Youngest of One

Practice Round:

I am long overdue for a blog entry in order to get you up to speed on the events in my life.  I sincerely hope that I may get this blog back on a regular schedule someday soon, maybe with weekly posts.  But I make no guarantees, since I couldn't even find enough time in the whole month of March to bring you an update.  Also, quite honestly, my intention to bring you news of my life is only one reason why I have chosen to write a post today.  I have an ulterior motive for writing this blog entry.  It has been too many days since I last wrote any words towards my novel, and I must start writing the next chapter today.  However, given my prolonged absence from this work, I fear that the writing process may turn out to be slow and grueling today, a feeling that is usually likened to "pulling teeth."  Of course, I value originality, and so I would never recycle such an overused simile.  Instead, I choose to compare this difficult stage of writing to playing a match of tug-of-war against someone who is essentially your physical equal.  At some short points, I can produce the words naturally, as long as my tug-of-war opponent is slipping with fatigue a little bit.  However, these moments of fleeting triumph are usually outweighed by minutes of struggle with sentence structure and diction, because my equally capable rival has put up his strongest defenses again.  On days like these, nobody wins, and I am lucky to produce two pages that aren't worthless.  Therefore, I have taken it upon myself to write this blog entry in preparation for writing my next chapter, as a sort of exercise to warm up my writing muscles.  With any luck, this workout will give me the advantage I need to overcome my mirror image on the other side of that rope.

Since I have already brought up the subject of my novel, I suppose that I shall give you an update on that front.  When last I spoke to you at the close of February, I had written the first draft of a single chapter.  Now, I have written six chapters, and if I do not begin the seventh today then I think I shall leave my home in disgrace and wander the streets until I've learned my lesson.  I have been working according to a loose schedule which allows me to produce, on average, a chapter per week.  That has not always been the case, however, since there have been some shifts in the academic course for which I am writing this work.  Since there are four students in the course who all meet once a week, we originally did four workshops per class on the latest works of each writer.  More recently, we have decided to devote each class to only two writers, since each workshop deserves more time.  Therefore, in order to keep the pace, each student ought to prepare twice the work for his own workshop.  Of course, to say that I am not writing two chapters every two weeks is the same as saying one chapter per week, so I don't know whether this actually represents any sort of shift in the amount of time I spend writing.  I do not write every day, and I know that I should, so you don't have to tell me that.  I remind myself of that fact a lot.  Then I defend myself by recalling that I am taking three other academic courses besides the one focused on the novel.  I have pledged that, once summer vacation begins, then I will make every effort to write at least six days a week, which brings me to my ultimate goal.  By the end of the summer, before I go away to college, I intend to have a complete draft written and revised until it is in a state whereby I am comfortable sending it to trustworthy people who will read it.  Since there is not enough time left in the independent study course to actually finish the story, I think that is a reasonable goal.

I mentioned college in the paragraph above.  I will treat that as a segue in order to tell you about the schools to which I have been accepted, since I only knew about one of them at the time of my last entry.  The first school to accept me was Susquehanna University, where I have received a Presidential Scholarship, I have been accepted to the Honors Program, and some professors have read my writing portfolio and approved me for the study of creative writing.  Obviously, I seemed to be well liked there.  I am making plans to visit the school next week, at which point I shall tour the campus and sit in on a writing class.  I have high hopes that Susquehanna will have the perfect, Baby Bear quality that caused Goldilocks say, "This one is just right."  Of course, if I'm going to maintain this "Goldilocks and the Three Bears" analogy, then there must be a Mama Bear and a Papa Bear as well.  (And that makes me Goldilocks.  Oh well, this won't be the first time that I sacrifice my manhood for the sake of a simile.)  The second college to accept me, and the first campus that I visited this month, was Brandeis University in Massachusetts.  I had the opportunity to be a guest in a few of their classes, and I really enjoyed each one, especially the English class on Romanticism and the fiction workshop.  After the latter class, I approached the professor and asked him whether any of his students write science fiction or fantasy for his class.  He frowned upon me and genre fiction in general.  I walked out of the building discouraged, onto a campus that I don't particularly like, what with all its hills and long distances between buildings that were constructed with architectural designs too recent to look appealing.  Next, I took a trip to Connecticut College.  Now there is a campus I could get used to--very small, quaint, flat, green, and just darn pretty.  The writing class, however, was not what I had hoped for.  The professor read professional short stories aloud, until finally she also read the work of a student.  What followed was a discussion so laid back and informal that it did not seem like the environment of a constructive workshop, or at least not the sort that I enjoy.  Later, I approached the professor and asked whether the English department offers any classes that are exclusively devoted to workshops for students.  She replied, "Now what would be the point of that?"  Confusion and rage mixed into a bitter porridge inside me, as I thought of the (not one but) two workshop-focused classes that I currently take in high school.  I walked out of the classroom dumbfounded, wondering why everywhere I go I meet someone who is so set in her or his own ways that she or he does not realize that I take offense to their statements.

There is another school that has accepted me, a sort of Estranged Cousin Bear by the name of Kenyon College, which resides on a hilltop all the way in Ohio (and not in Kenya, as some people think when they first hear the name).  I can't fly out to Ohio this month to visit the campus, but I did get a chance to see it firsthand last summer.  For now, I can only say that I will consider Kenyon in the event that Susquehanna does not turn out to be "just right."  Furthermore, I can only hope that, wherever I choose to attend college, I will not be chased away by bears or anything that could be likened to bears in yet another extension of this analogy.  That's all I have time to report today.  Wish me luck at Susquehanna next week, and more immediately wish me luck in trying to write the next chapter in my novel.  Join me next time when perhaps I will tell you about my experiences at the State Championship for Speech and Debate in Albany earlier this month.  Thanks for reading.

End Post.

Fully Qualified:

Another month is almost complete, and therefore it must be time for me to provide another update on my blog.  As long as I continue to procrastinate until the final moments of each month, then at least I can take pride in knowing that I am consistent, even if I am not productive.  Now, I shall recap some of the major events of my life that have occurred in February.

In the wonderful world of speech tournaments, last weekend my Duo partner Joe and I competed in the Region Qualifier at the Bronx High School of Science.  Like all Duo teams, we continue to perform the same piece, entitled "The Bible: The Complete Word of God (Abridged)."  The Region Qualifier is an unusually brief tournament, with only two rounds, no finals, and none of the shiny stuff like trophies.  Everyone shows up with the intention of competing in a quick succession of rounds, finding out whether or not they have earned what they came for, and then leaving as soon as possible.  In this case, everybody is competing not for first place or some shiny construction of metal but for a "full qualification," the chance to compete in the state championship in Albany.  Joe and I were sent to this tournament because, despite our successes at past events, we were only half-qualified before entering the Regional Qualifier.  Our rounds were crowded but enjoyable.  The second round was somewhat troubling because one of the judges was a nun, who was clearly not amused by the satirical nature of our piece about the Bible.  Despite her efforts to keep us down, nonetheless we earned our full qualification by the afternoon.  I like to tell people that we know have an improper fraction qualification, three halves of the necessary credentials to go to the state championship.  However, not all the results of the day's events were pleasing to us.  While Joe and I came in fourth place, third place was taken by a team that performed a dramatic piece that falls into the worst category of forensics pieces: the Dead Baby category.  In my short career as a competitor in speech, I have seen three separate pieces all focused on a dead child.  Since I am so comedic at heart, there's really nothing that I despise more that a Dead Baby piece.  All of the pieces about Cancer are also dramatic enough to make me bleed from my ears and eye sockets, but the Dead Baby pieces are as overwhelmingly dramatic as they come.

Turning to Academia, I have entered my final marking period of high school, which means newer and fewer classes.  In fact, I only have to show up at my school three days out of the week.  During the two remaining weekdays, I am required to devote six hours per day to Christian Service.  Before February, my service requirement was limited to only two and a half hours each Tuesday morning, after which I would have to go to school for classes in the afternoon.  Naturally, in finding the right service site, I chose a location close to the school on the upper East side of Manhattan.  However, since I live in Queens, I would prefer not to travel to the city when it is not necessary, and now I don't have to show up there on my days of service.  So, I said my goodbyes to the homeless shelter where I used to work on Tuesdays, where I spent hours cracking eggs, chopping vegetables, peeling potatoes, et cetera.  Basically, it was my job to make sure that homeless people got all their food groups.  Now I've left that behind and turned to a location in my own neighborhood, within walking distance of my home.  Two days a week until May, I volunteer at a Pee Wee Folks day care and after-school program, where my cousin Erin has a real job--something that I have never had in my whole life so far.  (I like using the term "real job," because it's such a juvenile thing to say.  I realize that I am eighteen now, but I definitely haven't grown up much.)  I have worked in Erin's class two days so far, and at this point I find it to be a joy.  In the near future, I will probably also work with some older kids in a tutoring program run within the same center.  I am looking forward to putting my old book learnin' to the test.

It is strange that while I am typing my fingers can occasionally just take me away wherever they want to go, regardless of what I had in mind in the first place.  For example, when I started writing the previous paragraph, I intended to tell you more about the Novel Writing course I am taking at school, but the whole subject of volunteering just took over.  Anyway, now I have the chance to give you my first official update on my novel for the Independent Study course that was designed by one of my close friends, Jake.  I have already written the first chapter of my novel, but I need to make a couple of revisions before I move on to the next chapter.  I wish I could give you a title for this work, but so far I haven't decided on one yet.  The closest thing I have to the proper title is "Intervention," and I'm probably not going to come up with anything better than that, but for now it's just a working title.  Regardless of that, whenever I mention the novel on my Twitter profile, I call it "Project Neophyte."  I use that codename just because I like the coolness factor of having a project with its own codename.  I have chosen not to disclose any major plot points or characters at this time, but I will say that it is a story involving a life interrupted by a highly direct form of divine intervention.  I will also say this about my process: I am deliberately inserting as many inside jokes, cameo appearances, and Easter eggs as possible into this work.  Writing a novel is undoubtedly an exhausting, laborious process, and this is the only way I know how to make sure that it will stay fun for me.

Are you still with me after all that?  I really hope so, because I am only now getting to the best part.  Rather than going home after school day, I went directly to the home of my cousin, The Lips, to hang out with him and his friends for a while.  Upon my arrival there, I received a telephone call from my mother, who said that a large envelope had arrived for me in the mail.  She reported that the return address was from Susquehanna University and that the envelope was marked with the words, "ADMISSION DECISION ENCLOSED."  I implored her to open it and tell me of its contents right away.  As it turns out, I have been accepted to Susquehanna University in Pennsylvania.  This is the first news of an admission decision that I have heard from any of the schools to which I have applied, and it is such a relief to know that I will definitely go to college somewhere regardless of the what the letters that will come in April might say.  Obviously, I am not going to reach any conclusions until I hear the results from the seven other schools who are still considering my application.  Nevertheless, I applied to Susquehanna for a good reason, and I know that I would be happy to attend that school if I choose to.

Oh, and I have one more thing to celebrate.  I have a brand new laptop, a Dell Inspiron 1525.  All things considered, February 2008 has treated me very well.  Thanks for reading, and I hope that you hear from me sooner than March 31st.

End Post.

Up To Speed:

I have been an awful blogger since last August. I have a few reasons which separately do not provide a legitimate excuse but which, in my opinion, collectively form a valid explanation when they are considered together. The first reason is that I have spent an enormous amount of time throughout the seasons of fall and winter applying to a total of nine colleges—a process which I have not even finished yet, due to a few late deadlines and upcoming interviews. This application process has been almost surreal, because in the back of my mind there is always the haunting truth that the result will seriously change the course of my life. Furthermore, I vaguely remember that I was once somewhat humble before I began applying to college. Now, I have written so many essays concerning my social strengths, my academic ability, and my all-around greatness that my ego is about five sizes too big. I am applying to two Ivy League schools. If I am accepted to either one of them, my ensuing joy will be limitless. That being said, I would be happy to attend any of the institutions to which I have applied. Regardless, I hope that every application reviewer at every one of these nine schools appreciates what I have been put through. The process is an undisputedly exhausting, ridiculous one, and I owe it to God to thank Him every day for the fact that I live in an age of computers that allow me to submit so much of this work via the internet rather than whatever predated the internet.

Speaking of God, I continue to play the role of God at speech tournaments with some success. By now, I don’t even expect you to remember that my friend Joe and I were simultaneously recruited onto our high school’s speech team in the category in Duo Interpretation, in which we perform a piece called “The Bible: The Complete Word of God (Abridged)” by Austin Tichenor. The whole performance is ten minutes long, and I play the roles of God, Goliath, Jesus, Joseph, Nimrod, and others. We have been to several tournaments since our start in October, six or seven of them to be precise. Some have been extremely competitive and have made us feel like the beginners that we are. However, there have been a couple of tournaments where we were received quite well by the judges. In only our second tournament (if I remember correctly), at Fordham, Joe and I took third place in our category. More recently, at the Chaminade tournament—which I bet was number five for us, but I’ve lost count really—we came in second place in Duo. Since that tournament, the competition has been too fierce for us, but I am holding on to hope that the graph of our victories and disappointments will take the form of a sine curve rather than a single parabola. (I’m still stuck in Calculus until mid-February.) Joe and I have earned half of a qualification for the state championship, so our immediate goal is to gain that other half before that event, which is in late March, unless I am mistaken. The idea of receiving just one half of a qualification still seems odd to me. I picture the qualification as a golden amulet that has been split in twain. 

Speaking of my acting roles, I have been out of the blogging habit for so long that I have not told you about a project in which I have been involved, called “Anti-Hero.” Before I explain further, allow me to back up for a moment. If you have traveled through more than a few of the tubes in this series called the Internet, then surely you have heard of Mur Lafferty, a talented writer and force of nature in the world of podcasting. Following the popularity of her yet to be completed “Heaven” series of serialized fiction, available at podiobooks.com, Mur began podcasting her novel entitled Playing for Keeps. The novel is set in a world of superhuman powers, some astonishing and others impractical and/or downright unusual. While there are plenty of superheroes and supervillains, the novel focuses on characters from the Third Wave, those born with powers deemed useless in the field of fighting crime. Playing for Keeps is rich with original characters and gripping action. Also, fans of the television series Who Wants to be a Superhero? ought to tune in to hear cameo appearances from some of their favorite characters, as explained in this press release. Only a few episodes remain in this series, but it is never too late to start listening from chapter one. Then, once you are a fan of Playing for Keeps, I invite you to check out “Anti-Hero,” a vlog created as a companion piece to the novel. “Anti-Hero” follows a teenager named Taylor, a Third Wave individual who has been forced into hiding by his father. What does that have to do with me? I play Taylor. Mur writes each script, and I have the responsibility of filming and starring in them. Three episodes have been released already, and the fourth is the final one in the series, so I recommend that you tune in right away. All of the episodes can be found in the “Playing for Keeps Experience” feed.

Speaking of novels on the internet (I’m not done making segues!), I have another recommendation for you. Christian Talbot, the man who has been my English teacher since September 2006, began his sabbatical earlier this month. His primary goal during these months away from his students is to write a novel entitled Dust to Dust, which he has decided to release on a blog in serialized form as he is writing it. At this point, four chapters have been posted, and it already proves to be an intriguing, psychological work focused on terrorism that I am reading faithfully. I have agreed to take some photographs that will accompany certain chapters of the novel, and a couple of these pictures have already been included. (Take note that not all of the pictures you’ll see are my work. I’m not that good.) Over the course of a year and a half, Mr. Talbot has had a great influence on how I write both analytically and creatively, so I hope you will all join me in supporting his effort by reading his work and encouraging him. I also hope that he can forgive me if there are any spelling or grammatical errors in this blog entry. It is very late at night, and I do not have enough time to proofread all of these paragraphs. 

Now I think I have brought you up to speed on what I have failed to tell you in the last month or two. Oh, I almost forgot one thing. I am eighteen now. My birthday was January 18^th. It was rather exciting and entirely pleasant. I have gotten over it now. I look forward to voting this November, unless the presidential race takes a different turn than the one I am expecting. Thanks for reading, and I hope it does not take me another month to write to you again.

End Post.

Breaking The News About Santa:

(I've been very busy, and I'm still busy.  In fact, I'm applying to nine colleges, so right now I'm the busiest that I have ever been.  Plus, it's Christmastime.  Also, I'm in the planning stages for a novel that I'm going to begin writing in February, but I'll explain more about that in the new year.  However, I did find some time to write some holiday-themed short fiction recently, so I've decided to share that with you just in time for the celebration of the birth of Jesus.  Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and please enjoy my satirical story, entitled "Breaking the News about Santa.")

    “What do you mean, Santa Claus isn’t real?” Brendan said, his eyelids opened widely and his jaw slack.
    “I mean just what I said,” Michael responded.  “He’s not real.  You know it, and I know it.  There’s just no reason to believe in him anymore.”
    Before Brendan could answer, Lucille entered carrying a steel tray supporting several cookies formed and decorated to look like candy canes, stockings, and miniature, androgynous people.  Her torso was also decorated, as she was wearing an apron with the phrase, “Ho, Ho, Ho,” written many times across it.  “Would my boys like some Christmas cookies on this lovely Christmas Eve?” she asked, grinning at her husband and her son.
    “Lucy, there’s something you need to hear,” Brendan said hesitantly.  “But first you should probably sit down.”
    “What is it, Bren-Bren?” Lucy said to her husband as she sat down on the sofa, setting the cookie tray down on the coffee table and taking off her oven mitts.
    “Mikey, tell mommy what you just told me,” Brendan said, letting out a sigh.
    From his position on the floor, sitting Indian-style, Michael turned to face his mother and said without a trace of sadness, “Santa Claus isn’t real.”
    Lucille gasped and dropped her oven mitts on to the floor, where the family’s Chihuahua, Prancer, was quick to grab one of them in his teeth and treat it as his new chew toy.  “Merry Christmas, Prancer,” Michael thought as he stared up at the unveiled look of shock on his mother’s face.
    “Mikey, how can you say such a thing on Christmas Eve?” Lucille said sternly.  “You’re likely to get coal in your stocking if you keep up that kind of talk.”
    “But, it’s the truth, Mom, and you’ve got to accept it as much as I have,” Michael said.  “You couldn’t keep up the illusion forever.  I’m growing up fast.  You can’t expect me to be naïve like a kid forever.”
    “But Mikey,” his father insisted, “You’re only eight years old!”
    “Right,” Michael said.  “And that’s eight years that you’ve been forcing me to believe a lie.”
    “But Santa Claus is real, son,” Brendan said.  “Who would tell you any differently?”
    “Nobody had to tell me, Dad,” Michael said.  “It was easy enough to figure out myself, especially with the internet and all.”
    “I told you we needed parental protection on that gosh darned machine,” Lucille whispered too loudly.
    “I didn’t even know he could reach the keyboard,” Brendan said.
    “According to my findings, Santa’s trip around the world would be impossible in the time allowed,” Michael said.  “He would have to visit thousands of houses per second to deliver all the toys.  It’s ridiculous!”
    “But sweetie,” Lucy said, “That’s why Santa uses magic, like your friend from the books, Harry Potter.”
    “She’s right, son,” Brendan said.  “In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Santa Claus went to Hogwarts when he was just a boy.”
    “When was Santa Claus ever ‘just a boy’?” Michael asked.  “And for goodness’s sake, Harry Potter is no more real than Santa is.”
    “Well, um, Mikey,” said the boy’s mother, struggling for a sound argument, “How can you say that Santa isn’t real when you met him yourself?  Don’t you remember last week, when we took you to the mall to meet him?”
    “Your mother’s right, Mike,” Brendan said again.  “You sat in his lap yourself and even told him what you want for Christmas.”
    “That man was not Santa Claus,” Michael said.  “His beard was held on by an elastic band, he answered to the name Steve, and he smelled like Uncle Alex whenever he talks funny and can’t stand up straight.  And when I told him what’s on my Christmas list this year, he told me that, when he was my age, he was lucky to get tomato soup and a block of wood.”
    “I told you that we should have taken him to Macy’s,” Lucille whispered, again much too loudly.
    “And I told you that I was never going to wait in line for two hours for something that we can get in our own local mall after ten minutes,” Brendan said.
    Lucille inwardly reached for her last resort, the final argument that might persuade her son and restore his youthful innocence.  “But Mikey,” she said, “If Santa Claus doesn’t exist, then who brings you so many presents every year at Christmas?”
    “You do,” Michael said before his mother could even hold her breath or cross her fingers.  “You and Dad hide my presents in the garage until I go to bed on Christmas Eve.  Then, you bring the presents in here, with the tree.  I can hear it all from my room.  I bet the neighbors can hear it, too.  You’re pretty loud.”
    “You’re right,” she said.  Brendan let his head fall to his chest in defeat.  There was a moment of silence as thick as a fruitcake, and then Lucille had an epiphany.  “We do bring your presents here, because your father and I are official, professional Santa’s helpers.”
    Michael looked up at his mother and saw signs of hope that lit up her eyes like gumdrops on a gingerbread house.  Try as he might, he couldn’t make his parents accept the truth that he had accepted the truth about Santa Claus.  So, feigning enthusiasm as best he could, Michael said, “Really?”
    “Um, yes, that’s the truth,” Lucille said, trying her best to continue what she had started.  “I guess the secret is out, eh, Bren-Bren?  There’s no sense in hiding it from him now.  Every year, Santa delivers toys to our garage in early December, because—like you said, Mikey, you smart boy, you—one night is not enough time to deliver all the toys.  So, we bring them inside on Christmas Eve, and it’s like the whole thing happened overnight.  Isn’t that right, honey?”
    “Listen to your mother, son,” Brendan said.
    “Wow,” Michael said, playing a role in very much the same way that his mother was improvising.  “Thanks, Mom.  Thanks, Dad.  That’s wonderful news.  I love you both so much.”
    “We love you, too, Mikey,” Lucille said.  “Now, be a dear and do Mommy a favor: go into the next room and get my oven mitt back from Prancer.  Make sure he doesn’t snap at you.  Thanks, sweetie.”
    In the next room, Michael saw Prancer rolling on the floor, his whole head inside the oven mitt.  When the Chihuahua could feel Michael’s footsteps, he found his way out just in time to growl at Michael’s approaching hand.  Prancer refused to release his grip on the oven mitt, and there was now a visible tear in the thumb portion.
    “Oh, Prancer,” Michael said, sitting down on the floor beside his manic dog, “If Mom and Dad took the news about Santa this bad, how will I ever be able to tell them that I’m an atheist.”

(End Post.)

Two-Headed Boy:

Today, I took a moment to pause and reflect, and in doing so I remembered that I have a blog.  That’s not entirely true.  This is just great.  I’ve been away for almost a month, and now I’m starting things off by lying to you.  Sadly, blogging (heck, writing in general) has not been my top priority within the past few months.  Life as a high school senior has brought me a lot of new responsibilities and, well, seniority.  For example, this morning at 8:00, I attended my first meeting of my school’s literary magazine, Images, as its official Senior Fiction Editor.  I have already started my duties that come with this snappy new title.  Throughout my free time today, I have been reviewing and editing all of the stories submitted for our first issue this year, except for my own, with which I am already familiar.  Gee, I wonder if my story will get accepted this time around.  Tee hee.  Power has corrupted me already.  By the end of the year, I’ll make sure that I’m writing every word of that magazine, including the poems.  I can produce some remarkably whimsical, thoughtful verses as long as I sufficiently tap into my alternate, poetic personality, Jules Fanis.  Or, maybe I, the fiction writing Will Hoffacker, am the alternate identity for Jules.  That’s a scary thought.  Anyway, this is the mind that the editors-in-chief at Images have trusted with the major responsibilities of their fiction section.  I’ve decided to print out each story and hand-write my own personal comments.  What I haven’t decided is whether or not the author of each story should see my copy of their work with my comments and criticisms scribble all over it.  At the very least, I will summarize my points for them in an email or a face-to-face interaction.  These are important choices for me.  Just how hands-on do I want myself to be?  Should I be the editor who presents himself and speaks openly and compassionately?  Or, should I be the godlike man behind the curtain, issue my acceptances and rejections without any personal touches or traces of sympathy?  I am excessively complicating this.  Any amount of power incontrovertibly goes straight to my head.

Speaking of power, I played God recently, and I played him quite well (divinely, one might say).  Nine days ago, my duo partner Joe and I competed in our first speech tournament ever.  To summarize what I have said in a previous entry, Joe and I have never auditioned for the speech team, but recently the faculty moderator of the team drafted us and gave us a piece to perform in the category of Duo.  In the Duo category of speech, two teammates perform a scripted piece, usually adapted from a play.  There are also such strange but important rules as: the performers must not touch one another, the performers must not make eye contact with each other, and the performers must have at least one foot on the ground at all times.  Joe and I were given the task of performing a skit called “The Bible: The Complete Word of God (Abridged)” by Austin Tichenor.  Throughout the various scenes in the piece, all of which are performed in less than ten minutes, I must play such roles as God, Jesus, Joseph, Goliath, Nimrod, and a narrator.  Joe, meanwhile, must play the roles of Cain, Abel, Shem, Caphtorim, Abraham, David, David’s attendant, Mary, Judas, all of the other apostles, and a second narrator.  During the parody of the story of the Tower of Babel, I must speak in a ridiculously bastardized mix of Spanish and Italian, while Joe does the same with Chinese and Japanese with one of the characters he plays in that scene.  Furthermore, we both must end the piece with a little something called “Revelation: the Musical.”  When it’s done right, the piece is hilarious, but it’s a challenge for me and Joe.  It was difficult enough to memorize our lines at first, but even more troublesome was the matter of creating amusing and innovative motions, called “blocking.”  We spent a couple of weeks rehearsing, and we are still coming up with new ideas every day.

As I said already, this was the debut tournament for me and Joe, so you can imagine that we were fairly nervous.  This particular tournament was hosted at our own high school, so I was hopeful that we would be comforted by the familiar surroundings.  There was no such luck.  The tournament had so many contestants that every room (including the weight room and some teachers’ offices) were filled with rounds of speech and debate, and so the rounds of Duo had to be relocated to the nearby Loyola school, just two blocks away.  Upon entering the classroom where our first room would be held, I couldn’t help but notice how much nicer everything seemed than the everything we have at our own school.  I was more comfortable in Loyola’s polished wooden desks, and the technology of their classrooms was more updated than ours.  It was, all things considered, intimidating.  Like everyone else, Joe and I had to compete in the first three rounds of the competition, all before lunch, which didn’t happen until about 2:00.  (My breakfast had been a small chocolate beverage at 6:00 that morning.  I am surprised that I did not pass out.)  Joe and I had some tough competition in the first round, including an adaptation of Equus, performed by the team of Pete and Eddie, the same two Regis students who performed our skit last year.  We were ranked fourth out of five, according to the ballot we received later.  In the second round, Joe and I both flubbed a line or two, but our performance was getting better.  We ranked third out of five that time.  In the third round, we gave a performance which we would latter agree was our best yet.  The ballot for this round was lost.  During lunch, Joe and I discussed how we might improve our performance for future tournaments, in the hope that someday we would break to the final round in a tournament.  We returned to school to find out that that day had arrived much sooner than we ever expected—immediately, in fact.  Joe and I made it to the final round in our first tournament ever.  Later, my friend Greg, who has been on the speech team for years already, told me that it took him eight tournaments to make it to a final round.  I thought I noticed a little bit of resentment in his voice, which made me smile.  The joy when our names were called was intense.  I was very happy to be in the final round, especially since it gave us a chance to see all of our toughest competition.  At the end of the day, Joe and I had ranked seventh in our category, in a tournament which had twenty-two duo teams.

Our next tournament is on Saturday at Fordham.  This will be the true test.  This tournament will decide whether we really have what it takes or we just had some dumb luck nine days ago.  For the time being, this experience is just affirming what I have known for a long time: I love to make people laugh.  And really, what greater joy is there than to be rewarded for playing God?

End Post.

Don't Call It A Comeback:

I've been absent from my blog for almost a month, and I'm not going to spend much time making excuses for that.  I've tried to sit down and write this entry before.  I've even got half of a draft saved with all of my completed posts.  In my first three years at Regis High School, I spoke to many seniors, and all of them gave me the impression that their lives were drastically more enjoyable and fulfilling than mine.  They always appeared to have all the time they ever needed for anything, while I was the lowly underclassmen who had to slave all day to earn his adequate grades.  Recently I have learned that I have always had a lot in common with all of those former seniors, more than I ever knew while they were still in my life.  I do recall one experience that stands out as an exception to the rest of them.  Last year, I encountered a senior who was a friend of mine, named Chris, and he seemed very tired and overworked.  When I asked him what was bothering him, he simply replied, "Will, don't ever apply to college."  Now I wish I could take his advice.  Under the Guidance system in place at my high school, the process of applying to the right colleges is an albatross, a white whale, Davey Jones' Locker, the Kraken, and every other horrifying nautical metaphor you can imagine all rolled into one terrible poop deck.  Consider this frightening process, then combine that with the six academic courses I am taking, and then you will understand approximately one third of a reasonable explanation for my long hiatus from blogging.  That hiatus is probably not over, by the way.  This is an update, not a comeback.

I have been trying to write more fiction lately.  There is an idea for a very long story rolling around in my head, and I have only found time to write a single page for it.  There are a lot of things ruling my life right now, many of which I would just like to get rid of.  I've got a good friend named Joe (I've called him G.I. Joe on this blog before, but I never call him that in real life) who says he is already fed up with senior year.  His attitude, quite frankly, is infectious.  It seems as if I am constantly being thrown into situations of which I never wanted to be a part.  For example, there is an organization at my school called the Hearn, which is an amalgam of every speech and debate division and which has been openly compared to a cult by some individuals.  (Those unnamed individuals' opinions may not necessarily be the same as those of this author, blah, blah, protect myself, blah.)  I have never tried out to be a member of the Hearn for a number of reasons.  The first is that I often get stage fright.  The second is that the Hearn consumes a lot of time and effort for all parties involved, and it requires many students to travel on weekends.  Finally, the whole thing just gives me a weird vibe that I don't like.  Well, guess what, folks?  Now I'm on the Hearn, and so is my buddy Joe.  We have been given our own duo piece by the school's admissions director, who is also in charge of the Hearn.  This is not the only thing Joe and I have in common.  Joe and I are both taking classes that we never intended to take, because Computer Graphic Arts, a class that we were both once overjoyed to be enrolled in, was canceled over the summer.  Now Joe is in a class called CSPI (Current Socio-Political Something-That-Starts-With-I), which is taught by none other than the aforementioned admissions director.  Joe has never been a part of the Hearn before, but the admissions director has gotten to know him as a teacher.  Somehow this has led me and Joe to become partners in a speech category called Duo.  Our "debut tournament," as the admissions director called it, will be on October 27th.  Joe and I really thought he was kidding until we were handed our scripts.  I almost forgot to mention the fourth reason why I never auditioned for the Hearn: I hate memorizing lines.

So, Will, if Joe got stuck in CSPI class, then what class were you unwillingly shoved into?  First of all, I'd just like to mention that one of my favorite classes this year is Psychology, which features my favorite text book ever.  I have noticed that this particular book has a habit of opening new paragraphs with a question written in italic print, which the author then proceeds to answer as if he hadn't just written the question himself but it had been asked to him.  I like this technique.  I may use it myself, and perhaps with time I will never have to use the phrase "casual observer" again.  Now, putting that digression aside, the class that I never counted on taking is called Classical Political Thought, in which we are currently reading and discussion Plato's Republic.  I tried to keep an open mind at first.  I honestly did.  I found the material interesting for a while.  Heck, I even applied it to my other classes, especially English.  But eventually something snapped inside me.  Everything about that class just gives me a headache now.  When Socrates rambles on for dozens of pages about a dead form of society that he is trying to reinvent on principles that I don't even agree with, I wish that I could have been the one to shove the hemlock down his throat.  I believe in irony, and I think that irony should be treasured by writers.  But sometimes irony treats me unkindly.  A select few of you may recall that I wrote a short story in which a college student is haunted by the ghost of Socrates.  Now I'm being haunted by hundreds of pages of the political things he had to say.  If that is not irony, then I should be ashamed that I don't know what irony is by now.  In past years, I could easily put up with classes that I didn't enjoy, because I knew that I was being forcibly subjected to them.  In Classical Political Thought, all I can think about is how in a happier reality I could be spending this time adding color to my own artwork using Photoshop or designing a new animation using Flash.  Socrates spent almost half of Republic developing a definition for justice.  Personally, I am sure that I have a perfect definition for injustice: telling a student that he will take a fun, fulfilling course like Computer Graphic Arts and then replacing it without even telling him.

There are good things going on in my life, too.  Someday, hopefully soon, I will tell you about them, but I can't do that tonight.  Right now I am bitter and tired, and so I am presently unable to do justice to anything nice or happy through my writing.  I hope you have all had a wonderful Columbus Day.

End Post.