Youngest of One

Pessimistic Pairs:

In a better and closer to perfect world, there are some words that simply would not be commonly paired as they are in our reality. For my own ambiguous purposes, I have decided to collect many of these pairs in a single list. In the future, I will add to this list and update it as I see fit. If you have any suggestions, please call them to my attention via the comment section. For now, enjoy the list that I have compiled.

Roadkill
School Shooting
Double Homicide
Vehicular Manslaughter
Time Travel
Windows Vista
Access Hollywood
Camera Phone
Fox News
Electric Chair
Terror Alert
Mugshot
Game Over
Suicide Bomber
Traffic Jam
Forrest Fire
Endangered Species
Receding Hairline
Juvenile Delinquent
Hangover
Drunk Driver
Backstabber
Head Wound
Brokenhearted
Witch Hunt
Landslide
Road Rage
Radiation Sickness
Secret Weapon
Burn Ward
Food Poisoning
Ransom Letter
Crash Landing
Secret Police

End Post.

On Laziness:

I returned to New York shortly after 1:00 on Monday morning. Since then, I have been extremely lazy. Instead of doing anything productive, I have been having fun with my girlfriend and with my family. This blog entry is the first thing that I have written since the Jonathan R. Reynolds Young Writers Workshop at Denison University in Granville, Ohio. I'm very glad to be back in New York, but I think I will take some time now to reflect on my time there in Ohio.

The students and the teaching assistants at the workshop lived in a building of dormitories usually reserved for seniors at the university. Therefore, each suite was outfitted with luxuries such as air conditioning. Unfortunately, most of us agreed that the mattresses were much too firm to be comfortable. I can recall the first moment when, upon my arrival, I sat down on my bed and said to no one, "Well that's disappointing." For a few nights I slept in that bed with my own pillow and blanket brought from home. Each morning I awoke with an agonizing pain in the area where my neck meets my back. I soon came to the conclusion that I would survive the week if I continued to slumber on this insufferable mattress. I collected my personal items and carried them into the living area. I spent the rest of my nights sleeping pleasantly and comfortably on the couch.

Denison University has a beautiful campus in the lovely town of Granville. There are plenty of trees to look at and sit under, and I also saw quite a lot of deer on the campus. My favorite building in the university was the Swasey Observatory, which, in my humble opinion, looks like a great spot for an insidious villain to set up his or her lair. My favorite part of the campus, however, is the Denison University cemetery. The college has its own cemetery on campus. That is indisputably, unarguably, incontestably, incontrovertibly awesome. If I were actually planning on being buried once I am dead, then that would be a very cool, gorgeous place to be eternally laid to rest.

I made a lot of new friends at the workshop, all of whom are incredibly talented, most of them more talented than I am. Through my eight days at Denison University, I became acquainted with a number of names that many of you will know in the future for their work in fiction, creative nonfiction, and poetry. Truly, it was a singularly fun and educational experience to spend a week with so many of my peers and some great instructors, too. I would gladly do it all again. But first, I am enjoying the activities of having fun and being lazy. Thanks for reading.

End Post.

Malpractice (A Work Of Fiction):

(I wrote this story last night, beginning in the evening and concluding at two o'clock this morning. Tonight, I am going to present it before an audience at the Denison University campus coffeehouse, where my peers and I are congregating for a student reading. This work is entitled "Malpractice." Enjoy.)

    Emma paced back and forth quickly in the small, uncomfortable doctor’s office, awaiting the results of her son’s x-rays.  The nine year old boy, Billy, sat on the tall, padded table, his dangling legs swinging at the same pace as his mother’s fast footsteps.  Her nerves were shaken because Billy’s stomachaches had been surfacing more often lately, and the last one had brought him to tears.  She wished that she could be at her own office instead, but as a single mother she could not depend on anyone else for the responsibility of being here.  Emma was just about to leave the room and call a nurse when suddenly she was interrupted by the entrance of Dr. Hautman.
    “Hello, Ms. Grooms.  Sorry to keep you waiting,” the doctor said.  “How are you feeling, Billy?”
    “Okay,” the boy answered with half a smile on his face.
    “Well,” Emma said anxiously, “do you know what’s causing my son’s tummy-aches?”
    “Yes,” he replied, rubbing his gray beard as he spoke.  “His x-rays were very…telling.”  Dr. Hautman sighed as he contemplated how to begin his explanation.  Then he continued, “Your son has an exceedingly rare condition called polyoffalytic humanogenesis.”
    “Polyawf—what?” Emma rejoined.
    “Polyoffalytic humanogenesis,” the doctor repeated, “though it’s better known in laymen’s terms as Clown Car Syndrome.”
    “Are you serious?” Emma questioned dubiously while her son laughed.  He loved clowns, and he did not understand the seriousness of the conversation.
    “Of course, Ms. Grooms, I wouldn’t joke about this condition.  Have you ever been to the circus and seen a remarkable number of clowns climb out of a single tiny car?”
    Emma nodded.  Billy was laughing hysterically now.
    “Well, in this analogy,” Dr. Hautman explained, “your son’s body is that miniature car, and the clowns are organs.”
    “Excuse me?” Emma asked, confused.  Billy was no longer laughing, nor was he even blinking.
    “Each average human being is born with a few unnecessary parts, such as the appendix, the tonsils, et cetera,” the doctor stated.  “Your son was simply born with several more extraneous organs than the average person—an extra spleen, two spare kidneys, and an additional gallbladder, just to name a few.  Your son has experienced pain in his abdomen because that is precisely where most of his extra organs are located, in a very crowded fashion, I might add.”
    “My God,” Emma exclaimed while her son sat quietly with mouth agape.  “What can we do?”
    “You have two options, Ms. Grooms,” the doctor answered.  “You may allow your son to continue living like this, in which case I would gladly proscribe some painkillers for the boy.  Or, we can run a single, massive surgery to remove the organs that he does not need.  However, I must warn you that such a surgery would be extremely expensive, might last even for days, and would be incredibly dangerous.  In a few recorded cases of the treatment for this disorder, some surgeons have forgotten just how much they were supposed to remove and therefore accidentally took out some of the important organs.”
    Emma was stunned into silence, but Billy managed to chime in, “Would I get a cool scar?”
    “Billy,” Dr. Hartman replied with a beaming grin, “after this operation, you’d have at least four cool scars.”
    “Awesome!” Billy said with an innocence reserved for his age group.  “Can I please, Mom?  Can I please get the cool scars?”
    Emma shook her head, perhaps in disbelief or maybe because she knew that no one would help her pay for such a risky procedure.  “Follow me to the car, Billy,” she instructed her son.  “I think it’s about time to get a second opinion.”
    “Aw, man,” Billy whined, taking his mother’s hand as they exited.
    Just as the medical marvel and his matron departed, a nurse entered the office.  She must have been standing outside, waiting to see the patient leave so that she would not intrude.  Once inside, she confronted Dr. Hautman, saying, “Sir, are you aware that these two patients’ x-rays have been stuck together ever since they arrived from the lab?”
    “Does one of them belong to the Grooms boy?” the doctor responded.
    “Yes, as a matter of fact,” the nurse said.
    “Sarah, call Ms. Grooms for me, please,” he requested.  “Tell her that, upon further inspection of the x-rays, I realize that I may have misdiagnosed her son.”

(End Post.)

The Homeless Gentleman Reclines:

With assignments from my standard fiction group, writing prompts from the "crosswriting" sessions with the nonfiction and poetry instructors, and a scene to complete before tomorrow so that it can be workshopped by my peers the next day, I am very busy here at the Jonathan R. Reynolds Young Writers' Workshop at Denison University in Granville, Ohio. However, I have just enough time to bring you a brief prose paragraph that I wrote in ten minutes yesterday after the poetry professor instructed us to use beautiful words about something ugly or vice versa. One student spoke pleasantly about a dumpster, while another said some very nasty things about a pretty ex-girlfriend's face. I chose to write the following sentences, inspired by people I've seen in my travels on the Manhattan subway lines. Enjoy.

"The homeless gentleman reclines at the end of the train tracks, sipping moderately from his bottle of gin. Streams of his beverage slide down his chin like shimmering waterfalls, falling onto the banks of his golden wife-beater. Small, delectable crumps of pie crust rest lightly in his long, powdery, silver beard. As he arises to catch the approaching train, he wobbles to and fro with the innocence of a toddler learning to walk. The earthy, natural scent of urine follows him as he strolls."

For more about hoboes, see your local library. Thanks for reading.

End Post.

Mighty Stronghold For German Royalty:

(My latest assignment here at the Jonathan R. Reynolds Young Writers' Workshop has been to write a scene featuring a particular character in a specific place. Before the assignment was given, we students were paired and told to interview each other. The character in the scene is intended to be based on the peer whom the author interviewed. Next, large photographs taken in foreign lands were handed out. Each scene must take place in the location depicted in the photograph selected by the writer. Many of the snapshots were taken in areas of Africa, but I was lucky enough to choose a picture of Neuschwanstein Castle in southwest Bavaria. In researching this castle, I have realize that I suddenly have a destination, the number one location that I would visit if I could visit any place in the world. Naturally, I was excited to write this scene. I am not yet sure whether this scene will be built upon to create a whole story, but I do have a few small ideas in mind. I have included the scene below so that you may read it, though I have changed the name of the protagonist to be different from the name of the actual person who is my roommate here. Enjoy.)

    Located in the heart of Bavaria, Neuschwanstein Castle stands immovable in the center of a sylvan sea, dominating the surrounding pines in contexture and stature.  On the ninth level, in the luxurious throne room, between the observatory and the third treasure room, Anthony Hart III sits comfortably and roars orders that smash on the eardrums of his humble slaves.  As the tyrant issues his commands, his thirty servants listen with as much focus as their malnourished, distracting stomachs allow.  Six concubines lay at the despot’s feet, all praying that they fulfill their ruler’s forceful libido, lest they suffer a gruesome death inside the pit of insatiable lions.  Finally, King Anthony finishes his decrees, and immediately the slaves scatter like frightened mice towards the tasks that they have been assigned.  His Majesty then sinks more deeply into his ornate throne and laughs to himself, as anyone would laugh once one has reached absolute power.  The cruel laughter echoes against the arched ceiling and the distant walls of the expansive throne room, as the concubines smile and giggle uncomfortably in an effort to avoid diminishing the monarch’s light mood.

    Imagining his reign as emperor over an enslaved European people was a familiar pastime for Anthony Hart III, who was delighted to bring this fantasy with him during his visit to Neuschwanstein Castle for a school-sponsored field trip.  The castle that had been in his imagination was just as large and lavish as this one, of course, but there was suddenly a new and thrilling authenticity to his daydreams now that he was seeing a genuine castle firsthand.  Examining this mighty stronghold for German royalty of centuries past, Anthony longed to be its castellan, to see his dream fulfilled.

    Unlike his classmates, Anthony had done thorough research on Neuschwanstein Castle before his arrival, which felt most like a homecoming for him.  Therefore, Anthony knew that his first task as this castle’s rightful king would be to redecorate the rooms which King Ludwig II had designed in homage of selected operas written by his favorite composer, Richard Wagner.  Anthony’s intellectual idol, Karl Marx, had a recorded distaste for Wagner which Clark planned to honor once he came into power.  Furthermore, King Ludwig’s coat of arms would have to be replaced with the Hart family crest, which Anthony had designed himself for the day that such an opportunity would arise.  The name Neuschwanstein could stay, he had decided, on the conditions that all the Bavarian people would answer to him and that any semblance of class structure would be eliminated in his dominion.

    The entrance of several of his classmates made Anthony forget his high spirits.  They followed each other in a narrow line like ants carrying out strict orders, but their eyes expressed aimlessness that made Anthony think of them as a pack of sloths, stolen from the American tropics and misplaced here in a dignified environment that did not suit them.  Anthony stuck one hand in the pocket of his cargo pants and crossed his index and middle fingers, hoping that he would not cross paths with them.  Their fruitless conversations always bored Anthony painfully, and he always made every effort to avoid them, for fear that they might ensnare him and abate his intellectual curiosity by their mere presence.

(End Post.)

Whatever Teenybopper Song:

I am currently reporting to you from the computer lab at Denison University in Granville, Ohio.  This room is fortunately stocked with a large assortment of both PC's and Macs, and, most importantly, this space is air conditioned.  I am happy to say that I am enjoying all of the workshop activities and the company here. Admittedly, it would be awfully nice to see a far more familiar face or two around here, but I am nevertheless quite glad to be here. Dinner will begin soon, so I do not have enough time to explain all that I have experienced today. Instead, I am going to share with you something that I wrote mere moments ago in the Denison-issued binder during a writing exercise that was given to us at the end of a workshop about characterization, taught by a very talented writer and instructor named Holly Goddard Jones. The task was to write two brief paragraphs about oneself, the first from the perspective of someone sympathetic and the second from that of someone hostile. Some chose to write from the perspective of their parents or of their peers, while I decided to take a look at myself from the respective points of view of two fictional strangers familiar with me because they have seen me regularly on the subway. Enjoy.

Hostile Perspective:
There’s that damned tall kid again. He enters the subway car as if he owns it and everyone inside. Who does that guy think he is? Holding on to a single metal bar, he taps on it with his fingertips, recreating the beast of whatever teenybopper song he’s listening to with his iPod. That blasted music in his ears is so loud that he doesn’t hear me mutter, “Get a job” as I pass him to exit the train.

Sympathetic Perspective:
There’s that wonderfully tall young man again. I can hear a hint of his perfect taste in music spilling out of his headphones as he stands next to where I’m sitting. I would like to offer him my seat just to talk to him, but that would be weird because he looks like such a strong guy, more than capable of standing in place for a while. Those amazing melodies in his ears are so loud that he doesn’t hear me say, “You will be mine” as I pass him to get a better look. 

I’ve written other things here that I plan to share with you soon enough, so I hope that you will keep checking back. Thanks for reading.

End Post.

Jet Plane:

Earlier today, I rode on my first flight, and I did it solo. During takeoff and landing, I was chewing Juicy Fruit gum, trying my hardest to prevent my ears from popping my brain right out of my head. The actual flight was spent staring at the small television inside the seat in front of me, since I was lucky enough to be flying Jet Blue. Of course, I also count myself fortunate that I had a window seat, and I was naturally thrilled to get a view of what a cloud looks like when one looks at it from above. However, I admit that most of the time my eyes were turned ahead towards the reruns of SpongeBob SquarePants. The sole seat to my left was empty, so my nerves were wracked even more considerably, since I felt totally alone as we gained a great deal of altitude at an outrageous speed (all of which I kept track of, using the television in front of the empty seat next to me). Thankfully, once I was finally able to shake off the feeling that I should have been plummeting to my death, then I rode quite comfortably. I even had animal crackers. That monkey wearing pants has been an excellent companion to me throughout my life. He always knows how to cheer me up (i.e., by being a monkey wearing pants that is also delicious). Thanks, Jet Blue!

Right now, I am reporting from some form of common room at Denison University in Ohio, where I am rediscovering the fact that blogging in the company of others feels very much like going to the bathroom with an audience. I constantly have the feeling that someone is looking over my shoulder and examining what I am making. I would like to get this over with as quickly as possible so that I can abandon the feeling that I am a lab rat being studied and perpetually watched by a team of strangers in white coats. After all, I am here for a young writers' workshop. Would it really be so strange if these people were watching me as I write? What if I make a typo? Is there someone behind me ready to correct my spelling and grammar? Are the rules of grammar the same here in Ohio as they are in New York? I have already seen firsthand how different this state is from my home. I got a ride from the airport to the university to the kindly faculty director of the workshop. On the drive here, I saw more roadkill on a single road than I have ever seen before in my life. Furthermore, I can't throw a stone in any direction without hitting some corn. In fact, I probably can't reach for a stone without picking up some corn instead. Culture shock aside (if that term even applies, considering that I'm still in the same country), I am enjoying my time here so far.

Events of the workshop have not yet started, so I do not have much else to report. I am going to go take a nap. Thanks for reading.

End Post.

Friends Like These:

I had this wonderful idea. I would gather up some of my closest friends from school. We would meet in the city, where we would go to our favorite pool hall, eat sushi or burgers at one of our favorite restaurants, and perhaps catch a movie at a nearby theater. I made some calls to my friends. I'm not here to name names or point fingers, but things did not work out as I had hoped. One friend is leaving for Kansas today. Another friend boarded a plane bound for Germany yesterday. Yet another friend spent the day tearing down a shed in his back yard and then later attending a sweet sixteenth birthday party. Some friends simply did not answer their phones. When all the calls had ended last night, I was fortunate enough to have two friends who had agreed to meet me in the city this afternoon. This morning, while I was reading Neuromancer by William Gibson, one of those two friends called to cancel his plans to join our fun. Content with just one friend joining me for billiards and food, I hopped on a bus that took me from Queens to Manhattan. It was during this bus ride, much closer to Manhattan than to Queens, that I received a text message from the last of my friends, informing me that we had to cancel as well. I stepped off the bus in a very large city with no one who would hang out with me.

As any self-respecting geek would, I immediately went to the nearest comic book store, which thankfully happened to be my favorite comic book store: Jim Hanley's Universe on 33rd Street off Fifth Avenue. With a wide array of excellent publications before me, I chose to purchase Incredible Hulk #106 (because who doesn't want to read World War Hulk?) and Joss Whedon's graphic novel Fray. From there, after stopping for some delicious sushi on the away, I went to a movie theater uptown to see (I mentioned that I'm a geek earlier so you should be able to guess what is coming next) Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer. How much of a geek am I? I was wearing my Silver Surfer belt buckle in the theater. I am quite pleased to report that I like the film, though I am very disappointed with how Galactus was portrayed. (Spoiler alert, I guess.) Since when is Galactus a giant, scary, maggot-shaped storm cloud thing? I thought he was a giant, scary, human-shaped robot thing. After that, I boarded another bus and arrived home again.

I was intent on having fun with close friends today because tomorrow morning, for the first time in my life, I am going to board an airplane. And I am going to ride in it alone as it takes me to Ohio, where I am going to spend a week at Denison University for the Jonathan R. Reynolds Young Writers' Workshop. I am very excited to receive this opportunity, though I can't deny that I am nervous about my first flight and about spending so much time apart from my family. I will most certainly experience nostomania during my time away from home, but thankfully I am nevertheless truly looking forward to the chance to improve my writing skills in an learning environment with my peers. I will have internet access during the workshop, so I hope to bring you regular updates from the university. Wish me luck, if you have any to spare. Thanks for reading.

End Post.

The Sky Had Cruel Intentions:

"The world could explode today," I told my best friend Brian yesterday afternoon in Central Park, "and I wouldn't be happy about it, but I wouldn't be surprised either."
"Really?" Brian replied, with a mix of amusement and confusion on his face, "What makes you say that?"
"I don't know," I rejoined truthfully, "It just feels like the world might explode today."

Some might say that I only expressed this foreboding insight into the end of all things because my mind was focused on all of the things that had already ended that day. Yesterday was, after all, the most bittersweet day of the year. It was the final day of final exams. After having written three full essays in two hours for my theology exam, I spent a while saying some fond farewells and wishes of "Have a great summer" to friends and faculty and friendly faculty. Next, in accordance with a tradition that truthfully became tradition purely by accident, Brian and I went to the nearby New Amity Restaurant, where we passed the time with fun conversation and some trivia questions about ourselves that we have come to call our "Personal Finals." This year, Brian and I seriously considered visiting some other eatery, because the New Amity is simply underwhelming. We finally gave in to tradition ultimately, though neither one of us is sure why. This year, the only seats that we could get were at the counter, where leg room was minimal, especially for someone of my size. I ordered a chicken gyro, which was sub par relative to the lamb gyro that I could have gotten on the street just a few blocks away. Brian ordered oatmeal, because he feels that it would be very difficult to mess up oatmeal.

"I mean, come on," he explained, "It's already mush."
I laughed and then proceeded to change the subject. "Personal Finals, question number eleventybillion," I began, forgetting where we had left off, "which one of my legs is asleep?"
Taking a moment to inspect the respective positions of both of my legs, Brian ventured a guess: "Right?" he inquired.
"Nope," I answered, "The correct answer is both of them."

After our mediocre lunch, Brian and I met quite a number of our friends at Central Park, where many of them chose to pass the time by tossing a Frisbee back and forth. This sort of activity is what one naturally does when one has just been liberated from the bounds of homework and examinations. I can't think of a better way to begin a summer vacation. Well, okay, perhaps I did think of a better way, or at least a different way, considering that in fact I did not participate in the Frisbee throwing myself. Instead, I found a pleasant spot to sit down against a tree only a short distance away from my friends, where I read the opening few pages of Neuromancer by William Gibson, a novel which I had borrowed just earlier that day from my good buddy G.I. Joe. Later, I had an extensive conversation with my friends about the things that we intend to read this summer, and as our lists grew longer and longer (mine especially) I realized that laziness on my part must not be tolerated this summer. I was immediately reminded of the useful mantra made popular by commonly known hobo lore: "Today shall not be wasted." Then, I was suddenly very hungry for pie.

"Have I told you that I fell in love with strawberry rhubarb pie?" I asked Brian, examining the dessert menu while still at the New Amity Restaurant.
"You mean there's someone else?" Brian responded, imitating a woman scorned, "How could you, Will?"
Laughing hysterically, I added, "I'm sorry, Brian, but," with a dramatic pause here, "there's another pie." Then I proceeded to tell Brian that I had recently tasted (and loved) strawberry rhubarb pie for the first time at Balticon, shortly after learning about the aforementioned hobo lore, as it was brilliantly written for the hundredth episode of "Geek Fu Action Grip."

The first raindrops that fell in Central Park yesterday were colossal and scattered, only lasting for a moment. A few minutes past without any rain. Dark, intimidating clouds loomed in the sky, promising that this was far from over. I was concerned that the world might explode underneath me, but what I really should have been worried about was the sky all along. The sky had cruel intentions, and when the thunder started I thought it was answering my calls for an explosion. I had an umbrella in my bag, but I discovered that one side of it was broken, and I knew that if I used it then the visual metaphor would be lost. I am always looking for symbols and visual metaphors in my everyday life. In this case, as it descended upon me and my friends during our retreat from Central Park, the intense rain metaphorically cleansed us of all the anxiety and stressing that the previous academic year had caused all of us to endure. It was like a right of passage that very quickly and relentlessly soaked us to the bone. Walking towards the subway station with Brian, I became so entirely wet that I felt violated, as if the sky were raping me. I was happy to arrive at the underground subway platform, where Brian and I quickly boarded a train that I would take us to our respective destinations, mine closer than his.

"Do you remember your line?" I asked him, reminding him of another tradition between us.
"Um, oh, right," he replied, thinking carefully, "Is it, the dance party is over?"
"No, but you're close," I rejoined, "What time is it?"
"Oh, okay, now I've got it," Brian said. Finally as the train pulled into the 59th Street station, Brian declared, "Will, dancing time is over."
"True," I answered solemnly. Then, with a familiar smirk on my face, I added, "Or has it just begun?"

What can I say? I am a slave to tradition.

End Post.

Liberator And Bringer Of Joy:

Today my family celebrated my cousin Katie's sweet sixteenth birthday. Happy birthday, Katie! My father picked up my uncle in my family's car, and then the three of us made the trip to  Lido Beach, where the party was held. Since my uncle is a teacher at a local college and I am nearly a high school senior, the conversation in the car quickly and sharply took a turn towards the topic of colleges. Having significantly researched only six colleges so far, I did not have a great deal to add to the discussion, even though it was carried on largely for my benefit. After all, no one else in that car is going to attend college in the near future. Thankfully, my uncle is an invaluable resource in his knowledge of many colleges all around the country. Such a conversation is incontrovertibly inevitable when I am in my uncle's presence. I was able to learn quite a lot from what I heard, including the fact that the best program in the country for those hoping to work in graphic novels is found at Ohio State, which intrigues me especially because I will be in Ohio just one week from today. The conversation about colleges only came to a halt when we arrived at Lido Beach. Because my father and I are not residents at this beach resort, there was a fee of eighteen dollars just to drive in. "And what to I get for my eighteen dollars?" my father asked the young woman inside the small booth through our rolled-down car window. "Um, you get to park," she replied, struggling to make any of this sound reasonable. "Wow," my father rejoined, "This had better be a really good parking spot." The place where we parked was in fact a very nice, convenient location, but it hardly seemed to be worth eighteen dollars. Any parking spot truly worth eighteen dollars would, in my opinion, have to be either on top of a very high building or safely underwater. Or, at the very least, it would have to glow in the dark.

At this point, I feel that I must make you aware that the beach is not my ideal environment. In fact, the outdoors in general is usually not where I like to spend my time. I find that the weather rarely complies with just what I would like, and there have been very few occasions when my emotions or opinions have had any impact on the weather. There have been some times in my life when I have been sad while it was raining, but then a sort of "chicken or the egg" question arises. Is it raining because I am sad, or am I sad because it is raining? Or, are the two facts completely unrelated? (In the "chicken or the egg" analogy, I suppose that this third option would imply that the egg was hatched from an entirely different animal, like a lizard for instance.) Since the outdoors does not cooperate with me, I often reciprocate that fact by refusing to cooperate with the outdoors and thereby staying inside. Moreover, there is a long list of things that live outdoors that I do not wish to have in my presence. The most notably agonizing of these things are the flying insects that certainly did not hesitate to make themselves known at Lido Beach today. I swatted my hands around myself so much today that from a distance I must have looked like a madman suffering from a seizure or terrifying hallucinations. Fortunately, there was little to no chance to being tormented by heatstroke today, considering that the sun was mostly quite reserved and the wind provide a number of cool, refreshing breezes. It would have been a nearly perfect day to be outdoors, if not for all the pesky bugs.

Most of the guests at the party were friends of my cousin Katie, none of whom I actually know. Therefore, while they played volleyball and ran into the water and generally enjoyed each other's company, I chose to instead spend most of my time doing something that I haven't had a chance to do in far too long: continue to read my friend Commander Xander's copy of Thus Spoke Zarathustra by Frederick Nietzsche. During the course of the hours I spent reading today, I was at one point asked by my uncle to summarize my impression of Nietzsche in a single sentence. While I struggled for words, I realized that I continue to read this book mostly because it is a challenge to understand each new sentence. This may be because Nietzsche was a brilliant philosopher with complex ideas, or it may be because he was a crazy person with a bunch of crazy ideas and a fatal case of syphilis. Or, it may even be simply because the text was originally written in German. This simple fact leads to sentences that no author writing in English would think to create, such as, "I want hobgoblins around me, for I am courageous." The casual observer might consider me to be some sort of party pooper, sitting with his nose inside a book while those around him try to enjoy their fun at the beach. However, I must retort that you, too, would read this book relentlessly if you realized that Nietzsche was writing about you. Okay, I can admit that Zarathustra was just speaking about me when he taught his disciples about his Will, but the fact that the 'w' in this word was consistently capitalized led me to believe that these sentences were actually written about me. In the chapter entitled "The Funeral Song," Zarathustra speaks, "Yes, something invulnerable, unburiable is within me, something that rends rocks: it is called my Will." Furthermore, in the chapter called "Of Redemption," Zarathustra states, "Will -- that is what the liberator and bringer of joy is called." If these words are truly written about me, then I would be more than willing to live by them. A role as a bringer of joy would be quite fulfilling, and the action of rending rocks, though it sounds difficult, would probably demand respect.

Maybe someday, years from now (many years, I hope), a large stone above stand above my grave, carved to read, "Will Hoffacker. Liberator and Bringer of Joy." I realize now that, no matter how much I detest the idea of being worm food, I would not like to be cremated. For, as Zarathustra sang at the end of "The Funeral Song," "Yes, you are still my destroyer of all graves: Hail, my Will! And only where there are graves are there resurrections." Now this is the sort of book that I can get used to.

End Post.