Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in Doozel's LiveJournal:

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Friday, June 11th, 2004
2:12 pm	It's been forever since I last made an entry, and I'm still having some difficulty finding anything to write. I'm afraid this spells disaster for any who were looking for a short and focused post. The day to day hasn't changed much since I wrote in this thing last. I've been in a state of hibernation, even though I am aware that this is the wrong time of year for that. . . but, I guess it goes without saying that I'm not your average bear. Of course, I went ahead and said it anyway. So, now it goes with saying, I guess. I've been such a reclusive bastard lately, which most likely doesn't seem like a departure from my normal state of being. I am, admittedly, a quiet person, but I've always enjoyed being around people. It is my secret vice. I am an unabashed eavesdropper. A snoop. Forever looking to uncover as much of someone as I can manage, because it is my firm belief that there is art in everything we do. Every gesture, every inflection in a friend or stranger's voice, we're always giving ourselves away. Maybe I've been afraid that someone might try the same trick on me, and discover more than I would like. . . or heaven forbid, more than I am aware of myself. Perhaps all of my clandestine observation has led me to feel like some kind of intruder. . . I don't know. For all of the time I spend with me, I remain my own greatest mystery. I suppose there's not really anything to lament in all of this. It's likely a good thing that I get myself used to being all by my lonesome the majority of the time. If only I could find a way to be a little more productive while I'm at it. I have been writing more since my most recent self-imposed solitary confinement. Unfortunately, my writing has been about as focused as this journal entry. I'll start something with a flash of inspiration. . . then I lose direction and end up abandoning the idea completely. I suppose one could make a pretty telling allegory out of this, when considering the way my life has been progressing lately. . . but that's probably only funny to me. Anyway, that's all I have. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, April 19th, 2004
1:04 pm	Well, I'm back again, although I'm not sure why. I spent the past weekend working with Jesus in Englishtown, NJ and trying to pretend that I was not the source of much consternation to Jesus and the target of scornful remarks by other members of our little party. . . or, at least, trying to pretend I didn't notice. I feel my capacity for interacting with people deteriorating on a daily basis. It could be that I just take everything too seriously, or too personally. As much as I try to tell myself I'm not a people person, the truth of the matter is I really like people, probably to a fault. This guy ambled (it was actually more of a waddle, as though the exertion of every step was absorbing him completely) up to the booth I was working in, and he had this shaggy hair and beard which the sun transformed into this sort of dirty halo around his face. He gave me this huge grin as he finally arrived in front of the table, as though he wanted me to share in his colossal achievement of having finally reached my booth. I truly was grateful for his effort too, his smile seemed to suggest how silly it was that we had not met before. It was just as soon as the guy had won me over when I noticed the peculiar emptiness of his mouth, there was a single tooth that jutted out of his mouth and pointed at me. It was like an enameled finger that accused me of the pity that I immediately felt. I really hated myself for that. After he walked away I had to put my head in my hands and try to put him out of my mind. . . there really must be something wrong with me. While I was away, the Bechtel household fell to pieces. Which is not to say that my leaving had anything to do with this collapse, but it was really strange coming home. They put my dog to sleep, which was really the only thing to be done, although it is still sad. She couldn't walk, she shook all the time and her teeth chattered, she was in the process of going into total kidney failure and was probably in a great deal of pain. She hadn't really been a dog for quite a long time, as she was stripped of her dignity which I believe is essential to a canine. My dad crashed his bike and broke both of his elbows. I came home last night and he was sitting downstairs on a chair with his arms on the chair arms, which didn't strike me as odd, so I walked up to my room and changed my clothes. My mom then told me about his accident, and I went downstairs to discover that his bandages were beige which made them blend into the chair. Although it is terrible for my poor dad, who wanted nothing but to ride his bike for a few minutes, at least my mom will have something to help her through the transition of no longer playing nursemaid to a dog. Without any subcutaneous fluids to pump into the dog, or chicken breast and pasta to cook for her, she's bound to feel like she has nothing to do. So, I guess having to feed, shave and chauffeur my father will be just fine with her. Although I could write more, I'll save that impulse for something that I won't make anyone else read. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, March 1st, 2004
2:39 am	So, even when one considers my propensity for allowing long periods of inactivity on this here journal, it has been quite a long time since my last post. I guess I'll remedy that now, simply to quell the inevitable public outcry against my silence. Now that I have dispensed with the self-deprecating sarcasm, I will continue to say nothing of any interest to anyone. Mendel mentioned in a recent entry that he tries not to use his journal to recount any happenings of his daily life, but rather to explore other things that spring to mind. I suppose that I have a similar aim in my own journal (although occasional fits of nostalgia, tales of diner oddities and volleyball misadventures do creep into my posts from time to time). I do have to admit that noteworthy events are seldom come by when you are a Doozel, and this may contribute greatly to the scarcity of actual happenings in my posts. . . however, regardless of the somehwat dubious implications this admission carries, I don't believe my life to be any less full for it. I suppose that I have developed a rather uncommon perspective, in light of the fact that I may often be (understandably) mistaken for a mute. . . and likely have the same impact on peoples' memories of many events as a potted plant that happened to be present at the time. I may have an unhealthy reverence for speculative thought which can be "blamed" for the way I am. . . the trouble is no matter how self-defeating, cyclical and probably futile it may seem I can't seem to stop enjoying it. If that is the case. . . here's to vices everyone. This was a strange post, but I did supply a warning right away that this would not interest anyone at all. . . so, as far as I'm concerned I'm free from blame. (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Sunday, January 11th, 2004
7:03 pm	Looking Ahead Today I reached a new low. . . I woke up at 3:45 pm. It isn't as though I had some appointment to keep or anything, but in a way that's what's most upsetting about it. I woke up at 3:45 and it just didn't matter. I could do it again tomorrow without any ill effect, with the possible exception of irreparable damage to my sense of self-worth. Perhaps this is simply all those years of not caring about much of anything catching up with me. I am the sum total of 23 years of apathy. While I have no intention of continuing on this course for the rest of my life (though it might be interesting to see where it would lead me), I must admit, there are certain benefits to this life of mine, the equal of which I have not yet found in more conventional walks of life. The foremost of these has got to be the near total lack of any form of responsibility. . . which as I think about it, probably encapsulates most of the benefits I can name. When all of this sleeping grows old, I will prepare to undertake the boldest quest I can think of in this day and age. The search for a life without restrictions, in which I can entertain my most outrageous inclinations without fear of the repercussions most anyone would have to endure. Loss of job, loss of home, etc. This may mean that I will have to drive my home from town to town, working for gas money and crusts of bread in some capacity I have yet to determine. . . though in my mind it involves pushing the boundaries of good taste and probably the law in many states. . . at any rate, with any luck, these are not conditions of survival I will have to endure. At the very least, I'll be one step above homeless and that's gotta count for something. (Comment on this)
Friday, December 19th, 2003
2:22 pm	So, as has become custom, I haven't posted in a while. Christmas is looming. I have been trying to find a way for a person with no money, such as myself, to participate in a commercial holiday. . . with little success. If only I knew how to knit or make pottery I'd be all set, but sadly, I've never been very crafty. I think celebrating the Winter Solstice is the way to go. It's such a benign holiday to celebrate. The point at which the days start getting longer again seems like a much better thing to celebrate than the birth of a spiritual icon to me. It's not exclusionary, as it doesn't require anyone to believe in anything other than the cyclical nature of our spinning, rotating home. The Winter Solstice this year will take place at 2:03 AM on December 22nd, for any who care. Incidentally, the sun and the moon were around (even the Bible will agree with me on this one) long before Jesus was born. I'm not certain if God was just sick of being upstaged by celestial entities (I mean if He created them, why should they get all the praise?), but whether it was God or one of his desert lackeys, someone decided that the Sun needed to be brought down a peg. Thus, the major holidays of the Jewish and Christian calenders now overshadow the Winter Solstice. I think I'm about done with this now, I'll not try to refute the notion that some of these remarks have been brought on by my guilt over not being able to afford Christmas gifts this year. However, my bitterness toward this holiday is not exclusively the result of my empty pockets. . . uh, Merry Christmas everyone. (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Friday, November 28th, 2003
2:17 am	Today was the strangest holiday I can recall in recent memory. The distinction between the fuzzier childhood recollections and those more recent is an important one to make when one considers the atmosphere of the Bechtel household. . . especially when it comes to holidays. Growing up around here meant the complete abandonment of the idea that any holiday could be too inane for celebration. President's Day. The Chinese New Year. Groundhog Day. These became institutions here. Actually, the President's Day costume party was just an isolated incident. . . so, that might not be the best example. Stuffed animals have been known to picket next to the dining room table around this time of year. There is a certain plush buzzard who took exception to a holiday which consists of people gathering around a table in order to consume large quantities of bird flesh. After his protest fell on deaf ears he resorted to shamelessly plugging Tofurkey as a possible amendment to the planned menu. Perhaps that can provide some insight into the general mood surrounding holidays. As I reflect on it, this wasn't a particularly odd Thanksgiving at all. The only really odd thing was the presence of a certain miniature person. He is a pretty cool kid. I was kinda falling asleep while I was sitting on a chair in the living room right before we ate, and all the sudden I was jarred back to consciousness by this incredible noise. If any of you have ever walked into a bathroom while there is an enormously fat person wedged in a stall with their pants down around their ankles then you may have some idea of the kind of eruption we're talking about here. The floor shook. I just sat and marveled at this little person sitting on his mother's lap, oscillating between a look of confusion and grimacing at the strain, as he was trying to figure out what was making all that noise. I think I need to go to sleep. (Comment on this)
Friday, November 21st, 2003
3:51 am	Well, after weeks of neglecting this journal I have decided to post yet again. I'm sure this comes as a great relief to legions of dedicated readers. . . ok, so there aren't any of those. At the very least, it's giving me something to take my mind off the fact that I'm sitting awake at 4 in the AM, failing miserably at convincing myself there's a reason I should bother to get out of bed tomorrow at all. Although I would love to be able to make some excuse for my lack of posting, like being busy working on some scheme to get myself out of this existence dominated by dog shit and insomnia. . . I find myself unable to make any such claim. Simply put, not a damn thing has happened since I last posted. Nothing bad. Nothing good. Just days passing by as scheduled. The sunrise is slated for 6:54 today. It makes me wonder, does the sun know it has a schedule to keep? Are there days where it's sitting in traffic somewhere, frantically looking at it's watch and guzzling a triple espresso? If it were late, would there be memos from the folks at conservatories around the globe on its desk? It's not as though we could fire it, but leave it to us to try. Seems like everyone's just waiting for the day it doesn't show up anyway. I hope it got a late start today. . . then maybe I won't have to see it before I get to sleep. It's always a little depressing to think that people are waking up, brewing coffee and starting their days while I haven't even finished the last one. I always was a procrastinator. (Comment on this)
Sunday, November 2nd, 2003
4:37 pm	Well, it's time again for me to sit here at my computer in arrant disregard of the fact that I feel a constant compulsion to be working on something that isn't this journal. I have nothing but time to be writing, and what do I do with it? Write stupid shit in this thing instead. So, I'm on dog detail for the week. My parents are off gallivanting in the Caribbean, and I am here vacuuming errant dog urine out of the carpet. In spite of the fact that I would very much like to be sitting on a beach somewhere, I am determined to enjoy my time with the house at my disposal. I plan on frequent visits to the video, grocery, and liquor store(s). If anyone finds themselves terribly bored at any point in the next week, I extend an open invitation to any who would like to come and be fed food and/or wine. I went to Gregg and Kelly's wedding last night. For anyone who doesn't really know them, they're two really great people from Phoenixville, who have been together forever. They're the kind of couple who had forfeited their individual personas so long ago that the liturgy itself acted more as a reminder to everyone that they weren't already married. This is not to say that it wasn't a very nice ceremony. It was probably the best wedding I have ever been to. The ceremony was incredibly short, which I couldn't help but applaud, and it was in this really cool old mansion. I wandered around taking pictures for a couple of minutes before I left. Well, I wandered around taking pictures pretty much all night, but I took some pictures of just the place itself before I left. Most members of the Phoenixville contingent were in costume, which lent to the service a personal touch of the couple's revelry in flying in the face of social graces. Well, I think I'm all through with this for the moment. There's a dog to attend to, she's most likely barking for me to come carry her up the stairs. Maybe she's about to shit on the carpet. This week is going to be enjoyable. . . this week is going to be enjoyable. . . (Comment on this)
Saturday, October 25th, 2003
1:23 pm	It's time for yet another installment of Life as a Doozel. For anyone who doesn't know, I'm buying a car. This is very exciting news for both myself and for all of those people who routinely cart my ass around from place to place. JR will no longer need to drive me to band rehearsals, and Jesus will be free of the burden of picking me up and driving me back to his house. The car is a shiny new BMW. . . ok, that is a bold and ugly lie. It is neither shiny nor new. In fact, it is twelve years old (pushing 13) and the paint is faded and the clear coat is beginning to flake of in various places. However, despite these minor imperfections, it is still a benchmark of German engineering and I will not tolerate any disparaging comments regarding my new Bimmer. It needs to go to the doctor and have some things checked out. For, sadly, the Bimmer has taken ill. There appears to be some problem with its intestinal tract, which results in it spewing large quantities of exhaust and noise out the back of it. A colostomy bag was suggested to me by some anonymous e-mail, it was signed only "Ole." We are all hoping for the best, and expect a full recovery within the week. I am greatly looking forward to my restored mobility, as I am sure many others are as well. In other news, last night Jesus, Rob and I, under Jesus' urging went to meet Dennis at an open volleyball night at this sports complex outside of Downingtown (actually outside of Caln, but probably nobody knows where that is). Anyway, we went in the hopes of adding a bit of physical activity to our otherwise couch and chair dominated existences. It was a wonderful plan, and Jesus was understandably very excited about the prospect of a night of playing volleyball. What we failed to realize, or rather, what we chose to ignore until we arrived is. . . Dennis is pretty darn good at volleyball. Consequently, most of the people there to play volleyball with Dennis were pretty darn good at volleyball as well. We showed up in our jeans and sweatshirts, and stripped down to shorts and t-shirts in preparation for what we thought would be a long night of volleying. However, upon seeing the other folks begin to warm-up in a very organized/skilled fashion, anticipation turned to apprehension. Hoping to salvage something, we started our own little warm-up circle, passing the ball from one player to another. As a sign of welcome one of the more skilled players deigned to join our circle. . . he did not stay long. After numerous attempts at establishing some sort of volley, the best we could come up with was one of us hitting the ball toward the opposite end of the gym - well out of reach of any of our limbs - thus forcing an embarrassing chase to reclaim the misdirected ball. The kind gentleman took one such opportunity to flee the scene of the crime, as our collective pride lay bleeding on the floor, whimpering for someone to put it out of its misery. Once the more experienced player began to line up, awaiting a turn at practicing their spikes. I felt as though I should suggest a gracious exit, in order to save face and not destroy what was shaping up to be a rather intense game of volleyball. Somehow I did not suspect that taking a spike in the nose and walking with blood gushing from my nose to the bathroom would be the best way to participate in said game. So, we gathered up our clothing and began walking out. Dennis' sister asked, "You giving up already?" By manner of reply, I assured her that we were giving right up. Reason had won out and we were going home, and that they should enjoy their game. I said to our little group as we were putting our clothing back on, how much that reminded me of having slept with someone you knew you shouldn't have, then being faced with the awkward gathering of clothes and dressing yourself after the fact. Or as Jesus suggested, a little kid going up to the high dive only to climb back down again, tears welling up. All the while, shame growing to unimagined heights. It could have been really fun, but in the future I believe it would be in our best interest to go with Dennis on a night were he's spiking balls in the faces of little old ladies, as opposed to a night were the apparent cream of the local crop come out to play. (Comment on this)
Tuesday, October 21st, 2003
2:32 am	Another Day So, even though my day was less than extraordinary, I'm going to write about it anyway. I'm trying to force myself to write as much as possible, so I'm just looking for any excuse. Tomorrow there may be a detailed account of how I removed lint from my belly button in an unorthodox manner. . . you just never know. Anyway, I woke up at around noon and chatted with my mom for a few minutes over coffee. Then I stared at a computer screen for about a half hour, trying to force some words onto the screen. After I had about a page of worthless crap to show for my effort, I decided to go to the library and resupply. I owed them a bunch of money for some books I kept way too long, so I figured I should probably return those before I got too many more letters from them in the mail. I just envisioned some stodgy little man in a tweed suit and a bow tie showing up at my door demanding the books back if I let it go on too much longer. The lady at the counter was very excited to have me give her money. Maybe she just liked the change of pace, but after I saw her face light up at working the cash register I couldn't help but think maybe she missed her true calling in retail. She was such a friendly lady, jokingly asking whether they could expect another ten dollars from me anytime soon. I told her not to book any vacations on my account, but that I was bound to return them plenty late again. So, books in hand, I decided to walk to the old Vale Rio Diner and sit for a couple of hours. I don't know what it is, but I always kinda liked it in there. You get your coffee refilled for you, and there are always such interesting people in there. There is one in particular that I am a big fan of. His name is Franky. He is this harmless old guy that rides his bike to the diner. He put this huge wind deflector on the front that he must have taken off a motorcycle or bought at a motorcycle shop or something, and he has like a hundred of those little tree car fresheners hanging off of the handlebars. Like I said, he's totally harmless. . . just in that crazy as a loon kind of way. There I am reading my book, drinking coffee, smoking a cigarette and generally ok with things. Then Franky walks in and sits down next to me. He goes through the same schpeel pretty much every time I see him in there. It's always, "Oh boy, there he is (chuckle, chuckle, wheeze, wheeze). Somebody's gotta educate you, boy." After I nod and smile at him, he settles into his seat and orders his soup. Then proceeds to tell everyone in the diner, one at a time, about this guy that was harassing him for stomping on his hat. "This son of a bitch, he told me, 'What you gotta stomp on your hat for? I says to him, 'You know something's wrong when I stomp on my hat, I do it all the time'." Check. Steer clear of men jumping on their own hats. Once everyone was updated on the shit poor Franky has to put up with from people everyday, he sat back down to eat his soup. He talks to himself an awful lot, but only parts of it are ever intelligible. As a matter of fact, not much of what he says is intelligible, I think I've just heard it so often that I developed a cursory kind of familiarity with what passes for his language. All I got out of today's visit was him telling himself (or maybe me) how good peanut butter is on hamburgers. I couldn't help but laugh. . . which is the great thing about Franky. He always laughs with you. It makes you wonder just how much goes on in that head of his, I bet it's a pretty fun place to be. He's just creating his own little world in there all day long. Must get tiring. I think that's all I have in me at the moment. It's late and I want sleep. (Comment on this)
Saturday, October 18th, 2003
2:11 pm	Mountaintop Ruminations Well, there I go with the subject box again. . . I know it may be a little cheesy, but it seems appropriate. I just got back from a hiking trip with the big brother. We went to New Hampshire and climbed mountains for a couple of days. It was really good to be up there, I've always loved it. The views were incredible, so of course I didn't pack my camera, but you can take my word for it. Just think: fall colors on the trees and snow on the peaks. Oh yeah, it snowed. That was the one downfall of the trip. . . it was fucking freezing. As we were making our decent yesterday, the trail turned into a series of 10 foot drops over sheer rock face. . . which were incidentally completely covered in ice. So, it may be more accurate to call the "descent" more of a controlled plummet. I had a terrible flashback of a trip that I took with JR and Leslie a couple years ago, where we found ourselves in a similarly horrible situation. As we were caught on a trail much like the one I have just described (though it was only a torrential downpour in this instance) - the only major disparity being that due to the rain this trail had morphed into a stream - the sun was going down and we had absolutely nowhere to go. Since it bordered on the suicidal to continue on after we couldn't see where we were going, we needed to find somewhere to stay and quickly. Fortunately, after falling down one of these ten foot former cliffs/current waterfalls, I happened upon a little nook on the side of the mountain. Faced with no other viable options, we decided to try and sleep there. Since there wasn't enough room there to pitch the tent, we concocted this spider web of ropes and straps and socks to hold the tent fabric up over our heads at least a little bit. I was petrified all night, because I was the lucky recipient of the "window seat". . . meaning I got to sleep practically dangling off a cliff. I wouldn't really have minded this too much if it weren't for the fact that I have a tendency to roll around in my sleep. Luckily we all survived the night and we were able to continue on in the morning. As we were making our way down we came upon this huge slab of rock tilted at about a 50 degree angle. Being chock full of the pioneer spirit as I am, I decided to try and get across first. So, there I was shimmying on my ass across this giant boulder when I hear this scraping sound. . . which confused me at first, until I realized I was no longer moving across the boulder. No, it was definitely closer to moving down the boulder. As I was careening toward what I was sure would be doom, I saw the top of this tree sticking up from behind the edge of the boulder. In the hopes that I might be able to grab a branch of the tree on the way down - ala some cheesy action movie - I tried to steer myself over to it. I missed the tree as I went over the edge, and instead, came down with a splat in a big pool of mud. At which point I checked my pants for the poo that I was sure would have bailed out like a pilot before the crash and called back up to JR and Leslie, telling them that I wasn't dead. . . but that they should try to find some other way to get down. Yet, I still continue to go back, despite nearly killing myself on numerous occasions. Maybe I have some sort of death wish. . . I can't say for sure. At any rate, it isn't actually the fear of death that brings me back to the mountains time and again. . . at least not insofar as I can discern on any conscious level. It's the opportunity for. . . well, at the risk of sounding trite - introspection. I know it sounds a little egomaniacal, but in my mind, being "self-absorbed" doesn't carry the negative connotation that it does for most people (or in the definition of the word for that matter). I have been predisposed to that kind of thought for as long as I can remember, and I don't feel as though it's made me a bad person. . . I like to think that I still care for other people just as much. I've been relying on quotations way too much lately, but I'm reminded of something John Steinbeck once wrote. I'll have to paraphrase, as I don't exactly recall what he said, but it was something to the effect of: "A man can never really know the mind of another man, the best he can do is presume that they are like himself." That seems true enough to me. . . no matter how much you may talk to someone, your understanding of them is limited to your own perception; your own estimation of how they present themselves. I like to think of these little quirks as occupational hazards. . . well, prospective occupational hazards anyway. I guess you have to get paid to do something before you can refer to it as an occupation. Details. It seems to me that every great piece of literature I have come across has belied some sort of torment, crippling insecurity, or just general derangement on the part of the author. I find them to be no less endearing for it, they are all people I would be proud to count among my friends. Writing always seemed like an easy way for people to kind of work through and play with their "mental illnesses," a good many of them turned to alcoholism as well, with impressive results I might add. Something about being a drunk just seems to facilitate good writing. . . I'm not sure what exactly, but it worked for a lot of writers Joyce, Steinbeck, Hemingway, etc. I'm rambling again, with no end in sight. If I don't stop now, this will be a horrendously long entry. . . so I'm calling it quits. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, October 6th, 2003
9:16 pm	So, I have recently returned for a brief repose before venturing back into the car show lifestyle. I spent the better part of the past week sitting in a tent watching people walk by. Ideally, my view of the parade of Dale Earnhardt jackets would be broken up by spurts of frenzied salesmanship and relieving people of their hard-earned dollars. . . unfortunately for my own pocket and for Jesus' business, this was not so much the case. I am not quite sure what the reason for this may be. Although I am by no means a born salesman, I don't believe my lack of shtick is to be placed entirely at fault. However, in an attempt to make the best of the situation, I spent a lot of time reading. It was a book that I've had for a while, but I kept distracting myself with new novels from my weekly treks to the library and it has consequently sat on my bookshelf with other neglected tomes. I am very glad that I finally got around to it, because I read with great interest all weekend. It reminded me of a subject that I mentioned in an earlier post, on which I never elaborated. . . I will do so now. Regarding "Hippies". . . First, allow me to clarify to whom I refer when I speak of "hippies." I do not have any complaint with people choosing to live simply, commune with nature, appreciate the arts, try to advocate peace, etc. What I find to be so troublesome is really twofold: 1) the obvious attempt at recreating a social movement which has already occurred and 2) the glorification of concepts which were, at best, peripheral components of the original hippie mentality. So, apart from the objections which can be made by merit of good taste alone, I will offer some of my protestations to this recurrence (at least in the current incarnation). Again, I do not find anything objectionable about the "progressive," Earth-conscious lifestyle which is so highly regarded among the neo-hippie potentates. What I do find disagreeable is the fact that what now lies at the heart of the "movement" is the most trivial and inconsequential leftovers from the 60s I can think of. I am all for organic food. . . I think it's great that organic farmers are getting at least a bit of a boost due to the recent rise in demand for organic produce. I have no objection to people smoking pot and going to concerts, or smoking pot and watching TV, or smoking pot and eating Cheetos. These things are all great. I love food. I enjoy smoking pot. This does not necessitate growing my hair in dreadlocks and wearing patchwork pants and hemp necklaces. It seems this resurgence has as much to do with fashion as with any real attempt at implementing social change. Then there are the peace protests filled with people objecting to America's continued imperialist bullying. Unfortunately, the best they can articulate their sentiments is "No Blood For Oil". . . which ranks right up there with "United We Stand" or "These Colors Do Not Run" in my book. This is not to say that there is anything wrong with objecting to war on moral grounds, I think that most rational people can agree that the United States' recent aggression is unfounded and morally repugnant to say the least. This is the point at which my objection turns to something closer to indignation. Not only does this half-hearted peace rally nonsense completely discredit anything that the organizers of these protests may have hoped to accomplish, but - with the help of the television networks invariably finding the person in the crowd least suited for spokesmanship and likely hard-pressed to put the blunt down long enough to spout the bumper-sticker objection to the war - it also pisses off the conservative majority to the point that anything even remotely resembling that "sentimental hippie nonsense" is discounted out of hand. I guess this just goes to show that people are constantly "missing the point." As 21st century Americans, we can look back at a time when the population of our country discovered that their government was lying to them, and this pissed a certain group of people off enough to make them go to great lengths to sift through all the governmental lies and misdirection to finally arrive at minute nuggets of truth and subsequently disperse them to all that were concerned with what was really going on. We can look at this, and what do we take from it? Hemp necklaces, pot-smoking, and going to concerts, that's what. I will defer to a quote that I have on my profile from Douglas Adams, "Human beings, who are almost unique in having the ability to learn from the experience of others, are also remarkable for their apparent disinclination to do so." It's true. Well, I've written too much again. . . even though I still haven't written enough to feel as though I've made myself at all clear. Hopefully, some of this made sense. (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Tuesday, September 23rd, 2003
2:52 pm	Dammit. . . we'll try this again. Funny So, hopefully that will work this time. I managed to screw it all up the first time, and maybe I did again. . . who knows. Just thought this was a nice supplement to one of my ranting and raving sessions. As a side note, two things caught my attention from my last post that I would like to correct. I really should start proofreading these entries so I can stop making these annoying addendums, but I can't help but correct these things when I notice them. I used "dictate" in reference to speaking to someone who was not transcribing anything for me. And I wrote "there" when I should have used "their," which I still can't believe I did. . . but what can you do? (2 Comments |Comment on this)
1:58 pm	HTML Experiment Not sure if this will work . . . (Comment on this)
11:29 am	AM Adventures Normally I don't bother with subject boxes, be they on e-mails or livejournal entries, but today I was feeling that I needed to spice things up a bit. Caliente, isn't it? I woke up at eight o'clock this morning, which isn't remarkable for most people, but speaking as someone who went to bed at three and had no reason to be up that hour I thought it was noteworthy. I was in a pretty good mood considering the lack of sleep. I'm looking forward to experimenting in the future, in the hopes that gathering empirical data will allow me to unearth any causal agents of my sunny disposition. It may simply be a case of minor sleep deprivation, or as it is sometimes better know: the sleepy sillies. My mother showed me a pretty funny comic this morning. However, considering that my faculties may be impeded due to lack of sleep, I will allow anyone who might be reading to appeal to their own, presumably normal sense of humor. Normally I wouldn't try to recreate a comic strip without the drawings to accompany the text, but I think this one will translate well enough. This comes from "Pearls Before Swine," which I had never seen until recently, but helped restore some of the lost luster of the comic pages in my mind. The comic is as follows: A pig writes a letter at his desk . . . "Dear Ted Koppel, Everyone thinks you wear a wig. Not me. I think it's a small furry rodent. I say this with some confidence, because one night when you were doing a report on tobacco farming a small pinkish hand poked out of you hair and waved hello. P.S. Please give my regards." Again, I'm not certain if this should have made me laugh out loud, but it did. Perhaps it was simply because my mother had me dictate it to her because "her feeble eyes could not decipher it without glasses." Or maybe you just have to be a Bechtel. . . in any event, I thought I would share. So, I'm sitting here waiting to hear from Jesus. I'm supposed to help him load various wares into his van for us to hawk at a car show this weekend. For any not familiar with the car show ambience, I will offer a brief sketch. Any Bushwacker who participated in the DuBois parade in '02 could probably conjure a fairly accurate picture of car show clientele with a quick stroll down memory lane. However, for the benefit of those who do not carry that dubious distinction, I will attempt to summarize to the best of my ability. These shows generally occur in. . . colorful parts of the East Coast. It isn't that the towns themselves are that bad (for anyone who is familiar with Carlisle, that is where the most notable of the shows takes place), however, unless appearances are truly deceiving Carlisle represents a booming metropolis to many of the attendees. Short of a trip to the more mountainous regions of West Virginia (and certain parts of the south), you are not likely to find a group of people more dentally bankrupt. Also notable are the amount of veterans, and subsequent amputees. I would think that enjoying an automobile would be difficult for a man with no legs to do. I'm sure he derives his share of pleasure working on it and fixing it up, but there are plenty of less expensive options on the lawn ornament market. Or if he needs to tinker, try an old appliance. . . I'm sure his neighbors have a few he could borrow. Thus ends my character sketch. I don't want to give the impression that I have a low opinion of these people, after all it is their money that ends up in my pocket after I work at these interesting little events. I do, however, find there behavior intriguing on a sociological level, and thought I would share it with my journal. This concludes our broadcast day. (Comment on this)
Monday, September 22nd, 2003
2:52 am	So, I don't really know where to start. . . I like to think that I'm a pretty tolerant person, but my patience is wearing thin. For anyone that hasn't spoken to me lately, which does not necessarily discount even those people that have seen me within the past couple of days, I've been talking with this supposed Californian who recently commented on my journal. How this total stranger happened upon my journal remains to be adequately investigated, but this is the best I can come up with: After selecting the winning ticket of what I imagine to be some sort of lottery (possibly involving a top hat and an assistant which is almost certainly a green rhinoceros that speaks Swahili) in which imaginary words were employed in lieu of the oh-so-quotidian numbered balls, the rhino read the word Doozel aloud. . . and the confused girl took the ticket from the unintelligible jungle creature and her search began. This is purely speculation, but it becomes easier to accept as potential truth when one considers the fact that this person claims to have been recently released from a mental institution suffering seizures and other afflictions indicative of some form of schizophrenia. I gleaned that information from her after I received her first IM, which came totally out of the blue. At any rate, I thought this was quite unfortunate, so I began to chat with the young lady about the terrible ordeal she had undergone. So, after listening to her tales of abusive, coke-snorting, acid-dropping boyfriends it gets mentioned that she just happens to be a low brass person. . . at which point I said to myself "Oh, isn't that interesting. We've now discussed two topics I have recently posted in my journal. Weird." Then she continues on about how different it is for girls to carry a low brass instrument, and how I should think about passing that information on to the guy that teaches the low brass at the high school I teach. . . as to avoid any potential back problems among the female members of that section. So, by now I am sitting in front of my computer screen simply dumbfounded at the sheer absurdity of the situation I found myself in. Just to end the suspense, at this point I had ascertained the true identity of this so-called "Mariam" from "CA." That's right, folks. She could be none other than the infamous, the malignant. . . then not, the cunning hypnotist: Skankapottamus. I was floored. I couldn't believe the grandiose scale of the ruse she was attempting. She invented a whole new person. Whether her aim was simply to get me to talk about her (Skanka, not the figment of Skankimagination that is Mariam) or if she was trying to convince me to talk to her I can't say for sure. . . but it is still pretty disquieting. Not really knowing what else to do, I told her all about herself, and tried to inform her that I knew who she was. Apparently, she is banking on my sympathetic nature to win over my skepticism, because she has continued to IM me. I just can't believe I have to feel bad about this simply for the infinitesimal possibility that this girl actually exists outside of Skanka's head. That's probably the worst thing about any of it. . . I've been enjoying myself making thinly veiled comments about her seemingly overstocked personality department. . . but the little pang of guilt always gets me. She mentioned moving today as she was IMing me, and I was very sympathetic about how difficult it is to move everything: pots, pans, clothing, appliances. . . alter egos. Well, I'll stop "bitching". . . since I guess that's what I'm doing. . . Dennis. There's plenty more to tell, but I'll save it for another time. I have to say, if you can't bitch about that. . . well, that just wouldn't be any fun at all. Welcome to the little live journal club. (Comment on this)
Saturday, September 13th, 2003
10:22 pm	Where to begin. . . so, I had rehearsal today for C.B. West. I don't know if it's fair to call it that, it may be more aptly dubbed "Your Brain and You: A Tutorial." Between these kids being a constant source of aggravation and the season we just had at Bush doing little to revitalize my love for the activity, I just don't feel like I have the energy for this shit anymore. It would be one thing if we just had a new batch of kids that weren't really good, but still tried hard and wanted to get better. I don't have any idea why any of them bother to show up at all, it's obvious none of them ever practice. I have the two best players in the drumline in the quad line and they still don't know their parts. I'm just over the whole damn thing. There was a time when I wouldn't have stopped until these kids all knew their music and wanted to do nothing else but play their drum. . . I don't know what happened, but I don't think I can do that again. This is just killing me. (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Wednesday, September 10th, 2003
1:42 pm	So, I got this comment on my last post which seemed to be expressing concern over my well-being. Although I appreciate the interest, I feel as though I should clear some things up. I am not writing any of these things in an attempt to solicit any pity, or to "cry for help." I realize that is a conclusion to which someone could be easily come, considering that this journal is posted for everyone to read, and I'm sure the subject matter of the last post could raise an eyebrow or two. I guess I'll just have to be a little more clear in the future with regard to my motivation for writing about certain subjects. Just to clarify, in all honesty, I probably am a little "depressed." I say probably because I haven't bothered to go get an "expert" opinion on my own noodle. I'm almost certain that just by going to talk to a psychiatrist, I would be walking out of his office with scrips for treating depression or some sort of anxiety disorder or both. The only reason I brought up the topic at all is because this course of action has been suggested to me on more than one occasion and I have no interest in it whatsoever. I don't want anyone to think that I am still clinging to any antiquated notion of therapy being just "for the loonies," and I hope that I don't offend anyone who might go to therapy or take medication by saying any of the things that I'm saying. I do realize that medication can be extremely helpful for certain people in dealing with. . . whatever mental ailment they may be suffering from. I just can't help but think that the aim is a little off, with respect to the way the mental health field at large conducts the treatment of people. They have no idea what causes depression or any of these chemical imbalances we hear so much about, but they treat the symptoms anyway and just hope for the best. I just can't believe we still consider this a science. . . a medical science at that. It's guess work at best. For a school of medicine that is still in its infancy (it really hasn't been around that long, and it wasn't too long ago that they were still shocking people and tearing out huge chunks of people's gray matter) to purport that its really a good idea for so many people to start popping pills so we can feel better about ourselves just seems a little. . . dare I say it. . . fucking crazy to me. What has happened in the past two or three decades that all of the sudden has everyone so depressed and unhappy? Seriously, there's got to be something. . . unless, of course, nothing has changed except our expectations. All of the sudden the quest for money and security isn't enough to fulfill our lives, maybe because this country has lately done all it can to make its residents feel as insecure as possible (but that's a separate issue). The only difference is that now we have the solution we've been waiting for. . . our Most Holy Messiah of Pfizer come to deliver us. OK, so that may be a little over the top, but I don't think the idea is that far off. Atheism is on the rise. . . I guess the new church may as well be in a pill bottle, at least that is a little more honest than organized religion. . . though not much. People need to look somewhere for comfort. Well, I've gone and taken on a topic that I could spend all day sitting here writing about again. So, I'll just end this particular rant right there. I hope that I have quelled any concerns over my emotional stability, and not offended anyone who offered this concern. I really do appreciate anyone giving a shit, but there's no need for alarm. 'Til next time. (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Saturday, September 6th, 2003
10:09 pm	Well, I think I might actually use this journal in the capacity it was intended to be used for once. . . rather than just bitching about things that I shouldn't let bother me or thanking people or any of that. Although I'm sure it will do nothing but bore the bejeezus out of anyone who happens to be reading, I am equally sure that anyone who has read this live journal in the past has since given up any interest in doing it again. I have heard it said that most of history's most successful writing was done with an "audience of one" in mind, so please forgive me if I make myself that audience in this entry. So, I spent the day at home again. . . no big surprise there, as I spend just about every day entirely at home. If there is one thing I have learned from my stay at the Bechtel Sanitarium, its that sitting around in your room all day with no way to escape and no real excuse to even try to leave. . . well, it can get pretty damn depressing. It's no wonder that us Americans gobble anti-depressants the way we do. . . I swear, we're going to start marketing them in candy isles next. . . just skip that whole prescription thing altogether. It seems like we're supposed to be diagnosing ourselves anyway. "Do you feel tired?. . . depressed?. . . you know when something's just not right." Well, congratulations! You've just managed to describe hundreds of millions of potential customers. That shit just really get my goat. I should start sending liquor store receipts to my insurance company and see if they'll cover that. It's correcting my chemical imbalance, I'll say. Sure, it's doing nothing to treat anything substantial. . . but it sure is fucking up my brain chemistry, and that's what's really important. I just can't understand how our society can breed depression the way it does, yet we insist on treating it on a case by case basis. . . as though the individual were still somehow at fault. Depression seems to me to be more of a cultural phenomenon than a personal one. Maybe this is just my fucked up opinion. . . delusion brought on by not wanting to join the ranks of pill-poppers. . . but I have a real issue with mass produced over the counter mental health. (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Friday, September 5th, 2003
10:09 pm	So, another year has come and gone for the Bushwackers. I wanted to say a few things at the meeting, but by the time I was ready to say anything it seemed like the floor was being closed and people had beverages and tasty brownie treats (thank you Dave DeMello) to attend to. So, I'm going to say them now. It was a tough year for the drum staff, for reasons both obvious and not so obvious. This season was certainly the hardest thing I've ever tried to do in a drum corps environment. I have no idea how those old Bush drum guys did what they did, trying to teach a line while they where marching in it. On second thought, yes I do. They had the help of an often overlooked alternative energy source. Blow. In retrospect, I now believe that any shortcomings to be found in the percussion program this year can be attributed to the drum staff's stubborn refusal to snort shit up our noses. So, I would like to apologize to the drum corps on behalf of the drum staff for not doing everything in our power to make things work this year. I don't want to make this a super long entry by trying to thank everyone individually for what they did for the drum line this year. I could, because just about everyone in the drumline did more than was asked of them this year, but for the sake of brevity I won't. First of all I would like to thank my brother, who took on an impossible job this year and did pretty well at it regardless. I hope that everyone in the drumline realizes how fortunate they are to get to play a book that people who know drumming actually enjoy listening to. That can't be said for a whole lot of DCA programs, because as we all know: the majority of DCA plays shit. And to Nick, who did all of the work with JR during the week to make sure that things would work out for the weekend. Those two did more shit for the drum corps during the week than I think anyone realizes. So, a big thank you to the staff as a whole. Now, on to my section. . . where to begin? Where else, I suppose, but the Face. The occasional bane of my existence. I think it was Neil's ability to make me laugh, whether he said something genuinely funny or said something so incredibly stupid that I just couldn't believe it, he always managed to prevent me from totally flipping out. So, let me first congratulate Neil on his finely tuned survival instincts. Secondly, I am impressed with how far he managed to come in just one season as a player. I can recall when he showed up, back when I was still wearing sandals all weekend and didn't have to remember to bring black socks. I said to myself, "Shit, I don't know what the hell I'm going to do with this guy." That was before I realized that he was going to have to get better without anyone standing in front of him. In spite of the fact that most weekends he made me want to do nothing but sit off somewhere and chain smoke, he really did get better. So, congrats Neil. Scott. What is there to say about Scott? First of all, I'd like to thank Scott for finally marching in the Bushwackers. After coming out in the winter last year and getting me all excited to have 4 quads all year long, only to dash my hopes a few short weeks later. . . I'm glad he came back. He's just lucky that we got Memphis as a replacement, because if it had been someone who wasn't as cool as Memphis I'd probably still be holding a grudge. I'm especially glad he didn't quit again when he came and saw that Neil was going to be in his section. Even though there was some debate as to whether Scott was here to drum or as training for a future career in porn, he did a hell of a job taking care of himself. So, thanks to Scott. I'd also like to thank Jesus for helping out as much as he did. He was really great about doing whatever it was we asked of him, whether it was carrying the Dr. Beat, video taping so the staff could watch it during the week (not that he wouldn't have video-taped anyway), or driving his van up to New Jersey with equipment we hijacked from some high school, he did it. I was glad to have him around this season, even if I did have to march in his stead. Well, I think I'll wrap things up now. I don't want to go on and on about how great everyone is, because I could do that for way too long. Its the people that end up sitting in our little drum meeting at the end of the year that we do this for. No matter what happens on the field, or with the scores, we are there to give everyone a summer that they can look back on and be proud of. I hope that we succeeded in that this summer. (2 Comments |Comment on this)