Best Band Ever? (Probably!)

Is this the single greatest band to ever exist?

Probably.

For those of you who are unable to identify Steve Perry's disconcertingly feminine features, the band in question is Journey.

There are literally several reasons (at least seven) why Journey is the pinnacle of modern musical expression, and I'm not going to bury the lead.

Reason Number One Journey is Awesome
Don't Stop Believing

There is not a person on this earth that does not appreciate this heartwrenching song, describing that unique blend of loneliness, romance, and trains that has held sway in America's heart since the dawn of the steam engine.





Whenever you ask someone what their favorite Journey song is, you're really asking them what their second favorite Journey song is, because Don't Stop Believing is their real favorite.





I don't want to say that this song is better than Thriller in its entirety, but I won't not say that either.

This song is so incredible, people that quote Family Guy love it, and people that quote Family Guy are retarded!

Part of the appeal of Don't Stop Believing is the song's versatility, it can be played anywhere, weddings, funerals, Bar Mitzvahs, Bat Mitzvahs, federal hearings, graduations, birthday parties, cinco de mayo celebrations, births, engagements, divorces, graduations, may day, earth day, president's day, mlk jr. day, inaugurations, galas, premieres, juntas, sporting events, scrabble events, sleep overs, slumber parties, the Olympics, assassinations, church, Halloween, Christmas, Easter, and New Years.

My senior year of high school, Don't Stop Believing was my musical intro whenever I stepped on the mound to bring the heat (82 on a good day).

Don't Stop Believing is potentially more accurate and reliable than a Voight-Kampff test, because to hear it and not smile would mean you were nothing but a replicant or Rutger Haur.



Reason Number Two Journey Is Awesome
Diversity.





Think about your favorite Journey song, does it feature pounding bass, brain exploding synth, and blistering guitar? Of course it does, but you know what else it has?





The depth and breadth of all human emotion.





Take my favorite song, Separate Ways, as it begins you hear a sweet synthesizer jam over a mighty kick drum, you're thinking, this song rocks, it's going to be about Journey kicking ass, but then, you step back as Steve, in a howl of pure emotional exhaustion screams his heart out of his chest, "Here we stand! Both of our hearts broken in two! two! two!"





Even Steve feels the pain of ruined relationships.





Consider also, Lovin' Touchin' Squeezin', a simple folk ballad about making lemonade and getting to second base. That's right, not only is Journey tender, but the know how to party.





Then there is Wheel In The Sky, adapted from Perry's senior thesis on the Roman deity Lupercalia, to remind you that he's more than just a pretty face.





Lastly, of course, is Faithfully, the touching tribute to Steve's dog.





Reason Number Three Journey is Awesome


Musicianship





Little known fact, everyone in Journey but Steve is/was a nerd.





The first few albums they released were boring prog-rock pieces that no one wanted to hear, if Steve had remained undiscovered, they would have fallen into a lifetime of mediocrity and become America's Rush. But luckily, for all of us, Steve washed onto the shore of the San Francisco bay from whatever moonplanet he was born on and graced us with one of the greatest frontmen ever.






























Which of these is best? Journey Greatest Hits? or Journey Greatest Hits Live?


TRICK QUESTION!!! IT WOULD LITERALLY EXPLODE YOUR BRAIN TO CHOOSE!

Little known fact, the CIA tried to make Castro choose between the two in a botched assassination attempt in 1953...30 YEARS BEFORE THE TRACKS WERE RECORDED!!!
(To avoid explosion, Castro lied and said he preferred Styx)






Reason Number Four Journey is Awesome.

I AM WRITING ABOUT THEM!!!

Words Go Here (Snarky Words Go Here)

The following is an actual transcript from a conversation I had on Friday.



Me: Cutie reading a book i like beside me, should i talk to her?



Friend of Me: Comment on the book! You have a perfect in!



FoM: Yes!



Me: What if i misjudged? What if she's only attractive at a glance? What if it's required reading?



Me: Also, I smell like pizza.



(Eighteen minutes pass)



Me: I blew it.


An exposition.



After enjoying my traditional Friday 11am One Guy pizza (I don't like the numbers in that sentence or how they look), I walked to Holden Hall to endure my equally traditional boring fifty minutes of history discussion. The discussion in question occuring primarily between the TA and the weird kid with a mustache.



But today was different. Today, after loitering around looking for rollerblade girl (aka rollerskate girl, aka rollerskate skinny) (She is called this because she wears rollerblades, inside), I leaned nonchalantly against the doorframe of my room and was surprised to see a girl that had, until this point, never shared this particular 20 by 20 space with me at 12pm on a Friday morning.

She appeared to be cute enough, and the most striking thing was that, not only was she cute, but she was reading a book. Now, you must understand that this particular discussion of 25 people may have a composite IQ of 800, they don't take kindly to booklearning. Also, there is only one decently attractive girl, and she looks like she's seen more dick than a New England phonebook.

This new apparition was reading a book that I particularly enjoy, Down and Out in Paris and London by George Orwell. Not only does this book appeal to the imaginary expatriate side of me, but it also appeals to the pretentious side of me, because it's written by a well known author, but not one of his more well known works. So, being the sly devil that I am, I sat down beside her to make a quip about how I enjoy the book and then con her into falling in love with me.

Except, as I sat down, I panicked and sent the previously transcribed mayday text message. So, rather than make simple small talk, I just listened to my iPod and stared at the chalkboard.

This would have been alright, had she not been, literally, the only person sitting in this particular row of fifteen desks. She was sitting at the end of the row. When, I made my tactical approach, I sat in the open seat directly beside her. We sat beside each other and endured a classful of silence. We were the only two people in the row for the duration of the period.

I later gleaned, from her conversations with the TA, that I had never seen her before because she is in a different discussion and had attended this one for scheduling reasons.

The poor girl (who could have potentially been my future wife) had to endure an hour beside a guy who smelled like pizza, said nothing, and was apparently OCD because he kept peeking over and reading the title of the novel she was reading.

Yesterday, I went to a wedding.

I like weddings. They combine two of my favorite things. (Wearing a suit and the potential opportunity to do the chicken dance).

This particular wedding was a celebration of the love between a friend of mine who is several years older and her fiance, whom I had never met, but he appeared to be perfectly nice.

This was an outdoor wedding, I watched my friend laugh off crazy bursts of wind that drowned out the pastor and tossed various matrimonial accoutrements across the sunny plains, and how she cried as she read a sweet little poem from a rectangle of paper, and how, in what I thought was the sweetest part of the ceremony, as she read words of love off the same rectangular batch of paper, her fiance helped her secure a page that was flapping in the wind by gently guiding it into her hand; I was struck by something.

I am terrified of relationships.

Toward the end of the ceremony, the pastor started talking about the symbolic nature of the wedding ring and I noticed that every married man in the audience was looking at their left hand, gently massaging the ring on their first finger from the pinky.

Then I realized that I was doing the same, twisting an imaginary piece of metal round and round and pondering my future.

Then there was the weird bit in every religious wedding where the holy man makes the required statement about his power being vested by the state of Texas, and the bride and groom kiss and everyone claps and the parents dry their eyes and the ushers do their escorting and people filter into a large hall to exchange small talk and eat sandwiches and my terror spasm receded.

The reception was nice. I had tried to put my best politician's swoop into my part and wear a suit that was conservative but with a little punch of color, and I looked remarkably like the junior senator from Illinois or someone of similar stature. I ate a sandwich and said a few hellos and felt remarkably happy. It's difficult to feel sad at a wedding, unless you're in love with one of the people being married and you're bitterly attending just to be a good sport, but even then, you can take comfort in knowing that you have a good plot outline for a Hugh Grant-type picture lined up.

I drove home eventually and changed. Then I went to a friends house to celebrate his birthday. We ate homeade tacos, played nazi zombies, and discussed TULIP; and the whole time I felt wonderful.

Then I came home and watched a little Arrested Development and then laid down to sleep.

I was still basking in the post-wedding glow of the prospect of relational bliss and felt like I would soon be adrift in the land of dreams (which have been weird and sad lately) but it was not the case. Lurking beneath the comforting emotions I had been cushioned in all day were shards of crippling inadequacy rolling about in my stomach.

I reflected (and continue to be reflecting) on how happy my friend was to be married and how happy and laid back she was about the whole affair.

And it all just seems like too much work.

I don't want to find a girl, and put the work into pursuing her, and enduring the ups and downs. And what if she's high maintenance, or she doesn't get me, or i always secretly think she's not as into me as I am to her, or she is secretly not as into me as i am to her, or i can't provide for her like she wants or deserves, or i am too distant or too clingy, or we stop relating after a year and collapse out of love.

I don't want to have to find a house to live in or raise kids. I don't want responsibility, I don't think I can handle it.

I didn't apply for a job at the school paper because the application was too much work (three 600 word pieces and a letter of reccomendation), and this is what I want to do with my life. That's how little work I put into things.

I don't know. I don't get happy thinking about being married in the future, I just feel overwhelmed, and my life isn't even that stressful.

At least I have friends, it makes me a little less anxious, at least I'm comfortable where I'm at now.

I wish i had reassurance.

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.

Who Knew It? (It Was Me, I Was the One that Knew It)

Michael Phelps is bad for America. (That sentence is a link)

I tried to warn you about this threat months ago. (So is that one)

Year Nine (A Prompted Reflection Part 1)

Hello beloved and tolerated readers. How have you been? I have been well. I started classes two weeks ago and it is, as always, a blasty-blast. I may fill you in on all that business at a later date, but generally when I claim the MB is going to do something in the future, that doesn't happen.

But today is an exception, today I tame the reigns of this runaway stallion of sad to follow a semi-linear semi-coherent semi-interesting story. An epic if you will, like the Illiad or Forrest Gump. 

Here, on this venerable sheet of e-paper, I will document my Ninth Grade, Freshman Year at Trinity, memories. (very special ones). 

As those of you who read this blog regularly (or as I call you, the multitudes) will recall. Earlier in the year after my overly long musical extravaganza; a young lady by the name of Meagan challenged me to write more about my experiences at Trinity, to satisfy some journey of self discovery that my magnificent works have clearly inspired. I decided to do this because I don't have anything else to do and because I am a gentleman. Like a young Ms. Fyock, she has given me an assignment.

Here is my essay prompt, much like the SAT, I will attempt to fulfill it to the best of my ability. 

Meagan wrote, "Dude, reading your blog just now made me realize that I can't remember anything about Trinity. Who did I sit with at the lunch table? Who did I hang out with on a regular basis? Were we friends? If so, how did I not know about this long time obsession with that girl? I'm not kidding. I have some pretty vivid memories of being a cheerleader, and I remember driving out to Susie's house occasionally on Friday nights to watch Degrassi, but that's it. It's kind've making me sad. You should write more about people I know and times I know. Maybe things will start to come back to me."

The last two lines are the most important because they mention me, and not in a disparaging way with the word, "obsession." (I prefer healthy interest).

Since Meagan left my life (except in that entirely peripheral e-lationship sense) after or during my Sophomore year, she will be bored if I decide to continue this through all of high school. (Not really, I am supremely interesting).

Also, in the interest of interest I will attempt to mention regular readers of my e-thoughts and e-dreams and the impact they had on my young life.

Take yourself back to the Fall of '05 in Lubbock, Texas. I am 14 years old and full of myself. I have a record player, a vinyl copy of Yellow Brick Road (aspirations for more albums by straight men), and every Led Zeppelin shirt that Hot Topic can supply. Throw in some braces, long, unkempt, helmet-esque hair, and otherworldly pale skin, and you have 14 year old Kyle.

I've covered this before, but I wanted to go to Frenship (aka Doucheland) but my parents wanted me to have a more nurturing environment where I would have no chance of getting top 10% and thus I landed in Trinity. 

Prior to class, I had to go and get a tour and take some tests with Mrs. Hill. The tour was underwhelming (the school is in an old Kmart) and Mrs. Wolcott was unimpressed by my Alegbra skills, but Ms. Fyock enjoyed my essay on a current event. (I think it was abortion). So i made it into Pre-Ap English.

The first day arrived. And I, dressed in an Old Navy polo and some ill-fitting khakis (the homeschool tuxedo) sat down in Bible.

I was perplexed, because everyone seemed much older than me, and I feared I was in the wrong class. (I didn't know at the time that Bible was desegregated). But Mr. Haladay (who is a wonderful person) called my name during the roll and my fears were assuaged. As he read the names off of the sheet I listened for anyone I might know from my previous years in Lubbock.

He called David, (it was David Gartz), and I searched expectantly, trying to find David Hutchens, and I remember thinking, "He's let himself go." Turns out it was not David Hutchens and I was too young to appreciate Mr. Haladay's insight. 

Onward to math.

Math was packed with people that I would one day love and/or hate and/or make me miserable for a large portion of my life.

I sat at the very back behind a short character with elfish features. He introduced himself as Shye and we chatted for a bit.

David walked in, and this is not an understatement, the first semester of ninth grade, David was an ass. 

I think he fancied himself some sort of Jack Black character (school of rock had just come out) and put on this obnoxiously energetic facade (which was later described as his "joy" and he apparently lost it). 

Similarities Between 15 year old David and Jack Black

Fat

Differences Between 15 year old David and Jack Black

Funniness

Likeability

Now, I had never seen David in "his domain" of TCHS, where he grew up and knew everybody and "hung out" with seniors. So it was odd. I mostly remembered him as a lispy kid who watched the History Channel that I bombed around the neighborhood with.

So with him ignoring me, my only link to this strange, ritualistic world (Pledge to the Christian Flag anyone?) I was quite lost. 

That was also my first class with, Donnie, Zach, Nathan, etc., people who I would eventually be friends with, but dismissed out of hand because I was down with Classic Rock and they were down with Newsboys. 

This is also my first class with Claire. Her angelic 14 year old features drew me in instantly. Green eyes, brown hair, an Invader Zim backpack. We were perfect for each other, if only she would realize it. (this sentiment carried on for a long time).

After second period, we had the traditional "First Fruits Chapel," where I was greeted with a hearty handshake by a gentleman who introduced himself as, "Nick Jones." I sat beside him and Shye in my first ever Trinity chapel. Hosted by none other than Ernie Garcia (a man i never really appreciated as a speaker, he always came across as condescending). 

Lunch was a lesson in awkwardsauce. I didn't know any of the guys and they came across as standoffish, so for the first week of school, I ate at the girls table. Looking back, it may be the lamest thing i've ever done, and i'm not terribly impressive. 

Then drama with another force in my life, the irrepressible Debbie Boyle. 

Mrs. Boyle should not have existed, she was like a cartoon character. Take every television stereotype about drama teachers and craft them into a majestic MiMi from La Boheme type character and you about have her. Boisterous and shameless, her antics ranged from sitting on a student, to re-enacting "The Catch" with only herself as both Flutie and the receiver. She was wildly entertaining.

This class also contained David "Grimace" Hutchens, as well as John Claborn, Jade, and others whom I would befriend in time. 

But the shining beacon of the class was, once again, Ms. Claire. I sat with her and Carlie long enough into the semester to tell that it made them uncomfortable. 

I was undeniably a ladies man.

My class was Baseball with Coach Bob Highley. Imagine the coach from Saving Silverman, except that he proselytized all of the time, and you have Coach Highley. 

Prior to this year I had never so much as touched a dumbbell, so I was embarrassingly weak in the weight room. My baseball ineptitude never did change much.

I remained essentially a social pariah for the first 6 weeks of school. The only shining beacon was when a girl whom I found cute (jenna) remarked on my shoes, the pride of my wardrobe.

They were yearish old All-Stars that were ratty and ripped and decorated with the names of bands i love, written in faded blue bic ink that had accumulated over a year's worth of math classes. 

Jenna came over and started reading all the bands on my shoes. Whenever she said, "I like pink floyd!" or "Led Zeppelin is awesome!" my little adolescent heart went all a-flutter.

For the 2 weeks prior to my first High School Retreat, i mostly tagged around Shye and Jenna.

My first ever High School Retreat rolled around and it was bore city. A lot of exceptionally unexciting chapel and overly structured activities. (every hsr after was much better).

The first half of the week i continued my strategy of hanging out with shye and jenna, but eventually, i think she realized that i had a crush on her and ditched me. So it was just Shye and I for the last bit of the week. 

We climbed rocks and played football and all of the typical campy stuff, and i got to know my classmates a bit better. We all bonded over mocking david for hanging out at the senior table whilst wearing 4+ shirts to contain his Moobs.

The only thing that really came of that trip that became a part of the culture of our class was the descriptions for stretching before going on the ropes course.  Up to the day we graduated, choruses of "Pot-Bellied Pig" and "Humpback Whale," could still elicit chuckles. 

Throughout the duration of the trip,  Jenna had often commented on how much she hated Trinity and wanted to transfer. I had always assumed these were useless laments, like the ones that i frequently voiced. But unlike me, Jenna had some sort of willpower and never came back to Trinity after the retreat. And that ends the story of my first attempt at high school romance.

Throughout this first part of the semester there had been two tools sitting in front of me in study hall. They were both tall, looked like the lifted heavily, and always shot me threatening looks, followed by snickers. One had light, short hair and the other's was wavy brown. Their names were Jade and Adam, and over the course of the year, they would become my best friends.

I don't know how Jade and I first became friends, but I know what event solidified our burgeoning relationship. 

Jade had aspirations of becoming an amateur filmmaker. His attempts to hone his craft usually manifested themselves as him filming Adam doing something remarkably stupid and dangerous while he made strange noises into the microphone. He eventually started bringing his camera to school and filming innocuous pranks, like throwing food at sophomores. 

One morning, he decided to up his game. For the past week, the freshman class had taken to kidney slapping each other in the hallways, and Jeff Reimer's reaction was always particularly comical, and Jade got it into his head to film said reaction and profit off of it somehow.

The stage was set. I would take the camera and hide in the super unnecessary backpack pile while Jade lured jeff out into the hall and slapped him. This was some Penn and Teller quality stuff.

The moment came, and with it... comedy gold.

The plan went off without a hitch, the slap, the scream, the laughter. Then the situation escalated; like an angry warthog, Jeff charged Jade and Jade (being much swifter) escaped and ran past my hidden backpack location. Jeff pursued, hit a backpack, and busted soundly on his belly. 

This seemed at first to be a bit of immature fun, but the next day I was ushered into the office of Ernie G., our assistant principle.

Apparently the incident had infuriated Jeff's parents and Ernie thought, incorrectly, that since I was filming the ordeal, I was the ringleader. The meeting ended with him telling me that I should choose my friends wisely, and by choose my friends wisely, he meant not be friends with jade. In my rebellious young mind this firmly entrenched me in Jade's camp.

Soon, I was at Jade's house every weekend. His family was remarkably friendly and remarkably fit. A result of being Jade's new friend was that I spent a lot of time with his old friend, Adam.

In the beginning, Adam and I did not get along. He thought I was goofy looking and weird (both true) and I thought he was douchey and stupid (half true). 

We finally bonded over Jade's turncoat actions. 

The three of us had the idea to create a works bomb in order to rid Jade's backyard of wasps. After several dangerous chemicals and a loud "Kaboom!" We were in trouble.

Jade was already on his parents bad list and told Adam and I to take the heat for this hair-brained adventure. The three of us sat on Jade's tiny and awkwardly placed loveseat (its only purpose appeared to be for maximum chastation) while his mother ranted and raved at us indiscriminately. His dad then trundled in.

Matt is not a very intimidating man, clearly much more comfortable making teenagers laugh rather than squirm, but at the time Jade looked like he feared for his life.

Matt trundled in, scowling and bellowing. "Who's idea was this?!"

Immediately, Jade squeaked, "It was Ad-y-am."

Matt turned to Adam and I, our faces set in that bashful but amused way that all teenage boys grow to master, and proceeded to question, loudly and repeatedly, if we were, in fact, eaten up with dumbass.

After the fifth or six bewildered chorus, the situation resolved itself.

Adam started laughing, then I started laughing, then Matt started laughing, then Sandi, and finally, when he was sure the coast was clear, Jade. 

This familial cheer bonded Adam and I, and we've remained friends since.