Copied directly from Chris and used as a poor substitute for a real LJ entry:

ADVICE FOR RECENT ARRIVALS
Dos & Don'ts & More Don'ts for Gay Boy Refugees
by Nate Lippens

So you made it out of that backwater town in one piece. Now comes the hard part--acclimating to a new place and living an openly gay life. Soon enough you will discover which bars cater to your distorted physical ideals, that meth is very bad, and that a deep tan is ugly and pre-cancerous--but what about the other stuff? Here's a cheat sheet to save you some time and trouble.

1. You are not a strong black woman. You never will be.

2. I know it was terrible being the fag in your school/small town/own mind, but don't introduce yourself to people with this information. Being gay is, and should be, the least interesting thing about you.

3. If your mother is the greatest woman who ever lived, keep it to yourself. The holiday orphans don't want to hear it. On the flip side, your family will always be a part of you even if you never speak to them again, but try not to spend your life in reaction to them.

4. Rainbow flags, bumper stickers, and wind socks are no different than Green Bay Packers fans painting their faces green and gold: a complete embarrassment. Pride can be as ugly and warping as shame.

5. Gay life can be empty and depressing, but bitching about it outside the confines of a few close friends will get you tagged as bitter. Yes, the gay mainstream is alienating with its cookie-cutter bars, bad dance music, and Queer as Folk. It's enough to make you turn straight. But electroshock doesn't work and Jesus is a sci-fi character.

6. Don't fraternize with people who haven't come out.

7. Your masculinity has most likely been called into question. Anything you do in reaction to it will be a failure. Don't try to prove or disprove anything.

8. There is a difference between being effeminate and being a queen. Being effeminate is just that--being. Being a queen is an affectation. I can't throw a ball, but I don't call anyone "girl," even female children.

9. Avoid she-bonics: referring to each other as Girl, She, and Her. "What's her problem?" That you are an idiot. This includes: Bitchslap, Girlfriend, Shit pussy, Mangina.

10. Don't be a misogynist asshole. Leave the tuna jokes back in your small town with your usage of Jew as a verb. If it weren't for lesbians and feminism, we'd still be sucking cock in truck-stop restrooms. I mean exclusively.

11. I've never been to a bathhouse. No, really. So I can't advise you on it but I do know they are basically a petri dish of STDs. If you are okay with HIV, herpes, gonorrhea, syphilis, and other STDs, by all means fuck your brains out.

12. Do not have black-and-white photos ? la Bruce Weber taken of you and your beloved. And if you must, then don't hang them up as "art" in your home.

13. Don't kiss and tell. Or fuck, suck, rim, or fist and tell. Think of your bedroom like Vegas: What happens there stays there. It will keep you from gossiping, which is the true heart of darkness, and will create a sense of mystery. Besides the cruelty of nicknaming someone Princess Tiny Meat (it would make a wonderful DJ name though), it isn't good karma. And what modestly endowed dude who sucks a mean cock is going to want to go home with you after that?

14. Bros before hos. I learned this the hard way: Do not sleep with a friend's ex-boyfriend. Ever. Even if they say they don't care, they do.

15. You are 200 times more likely to be an alcoholic than your straight counterparts.

16. Beauty fades. Develop some inner resources, otherwise when it goes, those of us with less far to fall will laugh at you. To your aging face.

17. Men, like lotto tickets, should not be had every day. The odds are the same.

18. Romantic friendships will end up being neither.

19. Cultivate friendships with straight men. "But we have nothing in common," you say? Bullshit. You are men. Many straight men are in fact softer and sweeter than their faggoty brothers.

20. Make friends with at least one dyke, you silly faggot. When the shit goes down--for instance your mother dies--fags will drop you in an instant if you aren't fun. Dykes will come to your house with food.

21. Don't make friendships based solely around how outrageous you are. It's a shitty kind of attention.

22. Don't refer to anyone as a fag hag. It's rude. Also don't hang out with fag hags.

23. Don't date people who have scars that are older than you.

24. After all of that, you are still not a strong black woman.

I, Aaron Smyth, graduated from Northwestern University. I did it. I really did it.

If I ever attempt to argue that the people here at Northwestern are smarter than people anywhere else, just remind me that I made the following statement:

I have never encountered more people who are unable to use a fucking electric stapler than I have while working at Northwestern's library. How these people manage to earn degrees in anything other than cranial-vacancy is beyond me.

Aside from a few papers left to write, I have officially completed my undergraduate career at Northwestern. My last "final" occurred last night and kicked off what I imagine to be a week or more of surreal experiences as I close out the year. The "exam" that Paul - professor of Performance of Shakespeare - had prepared for us was a series of scenes he'd cut and prepared from Shakespeare's three Henry VI plays that we would perform between the hours of 7pm and 10pm. With essays and actual tests breathing down our everyone's necks at this time of year, it was no one's idea of a good time to coordinate five and more people to meet for a few hours to rehearse scenes and memorize lines every couple days for about two weeks. In the end, though, the product was well worth the effort - watching two solid hours of generally well-executed Shakespearian performance from one of his lesser-know groups of plays felt so rewarding and, true to Paul's pedagogical desires, has inspired me to re-read the plays and think about them beyond the extent of the class.

The surrealist aspect of the evening's events began just after the performance (which, incidentally, concluded with a climactic water balloon "battle" on the western hill of the student union, soaking half the class) when, from 9pm to 10pm, we were to discuss the educational value of such a pursuit. Paul met us back in the classroom holding a bottle of wine - "refreshments courtesy the garrisons stationed at Bordeaux" - and began with a lecture: "This school looks very poorly on underage drinking, and is especially hard on professors who allow such drinking in a classroom setting. Fortunately, this is a major research institution and as such, I feel it is entirely appropriate, given that each of your characters in Shakespeare's time would have been a wine drinker, for us to further our characters' development by researching the consumption of wine and the effect it would've had. So, if your character was born on or before this date in 1983, I feel justified in providing you with the means to further your higher education."

And with that, he poured each of us the smallest bit of a $40 bottle of red wine he bought to celebrate the culmination of one of his favorite classes. Once everyone had toasted Shakespeare, his histories, and those who study them, Paul reached behind a table and into his bag, at which point he brought forth four jugs of a far-cheaper red which were passed around our circle. We then began discussing the value of this method of teaching, the problems we faced, the things we learned, the issues we had, the reasons things were great/awful, spot-on/off-base. By 9:30, we'd cashed all four jugs of wine and Paul's glass was empty - for at least the third time. He began to search the room for any remaining bottles of wine and, finding none, he rose mid-conversation and reached again into his bag. Bottle five was now in play. Around the circle it went and, in less than fifteen minutes, we were faced once more with empty cups and empty bottles. Once more Paul went to his bag and once more a bottle emerged. Bottle six.

By this point, people are either absolutely brilliant or many of us are just drunker than we meant to get. People clamor to be heard, and finally that stupid "raise your hand to be called on" rule that's been hammered into us since we were four years old collapses and true discussion wins out. We are all more respectful of our peers than elementary/middle/high school teachers give us credit for and, miraculously, anyone speaking can be heard. 10pm comes and goes and no one bothers to mention that we're now in final-exam overtime. People finally start to realize the time around 10:20, and there is the rustling of bags and murmuring of unrelated conversation that imply that class has finally ended. Five glasses of wine and the weight of one's "last class/exam at college ever" make for a potent combination. As people say "goodbye" and "have a great summer" and "let's exchange numbers" and as people hug and laugh and congratulate, my eyes start to water and I can't help but reflect on four years of classes and friendships and papers and discussions. A moratorium is placed on sentimental weeping by Georgette to keep me from losing my shit in a most embarrassing fashion.

A cigarette break is then in order - especially given the amount of wine I've consumed in a little over an hour - so I retire outdoors with a classmate. We smoke, we make phone calls, we chat, and then retire again to the classroom - where no more than ten people are sitting around casually talking about, well, stuff. Everything and nothing, really. Standard drunken conversations. We walk in and every head turns and laughs. Paul unveils bottles seven and eight and demands that they be consumed before we are allowed to leave. Plans I'd made on a cell phone outside seem flimsy compared to the immediacy of ten friends/comrades and two final bottles of wine. Paul and I engage in an amazing conversation of the sort that a professor and student can have only when it's known by both parties that there is no longer a need for such labeling of power - upon graduation, we are equals. We rejoin the remaining eight revelers and converse about things I can't even recall this morning. No one knows when 10:30 becomes 11pm which then runs into 12am and settles, with the departure of one member leading to everyone's dispersement, at 12:30 in the morning. Five and a half hours - the longest final of my Northwestern career.

The final final of my Northwestern career.

I don't know how many of you ever played The Oregon Trail for the good ol' Apple IIe, but thanks to my dear friend Charlie (meeting her is one of the things I am most thankful for about working on the nightmare that was Caucasian Chalk Circle), I have recently rediscovered it using the magic of emulation. She IMed me just last night to say that she was playing and that her party consisted of herself and the four men that made Cauc Chalk happen - me, Jon, Brian, and Noah. She, Jon and I were the sole survivors of her expedition (I survived typhoid just to make it back to the west coast). I couldn't help but follow suit. So I started up a game, and made myself the head of the family. Charlie, Gayle, Laura, and Whitney were my back-up crew. Now, Charlie has made it quite clear that she doesn't want me to leave Chicago at the end of the summer. The following is a brief photo-diary of our travels together and her efforts to stop me from ever making it back to Oregon (for the sake of the game, please proceed to pronounce it Ore-y-gone).

( 'On the Oregon Trail' - a travelog )

As a nice endnote, this photo-diary was a product of my second game of OT. During my first attempt, Charlie drowned at the first river crossing in 2.5 feet of water. I should've known she was useless from then on.

As my present draws to a close, and the future draws ever closer, I've had to do more than my usual amount of advance planning - which is to say, more than none. Last Thursday, I visited - at my father's beleaguered behest - the University Career Services Center and made an appointment to meet with a counselor to discuss my potential career interests and things I could do to attain those goals. That appointment was Tuesday and I spent a large portion of the meeting looking at the woman - the "career counselor" - with a blank stare of either indecision, indifference or consternation.

She began by asking me what I wanted to do. Um. If I knew that, I wouldn't be seeing you, now would I? So I just kind of gazed at her, maybe raised an eyebrow, perhaps moved my mouth like I was attempting to utter a sound to somehow foil the silence. But really, what do you say to that? I think I settled on, "Aren't you supposed to tell me?"

Apparently not.

So she shuffled her papers around on her desk, glanced at the little sheet of paper I'd filled out before our meeting, raised her head and said, "So you're a performance studies major? Do you have anything you do, like acting or lighting or something?"

Wrong major, lady.

"No, actually," I began, "performance studies is much more based out of performance theory and adapting narratives from non-standard performance texts." Blank stare. "It's okay, I studied it mostly because I enjoyed doing it, not because I want a career in it." I could see the relief seeping out of her 58-year old pores. Even a career counselor of twenty years has no idea what one does with a performance studies degree. But not even utter confusion could thwart her perky (read: annoying) optimism for long. "So what interests you? Just start listing things you've considered."

Well, that's a rather interesting list chock full of myriad things that will probably never happen. For example, I desire to direct films - and possibly theater. I'd like to publish a novel. I've been told I'd make an amazing politician. My father says I should consider marketing and advertising. I don't disagree with any of these things because I've never really done any of these things. How can I tell what I'll like or not like if I've never given it a shot? But these are concerns I keep to myself. Instead I just nod when she tells me those are all things someone with a degree in communications can go into. Gee.

What I do say is that I feel my problem lies in that I have many many interests but no true passions. Madame Counselor disagreed - apparently I just haven't found my true calling yet. Hers was career counseling and she's actually working three jobs right now - at 58 - because Northwestern doesn't pay her enough to live comfortably, but it's not about the money, it's about doing what I love doing. Of course, that means I won't be retiring for another eleven years and I can't take a different job that I want even though it pays less because my social security is based on the last few years' salaries. (Not that I'm bitter or anything.)

Whoa. Thanks Mary Lou.

So she sent me off, after an hour of nothing particularly important, with a list of things to accomplish before our next meeting this coming Wednesday and a thick purple folder filled with all sorts of tips on how to write great resumes. Yeah, that's step one. Do a self-evaluation and write up a resume that we can polish together. Glory be to god on high, that's exactly what I wanted to do for an entire extra hour with Mary Lou.

Fortunately, I've not had time to sit down and contemplate such things because I have spent approximately 24 of the past 48 hours working on a show called "Caucasian Chalk Circle" being put up by Sit'n'Spin (a student theater group on campus) that's going up in a giant frickin' tent behind the student union. I've been hanging lights and speakers, running cable all over the place, gaffing, tieing, slopping through the muck around the tent, and tromping through the much in the tent. I've missed class, lost sleep, developed calluses, cuts, bruises, aches, and pains. And yet, I have had one of the most entertaining 48 hour periods of my life. When contemplating going to class, I realized I've have more fun hanging lights. I'd rather slog through the marshlands behind Norris than sit in a classroom and learn. I've been joking recently that I should just drop out of college and become a mechanic. Well, you know what? This is kind of like doing just that, except the finished product is a work of art.

And with that realization, I think I've figured out the next direction my life is going to take. I'm going to build a production resume (why this idea didn't hit me the last time I produced/stage managed/crewed a show is beyond me) and I'm going to start looking for internships with theater companies in Chicago for the summer. Then it's back to Portland - one of the few major metros to post a profit in the arts in recent years - to maybe scrape out a living there. I really think that production management is the ultimate goal, but this is a baby step in the right direction. Everything else can just wait a few more years.

I feel like I have all the time in the world.

So I decided earlier in the week that it would be a very good idea for me to get my haircut this week. This was largely motivated by the fact that I was depressed and whenever I get depressed I enjoy spending money. And a haircut is so practical, especially when compared to another pair of pants or shoes. But I was also rather nervous; it's been almost five months since I've had a serious haircut as opposed to just being trimmed and thinned. So I got sentimental and took some "before" shots and then came home immediately after and took "after" shots (using, sadly, my shitty webcam). I now present to you:

( Before and After )

BUD LIGHT: You're laid back and low maintenance - a
people-person, who wants everyone else to be
having as much fun as you are. You make
friends and jokes easily, and though you're
definitely a smart ass, you're good-natured.
Every man's beer for everyone's friend.


The Greatest Beer Quiz, ever!


Anyone who knows me knows that Bud Light is my cheap beer of choice. It is the official beer of my apartment because it's what I make everyone play caps with. There are 96 empty Bud Light cans in our kitchen waiting to be recycled. We had a keg of it at Angela's birthday. That I got this result without tampering at all makes me deliriously happy. The end.

I have just discovered the purest form of digital crack. Its name is The Facebook and it will single-handedly bring about the Apocalypse as well as make sure that I fail not just my midterm tomorrow but also my performance on Tuesday and my project on Wednesday. It is a more-lethal Friendster; not only do I cruise around finding people I know - they're all at my school! I can now stalk just about anyone I want based on courses they're taking, the dorm they live in, their major, interests, movies, and friends of friends. I am so high on Facebook right now, I don't even know what I'm saying or doing. But I should really go read some more 18th century comedies so I can actually graduate this spring.

Peace.

Love.

Cocaine.

Okay, I'm recording a particularly vivid dream I had last night not because I feel it has much significance in my life or was in any way publicly interesting, but because it gave me the inspiration for my next performance piece in my Performance Art class and I thought I should write it down somewhere.

The dream was incredibly filmic in its presentation, involving many dramatic sweeps and wide pans as well as intense close-ups. But one moment struck me as one of the most utterly beautiful images I think I've ever "seen." The opening sequence begins with a medium-distance shot of a woman with hair that can't decide if it wants to be dishwater blonde or mousy brown in a grey dress, both of which are being blown back by strong gusts of wind. In her hand she holds a small pistol that she points at the front door of the house she stands before. She blends into the scene, upstaged by the vibrance of her surroundings; the house is white, the walkway is concrete grey, the lawn is a lush green, as are the forests on the hills surrounding the house. The scene is almost two-dimensional in composition. From left to right on screen, we see 1) the front of the house, 2) the gun, 3) the grey-clad woman facing profile left, 4) the green hills behind her.

The camera then pans left across the white-wash of the house's siding, following the "energy" of the woman's stance, until we come to the back yard where stands a second woman, younger, more vividly in existence than anything else in focus. She wears a rich purple gown more elegant in cut than the woman out front, and her long red hair flows gracefully to her mid-back. Both gown and hair are wind-tossed by the same gusts that tussled the woman in front. In front of her on the green grass is a wrought iron pole perhaps only an inch in diameter yet as tall as the woman, standing upright, clenched by the earth in which it stands. Extending perpendicularly from the post are a number of iron branches, some straight, some curving, each pointed toward the woman, and each holding a lit cigarette, which she takes drags from on occasion. Just as two-dimensional as the previous image, from left to right on screen, we see 1) an endless expanse of green, 2) the iron pole with smoldering cigarettes, 3) the vivid woman in purple facing profile left, 4) the back of the house.

As the woman bends to smoke, the camera zooms out and begins to sweep around this image using the pole as the axis of rotation. The camera has also swept upward in an arc, so we now see the woman from a slightly overhead point of view. As the camera moves through the house, it vanishes (yay for dream logic) so all we see are washed-out expanses of green hills and blue skies and then this more-vibrant-than-life representation of a woman standing and smoking. Once the camera has returned to its original position, the action of the movie continues, which I remember only in the vaguest sense. This scene was the one which, when I awoke, I realized that I must put on film someday. The simple use of color represents so powerfully the dynamic between the two women and their relationship with each other and their environments. And it looked so lovely and clean and picturesque with the sweeping camera and scenic views. All I need now is a soundtrack for the scene.

I figure I should explain what I was doing with yesterday's entry. I am a Performance Studies major, which is different from a theater major in that I study performance theory and the adaptation of works rather than the getting up on a stage and doing scene-work from plays. There are exceptions, such as my Shakespeare class this quarter, but I'm largely working within a much broader framework than traditional theater allows.

I am enrolled this quarter in Performance Art which focuses largely on the creation of narrative images rather than narrative text. Our first assignment was to "perform" a song. This does not mean get up on stage and sing along to our favorite pop music. Rather, we were to set up a series of visual images that allowed an audience to connect to the emotional qualities of the song. To that end, I performed the piece documented yesterday. My song, "Sine Wave," was the only song playing on my iPod for the past two weeks, as I tried to mine every last thought from my brain and put it onto a stage. At first I'd wanted something elaborate and exquisite, but in the end I settled for something infinitely simpler. Basically, I used my grey duvet cover as the cocoon, and a battery-operated push-lamp for the pulsing light. I'd covered myself in metallic silver body paint previous to class and showed up looking rather like an alien. The box was just a simple wooden recipe box purchased in the morning, filled with two cans of Campbell's tomato soup mixed with a bit of water.

Most people spent upward of ten minutes setting their "stage" for the performance, but mind took a mere three. It was in that simplicity, though, that the beauty of it emerged. Everyone I talked to kept saying how eerie it looked, how beautiful, how surreal, how inhuman. I was asked if I'd let someone direct me in the piece because it looked so precise and perfectly staged. But it was just me, throwing myself into a project completely. I'd been so scared going into yesterday - after all, this was Mary Zimmerman's hand-picked selection of people allowed to take the class. All six of the graduating Performance Studies majors are in the class, two graduate students, and a handful of brilliant juniors. It's an intimidating group and I really wanted to stick it to 'em in this first performance. In the end, it looks like I did. And, man, I am still so proud of myself!

Before reading, please download Sine Wave by Mogwai.

(0:00) The room is mostly dark when you enter. Twelve chairs are arranged in a row in front of what appears to be a grey mass mid-stage right. The only light shines from above upon a single wooden box, approximately the size of a jewelry chest. All is still as the music enters, a slow drone.

(0:16) You think maybe something moved by the grey lump, but your eyes have not yet entirely adjusted to the darkness. You shift in your seat, then look again at the grey thing, thinking it moved once more. Nothing.

(0:32) Then it breathes; the mass rises and falls rhythmically to the distorted hiss of the music.

(1:04) As the chime-like instrument enters, a light appears from within, illuminating a creature inside of what now seems to be a cocoon. The light pulses on and off, as the body of the creature undulates, stretching the cocoon, seeking an exit. Shadows play off the edges, misleading you. Was that a hand scraping against the throbbing grey mass, or merely an illusion?

(1:36) With more urgency, it claws and scrapes at the edges its cage, searching frantically for a way out. It tires and collapses. It struggles once more, then falls.

(2:07) Finally one hands finds its way out of the web of grey and reaches outward, exposed to air. The hand is metallic-silver and rigidly in the shape of a claw. It pulls at the ground, trying to free more and more of itself.

(2:24) The second arm escapes, and now together they pull and wrench at the cocoon and at the floor. An eye appears, then a face.

(2:40) The torso is free and it, too, is bare and metallic. Otherworldly. It releases its body entirely, then pulls at its legs and finally breathes the new air.

(3:13) With the in-song shriek, it crawls - bestial, primal - to the box, revealing itself finally in the light which reflects off its body. It tears the lid from the box, and begins gorging itself on the pasty red substance that it finds within.

(3:44) Covered in the crimson sludge, it slides away from the chest, repulsed, leaving streaks of the substance in its wake.

(4:00) It returns to the solace of the grey cocoon which it had so recently fought to escape. It pulls the material back over itself, covered in ichor, as if hiding.

(4:32) Bathed in the dim light from within once more, the creature slowly slumps and curls into a position you might recognize as the fetal position where it sleeps, or cowers.

Scene.

I definitely just upgraded to a paid account so I could upload two new icons. Yes, I'm just that narcissistic. But! Now I can do fun things like drunk-dial LJ again! It's been so long...

Oh, and a picture post about my weekend in Champaign is forthcoming, I promise.

As a public service announcement to all folk on LiveJournal, let it hereby be known that there is currently an LJ-convention (teh LJ-Con) occurring in Champaign-Urbana. I know this because I have spent the past several hours getting slightly-less-than-wasted with Adrienne and Katie Schatz at this bar called Murphy's. This place is the quintessential college bar, complete with skanky sorority girls, machismo-infused frat boys and lots of obnoxious music that is impossible to sing along with. I've even heard that there's pool in the basement, though we never made it that far; we were quite content to sit with our pitchers of Miller Lite. On the agenda for tomorrow: C Street - the local gay club. Fear not, I've brought a digital camera and there will be a picture-post par excellence! Anyway, this is Aaron signing off. Have a good night all!

Alas, no one spread my meme. Had I been at all serious, I would've been hurt. As it stands, though, the doctors are convinced that I either have an ulcer or at least the early stages of one, and should therefore do everything I can to avoid further aggravation of my stomach lining. What this apparently means is that I'm to stay away from alcohol, cigarettes, caffeine, and chocolate for at least the next couple weeks - possibly a month or more - while the medication I'm on attempts to lower the acid content of my stomach. Since I went to the doctor on Friday, that means I've gone three whole days without any of my favorite vices. Reading over this, I think it's easy to gloss over that fact, so I'm going to repeat:

I have gone THREE WHOLE DAYS without

• ALCOHOL
• CIGARETTES
• CAFFEINE and
• CHOCOLATE

So I arrived in Portland Wednesday afternoon, and if finally sunk in that there would be no one to come pick me up at the airport. Mom was on a field trip, Dad was at work, and Jacquie still doesn't drive. So, like the urban warrior I am, I wheeled my over-stuffed luggage all the way to the end of baggage claim and figured out how this new-fangled MAX Red Line works. The last time I'd taken public transportation in this city, there was only one line - they didn't even have to call it the Blue Line. So I bought my All Zones ticket for $1.60 (cheaper than Chicago's El, as always) and waited outside in the gorgeous 65 degree weather for the next train to take me to my destination an hour's journey across town.

My journey on the Red Line was utterly uneventful. Granted, I'd forgotten that even though Portland's rail system is not as decrepit as Chicago's, it still attracts its fair share of weirdos and crazies. But Chicago still wins. Before you raise your voices in protest, I ask: Does Portland's MAX have Masturbates-on-Train-Seats Guy? Or Perpetually-Drunk-and-Touching-Me Guy? Or even Screaming-at-the-Top-of-her-Lungs-at-Every-Stop Girl? These are more than mere tropes and urban legends, folks. These people exist. I have been on the El with all three at some point in my illustrious Chicago career.

Now, I love public transportation that runs on rails. The MAX, the El, the T, the subway, the Tube, all these have a set number of tracks, lines, colors, destinations, directions. You look at the map, and you figure out where you need to go. Game, set, match. Not so for any city's infernal bus system. I loathe buses. Bus stops are not well-marked like their railed brethren; sometimes there's hardly more than a sign and a bench. And there are no maps. HOW THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW WHAT BUS TO TAKE IF THERE ARE NO MAPS?!?

Having said all that, I arrived unscathed at the Sunset Transit Center, the closest MAX stop to my home, but still several hours' walk from the 'hood. No other means of vehicular transportation proffering themselves, I rolled my bag cautiously toward the bus terminals. Of course, there were no maps; just signs offering vague hints at possible destinations. How the hell am I supposed to know if I want the 54 North to Mall X or the 78 South to Mall Y? I've ridden the bus all of once in my life, and it was sophomore year of high school. That's six years ago, kids. Grandpa Aaron doesn't have a steel-trap for a mind anymore and certain useless information has slipped through the cracks. Bus numbers were one such useless fact.

According to the nice street youth to whom I bummed a cigarette, there are two buses that proffered a trip down Saltzman Road - the street on which my neighborhood resides: the 89 and the 62. One was there and one would've required waiting. Placing my fate in the hands of divine providence, I started wheeling over to the 62, which promptly closed its doors and started to pull away. I frantically ran the last few yards, blatantly ignoring the portents, and the driver opened the door.

"Does this bus go down Saltzman to - " I managed to get out before:
"We're trying to leave, buddy," the driver interrupted.
"Oh, sorry. Um. I'm coming from the MAX, I have a ticket, what - "
"It goes in there," he interrupted again, pointing to some device I'd clearly never seen before.
"Okay."

I heaved my luggage up the stairs, took a seat, and stared abashedly at the floor in front of me. I looked up for a moment and noticed a pamphlet with a map of the 62 route. Why they only offer such maps when you're already on board is beyond me. I grabbed a map, and tried to decipher streets and intersections. Of course, it was only then that I realized that the 62 would go down Saltzman to Cornell, turn left, and begin taking me further and further from my home. I looked up, and discovered we were already at the intersection of Saltzman and Cornell. I didn't know what to do! Luckily, someone else had already pulled the "request stop" cord, so the bus driver pulled over on Cornell, and I plopped out.

So there I was with a 58 pound suitcase and two carry-ons, stranded by the Thriftway, a solid 45 minute up-hill hike from my house. Of course, I did what any self-respecting (sub)urban princess would do. I called my mommy: "Moooommy, it's Aaron, and I'm in Portland and I took the train to the transit center and then I tried to take a bus, but there are two buses that go down Saltzman and I got on the wrong one because the bus driver was being mean to me and now I'm stuck here at Thriftway and I don't want to walk all the way home, will you come get meeeeee?"

What can you say to a desperate plea like that except, "Okay, honey. Stay calm, I'll be there in ten minutes."
"Thanks, Mommy." It was only then that I heard her struggling to contain her laughter.

Satisfied that I would not be left to die in the Thriftway parking lot, I pulled up a nice patch of green grass, and soaked up some sun. I called Kate</i> and left several obnoxious messages asking when we would hang out. Then I called Adrienne to see if she wanted to hang out, but she wasn't home. Curse both of you! Invest in cell phones! Finally I called Schatzie because I knew she had a cell phone, and I talked to her for about fifteen minutes 'till my mom arrived. Then I hung up, went home, ate lots of food, caught up with the fam, and have been doing much the same since.

Starting today, however, it's time for something different. Kate and I begin what we have affectionately dubbed Spring Break 2: The Wilderness. I cannot wait for this year's t-shirt!

I WILL BE IN PORTLAND IN LESS THAN 12 HOURS!! AND MY PARENTS ARE OUT OF TOWN FROM THURSDAY TO NEXT FRIDAY!! KATE!! THIS MEANS MUCH SMOKING OF THE WEED AND PLAYING OF THE PLAYSTATION 2!! I AM RARELY THIS EXCITED ABOUT ANYTHING!!! WOOOOO SPRING BREAK!!!!

A-MAAAAAZING!!!!

(thanks to Steve for pointing this out to me)

If you call me Aaron, you would be the majority of the planet who, like me, can't think of a fun way to abbreviate my name. Since I plaster it all over my journal, there's no way you won't know this name.

If you call me The Apostate, you are probably Adrienne, circa 1999, frolicking beside me in the Vale of Alex Benikov. Yes, kids, that's how we wasted time before the invention of LiveJournal memes.

If you call me Aero, you're Matt Amador, who came up with a distinctly non-fun way to abbreviate my name. What am I, a wind spell from a Final Fantasy game?

If you call me Princess, you would be Anita - aunt, "big sister," and friend who never lets me live down the one time I admitted to really liking all the attention I get from boys.

If you call me Penguin, you're a member of Bud Beyer's acting class back in 2001 when we were doing animal work. Either that, or you're Erin Verkler now, who still thinks I'm the best penguin she's ever seen.

If you call me Aaron le Baron, you shouldn't really be reading this journal, Mom and Dad.

If you call me Chris, you're all of my acceptance and rejection letters - as well as most of the propaganda - from various universities and colleges around the country, back when I wanted to start going by my middle name. I figured, new location, new name, new identity. Oh well.

If you call me ModemWitch, you are one of three people who responded to a gag PlanetOut profile I created in which I practiced cyber-witchcraft. The idea came about after discovering a book at Borders entitled The Modern Witch where the 'r' and 'n' joined to look like an 'm'. Sadly, these people exist in real life.

If you call me Adam, you're any number of dozens of teachers, professors and co-workers who can't seem to stop calling me that, simply because, "Well, you look like an Adam."

If you call me Harry Potter, you're my co-workers and customers at Borders circa 2000 or 2003, where I dressed up as Harry Potter for the midnight release of books 4 and 5.

If you call me "gurrrl" one more time, I will make you hurt, you stupid "bois."

Something for all the Jews out there...