| The writer's conference: An excerpt from my paper journal. |
[May. 19th, 2007|07:37 pm] |
5/19/07
I'm at a writer's conference for both budding young journalists and craggy old veteran ones. My pen says "2005: Looks like the future's in excellent hands!" and my name tag says "Camden Miller - Trinity University."
I got the right nametag, but I flipped the card around when I saw this guy's name on the back, because it listed my school as Roosevelt High. And saying I'm still in high school is both somewhat inaccurate and embarrassing. As for the name, it seems like a good Alias. Camden Miller, Caleb Williams, close enough.
Anyway, as for why I'm here: A long time ago I wanted to be a journalist, and I attended the same conference last year. But since then, I've realized I'm too lazy for "real" journalism, and it would be sort of a waste of personality. Writing news stories without any adjectives? To hell with that. I'd much rather just teach basic journalism to future generations. That's truly what's for me for a warehouse-load of reasons I won't go into. At least, not now, O' journal.
So I'm sitting in the very back of the main room and some chubby woman wearing a shirt that looks like TV static is talking through a stuffy nose about Internet Journalism -- something that long ago earned my eye-roll, so helled if I'm going to pay attention. All I'm thinking about is the felafel wrap I'll be eating come lunch.
This woman clearly didn't have many ideas for the opening speech she's giving. Makes me wonder how she ever got a job doing...this and whatever. She stammered her way through an introduction, read a few journalism-related quotes she didn't write, then opened the floor for questions. Sheesh. I did better on all those speeches junior year I didn't prepare for even a bit. Maybe they should give me the mic. I might do better flying by the seat of my pants than she's doing with her stack of notecards.
I had a -- oh Christ, some old guy on the board just said "internets" -- dream about ______ last night. It started out with me up in the hill country blowing flapping headwounds in zombies, then it changed over like my dream was missing a reel. One second I'm picking off ghouls, the next I'm asking ______ if she'll be my girlfriend. We share a kiss -- the dream-kiss being the closest thing I've gotten to kissing someone I actually care about in years -- then we walk hand-in-hand through a disjointed jungle of somewhat familiar locations. We find our way to my disattached laundry room on the top of a gloomy hill. We corner each other and have a passionate, youthful make-out session. She wraps one leg around me, I lean my knee between her legs. We breathe heavily and stroke each other's faces. A few zombies shamble by, but they ignore us. Probably to avoid being rude. It'd be funny if one of them had flashed me a thumbs-up, but honestly I'd rather if a zombie flashed her one. Either way, no such luck.
The same guy who said Internets earlier is now talking about blackberries and blogs. This guy's forty-five if he's a day. Lord.
If I can get ______ on the phone, I'll tell her -- not ask her -- that we should do something together soon. She's so very different from all the other girls. She means something, and I've had feelings for her for years. And she's such an individual, and --
Fuck's sake. I'm going to keep a tally of how many times blogs are mentioned.
Maybe ______ will want to watch a movie with me, like last time. She did say she'd like to do it again. Or rather, in her words: "We should do this more often." That was a long time ago. I wish I'd had the brass ones to actually get into the habit. Damn ex-fear of commitment. Damn awkwardness. Damn.
They've said the word "Blog" ten times in the last twenty minutes. Please God, kill me.
Another reason I came to this convention is the possibility of meeting brainy college girls, like I did last time. Unfortunately, there are none in sight. Just a high school girl sitting across the aisle from me wearing a "Don't hate me because I'm beautiful, hate me because your boyfriend thinks I am" shirt. This stinks, but if I meet someone here, it might take my mind off ______. If even for a little while.
I'm lonely. Maybe I should get a dog. My dad's brown dachsund, Punkin', is the most loving creature in the world. Her personal mission is to make sure you never alone and sad. If you are, she'll jump right on your chest and whine, or go to sleep.
Awww to the max.
So no college chicks. No wonder I'm sitting here writing notes writing about my favorite dog. Damn I'm bored.
These fucking guys in the audience. I get the feeling they're standing up and asking questions so people can see how much they know about journalism and be impressed. I seriously, seriously should have brought Ms. Herndon to this thing. She'd get a kick out of it, and these people have overinflated egos, and Ms. Herndon and I, a former high school teacher and an aspiring one, could do some serious needling. Hey, maybe I should date her. She's single, and lonely, and I'm willing to bet she's horny. Hmmm...and she's an older woman, too, which really cooks my grits. I'd wear the boy toy title with pride.
Alright, that's it. That's the absolute limit. This is just a seminar to teach old people about the Internet. Screw this. Time for a smoke and a piss. Then home. Then sleep. |
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| Unpopular comments I've made in the past |
[Dec. 22nd, 2006|12:51 pm] |
Third grade: "Alright, autoerotic asphyxiation is when..."
Seventh grade: "Your wife is an awful teacher."
Eighth grade (At a Lutheran school): "I'm a Unitarian."
Ninth and tenth grades, in multiple DATA classes: "I haven't learned anything and the teacher is a complete know-nothing." (Enroll today! www.neisd.net/data/)
And then eleventh grade, when I was becoming jaded: "Look, I haven't learned a fucking thing in this class. I turned in my project, now let me leave." I left. Thankfully I was only talking to an intern.
Eleventh grade, to a teacher, as the punchline to some sort of joke: "Hey, it's cool. I've got some guns in my locker." |
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| March's Pistol |
[Dec. 9th, 2006|05:14 pm] |
I just ordered this; It's a replica of the Colt .25 "Vest Pocket." I think it'll be perfect for March's character, since it will be juxtaposed with Steve's M1911A1 cannon. |
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| Mr. Sneaky |
[Dec. 8th, 2006|01:43 am] |
I sent an email to Pinkerton today, inquiring about what types of education and/or training is required to become an operative with them. You may ask yourself, is this another of Caleb's pipe dreams, fueled by poor information gleaned from television and comic books, and doomed to be dead and buried within two months? Totally. But I intend to get as far as I can with this one; P.I.s make a lot of money, have a slick job title, and make their own hours. It sounds like a good job to me. Of course, I still dream of being a writer -- that's pretty much my only dream that's lasted for any significant amount of time -- but being a Private Investigator part-time would be pretty cool, you must admit. And I'll risk sounding like a starry-eyed, naive teenager to say it.
Now, I know that every single profession that I've seen look cool in movies and on TV is actually boring in real life, but I also know that not everyone knows that. So when some saucy, sultry babe sidles up to me in a bar and asks, "What'cha do, hotshot?" I can shoot back, "I'm a shamus, doll." And, provided she believes everything she's heard and knows what shamus means, walk away with some fresh arm-candy.
That is all. I think I had the intention of making some point here about trying to clean up my lifestyle, but that's gone the way of my respiratory health. Dammit.
PS: My mother told me about something called Ibogaine. I'd never heard of it before, but apparently it's an excellent addiction interruptions device. And it makes you hallucinate for thirty hours straight. Huzzah! Legalize it, dammit, I'm dying here. |
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| (no subject) |
[Dec. 6th, 2006|04:13 pm] |
I've felt out of place lately. I don't like that expression very much, "out of place." It implies that you know where you're supposed to be.
Well, that morning I did know where I was supposed to be, in a sense. I was supposed to be in Coach Buddy Clark's fifth-period Economics class, but somewhere between my morning cigarette and the thought of how far away the classroom was I'd decided I didn't want to go. I'd run into Mr. Johnson -- John Johnson, what a name! -- and convinced him that I didn't actually have a class fifth period. After buying my bold-faced lie, he let me use one of his computers. I sat in front of the monitor, Eric Clapton's Cocaine blasting through my headphone buds, and thought about things.
I rattled around the thought of being out of place. I knew where I wanted to be. Home. But then, maybe not. Sometimes even when I'm at home I have the feeling of wanting to go home. Maybe home isn't for me. Maybe my house isn't my home.
I'd like to be seated in a comfortable leather chair in a small, warm room with oriental rugs hanging on the walls. I'd like to be sipping hot cocoa, puffing on a vanilla Black and Mild, and admiring a collection of the girls' who've broken my heart's skulls arranged neatly and alphabetically on a shelf. I guess I was just imagining the circumstances that would satisfy the feeling of dull, cold longing that was pulsating in my gut.
I don't know why I had the feeling. I thought about that for a while and remembered that I didn't get a lot of sleep the previous night. Maybe that's it, I thought. That explanation would have to do.
"I'm leaving," Mr. Johnson said, standing up from his own computer and pulling on his gray sport coat. "Lock up when you're done, if you would." I waved him on and smiled.
A few hours later I walked into my newspaper class. Ms. Cardoza was buzzing around the room like a caffeinated bumblebee as she looked at us and took roll down on a clipboard. Her face carried her usual expression of stress and annoyance. She passed me without saying hello, and I looked at her picture on her I.D. badge. In it, she was smiling cheerfully. I'd never seen her smile like that in real life. Just in the picture.
"Where were you fifth?" Stephen asked. I shrugged and asked, "What did I miss?"
"Nothing," he said. "He just told us to start reviewing for the test. The class didn't even really start until fifteen minutes until the bell."
I grinned. "That's great. Well, as for fifth, this morning I really just didn't feel like going to Economics."
Choices. You've got more than you think.
"Nobody did," Stephen said, smiling.
They showed up, though. Suckers, I thought, suppressing the pang of guilt I felt about skipping a class. |
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| It's done. |
[Nov. 15th, 2006|01:49 am] |
My detective short that all my friends seem to hate is finally finished.
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| A thought and a picture |
[Oct. 31st, 2006|06:46 pm] |
I was going through my old entries today in class, and I realized that, at some point, this blog was entertaining and I was, for a while, happy. I'm starting to forget how to be happy though. That sounds dramatic, but it fits. My therapist says that I need to go through a process called "Cognitive Behavioral Therapy," meaning that you gain more control over your minds behavior. Dig?
Anyway, the whole point of CBT is disengaging depressing and scary thoughts, which is something I really need to learn how to do. Sorry for the sob-fest these last couple of entries; I've just got some things to work out.
Oh right, the picture. This is me as Detective March.
Noirrific. |
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| The Cover |
[Oct. 27th, 2006|06:07 pm] |
Coming soon!
Detective March and the Scarlett Facade
Detective March and The Chinese Connection
Detective March and his Partner Steve meet The Shadow
Detective March and his Partner Steve meet The Mummy
Detective March and his Partner Steve Investigate That Smell
Detective March and his Partner Steve Eat a Live Owl
Detective March and his Partner Steve Accidentally get Married
Detective March and his Partner Steve in: Plumbing Madness!
Detective March and his Partner Steve get Plastered
Detective March and his Partner Steve Join the Church of Scientology
Detective March and his Partner Steve Play Ping Pong for 300 pages
Detective March and his Partner Steve see how Long They Can go Without Bathing |
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| Warning: if you don't like whining, turn back now. |
[Oct. 22nd, 2006|02:13 am] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  Read the post; figure it out. | ] |
Yeah, this is going to be one of those why-am-I-single posts. And just when you and I thought I'd outgrown them, too...oh well.
Anyway, I've had it with trying to figure out why I'm single for myself. I mean, I'm nice to pretty much everyone, I wash and comb my hair, I put on deodorant every day, I'm six feet tall, I rarely smell like smoke, and I actually like to cuddle. And yet, in spite of what I see as good qualities, every time I've tried to get into a relationship, I've wound up either the friend or just flat-out rejected. I'm befuddled. And to make it worse, whenever I'm in a self-doubting mood like this, everyone -- sometimes including girls I'd like to date -- will trip over themselves to remind me of how smart, nice, good looking, etc. I am, but still I don't get squat to show for it. Is everyone just crazy? Am I looking for a level of maturity that doesn't yet exist in my age group? What is it?
Is it my split ends? Do I cough too much? Am I creepy? Do I have some kind of dark cloud surrounding me that people can't stand to be around? Is it my lack of a motorcycle, leather jacket, and crime record? Do I talk over people's heads? What is it that drives people from me?
I keep getting into these nasty relationship-abortions. They always end before they start. The last one ended because, apparently, I made a jolly-old ass of myself. I'm of the opinion that it was because she understand my sense of humor, but I guess that's just my perception.
It's a sad state of affairs when you begin to identify with a woman who shot herself, but it was once said of Christine Chubbuck that she would walk into a room and every head would turn, but nobody would ask for her number. I really am beginning to feel that way.
In the words of 2-D from Gorillaz, can't staaaand the looooonelineeeessssss.
For fuck's sake, somebody love me. |
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| Paste this into your browser. |
[Oct. 18th, 2006|10:49 pm] |
javascript:R=0; x1=.1; y1=.05; x2=.25; y2=.24; x3=1.6; y3=.24; x4=300; y4=200; x5=300; y5=200; DI=document.getElementsByTagName(%22img%22); DIL=DI.length; function A(){for(i=0; i-DIL; i++){DIS=DI[ i ].style; DIS.position='absolute'; DIS.left=(Math.sin(R*x1+i*x2+x3)*x4+x5)+%22px%22; DIS.top=(Math.cos(R*y1+i*y2+y3)*y4+y5)+%22px%22}R++}setInterval('A()',5); void(0)
Nothing bad happens, it's just entertaining. Hit refresh to stop the effect. |
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| Self-trivia, because I love to talk about myself |
[Sep. 30th, 2006|05:00 am] |
I am right handed. I consider this to be my dullest feature, which it almost inarguably is.
I have a deformed ribcage. Two of my ribs stick out on the left side. I have no idea why this is, and I get the occasional dull ache there. I'm hoping it's a parasitic twin I absorbed in the womb that's slowly becoming sentient.
I have hitchhiker thumbs, and didn't know it was anything special until Sophomore year when my mother noticed and had a dumbfounded reaction.
In my life I have had one seizure. Or rather, a convulsion. It was when I was young, maybe eight or nine. I lost consciousness and was rushed to the hospital, where the doctors slapped a laughing-gas mask over my face and jammed a needle into my spine to see whether or not I had viral meningitis. I didn't, and to this day, neither I nor my family know what the hell happened. Even after that, I strangely do not fear needles, and kind of think anyone who does is somewhat of a wuss, considering what I went through.
In my life I have wanted to be a psychologist, a ventriloquist, a professional bass guitarist, an animator, an artist, a porn star, a singer, a voice actor, a clown, a journalist, a writer, and President of the United States. I still hope to become all of them. Preferably at once.
For a good long while, I honestly believed that smallpox couldn't be that much worse than chickenpox, considering how similar their names sounded.
I once answered the door for a pizza man while dressed in a makeshift bedspread toga with a third-eye dot on my forehead. I was rather incredibly drunk. I hope the pizza guy didn't know that, because that means someone out there thinks I'm some kind of bizarre holy man.
I have never liked the song "Hotel California" by The Eagles. Not even the first time I heard it.
Whenever I hear a recording of my voice, it sounds to me like a twelve-year-old doing a decent Alan Alda impression.
I don't actually like Batman that much. There, I said it.
I have no idea what my blood type is. Sometimes I worry about that.
I have a mysterious phobia of insects with long legs. Now that you know that, I humbly request that you not be a dick if you, me, and a long-legged insect are in the same vicinity at some point in the future.
I don't mind the idea of growing old. I actually have been looking forward to it my whole life, since I crave the wisdom that comes with age and experience. For that, I am willing to ignore worries of arthritis and alzheimer's. |
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| Oh right, |
[Sep. 12th, 2006|05:24 pm] |
I forgot I had a livejournal. No, seriously.
Sadly, I've caved and finally gotten a Myspace profile. It's www.myspace.com/quirkxanadu. I've had it for a while, and originally I just used it to look at pictures of camwhores I'll never meet. Then I noticed that some of said camwhores require you to be their "friend," to see any of their skanky flesh, so there it is. I figure as long as I don't change anything about the layout or assault your ears with unexpected embedded music, it won't be that bad.
And besides, what kind of a hypocrite would I be if I didn't directly participate in something I've railed against for years?
You may leave nasty messages now. |
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| On surveys, banners, and body hair |
[Aug. 3rd, 2006|04:22 am] |
1. What color are your eyes?
2. What do you want to be when you grow up?
3. What type of music do you like?
4. How tall are you?
5. What do you look for in a partner?
Etc.
You see these types of things everywhere. Almost every blogger fills them out at some point. A bunch of inane, pointless questions that serve only to let people talk about themselves without having to structure an original sentence. It's easy! Copy, paste, enter a succinct answer for each one, then post it and hope your friends say something nice later.
I think it's dumb. But I have a confession to make: I can't help myself from reading the fucking things. Even (and maybe even especially) when the surveys exceed fifty questions. I am, for some reason or another, riveted by them. Do you eat the stems on your broccoli? Do you smoke? Drink? Do you sometimes look up at the stars and wonder what life is all about anyway? Would you eat a quarter for a dollar, and would you pick through your bowel movement later to get it back? Do the answers to any of these questions really matter in any way, shape, or form? Not really, but for fuck's sake, I need to know them. I can't resist. The temptation is too great.
I also always, always, play those little games in flash banners. You know, the types that falsely promise free Xboxes and iPods and the like. My browser blocks the popup, but I try to swat the twenty flies, shoot the robber, or knock out George W. Bush anyway. Like I said, I can't help myself. The temptation is too great.
Also: blue, a writer of some kind, jazz and old rock from the seventies, almost 6'2", and I look for the type of girl who wears dresses when she doesn't have to just because she likes them. And I'd like it if she smelled like patchouli from time to time. Big boobs would also be nice.
That's all.
P.S. In my recent boredom, I have been setting ablaze small patches of body hair just to watch them burn. I'm not sure if this is a smart or healthy habit, but hey, we all have our little hobbies, and it's an exciting alternative to shaving. |
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| Every once in a while you have a good dream. |
[Jul. 27th, 2006|05:04 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  manly and valorous | ] |
One in which you live out your deepest desires. If you're lucky, it's a lucid dream, and you can only make it better from there.
Last night, I had that very type of dream.
In this dream, I won a heated argument against Elijah Wood in public, making him look like a dim-witted, knock-kneed nimrod in front of all his adoring fans. Then I promptly kicked him in the gonads, made out with Scarlett Johansson, and received a free Xbox 360 from...someone.
Dream-Caleb is certainly the shining pinnacle of manliness and valor. I can't wait to fall asleep tonight. |
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caleb_con_carne's journal
