Holy pogo sticks, Batman; it's the end of the world. My neighbors are actually cleaning some of the crap out of their yard. I've got to go tell my parents that I love them, and then I'm going to buy a plane ticket to Europe...the apocalypse is upon us.

I should be updating the template today, but I don't feel like it.

I got a new digital camera. Woohoo.

Today is Laundry Day, and I think that I will also make it "Sort All of Allison's Crap into Shoeboxes" Day. If I succeed in celebrating properly, then tomorrow will be "Hey, Look, There Are Bare Horizontal Surfaces in Allison's Room" Day.

Time's a-wastin'.

All right, all right...the update didn't go as planned. You're stuck with the navy/gold/red color scheme for a little while longer, and the whole image idea didn't pan out. Why? I got a little sidetracked and ended up spending the day shopping with Cal.

Yes, I'm a bad person. I had fun, though, so I spit upon you.

The day began with a 45-minute arcade spree; Cal won both games of air hockey, but I walloped (yes, walloped) her at Skee-Ball. Childhood obsessions come in handy sometimes. I also found out that Crazy Taxi is a lot harder in an arcade than on a PlayStation.

The best part of the arcade was deciding what to do with the 29 tickets we won . ("Well, we could get one plastic helicopter and a Chinese fingertrap, or we could get a rubber ninja and split it.") I ended up scrawling a very cryptic note ("Use wisely, grasshopper. Love, Mary Lou and Bucky") and leaving the tickets and the note next to the change machine. When Cal gets her film developed, I promise I will share the photographic evidence of said message.

We then shopped and caught the 8:00 show of Radio at the cheap theater. Don't see Radio. We predicted several of the major plot points and laughed throughout the entire last half-hour.

Purchases Made:
Target
- Superman t-shirt: Cheesy, but necessary for survival. $8
Hy-Vee (warehouse sale)
- One dozen chocolate chip cookies: Listen to me salivate. $2.50
- 12 oz. bag oyster crackers: Filling and delicious. $.77
- Two Crunch bars: Future chocolate fixes. $.25 each
- One four-pack Mentos: Eh, they were cheap. $.50
- One box Dora the Explorer Fruit Snacks: Mmm, processed. $1
- One package of 200 flexible straws: I like straws. Yay plastic. $1
ShopKo
- One Alice in Wonderland purse: Ha, I'm such a corporate whore. $10
- One pharmaceutical eye patch: Arr, I scratched me cornea, matey. Scurvy glaucoma. $2
- One MedicAlert necklace: Fake and amusing. I now wear jewelry. $4

A rather nice day, if I may say so.

Today is New Template Day. Ok, so I'm not actually web-savvy enough to use a totally new template, but colors will be changed and images will be added. I think we're going to stay with the shoe photo (check the sidebar if you don't know what I'm talking about), but a few different images might just be sprinkled throughout the site. I'm leaning towards green for the new color scheme. We'll see how that goes, and I'll be online messing with this for the next couple of hours.

Courtesy post:

Things I’ve Done within the Last 36 Hours:

- spent ten hours in a car
- had a slice of wheat bread and a piece of turkey for Thanksgiving dinner...my relatives cannot cook
- watched the last quarter of a football game I didn’t care about
- received $15 for baby-sitting kids I like anyway
- received $20 for existing
- been told that my face was "getting wider”
- watched the closing arguments of the Democratic debate
- clapped and cheered madly for Howard
- listened to the Franken/O’Reilly clip from that book fair (“Shut up!”)
- secretly rejoiced when my grandmother criticized my brother for once--I’ve been her target without fail for the last six years
- had my first sip of merlot
- experienced thirty seconds’ worth of lightheadedness from said wine
- walked to Walgreen’s
- paid 65 cents for a Hershey bar at Walgreen’s
- listened to Lifted... and Room on Fire two times each
- listened to the five-disc CD-RW set What Allison Was Listening to on.... Discs range from February 20th, 2002, to September 16th, 2003.
- listened to most of Best of Bowie
- received copies of the Clash’s Give ‘Em Enough Rope and Compact Snap! by the Jam from my uncle
- argued with said uncle about the merits of Never Mind the Bollocks, Here’s the Sex Pistols! (it sucks)
- teased the aforementioned uncle when he said that Sex Pistols “wasn’t anarchy music at all”
- argued with uncle’s wife about Howard Dean (she says he “has no stands on the issues;” I say he’s had a position on every issue for the last year and a half)
- listened to uncle’s wife then extol the virtues of Wesley Clark (yeah, like he’s made it clear where he stands on domestic policy)
- watched to various Nebraska relatives fall to their knees in blatant idol-worship of John Kerry
- been poked and called a vertebrate by my three-year-old cousin Claire


Things I Wish I’d Done in the Last 36 Hours but Couldn’t:

- spent about six hours in downtown Omaha
- listened to my new copies of Give ‘Em Enough Rope and Compact Snap!
- drunk a lot more merlot
- and I mean a lot more


Rant, rant, rant, say I. Booze good. Need more booze. Rant over.

I've spent the last three hours cutting out magazine pictures. Discover, Time, National Geographic, Smithsonian...no one is safe. Some of the pictures are beautiful, some are disturbing, and some just affect me for no reason.

I'm thinking of starting another photo essay. Granted, I have yet to finish or even continue working on Piggies (tentative title). Sometime I'll post some of the results of Piggies for you.

I'd like to do the new essay on gender. I've got some photos of football players and drag queens that I think would make an interesting combination...I'll have to see what comes of it. I also cut out a Viagra advertisement--that one will go next to a picture of a very obviously steroid-enhanced bodybuilder.

Question: what's the name of the artist who did the "Man/Woman" paintings? Both Google and The Art Book are failing me (by the way, it wouldn't have killed Phaidon Press to include an index by painting name). If you know, a comment would be appreciated.

I've got to go back to the cutouts. Oh, and before I forget, today's original phrase (courtesy of Allison) is "soda leprechaun." Long story.

I will not be posting tomorrow, as I will be in Omaha to visit relatives. I love Omaha. The jury's still out as to whether I'll be able to post on Friday, Saturday, or Sunday. I'm not sure when I'll get back home.

Today I feel detached. I have a vague memory of going to school. I don't really remember what I did all day.

I don't feel like myself.

Oxymoron: Today I was joking around with Cal and commented that I was a member of the "anarchist party."

Today I found out that there's a girl in the seventh grade with the initials "STD."

I must remember to think of these things if, God forbid, I ever reproduce.

Revelation: I am a pretentious bitch.

My father chastised me yesterday, telling me that you can't use the word "thespian" in a rural newspaper because people around here don't know what it means. My response? "It's not my fault that they're stupid." I relented though, and the thespian reference was removed.

As I was writing my English essay today, I caught myself making allusions to Orwell and using the phrase "if you will" (NPR, anyone?). Worst of all, I actually penned (penned being the word of the day) the following words: "A jack-of-all-trades is worth nothing in the end, as he is a mere pillar of mediocrity." I'm going to go vomit, and then I'll cut off my fingers to prevent myself from writing such drivel in the future.

In an attempt to atone for my transgres--er, sins, I threw a Devo reference into the essay and then told the baby joke to a few more people. God help me.

It turns out that story about the soldiers getting their throats slashed wasn't true. Instead, they were shot and beaten with cement blocks. I don't know what to say.

I have a new favorite joke. It's amazingly evil, but I find it hilarious. I tested the senses of humor of a bunch of my friends and teachers today, and needless to say, most were quite horrified. I still think it's funny. The joke is as follows:
What's pink and silver and runs into walls?
A baby with forks in its eyes.

Thank you to the blog of a fellow Allison for the joke.

My promises of procrastination ring only partially true. The news article was indeed written at 11 p.m. last night, but the physics was finished during band. The English essay was penned during band and homeroom. They all got done, though, didn't they? Voila.

My year-old orange and white tabby, Ozzie, has been rechristened Pookie. Sir Pookie, if he's feeling cranky.

I've got to go feed Baron von Pookums.

Sorry about the political rant earlier. I told you I was cranky.

I've got a physics assignment to complete, an English essay to pen, and a newspaper article to write. Knowing me, I'll start at 11:00 tonight and do the news article. I'll do the English essay during AR and history tomorrow, and the physics will get done during homeroom. I'm such a procrastinator.

I'm on a "not-hungry" kick again...I eat and all that, but only out of a sense of duty. I'm not hungry at all, and the very idea of food makes me sick to my stomach right now. Yech.

Josh loaned me Black Hawk Down on Friday, and I ought to watch it so that I can give it back to him tomorrow. I don't like war movies--I always fall asleep during them. I really don't feel like watching the stupid thing. Maybe I'll just read the review on IMDB and fake my way through the inevitable "Did you like it?" conversation tomorrow.

I'm tired.

Oh, my God.

Two American soldiers were killed as they waited in traffic when their throats were slit by Iraqi attackers. Even as I type this, I realize that hundreds of American soldiers have been shot and blown up, but somehow this just seems so...human. When you take away the guns and bombs and some Iraqi still hates us enough to pull out a knife, it sends a very clear message. We need to get out.

I hate our president. We need an election in the worst way. We have not accomplished our real objective, and it is becoming increasingly unlikely that we will. Does anyone remember when the idea was to kill Saddam Hussein? Or that other guy, what's-his-name...oh, yeah, Osama bin Laden? Last I heard, Bush hadn't even mentioned bin Laden's name since July 2002. We never caught our first man, so our president lied to us to embroil us in a situation that we, quite frankly, cannot handle. And guess what? Bush still hasn't delivered. What are the soldiers dying for now?

People are dying in Iraq. People are unemployed at home. The economy's gone to hell. No real improvements have been made in education (and don't tell me that No Child Left Behind is a great aid to schools. Believe me, it's not.) Nearly every country in the world hates the United States. What has Bush done for this country?

What is America now? It is a laughingstock. People think Americans are fools. Perhaps they're right. I'm embarrassed to be an American. I am ashamed of Bush.

If we're lucky, we've only got one more year of this.

"The trick is to keep breathing."

It's blizzarding right now. I hate snow.

Allison is cranky. Cranky + snowed in/the square root of "Where the hell are my Teddy Grahams?" * ("I can't find my shoes" - "Some jackass is outside riding a bike through two inches of snow; give it up") = whiny Allison.

I just realized that the aforementioned jackass is my brother's best friend, and he's coming over. I hate that kid.

Arr rarr rarr.

I just finished watching Dead Poets Society, and so I can't help but offer:

You are Todd Anderson. You are very shy and don't
want to do anything more than what you have to
for fear of letting people down. You need to
get up, go out, and find something to enjoy.
Don't be afraid to let others in. It can't be
too bad being a Ethan Hawke character, right?


What Member of The Dead Poet's Society are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

What's the new media obsession with Homestar Runner?

Ok, ok, so "media obsession" in this case is a half-page article in the December issue of SPIN, but my point is still semivalid. As a Homestar devotee, I can only wonder, "Why the sudden attention?" The response, of course, is, "Damned if I know."

Lord, listen to me yammering about being bothered at media attention of something I like. I'm pathetic. Society will make an insufferable hipster of me yet. Cap'n God, have mercy (he likes to be called "Cap'n" now). You can hit me.

Diane Smith, Pillar of Society

I’ve been given an assignment: commemorate Diane
With a poem of admiration, but I don’t know if I can.
When it comes to Smith, here, there’s not much good to say,
My offering of verse, I fear, must be an exposé.

Diane, she is a wily one; though she’s just seventeen,
She’s mastered a peculiar art: she knows to flee the scene.
When a fire’s been reported or a vandal can’t be found,
The officers are thwarted; Diane’s just not around.

When a car’s been broken into or a hefty sum is lost
Or a kitten has been eaten or a boundary’s been crossed,
It’s the strangest situation, for each and every time,
Diane is on vacation at the moment of the crime.

The bane of the police force, the terror of the town,
She'd likely steal the floorboards if they were not bolted down.
She’s a master of evasion and her treasons are concealed;
There’s been not one occasion when her con has been revealed.

Her mugshot won’t be posted on the walls of local shops;
She’s never on a wanted list; she’s never been on Cops.
Her guilt is never proven, but we all can take the hints
When Diane’s found removin’ traces of her fingerprints.

And here is your disclaimer: now, none of that was true.
It’s simply more exciting than the usual review.
I'm the first to be suggesting she’s a marvelous delight,
(But I'll bet she’s found digesting some poor kittens late at night).

I had a lovely evening. I am now officially the Vice President of the National Honor Society, which was a nice surprise. I wasn't expecting to even be nominated, let alone to win. Thus, I'm in a pleasant mood.

Cal's mad at me, and I'm not sure why. Ah, well. It'll blow over by morning, and we'll go back to being Mary Lou and Bucky (I'm M.L.; she's Bucky). I'm a big fan of nicknames. In the past two weeks, I've dubbed Cal Bucky, Sarah is now Tiger, and Bob has been renamed Robbo (Cal helped with the last one). For some reason, I am Mary Lou. I'm still trying to figure that one out.

I'm hopelessly addicted to peppermint Altoids. Curiouser and curiouser.

As I know that the depressing emptiness (or Internet) out there is in antici..................................pation, I will include the final version of my NHS poem in the next entry.

The set-up:
1) Allison is supposed to write a lovely and flattering poem about senior NHS member and NHS secretary Diane.
2) Allison doesn't know anything about Diane other than her age.
3) Allison crafts the ode that will follow this post.

Now, if you'll pardon me, I've got to go watch Dead Poets' Society.

Countdown: three hours and seven minutes until the NHS induction ceremony. Guess who still hasn't written her poem?

What rhymes with Diane? Cheyenne? Tie ban? Bi man?

I've got serious work to do.

I've revamped the sidebar. You may bow.

Lately I've been noticing that this journal is a little lacking in quips, quotes, and various witticisms. I'm not nearly sarcastic or jesting enough (as bloggers go). I'll try to fix that. Here goes:

Oh, look at the state of the world. Go look and see what's happening in the news. Isn't it just awful? Boy, it's a good thing that I'm around to tell everyone why society is flawed; otherwise you poor saps would never figure it out. Quipquipquip.

There. Am I doing better? Yes, I'm feeling a little sardonic right now. But good-sardonic. Not scathing-sardonic, just mellow-sardonic. Sardonic is a good word. Brzap. Signing off, (twirl) this is Sheldon...

T.-i.-m.-r.-o.-t.-d.: Vladimir. Vladimir is an original-issue iMac (meaning he's Bondi blue and about four years old). He's named after a certain former leader of the U.S.S.R.

Vlad is slightly disfigured; his CD-ROM drive is angled slightly inward after a memory-installing mishap. He's also had something up with one of his extensions ever since I tried to install Mac OS 9. Consequently, he runs on the lowly OS 8.6 and has a special set of extensions enabled at all times so that he doesn't crash. I suppose I could have a professional fix him, but that costs money. Vlad, dear, you aren't worth it.

Vlad has a 233 mHz processor (I don't know what that means) and 96 MB of RAM (that has something to do with how much stuff I can put on him). I'm not a big computer geek. I use an external cable modem for him. I used to have him connected to my dad's eMac via ethernet, but the ethernet hasn't worked since the OS 9 fiasco. If you're wondering, and I know you are, Vlad's browser of choice is Netscape 7.

Yep, I just posted about the flaws and specifications of my computer. Feel my wrath and boredom and MWAHAHA and all that.

:yad eht fo mublA

Make Up the Breakdown, Hot Hot Heat
Strong Point(s): Steve Bays has an oddly addicting yelp of a voice, and the percussion on this entire album is crazy. Canadian punk has never danced like this before.
Weak Point(s): The songs all sound a tad alike; I get really mixed-up when I listen to this album. And the fact that it only has ten songs just leaves me wanting more (but in a way, that's a good thing).
Best Song(s): There's a fantastic section in the middle of this album. "Oh, Goddamnit" has lilting nonsense lyrics that will stick in your head for ages. "Aveda" is some kind of sick love song...or at least sounds like one, anyway. "This Town" taps into that feeling of hometown hatred, yet at the same time depicts the abandonment felt by those who stay home when their friends all grow up and leave. Lastly, "Talk to Me, Dance with Me" is like two songs in one; half is a bopping experiment in percussion, and half is a plaintive cry for companionship.
Worst Song(s): "Save Us S.O.S" seems like a filler track, and if you’re only going to give us ten, you can’t really afford to have filler.
Other Comments: Fantastic. Buy. You. Now.
Grade:85 out of 100

I didn't get around to posting much yesterday. I was (gasp) cleaning my room. That's a twice-yearly undertaking in Allisonland, and now my desk, card table, refrigerator, and extra bookshelf are all covered in crap that I can't throw away but don't have room to keep. I'd best get back to tidying, as this will probably be a four- or five-day affair.

But first, I'll finish my "of-the-day" items of the day.

Site Update: I've abandoned the guestbook for a comment system. Aren't I getting clever? (Now I'm going to clap my hands and dance around. Join if you like.)

I got into the National Honor Society, and my first assignment is "to write a poem about one of the senior members of N.H.S" for the induction ceremony on Thursday.

Everyone was complaining about it in Spanish, and someone asked me what mine was going to sound like. I hadn't even thought about it, so I offered, "Hm....what rhymes with 'motherf*cker'?" (The asterisk is there for politeness' sake.)

I got home and thought long and hard about this. I have come up with a solution: I'm writing either a limerick or a haiku.

Thing-in-my-room of the day: the raisin. Sitting on my desk, looking down at me, is a ceramic California raisin playing an electric bass. The raisin is purplish-brown with lavender eyelids and a bright red mouth. He's got little white gloves and pale green sneakers. His bass guitar is bright blue.

What I really love about this thing is that it's very obviously handmade. I got it at the Salvation Army store up in Watertown. My only query becomes: where is the mysterious South Dakotan sculptor who bothered to craft an eight-inch grinning raisin?

Disco del día:

Knock Knock Knock (EP), Hot Hot Heat
Strong Point(s): A solid effort by an extremely promising band. The compact disc itself is the coolest thing about the EP; the unused space is clear plastic. I love having a partly transparent CD.
Weak Point(s): Putting out this EP seems to have altered the band’s debut. They probably could have stuck these five songs on Make up the Breakdown to flesh it out a bit. Really, though, Knock Knock Knock is fantastic the way it is.
Best Song(s): “Le Le Low” is pure, unadulterated I-hate-you joy. Steve Bays’ voice seems to have been made for that song. “More for Show” is a carnival of sound and rhythm and yelp. “Touch You Touch You” has a thundering foot-stomping, hand-clapping intro and a primal yowl of a chorus, and “5 Times Out of 100” features great rhyme and elasticity.
Worst Song(s): “Have a Good Sleep” seems a little too angry for Bays’ prepubescent croak to properly convey.
Other Comments: Knock Knock Knock is superior to its follow-up, Make Up the Breakdown in that it never gets lost in itself. All five songs are superb.
Grade: 90 out of 100

Had a good day. Went to Brookings, bought myself a copy of Rolling Stone even as my intestines lurched out my throat in horror. Bought a new notebook to accomodate my incessant doodling. Listened to Room on Fire twice. Got funny looks for singing along to "Losing My Religion" at the Dollar Discount. Spoke and wrote only in sentence fragments. Avoided subject nouns like the plague. Used cliches.

The Evil Bitchmonster from Hell (a.k.a my mother, and yes, I'm kidding) made roast beef, mashed potatoes, and corn for supper. This was very odd, considering I'd had a dream last night about this very meal and woke up with a mad craving for it this morning. I didn't mention it to anyone, and I know she hadn't mentioned it beforehand because she just bought the ingredients today. I guess I'm prophetic or something. I'll prophesy about your dinner tomorrow if you give me 20 bucks.

Being the crazy pseudo-vegetarian that I am, I skipped the beef and had potatoes and corn only. I really am not a fan of cow flesh.

If I ever start a band, I'm going to call it the Nouns. Come to think of it; someone's probably already done that. Fine, then, the Suicidal Hobbits it is. Don't like that one? How about the Zipper Monopoly? The Verbs? The Fedoras? The Obituaries? The Negatives? The Pogos? The Murderous Snowflakes? I'll stop now.

I just realized that if you hold Option and hit Delete, it deletes the last word you typed. Dear little iMac, you teach me something new every da-- er, few months or so.

My Bill and Ted poster fell off my ceiling today and the cats keep stepping on it. My Incredible Hulk "Happy Birthday!" cartera (look at me practicing Spanish) is lonely now.

Since I'm terribly fond of Things of the Day (as you've probably noticed), tonight I'm going to include a Thing-in-my-room of the Day. Today's item is...well, actually, I'm going to kill six birds with one stone and name the bands that have representation on my walls: the Strokes, the Hives, Interpol, the Clash, Bright Eyes, and the White Stripes. The White Stripes are the only ones that actually get a poster (free in an issue of SPIN); the rest are all pages ripped from various magazines. That's not quite true; the Clash images are actually a pair of photos my uncle took at one of their concerts circa 1981. Unfortunately, the Stripes poster has a creepy-ass monkey on it. I hate monkeys.

I'm rambling now, so I'll bid you adieu.

Disque du jour:

The Datsuns, The Datsuns
Strong Point(s): Pretty much nonexistent.
Weak Point(s): Everything.
Best Song(s): "In Love" could be a truly great song if you didn't get the feeling that the Datsuns take themselves pretty seriously (and if the second verse didn't suck beyond belief). If the Darkness had made this song, it would be epic.
Worst Song(s): Every other track on the album. I shudder to even attempt to listen to this phenomenally dreadful record again. I really don't love you guys enough to attempt to find the worst song on this. Almost every one makes me want to jam newly-sharpened pencils into my ears.
Other Comments: I bought this out of the blue, having never heard any of the songs, when it was on sale at Best Buy. That decision will haunt me for the rest of my life. For the love of God, do not buy this. If you're tempted, go get a root canal without anesthesia. Listen to Mariah Carey's greatest hits. Ask a friend to shoot you in the kneecaps and to slice off every shred of your skin with a piece of rusty copper. Follow up by carving out your pancreas with a dull kitchen knife and eating it raw. Then, you will have some idea of what listening to this record feels like.
Grade: 2 out of 100 (and those two points only because I love their name)

I'm bored, and so I present you with a new column-type thing. It's a list and grading system of all the albums I bought in 2003.

Today's entry:

Up the Bracket, The Libertines
Strong Point(s): I love the sheer frenzy and passion that was put into this album, and hats off to Mick Jones for producing it. Also, the drummer is a black guy in a British rock band. Do you get any cooler?
Weak Point(s): I can't understand what they're saying half the time. Dammit; I'm so American.
Best Song(s): "Radio America" is sheerly and addictively beautiful. "Boys in the Band," an apparent ode to the vapidity of groupies, has a cute and catchy little pop melody. "What a Waster" is the best song about coke addiction in years (the actual year in question being 1997, and the song being "Semi-Charmed Life" by Third Eye Blind). "Death on the Stairs" somehow bridges the chasm between goofy and poetic, which is no easy feat. "I Get Along," which sounds kind of like a throwaway Clash tune, is freaking great.
Worst Song(s): "Begging" is totally unmemorable. I listened to this album four hours ago and I can't remember how that song goes. It's not that it's a bad song; it's just that it's the worst one of the fourteen.
Other Comments: Very good album. "Up the Bracket" has the most catchy guitar-riff hook since "Last Nite" by the Strokes, and the taunting "li-le-li"s on "The Boy Looked at Johnny" are quite possibly the greatest opportunity for sing-screaming along in your car...ever. Definitely look into buying this one, especially if you plan on reading NME any time in the future.
Grade: 80 out of 100

I am a very contradictory person.

I tend not to agree with people. It's not that I'll say anything about it; I usually don't. I just seem to have ideals and thoughts that don't mesh with my friends' and family members'.

I avoid conflict at all costs. I have enough to worry about without having people angry at me for having said one thing or another.

If you say something to me, I probably won't agree with you. I might not disagree with you, but it's very doubtful that I will totally identify with your point of view. I don't mind letting you have your opinion, and I probably won't let on that I disagree.


(I have no idea what the above text is supposed to mean...see what I'm saying about 'contradictory?')

I want.

listerine in a champagne flute

I like nonsense phrases and peculiar images.

I am in a rut.

God must have a very short attention span.

I'm pretty sure the Big Dude is out to get me, but he's been failing pretty miserably for sixteen years now.

Either that, or he just has very bad aim.

I am a moron. I truly am one of the dumbest people on earth. Want proof?

1. I have on two occasions attempted to sharpen my pinky in a pencil sharpener (the first time with a manual, the other with an electric sharpener). Why? I'm not sure; I just wanted to see if it hurt.

2. Someone asked me once if I thought the ink in their pen was poisonous. I told them I didn't know, and they gave it to me to see if I could find any small print that said it was. I didn't find anything, so I licked the pen. I walked around all day with a long blue mark on my tongue. On the bright side, I'm not dead, so I'm pretty sure the pen was nontoxic. However, my math teacher thinks I'm crazy. (I later did the same thing with a permanent marker. Permanent, my foot.)

3. When I was little, my friend Sarah and I used to put our hands on/in hot things (lightbulbs, lava lamps, candle flames) and see who could keep their hand there longest. I always won.

4. I've eaten packing peanuts on a dare. They're actually not bad. I've also eaten Play-Doh.

5. When I was about ten, I had friends who lived on a farm with electric fences. They used to dare me to touch the fence when it was on, and for some reason, I always did so quite willingly. I don't know how those things keep cows penned it; they don't hurt at all.

6. Jessie and I once went to Wal-Mart. We were hanging out in the lamp section, and one of the lamps didn't have a bulb. She commented, "I wonder if that's on." I stuck my thumb in the lightbulb socket. It was, and I got mildly shocked for my troubles. That was actually kind of a trip.

7. When I was four years old, I managed to set our toaster on fire. The smoke alarms went off and my dad had to get out the fire extinguisher. I'm still not sure how I accomplished that one.

Anyone who thinks stupidity is hazardous to your health doesn't hang out with me much. Somehow I'm doing just fine.

Is it possible to be high on aspartame? My present state of mind would indicate that it is. I seriously need to cut down my diet soda habit. I'm starting to get jittery in the mornings.

Come on man, you just gotta spot me this one...I'm dyin', man...I swear, I swear, I'll pay you back...just this once, I just need a fix...

Yeah, I'm pathetic and addicted to Diet Dr Pepper and Diet Pepsi. I need to get me a crack habit.

Clean Teeth...TO THE X-TREME!

I got this new toothpaste, Aquafresh Extreme Clean. It's weird. It's kinda citrus-minty flavored and it foams up in your mouth. It's very handy for pretending to be rabid, a la Pee-Wee's Big Adventure or Calvin and Hobbes. It's kind of like an acid trip for your mouth.

Yes, I just wrote an about my toothpaste. Feel the wrath of my psychotically boring life. Feel it. It's a very violent wrath. My wrath will beat you senseless with your own femur, and I promise you, you will feel it then. Growr.

New little tidbit: there's an obnoxious little button at the bottom of the page now that you can click if you'd like to sign the guestbook. Many apologies for said button and for the banner ad that pops up on the guestbook itself. I'd like to get one without ads, but I'm a little strapped for cash at the moment.

Many happy returns.

i am an indie snob!




How indie are you? test by ridethefader

You're just too cool for school, aren't you? You're pretty narrow minded
and opinionated with regards to music (and probably most other things
as well). But you're allowed to be, because you really are better
than everyone else. You take pride in obscurity.
You probably prefer vinyl too, you elitist bitch.


This concerns me.

I just reread the last post, and yes, I'm aware that it doesn't make any sense. I realize that it makes me look crazy.

Sometimes I get confused and start to ramble, and what better place to do it than on the Internet?

Bear with me.

I'm stuck.

I feel like I'm choking. The air in my house is heavy with some kind of familial ties, but they just don't reach to me. I'm detached. I feel alone up here in the far room, and that's how I like it. Sometimes I think I could move away and never see my family again...sometimes I think that I wouldn't mind that at all.

This won't make any sense, but I've gotten to feeling like I'm a vinyl record. Somehow I just see myself that way. It's like I keep trying to pick up the needle and clean it off, but the needle's stuck in the same groove, playing the same song, over and over and over. The needle just drags around the record, collecting dust, wearing out that single groove. I'm afraid that the needle will wear straight through the vinyl.

Someone asked me if I was afraid to die. I'm not. Don't get me wrong; I don't want to die. I just think that I could do it. I don't want to die for a long time though...I think I've got something to prove yet.

I cannot stop listening to "Waste of Paint." I cannot take it off repeat. Why does this song affect me this way?

I miss Omaha so much. I really do, and this Bright Eyes album is only making it worse.

I keep a sort of collection of stream-of-consciousness thoughts in a file on my computer. I was sifting through them to see if there were any I might post on this. An odd proportion of those thoughts are about Omaha; they're all silly things like, "Omaha's the place where I should be," and "Where can I go? Omaha."

I don't know what draws me to Omaha. I've never lived there; my only connections are the fact that my aunt and uncle and my grandmother live there. I've spent a week in Omaha every summer since I was four (except this past summer...grr, work). Somehow, though, Omaha feels more like home than Arlington.

I'd like to go to college in Omaha, but there's no school there that's very tempting. If anybody out there goes to a nice Omaha university, please email me about it.

I miss my Omaha.

Out of curiosity, I bought Bright Eyes' LIFTED or The Story is in the Soil, Keep Your Ear to the Ground on clearance at Sam Goody today.

Yow.

Now, not only am I depressed, I've had "Waste of Paint" on repeat for three hours.

It's weird to hear a song reference a cathedral in which you regularly go to Mass (especially if your aunt writes said cathedral's school newsletter and if your uncle is the president of the parish council).

I guess what SPIN has been saying is true. Conor Oberst just might be the Messiah.

"What part of 'take off eight inches and then leave it alone' did she misinterpret to mean 'make me look like a fricking poodle'?!" - Allison, on 7 September, just after getting her yearly haircut. From now on, I cut my own hair.

Tomorrow is Sunday, and that means that tomorrow is laundry day. I'll hate doing it, but it needs to be done. I have no clean jeans and I'm down to two shirts.

Next year I want to be Margot Tenenbaum for Halloween.

I just finished reading Lord of the Flies in algebra yesterday. I don't think I'll be emotionally ready for another psychologically-taxing book for the next fifty years.

If you haven't read Lord, do it. It's interesting and a little confusing for 30 pages, unbelievably boring for 120 (unless you really think about it), and drop-dead terrifying for the last 30. And then it ends very conveniently.

Isn't it funny how the second everything seems to be going unusually ok, the entire world comes crashing down?

"Who'd have ever thought that I'd end up trapped in a room with Billy Joel, Mr. Kones, and a popcorn patty?" Thanks, Cal.

Welly, welly, welly, welly, welly, welly, well. I just reread the last entry, and my word, I was cranky. Many apologies (or appy-polly-loggies; sorry, couldn't resist).

For some reason I've been quoting A Clockwork Orange like crazy for the past few days. It's weird; I've neither seen the movie nor read the book since last...um, April, I think.

My seven-year-olds were cute tonight. We talked about Galileo and the Catholic Church's disapproval of his idea that the earth revolves around the sun. I don't think they got it. (Coincidentally, I discovered today that the Vatican never officially stated that Galileo might just be right until 1983. We Catholics sure are on the up-and-up.)

Did I mention that I got hugged during lunch today? Randi, a cousin of my friend Katie and one of my usual baby-sitting charges, charged me as I was leaving and surgically attached herself to my leg. She's five years old and in kindergarten. She then proceeded to introduce me to her friend Heidi like this: "That's Heidi she's my friend she always sits by me she brought her lunch do ya see look Heidi this is Allison and she's my friend too and Allison look at Heidi she always brings her lunch." I replied with, "Hi, Heidi. I always brought my lunch in kindergarten too." Heidi beamed shyly and looked very hard at her sandwich. Aww.

How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop? The world may never know. Sigh.

Many happy returns, you vast binary void that is the Internet. Sleep tight.

Why does my Spanish teacher, Mrs. Crane, always think I'm something I'm not?

She wished me luck for the oral interp meet last week. I'm not in oral interp. I haven't done any of that stuff since the eighth grade. She's only been employed at the school for three months; why would she think that? I'm baffled.

That woman is also guilty of telling me, "Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot you were a vegetarian." Um, no. I'm not a vegetarian...never have been. I like meat. (I've heard that one before though; for some reason, if you're liberal in this town, half the community thinks you're a vegetarian. I've had seven people ask about it in the last six months or so.)

At parent-teacher conferences, my father mentioned that I was friends with Jessie. Mrs. Crane was absolutely shocked. Granted, it is an odd pairing, but still.

We did a mock fashion show for the second graders today. We wore goofy costumes and told the kids the names of the various clothing articles in Spanish. When we had the vote on it a fortnight ago, I voted against it. Mrs. Crane's response was to accost me in the lunchroom later on: "Why don't you want to do it? I knew you were quiet, but I thought you'd like this! I didn't know you were so shy!" Nope, not quite. I'm not a theatrical person; I don't like being looked at.

The last thing she accused of me this week was of being a picky eater. Ok, that one I'll admit to. Really, though, I prefer to think of it as being a food purist. We made a bunch of Mexican dishes for lunch today. I'm not big on beef, so I skipped the tacos and taco salads. (This is what prompted the vegetarian apology.) When I picked out some tortilla chips, everyone was shocked that I ate them plain. "Why don't you have salsa or cheese or something?" Truth be told, I don't like to mix foods. I make exceptions for pizza, cheeseburgers, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches; otherwise, I'd prefer the components separate. I know, I know. I'm kind of high-maintenance about food (believe me, I feel bad).

Maybe I should just start meeting people's expectations and crap. Hey, everybody, let's all conform like crazy!

"...imitation is suicide..." Thank you, Ralph.

There's no one left to talk to.

This is a picture I drew in Spanish class. It's a remarkably lifelike rendering of children outside their school post-cancellation of their afternoon classes. In the corner, an almost photographic-caliber sketch of the tyrannical superintendent is visible. This amazing work is clearly an incredibly talented artist's attempt to capture the joy and delight that invariably ensues when the common people manage to overthrow the fascist dictator.

And now, for your enjoyment, I present "Snow Day: A Study of Rebellion."

Thoughts:

1. Insatiable curiosity is an inevitable product of a small-town upbringing.
2. I need new contacts.
3. Google is a marvelous piece of net-engineering.
4. I like making lists.

There's a nice wintry new template to go with the weather. Don't worry; I won't leave it up long. I'm not a pastel person.

Hi, hi, hi there. (Yeah, I'm a geek, and so are you if you recognized that.)

It's snowing like crazy right now. Heck, I'd even go so far as to say that it's snowing like a banshee (you know those banshees and their precipitation). Snowsnowsnow all day, and do you think we got out of any school? Of course not; that would be too convenient. There's nothing more evil than a school administrator who doesn't let out classes on a day like today.

Not much to report today. My Spanish teacher has an overdeveloped sense of irony; today's vocabulary lesson was "Things at the Beach." That's just cruel when you live in one of the big square states in the middle (not to mention during the first big snowstorm of the year).

Aha -- I'm happy and a little shocked to report that the grand ol' HS took second place in the marching competition on Saturday. Well, second place in class B. Out of four bands. Shut up.

We were beaten by Wessington Springs. Those bastards think they're so cool in their feathered cowboy hats with their "Magnificent Seven" (and not the Clash version). OUR HIGH SCHOOL MARCHING BAND RULES!

I love subtlety in sarcasm.

This didn't fit in with the last post, so I saved it for a new one.

I am terrified of nutcrackers. I hate them. This would explain why I stalked Jessie through the blender aisle of Target, clicking this really creepy nutcracker guy's mouth and saying (in my best James Earl Jones voice), "I am going to eeeeeat...yooooour...SOULLLLLLL..."

I also hate china dolls, monkeys, clowns, and especially mannequins. I hate anything that's anthropomorphic to that degree.

This car-dealership owner in town donated twenty eighteen-inch china nun dolls to our church. I was okay with it when we had them in the parish hall, but one Sunday we go to Mass, and the little nuns were everywhere. In front of the altar, around the pulpit, in the windows...I was seriously disturbed. It was like "Attack of the Midget Nuns." Fortunately, they were back in their padlocked case by the next week. I seriously might have gone crazy otherwise.

Someday I'll tell you my other stories about this particular fear. I know it's kind of weird, but I just find anthropomorphic things scary. (Did I mention that my father was killed by a clown? I'm lying; that particular phobia stems from repeated childhood viewings of Pee-Wee's Big Adventure.) Goodnight.

My favorite hobby is people-watching. Jess and I went up north today and hung out at the mall for an hour or two.

Today I saw an older woman, probably mid-sixties, walking with a girl (whom I presumed to be her granddaughter) in the mall. The girl was totally nondescript, but the woman was another matter. She was quite grandmotherly; silver hair, small gold earrings, a nice laugh. However, she was clad in a leopard-print jacket, which Jessie referred to as a "Who shot the couch?" coat. The woman was also wearing plaid flannel pants, and here's the kicker (pun intended): bright purple wrestling shoes with lime green stripes. She's either senile or my idol.

Later, we went to Pizza Hut, and halfway through our meal, a girl and two guys came in. I'd guess they were about seniors in high school. The girl and one of the guys were both pretty boring, other than the fact that the guy had painted his fingernails black. However, the third boy had on a red t-shirt, black jeans, a black woman's sweater, a black choker, and enough makeup to make Robert Smith wonder. Jessie was scandalized. I guess that if that's what he's into, good for him for having the guts to wear it in public.

I also observed a clueless woman at ShopKo buying her eight-year-old daughter the world's ugliest snowboots -- pale tan suede with strips of cream-colored fur glued on at even intervals. The woman kept harassing the shoe employee about "whether these boots were waterproof" and if this spray-on protectant "would be okay for these cute little things." Tragic.

It's rare that you see three interesting things in one day.

I like irony (perhaps a bit too much). I enjoy wearing odd things for the humor that's in it. I listen to obscure music. And so the question becomes: am I a hipster?

It was only recently that someone asked me this. I’ve never really thought about it, but the more I do, the more confused I get. I do engage in a lot of activities that some might consider hipsterish, but I despise the idea of consciously being so. I don’t make an attempt at being cool. I’m not cool. There are certain things I like, but I do/have/use them because I like them, not because they’re considered cool by the masses.

I present to you my analysis, in a handy-dandy list format.

Arguments for the idea that YES, I am a hipster:

• I own a pair of checkered Vans. (Before you point and accuse me of unabashed hipsterity, let me tell you that they were a gift.)
  
• I’ve used the terms “neo-garage” and “post-punk” to describe bands.
  
• I like guys that wear Chuck Taylors. I don’t own a pair, but my mental checklist of “Things I Like in a Guy” has “ownership of a pair of beat-up Converse” right near the top.
  
• I carry my books in a messenger bag. I have for years, and I never have any intention of doing otherwise. It’s just more practical.
  
• I listen to Elvis Costello and Devo. I don’t know if that’s hipster or just geeky.
  
• I’m politically very liberal. I just don’t like Republicans.
  
• I own an album put out by Matador. For the record (pun intended), it’s Interpol.
  
• I’m looking only at liberal arts colleges for my applications.
  
• I don’t have a job. I quit my job at a grocery store. Occupations are passé. Why work when you can get checks for taking surveys on the Internet?
  
• Obviously, I keep an online journal. Yeah, um...kill me now.
  
• I listen to lots and lots of different kinds of music, excluding New Age, Christian rock, country, and rap metal.
  
• I own and use a twenty-year-old record player. I mostly play Clash records.
  
• I know theme songs and commercial jingles that date back to long before I was born. In my defense, my father used to sing them when they’d get stuck in his head.
  
• I avoid haircuts like the plague. I get one every year. I’ve also cut my own hair.

Arguments for the idea that NO, I am not a hipster:

• I live in small-town South Dakota.
  
• I use grossly outdated slang, and I like it.
  
• I teach CCD on Wednesday nights.
  
• I have never and would never wear a pair of horn-rimmed glasses.
  
• I hate people who try to wear trucker hats ironically. You’re not clever, you’re not edgy. People in South Dakota have been wearing them for years, both ironically and not so. Who do New Yorkers think they’re kidding?
  
• I also don’t think you’re allowed to wear newsboy caps unless you sold newspapers in 1912.
  
• Facial hair has never been, is not, and never will be cool. I will not budge from this position.
  
• I don’t like Guided by Voices.
  
• I’ve never been to NYC.

Arguments for the idea that WELL, I’m kind of borderline:

• I still like Weezer, but I definitely liked the blue album best.
  
• I like Interpol, but I think they’re grossly overrated.
  
• I like the Strokes. Yep. I don’t care what you say. Good music is good music. Screw the non-believers.
  
• I wear sweaters fairly often. Not totally hipster, but getting there. I also wear a fifteen-year-old “Arlington 300-Mile Club” cross-country t-shirt regularly. The key thing that makes this borderline is that I actually have a connection to the shirt.
  
• I shop at thrift-stores. Namely, Goodwill.
  
• I like guys with shaggy hair. I hate guys who are conscious of cultivating a “look.”
  
• I find Ralph Nader interesting, but firmly believe that he royally screwed up the 2000 election.
  
• I’ve been known to make references to Evil Dead and The Breakfast Club. The key? I don’t care who knows it.
  
• I can’t stand hipsters.

I'd have to conclude that I'm not a hipster (thank God). I'm not cool. I know that. I really don't think that I am one, but then, I can't really judge myself. Argh. What do you, the person who accidentally stumbled across this when you clicked the wrong link on the Blogger home page, think?

Tomorrow I'm going to treat Supernouveau to a mini-essay. I'd post it now, but I feel silly for posting as much as I do. I've also already written two long entries today, and I don't want to bog this down with three in one day.

I'm sure that once the novelty of all this wears off, posts will be shorter and will number fewer.

Now it's snowing.

Went up north to shop; apparently bad weather brings out the mullets. I scored a record 85 points in the mullet game.

For those of you who haven't been initiated, the mullet game is a people-watching activity. It's native to South Dakota (well, my version is anyway), and works best in the Midwest and the South. I could probably do better at it if I gave up every shred of my integrity and went to Sturgis one of these years, but then I'd probably go insane.

(On a side note, Sturgis is a yearly motorcycle festival held out in Sturgis, a town by Mount Rushmore. It's pretty much an excuse for accountants from Florida to wear leather and ride Harleys up here and pretend that they're badasses. Don't bother trying. We know you drive a minivan every other day of the year. Just because we're hicks doesn't mean we're stupid.)

Anyway, here's the official point system for the mullet game:
5 points: Run-of-the-mill mullet. Must be a white male anywhere from the ages of 18 to 59.
10 points: Old guy mullet. The sporter must be at least 60 years old (or look it). These are rarer; most people have come to their senses by then. If you can get a discount at Perkins, you're too old for a mullet. Hell, you're always too old for a mullet.
10 points: Teen mullet. Any guy with the hairstyle that's under 18 but old enough to know better.
15 points: Child mullet. This one is worth more points because it's extra cruel. Parents, don't be mean. Let your kid get a regular haircut. If another member of the family has a mullet, you get all the points plus a bonus five for family mulletude.
15 points: The femullet. Any woman with a mullet. Teen/child mullets on girls earn points for both the age and gender (i.e., a little girl with a mullet is worth 30 points). There's no such thing as the "old" mullet here; a good majority of femullets belong to senile old ladies.
15 points: The skullet. This is when the wearer is bald, but is still trying for the look. Gives new meaning to the whole "short in front, long in back" saying.
20 points: The rat-tail. Here we have the mullet's younger, white-trashier cousin. In first grade, I knew a kid named Matt who had a pretty impressive rat-tail. Almost always found on children.
25 points: The Native American mullet. Out of the ordinary, but trust me, it's out there.
50 points: The Meximullet. Any Hispanic/Latin mullet. Pretty rare.
100 points: The Mullet-of-Other-Origin. This is for mullets that are neither caucasian, N.A., nor Hispanic. I've never seen one, but they must exist.

And that, my friends, is the Mullet Game. Have fun. By the way, I've never felt more redneckish than right now. Yes, I've devoted hours to developing and practicing this pasttime. Leave me alone.

Today was our first (and only) marching band competition. We marched at the homecoming parade of the local university. We were the third band, and I'm quite sure we embarrassed ourselves. At any rate, we did a lot better than last year. Damned by faint praise.

It was cold. We didn't get the snow that had been predicted, but it was 26˚ Fahrenheit. Brr.

Among the odd things I saw today: several obviously smashed people pretending to direct the bands, some hungover college girls with their hands over their ears to block out the music, and three frat guys in bedsheet-togas cheering and waving Subway cups. Honestly, it's ten o'clock in the morning. Have a little dignity. Also, I'd laugh if the toga guys ended up with frostbite.

There's nothing quite so vaguely amusing as when your marching band uniforms are older than your band director. Granted, Band Dude (I've never used his name) is 22. I was in eighth grade when he was a senior. Trust me, it's weird.

I hate to admit it, but I kind of enjoyed marching in 23-year-old band uniforms while playing "Spania!" a dozen times for several hundred completely wasted college kids.