| [ |
mood |
| |
 anxious |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
The Rolling Stones "Tumbling Dice" |
] |
Yo, yo, fellow "storykeepers." Okay, technically, I'm still praying for a voter turnaround in the Lemont Injun thing, because all I ever wanted to be was a "Storykeeper." A big blue-and-gold storykeeper. In the shape of Al Bromberek. But back to sweet baby DJ.
Jesus, it really is time to look at the watch. Seeing as it's officially Monday of finals week, this means I'm going back to L-town in two days. If I was worried I wouldn't ever find time to settle down after this busy-ass week of acclimating to arts editing, I surely will have enough time to settle down soon enough. Man. I just hope I'm doing enough to keep myself afloat, productive, and happy. And I hope I can avoid Chipain's as I do it. I can't fucking go back there, y'all. If you ever see me in a gray polo walking near the Lemont plaza, hit me with the SUV I know you own. Man. It's so weird how I've got like, actual shit going on for me here (the RA thing, arts editing), and then I go home and, oh, I'm qualified to scan Doritos. But not alcohol. Dorothy can do that for you. She is, after all, old. So anyway, I better be coming up with alternative options for summer dough, because I can't handle cashiering no more. Plus, I lost my clock-in card, and I don't want to pay the twenty bucks to get a new one. That and the suicide factor. Those two.
But okay, what else has been up... my weekend was chock full of clubgoing and other means of eating up my last days in Iowa City. Kiki and I lived it up at the basically-fucking-lame One Eyed Jakes before we escaped and jetted to a theater department party at Sam's. A bunch of my homies from class were there, and actually, it was pretty fun -- and that's saying a lot, because I drank beer, which is about my least favorite thing ever to drink. Saturday night was Studio night, and my theory was right that the skank palace would be fucking packed on the last weekend of the semester. Unfortunately, that wasn't a good thing. Not only were there surprisingly few adequate homos to horn with, but finding room to dance was a fucking chore. Kiki and I sort of just twitched in place while giant lesbians to our left and right elbowed us in the face. Call it anything you want -- we call it the magic of the dance floor. Slaves to the disco ball and the birkenstocks.
On Thursday, Kiki and I (Jesus, are we a fucking inseparable duo or what) rented Stand By Me after ushering one of the New Festival plays. Alright, granted, Stand By Me is pretty much what you expect from a coming-of-age-story-about-four-tough-boys. But I don't even want to trivialize the movie that way, because I sure loved it. I'm sorry, who knows how to actually have a crying fit on cue? River Phoenix, you are obviously not a real person. Even if you died of a drug overdose in the early 90s. Okay, I have to say, that River Phoenix sure had a charisma even when he was like 13, so maybe the hysterical fanaticism surrounding his career is somewhat justified. All the kids in the film were great, actually. When Gordie breaks down after he sees the dead body, I fucking froze. I just loved it. Even though I feel like I have a sort of immature preference for sweeter, sillier movies, I still loved Stand By Me. And the song "Stand By Me," too. Ben E. King, you have a stupid name, but God do I love your song. It's got that Wonder-Years simplicity, nostalgia, and emotion that I don't even feel like breaking down into a science. It just is what it is, and I'm savoring all two and a half minutes of its goodness right now. In that way, it's just like me having sex. Teehee.
In case anyone needed a ridiculous scandal to break out, luckily the DI's got your back. The paper's managing editor and editor-in-chief have both been suspended because a recent edition of The Ledge contained bits of plagiarism. Well, actually, it's likely the whole thing was plagiarized. Anyway, it was about Jack Bauer (Kiefer Sutherland's character on 24... how about Keifer Sutherland was also in Stand By Me? Well, anyway...) and how he can cook a minute-egg in six seconds and other hilarious jokes like that. Like those Chuck Norris jokes you still love to hear. Anyway, it's plagiarism, and so we're down an editor-in-chief and managing editor. Luckily, my arts editor Meghan is taking over the editor-in-chief position, and she's about to assign the role of managing editor. I have to say, when I initially heard about a "scandal" happening, I wanted the forbidden details to be just a little more grisly. Like couldn't there have been just a little bit of sex? Just a little bit of sex on the copy desk? While Layne videotaped? This scandal fucking sucks.
My interview with MTV happens Thursday. I hope my blistering bitterness about Peter getting a callback was hot enough for you. I've decided not to think much about it -- I'll just play it Louis-like and work in a dance move or two. Surely they'll be won over by "the fax machine." Good God would I love to fucking give this summer to Rolling Stone and NYC. Fucking working for it. Earning it. Sassing it up with Madonna. Technically I'm being delusional, but I'm also really wanting to do something great for myself. Mmmm. And it all starts with what color polo I pick for this interview on Thursday.
But I've got to get going now. Inevitably the next time I'll check in will be when I'm at home, post-MTV interview. Expect minute-by-minute detail about how much I'm sweating, how much I over-answered every question, and how much I secretly hope a celebrity visits the interview. Like, what if they sprung Eddie Vedder on me and I suddenly had to interview him? "So Eddie, what's up with finally self-titling an album? So... do you like my shirt? I don't like your shirt. The haircut's okay, I just don't know about the shirt. Well, okay, to be fair, I should be happy you cut the hair and just be grateful you can work on the shirt later. Okay. Actually, Eddie, ask me questions. I feel more interesting than you right now." Sigh.
Anyway, love you guys. Thanks for reading, I'll see you around.
Kicking off summer with confusion, anxiety, and probably debt. Xoxo,
Louis
|