Hiding behind a wall of illusion

Determined to read a book at least once in my life, I ordered from Amazon.com a piece about the possibility of John Lennon’s murderer being a “Manchurian candidate.” A strange possibility, indeed, but it seemed interesting enough to choose to do for a TOK presentation. Evidently, there are just too many coincidences surrounding the assassination and there were too little questions raised after the act to constitute a “lone nut” theory. Daily, I read this book with as much diligence as I had ever put toward reading. So, after about a month of reading (note that I read at about the rate of a mildly retarded sock puppet), I finished Bresler’s Who Killed John Lennon? – just in time to present to Dr. Yarborough the chilling facts surrounding John’s Death.

Ian, upon realizing that I had, against all odds, actually read 200 pages straight, gave to me R. Gary Patterson’s The Walrus Was Paul, a book that investigates all the legendary clues pointing to McCartney’s alleged death. Looking not only at album covers (i.e. Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band), but also at backward masking and lyrics with double meanings, this volume ever so delicately suggests that the Beatles pulled off the greatest practical joke in history, even if it wasn’t so obvious. Underneath the exquisite musical stylings of the pre-breakup Fab Four lies a whole other artistic realm that is really, really cool to read about. After two days on the interstate between Clearwater and Dillard, Georgia, I am proud to say that I successfully read this book too; that’s two books (which I highly recommend) within a year, a new personal record.

Presently, I am reading The Catcher in the Rye, the piece that Mark David Chapman’s controllers used to allegedly brainwash him into killing John Lennon – this may take a while.

Edit 2/13/2011: I just ran across this post while restoring my database. I remember when I wrote this over six years ago, I took great pride in the fact that if you take the first letter of each sentence backwards, it spells a secret message. I was a tricky kid.

I’m not dead

I’m currently writing from the toasty second bedroom of my grandparent’s house in Clayton, Georgia. Right now, it’s a balmy 42 degrees Fahrenheit outside and I couldn’t be happier to be indoors for once. My return to civilization as we know it in the smaller latitudes won’t come too soon.

The one thing that’s made this endeavor into the frigid recesses of the boonies is my long-awaited 40 gigabyte Apple iPod. I had been storing my meager funds ever since my car insurance had been payed off for the year. The “iPod Fund’s” initial contribution was my final paycheck from my job at the daycare this summer, but not much was added since, due primarily to a lack of resources.

My parents, being the divinely wonderful people they are, went ahead and satisfied my two-year longing with the arrival of the twenty fourth of November (my brother, Ian, was also instrumental in the planting of the iPod seed within their minds); twenty three hours of song transfer later, I had roughly twenty days of music to entertain myself with during this arduous pilgrimage to the north. It is the most fun you can have with your pants on and your blender off.

Even so, I can’t wait to be home tomorrow.

Repetitive inanity

Sure, it was funny the first time. But if I see that silly thing about the Republicans changing their symbol to the condom one more time, I’m liable to scream a shrill shriek so loud that every eardrum on God’s green earth will shatter in its wake.

Without purpose or direction

Not having work to do thoroughly baffles me. Every day, I’m assaulted with endless harassment from six teachers, not including the quazi-professing entity in Dr. Yarborough, Theory of Knowledge “teacher” extraordinaire.

So tonight, with no homework to do for the day following, I was lost; never before on a week night of this school year had I been blessed with this glorious confusion. What was I supposed to do with my time? I am a creature of habit that demands a mandate for any action taken.

So, I took advantage of my incurable boredom by wandering aimlessly around this twelve-by-twelve room in hopes of finding something worthwhile. And that’s what I surmise I’ll be doing for the next week.

What a beautiful, beautiful, set of circumstances.

These go to 11

I feel ashamed to say that before last night, none of may family has been privy to the wonder that is This Is Spinal Tap.

What’s even worse is that after buying the VHS version of the movie from Walgreens for $3.99 and watching it after our sojourn to Monty’s, the neighborhood pizza place, my father and mother did not give off vibes of extreme excitement for having been shown the light after 20 years of darkness.

I am seriously now considering that it is entirely possible that I was adopted.

Something's Fishy, Redux

After experimenting with 13 small fish for the IBO’s silly little Group IV Project, 9 died. So, sue us. If they didn’t want to die, they would have stopped peeing a long time ago.

Being the humanitarian I am, I put the remaining four into clean water to live out the rest of their days happily, not asphyxiating on their own urine. The other night, I put four in a new bowl and went to bed. The next morning, I got up and fed three fish.

Wait, what?

It appears one escaped! I looked all around – on the floor, behind the bowl, under the table on which their tank sat – to no avail. I surmised that one must have been so depressed to be a part of our cruel, cruel experiment he jumped from the bowl to its own death and decided that I would find it later.

That evening, I fed the three fish and went to bed. The next morning, I got up and fed two fish.

Wait, what?

Another one was gone by the wayside. Disgruntled, I continued with my daily life and looked again tonight for the remains of the fish. I only found one, which leaves the other that escaped available to murder me with a butcher knife while I sleep. I couldn’t take that risk any further, so I did what any self-respecting fish owner would do with the remaining fish and flushed them.

Bring it on, PETA. Bring it on.

My New Friend

Last night as I was waiting for Channing and Erin at Pioneer Park in Dunedin to see the Friday Night Film and proceed to Fritzee Freeze with some drama kids I don’t know, I showed up when Erin told me to, but was forced to wait for thirty minutes as a result of their tardiness. Toward the end of my wait, I sat on a bench and was approached by a freakily pasty white man with a backpack. Here’s how our conversation went.

FPWMWAB: What are they doing, showing a movie here tonight?
Me: Yeah, sure are.
FPWMWAB: What movie?
Me: Not sure – I think its some sort of old Martian film.
FPWMWAB: Oh. Is Dunedin a nice place?
Me: Yeah, I live in Clearwater. It’s much quieter here.
FPWMWAB: Yeah, downtown Clearwater past 8 is crazy.
Me: Yeah.

Awkward silence ensues…

FPWMWAB: Do you know when the last bus out of here is?
Me: No, sure don’t, sorry.
FPWMWAB: Waiting for someone?
Me: Yeah, you can never expect women to be on time.
FPWMWAB: Oh, well if you’re still together by Christmas, you should get her a watch.
Me: …No, it’s not just one girl.
FPWMWAB: Oh, so you’re a ladies man!
Me: That’s what they tell me…
FPWMWAB: Here, then maybe they’ll appreciate this.

FPWMWAB hands me a pamphlet consisting of his selected love poetry and passages from 1 Peter and Proverbs. I thumb through it, feigning interest.

Me: Oh, maybe they will. Thanks. The font is too small and it’s too dark – I can’t read it.
FPWMWAB: I can read it to you.
Me: No, that’s alright – I’ll save it for later.

Just then I spotted Channing and Erin across the street, and taking my chance to get out of the presence of FPWMWAB, I tried to pull out from the conversation.

Me: Oh, well… there they are. It was nice to meet yo-
FPWMWAB: Can you spare a dollar?
Me: No, sure cant; if I had any money, I wouldn’t be here.
FPWMWAB: Oh, then can I get that pamphlet back? I usually charge a dollar for it.
Me: Sure… Okay, there is my entourage, I have to go.
FPWMWAB: I can read it to them if you’d like.
Me: No.

Then I left the bench, directed the girls quite hastily away in the other direction, and attempted to avoid any and all contact with freakily pasty white man with a backpack for the rest of the evening. I last saw him backpacking across Douglas Avenue, walking into the darkness to do whatever it is that homeless people do.

And In the End

Congratulations to George W. Bush on his first successful presidential election.