Am I the only person in the world who doesn't have OS 9?

On a related note, if there's anyone who has a vague idea why it won't run on my iMac, your help would be much appreciated. I'm going to kill Photoshop.

Ok, folks, here's the situation: a new design for Supernouveau has been conceived and drawn. So...I'll be doing my damnedest to translate said design into HTML over the next few days. It'll still be the same layout, and most of the features will be the same; we're just talking a new color scheme and a couple of different images. We'll see if I can actually deliver on this one. Cheers, kidlets, and forgive me if I don't post much for couple of days. (I think you could use the break anyway.)

I heard the song "Da Da Da" on the local rock radio station as I was driving to Watertown the other day. What a time warp. Nothing takes me back to the summer of 1997 like that song.

That was the summer I turned ten years old. I got a ten-speed bike for my birthday, and rode it to my best friend Kelly's house almost every day. That was the summer I bought my first CD, which, unfortunately, was Hanson's Middle of Nowhere. In my defense, I actually owned and loved London Calling prior to that--Hanson was just the first one I actually bought.

That was the summer that the Spice Girls filled the radio waves with "Wannabe" (didn't you just hate that song?). All the other little girls picked out their favorite Spice Girl and learned the dance moves to their songs. I remember being teased because I didn't know all the words to "2 Become 1." That was the first time I ever made use of my middle finger.

1997 was the year of Titanic, the year Leonardo DiCaprio went from serious actor to teenybopper posterboy. (At the time, though, I could have cared less about Leonardo DiCaprio. I'd just seen Stand by Me for the first time and had serious crushes on Wil Wheaton and River Phoenix.)

We were all enchanted by Volkswagen Beetles that year. It was a little girl's dream; the world's cutest car suddenly resurrected. I can't stand Beetles now, but back then, we all coveted a Bug. Drivers were wanted.

The Notorious B.I.G. and Gianni Versace were murdered in '97. Jimmy Stewart died of a pulmonary blood clot. Chris Farley accidentally overdosed. Princess Diana and Mother Teresa died within days of each other, and not even the Catholic kids cared about Mother Teresa's death.

All the other little girls bought Princess Di Beanie Babies. I went home and watched Rear Window three times when I found out that Jimmy Stewart was dead.

I don't know where I'm going with this post. 1997 was a big year for me. It was the year I really became aware. Jimmy Stewart was the first celebrity about whose death I actually cared. It was the year I embraced pop culture; it was the year that I figured out what ostracism really was. In a sense, it was the year when I realized that I couldn't be a kid anymore.

Rockingest book ever. I found a copy of this book in our school library. Out of curiosity, I checked it out.

Hilarious.

Holy crap, this book rules. It's very earnest and takes itself very seriously; these Satanic teenagers must be stopped. Coping with Satanism takes it upon itself to weed out these worshippers of Lucifer. Guides to identifying Satanists are provided, as are instructions on just how to help these poor misguided individuals.

Now, I myself have never met anyone who claimed to be a Satanist. Clearly, I'm talking to all the wrong people, because according to Coping..., Satanism was everywhere when I was seven. The book was written in 1994, and apparently Satan-worshippin' was the thing that all the cool kids did.

Here's a fabulous review of the book.

By the way, I'm a Satanist. Good to know. I say this because two sure-fire ways to identify a Satanist are the individual's reading of books about Satanism and the individual celebrating on Satanic holidays. Oops. I read Coping with Satanism, and according to the book, some Satanic holidays just happen to be New Year's Day, Halloween, Christmas, and my birthday (July 25). So, yeah. All hail the mighty Lucifer and whatnot.

I have a lack of interesting post ideas. So...

Our school issues AHS assignment books every year. For the last two years, I have kept a "Quote of the Day" feature in mine. The quotes come from music, movies, and books, but most often, they come from actual conversations. Christmas break is boring, so I went through and picked out all the quotes that are Allison originals. Here's a few (well, seventeen) of my favorites:

- “Join German class. Then you can talk to Hitler!” -- At the time, German was the only foreign language offered here at AHS. This was my argument that learning German was pointless.

- "I am not a skinny albino!" -- My friend Rachel accused me of being a skinny albino.

- "Damn you, Cheerios!" -- There was a long trail of Cheerios on the sidewalk in front of our school, and I was methodically stamping on each of them. For some reason I had a vendetta against breakfast cereal that day.

- "Never was on time/Oh, you stupid mime." -- This was my attempt at interpreting the slurred lyrics of an early bootleg copy of the Strokes' song "Meet Me in the Bathroom."

- "Nothing rhymes with equilibrium." -- A line from a poem I had to write as a biology assignment (what kind of assignment is "Write a poem about cell structure" anyway?).

- "The word 'verb' is a noun." -- The revelation that changed my entire worldview.

- "Staplers are not for human consumption." -- Sage advice.

- "Stop talking to me in Norwegian, snail!" -- For a time, I was obsessed with foreign tetris websites (they were the only ones that our school's firewall couldn't block). This particular comment comes from this.

- "Fuckel you." -- I had to do a report on a fungus. I chose the orange-peel fungus...also known as fuckel. There's nothing better than using the term "fuckel" in an oral report for your very naive bio teacher.

- "Actions speak louder than words, especially if you're a mime." -- Allison writes proverbs.

- "I've got a dog, just like Dorfy. I'm being Dorfy Allison." -- My father insists that I used to carry around a stuffed puppy and say this. I was three and was massively obsessed with The Wizard of Oz. Also, I had diction problems.

- "Weevils, they wovvle, but they don't fall down!" -- Yeah, I'm a moron.

- "'Furniture' is kind of a funny word because it has a 't' but the 't' makes a 'ch' sound." -- I'm also very deep.

- “El páncreas! Dónde está el buzón?” -- For many eons this was pretty much the only Spanish I knew. For the record, it translates to, "The pancreas! Where is the mailbox?"

- "Silence, you walking genetic flaw! What cruel jest of nature are you?" -- Insults Incorporated.

- "British people have this bizarre obsession with guys in drag. British people are weird, man." -- What I learned from Monty Python.

- "Buggiwugs...I would like...to smash 'em!" -- Going crazy during Algebra II. There were gnats everywhere, and I was in a Clockwork Orange mood.

Today we're going to play Summarize in a Sentence. (It's a trick borrowed from one of my favorite childhood authors, E. L. Konigsburg.) Why? Because I'm opinionated, that's why. How many? Eleven, you fools. Our theme? Pop music singles.

1. "I Believe in a Thing Called Love," The Darkness: You either love or hate this unabashed Spinal Tap tribute, and cheesily, I believe in a thing called love.

2. "Milkshake," Kelis: As the whitest girl south of the Canadian border, it's kind of embarrassing to admit how much I like this.

3. "Take Me Away," FeFe Dobson: I've heard this song twice and it already makes me want to rip out my intestines and string them through my ears.

4. "Rock Your Body," Justin Timberlake: Everybody's (other) favorite dancin', falsetto-bearin' popstar made a pretty good pop song, but I know a lot of people who still aren't nekkid.

5. "12:51," The Strokes: Between a guitar doing its best impression of a synthesizer and a general "What the fuck are we gonna do tonight?" theme, this song just begs you to play it in your car incessantly.

6. "Ignition (Remix)," R. Kelly: Yeah, it's catchy as hell, but all things considered, R. Kelly really shouldn't be all, "So what, I'm drunk," or he's going to end up somebody's bitch.

7. "Seven Nation Army," The White Stripes: Yet another awesome song in which Jack proves his genius and Meg reassures us of her uselessness.

8. "In Da Club," 50 Cent: Hey, shorty, it's your birthday, and as a present, 50's gonna make a song that doesn't completely suck.

9. "Crazy in Love," Beyonce: After six years, I'm still sick of Beyonce Knowles.

10. "Where is the Love?," Black-Eyed Peas: Everyone I knew kinda wanted to like this song, and everyone I knew ended up just cringing.

11. "Hey Ya!," Outkast: This song just fucking rocked, and it's got its own catchphrase to boot.

DISCLAIMER: I like gay people. I've got nothing against homosexuals. I have a Californian cousin who is one-half of a civil union, for God's sakes. I also have nothing against midgets. I don't know if Elijah Wood is gay, and I don't care. I just like the site.

Elijah Wood is very, very gay. At least I think so. And I'm not the only one.

Don't get me wrong; I really like Elijah Wood. He's very talented, he has pretty eyes, he was a good child actor, he's a good adult actor, he desperately needs dental work, etc. But the boy sure doesn't act very straight. Did you see Saturday Night Live? Hm. He did a pretty decent impression of Jai Richardson, and he made a disturbingly convincing Boy George. Certain sites have begun referring to him as "Elijah 'Just Barely in the Closet' Wood." And, um, Franka Potente? I loved Run Lola Run, but she just scares me.

About the actual site: freaking hilarious. The photographic evidence is enough to make even you hardcore Tiger Beat-carrying "Radio Flyer wasn't pointless!" fans wonder. My dear Lord. That boy sets off all kinds of gaydar.

The author gets extra points for making the statement, "Yes. All midgets are gay." Classic.

Jessie and I went to Brookings and caught the late show of Mona Lisa Smile last night. We had nothing to do, and she had free movie tickets.

Wow, does that movie suck.

I didn't expect it to be as bad as it was. I had done the mental checklist: "Julia Roberts? Hate with a flaming passion. Marcia Gay Harden? No opinion. Kirsten Dunst? Eh. Julia Stiles? Like. Maggie Gyllenhaal? Love. Topher Grace? Adore." I guess I figured it couldn't be horrible with a big-name cast like that. Now that I've seen it, all I can think is, "What were Topher and Maggie thinking?"

Jess and I sat in front of a terribly stereotypical teenage couple, very obviously on a date. The girl was a sin against nature; she was the type who's convinced she's cuter than cute. In reality, she's fake blonde, way overtanned, too glittery for her own good, and wearing the world's ugliest "Vogue-says-it's-sexy" coat. Her boyfriend was a very nondescript 17ish guy.

As the movie ended and the credits started rolling, I couldn't help but loudly declare, "That sucked!" Blondie was insulted, but her boyfriend muttered, "Thank you."

Jessie has declared Mona Lisa Smile "the worst Julia Roberts movie ever." I hate Julia Roberts, so I haven't seen enough of her films to say, but it was pretty awful. I seriously doubt it was the worst; Mona Lisa was only cringe-inducingly bad, whereas Erin Brockovich or Runaway Bride both appear to be jaw-droppingly bad. I can't judge.

I can tell you this though: the critics are right. This movie is a girls' version of Dead Poets Society. Except that it sucks a whole lot more. And I don't even like Dead Poets Society.

In conclusion: for the love of God, don't see Mona Lisa Smile.

"It's so boring in South Dakota," Captain Obvious decreed. "Therefore, I shall post incessantly to my online journal."

"But why not do something more...productive? Know what I mean?" he asked her knowingly.

"It's vacation, silly. I'm not even productive when I'm supposed to be. I can't possibly be expected to achieve things while on holiday," she replied.

"Say no more, say no more!"

"Besides, I really ought to be toying with the look of Supernouveau. It's beginning to bore me. And being that I'm from South Da-freaking-kota, that's pretty hard to do." She sighed and took a sip of her Caffeine Free Diet Pepsi.

"Could be, could be."

"Really, I'm a mess when it comes to webpage design. I haven't even got Photoshop, for God's sake. Kai's Photo Soap just isn't going to cut it. And what's more terrifying than Adobe PageMill? Besides Microsoft FrontPage, of course. I'm doomed. Supernouveau will stay its boring little self if I can't get some software." She bit her lip in frustration as the peril of the situation made itself clear. "Maybe I could pay someone to design a template for me. As it is, Supe is about the unsexiest little site in existence."

After paying no attention to her comments for a large part of the conversation, he suddenly looked up. "Is your wife a--a goer?"

"What? I'm not married. And I'm straight. Are you insinuating something?" she demanded.

He shook his head before admitting, "Yes."

"This is getting terribly geeky," she muttered, blushing. "I think I've got a problem."

"What's it like?"

Warning: I really love parentheses.

Before I forget, I present (hardy har har har):

The Haul
- stuffed lion that sneezes when you squeeze its ear - Cal
- Eight Men Out DVD (John Cusack...salivate) - Dad
- Pez and Exmas Pez dispenser - Santa (cheap bastard)
- Rubik's Cube (I'm going to paint all the sides white) - Dad
- glass chess set - Dad (he was really proud of himself because it only cost him $5.77)
- giant Hershey bar - Mom ("You're hard to buy for." "Prepositions, Mom! Honestly.")
- Birdy DVD - Jessie ("You wanted the Cage movie about the fucking bird guy, right?")
- Sonia Kashuk freesia lotion - brother (I had to wrap it myself. "I spent 10 bucks on girly crap. Pretend you like it.")
- makeup that will no doubt go unused - Mom ("Hint, hint." "Nudge-nudge?")
- bobblehead Sumo wrestlers (fuck yeah!) - Dad
- Hulk fleece blanket - Mom ("You're...strange. You really like that?")
- squeaky stuffed Hulk - Mom ("I just followed the list. I don't know why anyone would want that.")
- Michael Graves Lexmark printer - Dad ("I got that on clearance at Target! See, I left the tag on it! How's that for bargain shopping?")
- Atari 10-in-1 joystick - Santa


I got the Atari thing. Now I can die happy.

I think I'm getting better. The Mystery Illness originally presented itself as influenza, but now seems to have subsided to a particularly vicious cold. After eight days, it's finally losing steam. Last night I endured only one episode of hacking out chunks o' lung, rather than the usual three or four.

Chunks O' Lung, by the way, is a rockin' new breakfast cereal brought to you by Kelloggs. "There's no wilder taste than that of bits of your own diaphragm! Phlegm-tastic to the X-TREME!"

While I'm on the subject of lungs and food, I'd like to point out something I learned this weekend. For years upon years, my father has apparently been pronouncing the word 'alveoli' to rhyme with 'ravioli.' He mentioned alveoli while we were at Aunt Cassie's house, and I automatically corrected him. He looked surprised, and then began cursing his ninth-grade biology education from a certain Mrs. O'Meara. "I trusted her on that one," he mused. "I knew she was wrong when she used to pronounce 'pseudopods' as 'puh-swade-oh-pods,' but I trusted her on alveoli."

For some reason, teachers have an inability to check dictionaries for pronunciations. Just ask any of my semi-literate classmates in English.

I just saw The Return of the King for the first time. Be still my overwhelmed heart. Such cinematic magnificence was never meant for the eyes of mere mortals.

I'm baaaack. Be looking for part of the Christmas review later today.

I'll be out of town for the next couple of days (assuming the flu situation is under control), so I'm presenting you with a nice big essay to keep you busy.

Fifty Things You May or May Not Know About Me

1. As of Christmas Day I will be 16.4167 years old.
2. The fingers on my left hand are very slightly longer than those on my right.
3. I almost never bother to wear matching socks.
4. I have a crescent-shaped scar on my upper lip.
5. My eyes are "the color of lichen" (not the way I would have put it, but hey).
6. I keep my fingernails short, but I have to trim them all the time. They grow freakishly fast.
7. Sentences that end with prepositions cause me to fly into an embarrassingly horrific rage.
8. I have a thing for comic-book superheroes, especially the Incredible Hulk.
9. The first ‘favorite song’ I ever had was the theme to The Untouchables. I was 18 months old, and much dancing ensued (at least according to my parents).
10. I know all the words to commercial jingles for Oscar Mayer, Hy-Vee, and Fig Newtons.
11. I’m addicted to Diet Dr Pepper.
12. I have a very difficult time getting to sleep, but once I do, I’m out.
13. The last color I painted my toenails was black. I don’t paint my fingernails.
14. I had my Ghost World-type abandonment experience the summer I turned fourteen. The friend was a 13-year-old pageant queen named Jackie (Jessie’s sister, not coincidentally), and I still can’t look the girl in the eye.
15. The first concert I ever saw was Clay Walker at the State Fair (Jackie dragged me there).
16. The last concert I went to was some crappy Christian rock band at a scarily straight-edge club called the U-Turn in Watertown (my friend Katie dragged me there).
17. I adore Swedish Fish.
18. I have four pairs of Levi’s 518s that I keep in constant rotation.
19. The best birthday present I got on my 16th birthday was my pair of checkerboard Vans (thanks, Jessie).
20. Daisies and hibisci are my favorite flowers.
21. I don’t understand the concept of downs in football.
22. I painted a reproduction of Kandinsky’s Winter Landscape for my art project last year.
23. School is easy for me.
24. I have a collection of "disabled elephant" knick-knacks. It's complicated.
25. I keep a list of words my various English teachers have mispronounced.
26. I’ve been told that I do a mean karaoke of “Mickey.”
27. I have smaller-than-average hands.
28. The movie Robocop has scarred me forever. I saw it when I was five years old. That was the same year that my dad made me watch an animated version of Animal Farm and told me it was "like a Disney movie." And that, my friends, is why I'm so screwed up.
29. I rabidly hate clichés, but I use them all the time.
30. I am deathly, deathly shy around people I don’t know. We’re talking Boo Radley levels.
31. For me, dancing is taboo, even though I’ve been told I do it well.
32. I only get one haircut a year.
33. I’ve never met a real celebrity (not counting politicians).
34. When I was four, my parents took me to a political rally to see then-presidential candidate Bill Clinton. I couldn’t see, so my dad lifted me up to sit on his shoulders. I was quoted in the paper as shouting, “Now I can see everything!” Nothing like political opportunism.
35. I hate all the Care Bears with a flaming passion, with the notable exception of Grumpy Bear.
36. At the blood drive on December 19, I paid my friend Clint a penny to eat a spoonful of coffee grounds. It was gross and cool at the same time. He’s kind of an idiot.
37. I have no tattoos or piercings, as I am quite afraid of needles. I also don’t understand the appeal of punching holes in one’s head.
38. I have naturally straight teeth.
39. I adore the smell of Play-Doh.
40. Music and art are hard for me, but I love them.
41. I hate memorization in school. I like logic and thinking problems.
42. My favorite numbers are 11, 13, and 19.
43. I’m very good with houseplants.
44. I have no patience for hip-hop, with the notable exception of Outkast.
45. I’ve perfected the art of tying my shoes without using my thumbs.
46. I cannot sculpt. I was the bane of the art class during our unit on clay. My art teacher had a tough time pretending that my clay gargoyle was anything short of abominable.
47. I can coin-walk.
48. I have an inability to tell left from right and have terrible depth perception. I cannot estimate distances, numbers, or amounts at all.
49. I do, however, have an uncanny sense of direction.
50. My toothbrush is magenta with green and white bristles.

Once, there was this girl who wouldn't go and change with the girls in the change room, and when they finally made her, they found birthmarks all over her body.

I've had "Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm" by the Crash Test Dummies in my head for the last five hours. Tell me truly, is there any better album title than God Shuffled His Feet?

There's a gecko sleeping on my left forearm. Lizards are more cuddly than people think.

Took my English and math finals today. I'm sure I did ok on the English, but I'm fairly certain that I bombed the math. Of course, when I think that, it always turns out that I did fine. I test well. I kicked the history final's figurative ass yesterday. Made it my bitch. Yep.

I went a little crazy at the $5 DVD bin at Wal-Mart last night, so all my immediate family members are getting a DVD for Christmas. Mom gets It's a Wonderful Life, Dad gets Excalibur, and my brother receives...wait for it...drumroll...Terror of Mechagodzilla! Sweet Jesus, how I love Mechagodzilla. They had a bunch of Godzilla-type movies in the bin, so I may have to go back after Christmas when my money supply is more bountiful.

Trivia: I found out yesterday that my dad's brother Bob bought an old movie projector and a film reel of Mothra at a yard sale when he was 11. My dad, Bob, and their cousins Greg and Matt would all sit in their garage and watch Mothra on the garage wall. As my mother pointed out, it's a good thing that Dad and Bob had cousins to hang out with because they were far too weird to have actual friends.

Jessie wants to know how it is that she works all the time and never has any money, while I don't have a job and always have cash. The secret, my dear? The revered institution known as the Money Box. The Money Box sits in my room and somehow magically spits out a couple of twenties whenever I'm broke. Yeah, I don't get it either. Also, when your parents come from big families, family vacations work kind of like automated teller machines.

Say it with me, now...Christmas vacation. Ah, beautiful.

This makes Bill Gates look cool. And damn, it's actually catchy.

All right, kids. Now, you must understand that I am no stranger to scary things. I saw Leprechaun, I read Marathon Man, I've heard George W. Bush speak in public (ooh, snap!). But I cower in fear of this.

Before you click that link, let me give you a bit of background information. The clip is made up of real video footage from a Microsoft developers conference, and the freak parading around on stage is Steve Balmer. Steve Balmer is Microsoft's Steve Wozniak (what is it with Steves and computer companies?). He's the King to Bill Gates' Ace, and I'll be the first to admit that I never understood why anyone would choose Bill Gates to be the public face of their company. Bill Gates is one of the biggest losers in the world, so why would you pick him to be your posterboy? The answer: because Steve Balmer, this guy, is your alternative.

As the site puts it, "Hold me, mommy."

This is a Public Service Announcement...with guitar!

Drugs are bad. Yep. Ooh, and Sominex fucks with your brain. Bad, bad Sominex. I had my American history final today. What's this insomnia crap, eh?

Last night I had two nightmares. I basically have two recurring themes in my nightmares: babies and self-mutilation. In the baby dreams, I am always an observer. I am omniscient and can only watch the carnage. In the self-mutilation dreams, I am always alone, and the violence is, obviously, perpetrated by me. They baby dreams always have a huge scope, and are ridiculously detailed. I can hear every sound and see every child’s eyes. The self-mutilation dreams are the opposite: there is no location, there are few sounds or feelings.

Here are last night's offerings:

Dream No. 1

This dream was incredibly vivid. The babies aren’t really central to the nightmare’s theme, but they’re there, so I’m categorizing it as a baby dream. It takes place in a third-floor apartment in Council Bluffs, Iowa. I don’t know why it’s there; I just remember that detail.

The dream is really about a man. He’s very nondescript. One night, he’s sitting alone by the television, and he reaches out, lights a match with his Zippo (I don’t know why he does this, but he does), and tosses it over by his curtain. The curtain starts on fire. He gets up, calmly goes to the phone, and calls the hospital. I don’t know why he calls the hospital, but he does. Soon a little firetruck, about as big as a VW Microbus, comes. A few nurses in scrubs get out, go up to his apartment with fire extinguishers, and put out the fire. The man thanks them, and they leave.

Here’s where it gets creepy. The man sits alone in the dark for awhile, and then goes to his kitchen. He takes a match--a different one this time. This one is dark in color and about as long as one of the punks you use to light fireworks. He takes the long match, lights it with a Zippo (again, I don’t know why he bothers), and kneels down and touches it to a very convenient trail of gasoline on his kitchen floor. The entire apartment erupts in flames.

The fire department comes, and when the firefighters get out of their trucks (there are three trucks), they hear something awful. All anyone can hear are the screams of children, babies wailing. The noises all come from the third floor. The firefighters rush in and go up to the man’s apartment to try and save the babies.

Now the dream gets a little different. Instead of focusing on the man, I watch one of the firefighters. He walks around, listening to the screaming, looking for the baby. He follows the sound to a closet. He opens the door, looks in, and realizes that the baby is actually one of those dolls they make you take care of in a parenting class. (I had to take one home in ninth grade. I named her Spike. She was a pain in the ass.) Anyway, he realizes that the baby isn’t real, and reaches around to its back and pulls the batteries out. As he does so, the man (we’ll call him Firestarter now for identification’s sake) creeps up behind him holding a butcher knife. Before the firefighter realizes what’s happening, Firestarter stabs him over and over. The firefighter dies.

This happens again. Fourteen times. Firestarter doesn’t always stab them; sometimes he beats them to death. I watch him kill fifteen people in the space of three or four minutes.

Finally, a firefighter (this one’s a woman) sees Firestarter beat a guy to death. She runs over, and for some reason, there’s a Segway sitting in the doorway. She grabs the Segway and clocks Firestarter across the head with it. The Segway flies out the window. (I don’t know what the purpose of the Segway was. Maybe to lighten the mood after I’d watched fifteen people die horribly bloody deaths.) She and Firestarter fight for awhile, but she gets the upper hand when another firefighter sees them. He runs over, and together they kill Firestarter.

Yep. That was the dream. Again, it was very specific about numbers; there were forty of the screaming baby robots. This one wasn’t so scary by the end. It was really gruesome and frightening watching the guy kill all the firefighters, but the whole Segway bit made the end kind of comical. Well, as comical as watching two people beat a man to death can be.

Dream No. 2

I’m sitting on the edge of my bed. There’s a corkscrew in my right hand. Suddenly, I reach around and stab the corkscrew into my left shoulder. I twist it all the way in and listen to my shoulderblade crack. It doesn't hurt at all. Then I pull the corkscrew out. Um, yeah.

I'm beginning to think that I'm seriously disturbed. Anyone got any Abilify?

As I've noted before, I am deathly afraid of banks. They creep me out. In fact, all government buildings have that effect on me: banks, post offices, courthouses, DMVs, anything. They're so sterile and humorless.

Now I've gotten myself on the subject of humor. (Smooth, eh? Not forced at all.) I am not the only one with this bizarre phobia. A Canadian writer named Stephen Leacock wrote about this very subject in his short story "My Financial Career". To this day, this is one of my favorite pieces of literature. When Leacock is good, he gives Thurber a run for his money (apologies for both the cliche and the terrible, terrible pun).

Have at it. Make the Canucks proud.

As is par for the course, I'm feeling better now that it's early evening. I can already hear the cries of, "Early evening? What are you talking about? 5:12 p.m. is late afternoon, you bitch." My reply: "Considering it starts getting dark at 4:30, I call this early evening. And don't call me names, fuckass."

Profanity on a Sunday evening...that's the epitome of everything that's right with the world.

Agh. Don't get the flu. Unless, of course, you like feeling like sixty-eight cockroaches are all trying to crawl out your throat at once. One would think that they could at least take turns.

This morning I drove out to see the windmills again. They have white bases and long black blades. They're behind a hill, so when it's windy, the blades look like they're doing cartwheels along the slope. It's unbelievably pretty.

I am in awe of the sheer number of them. I have a terrible time estimating numbers, but I'd guess that there are a hundred on that wind farm alone. They're absolutely massive. When I see them, I can't help but think that they look like giants in the earth. It's not what Ole Rolvaag had in mind, but it describes them pretty well.

If you go about three miles further east on Highway 14, you come to the town of Lake Benton (pop. 703). Lake Benton is nestled under hills. There's another wind farm on the hillls just past it. As you approach, all you can see is this ridiculously picturesque little town dwarfed by cartwheeling windmills on the hilltops.

There's a red brick-and-wooden barn out in front of the first wind farm. It's totally abandoned, and under a sky that's bluer than blue, it's beautiful against the windmills. It's like a perfect melding of the old, the new, and the natural. Absolutely lovely.

If you've never seen a wind farm, you have no idea just what I'm talking about. If I can find my digital camera, I'll take pictures next time I go out there. Suffice it to say that it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. The Lake Benton wind farms are utterly breathtaking.

Warning: the following is a diatribe containing introspection, self-pity, and a general woe-is-me attitude. I hate it when I write these things. I'd delete it, but I'm just not into censoring myself.

I have the beginnings of what appears to be the flu. I spent the day driving around for a couple of hours before I ended up back in bed, watching movies and reading my literature book. I don't have lit homework, I just like exposing myself to the stories and poetry. It makes me feel reasonably well-read.

I watched Stand by Me again. The problem with this movie is that it depresses me. It only reminds me that I have yet to have any kind of defining experience. My life has been a long stretch of nothingness. Day after day of an idle mind and daydreams that contrast sharply with a stark, boring reality.

I have never attended a funeral. I've known people who have died, but they were great-grandparents I never met, grandfathers I was too young to know, and boys who were friends of friends.

I have never won anything important; I'm a retired veteran of spelling bees (two years regional champion, two second-place State trophies). I was a one-trick has-been at thirteen.

I am far too shy for my own good. I have few close relationships with people. My father and I are intellectually close, but our familial relationship is strained. I wish he'd hug me once in awhile. I barely know my uber-career-centered mother. My brother and I don't associate for reasons unknown. My only close friends are Cal and Jessie. Cal is there for me when I'm happy, but she's nowhere to be found when I'm not. I have known her for eleven years and I never seen her cry. Jessie keeps secrets from me and doesn't really know who I am. I have never met an adult whom I could trust. I have never dated.

I am deathly afraid of change, ambition, and the future. I am terrified of failure. I am terrified of disappointing my father again. I'm afraid I'll never get away.

I guess what this all leads to is the drive that I took today. I drove east. For fifty miles. I drove across the border to Minnesota to see the wind farms. Ever since I was little, I've loved the long rows of windmills. I turned back when I reached Lake Benton. In the last two weekends, I have driven to nowhere twice. Last week I went west, this week I went east. When I do it, I desperately wish that I didn't have to come home.

At lunch in the school cafeteria, I sit at what has been affectionately dubbed "the Weird Kid Table."

Why the Weird Kid Table, you ask? Well, frankly, the main topic of conversation for the last couple of days has bounced between useless guidance counselors, orange foods, transmission of various stripes of herpes, and The Return of the King. (As the only regular there who's actually read the book, I'm never allowed to say anything during a Return... conversation, lest I accidentally spoil the ending.) Between that and regular rounds of the dead celebrities game, most of the people the Weird Kids don't like steer clear.

The Weird Kid table is made up of two varieties of people: the Intentional Outcast and the Grub. While one and the same at first glance, these groups are very distinct, and each has its own qualities.

The Intentional Outcasts are the regulars. These creatures have a strict seating arrangement and do most of the talking. They founded the Weird Kid table, and they have no intention of ever leaving it. They have no desire to sit anywhere else. While usually docile, Intentional Outcasts can be quite violent when provoked. Provocation can include anything from someone else sitting in their seat to cheap sex jokes. Jessie is usually considered the most dangerous, as she is in a terminally bad mood. Approach with caution (especially after her chemistry class). There is a grudging respect for the Intentional Outcasts (or at least they'd like to think so). They tend to get visited by other cliques, often against their will. An Intentional Outcast has no trouble associating with members of other groups.

The Grubs are...well, grubby. The Grubs make up the minority of the Weird Kid table (two seats), but they overflow into the next table. The Grubs are at the bottom of the high school pecking order. They are outcasts, but they desperately wish they weren't. They sit at the Weird Kid table in an attempt to establish an identity. Members of other cliques have no interest in them other than as targets of insults. At the Weird Kid table, Grubs find a safe haven, for the Intentional Outcasts provide a sort of protection by exuding little waves of "For God's sake, go away" that temporarily disable any would-be bullies.

The main differences between the Intentional Outcasts and the Grubs are these: Grubs think the Intentional Outcasts are cool. Intentional Outcasts think Johnny Depp and the Beatles are cool and that the Grubs most certainly are not. Grubs think the Intentional Outcasts like them. Intentional Outcasts wish the Grubs would go away, but won't say it. Each Grub has a desire to be an Intentional Outcast one day. Every Intentional Outcast is deathly afraid that he or she will be, or that he or she already is, a Grub at heart.

Theme day! Today I present: Famous Tonys.

Grr, baby.

All right, all right, that joke was dumb. You're a demanding little readership. I like to pretend that other people read this. It soothes my aching ego.

The venerable Thurl Ravenscroft is best know as the voice of Tony the Tiger, hence this site's inclusion in today's theme. He also sang "You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch" for the original Grinch feature (you know, the one that didn't suck). This is a fansite for him.

I swear, some people have sad little lives. Fansites for commercial cartoon characters (alliteration ahoy!). Strange. But hey, the guy deserves a fansite. I mean, come on, his name's Thurl.

Ok, on to Tony #2:

As a kid, one of my favorite songs was Elton John's "Tiny Dancer." Of course, I didn't know the actual title. Oh, yeah. You know where this one's going.

As so many fools before me, I spent a good twelve years of my life convinced that the lyrics were "Hold me closer, Tony Danza." Yep. From the ages of four to 16, I lived in ignorance.

Earlier this year, I saw the movie Almost Famous for the first time.

-- I've got to interrupt myself to explain something. Normally, mention of a film here at Supernouveau warrants an IMDB link, but this movie is grossly overrated. Don't bother. --

Anyway, it was only then that I realized that the song is about a freakin' ballerina. Old Elton's not afraid of setting off the gaydar. Tiny dancers. Holy pogo sticks. You can't see it, but I'm shaking my head and drawing rainbows.

I told my friend Cal about my misconception, and she thought it was the funniest thing ever. Then again, my stupidity always amuses her. It was only later that I was browsing through the Goats archives and I saw it. This comic. (I know I reference Goats a lot. Too bad for you.) You mean I wasn't alone? Others have made this mistake?

So, I turn to trusty ol' Google. Sure enough, a search of "hold me closer, tony danza" turns up a good 451 results. Without quotes, the number jumps to 1,210. Apparently, this particular misheard lyric has even been a joke on Will and Grace.

I may be a fool, but I am in the company of many.

Quirk: I like reheated Kraft Spirals macaroni and cheese better than I like it the first time around. It's not as slimy the second time. If you can get past the fact that it looks like mouse vomit, it's quite delicious. I've found that I can eat almost anything as long as I'm reading a magazine or using the Internet while I do so. Then I can enjoy cheesy goodness without the disturbing visuals.

No real post today. This is what happens when your intrepid reporter puts off her English project until the last minute. I spent the last four hours cutting construction paper and rubber-cementing letters onto a display board.

I'll see you kids tomorrow.

We had a late start today, so lazy lazy Allison didn't show up at school until 10:15. Then she actually did crap, but nothing that was very interesting.

I have always hated the week before Christmas. I'm burnt out, and all my teachers think that this is the best time to spring loads of homework on us. I've also got a massive Spanish vocabulary test for which to study. Bah.

So Bush wants to put Saddam to death. Boy, there's a surprise.

Believe it or not, I really don't feel like writing anymore, so...

All right, it's the best I could do, but it's damned good. Trust me.

My planned update was going to involve bizarre coincidences and Retrocrush, but things didn't quite work out that way. I can't find my digital camera, so the scintillating story that I had planned isn't possible. Another day, my friends. Another time.

Instead, I can only give you the site that has ben my favorite part of the Internet since I was...um, however old. It's called Mr. Nice, and the music is none other than the theme to The Dating Game. Do I get it? No. Do I pretend to understand it? No. Have I founded a cult with the sole intention of sacrificing lemurs to whomever is the deity that created it? ...Maybe.

First off, I'd like to point out that I am cranky. My cable modem was down until 9:14 p.m. Mediacom is evil.

In Spanish class, we watched Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs in Spanish. Wow. That's some freaky stuff. Seriously, considering we're talking about a children's film in which a hot babe cohabitates with seven ridiculously stereotyped midgets, I didn't think it could get scarier. How wrong I was. I hadn't watched Snow White in years, and I'll be damned if that isn't the most terrifying movie on the planet (in a foreign language, no less).

My physics teacher has appointed me the official reptile-sitter over Christmas vacation. Frank the Gecko will be coming to live in Allison's room from the 23rd of December to January 4th. I can't wait--that is the coolest lizard I've ever met.

A girl and I had a long discussion at lunch about the merits of A Nightmare on Elm Street...that bitch picked the wrong person to tangle with when it comes to 80's horror. She didn't even know that Johnny Depp was in it. The poor child is woefully ignorant.

My county has been in a Winter Storm Warning zone for eight hours now, and we've gotten one inch of snow. An inch. Damn the meteorologists.

I've been thinking really hard about doing my homework for the last six hours, and I think I'd probably better buckle down and do it. Many happy returns.

I'd post something here, but I've basically spent the day avoiding homework. Lots of sleeping and eating, a little cleaning, some laundry...nothing noteworthy happened. At all.

Actually, that's a lie--my parents went and bought our Christmas tree. I don't like it. It's ugly and too small. It reminds me of Charlie Brown's tree. I told my mother so, and I proceeded to receive the lecture on how "you don't like anything unless you pick it out." Well, obviously, Mom. It's not my fault you people don't have taste (I'm kidding, I'm kidding). Also, the tree smells like urine. Bah to the new tree.

Freddy Krueger is the Messiah.

Oh, my Lord, how I love this film. A Nightmare on Elm Street has got to be my favorite movie of all time. Maybe that marks me as an idiot; I don't care. It doesn't get better than Freddy.

My reasons for loving Elm Street are threefold: its general attitude of 80's horror, pop culture's introduction to Freddy Krueger, and and the awesome magnificence that is Johnny Depp. We shall tackle said reasons one by one.

My friends, society reached its peak when the 1980's slasher flick was born. The 80's version of the genre had a certain je ne sais quois, namely, godawful early computerized special effects. This was the pinnacle of technology. Elm Street was not alone in its realization that bad effects were box-office gold; pick up a copy of the original Children of the Corn to see the most terrifying little colored dots that the world has ever known. The eighties were a scary time, no pun intended, but they were also very, very wonderful.

Second on our list is Mr. Freddy Krueger. This was his first appearance, obviously, and at this point in his career he was still playing for screams, not laughs. Freddy didn't have much of a character in the original film; his sense of humor, bizarre killing style, and trademark quips would not come until much later (for the most part). Robert Englund is one of the single coolest people alive, and a pop culture icon to boot. How much do I love Freddy? For this year's Celebrity Dress-up Day at our school's homecoming, I found a black leather glove, a big ripped-up hat, and a red and green sweater. Even in rural South Dakota, people instantly recognized who I was supposed to be. Krueger is God.

Lastly, but oh, Lord, not least, we have Johnny Depp. Johnny fucking Depp. This was before any idiot with a crush on Keira Knightley knew who Johnny was. This is vintage Depp, a 21-year-old nobody in his first movie role. Pre-21 Jump Street, pre-Crybaby Johnny. He's even got "Introducing" in front of his name in the opening credits. This is my personal mecca. From his Bizarro World haircut to the fact that he shows more midriff than Pavarotti in a tube top, Johnny was the definitive stupid-yet-somehow-cool actor. Even now, when people ask me inane things like "Who's your favorite celebrity crush?" and "If you had a time machine, which celebrity would you meet and when?", I always answer "Johnny Depp circa A Nightmare on Elm Street." (And unfortunately, I've actually been asked both those questions fairly recently. I'm a teenage girl, and it's yearbook season. God, I hate high school.) Enough, though, with the unabashed idol-worship. Johnny Depp kicks ass. You already know that. And nobody, nobody does a death scene like him. If you've never seen this film, you must, if only for the pleasure of watching the greatest onscreen murder of EVER.

About the actual link itself, it's basically just a nice article from the venerable X-Entertainment. It's a review/plot summary (with pictures!) written by somebody who clearly knows how to treat the perfection that is A Nightmare on Elm Street. The author gets kind of lazy by the end, skipping over a good number of the key plot points in the second half of the movie, but it's a great story nonetheless.

I just called to say I'm not doing my homework.

Hey, check it out: gnomes, superheroes, and Mr. C.

When I was very small, I was hopelessly addicted to the Nickelodeon series The World of David the Gnome. (I also watched The Adventures of Pete and Pete religiously, but that's a link for another time.)

David the Gnome, as the cool kids abbreviated it to, was a cartoon about a gnome named David who lived in the forest. Yeah, that's about it. It had 26 episodes and one of the best theme songs since that show about the clumsy teacher who became a pseudo-superhero after a bunch of aliens gave him a superhero suit. David was voiced by none other than Tom Bosley, and this elf show would be the high point of Bosley's career (because Happy Days sucked, dammit).

After a thorough Google search, I located the now-defunct yesterdayland.org's page about Dave here. There's a great lack of TWoDtG sites on the Internet. If you need a niche, that's it, I tell you. Give us a David the Gnome page. You'll be famous.

(The other show I mentioned earlier is called The Greatest American Hero, by the way. Here's a ridiculously detailed fansite for it. This, my dears, is what television is all about.)

So, Saddam's been caught.

I don't know what to say. On the one hand, a horrible dictator has been captured. On the other hand, now we've got to give him a trial, and that's where things get messy. For every word he says, he'll gain a dozen followers. This makes me nervous.

Even more bothersome to me is the effect this will have on our country's politics. This is going to be a little too good for the Bush administration. Oh, Christ, what if he gets reelected? Fuckfuckfuck. Oh, Lord; that's the single most frightening concept that has ever existed. Dubya's reelection. I'm going to go vomit and then possibly shoot myself.

Child stars steal your soul. But really, who didn't already know that?

Stand by Me has been one of my favorite films for a long time. The old taped-off-Showtime VHS finally crapped out on me, so I broke down and purchased the DVD at my friendly neighborhood (36-mile-radius neighborhood) Target. What a stroke of genius that was. I've spent the last few nights reveling in 90 minutes of cinematic Eden. For company, I have pre-Kangaroo Jack Jerry O'Connell, a not-yet-dead River Phoenix, the superior of the two Coreys, and the unfettered glory that is Mr. Wil Wheaton.

By now, I'm wondering about whatever happened to our buddy Wil. I do the regular IMDB'ing, but I am unsatisfied. I Google "Wil Wheaton," and what comes up? His personal website. At first, I think it's just your average settled-down former-child-star webjournal, but then I realize something much more sinister. Wil Wheaton and I are the same person.

You see, I'm a curious individual, so I spent quite a bit of time browsing his site. He's a rabidly anti-Bush and rather pro-Michael Moore. Good job. I click "Cool Sites" on his links page, and discover that it's basically a list of sites I've already bookmarked. Odd. Then I poke around some more and find out that he's a fan of Radiohead, the White Stripes, Oingo Boingo, Ozma, and (most importantly) the Strokes. Not bad, Wil. If I'd been born twelve years earlier, I'd have married this guy.

And so that's our happy ending. Wil Wheaton has made it through his glory days as Gordie Lachance and Wesley Crusher and come out the other side as a totally well-adjusted (though geeky even by my standards) 31-year-old webmaster.

My only concern is that on his FAQ there's a question about a supposed rift between him and Roxann Dawson. He says it's nothing, and it better not be. That's my family you're fucking with, dude. (True, by the way. Roxann is married to Eric Dawson, who is my dad's first cousin. Eric and my dad grew up in Lincoln together. Trust me, this link comes in handy when I play Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon. I'm there in five.)

In conclusion, Wil Wheaton is still cool. Kinda geeky-cool, but cool nonetheless. This means that I can still safely admit to my friends that I totally had a thing for Gordie Lachance when I was twelve.

My God, I hate my family. Hell hath no fury like a smart-mouthed younger brother who gets away with everything because he has the world's mildest case of cerebral palsy.

Seriously, if you're a masochist, become a sixteen-year-old girl whose mom is never home and whose dad has unreasonably high expectations. Add a driving case of perfectionism and the hassle of a 14-year-old sibling whose CP only slightly impairs his motor skills (but who can do whatever the fuck he wants because "he has a disability!"), and you've basically got me.

Or, I suppose, you could accomplish the whole masochism thing by deliberately infecting yourself with leprosy. Either/or.

I can't wait until college.

Last night, your very sleepy and extremely caffeine-deprived reporter made a discovery. Namely, I have unveiled what could quite possibly be "The Most Entertaining Thing to Spend Five Minutes of a Friday Night in a Crowded House Doing."

1. Play the classically awful Bread song, "Baby I'm-A Want You."
2. Turn it way up.
3. Sing along, making up the lyrics as you go.
4. Dance, too. You can use any dance, but one in which you bob your head like a pigeon and waddle around like a penguin works best. The Piguin, if you will. Or perhaps the Pengeon, whichever you prefer.
4. Walk/dance up to someone you know.
5. Loudly declare, "I'm-a poke you in the heeeeead," in a voice that approximates a mix between a Southern drawl and any character from one of Finesse Mitchell's angry-black-women bits on Saturday Night Live.
6. Make good on your threat.

Trust me, it's a lot more fun than it sounds. Try it, you'll like it. (Hey, Mikey!) Sorry, random acts of pop culture.

Christmas and gender-switching, that common holiday combination.

Now this is the way to buy Christmas gifts.

My only problem with that site is that I'd rather have almost anything in the "Gifts for Men" section than most of the stuff in "Gifts for Women." Maybe that's why The Spark's Gender Test thinks I possess a Y-chromosome.

On Friday, the twelfth of December, I fell victim to a gross miscarriage of justice. I was causing no harm, simply carrying a lunch tray of nachos back to my seat, when I came upon a stunning development. There was no salt.

I frantically dashed around the cafeteria, searching desperately. I could see no glimmer of shaker. The civilians to my right and left totally ignored me.

As I broke into a sweat, I begged, "Please, spare some salt?" When that received no response, I threatened, "I will kill you and rip out your tear ducts for the precious sodium chloride hidden therein!" It was to no avail. There simply was no salt to be had.

I went back to my seat, and it was there that I had a thought, nay, a realization. The lunchladies had purposely withheld my precious seasoning. They were out to do me in. And not just I, but all of mankind! These nefarious cafeteria employees sought to dominate the very cosmos!

Luckily for me, my intrepid companion Jessie somehow infiltrated the deep recesses of what the less-informed might call a "school kitchen." (Those of us who are privy to the truth know it to be more of an evil poison-producing laboratory of sorts.) As I fought back the onslaught of spice-deprived zombies that marched ever forward, she battled the unspeakable horrors within the mazes of cupboards and refrigeration devices.

Onward came the monsters, and as they shuffled, they groaned and wheedled, "No...need...salt. Salt bad; brains gooooood. Brains, nachos best plain!"

"Blasphemy!" I cried, but even as my lips uttered the word I could feel my mind grow foggy with the power of their black magic. Fear not, though, my dear readers, for your courageous heroine is made of stronger stuff than that. I leapt valiantly forward and drove the fiends back, back to the depths of Hell from whence they came. I fought like a berserker and by the grace of some unseen force emerged unscathed.

It was at this precise moment that my dear compatriot Jessie emerged from the vile pits of the cookery. She was some the worse for wear, but clutched in her hand was our prize: a vial of the purest snowy grains of salty goodness.

Gallant and victorious, my faithful ally and I marched home, triumphantly bearing the fruits (or minerals, rather) of our labor. Jessie was treated and sent back to her cave to live, and I was given a due hero's welcome and immediately crowned Queen-and-All-High-Supreme-Ruler.

The peasants, dear little things, are well on their way to completing my seventh palace. It should be ready come Christmastime, and if it is not, heads will be harvested. In the meantime, feel free to pay me your tributes in return for my not attacking your pitiful kingdoms.

You may call me Zombieslayer.

I'm gonna make you my Joust-bitch.

Here's a nice little article on the one Christmas gift I lust after the most. Forget iTunes (of which I am a devotee); the invention of 2003 has got to be the Atari 10-in-1 joystick.

When I was four years old, my father gave me his Atari 2600. None of this Colecovision crap for me; nay, I had taste. Dad hooked it up to a black-and-white TV with a 19-inch screen, and I was in heaven. The Atari became my drug of choice. I played all the time.

I played Pong, Pac-Man, Asteroids, Indy 500, Circus Atari, and my favorite, Joust. I bet I can still kick your ass at Joust. For those who've forgotten or who never had the pleasure of playing it, Joust was a game in which you were a little guy on the back of a flying ostrich-type bird, and you had to kill the other ostrich-riders by flying into them at a slightly higher altitude. In my own opinion, there is no better game. I even ended up breaking down and buying a Gameboy when I was 13 because I found a Gameboy version of Joust on the Internet.

Anyway, back to my precious Atari. I loved it dearly, but it finally gave up and died the summer after my kindergarten year. I cried, and the 2600 was lovingly placed somewhere in the back of the attic, where it remains to this day. Perhaps I'll sell it on eBay for parts. Who knows? My grief, however, has finally been lifted with this marvelous little toy (though sadly, it does not include Joust). Make your own life a little less meaningless, and buy an Atari 10-in-1 joystick here.

Sometimes you've just got to find the Messiah. This is quite possibly the only site in existence that puts good ol' Christy on the same warm, personal level as everyone's favorite cartoon guy named Waldo. Dude, where's your Jesus? I'd say he's probably somewhere in the back.

Today's iPod playlist:

1. "Amy in the White Coat" - Bright Eyes
2. "Watching the Wheels" - John Lennon
3. "Catch a Falling Star" - Perry Como
4. "Battle Hymn of the Republic" - some big brass band
5. "Ms. Jackson" - Outkast
6. "Auld Lang Syne" - Glenn Miller Band
7. "Let's Not Shit Ourselves (To Love and Be Loved)" - Bright Eyes
8. "I Can't Win" - the Strokes
9. "I Want You to Want Me (live)" - Cheap Trick
10. "Hard Time Killing Floor Blues" - Chris Thomas King
11. "We're a Couple of Misfits" - Burl Ives (yeah, it's the Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer soundtrack)
12. "Wonderwall" - Oasis
13. "Superman" - Crash Test Dummies
14. "London Calling" - the Clash
15. "Please Push No More" - Gary Numan
16. "Close to Modern" - French Kicks
17. "Stop Talking" - the Walkmen
18. "NYC" - Interpol
19. "Shattered" - the Rolling Stones (one of only a few Stones' songs I like)
20. "Yer Blues" - the Beatles

It doesn't matter what Edgar Allan Poe wants me to think. He's dead.

This thought struck me today as I was sitting in English class, scribbling about the various symbolic meanings of ravens and their relationship to Poe's craft. It really doesn't matter. Dead dude writes a pretty poem about a bird. Symbolmetaphorinterpretbullshit.

Don't get me wrong; it's not like I haven't had this particular epiphany before. I'm not trying to say that this is an original thought, especially when it comes to verse you've read approximately 638,924 times prior.

I've always hated reading poetry for English classes. I'm no good at deciphering metaphors and the author's true message. Doesn't it make more sense for me to focus on how a poem makes me feel? I'd rather not worry about the writer's intent. It sounds selfish, I know, but for once I'd like to take an English course that said, "Hey, read some pretty stories and poetry and then just think about them. No essays, no multiple-choice bullshit, just aesthetically pleasing strung-together words." Just once I'd like to take a class that actually focused on thought for thought's sake. Instead teachers can only feed us the same regurgitated slop necessary for various standardized testing that's mandated by clueless cowboy presidents.

That last sentence was too complex for its own good. I'm gonna go find some NyQuil.

News-ish bit: Lionel Tate is getting a new trial. I'm glad; I was never comfortable with the idea of giving a life sentence to a kid who killed a girl when he was 12. Now the courts just need to realize that Kip Kinkel is insane. After that, I'll be happy. I always kind of felt for Kip; it seems to me that that boy needs a psychiatric hospital, not a prison. Maybe that seems ignorant, but I've always sympathized with a lot of the school shooters. Besides, the guy's name was Kipland.

It's time for Christmas break. My teachers are all burning out and giving us study halls at unprecedented rates. Much rattle was played. They're also getting experimental with their teaching methods; today my physics teacher put on a Mozart CD while we were doing our lab. It was surprisingly effective. Everyone seemed much calmer during that period. Interesting.

I must declare that there's nothing better than a good paradox.

Damn it all to hell. Blogger just ate my big and informative news-related post. I guess you don't want my extended thoughts on the Janklow verdict, the Sjodin probably-murder, Al Gore's endorsement of Dean, and a nymphomaniacal cannibal. Here's the short version:

- Janklow is guilty: Good; he broke the law. Sorry, Bill, but a lot of South Dakotans haven't forgotten the fact that you're a blowhard. Also, I just bet the whole diabetic "I didn't eat" cover-up is a lie...it's just a little too convenient that the one accident in which someone dies happens to be the one that's not your fault. You committed a crime, dude, and your driving record didn't help matters (12 speeding tickets in five years?). South Dakota's favorite Good Ol' Boy gets his comeuppance.
- Dru Sjodin is dead: Lots of news in the Dakotas lately. I extend my sympathies to her family.
- Gore endorses Dean: Thanks, Al. We knew we could count on you. Go Howard.
- German sex cannibal: Ew. I cut out an article about this on Friday morning. By the way, wouldn't the Sex Cannibals be a good name for a band? It would be better if it wasn't so similar to the Sex Pistols. Perhaps the Cannibalistic Nymphos? While I'm on the subject of people-eating (which isn't often), does anyone else remember the song "I Eat Cannibals" by Total Coelo? But I digress. Ew.

What, pray tell, is better than an Algebra II class in which you end up having a free day and are allowed to play rattle for fifty minutes? Not much...except possibly Swedish Fish.

Don't tell my parents, but today they paid $2.65 for me to eat half a banana and three packets of crackers at lunch. Yo no como sopa con verderas y carne de vaca. (I don't eat vegetable beef soup. I also don't eat egg salad sandwiches, but I don't know how to say 'sandwich' in Spanish.)

When I grow up, I want to be a cult leader. My cult will worship Chester the Cheetah, and then we will all kill ourselves in order to catch the next spaceship behind a comet. Dangerously cheesy.

Growr.

You head downstream on a river in an outboard. The current is flowing at a rate of 1.5 m/s. After 30.0 min, you find that you have traveled 24.3 km. How long will it take you to travel back upstream to your original point of departure?

I stand by my growr.

All right, folks, let's get this straight: Jesus hates you. He hates me, he hates you, and he probably hates your dead grandmother too. He wanted me to tell you. Don't talk to him; he doesn't give a fuck if you've got a job interview tomorrow or if your cat has elbow cancer. I'm pretty sure the Messiah just wants to be left alone.

Goddammit, Jesus hates everything.

I like being able to say whatever the hell I want. Power is fun.

(This message paid for by Mr. Christ.)

Before I forget, I must inform you of this: I have the weirdest neighbors ever. As I was walking out my door this morning, what do I hear? A nine-year-old's voice singing:
"She's a very kinky girl
The kind you don't take home to MOTHA!"

So, yeah. The fourth-grade neighbor boy was singing "Superfreak" on his porch this morning. Lordy (yes Lordy), I hope they move.

Today I went to Foot Locker in an attempt to buy a pair of red Converse Chuck Taylor Hi-Tops. (Angels want to wear my red shoes.) Much to my chagrin, a pair of red CCTHTs -- catchy acronym, by the way -- was not to be found in any size under a men's nine. Since they run big anyway, and I am a size 6.5-7 in women's, I was out of luck.

Maybe it's just me, but it seems that shoe stores might want to actually carry different sizes of the shoes they stock.

I instead bought myself a pity present at the Ko of Shop. A pair of men's size 4 (women's 6) black Chuck Taylor Oxfords now live on my feet. Much happiness ensues.

By the way, you can be sure that the apocalypse is upon us when Chuck Taylors are on clearance at ShopKo. Maybe they're finally going out of style; thank God for that.

Wristwatches don't like me.

1. When I was six years old, my grandmother gave me a beautiful Minnie Mouse watch for my birthday. The strap was red leather, and the face had a litttle Minnie on it whose arms moved around to point at the numbers. I loved that watch dearly. It ran for a week. My mother took it to the jeweler's to get the batteries replaced. The batteries weren't the problem. The jeweler took it apart, and then told us that there was nothing wrong with the watch. It just didn't run.

2. When I was ten, I got a clip watch. I wore it hooked onto my belt loop. It lasted four days before dying.

3. When I was twelve, I made it to All-State Band in Pierre. My parents bought me a watch so that I'd know what time it was during the practices. It didn't last the day. When my mom tried wearing it the next day, it worked again. When I wore it a week after that, it abruptly quit, never to be resurrected.

4. When I was thirteen, I started borrowing my mom's watch. I wore it at CCD every week because the clock there didn't work. It lasted all of three hour-long classes. She repeated the jeweler escapade, with the same results.

5. I later borrowed another of my mom's watches. When that died after six days of use, she forbade me from using her wristwatches.

6. When I was fifteen, I made a bet that I could stop anyone's watch simply by wearing it for a day. My friend Rachel brought in an old watch. I won the bet; it stopped at 1:45.

7. Later that year, Time Magazine sent my dad a free watch with his subscription renewal. It was big and tacky, so he gave it to me. I thought I'd fool the watch gods and kept it in my jacket pocket instead of on my wrist. This one worked for all of two-and-a-half weeks.

My father has put forth the rather X-Files-ish theory that I have a Bizarro World electromagnetic field that interferes with my watches. He points to the fact that I have a habit of causing computers to crash for no reason--in eighth grade, I somehow caused five separate Compaqs to crash eleven times in one fifty-minute computer class. Two of those times I had merely opened the start menu before they froze.

My dad is also quick to remind me that for some odd reason I simply do not conduct static electricity. When my cousins and I used to play that game where you shuffle your feet on carpet and try to zap someone, it never worked for me. When Cal and I go to Target and play with the lightning lamp-things, she can always get a nice little bolt to connect to her finger. I end up with a fuzzy glowing ray from my fingertip to the power source-thing. Dad thinks this screams electric fields.

I think maybe I just have bad karma.

I'm a whore for peppermint stick ice cream.

Do you know what the second most annoying thing in the world is? PeOpLe WhO tYpE lIkE tHiS. The absolute most annoying thing is as follows: peepz who's tipes lyke thiz, yallz. BUT WHAT COULD BE WORSE, you cry! p33pz wh0 aLl b3 tYp1n l1k3 thizzle, yeah, g-dog, fizzle bizzle crizzle and now i'm just being silly.

Yeah, I just called you g-dog.

I must first apologize. The following entry will be pensive and may verge on self-important; please realize that it is not intended as an ego-booster.

I am addicted to creation.

Humans are meant to record evidence of their existence. We are remembered by what we leave behind. The only way for anyone to get inside our brains after we are dead is for them to read what we have written, to study what we have drawn, to listen to the music we have made.

There is rarely joy in creation. To make something out of nothing causes not euphoria, but dissatisfaction and embarrassment. We are our own worst critics; the things we make are for others because we cannot truly enjoy them ourselves. There is always some glaring flaw that only we can see, some infinitesimal detail that reveals too much or too little. And yet, we are somehow proud of the imperfect works for which our hands are responsible.

In this same vein runs the idea that we have difficulty creating for those who are close to us. Gertrude Stein once quipped, "I write for myself and strangers." (There is more to that quotation, but I choose to end it there.) To expose ourselves to our loved ones is harsh, if not shameful.

And so, I have but this reiteration to give you: One should always be creating something. Always write or draw or whistle. Make music, paintings, anything that takes your thoughts and turns them into something tangible. Even if you’re only scribbling, perhaps merely stringing words together, those scribbles and rambles are your psyche. Put yourself on paper, for when you die, that is all that is left of you. Create. Make yourself permanent. Tell us what you know.

Today was Poke-Cal-in-the-Head Day. "Got a grievance against everyone's favorite weird kid? Have a score to settle? Go on, poke her in the head. You know it needs to be done." Pobre Cal-o was poked many, many times. It probably didn't help that I announced that it was Poke-Cal-in-the-Head Day before the beginning of a bunch of our classes.

Today's conversation comes from English. Have at it:
Mrs. Berg (student teacher): And who is Pluto? Sarah, do you know?
Sarah: Um, the...governor of Hades?
Allison: It's nice to know that there's democratic process in Hell.

Tomorrow I am getting a new car. I went and saw the car today and my dad signed all the paperwork. Since I'm a big fan of lists, I give you the Pros and Cons of Allison's New Car.

Pros
- it's a 1999 model, which is ten years newer than my current vehicle
- it's a nice reddish color
- it's got a big dashboard, so I can actually get the bobble Sumo wrestlers I so desperately covet
- it's cheap ($5000) and my parents are paying for it
- the backseat folds down for added storage
- it gets 30 mpg
- they're giving me a free stuffed animal with my purchase
- it actually runs, which is a big step up from my Cavalier

Cons
- it's a Plymouth
- a Plymouth Breeze, to be exact
- what a pansy-ass name for a car
- it's kind of soulless
- its windshield wipers don't turn on at random like the Cavalier's
- I'll miss having the only navy blue 1989 station wagon within a fifty-mile radius

I'm torn.

I almost forgot to present you with the Verbal Exchange of the day.

Setup: This took place during seventh period Algebra II. We're reviewing Cramer's Rule, which is basically "Here are sixteen variables, now plug in some numbers and get an answer." We're all sitting, doing our assignment, making small-talk, etc. The speakers are (in the order they appear) my friend Sarah, who was desperately in need of some Ritalin at the time, and a rather sardonic Allison.

And now, our feature presentation:
"[chatterchatterincessantchatter] (pause....) God, there are so many numbers."
"Yeah, well, that's the thing with math."

(Not original, I'll grant you, but reasonably amusing at the time.)

Today I learned how to tie a necktie (the four-in-hand knot, in case you're wondering, which I know you are). I'll grant you that it's a pretty useless skill for someone with two X-chromosomes. However, it's been bothering me since my friend Brandon asked me if I knew how to tie a necktie just before the NHS induction (he didn't either). I was unable to assist him, and our math teacher had to come to his rescue.

Now I can be useful...assuming that someone asks me to tie their necktie before I forget how.

On one of the blogs I read, the author was bemoaning the fact that there are no songs with her name in them.

I'll be quick to point out that in the Elvis Costello song "Alison," (yeah, the spelling is different) Alison is stupid and sleeping around. Somehow VH1 put it as 99th in its 100 Best Love Songs countdown. Considering that it seems to be about how much he wants to kill her, I don't really get their reasoning.

Sample lyrics:
"Sometimes I wish that I could stop you from talking
When I hear the silly things that you say
I think somebody better put out the big light
'Cause I can't stand to see you this way
Alison, I know this world is killing you
Oh, Alison, my aim is true." (copyright Elvis Costello and all that)

I'd also like to emphasize that Cal will never live down her song. It's called "Calla Calla" and includes the line "It's the day of mating/Time for celebrating!". I know Vic Damone did a version of it; I'm not sure what its definite origins are.

And so, my friends, do not despair if you do not have a song with your name in it. Sometimes it's worse having one.

Hm. I've been rejected by a blog webring that has four rules. I guess I'm either "famous, homophobic, racist, sexist, or discriminatory against any group."

Look at me being a reject. If you'd like to send a couple of bucks my way to make me feel better, please do.

I wonder if the Mullet Game is considered discriminatory.