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Mar 1, 2003

It's the end of the world. I seriously doubt that I am going to be able to go to college fall semester, not because I'm going to be rejected by everybody, but because I won't be able to pay for it. My mom is Queen Stingipoo, and she just lost a lot of investment value because she wasn't smart enough to sell or rent out the Rogers Road property when she had the chance. Dad just lost his job and he's starting to say he wouldn't help me even if he had the cash, although I suspect this is the heat of passion talking. FAFSA is down the shitter. I'm pretty much relegated to private scholarships at this point, and I don't think I can find enough of those at this point to fund an Emory education. Hell, I'll be lucky if I can afford UGA or UF.

But you know what? I feel fine. I've passed through the turmoil of desperate panic into the calm waters of hopelessness. I'll just head out in spring. I'm happy with my life; I can stand to live it the way it is for another six months. I like to think that I have myself to thank for that, but I know it isn't true. I've been myself a lot longer than I've been happy. In all honesty, I owe all of you a lot. I appreciate your collective presence more than you may realize, sometimes more than I do myself.

Thanks. I couldn't have done it without you.
Nick ::: 11:51 PM ::: 0 comments

Feb 28, 2003

You know, I'm sure there are normal kids out there that have huge family upheavals about things like getting drunk, having sex, and dealing drugs. Me? My dad stormed out of the apartment two hours ago, threatening to throw me out -- over federalism. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, federalism, the system of shared power between local and national governments. You think I'm joking?

In order to fill out the FAFSA, you have to get a parent's signature, and online that means your parent has to get a PIN from the Department of Education. They ask you really invasive questions like your name, e-mail address, and social security number. The form is so short you don't even have to scroll down to fill it in.

So, of course, as soon as my dad opens the page, it's all, "What does the DoE have to do with anything?" Well, Dad, they are the federal agency that deals with education. Hence the name. "What has the Federal government got to do with anything?" Well, Dad, they are the ones who are going to give me the money I need to pay for college, and send all my info to individual colleges so they can give me money, too. "Why is the government giving you money?" Well, Dad, I suppose because some lamebrained congressman thought that spending money on education rather than bombs, corporate regulation, and invasive homeland investigations would be an interesting experiment for Washington.

What ensued was a lengthy and altogether stupid argument which ended in him asserting that I didn't understand federalism, the difference between state and national legislatures, or anything about Thomas Jefferson. He thinks that the old system of state-based student aid, which would require me to fill out a different form for each bloody school I apply to, is vastly superior to the idea of a single application that is accepted everywhere. He ridiculed me for taking AP classes, and I expected him at any moment to blast "them durn city fellers and their 'colleges'." He thinks that I'm costing some poor sod $50,000 for every $10,000 I receive and that I am a lazy, greedy, socialist extremist who will bring about the moral and economic deterioration of western civilization.

I think that if I don't get the fucking form signed, we'll be enjoying each other's company for an extra six months.
Nick ::: 9:33 PM ::: 0 comments

Feb 27, 2003

Clerks misquote of the day: "What smells like chili mac?"

Ladies and gentlemen, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but infighting is tearing the Senior League of Evil to pieces. Tonight Captain Germania got a little over-enthusiastic, and in her zeal, she creamed me in the face with a plateful of bratwurst. Now I can't get the sausagey goodness out of my hair, and some poor dishwasher is probably being gutted by spikes that stuck in the plate. Where will the madness end?

Fortunately the Dollar Doll was not present, as being emasculated in her presence would just be too much. We mustn't forget who the enemy is here!
Nick ::: 10:30 PM ::: 0 comments

Feb 26, 2003

Well, I've gotten pretty positive feedback about the movie. It should be linked up at the top of the page now.
Nick ::: 7:03 PM ::: 0 comments

Ever sit down and really wonder whether that blank should be filled with "en" or "y"? Ever seriously consider the important differences between "manquer à" and "manquer de"? Ever wonder how to tell a French person that you want an endive? We've all had those moments, and now we can all enjoy them on this memorable 14-disc collection: AP French -- the soundtrack!

Internationally reknowned superstar Francis Cabrel revisists themes like "Springtime for Mme. Cline," "The Petit Truc Boogie," and "I've Got You Around My Neck (And Feathers In My Ear)". Sing along with old favorites like "Oh Where Oh Where Has Monsieur Hansen Gone?" Who can forget "Monsieur Fahey is a Vache Vache Vache"?

Don't wait! This collection can be yours today for 3 000 francs, or about a buck and a half if you don't live in godforsaken frankenland.
Nick ::: 7:02 PM ::: 0 comments

Feb 25, 2003

I've made a tentative intro video for this blog, but I have no earthly idea how to make it the first thing you see when you enter. Tell me what you think...if my comments are working.

Watch it!
Nick ::: 10:17 PM ::: 0 comments

Feb 24, 2003

I look at my reflections in the two panes of glass I am approaching. In front, distinct and clear, stands a boy -- uncertain, furtive, subject to the fickle whims of the weakest wind. He walks along, hands in pockets, eyes glued to the floor. He doesn't talk to people much. He needs to spend a certain amount of time each day in total isolation in order to function. He wants people to notice him. He wants people to love him. He wants them to fall over in adulation, swept off their feet by the marvel he thinks he is. He knows this will never happen. He is looked down upon. Frowns and laughter follow him as he trudges down the short corridor.

He is followed by a less distinct figure, taller, distorted. The man walking behind the boy is sure-footed. He knows exactly what he is capable of, and others know as well, just by watching his actions. He can silence laughter with a glance, but when he speaks, the thought behind his words garners respect. He is well-liked, confident, and trustworthy. He is satisfied with his situation, but also with the progress he makes in improving it.

Yet, for all this, he is vague: a mere shade compared to the brightly outlined child he follows. I know more about him than almost anyone, but he still feels somehow remote; a passing dream forgotten in the waking. I want to shout to him. I want to tell him to hurry up -- to run -- to overtake the boy and come to the forefront. I want to call, but I cannot, and the man seems satisfied to meander patiently, always in the background, always indistinct, always hidden behind the foolish spectacle of the inept child.

For all that I want to see the adult more clearly, he frightens me. I know that if I see him, I will see beyond him, just as I see beyond the child now. I know that he is not the end of the journey, but only the next step. I know that beyond the first pane - the boy's - and the second - the man's - there are no more panes. There is only the night, dark, cold, empty, and alone.
Nick ::: 7:38 PM ::: 0 comments