's right. I'm saying it was an un-vitation.
I rented Superman on Monday for reasons that should be obvious to anyone who knows me. I still haven't watched it, because I "haven't found the time," though I've somehow managed to watch the last two godawful Matrix movies again.
Anyway, I think it'd be neato to watch Superman on Super Sunday.
(Please note: I said it'd be "neato," not "cool" or "particularly clever".)
"Bullseye"
So it looks like I'm going to get a part-time job at the local Target despite my best efforts, and it's never been more clear to me that Target will just hire anybody.
I did everything I reasonably could to botch this interview. I mean, I didn't fling feces at the lady or anything, but I figured I came off as relatively incompetent. They asked me if there'd ever been a policy I disagreed with on a job, and I went off about Res. Life's threat of termination should one be caught with alcohol on campus. And when I didn't have a suitably dubious answer to a question, I just kind of looked off into space for several minutes at a time, whispering "Wildcat".
But no. They offered me a job in the electronic department on the condition that I pass a drug test and background check -- and believe you me, I cruised every high school between that Target and the testing clinic to score some pot or crank, but to no avail. Jesus... what's happening to our schools?
"Miss"
I went to the mall for fifteen minutes yesterday. It was the worst three hours of my life.
I now understand why Tri-staters are all so angry. It's because they're idiots, and they're pissed at each other for being idiots.
I can't stay here. I just can't hack it. I've heard it said that if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere. Well, I can't make it here. I'm throwing in the towel. Let me paraphrase The Duke here for a second: Take me to Missouri.
You can't spell I Miss You Ri without Missouri.
"Black"
I never know what I'm supposed to do as a young black male of the 21st Century.
"Lent"
This may surprise anyone who's read my Clarky Clarkington III stories, or heard me go off on my "Is it me or does Jesus think he's God's gift to everything?" rant, but I now go to church every week.
I do so for the same reason I willfully hand out homemade business cards to the movers and shakers of Bergen County: I can't disappoint my granny.
Granny grew up Catholic, but now goes to a Baptist Church in Englewood. I have gone with her on a few occasions, but there are just things about the high-spirited Black Church that just don't sit right with this old altar boy. I like the nice, quiet Mass that I know by heart. Not out of some misguided belief that faith's not something that needs to be shouted, but just because it's easier to plot out stories in my head with the somber Catholics than with the jubilant Baptists -- though it was pretty cool on Christmas Eve when I was planning out the first issue of Prowler while the choir was singing "It's Marvelous."
Anyway, all this sacrilege to get to the matter of Lent.
I've been warped enough by life to consider giving stuff up for Lent to be kind of cool. Don't ask me why. Of course, I rarely make it through the entirety of Lent without caving. Take, for instance, last year, when Mephisto dragged me to Ash Wednesday services at the Newman Center, and -- taking a cue from Josh Hartnett -- I decided to give up letting the black panther roam for Lent.
I didn't make it two weeks.
The only time I ever actually pulled one of these Lenten bans off was the first time I was a sophomore. I gave up comic books and soda for forty days and forty nights. It was awful. Without the comics, I was going nuts, but without the caffeine, I didn't have the energy to bounce off the walls, so I kind of just kept muttering in corners. But I tell you, I spent that Easter Sunday reading seven weeks worth of comics and downing four liters of coke. It was awesome.
So I was sitting in church today, thinking about Lent, and wondering what I could give up this year. And then it hit me: I could give up blogging. If for forty days, every time I felt like blogging I went off and, say, worked on a short story instead, I might actually have a viable body of work. Of course, chances are I'd waste all that creative energy on that stupid novel where the Georgetown Law Student and his roommate turn both a humidifier and a de-humidifier on at the same time, opening a rift in space-time that sends them hurtling back to the year 1845, where they have a profound impact upon the presidency of James Polk.
Of course, if I did that, you'd all miss out on my ruminations of Valentine's Day. Plus, there's the blog's two-year anniversary to consider, and I've been planning on having a 100 question trivia contest where the winner receives a free copy of the three disc Year of the Duck soundtrack box set, with original covers drawn by myself.
And now that I've actually typed all that out, it occurs to me that neither of these things would be particularly missed...
I was also thinking about giving up the use of the letter "e" on the blog for Lent, so instead of typing "Kate," I'd have to come up with something like "That girl who is living in Washington D.C." and instead of "Smallville," it'd be "that t.v. show that fills my blood pump with joy" and the like, but that seems pretty stupid, too.
I'll have to think about it.
NEXT:
Things not known...
- Holly Harold, "Facade"
"Super"
Apparantly it's Super Bowl Sunday, and apparantly, there's going to be a tiny, two-person party here on Tuxedo Square.
As usual, I have no idea who's playing. I don't even care about the commercials this year. Brent Jones, Part II's having a super bowl party without me. He said I could come, but I can't make it, and upon reflection, I'm not sure he really meant it. That's right. I'm saying it was an un-vitation.
I rented Superman on Monday for reasons that should be obvious to anyone who knows me. I still haven't watched it, because I "haven't found the time," though I've somehow managed to watch the last two godawful Matrix movies again.
Anyway, I think it'd be neato to watch Superman on Super Sunday.
(Please note: I said it'd be "neato," not "cool" or "particularly clever".)
"Bullseye"
So it looks like I'm going to get a part-time job at the local Target despite my best efforts, and it's never been more clear to me that Target will just hire anybody.
I did everything I reasonably could to botch this interview. I mean, I didn't fling feces at the lady or anything, but I figured I came off as relatively incompetent. They asked me if there'd ever been a policy I disagreed with on a job, and I went off about Res. Life's threat of termination should one be caught with alcohol on campus. And when I didn't have a suitably dubious answer to a question, I just kind of looked off into space for several minutes at a time, whispering "Wildcat".
But no. They offered me a job in the electronic department on the condition that I pass a drug test and background check -- and believe you me, I cruised every high school between that Target and the testing clinic to score some pot or crank, but to no avail. Jesus... what's happening to our schools?
"Miss"
I went to the mall for fifteen minutes yesterday. It was the worst three hours of my life.
I now understand why Tri-staters are all so angry. It's because they're idiots, and they're pissed at each other for being idiots.
I can't stay here. I just can't hack it. I've heard it said that if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere. Well, I can't make it here. I'm throwing in the towel. Let me paraphrase The Duke here for a second: Take me to Missouri.
You can't spell I Miss You Ri without Missouri.
"Black"
I never know what I'm supposed to do as a young black male of the 21st Century.
"Lent"
This may surprise anyone who's read my Clarky Clarkington III stories, or heard me go off on my "Is it me or does Jesus think he's God's gift to everything?" rant, but I now go to church every week.
I do so for the same reason I willfully hand out homemade business cards to the movers and shakers of Bergen County: I can't disappoint my granny.
Granny grew up Catholic, but now goes to a Baptist Church in Englewood. I have gone with her on a few occasions, but there are just things about the high-spirited Black Church that just don't sit right with this old altar boy. I like the nice, quiet Mass that I know by heart. Not out of some misguided belief that faith's not something that needs to be shouted, but just because it's easier to plot out stories in my head with the somber Catholics than with the jubilant Baptists -- though it was pretty cool on Christmas Eve when I was planning out the first issue of Prowler while the choir was singing "It's Marvelous."
Anyway, all this sacrilege to get to the matter of Lent.
I've been warped enough by life to consider giving stuff up for Lent to be kind of cool. Don't ask me why. Of course, I rarely make it through the entirety of Lent without caving. Take, for instance, last year, when Mephisto dragged me to Ash Wednesday services at the Newman Center, and -- taking a cue from Josh Hartnett -- I decided to give up letting the black panther roam for Lent.
I didn't make it two weeks.
The only time I ever actually pulled one of these Lenten bans off was the first time I was a sophomore. I gave up comic books and soda for forty days and forty nights. It was awful. Without the comics, I was going nuts, but without the caffeine, I didn't have the energy to bounce off the walls, so I kind of just kept muttering in corners. But I tell you, I spent that Easter Sunday reading seven weeks worth of comics and downing four liters of coke. It was awesome.
So I was sitting in church today, thinking about Lent, and wondering what I could give up this year. And then it hit me: I could give up blogging. If for forty days, every time I felt like blogging I went off and, say, worked on a short story instead, I might actually have a viable body of work. Of course, chances are I'd waste all that creative energy on that stupid novel where the Georgetown Law Student and his roommate turn both a humidifier and a de-humidifier on at the same time, opening a rift in space-time that sends them hurtling back to the year 1845, where they have a profound impact upon the presidency of James Polk.
Of course, if I did that, you'd all miss out on my ruminations of Valentine's Day. Plus, there's the blog's two-year anniversary to consider, and I've been planning on having a 100 question trivia contest where the winner receives a free copy of the three disc Year of the Duck soundtrack box set, with original covers drawn by myself.
And now that I've actually typed all that out, it occurs to me that neither of these things would be particularly missed...
I was also thinking about giving up the use of the letter "e" on the blog for Lent, so instead of typing "Kate," I'd have to come up with something like "That girl who is living in Washington D.C." and instead of "Smallville," it'd be "that t.v. show that fills my blood pump with joy" and the like, but that seems pretty stupid, too.
I'll have to think about it.
NEXT:
Things not known...
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