I'm back...

Hello, Ithaca. You're looking rather gloomy this afternoon.

But then again, don't you always?

So if I had one word for Montreal, what would it be?

Shoes

New pair of shoes from Transit. It was a tight choice between black/gray/green Converses, and black leather dress boots, but in the end I went for the dress boots. They seem to work remarkably well with boot-cut dark washes. Oh, and on a not-so-good note, my favorite D&G sunglasses cracked at the hinge. No worries, I can get them repaired free.

Dinner was at Segafredo again. Tonight we were in time to watch some live jazz: a salon jazz piano trio headed up by a beautiful Egyptian singer, singing in French of course. We watched for a few hours over cheesecake and drinks, while a couple of thet the Montreal jazz scene, and oh yes, the female's scene.

I know. It's not fair I make this stereotype. But it was there, at the table, that I noticed that all Canadian drummers, regardless of genre, look more or less alike. There's a commonality not only in their nervous, edgy-but-composed sticking style, but also in their aesthetic quality: a handsome, slightly rough, stubbly, thin face partly hidden by messy and medium black hair. They all wear a black suit over a white button-down, dark-wash jeans, and oh yes, don't forget the sweat.

But then again, it's a French Canada thing. I mean. Look at Etienne.

Montreal has a charme incendiere.

French Jazz...<3

I don't know why I brought this subject up. My guess was it's a combination of a couple things, from riding on the Montreal subway, to the quality of girls here, to excess spare time.

I figured that sex in a subway tunnel would be pretty erotic. But it'd have to be in a certain place. It couldn't just be anywhere. It'd have to be close to the trains, and it couldn't be too rough. The sweeter the better. Why? It's like public sex, except at the same time, the spectators are moving by too fast to know what's really going on.

__________

Ah, mon dieu. French jazz is so cool.

There's a unique sound here that you can't really find elsewhere in lyrics and in music itself. It's this quirky, smoky, more organic flavor of jazzmusique, too refined to be bebop and too avantgarde to be west coast. Exotique. The chanteuses are much prettier here too, in this more adorable, classier way.

It's the language too. Jazz was meant to be in French. You know, it's inexplicably cute, the way everything sounds better in French. French can turn the worst lyrics into an art. Ah, this music is so beautiful it makes me cry.

I think I'm falling in love...

Boxing Day

I love the style here in Montreal. People are so well-dressed here.

Surprisingly, financial damages were kept at a minimum. In the end, I dropped 25$ on dark-wash boot cuts, 20$ on a kickass white collar shirt, another 20$ on a tight black sweater, and 3.50$ on a black and gray scarf. My guess is that I would have gotten more had we not been lost for most of the time.

*Note the prices are in CAD, not USD. And then I get my tax money back at the border.

I love Boxing Day.

_________

I remember my first time in a Segafredo. It was in Tokyo, when we dropped in for a coffee after hanging out on the Promenade. I must say the atmosphere didn't allow breathing; too much cigar smoke. The pastries were thick and crusty, and the coffee was rancid. I didn't enter another Segafredo for another year.

I gradually built up my taste for the Portuguese cafe chain in Lisbon, actually.It was one of the places we frequented for lunch in the Baixa-Chiado before we resorted to an ugly, coach-class Chinese restaurant a block from our hotel that played the same MIDI-driven keyboardist playing cheap riffs over a 20$ drum machine. Every day.

And today, in Montreal, my dad and I went out to pick up a late dinner at the Underground City, but apparently they close early these days. So we went out to St. Catherin Street, a SoHo-like district that cuts Montreal in half between Mont-Royal and the Old City. Most of the pizza parlours were closed, but I spotted...a Segafredo.

And when we walked in, I changed my mind. French house music. Hardwood floors, glasstop bars, walls of spirits, and the white leather chairs. The consumers match the decor; a man on my right wearing a Versace suit and a crisp red embroidered chemise sits down with his friend and pulls out a sixteen hundred dollar Vertu Ascension, one of the world's most expensive cellphones.

I sat down at a window seat and turned on my mp3 player. I made a point of recording the music.

There's a Segafredo that has dignity.

The food came. And the rest of it, as they say, was history.

____________

Amazing electro-house band:
telepopmusik

Take a look at the song Into Everything, Remix. Takes a while to get into, but it's good stuff.

Good evening from Montreal.

living life detached
she knew of three elements
steel, concrete, and glass

___________

Bonne soiree from Montreal.

It's snowing outside; first day of snow this year for Montreal, and we were euh, lucky enough to catch it in full swing. It's dying down now, but there's reportedly 20 centimeters of snow on the ground, and visibility is limited to a couple hundred meters.

But in a way, it's beautiful too.

It seems like this is the way Montreal should look: concrete skyscrapers and traffic jams and surrounding hills, blanketed in a gray haze and caked in white. There's a special appeal to the aura to the city which is..ah, difficult to explain.

It's also about the people. They seems like snowy people. Not to mention quite friendly, and pretty.

[21:32] inqualcanto: like. it's french girls in general, where they're often not hot, but they're really pretty
[21:32] yuvali611acs: yea
[21:32] yuvali611acs: not ugly
[21:32] yuvali611acs: but just like
[21:33] inqualcanto: it's an "adorable" thing more than it is a "wanna bang her uhhh like a drum" thing
[21:33] yuvali611acs: if they have one "off" feature
[21:33] yuvali611acs: like their nose

I was just out for dinner, and we were fortunate enough to snag a hotel in a very chic district. Zegna's in our basement. Their Champs Elysses is just two blocks away. I'm in Elysium. Then again, I didn't spend anything today. Instead, I'd like to think of it as...preliminary surveillance. A recon. An...information gathering operation.

Oh shit. I forgot to bring my sketchbook.

___________

Elysium: Scrap or Not?

It's been the most laid back Christmas I've ever had. Needless to say I'm not religious, so it's never been too stressful.

Just got off about twenty minutes on my trainer, trying to shake the stagnant feeling you get when you sit on your ass for most of the day. It felt good. Heartrate peaked at around 180; not bad, but not great. And yeah, twenty minutes is a short session, but I made it intense. Besides, I haven't finished packing.

(Tomorrow morning I'm out for Montreal for the rest of the week. I'll have sporadic internet access, but I'll probably be busy doing other things more worth my time.)

_______


I hate to leave my other story unfinished, but I feel compelled to begin fresh; I can't stand the way I wrote this one. I don't know if that means rewriting my story from scratch or maybe just editing whole sections that sound...eh, chunky. Outdated. Messy. Vicky, you've read it...what do you think? Is it worth my time rewriting?

Then again, in the Information Age, documents are never permanently scrapped. It stays on my hard disk until I decide I truly don't want it anymore. Then it goes to the recycling bin. And if I really don't want it, it gets erased permanently.

But oh, it still pains me to drop it. It's been over a year now since I first turned these ideas into bytes. It's taken my time, my energy, and most of all it's taken so many of my dreams and imagination. It seems like if I scrap it now, I'm turning my back on an era in my life. I'm not just letting go of a story, but I'm letting go of a frame of mind, a dream state I've been in for the last fifteen months. I'll never be able to come back to it again with the same conviction I had before.

At the same time, I feel like I've been only postponing the inevitable. The past month or so, I've opened up my story every day for an hour or so, only to edit a few lines of text, maybe add a paragraph or two, and then close it. It's as if...well, I'm pretending that it lives on in my head. But I have to face it: I'm already losing my energy to continue writing. I don't have the creative stamina to write for long periods of time like this.

I don't like the side I'm leaning towards.

_______

I feel like talking to someone. I don't really care who. I just feel like having a conversation, spilling my thoughts. But it's also 12:18 in the morning, and these are very specific thoughts I have that can um, only be spilled and understood by a few people.

Merry Christmas

I was planning on putting a witty remark about how superfluous Christmas really is, but that's getting old.

Merry Christmas, everyone. Have a lovely New Year.

Love,
- Mirko

__________

I'm pretty ignorant. I didn't realize such a sport existed.

I want to dream beautiful thoughts.

I want to dream beautiful thoughts tonight.

I want to get rid of the tortured men and the suffering kids and the ruined school and the hopeless friendships and the unrequited love and the broken lives. I want to stop having to wake up wondering whether I had just watched a man starve to death because I couldn't help him, or if I had really permanently ruined a friendship because I talked too much, or had sex with a girl I didn't want to do it with because there was nothing I could do to feel better.

I've always been a slave to my dreams, trying to keep in touch with them as much as possible. Reality? It's a mask you put on. Your dreams are you...the real you. They are your manifestation of true art: self-expression at its most self-revealing. And they tell stories, stories that are left in the back of your mind waiting to be written.

And good dreams, like good art, are a commodity. But sin or not, sometimes one must take pleasure in bad dreams. It helps you stay in touch with reality.

But I'm sick of it. I don't want them anymore. I'm real enough. I want to go home.

Goodnight. Much love,
- Mirko

Manholes

It is daytime, but the sky is overcast. Everything is gray, even my skin. A man is trapped beneath a layer of grates under a manhole. His eyes are sewn shut. His stomach and bladder have been surgically removed. He doesn't say anything, but somehow I know it.

He is starving to death. Time elapses. There is food down there but he cannot eat it. I try to get him out, but I have no way through the grates. No matter how hard I try to get him out, I cannot reach him. All I hear is a mute whine before I realize I have failed.

- My dream, December 23, 2006

Unfamiliarity can never be good

"I want to sleep with you. But I don't want to have sex with you, I just want to sleep with you, next to you.We need to talk." She agrees. We need to talk. Given that it is a dream and nothing else...I can rationalize it myself and it will go my way no matter how selfish or immoral it may be. But there’s the advantage, the great pleasure, in fantasy. It’s no one’s but yours.

As I speak to her, there's a storm outside trying to so rudely interrupt me. The building is dark. It doesn't feel like the same ACS I always knew. It's unfriendly, cold, even a bit mysterious. Holding hands, we turn away from the commotion outside the foyer and go downstairs to my favorite part of the building with the big metal heater. But there are people all over the place, so I take her to the next room over. The old ESL room. The sunroom. We don't talk. We only stare at each other. Contrary to my request, we quietly proceed to have sex.

- My dream, December 21, 2006

__________

I cried last night. For a long time.

But it's not the tears that bother me. It's the lack of reason. I cried for nothing, but. All I can say was that it felt good. I've probably just felt worse than ever the last few days.

When did I get so temperamental?

That night I was plagued by an odd dream that took place at ACS. Occuring in recursion, I kept saying those words. I don't know if I said anything else in my dream, but that's all I remember.

I also woke up at least twice during the night, and had a case of conscious paralysis. A frightening experience, if any of you have ever experienced it before. It kind of makes you not want to go back to sleep.

I'm about to shut off my computer and try to go to sleep again, but I don't know how much help that would be.

Love,
- Mirko

___________

On another note, I fucked up my unit final essay for Facing History.

On yet another note, I found out how to add comments.

Gifts

So my parents have given me a couple FREAKING AWESOME holiday gifts. I feel obligated to return the favor, but I don't have that kind of money, and I didn't realize I was getting any. I don't celebrate these holidays...at all. Break is really just an excuse to get out of the country (our first plan was Morocco, but it didn't go too well because my father's in D.C. for most of the break).

________

Giordana Sydney Cycling Jersey - Long Sleeve (For Men).
Giordana's Sydney cycling jersey adds a layer of warmth to a cool morning ride. Canete fabric is soft like cotton with the superior breathability and moisture-management of polyester.

Creative Zen Vision:M 30 GB MP3 and Video Player (Black).
Smaller and better than ever before. The ZEN VISION:M does more than play your videos, photos and music. It displays them in their true glory on a vibrant, large full-color screen. Perfect for road trips long or short, carry your entertainment in the palm of your hand. The deal is I pay for $100 of it, but...

Nashbar 2007 Adjustable Fluid Trainer.
Our Adjustable Fluid Trainer is what you need for additional resistance levels to effectively do interval workouts. This model provides 5 levels of resistance from the smooth, quiet fluid resistance unit and the internal flywheel smooths pedaling action for a more natural feel.

________

Oh, don't get me wrong, I'm really happy that my parents would do that for me, and I love them so much for everything they do for me. But (maybe it's wrong for me to do this) I realize these are all presents my family gave me. Family is an obligation. I didn't choose my family, but I chose my friends.

And for that, I really want to thank Vicky so much. You didn't have to but you did. You're such a good friend. Thanks so much for thinking of me. And I love the ring.

<3,>

The Concert at LACS

So ASM was first period, which meant no one showed up.

I had an interesting experience today once I was settled in at Juna's Cafe. I had been talking with my friends online, watching people and sketching them, when I realized that I was being watched as intently as I was watching them. It's kind of an awkward feeling, but I know it was inevitable.

I got downtown at around 3:45, and by then it had already been getting dark. It was totally empty. Ever get that feeling that there's some big event that's going on and you don't know about it? Yeah. That's how it feels. Okay, maybe I just got here early. Oh finally. Hey Sam.

I finally understood why no one was there.

_________

So the LACS concert was tonight. I didn't realize it until it was already 5:30. It started at 6:30. I got a ride up to ACS and jammed with the rest of the bands for a bit. We were the third to last act, but I had been so fired up on coffee from Juna's that it hadn't worn off yet. Consequence: couldn't keep a real beat, forgot what songs were being played, and oh um yeah, forgot the other musicians' names.

But it was still pretty fun, I gotta say. Some of these people are going to go pro one day. I think ACS has a lot more talent than we're credited for; I don't think I credit the musicians enough for their work. At least 10% of the school performed that night. To imagine a public school where that sort of musical population exists...is beautiful.

Unfortunately, I was too busy being totally out of it, and also playing music, in order to take real photos. But I did ride Max's bike through the hallways. I doubt that Dave was very happy with it, but he didn't speak up.

So I said goodbye to my friends and left. When I got home, I had a message from Simon asking me if I was going anywhere over the break. I said yeah, Montreal. On Tuesday.

But wait. Oh shit. It's his birthday.

Shit!

Change

Chilled at Bela's for lunch with Simon and Sasha, and played some Xbox. We ended up being late for French class, but so was everyone else. I love ACS. We are not a real school.

___________

I'm sitting exactly opposite the place I normally sit here. It's awkward, it's weird, but it's not as disorienting as I thought it would be. The orange couch is across the atrium from me, and there sits a man working on his MacBook Pro. I don't know why...I just prefer a window seat today. There's more clarity here than there is over there.

I've been feeling less than happy recently. I don't really know what it is with me, and what's making me so depressed, but it's this very...odd...confused feeling. And I think I know what it is.

Could it be? Could it be that I'm just afraid of change? Of growing up?

Of course, Mirko. It's totally natural. It's a very human thing to do, to be scared of shifts in your existential rhythm.

But it's not natural for me. It's not something I've ever had to be scared of. And I think I know why I've suddenly changed my mind. Recently, I had never been so happy about the way things were, and there was my mistake. I had become so settled in the world I lived, that when I realized that it would eventually have to change, I began to panic.

I want to offer myself a way to settle this. But every solution is temporary. I don't think I'll ever be so content again. It's not reassuring, but it's gonna help me accept it.

But me? Scared of change?

That's right. I am. I've very afraid.

___________

http://www.sculleydesign.com/ - This is some of the best art I've seen in a while. Some absolutely beautiful paitings and some just as cool graphic design. If I was a painter, that's what I would be most proud of painting.

ALSO...

Italy bans skinny models - I know all the health risks and shit involved if it doesn't go ahead, but I think it's also the destruction of a tradition.

Adieu, all you anorexic models...

Turntablism

The most productive jam session in weeks. It was more administrative than anything else, but we also got some time to just chill and noodle around and spend a couple hours arguing about which cables go where and what headphones to use. It was fun, I must say

There's Kai jamming on the turntables on Sunday's jam session on the bridge of The Chicken. I'll say I think it went quite well. Tyler walked in the door about halfway through the jam and we were all like, "Hey Tyler! Take a solo!"

"...and the wheel goes 'round and 'round..."

So without time to react, he takes Zach's tenor sax and I switched into a breakbeat and David hit the electric bass and Tyler breaks out a solo. Chances are I'll put the whole clip of that jam online later today if I can transfer them from the studio computer to my computer. Moving files is really a pain in the ass.

The world revolves around you.

The world revolves around you.

No one else but you. And there's a reason for that.

The moment of revelation came to me during a rather awkward set of circumstance at the Carriagehouse Cafe. I had come over with Simon to listen to Alice Saltenzstall doing her thing with the Romantics. It's a crowded room; apparently they're a popular band. So we stand outside the cafe and hack for a bit before we go in and order drinks.

So we're sitting there, drinking and listening to jazz music and critisizing Raffi's taste in music, when suddenly, out of nowhere, there's our health teacher, dancing with a Dr. Phil lookalike.

And I go shit!

So, I know most are ACS materiel, but I seriously don't think I can stress enough that this woman is the most evil bitch to ever walk the hallways. So when she walks in the door, naturally my heart skips a beat.

But I was watching her dance with her Dr. Phil lookalike. Then a couple switch and she's dancing with a man who looks a bit like Chick Corea. She's wearing a red dress that would have looked great on anyone else, and she's spinning along and tapping along and having a great time in front of the entire cafe.

And I realized that seriously, while she might be the biggest bitch in the world, she's probably also the happiest one. I realized that it really doesn't matter what other people think of you, as long as you realize that no one else matters.

It's all about you.

And your dance. And you twirl. And you kiss. And you don't care that everyone might be looking at you with a fatal glare. Mmm, yes that's right. And you know why? Because if it doesn't exist the way you perceive things, it doesn't exist at all.

[19:03] inqualcanto: would you rather go psycho and know about every problem in the world
[19:03] inqualcanto: or be more or less ignorant and also be the happiest girl alive?
[19:03] inqualcanto: screw morals for a minute. screw what you know is good. what do you think you would ENJOY more?
[19:04] inqualcanto: sometimes you just gotta be like "world you bitch, stay out of my way."

And it's not selfish either, certainly not. Why? Because everything we do is ultimately in our own self interest. If you look at the purpose of everything, in the end, it's all to satisfy your own cravings. Swingers? They do what they want. Humanitarians? They're so distraught by life that it calms them to know they're somehow helping out.

We humans have broken off the evolutionary cycle of one collective species working to survive. And today, we're all alone.

* * *

So I would be habitually stalking people like I always do, but this isn't the right kind of crowd. I'll be downtown tommorow wasting my life away. Thanks to all of you who make the world revolve the way it does. Goodnight.

Love,
- Mirko

Solstice in a week

This weather is familiar. Hmm...it looked just like this a while back. When was it...oh yes, that's right. The school retreat. ON SEPTEMBER 12th.

Solstice is in less than a week. Can the weather keep up?

In fact, it was so nice today, that we decided to start a game of mini-soccer on the blacktop. What started as a 3 on 3 friendly match turned into an 8 on 8 brawl. It might have been because the distance between goals was around 12 meters. With all those people, logistically you had to get within a meter of the goal to score.

It makes me think of sunny spring days...

Speech vs Writing

I thought I'd do some extra pictures today. I'm testing out this whole 2GB memory card concept. Haha, this makes me think of the days when a gig was enormous storage space for a computer.

The visitors from Rochester totally swamped the school today. It's not easy to make a good impression on these people, since normal life for us is just so...free, when compared to a normal school. You can't not hack in the halls and go online at school meetings and take photos in Global Studies class. Denying all that is just a concept we've never even heard of.

I had a conversation today with Sasha and Mia about the way I write, and how radically different it is from the way I speak. Yeah, you can sort of tell who the writers are when you read their work, but it's not the same with speech. Sure, there are vocal timbres, but the words we choose in speech are more or less similar.

I proposed I do a blog entry in which my words mimic my speech as closely as possible. I'll do that some other day...

Mia and Sasha just left. So now I'm once again on the orange couch. Just doing my thing, trying to write but failing miserably, trying to do my homework but hopelessly distracted, trying to reach an instant messanging service but too tired to type that fast to that many people.

There's a man from me at my 11 o'clock, and he's staring intently at his computer with his trangular Sony headphones. His unshaven face is rocking back and forth to an inaudible beat and he seems focused on nothing other than his own work. Every now and then his nose twitches and he eats part of his cookie. Doesn't he ever bother to check out his world?

Also sitting across from me, across from the orange couch on the other wall is a girl with the kind of hair that is generally reserved for scenesters. But she doesn't present herself that way. They're black dreadlocks behind smooth hair and mahogany highlights, the colors my hair used to be back in 9th grade. She's wearing a black chemise and black trousers, and she'sreading a book while she plays with her hair. She's been smiling the whole time. It kind of makes me happy, even though I've--

Oh my god, Mirko. You're scaring yourself again. Please stop before you go crazy...this is dangerous for you.

I think I should go home soon. I'm getting sick of constantly relogging on. I'm gonna find someone with a cell phone now.

Love,

- Mirko

P.S. http://www.devilducky.com/media/54406/

Stupid censorship

I'm silently infuriated.

They block Myspace but not Blogger. They block Xanga but not Myway.

Should the Holocaust be forgiven?

I must begin this post with a note. I'm not Jewish. I'm not Semitic, I'm not Protestant, I'm not Catholic, I'm not a gypsy, and I'm certainly not gay. In providing my opinion, I could be accused of "just not understanding the psychological issue," or I could be giving it a totally objective standpoint.

It's been forgiven before.

But, should it?

Some say yes, many others say no. Forgiveness is a complicated aspect of psychology which deals with many aspects of the human psyche. The consensus in psychological literature has reached a consensus that forgiveness is a process. The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language has a clear definition of forgiveness:

1. To excuse for a fault or an offense; pardon. 2. To renounce anger or resentment against. 3. To absolve from payment of (a debt, for example). These verbs mean to refrain from imposing punishment on an offender or demanding satisfaction for an offense. The first three can be used as conventional ways of offering apology. More strictly, to forgive is to grant pardon without harboring resentment: “Children begin by loving their parents; as they grow older they judge them; sometimes they forgive them” (Oscar Wilde).

For our purposes, definitions 1 and 2 will be referred to the most.

However, there are also many different aspects in forgiving the Holocaust. One possible definition is the forgiveness of the people who could have prevented the Holocaust yet out of self-preservation chose to act as a bystander.

Another possible definition is the forgiveness of the Nazi's actions and decisions which led and fueled the Holocaust. These may include those who knowingly performed direct actions that led to the persecution of Jews. Nazi concentration camp officials may fall into this category of forgiveness.

Yet another definition is the forgiveness of all Nazis and all involved in the persecution of Jews, in some cases even Hitler himself. In some cases, people find it necessary to separate the individual people as Nazis, from the Third Reich Nazi party, as many people see individual forgiveness different from forgiving an entire society, even if individual forgiveness is universally inclusive. This isn't a particularly popular viewpoint.

I have a pretty confusing job in front of me in constructing an essay out of this. This better outline it well.

Photo: The railway tracks of the Auschwitz concentration camp are illuminated with fire in memory of the victims of the Holocaust. AP.

We're not losers...

I feel the need to point out that there is a difference between erotica and porn. Seriously people. Stop asking. They're not the same thing. Erotica has a higher artistic purpose than just aiding the release of sexual tension. I have little taste for porn.

I dare not call it a busy day, but the week is already putting me into a uhm...quagmire. Three more days to go before the busy weekend. Who's not psyched for the break?

After school, I joined Chris and Dylan for the brisk little walk downtown. Then Parker and Mo. I was rather tempted to watch people do their shit again like I did yesterday, but I realized I was only here until five; I wasn't really stranded this time. Psh, there goes a legitimate rationale.

I spent some time snapping photos, though. I also snagged two cups of coffee and hung with some friends for a bit before chilling with Kono and giving him decent Myspace pictures.

I sympathize with him. Mhm, indeed the title of this disjointed post isn't representative of its contents. Because truthfully, it's safe to call us losers.

Funny story, actually. Hate to get sidetracked, but this morning, I opened my email to find 22 Myspace messages waiting for me. You don't understand how much of a loser that made me feel. Seriously, I don't think that site is doing any good to anyone's self-esteem.

That means you, Nelly.

Love,
- Mirko

Still downtown...

You know what I absolutely love?

The fact that I'm stuck downtown. My mom's not signing on to IM, and I don't have a cell phone with me. So yeah. Pretty much I don't have a way to get home.

Yep. Still stuck downtown. On the orange couch.

Still. Some random girl just IMmed me. Pretended to be my sister. Ok your name's actually Felicia. Cool. Bye.

Still downtown.

Someone please save me from my own boredom.

Juna's Cafe

It's well after school now. It's even almost dark.

Yet it's only 4:15.

I'm sitting on the big orange couch at Juna's Cafe drinking Papua New Guniea coffee, juggling time between sips and taps at the keyboard.

I don't really know what I'm doing down here. I don't remember why I wanted to go down here anymore. Oh yes, that's right. I went down to hang out with Sasha for a bit, but he turned back halfway when his parents found him. So then I figured I could use some coffee. Then I got some coffee. So then I figured I could probably start my essay on Holocaust connections, or if I wasn't in the mood I could write a little.

On my way down, I resisted the urge to run. I was in no hurry, but I needed coffee.

Is that a paradox? Wasting energy in order to reach it?

Instead of the essay I promised my teacher or the story I promised myself, I'm caught up in just about everything else. Particularly the other people sitting here at the cafe. I'm watching them, listening to them. No, per se, I'm not barging in and interjecting, but I'm certainly observing from across the room.

Two college students, one with jet black hair hidden under a green bandana, conversing loudly about a Korean preacher with a incomprehensible wife. I think she's also a barista here. The other girl has a round face and blonde hair. She says she has to actively look at her to understand her. But she has to go, else she misses a rendezvous. She picks up her jacket.

The History of Art. A bagel with butter and strawberries. He puts down his jacket and unravels his scarf. He begins to eat his bagel. The book opens. A picture of the Alhambra in Spain. Judging by the book and his interest, he's probably an art or history major somewhere.

A couple, one man and one woman. The woman has her hair in a bun and has beautiful eyelashes. She's reading a book. The man wears a brown sweater, black hair, and tight jeans. He's writing with a green pen. Or doing the crossword. Or doing sudoku. Something that's turning his mind away from his female friend.

Oh my god, what am I doing? Is that how bored I get? So bored that I have to watch other people for my own amusement? I'd be kind of freaked out if I were them, and admittedly, I'm creeping myself out just a little. But I don't think they know I'm doing this. This isn't illegal or anything.

This coffee is good. When I entered the cafe, I thought I'd be coming in for a chai. But I needed more caffeine. The barista behind the counter, a former ACS student with blonde hair, small blue eyes, and an apron, recommended the Papua New Guinea. I eyed the Sumatra, but I went for the Papua as recommended.

It's keeping me awake, at least. I'll go home in half an hour. I'll do some homework, read a bit, then probably resume my life behind a computer screen.

Oh yes, yesterday. Yesterday. Mmm. Jammed with some vibes yesterday. Didn't go well. Couldn't count for shit and David couldn't walk for shit and the vibraphonist played maybe 3 songs. Shit. So yeah. Now I'm tired. Bitch stay out of my way. On a lighter note, I consumed a total of 2 slices of lemon pie at the dinner last night, so yeah. I got that whole near-death feeling you get from all that fat and sugar.

Love.

I don't get it

Camille.

Sophie Auster is gorgeous. Even if her music is really quite quirky. Get that through your head.

Love,
- Mirko

Simon + Thai Food

Simon + Thai food = good times, good times.

Thanks Simon. Without you, I really would have no life. I even had a little conversation about it (okay, so it was a rant) last night with Camille. It went something like this.

Mirko: "I pretty much realized how much of a life I have. Pretty much none. Yeah. Pretty much. You're pretty much grounded. I'm not, but you know what I'm gonna be doing tommorow? Pretty much nothing. Nope. Gonna pretty much sit on my ass all day, and probably write and go emo and put on some eyeliner and cut myself up and listen to the Postal Service and..."

Camille: "..."

But nope. I went over to Simon's house and ate Thai food, watched that old Brad Pitt/Angie Jolie movie Mr./Mrs. Smith and oh yes, The Real World Denver. Comes to show you. Even when you do have a life, you don't really. That brings me to a little post Lukas made a while back (like two years ago, before the advent of Challenge: The Duel) on the subject of no more than...well Reality Television.

I detest reality TV shows. They're nothing but viciousness and greed boiled into one little hour long pot. It is pitifully amusing how the those with no value to watch those things. As a beginning, they are essentially formula shows, in the same manner that 'Westerns' are formula movies (in general). The people are unrealistic and stupid, overreacting over and over again. In one of the most popular shows, Survivor, the people are complete actors, disguised up in 'survivor' clothing. Of course they can't feel exactly stranded- there are cameras in their faces constantly, and they spill their prewritten 'feelings' out to an adoring audience. But there are reasons it's so popular, of course. One of them is that America is so... dull, people really want to believe that something like that (getting stranded) could happen to them. Or they want to believe that THEY could be the proud millionaires at the end of a season. Their aspirations of greatness are satisfied by watching everybody else fail, as one by one the 'survivors' are voted off.

Thanks Lukas. I think this drives two points home. First is that reality TV is about as unreal as it gets. Second is that...well, I doubt you remember you posted that, but hey. We were all fake, self-obsessed , quasi-intellectuals at one point. Love to all.

Friday

It's Friday, December 8. Hit the snooze button at 7:30, and at around 7:45. Got up and began my morning rush. I made my bed, took a shower, got dressed, had a breakfast, brushed my teeth, got in the car and drove down to the high school to catch the first shuttle bus to ACS. By 8:32, I was on the bus, settling down for fifteen minutes of rest, when I suddenly realized...

Oh shit there's SNOW on the ground! Needless to say, I certainly panicked. It frightened me. I hate winter, I hate the cold, and while I don't hate snow, I hate what it represents. If you sit on your ass the whole day and be as lazy as I usually am, you generally won't die of Ithacan summers. But winter...oh yes, winter is fatally brutal here in beautiful Ithaca, New York.

Third period was spent debating on the subject of an article that basically denied the Holocaust. Certainly the article had little evidence, but what really made me angry was the amount of people who openly said "how could someone deny the Holocaust?" or "that's bullshit, of course the Holocaust happened!" I must say, I made a pretty convincing argument stating that if we didn't listen to these kinds of points of view, the kinds that come from people that we usually shun, we're being awfully close-minded. How could anyone in that classroom say truthfully that the Holocaust did occur? Just because the entire world believes it, does it mean it has to be true?

And isn't such dangerous ignorance part of what started the Holocaust? Didn't the Aryans believe that they were so righteous and so much more inferior than everyone else that they forgot to question reality? Wasn't it the blind belief in a history, in a moral code which no one thought of for themselves, but instead was passed onto them by a totalitarian dictator? I made some people pretty upset, I must say. I'm sorry I made them upset, and that they had to feel that way. But I'm not sorry for what I said. Needless to say, I didn't believe the revisionist article myself.

After school I walked with Sasha to his house in the cold, slippery snow. Stopped by John's Convenience Store to pick up some gum. The cashier accused me of trying to steal twice, and then he warned Sasha that "you better start watch step next time you come by." I walked out with no gum, but some powdered donuts containing 40% of my daily value in saturated fat. The remainder of the walk I could feel my arteries clogging up. Got to his house, played his Gamecube for a bit, then got picked up. I returned home, sliced up some bread and poured some olive oil. Then I sat down at my computer and checked my email. Xanga - Your Subscriptions Digest.

Oh yes, Xanga, that old thing. Anyways, I opened it up, got signed on, and started to read 2-year-old posts that had been formulated out of apathy and stupidity. There was a time I said "toodles." There was a time I was so into opera that I went and saw as many as I could. There was a time I tried to phish passwords off my friends just to see if they would take the bait, then I'd shove it in their face and laugh. There was a time I thought that "zomfgroflmfao" should have been in the OED.

I realized how much I missed being a 9th grader.

No Strings Attached

I got into a little drum battle with a guy down at Hickeys yesterday afternoon. I can't say I won. But he was in college, so I forgive myself.

So it was one of those rare occasions where I was actually watching television, usually after I finish essays and papers and physics equations. You know I'm certainly not the sort of person who wastes his life in front of a TV all day (I prefer computers). Tuned over to Comedy Central, I was watching Carlos Mencia's show, laughing my ass off, when he pulled one of the worst jokes I've ever heard.

The plane that dropped the bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. you know what they were called? "The Enola Gay." No joke. You know why? We wanted to let the Japanese know they were about to get boned in the ass.

Regardless, I was on the floor.

But his rather blunt banter has purpose to it. I don't know how Mr. Mencia seems to get away with the jokes he does, but he pulls them off so eloquently that it doesn't even matter how bad they are. Then again, he's just saying aloud the things we're all scared to say ourselves, because we think people will look down on us for being inconsiderate.

That's not fair.