A thousand apologies to each of my loyal fans that reads this log religiously. I am now sitting in the not-so-warm weather in Florida, with my quite exciting family, of whom only I am awake. Regardless, I am now updating said log with my latest misadventures in the land of the sun. So, as you are not me, you have not experienced said misadventures, and I will chronicle these here.
To begin with, I took a plane ride. I had not been to the airport since before September 11th, and I was rather astounded at the new security measures. There are many more police, plus the addition of army guys. With very large automatic rifles that I do not know the names of. I was thinking to myself, how does a large automatic rifle lead to my safety? After all, it only takes one bullet to stop somebody, the addition of a gun that enables the rapid firing of said bullets would only lead to superfluous mayhem and unnecessary death. So that's why the army guys are useless. Now after you finished shitting your pants (Sorry Maggie...) from seeing these anti-terrorism commandos, you have to go through the security check. So, to make sure that you don't set off their ultra-sensitive alarm, they have you take off your belt (which has a belt buckle). Now, your belt buckle could be feasibly to a serrated object capable of incapacitating a 87 year old woman or a pilot who has been punched in the teeth. It seems like all of this heightened security isn't stopping terrorism, rather, it's shutting off the standard routes. There are literally millions of ways to hijack a plane, and all this security is only getting people angry. I think it can be summed up in one of the signs they have at the San Jose airport, forbidding the all powerful and ultra-dangerous Fork as a carry on item. If anybody could hijack a plane with a fork, they can do it with a shard of broken glass or a piece of sharp plastic. Prohibiting the Fork will only piss people off.
Anyway, that was quite a misadventure. (I told you I had misadventures). So after that, we arrived here in Sunny Florida, which wasn't sunny, because it was 1:15 in the morning. I get to sleep on the couch. I tried to read my book. It was less than exciting. ::sigh:: And here I thought I had misadventures. But wait, there's more...
Christmas! Yes, a poor little Jewish boy like me does get a small Christmas. But not to worry! I got rather uncool presents. Mostly school supplies and food, and while I'd never complain about food, some recording equipment would have been very nice. Later that night I had a delicious dinner, and played my first ever game of Risk. I tried to control Africa, but ended up getting my butt kicked by an Austrailian army that traveled across Asia. Darn. Following the game, I saw a friend with whom I had attended middle school. He hadn't changed much, it kind of made me wonder if I had changed either. I went on a nostalgia binge and tried to find some stale chips, sensory reminders of the years passed, watching crummy movies and staying up too late. I tried to recapture it, but it wasn't the same. The movie about the guy with the arm growing out of his back didn't grab me, and the nearly fresh Tostitos couldn't pull me back into the past. So I went to bad at a paltry 3 AM and skipped the end of Puppetmaster II. The next day I went through an archive of classic Nick cartoons, listening to theme songs of many a classic cartoon (Speaking of which, if any of you know where I can get the theme song to The Wuzzles, hook me up). It wasn't the same, I felt like had to move on.
The next day brought more of the same. I saw another friend, a big drinker and major pothead. Shops at the Gap, gets piercings. Not the kind of person for whom I'd advertise in my intangible personal ad. He has a big Chevy Blazer, of which the rear window is broken. It was the result of a 40 mile an hour turn with a keg in the back. I feel little sympathy, although that's probably a bit callous. We went to a bar called the Dogwater Cafe. His friend's brother's girlfriend was the waitress, which meant that we could drink, even though we're underage. I am not a fan of Lite Beer, which is the foul amber liquid in the plastic pitchers. The young man beside me (whose brother's girlfriend served the beer) is "between colleges" right now. He didn't like Cornell because it was too cold. He is surely a nice young republican. He likes Southern California better than Northern California, and feels sorry that I have to hang out with all the fags in San Francisco. I try to put up a fight, but after looking at his overpriced checkered shirt, I change my mind. The young man across the table from me is wearing a camoflage hat, a shirt with the Dixie flag on it, and talks with a rather overpowering Southern accent. I sip my lite beer and try to be interested in the basketball game on the wide screen television directly above the camoflage hat.
This motley crue of suburbanites to which I belong ventures afterwards to a bar. The Chatterbox. It is loud. People are chattering. Loudly. I wonder to myself how anyone can be so interested in these establishments. The pool tables are stained with inexplicable brown splotches. The smoke is starting to irritate my lungs and eyes. The hefty lad with the black hair has been here for six hours, I hear. I have no idea what any sane person could do in a dank bar for six entire hours. I am thankful when my friend suggests leaving to score some weed. I don't smoke weed, but at least it gets me out of the Chatterbox.
We pull into the gated community in which he buys his weed. While he buys it I watch a young woman and her younger daughter scamper up the stairway past a lingering cat. The classic rock sounds of Thunder 103.5 blast in the radio, and I ponder to myself if she knows what this Chevy Blazer is doing ouside her apartment, if she knows a second-rate dealer is selling regs for $25 a bag next door to her. I am a bad man. I do not drink beer, even lite beer, and I do not smoke pot. I do not go to Sound Advice hoping to spend several hundred dollars on a speaker system for my Chevy Blazer. I am not a bad person, but I am not a good male. Perhaps someday I will overcome this need to be different, the craving to be something more than the suburbanite slob who has a few American flags and a library of books about war. But right now I just regret the fact that I've grown so far apart from these people with whom I had such a great time before. Am I the person I was, or am I a new entity, in need of similar people? I simply do not know.
After a languid night of videogames I ended up getting myself some new recording equipment. A mixer, a good microphone. Maybe now I'll be able to make some more professional sounding recordings, and once I get home I can do some recording with my brother's guitar. Which should be at least interesting.
~
In terms of school, I feel at least somewhat satisfied. I have a 4.0 so far, and barring any minuses in subjects (::cough:physics:cough::), I'll have my 4.0 at Berkeley. I seem so nonexultant, nontriumphant, nonhappy about this. It seems like the standard for so long, and anything less just leads to failure...
But that's enough for now.
Attention - Member of the Family
Depeche Mode - Enjoy the Silence
Smashing Pumpkins - Soothe
Hey Dude Theme Song
Mark McMannis - Future Girl
