the green bay packers.

I was raised with green and gold blood. I have worn a cheesehead proudly. I watch games superstitiously, not watching when I think I'm bad luck, changing shirts and socks whenever I thought it might help the team. The time I've spent daydreaming about catching a pass by Brett Favre or pounding through the Bears defense on a reverse or running back a special teams play may amount to months of my life. The games I can watch I live and die on. The games I can't plague me until I know the score. A storied football team out of a small town in Wisconsin is one of the few things that can truly stress me out.

I am that guy who screams at the television to make me feel better.

My mom is from Milwaukee and my dad has always been a Green Bay fan (though he's from California) so the legacy was passed down to me with my interest in football. My brother Josh never really cared for sports (though now he admits that he doesn't like to hear that the Packers lost) and Chris seemed to always align himself with teams that gave Green Bay trouble (the Cowboys in the 90s, the Bears of late) but, as the picture of me when I was three wearing a Packers sweatsuit would indicate, I've always been true. Even through the 4-12 season before Holmgren (and after). Suffering through "Majik" Don Majikowski's twilight seasons and watching a young, brash quarterback take over in that fateful Bengals game. Yes, Green Bay.

So to watch them twist and gnash in agonizing defeat yesterday was heartbreaking, especially after such a stellar performance last week against the Seahawks. Ian told me before the game, and I hold with this now, that the New York Giants aren't really that good -- they just make you play the worst football of your season (he's a Bucs fan). Green Bay beat themselves with penalties and missed opportunities. And it hurts.

Katie has suffered the entire season by being forced to watch incessant NFL Network programming but now I can't even bear to turn the television on because there might be someone that says something negative, something about them being a fluke, about the possibility of Favre retiring, about the competition to be the team to make the Patriots 19-0 or, worse, that the better team won the NFC title.

I work on Sundays at the Store and I ran from there last night to catch the majority of the game (I got home near the end of the first quarter). But with the Super Bowl in a couple weeks, I know I can take my time getting home on February 3rd.

Next season is going to be their season though. I can feel it.

a modest question.

Do you think Conan is better without writers?

why tv is awesome, pt 3.

In an effort to become more relevant in an increasingly convergent media universe, Fox and NBC have teamed up under Hulu.com to offer us a single place with quick-loading, high-quality clips and episodes of existing media properties like 30 Rock, The Simpsons, Keeping Up with the Kardashians. It's just one step closer to my vision of the broadcast networks aligning with already established video portals. CBS/YouTube is not that far off. In the meantime, you can embed clips of John Krasinski on Conan.

dear drivers.

Normal rain in Atlanta will inevitably fill up the gutters along the surface streets. When you see a pedestrian along the road, clinging to his jacket in order to keep his schoolwork dry while huddling under an umbrella that is probably too small for him, try not to hug the curb and send a wave of dirty rainwater crashing into him like he's on a fishing trawler in "The Perfect Storm" (the weather event, not the movie).

And I know some of you must do it for fun. It looks fun. And some of you do it to test out some fancy new tires. I get it. It's good to make sure your investment is working for you. But a wall of water was heading my way so big tonight that I thought I was shooting the Pipeline without a board.

Just think of the poor cats having to walk in that, hoping beyond hope they can come home at least 65% dry.

Regards,

Nick Campbell

dear myspace community.

I've been lambasting MySpace for the past few months. Though I wouldn't say that I've jumped ship for Facebook (because, wow, would that be embarrassing) I do appreciate its layout, better coding structure and extensibility contrasting your spam-filled, corporate-owned, be-<table>'d existence. But one thing called me back.

The opportunity to force (or at least suggest) my musical taste onto a captive audience is very attractive to me. I used to hate profiles with music on them because it usually slowed load time to a crawl and the auto-play feature reminded me too much of the early days of the internet when I was trolling fan sites and was subjected to the background MIDI. But, now that there is control over the the auto-play function, I not only incorporate the music player into my profile, I find new songs for it every couple of days. This, my dear community, is where you come in.

Not every song I want to inflict on others is on the site (or at least not on the site as far as I want to explore it). So I encourage you, friends, to upload the songs I want to play for others. You might ask why I don't do it myself.

I don't want to get in trouble. Here's a short list.

• "Thunderkiss '65" by White Zombie
• "Bounce" by Timbaland
• "Possibly Maybe" by Björk
• "Never Say Never" by Queens of the Stone Age
• "Learning (alwaysnewapr)" by onelinedrawing
• "Xerces" by Deftones
• "2 Rights Make 1 Wrong" by Mogwai
• "hjartað hamast (bamm bamm bamm)" by Sigur Rós
• "Elite" by Deftones
• "Appolonia" by Team Sleep
• "It Could Be Sweet" by Portishead
• "Better Things" by Massive Attack
• "Glory Box (Mudflap Mix)" by Portishead
• "Backstage Girl" by DJ Shadow
• "Somethin' Hot" by The Afghan Whigs

Those are just a few of the songs I've been looking for but couldn't find. Help me out, copyright quasi-infringers.

getting to world 1-2.

Content Warning: It's a little racy from here on. Sort of. Viewer discretion is advised.
...
...
SEX!

[A bedroom is dark except for a light coming through a window, a combined effort from a nearby streetlight and the moon desperately trying to compete with it. SHE lays on the bed, almost annoyed, wearing a bright pink prom dress and a golden tiara with pink flats to match. HE walks in almost completely nude except for a large red cap and a fake mustache.]

He: We're so going to do this.
She: Oh my God.
He: We're are totally doing this.
She: You look like a child molester.
He: Come on. You said you would play along.
She: [sighs; unenthusiastic] All right.
He: I can barely see your face. Are you wearing the tiara?
She: Yes. It's the second-best part of the outfit.
He: What's the best part?
She: You'll find out. So, you decided not to go with the overalls?
He: Well, I was going to do this thing where I unhooked them and let them drop for the big reveal.
She: Of what?
He: You know -- my penis.
She: Oh right.
He: But then realized that might have totally ruined everything.
She: I might have walked out.
He: Exactly. Then where would I be? Just a dude standing alone with a fake mustache and some overalls around his ankles.
She: And a funny hat.

[There's a small pause as they both mentally prepare for their role-play.]

He: So should I call you Toadstool or Peach?
She: Oh, definitely Peach.
He: Right on. Right on.
She: [seductively] Thank you for saving me. I'm sorry to have caused you so much -- trouble.
He: Should I respond in that fake Italian accent he has?
She: Oh God no. Maybe we'll aim for the earlier games.
He: Or like in Mario 64?
She: Sure. [clears throat] Let me do something -- special -- for you.
He: Okie dokie.
She: That's not going to work.
He: Okay, okay.

[He kneels on the bed and holds onto her lacy, poofy dress.]

He: This is nice.
She: Shut up.
He: I think you could pull this off out in public. Just tell people you're on your way to homecoming.

[They laugh as he starts to make his way into her dress.]

He: It's like moving through a cloud.
She: Right, right.
He: If the cloud was made out of doilies.
She: Are you lost?
He: No, no. I think I'm good. [beat] Ooh, mushrooms on the underpants?
She: Just trying to get into character.

She looks away as he pulls off her panties, tossing them aside then winces slightly and smiles, closing her eyes.]

He: This is a delicious cake you have here.
She: Well, I told you I'd make one just for you.

[He is within the dress for a few minutes before struggling back through the lace to resurface, hat askew but mustache in tact.

He: Are you ready?
She: Save me.
He: Here we go.

xxx

Was that too much?

disappointment: a day in bullets.

Listening to: ágætis byrjun by Sigur Rós
Especially: "hjartaõ hamast (bamm bamm bamm)" [listen]

• Today started My Destroyed Vacation. The workplace has given me certain responsibilities for the next two weeks that I didn't really ask for nor did I secretly want. Now I've been imbued with powers that eat up any free time I might have had between semesters. Sure, "no rest for the weary" but I need some me time. And some Wii time. That's what she said.
• Work was super boring. Outside of the biscuits I picked up before work and brought into the Store, the day was bland bland bland. Temporary workers took up all the menial labor that usually whiles my time away and the important work I was "freed" to do took up a good hour, maybe two hours of my ten-hour day. Bo. Ring. Luckily my fellow cohorts were equally as bored so we played tricks on people, tricks that were thwarted by mudsticks. Yes, that's a clever way of saying "stick in the mud." I like mudsticks better. It makes you think more than a cliché normally would.
• Green Bay lost hard. And they lost a lot. And by a lot. And HARD.
• Other stuff.

At least Katie and I will do a partial gift exchange tonight. That should pick my spirits up. Giving me presents is how people show me they love me. Thanks, Mom.

Update: Katie came home too drunk unable to do gift exchange. My day ... it's ruined.

disappointment.

My arms are not really as toned as they look in this picture. In fact, they are so not toned that I've been telling people that this is the picture that makes me look ripped.

help-a-gaarface foundation.

Spoiler Warning: There is an object below that gives away a lot of information about a lot of media properties, most in the past so it's okay but some recent. If you're afraid of having any of the following spoiled, you probably shouldn't look past this:

Star Wars, Planet of the Apes, The Usual Suspects, The Crying Game, The Sixth Sense, Harry Potter, Dallas, The Matrix, Fight Club, 300, Psycho, Lost, Citizen Kane, Soylent Green, A Beautiful Mind, The Village, Donnie Darko

That's how cool this shirt is.

Jamie did an upright thing and got me a birthday gift this year. In return, when his birthday came around, I went to see a movie in his presence that I was going to see anyway and didn't talk to him for the rest of the night. It seems unbalanced. So for Christmas he shouldn't get me a present (you hear that, Gaarface?) while I get him something to make up for my lack of effort.

My problem was getting him something of comparable value to the Criterion DVD he got me (The Royal Tenenbaums) but, as I've said previously, how do I get someone who owns more movies than I even know exist a DVD? Instead I turned to things I know more about (not necessarily more than he but more than I do movies), _________ (to be filled in after Christmas). Although the things I got him were collectively my second choice.

Of all places I saw this on Moviefone and this this is, understandably, sold out. It is a t-shirt. But an awesome t-shirt. I include a picture of the front below:

Perfect. It's from Threadless T-Shirt, a small company that, apparently, makes one run of a shirt and doesn't bring it back unless there's enough customer feedback. So I urge you, true believers: give them the feedback they need to bring this shirt back. If not for me, do it for Gaarface. Poor, pitiful Gaarface.

nick campbell, animal.

My semester ended last Saturday with a dinner cooked by my Italian professor and a collection of our take-home finals. Since then I've been essentially free of obligation save from The Store, which holds my foreboding future, essentially a mandatory 40-hour week including a full day on Christmas Eve and closing shifts almost every night. I also worked last Sunday and Monday and will work this Thursday and Friday. Saturday will be dominated by making a video for a friend to give as a present. What this means: my only days lacking in obligation for my break between semesters was yesterday and today.

And yet, here I sit, in a tie and button-down, wearing a fedora, dressed fancy to type in my blog and update my MySpace and Facebook profiles. No trouble, no danger, no real excitement. Last night I stayed up to 3am after going to Landmark Diner, playing Wii for hours with Ian. I got my haircut today and now I'm texting back and forth with Becca.

I am an animal.

Anche: I'm starting to get tired of my music again. I might have to go on another music strike. This is what iTunes has served up to me while I type, most of these songs playing while I searched for that "music strike" post in my old MySpace blog (because I get so enthralled with my own writing):

• "Demons" by Fatboy Slim (f/ Macy Gray)
• "One Weak" by Deftones
• "Coma" by Muse
• "Lucky Guy" by The Muffs
• "Under the Influence" by Eminem and D12
• "Ricky's Theme" by Beastie Boys
• "Derelict" by Beck
• "Simple Man" by Deftones
• "Empty Space" by Teenage Fanclub
• "Mani in alto" by Jovanotti
• "Idoless" by The Distillers
• "Antidote" by The Hives
• "Icky Thump" by The White Stripes
• "Last" by Gratitude
• "Sunshine" by Handsome Boy Modeling School
• "Exit Music (for a Film)" by Radiohead
• "Red Elephant" by Sunny Day Real Estate

I went to P'Cheen and scream-talked over the DJ with Jonathan and Erica for about forty-five minutes. I was introduced to many people, mostly as being the recluse and told often enough that my reputation had proceeded me. I'm not sure what that means.

i froth.

The last piece of advice my dad had for me when we were eating dinner a few weeks ago was, "You want the A. You just need to get the A. Don't worry about anything else." We'd been talking about an HTML project for my Intro to Computer Science class. I complained for an hour about how my instructor was teaching my poor fellow classmates antiquated, deprecated and obsolete code. "His coding vocabulary hasn't been updated since 1997!" I scoffed. "He is still telling us to make sure our code works in both IE and Netscape when Netscape hasn't had a significant piece of the market in years!" I would never fall into the trap of writing incorrect code just for a grade. I would not settle for appealing to his ancient (by web standards) sensibilities. I've been working with web design for eight years. I have principles.

So I worked it all out. It took me a few hours but I got through all his criteria (make it so text sits between two images, make a table of these test scores, put horizontal rules here), plugged in a bunch of text that I was planning to use for a blog post and even some extra stuff because he said he was giving extra credit. For a page including his discontinuous criteria and created with nearly no thought put into it, it looked great. I used CSS for all the style elements (ignoring the <b>, <i>, <u>, and <center> tags he wanted us to use) and commented every piece of it so he knew what parts did what things (such as when he said he wanted us to make the links blue, for which he indicated we should do in the <body> tag with link="", I commented next to the a { color: #00f; } part of my style). I turned in a print out. I knew I had the 100.

So a few days later he passed the code print-outs back. I usually sit in the back of the class so when he was trying to hand mine back he just stood at the front and folded it over, waiting for me to stand up and take it from him. My instructor is small man, certainly from somewhere near or on the Subcontinent, so I towered over him, pulling the packet from his hand. Then, out loud, to the entire class he says in his thick accent:

"You did this in a program so I took 20 points off."

I was shocked. I handcode everything I do. Dreamweaver and the demonspawn that is Frontpage put out horrible code usually. Why would he think my beautifully-formated, web-standard code was put out by a machine?

Me: No I didn't.
He: Yes you did.
Me: I've been a web developer for 8 years. I know how to handcode my stuff.
He: See me after class.

This exchange prompted giggles from some others in the class who asked me, "If you've been a web developer for 8 years, why are you here?" Some buddies in the class answered for me, and I paraphrase: "For a film degree. Bite it."

My heart was pounding. Normally I would try to avoid the confrontation, accept the authority of my teacher and get along with the grade he gave me. But I couldn't wait to see him after class. I couldn't wait for me to show him how I did everything right, everything validated against modern web standards. I couldn't even pay attention in class because I was preparing myself for anything he could say. What about my code looks like it was from a machine? I could barely contain myself.

Class finally ended and I walked up to him. He took the code from me and said again, "You did this on a program." "No I didn't," I said firmly. Then he pointed to the item he believed was his evidence:

<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">

The Doctype declaration. He said that was something programs inserted into code. I explained to him what this was: a way to tell the browser agent what code was to follow in order to avoid the browser having to make assumptions and displaying code improperly. Programs put that in there to adhere to web standards. I showed him in the code where I commented next to everything he wanted in the document to make sure it was obvious I knew what I was doing. A buddy of mine came up, saying, "Nick's just really smart." My teacher, with balls like cantaloupes, shook his head. "No," he says, "he's not smart." My jaw hit the floor. "But I'll give you the 20 points anyway." He couldn't prove that I did do it on a program. So he wrote my first name down ($10 says those extra points go to the other Nick in my class) and +20.

Amber Rhea warned me, telling me tales of people in the same situation with the same result. My dad, convinced my instructor gave me a hard time because I showed him up, warned me. So now I'll be accepting "Told ya so's."

I don't know if it was what he ate for breakfast that morning but he should probably switch off from the Unprofessional-Os and get on some All-Bran or Frosted Mini Wheats. I have his final in 45 minutes, which includes an HTML portion. I can't wait. I still have his evaluation to do at the end of the year and it's going to be something else.

Update: He offered us something as I walked into class. If we were happy with our grades up to that point (before the final) we could walk out and not take the final but keep those grades. I couldn't be sure what my grades were in that class since he (a) lost some of my homework and (b) might have screwed me on that HTML project. But when he handed the grades back to people, I looked and saw an A (including 100 points for the aforementioned assignment). I ran for that door so quick I almost knocked people over.

hoo-arr

I'm starting to feel as though I only blog to impress myself with my own writing or to offer my Amazon Wish List around the gift-giving seasons. I really do have a lot of poignant posts started but never finished because I get bored with them. I suppose I'm only interested in ego masturbation or encouraging others to buy me things (which is like an ego hand-job really).

Anyway, here it is.

As always, I have stuff separated into different categories but the most important stuff is on the default list. That stuff, for those that don't like to click on links, includes:

• And by Jonah Matranga
• Malena Uncut Special Edition 2-Disc [Import]
• adidas Sambas (black/white -- size 12)
• The Fountain
• The Complete Poems by Guido Cavalcanti (trans. by Mark Cirigliano -- or any translation with the original Italian)
• D&G heavy tweed sports jacket

I know the D&G jacket is a little pricey, but it's worth it; I'll look really good wearing it.

Also: Don't think I forgot about you, Gaarface. I owe you a gift and have been thinking about it. But what do you get the man whose DVD collection includes 50% more movies than I've even heard of?

script advice from an outsider.

There are times when you have to look at your story and make some hard decisions. You get stuck in a pattern, things start to get stale or you just find yourself writing in a direction for which you're not sure you want to see the result. It's time for an evaluation. It's time to take a long, hard look at your characters, your settings and your plot and see what can be cut in order to add newer and better things. In the end, you may have to write a person off the show.

I know it's hard. You have a lot invested in these characters and to just write them off so quickly is sometimes easier said than done. And things might turn around, right?

The first thing to do is to look at the situations your characters are in and make sure that they are, in fact, doomed. "Doomed," of course, is an abstract concept and depends on the script you're writing. Is your character caught in a cycle that you are far too comfortable writing her into? Is she facing insurmountable odds unnecessarily (and by this I mean the bad kind of insurmountable, the true, tragic kind of insurmountable)? Is your audience rolling its collective eyes at the stale storyline, impossible survival or repeated presence of something toxic and unpopular? If your answer is yes to any of these, it's time to start the process of creating the exit of this unfortunate aspect.

The actual exit might be the easiest part. You want to do it well, with style and grace and keeping in tune with the rest of the script. If the character is usually tranquil and understanding, writing a scene with yelling and screaming is not plausible, no matter how dramatic or entertaining you feel the writing is. Your audience will appreciate a tone that matches the rest of the show (it's why they stay tuned in, right?). You have to make it fit and give him a fitting end. Dropping him off a cliff or shooting him in the face in order to get rid of him is the stuff of soap operas. Your character (hopefully) is not in a soap opera (if your character is, see "Deaths from Which Your Character can be Resurrected and/or The Body Cannot be Identified"). Whether your show is a half-hour comedy or an hour-long drama on the CW, you have a duty to your character to follow the serial you've been working so hard on thus far.

After writing the character off the show you have to resist the temptation of bringing him back into the story. There will be many times over your (hopefully) long series run that you may run into issues of temporary boredom or just a loss of story and you'll get the feeling to bring this person back. Don't fall into that trap. You run the risk that you (and your character) will only fall back into that cycle or will diminish that good progress you made with your writing. Your audience will see this as a step back for your show and you may lose some of your faithful. Your audience is important no matter how good a storyline you have for this character.

So you may think to yourself, "Nick, my character has really made it far enough that I can avoid the pitfalls the old character made in his earlier episodes." That may be true. Try guest appearances at first. Sparse guest appearances. Work that character back in slowly. It's more natural than reintroducing this character and suddenly giving him a major role.

What you're trying to avoid is having your character upstage your series by making it a study of ridiculous recurring characters (think Urkel) or constantly resorting to unoriginal ideas (like the incessant Ben or Noel cliffhangers). If you really want for this character to return, evaluate your script again. The reintroduction has to not be completely ridiculous, unfounded or inherently damaging to your main character. She is the most important part of the show after all.

The safest bet is to leave dead characters dead. Your audience will respect you for it and your living characters can grow and continue on a natural progression. If you're feeling extra creative, maybe throw him in the background as a wink to your historical audience. He who portrays your character might be frustrated with his below-minor role status. But these days he'll probably get a spin-off anyway.

_

"sono morto"

Cute, isn't it? We saw this stenciled on a pillar near the Arno and were deeply affected by it (Assisi who?). Now that Nicole has it permanently marked [MySpace link] on her body, my mind and internet searching skills are racked by this: where does it come from? "Sono morto" means "I am dead" or "I died" so I'm curious as to how two block people with T. Rex arms within quotation marks represent this. Wildly curious. If you know the answer, please let me in on it.

- - - - - - - - -

Non sono bravo con scrivendo italiano ma ho bisogno di sapere: di dov'è questo stencil? Io conosco che le parole significa (grazie -- il mio italiano non è così brutto) però voglio sapere: chi sta morendo (o era morto) ... chi ha fatto questo stencil ... è soltanto a Firenze ... è la morte in realtà un'orgasmo (così "le petit mort" nel francese) ... sul serio, ho bisogno di sapere!

wheels, man. wheels.

If you've seen a blue blur streaking through the streets of the city, I have a pretty exciting explanation for you. Well, it's not really a streak ... if you've seen a really tall kid struggle embarrassingly up and down the hills of Atlanta, I can tell you what that is. Nick Campbell is with bicycle.

Sean Kiskel asked me a long while ago, "Nick, why don't you get a bike?" My response: "I find walking to be more stately." And I still believe this. There's a quiet dignity in plodding along unassisted by locomotive technology. It gives you time to think, to run through your day, and, if you're like me, time to imagine what you'd say to Jon Stewart when he interviews you. But it takes FOREVER. I live a five minute drive east of downtown and, somehow, it takes me twenty to thirty minutes to walk to any amenity: grocery store, train station, movie theatre, etc. And it's only getting worse. In the time I've lived in this area (about three and a half years) at least seven housing developments have come up less than a mile from Unit N with no concrete addition of infrastructure. If you keep putting condos up on all the land around the area, how will you build the things you need to help sustain them (gas stations, grocery stores, etc)?

When Erica moved to her new place off a major road that was not at all bike-friendly, she blew the dust off the Blue Devil (a blue mountain bike we bought together many years previous) and gave it to me to store. Now I use it. Jess saw my helmet earlier this week* and said my using a bike was rendering her world crumbled. But I get to places in a third of the time, sweating an equal amount (I'm still drenched in salt and my own filth but all at once while biking instead of steadily over a long period of time while walking) but still giving me more time to sit and watch Boy Meets World. Oh, that Rider Strong.

I'm probably not going to ride in Critical Mass and I'm not going to get all into my bike and talk about it like it's my nephew. I see this bike more like how people who buy jalopies their friends laugh at explain their hoopties: "It gets me from point A to point B." And it gets me there faster than my ADIDAS alone can.

* Jess saw me earlier this week at McCray's while we watched Katie perform live acoustic music. You should come and check her out Sundays at 8ish. She plays her own music and a few covers and she told me that if enough people come she'll cover "Thunder Kiss '65" by White Zombie. Or was it "Leggy Blonde" by The Flight of the Conchords? I can't remember.

seven seven seven.

First, I would like to point out the power of a MySpace bulletin I saw this evening. Someone has assigned personality traits to each letter so, when an acrostic is created, you should get a peak into the life of whatever the letters spell out vertically. My name is:

N: Loves to have fun
I: You like to drink
C: You are really silly
K: You're wild and crazy

Not bad for a goody-goody fuddy-duddy. I even missed being great in bed (represented by both E and L -- along with "You like to drink," represented by A, I and R, these are the only two repeated phrases which leads me to believe this was created by someone named Ariel) which isn't that far off. I often miss being great in bed.

Zelda has stopped calling me long enough to mention something about 07/07/07.

All I've been able to talk about for the past year is how I want to do something memorable for the holiday of Triple Seven (as, I'm sure, Ringo Starr, Vonda Shepard and Cree Summer were also saying) but couldn't think of anything at all. I didn't have the time to go wrestling alligators, the money to go back to Italy, or the desire to go start the city on fire and laugh at its ashes (though there are days). Nothing was coming to me though. So when the opportunity came up to go back to Trader Vic's to see Dames Aflame, I conceded.

This is probably a surprise to anyone who talked to me after my first trip to Trader Vic's. The incomprehensibly large tiki bar under the Hilton Downtown looks the part but sounds like a movie set. You know how when you see dance scenes or busy indoor situations on a movie or TV show generally the sets are pretty quiet and the sounds are added in later. That's the way Trader Vic's is for most of the week: nothing but the soft whispers of everyone else saying, "Hey, it's really quiet in here." It was like a scene from The Shining (1980). I was ready for Jack Nicholson to ax through the bar at any moment.

So why go back? All in the interest of scantily clad women and the hope that they could liven up the place.

We (Mark, Sarrah, Erica, Jonathan, Audrey, Katie, Jamie, Robin, Jason O'Donnell, Joey and I) showed up at around 8:00 (the show started at 8:30 but we wanted to make sure we didn't miss any of the possible good times and have to deal with the creepy silence again) and crowded the bar until they could find a table for us. The band was just starting to warm up and Dames Aflame ladies were selling raffle tickets. Everyone told them it was my birthday as if that was going to get me a free raffle ticket or some sort of lap dance from Monkeyzuma. I sipped my No Tai Mai Tai and nodded in appreciation to the group of grass-skirt-wearing girls wishing me a happy birthday.

I should pause to say that I've been wearing a lot of ties lately. The week previous to this I got some weird hankering to wear a tie and, even though the knowledge of tying a professional knot has never taken in the past, I suddenly learned how to tie the Four in Hand knot so I've been about obsessed with wearing a tie, even buying two more so I can wear them more often. Let's face it: generally men look better when they're wearing a tie so I looked straight up foxy.

The table as finally ready for us and a waiter walked us back into an impossibly far away dining area. The noise from the band near the bar got softer and softer until it was barely there. It was as if I was Navidson and we were walking into a better lit corridor from House of Leaves. By the time we sat down the music was a faint whisper and we were surrounded by couples on dates and business partners grabbing a meal before bed. Certainly, this was an unfortunate set of circumstances.

But we tore it up anyway. We laughed and drank and howled until everyone around us was gone. Some people had their first experiences with Monkeyzuma. It was good times. Jonathan got me two games for the Wii [which is ridiculous because (a) that's way too much money and (b) my present to him for his birthday that I missed was a hat I brought back from Italy for a fifth of the cost of his present] which I play all the time now (one of those games was the new Legend of Zelda). Many drinks later (including two Coral Reef drinks made from strawberries, mango and coconut cream -- yes, girly non-alcoholic drinks but they were like delicious smoothies) we finally tabbed out to head to the next place.

Again, I wanted to make this a special night, one that, at the very least, when I have to think about doing something, I had to think about this night. So I thought about things I've never done before so my first time could be this evening. When asked where I wanted to go next, I said, continuing the scantily-clad women theme:

"Let's go to the Pony."

I hate lapdances. Well, I don't hate them but I do feel like they are the most horribly awkward experiences I've ever had. Generally, when a girl is rubbing against me, I like to be touching her. So when there's a girl's butt in my face or nipples near my ear lobes at a strip club, I'm not sure what to do with my hands or how my face should look (it's a fine line between appreciative and creepy) or what to say, if anything. I was insistent that I was not to get a lapdance this evening. I was perfectly fine with ogling the women from afar.

The hangers-on for the Pony included Jamie, Jonathan, Audrey, Joey and me. What people say about the Pony is true: the girls are generally better looking. There were two or three I thought were really hot (one of which was Audrey's favorite stripper from many moons ago when the woman was performing a Snow White bit) but it was a different woman, one I was not completely attracted to, who came over to me.

She: "Would you like a dance?"
Me: "Uh ... it's uh ... a little too early in the evening for that ..."

Yeah, a little too early for a naked woman to grind up on you. Way to go, Nick. My excuse was doomed to failure anyway, though, because my drunk girlfriend bought me the dance anyway. So there I was, trying to fix my eyes on whatever I was supposed to, not really able to enjoy the sights of a stranger waving her naked body in front of me with my girlfriend watching, who was slapping me if my eyes even drifted away from her chest or her backside. Seriously, lapdances are the most awkward experiences I've ever had. And I've been in some pretty compromising positions.

But the girls were all great, our server was pretty and nice (she even told the dancer it was my birthday -- although I don't think I received any special treatment) and I saw a lot of boobs. Good times.

It was home after that. Katie went upstairs and immediately passed out in the middle of the bed. I tried to move her but she'd just slip back to where it was comfortable. I huffed, stole a pillow from her and slept on the couch. Some minor drama between some drunken friends kept me and my phone awake for another hour or so but, otherwise, it was a great time.

Someone: Hey, Nick. Have you ever been to the Pony?
Nick: Yeah, man. I went on my 26th birthday.

Enough of this. I have some Zelda to play.

all the pretty wishes.

Ladies and Gentlemen:

That time of year has once again returned where we mark the occasion of my birth. Sometime very early on the morning of July 7th I will have been on this planet for 26 years. I like presents and Cadbury, such a jealous rabbit, does not like to be left out.

When visiting the Amazon wish list don't forget about the nicely organized lists on the side!

Fig. 1: List of More Specific Lists

Anche: My birthday this year is 07/07/07. I want to do something incredibly awesome but I'm far too boring to come up with anything. Help me out. How can I spend this glorious Saturday? Tell me please. I'm open to anything (at the very least I'll hear you out). Audrey suggested an orgy. I'm not sure she was actually suggesting it but that's what I took from the conversation. The point is that no idea is too crazy.

PS: On an unrelated topic, how | about | Jessica Biel?

how was my trip.

Dear Everyone:

Less than a week ago I was finishing a stay in Italy lasting nearly six weeks. I posted nothing here because my plan was to create a cohesive narrative, different from most of my other stories which are not so much tales as they are weakly-connected highlights. I'm having a lot of trouble doing that. I'm not sure if it's because of my usual memory loss or if it's because I'm having trouble distilling what my trip was.

I kept a journal although toward the end of the trip you could tell I was less interested in keeping track of day-to-day stuff. But at first I was committed to writing down as much as possible, so committed Ugo told me a couple times, "Hey, if you try to write everything down you'll miss the actual stuff going on." Something like that. I paraphrase so that's why it sounds a little like Ferris Bueller.

What I'm getting at is that I don't really have a reliable written document of my trip, just scribbling of things I found important that I swore I would flesh out later that night but never did and now my ailing memory is trying to reconstruct these things. People that have seen me since my return have all asked me, "How was your trip?" Where do I even start?

I've wanted to go to Italy ever since I was 15 when I started reading Dante, a writer that, even when I re-read the same text year after year still puts me in a humbled state of wonder. Ten years later I was there, standing in the same church he prayed in and spied on the woman that impressed him so much he wove her into one of the most important pieces of literature ever written. To be in his city, to see the same sites and to see the city's dedication (possibly remorse and guilt for his exile) to the man -- and I was only in Firenze for three days of my 34ish-day trip.

How was my trip? I don't have words that can accurately sum things up. Any time someone has asked I've struggled with my usual go to words like "awesome" and "amazing." How do you describe my view of Assisi from my bedroom window or being in the presence of thousands of years of history? How can you convey Piazza IV Novembre at night or the throngs at Gubbio during Festa dei Ceri? So far, I've compared the latter to being up front at the biggest concert festival you've ever been to but tighter by a hundred. When I'm asked in passing what Italy was like I don't have enough time to tell them how it really was -- just that, you know, it was pleasant to me.

I saw so many things, spoke (a lot of the time) a different language, made a lot of friends (one of which, sadly, will not translate over into the States -- we had fun while it lasted, Culp), and relaxed. I know that's completely cliché for an American to go to Italy and "finally relax" like I'm Diane Lane and I just spent some time under the Tuscan sun. But I wasn't in Tuscany. I was in Umbria (I'm still working on the map a little bit).

So my trip is a string of superlatives I won't even attempt to write since it'll just make everything sound like a Gene Shallot review. Although it was, in fact, a tour de force.

I can post pictures, some video, maybe even some scans of my notebook but I don't know that I can properly show you how my trip to Italy was. But I'll try real hard.

secret club.

I was walking down Peachtree toward Bruster's before my exam (I felt since it was 2:15pm that I deserved a waffle cone) when a stranger ran up to me from the Aderhold direction. As a testament to how well my headphones work and how hardcore my music is, I couldn't understand a word he was saying. He looked a little crazy but he certainly wasn't angry. He was happy, jovial even. The man was grinning ear to ear and excitedly spoke with jerky hand gestures. I debated for a moment before pulling out my earbuds.

Me: Excuse me?
He: [with British accent] ... so great!
Me: Wha?

He noticed my confused look and pointed to my shirt. I forgot that I was wearing my Liverpool jersey.

Liverpool defeated Chelsea in the UEFA Champion's League semifinal yesterday in a shoot-out. I recorded it and caught most of the game today (my ineffectual DirecTV DVR cut off the last overtime period and shoot-out -- thanks for nothin') and decided to wear my jersey. Although I didn't think I would elicit any reactions.

So I played some sort of hand game with the very excited guy and he told me "good work." I walked on and got my ice cream cone, only to have people nod and congratulate me as I shoved double chocolate chunk in my mouth. Who knew there were so many people in my immediate area keeping up with UEFA? Outside of Liverpool, I don't really keep up, not even with the Italian teams (AC Milan is the other team on its way to Athens for May 23 tournament).

Apparently there is, in fact, a society only recently revealed to me that will cheer me on for liking a team based on a present given to me bought at Disney. Ahem, I mean, cheer me on for rooting for the Reds! Go Liverpool!

book of face.

When facebook first came around I couldn't join because I was not yet back at university. Then, upon my return, I deemed that facebook was for the youth and that I was far too old (now, MySpace on the other hand ...). And now ... well, now I've collapsed under the burden of the 18,000th person to tell me I needed to be on facebook. And we all know how I react to peer pressure.

So I'm there now. At least the code's a lot cleaner than MySpace. But I'm not sure about this poking business. What's that all about? I don't want to get poked. Who wants to be poked? Poke that.