The Red Hoodie Punkass

Would it be proper to slap the man sitting near me at the table? The situation: he apparently likes chewing tobacco and is too much of a Sally to gut it when he is indoors so he has taken over a community trashcan for his spitting purposes. I can't stand him.
Lucky for him, I only fight for money now.

No time for other blogging. Studying, studying, reading, researching, studying, reading, writing, researching, writing, or some combination of two or three of those at the same time.

Peace.

I shot myself in the face with a shotgun.

It's true. I done did it. A truly exhilarating experience and a bit freaky too. Granted, I did only take a single BB to the lower lip area, but still puts a little fear in you to follow a very loud blast with a strike to the face. More on this later.

That is the sort of activity that I get involved in when I ventured southward to visit far southern Iowa and my relatives who reside in that area.

Following my fight last Wednesday I ventured home and got to bed nice and late so that I could wake up very sleepy at 6 AM to get started on my trip south with Cousin Whitney. Nothing eventful other than having to detour to Des Moines to pick up Tate and a few hours spent listening to Whitney complain about one thing or another. (Hehe, she even tried to convince me that I would need to spank my children later in life. Her proof? My bratty childhood.)

On Thursday night I was fortunate enough to pay a visit to the new homestead of a young man my age named Shane, a bandmate of Tate's. The lucky fool owns 600 acres (I believe they came through his grandparents in one way or another), a bunch of goats, some peacocks, an eight-track player, and a crappy TV that gets a fuzzy vision of NBC (I think). What a life! I am so jealous, but only of his current situation. We'll see how it works out for him and hopefully I can wind up in such a situation on of these days.

Back to shooting myself in the face. My family seems to enjoy shooting guns and I seem to enjoy it a bit too. I found a new appreciaton for my .222 (much stronger than a .22) while I was attempting to shoot the hood hinges off of Tate's old Pontiac 6000. With Uncle Leon and Cousin Kurt it seems that shotguns are the game. We really didn't spend too much time shooting, but we really took advantage of our last thirty minutes before darkness each day.

It was at the end of a quick session where we had each emptied a few boxes of shells rather rapidly (how wasteful) that I got into my previously described situation. We were fulfilling Kurt's lifelong dream of shooting a car when I took a shot at the gas tank cover and felt something come from the dark and slap me in the mouth. Turns out I was perfectly fine and continued to shoot the that evening, but now I can forever say that I once shot myself in the face with a 12 guage. Isn't that just special?

I have other stories to tell since I took a break from blogging and blog reading for quite a while, but I also have class to get to and bit of reading to take care of.

Peace.

R.I.P. Wyatt Ammon

Hamlinite, trackster, Peace Corps Volunteer

Memorial Page

Wyatt's Zambia Page

Peace.

Haughtily Symbiotic

Yeah, I am dependent on Shane, and one of us is definitely condescending about it. Making fun of me for not having the fridge fully closed or for leaving the light in my room on for a few extra minutes. That kid is going down.

Dream one:
I was on a fanciful version of campus that doesn't appear to exist in even the slightest of associations. The only part of the inside of a building that I can recall was like the inside of a flight control tower (or at least my imagined version).
A few select "English profs" (Mrs. Dunn, among others) berated me for being a worthless scholar and told me that I should quit the major. They seemed genuinely angry with me for something, but I can not recall what.
There happend to be a few other "profs" (Betty Bermel) who told me that I was a great guy and an excellent student. They apparently got my jokes and didn't mind my disdain for school or my lack of seriousness.
If any other portions of this dream come back to me, I will let you know. I really should have written this down closer to the time I actually had the dream.

Dream two will have to follow tomorrow or later today.

Peace.

"Always look on the bright side of life"

This officially brings a selfish little project to its end. I have been titling my posts with nothing but lyrics from the particular Monty Python song that is listed as the title of this post. The project was primarily started so that I could be amused by reading the lyrics in order on in the archives section. I thought the lines might inspire me to write something interesting; that didn't happen, but I am not too upset about it. Honestly, it is not like I had anything better to be doing.

I arrived at school at 8 this morning. It is now 3 PM and I realized during my 11 AM course that I had left my lights on. Shane and I will have to go get some jumper cables and take care of that at some point this evening. I should be done doing school work on campus at 9 oder 10. What a splendid day.

My registration window opens up on Friday morning. I have to take 18 credits a semester for the next couple, take two summer courses, and take 15 credits during a semester when most majors with the 12 credits of required courses are usually overworked if I want to get out of this place after Fall '07. Shit yeah. Either I am going to have no life for awhile, or I am going to have to stay for another extra semester. My great disdain for this education precludes me from wanting that. So, instead, I will destroy myself.
This should be fun for you folks to watch.

I have a couple of dreams that I should type about on here, but I have a meeting with a prof.

Oh, looking on the bright side: I got my two pieces of pizza from the Smaug for free today (I have never eaten here before), but only because my ATM wouldn't give me any money and I had already gotten the food dished up. The young lady simply instructed me to walk away. It feels great to be such a badass. Hehe.

Peace.

Some things in life are bad

Like Johnny Cash being dead. However, things are looking up since we all have the chance to go check out the new biopic Walk the Line, and that should be a dandy. Who is going? I think I'll give it a go next friday on opening night. Yeah, I am that nerdy.
In other Johnny Cash news I watched a lovely show that was made way back when during one of Johnny's first shows at San Quentin prison. It intercut snippets from the prisoners, some heartbreakingly sad, some simply interesting, with songs from the shows. It is nice that they let the female backup singers into the prison.

In other film news there is a new Pride and Prejudice coming out. This one apparently does Austen proud. I don't actually know that, but it is supposed to be pretty good. Part of that is an increased realism, how nice. Keira Knightley and Donald Sutherland are two notables in this version.

Peace.

They can really make you mad

No they can't. What a liar. You make you mad and I won't have you making excuses for such things. Demand accountability. Or not. Whatever, at least demand sound agricultural techniques. What?

I think I may have found a sinister means of getting away with not paying for the broken case on my laptop. It will require me to break the case in another area, but I am willing to do that. I will wait for a while before I do that. That is, wait until I have the money to pay for the case if my efforts fail.

Yesterday afternoon I continued my practice of attending seemingly random presentations by profs and other folks. The most recent was a presentation titled "How To Watch Dance" and was led by the quintessential dancer prof. Black flowing fabric on top of black stretch pants and limish green sweater. No shoes of course. And she flowed about the stage with limbs of rubber.
Oh, I want to say more, but it is time for class. Maybe I will update this when I get to work this afternoon.

Peace.

Other things just make you swear and curse

Fuck. Shit. Whore. Ass. Damn.
Hmm...so they do.
I done broked somethin' on my 'puter. Some little grid of metal (maybe just hard plastice) on the shell of my laptop began to bulge out the other day. I was convinced that I could protect the thing and not hit it anymore as I believe that the bulging was caused by dropping my backpack or bangin this beast on something or other. However, I was foiled again. I dropped the backpack at the end of a class and when next check a few little pieces of the speaker protecting grid had popped off. This is sure to cost me a pretty penny (and I have so few of those left). For now I think it will be ignored for a year or so since I can't afford to be bothered by paying for it and I am going to have damn thing for another year and a half anyway.
Perhaps I will go in and find out just how much this is going to cost me, but the more likely senario is that I won't and that I will hope to sneak the damage by the folks taking them back in the future. I will get caught and will curse some more. Damn.

I also forgot to tell the story of me locking my keys in the truck at the state park on Monday. Anyway, I did it, I got to spend more time on the trails with Dan, I had to run a bunch, and I now have one less roadside visit to use up from the good folks at AAA.
It did take them a good fifteen minutes to locate me though. Apparently Great River Bluffs has no real address or some such thing.

Peace.

When you're chewing life's gristle

What a waste of a good walk. I decided that I should probably work to move the democratic process forward so I took a half hour walk to my local polling station in Winona. I had intended to vote "yes" on the referendum to benefit the Winona public school, but I was thwarted in my attempt to help the children (they aren't that great anyway).
It seems that it is impossible for me to vote as I neither live on campus nor receive utility bills at my current address. You see, if I lived on campus or in campus sponsored housing I could simply present my student identification card and vote, but I do not and so it is necessary for me to come up with some sort of a utility bill with my current address in order to register. I for some reason thought that only some sort of mail or other bil was necessary so I brought something from an education testing service.
Yeah, that wasn't good enough and there is really nothing that I could have presented that would have worked. The only utility bill that comes to the apartment is the electric bill and that comes in Shane's name. Other than that bill the only utility (term being used loosely) bill that I pay anything for is my cell phone bill and that reaches me in Eyota.
So, conclusion, I don't really exist in this town and that just proves my point.

I am surrounded by thirteen-year-olds (maybe even younger) who help to prove another of my points. No adults believe that the Insane Clown Posse make any sort of decent music and their only fans are children like those around me. I wish they would at least debate the merits of the music rather than just printing of poor quality pictures of the douchebags.
Also, these same kids still like pro-wrestling. I might slap one of them if there is another argument over who owns a particular picture of Ray Mysterio Jr. Probably kid with the fucking mustache because he is loud and doesn't seem to know anything about computers and because he has that damn mustache.
Which gets to the next point, why do kids try to grow mustachios as soon as they possibly can. I recall Bigalk doing this when he was younger so I don't know if it something only dumbass kids who develop physically much earlier than mentally do, or if this is a pervasive disease within the age group.

Oh, why am I surrounded by early/pre teenaged children? The internet seems to have almost completely disapeared around my apartment. That is correct the net of inter seems to have faded. How disapointing. That just means that I extended my walk back around to campus so that I could type for you folks.

I walk quite a bit lately. I am punishing myself for leaving my bike in Eyota. I am also saving the planet (hehehe).

Last point, Shane, my roommate, is a nutbag. He puts ketchup on his mac & cheese and then questioned my dipping my grilled cheese in the same substance. C'mon.

Peace.

Don't grumble, give a whistle.

I have a lot of homework to do, but I only have a little over 100 pages of Stone Angel left to read for tomorrow. That is only a third of the book, oh yeah. Trying to be positive here. I don't know what kind of a spin I will put on my Writing In Communities work that hasn't been started at all. Oh, hey! I don't have school on Friday. I will dedicate a portion of a garden to some veterans or something. Is that insensitive? Oh yeah? I don't see you slaughtering native peoples when Columbus Day rolls around, so who are you to judge?

Enough of the positive.
Bah to my mother for her spendthrift ways. That, or bah her for her hatred of teenagers. She is causing me to get fat again.
Explanation - My mother dislikes teenagers who go trick-or-treating and because of her hatred she refuses to give them more than one piece of candy. That factor is combined with her love of buying a wide variety of candies and the habit that young people have of passing by our cul-de-sac on this evening. All of those together cause us to have oodles of leftover candies.
I have already gone through all the licorice and Butterfingers. Next are the peanut M&Ms and the Snickers. I haven't decided what is after that.
My summer weight loss had already started to disapear and now I am speeding the process. I would rather be a 185er than a 205er. Bah.

Oooooh. Treehouse of Horrors number something or other is on.
"Ooh, ah, my Flanderdoodle!"

Peace.

And this'll help things turn out for the best.

Wowzers. I just got home from my first ass-kicking in over a year. It came when I was at fighting practice this evening, but I didn't even get punched once. We did a few drills and I even did the running-man, but then the fun ended. It was a grand ol' workout, and, so far as I know, I didn't push myself quite that hard while coaching last winter. At SCSU I did, but that was a long time ago.
Regardless, good times. I will pay for it in the morning. Come to think of it, I should be stretching right now.

A message:
Uncle Ron,
Yes, we still need a coffeetable. I wouldn't mind using the cardboard-box/laundry baskets combo for the whole year, but it gets to be a pain trying to balance the whole thing out when Shane has to do his laundry.
Let me know what you might have for us.
Thanks.

Why is it that my favorite magazine both only come every two months? (Also, what is the term for a publication that is published six times per year? I could look it up, but you will remember it for longer if you have to look it up.) Both my Organic Gardening and the DNR's wonderful Minnesota Conservation Volunteer are of that status and it makes me a little sad. Although, it does make me extra happy when they get here. Then, to add one more wrinkle, it is once again bad because that leads to me reading through them as quickly as possible. I can only read them a couple of times in a week before they seem to get a bit stale. Especially when it is gardening information that I am unable to use until the next Spring.

My blog has gotten intolerable boring. I promise to go on a bender and write from the book of Hunter S. Thompson at some point. Yeah, probably not, but if I get kicked out of school in the future, all bets are off.

Peace.