Me Typing With No Real Aim (I'm Tired of Only Two Entries Per Month)

Hello blogosphere. (Or as I like to say, Blagojesphere). (Sound it out).

Tonight, I don't really have anything to write about. I will say, in an unfortunate turn of events, the wish I made in my last blog has been granted. Chopdick has broken the surly bonds of the backyard and touched the face of the streets and back alleys of Lubbock. 

She will be missed, but not very much.

Readers, I think tonight I shall share with you some childhood dreams. Those dear sweet ambitions that one nurses when they are young, only to have them slaughtered when facing the cruelties of earning potential. 

I remember when I first began to learn to read. I was about four years old. We lived in a two story house in Mississippi and I was upstairs playing with my dinosaur toys, when my dad came into the room with a very large hardcover book. He proceeded to sit me down, open to the first page and explain to me that it was time for me to learn to read. He pointed to the first word in the dictionary, "a," and it pretty much took off from there. 

Essentially the only knowledge that my nascent brain enjoyed processing related to dinosaurs. For the first six years of my life my world revolved around Triceratops, Velociraptors, Plesiosaurs, and their ilk. So the vast majority of my early reading material featured large print and pictures of large reptiles.

This childhood fascination led to what I believe to be my first ever career aspiration, paleontologist. Yes, as a five year old child, my life's goal was to dig up old rocks in the hot sun. 

My mom's parents are Canadian immigrants who came to Houston after World War II to find jobs. One of the things that my grandfather did when he came here was to put together a brontosaurus for Houston's Museum of Natural History. When I was young, this was the coolest thing ever.

(Update: 3/28/09, Chopdick has been returned to the backyard, she is serving time leashed to a column)

My next career aspiration came in the days after we left Mississippi. (I was there ages 3-5). Our family loaded up the trusty Astro Van and moved into Lubbock. 

Here I got my first taste of America's pastime. Despite the skill I previously displayed in soccer (freedom hater's pastime) my dad felt that baseball was a more natural fit. 

I joined a little kids t-ball team and with dreams of following in my father's footsteps, played shortstop my first game. Despite my impeccable form, i was struck in the nose my first game and had laces for a week. This also presents an interesting chicken -> egg -> chicken situation. Did being bludgeoned by the ball cause my current giant nose, or did my current giant nose cause me to be bludgeoned by the ball. These are questions that will only be answered when someone invents a time machine.

This led to aspirations of being a professional baseball player for the next nine years. After a few stints at first base and in the outfield, my dad, realizing that i lacked any natural athletic ability, decided that my best bet to succeed would be on the mound. Pitching was all about technique, outsmarting the batter, and undeserved cockyness, all of which i would soon master.

(this blog is at an interesting impasse, it's not very funny nor is it very intelligent, poignant, or magic like most of the others, it's kind of dull and uninteresting, but I have to satisfy the lust you people have for my way with words)

I had a tumultuous relationship with baseball practice. Sometimes I loved nothing more than practicing with my dad, other times, i would hide under the bed in the guest room so that I could avoid throwing.

In the end, I'm super grateful for that and I have that sort of Kevin Costner in Field of Dreams nostalgia for those times. (Without the overweight black sportswriter observing our practice)

As I got older and the kids with actual athletic talent caught up with my solid fundamentals. (I was like women's basketball player) my dream of playing in the MLB died, the last time I really harbored those aspirations was in the fifth grade when, for an assignment, I made a future business card that read, "Kyle Gregory, RHP, Atlanta Braves." Back in the halcyon days of Bobby Cox' pitching arsenal, all I wanted to do was break into that rotation and spent lots of time at the library reading about Maddux, and Smoltz, and Glavine.

My childhood hero (note the small arms and overwhelming whiteness)

I don't know what I wanted to do in the future during the sixth and seventh grades. I think I was pretty much just obsessed with getting my first girlfriend and wearing adidas sneakers with blue stripes. I succeeded in one of these endeavors.

Eighth grade brought on two separate (not mutually exclusive) future destinies. This is when i started to really bond with my buddy, Sebastian. (Mostly because he wanted to date me). Together we were the best pair of cutups since Lucy and Ethel. Sebastian, a diva, took center stage, making a general ass of himself; while I sat quietly in the background jumping in occasionally with a hilarious quip. 

This was the time when all kids discover their love of comedy, generally constrained to the masterworks of Mssrs. Sandler and Mike Myers (both still brilliant), and I was no exception.

I spent most nights at home watching roughly 12 episodes of Who's Line is it Anyway or The Simpsons. Fridays were reserved for Friday Night Stand Up on comedy central, and Saturdays brought the crown jewel, Saturday Night Live (with a magnificent cast featuring such comedic luminaries as Maya Rudolph and Dean Edwards). But I was young and didn't realize that the show had once been the pinnacle of American ensemble comedy, so each episode was a revelation to me, and when Will Ferrell left it was the lowest point of my year. 

I started reading everything I could about the show, and while names like Bill Murray, and Dan Akroyd, and Gilda Radner never really meant anything to me, I was still caught up in the mythos.

For about a year, all I wanted to do was be a writer for SNL. I had it all planned out, I'd move to LA, or Chicago, or NYC, and join The Groundlings, Second City, or UCB, Lorne Michaels would see my comedic brilliance, offer me a job, and fame, fortune, and women, would be mine. (If there's one thing women like, it's sweaty comedy nerds with bad skin)

Second childhood hero (THAT'S CRAZY!)

Simultaneously with my comedy ambitions, I decided that I would one day be a rock star. I had mastered the first 30 seconds of Stairway to Heaven and was prepared to rock the world. I think we have covered my eighth grade musical experience, so y'all just use your imaginations.

My previously documented affection for music led me to halfway pursue this dream almost all through high school. Not by practicing or writing songs, but by plinking around and recording bad covers of Sufjan Stevens songs. (I still do this).

Then, along came college, and my dreams of being a journalist. I think i'd be good at it, i'm naturally cynical and the average journalist can't write their way out of a wet paper. So I have that on my plate at the moment. 

But recently, I have rediscovered my desire to be a comedy writer. I think I would be good at this as well. (I'm snarky!) It seems like it would be a fun profession, admittedly a difficult field to get into, but let's be real, at the rate newspapers are dying I probably won't have a job out of school anyway. Also, if the 4,500 commercials i've seen for Krod Mandoon: Flaming Sword of Fire on comedy central (Penis Jokes! We're mocking a genre that is no longer popular!) has taught me, the field needs some fresh blood. 

I love you readers.

Can't Sleep (Like Neil Diamond)

Salutations internet.

I am writing you this e-love letter because i cannot sleep.

I am sitting here, beneath my Texas Tech blanket and vaguely mexican comforter on a bare mattress pad idling away the witching hours listening to sufjan.

Today started off obnoxiously.

I was awoken at 8:15 to the sound of Chopdick's incessant barking. I ignored her, assuming that David or Nick would deal with that god-forsaken beast.

Unfortunately, that was not the case, and around 8:20, I was re-awoken by the sound of the doorbell.

I groggily dressed myself in a tshirt and shorts and ambled over to the door.

I was greeted by an elderly gentleman in jogging shorts holding Chopdick.

He explained that she was out in the street and he was concerned for her safety, he didn't want her to be hit by a car.

I feigned graciousness, but at the time half wished she had run away for good.

I crawled back into bed and decided to forgo morning church.

I was re-awoken by the doorbell going off again. This time it was 12:30 and David and his underaged mistress were answering the door as a different neighbor held a spritely Chopdick.

Apparently, the dog has discovered how to unlatch the back gate, this must prove some intelligence, but i haven't seen any evidence of it.

I eventually got up for real at 2:30 and our shower was broken.

I have been unusually anxious lately.

I think it mostly has to do with the fact that I'm supposed to find out if UT accepted me as a transfer by April 1st.

I don't know why, i'm perfectly happy here. Not nearly the angsty young man who threatened cyberspace with filling out a transfer application a few months ago.

I like where I am and I like my friends.

I think the best way to describe it is comfortable.

Not in the sense that it's comfortable because it's familiar, but comfortable in the sense that i know exactly who i am and it doesn't bother me, at least some of the time.

Last night, when debating whether to wake up for church or just go in the afternoon, I decided that i could probably take a nap at joel's.

And this is an oddly comforting thing, the ability to be so content around a group of people that you love and that love you, that you have no qualms about zoning out for an hour or two. It's a very simple thing, but also very nice, like a quilt or gravy.

(A side note: Seven Swans is probably the best album about Jesus ever written; it has been with me through many emotional times over my estrogen laden past year and it is proving a pleasant, brass and xylophone accompanied, companion at the moment)

Regardless, I worry about getting accepted to UT, and i think, if for no other reason, than a feeling of invalidation.

Sure I didn't work super hard in high school, but i did quite well on the SAT and finished 11th in my class. It seems overwhelmingly unfair that I was denied due to some unnecessary top 10% rule.

Some of this anxiety may also stem from my recent trip to Abilene to see a film that my friend Jordan had made.

The short was showing at a filmfest his university was putting on. It was a neat affair and I was especially impressed by one of the musicians playing.

This event was also interesting in that I encountered the woman who tossed my heart over the side of a cruise ship. The lovely Miss Claire was there and performing. We had found our seats and got up to grab a drink, and in david's case, snackles. And when we returned were greeted by a high-pitched and excited, "KYLE!? DAVID!?" hugs, and various and sundry pleasantries that always accompany a surprise meeting.

As I awkwardly escaped from my hug, Clare quipped, "I thought I imagined you." And, despite the fact that it was idiocy, i still managed to smugly muse, "Because you miss me," to Mr. Brain.

Little did Claire know, that not once, but twice, I had spotted her from afar in the venerable South Plain's Mall and scurried away quickly before I was seen. This is due partly to avoid an awkward meeting and mostly because I am a coward.

But the encounter was for the best, it made me realize that I had no real reason for being a ridiculous prick and avoiding her, so that tied up a bit of a loose end. I imagine that if I never spoke to her again it would be like the baby the Ryan is clearly having at the beginning of season 2 of the OC, but they never address after he leaves Chino for the second time, and error so stupid and glaring that Claire would have to turn into a lesbian to get KMB ratings up.

The one thing that is glaring about Abilene, and ACU in particular, is that there are many many attractive ladies. And I know, I go to a school full of women renown for both their hotness and their looseness. But the ACU girls had a certain appeal, namely, that they were all a little bit emo. They seemed like the type that would nurse a blogger whose heart had been wounded by his own stupid pride back to a relationship ready adult. (They would do this with lots of making out). I am fairly certain that one cutie with short black hair was giving me the eye after the show, I shot her that infamous Gregory grin. She probably melted.

I have been known to knock ACU for the fact that it appears to be mostly a glorified church camp, but I think it's possible i could have been perfectly happy there.

Back to my anxiety.

It was as I was laying in bed, almost identically to how i am now, unsuccessfully trying to enter dreamland and ruminating on short-dark-haired girl, that I realized that I had not been in a relationship in going on five years.

This struck me as abnormal. I have friends who have had equal dry spells, but they weren't really looking for anyone. I'm sure my rather devoted pursuit of a similarly devoted girl contributed, but still seems odd that I can't find a single girl interested in anything beyond basking in my wit.

It made me wonder if I would ever get married, a fear that i think has been expressed on KMB, but it remains with me. People aren't getting married til around twenty-seven these days, so if I go by the average i've still got a good nine years to hunt. Regardless, I find this worrisome. My plan is to go to Austin and charm all the shyly cute scene girls, but I can't do that here so there's no reason to believe a change of scenery will turn me into some sort of Don Juan.

Despite these obstacles, I do feel that things will work out for the best, which probably means I have a pretty great life.

People I Meet (Round 3)

Hello again, e-people. (eeple). As you may have noticed, there was a rather extended hiatus from the Magic Blog. This was not intentional, but i have just been particularly busy these past few weeks. All i've had time to do was gloat about my foresight into the lives of athletes. I believe my last meaningful entry was on New Years, a rough day for me, but life goes on, and like Rudyard Kipling, I can force my heart and nerve and sinew to serve me long after they are broken, singed, and requiring tommy john surgery. 

This new semester is (like all new things) different than the last. Classes are harder, i wake up earlier, and i associate with different sorts.

Last semester i hung out with my high school friends and my friends that used to work at Trinity.

This semester i hang out with other high school friends and my friends that used to work at Trinity.

I feel like i've matured a little bit, but not a cool way. I feel like i've lost some of that charming lack of awareness that comes with being a little foolish.

I was discussing this the other night and I realized that i don't really perceive things as "beautiful" anymore, I used to call everything beautiful. Sunsets were beautiful, people holding hands was beautiful, everything God put here had this inherent beauty that i went out of my way to find. Homeless people holding signs were beautiful, I taught myself this summer that sad things had a beauty to them to and it seemed so deep and real, and now I don't really experience that emotion with things happy or sad.

I hope that I can find it again.

I thought i got the shaft with my work schedule this semester. I work M-F and wake up at 9,6,9,6,7 throughout the week. At first I hated it, then i liked it, now i tolerate it. I can get homework done before class and have my nights free, but i still have to go to bed moderately early so i'm not dead during the day.

Mondays I have two classes.

The first is Mass Comm 3300 with Dr. Saathoff.

This class is nice because attendance is not required and the professor is remarkably personable and laid back. It's not terribly in depth so i can half pay attention. 

There are too many people in the class to really pick out any characters.

The only one that comes close is Adidas girl, a girl i caught a glimpse of across the way and thought was pretty attractive. She was wearing a vintage adidas shirt, i was wearing a retro Astros shirt, so i thought it was meant to be. She was the total opposite side of the lecture hall from me so i slowly halved the distance each class. I was finally two chairs from her and saw that not only was she less cute than i thought, but she also had a longboard. 

I sit back on the other side of the room now.

My next class is Poli Sci.

This class is actually semi-interesting, but i'm usually distractedly browsing my laptop and not paying a ton of attention. 

The real star of the class is my professor, Mr. Mayer. He is 5'5" and overwhelmingly Jewish. 

He dresses in a remarkable combination of corduroy and demin (like david sedaris) every day. He looks like he's about to uncover a velociraptor voice box and use it to save his stranded family.

This has earned him the moniker, "Indiana Jew." Mildly offensive, I know, but accurate and hilarious.

He often addresses controversial events in the realm of politics in unintentionally hilarious ways.

My personal favorite, when describing the gays in San Francisco, was, "I was wandering around town with my daughter, and I see these men, and they are walking the streets wearing leather chaps and nothing else!"

Imagine Woody Allen telling you that story wearing a hat and carrying a leather whip and you get the basic picture.

This class also has no real characters, i sit beside a friend from church and behind Brandon Carter, who while large and scary looking, doesn't really do anything out of the ordinary.

Tuesdays and Thursdays I have journalism.

My professor is intelligent and likable enough, but also kind of a penis.

Judging from him, my textbook, and my classmates, all journalists are paranoid, overly-suspicious idealots. (I just made up a word, i combined idealist and zealot, i am like shakespeare). 

While the textbook preaches objectivity and fairness, the idea of the "watchdog press" seems to take precedence over intelligent analysis of events.

There is a stereotypical ideal that the government and business are always corrupt and the little guy is always right.

My professor especially seems to view any corporation other than a small-town paper or local business as inherently suspect.

He has one exception to this rule, and ironically enough, it's one of the most corrupt and loathsome enterprises in the US.

This man, who holds truth and objectivity to be the paragons of an enlightened society spent 45 minutes of class defending the music industry.

For our first assignment he asked us if we thought pirating music was wrong and if we do it. 

The next day he got up on a soapbox about music copyright, and proceeded to call out the people that admitted to downloading music illegally, which he claimed was 80% of the class.

Then he called out me (not by name), because I had the cajones to say in my written response in the blue book that it was right to pirate music. The irony of this situation is that the vast majority of my music is paid for.

He refused to accept that perhaps there was a reason that people refused to pay for shit music and that the industry may deserve what is happening.

This was about 3 weeks into class, and since then it's proceeded deeper and deeper into tinfoil hat territory; the suspicion of enterprise just exceeds rationality it's like the classroom exists outside of the real world.

Anyway.

This class is small and fueled by discussion, as such more people catch my eye/annoy me.

I sit in the second of four rows on the left side of the room, I will describe companions  in relation to where their voices come into my ears.

At the leftmost top corner is Mild Manner Black Guy, he made a good point early in the semester so now the professor calls on him all the time, unfortunately, his quality has slipped considerably.

Closer to me, but still in that general area is Dapper Dan.

This guy has an opinion on everything, yet manages to say nothing of any substance, he just lets out a thick drawl of platitudes or reconstructions of whatever the professor said, with the occassional awkward joke.

Directly behind me rests the bane of my learning experience.

If you are familiar with me outside of the intertrons you have probably heard me rail against the female opinion writer of Texas Tech's paper, the venerable Daily Toreador. 

She's uninformed, unable to think critically, and thinks the Huffington Post is a legitimate news source. She is the definition of the idiotic "liberal because it's fashionable" college student.

Her opinions will literally send me into a fit of rage, not because of what they are, but because of how they are presented. I have never seen any person celebrate ignorance quite like her. I'm no apologist for the GOP, but the way she goes off about conservatives makes me want to jump off a roof, or more accurately, push her off a roof (just for a scare, no actual injury). We get it, GW sucked you don't need to browbeat us with your idiotic opinions you regurgitate from the Al Franken podcast. 

Her article on the Israel/Palestine conflict was so misinformed and failed to remotely capture the complexities of the situation or take into account 4000 years of history in the region, it made me want to cut myself.

Anyway, i have the distinct pleasure of sitting directly in front of her in class, and for 10 minutes before the professor shows up i have to listen to her yammer to the girl beside her, who is identically stupid.

It's not that she's opinionated, that's fine, it's that she takes each and every opportunity to stand on her soapbox, and that soapbox must surly contain johnson and johnson no tears, because God knows she's too retarded keep it out of her eyes. 

Really, do you think the rest of the class cares as you speak, conveniently loud enough, about your view on abortion, religion, or politics. We don't, no one does. Even if you were remotely informed no one would, you're just creating awkwardness and tension, all the while patting yourself on the back like you're some sort of cultural luminary.

And it doesn't end when class starts, oh no.

A clip of GW speaking comes onscreen, "I'm sooooooo glad he's not our president." 

When discussing the Michael Phelps situation (called it), a girl remarks that she doesn't think Lindsay Lohan is good influence because she parties all the time, and does drugs, and is a lesbian. "What is wrong with being a lesbian?"

How does she miss the context of the statement? It has nothing to do with being a lesbian, it was about a pattern of self-destructive behavior. It's not just her, it's the entire class and the professor encourages it, no one looks at context, they just focus on idiotic buzzwords. 

I used to think i lacked the moral fiber to succeed in that class, now i realize that i'm just smart enough to see the shades of grey.

Beside her sits Coolio. I have no idea what race this man is, he could be white, black, or latino. All i know is that he has dreadlocks, it's quite possible some terribly misfortunate farmer plucked him out the ground by his dreads, like a radish. He never has the correct answer and always offers some stupid off topic remark when called on; I don't appreciate him being behind me. I also recently learned that he is a club promoter, which only adds to my distaste.

Continuing with our tour of idiocy.

On the same row that i sit on and to the right of me is Carmine the Bowler. I call her this because she looks like Janeane Garofalo, and acts like her character in Mystery Men with a little bit of Kim Kelly from Freaks and Geeks sprinkled in.

She is offended by literally everything. Anytime she opens her mouth in class it's like a maelstrom of haughtiness is unleashed, and to my knowledge, no one has ever said anything unkind or critical to her, the professor could ask her the date and she would flip out.

Personally, she is not without a sassy charm, but in discussion she just adds to the overwhelming awkwardness of class discussion.

At the end of my row are the only two people that I like.

One is a thoughtful looking guy with glasses who looks like he would bust a nut if a new Flaming Lips album came out, but, defying stereotypes, he knows a lot about sports.

More importantly, he always answers correctly, sparing all of us from an assault by the peanut gallery.

Beside him sits the other person I like, a cute girl who also likes sports. She also always gets the answer right. I was cursed by not having a last name in the C-D range so i don't get to sit on that side of the room.

My next class makes me sleep tears of boredom. It is US History up til the Civil War, focusing on the period between the Revolution up until Ft. Sumpter, aka, the boringer part.

The professor is ex-military and therefor very specific in the way he does things. Attendance is required and the tests are all essay form. This would be fine if it wasn't a Freshman required class that is equivalent to high school history. The only semi-cool bit is that we get to use clickers to take surveys and such.

I am too unconscious to take heed of anyone in this class. I sit beside Christian and J-Hoff.

The week just rotates around that, except for Friday, where i also have a history discussion. 

My TA is cool, but not as cool as the one last semester that just told us to leave after he called roll.

That's basically the extent of my day. I will try to write more. Also, be on the lookout for Leafy!, the newest sensation in music blogging.