Diary of a Madman

Denouement

This is - what? - the first post in months, and I'm afraid it doesn't come replete with pictorial evidence. I apologize; if you close the browser now, and my tracker only records a 10-30 second hit, I'll understand. You deserve more, and I am aware of this fact.

There is a metaphor here, though: I come to you naked, as I did four long years ago when I began recording random fragments of information in ghastly prose here in my own little chunk of the Interwebs. I think you might be able to check the archives for perhaps two years before the first pictures show up; I only got to embedding movies in the past year. This last post (a reprehensible three and a half months ago) was the first in which I included downloadable music. This blog has been a slow process of growth and development, experimentation in form and substance; in short, with an unbiased frame it has captured my college career, and the experiences through which I've become the man I am today.

I hate to wax philosophical; I'm a bit too tired and overextended to do so with diction and idiomatic flair which characterize those more elevated posts. Instead, I'd like to speak plainly, to paint a picture with broad strokes in the Realist style, rather than adhere to Impressionist or - God forbid - tenets of the Surreal school.

I want to take this opportunity to let my friends know that, within the chambers of memory and heart which allow us to function as emotional beings, I've locked away memories of you all. For all the boasting and bluster which has become part of my public facade, thanks for being patient; for all the vitriolic remarks which are part of my humor, thanks for laughing; for all the smiles, the hugs, the ass-pats, thanks for being great people who have been a part of my personal tapestry. I owe you more than these pale words, but the nature of my public character has always tarnished even the sincere remarks beyond simple repair; you deserve to know that these sentiments are honest, and I am more able to do that without the voice so colored by sarcasm.

Richard, you're my brother; my grasp on the English language could not do justice in explaining how important you are to me. For as good a man as I hope I have become - and I've got plenty to surmount before I am satisfied with myself - I've got you to thank. Your intelligence, wit, depth of insight, and magnetic charisma are in the mold from which kings are made.

Beej: your kindness, forbearance, and ready smile have become such a part of my life that I shudder to think of what I shall do without you. You radiate an elegance of compassion and clemency that has always made me feel closer to you than our short three years together logically justifies. And as much as I could sing your praises here, I can't help but finish with a joke: if the on-off switch ever drives you nuts and you need to vent, I'd be happy for a chance to finally turn the tables and give you a kind ear to talk to and a gentle voice to offer advice.

Ashley: I don't think I could care for a woman more and not have offered her a ring. You are angelic, and I hesitate to use that word because, through overuse, I fear that it may not accurately describe how beautiful a soul you are. You are seraphic in your kindness and cherubic in your smile; you are sacred in your grace, even when you're tripping over your own sandals. Without thought or effort, you brighten my day. The standard by which I measure other women is drawn largely from you.

I could go on. Other people deserve a mention in this space, but even these three, whom I know so well, have represented the labor of roughly forty minutes. I find it too difficult to write what I feel without relying upon phrases that, though accurate, border on the cliche, and I could never describe the people who have impacted my life in such a way. As I mentioned earlier, my commitment to the English vernacular is not equal to the task of thanking them - or you - appropriately. I hope it is sufficient when I say that, if you've somehow wandered to this small repository of thoughts and comments, you are a part of my life as I know it now, and deserve my most sincere gratitude.

I came to you four years ago naked, I think I've taken it in my head to leave in the same manner. I don't think I'll be updating this site in a while; which is to say, I don't think I'll update this site again. In a very real way, I think between each line here, there is a piece of the me I've always wanted to become; I think I'd like to lock those quiet attempts away, and move on to a new stage of my life without thinking about the things I have or have not managed to accomplish during my stint as a college student. I don't know if that upsets anyone; with only four loyal readers, I can't imagine anyone is going to be too bothered. But you never know; when the book closes, the author will always wonder if the reader wanted another page.

Throughout the writing of this, I've thought about whether I should - and how I could - incorporate my thoughts on these past four years, graduation, and all the nebulous things the future may or may not hold. I've decided that, though by rights deserving of a place here, they will not be mentioned: I want to neither turn back and survey what lies behind me, and murk of what lies before me is intoxicating enough that I don't desire anything more than a visceral acceptance of its presence to move forward with confidence. Suffice to say that I remember fondly arriving on campus freshman year, the smell of the late summer trees and grass, the sun, the heat, the electricity of excitement and discovery; likewise, I enjoy the thought of driving down Main Street one last time, turning to look back up the road, and bidding adieu for good. It is a sight I think I can be without for a good long time.

I hope this rather brief exposition is a fitting end; there's always more to add, but I am not the man for that job. My musings, such as they are, have always worked out better in pen; moreover, I doubt their quality as entertainment, and that is, after all, what this blog has been supposed to be. So, with characteristic temerity, I think I'll conclude without anything bold, without anything to make this a paragraph of substance; I think I'll just casually sign off.

- Quinn

Denny's Late Night ? Success


According to my girlfriend, anyway.

This post is months past due, so I have to play some quick catch-up. Over Christmas break, my sharp incisor-baring girlfriend came to visit me. In between gnawing on my shoulder blade and baking some fantastic cookies, she let me know in no uncertain terms that it was time for me to forego my habitual late night soiree at Denny's. In the interest of brevity - and to not bore you all by gushing in a very unmanly way about how great a time I had cuddling and whatnot - I shall abstain from plunging into greater detail.

Rather, I want this post to serve me, not you. It shall act as another starting point for more frequent and punctual updates. This week is to be busy, rife with fraternal functions, readings, and papers. None of those things present a very interesting or stimulating core, but I shall flex my literary muscles and endeavor to spin them in a humorous light. I certainly don't guarantee that the results of my efforts will pay off, but if I'm gonna put forth the effort, you're gonna park your ass in a chair and read. If this process were just, you would derive pleasure even if all I did was copy recipes up on this thing.

Anyway, as a pseudo-apology, I decided to start uploading my "Song(s) of the Day," so you can click a few times and listen, should that be your desire. That said, the service I use to upload is RapidShare, and it may require a quick set of directions:
1) click the link
2) scroll down and click the button that says "Free"
3) wait a short time - the exact length of which will be displayed as a counter
4) a new link will be displayed where the counter was - click it
5) after download has completed, listen.

So, get on it.

Song of the Day: "UVERworld - D-technolife"
Apothegm of the Day: "Erroneous! Erroneous! Erroneous on both counts!" - Jeremy Grey

Denny's Late Night = Success

I can't believe it either: this will be two updates in one week. This hasn't happened in.. I dunno, feels like years. It's strange having both creative flow and some material at the same time; I'd almost forgotten what it feels like.

When I say material, you will notice the lack of any adjective, any descriptor of the quality of said material. That was a conscious omission, I must confess: I'm finding it difficult to put into entertaining terms what's transpired since Wednesday. I use that day as a point of reference; before was thorough raping of my consciousness and work-ethic by the combined forces of schoolwork and sleep deprivation, and after has been generally a good time. I've still got a ton of work to be doing, but the critical point has come and gone, and I'm enjoying what is essentially the semester's denouement.

That said, I spent four hours shooting the shit with some brothers at Denny's. The rag-tag collection of late-night/early-morning vagabonds was comprised of yours truly, Chaado, Steve Cody, Hastedt, and the always amusing Trover "the Gelding" Wilson. The time was passed making fun of Cody for his poor writing abilities, sharing stories, enjoying the Fantastipo video, and mocking Chaado about the waitress who's been propositioning him non-stop since she's started working there. All in all it was a great time. I think my favorite moment of the night was reliving the memory of Chaado lipping the shit out of the air when he was daydreaming about a certain Painter sister. Great stuff, I tell you. The next time that story comes up, and he reprises his role of moon-eyed infatuation, I promise to have a camera present.

That's about all, at this point. I'll be rocking the Pi Kappa Phi roadblock, raising money for our philanthropy, PUSH America, tomorrow from the wee hours of the morning until mid-afternoon. Then I'll enjoy being paid to nap, before watching some great football. Perhaps, if the roadblock results in any good pics, you can hope for another - another?! - update in the coming days.

I shall conclude by embedding another video, which you can view and enjoy at your leisure. I love pronouncing that word leisure, as a rhyme to measure. Pertinent information, if ever there was.

The studio is in a panic!

Morning Musume vs. Lizard




By the way, am I the only one who sees the innuendo of a piece of meat dangling on the foreheads of cute little Japanese girls?

????????!

It's funny, because you're probably not coming here expecting an update. You clicked a link somewhere on the whim that perhaps, just perhaps, I've thrown some new material up on here, but you didn't really expect it. It's been weeks since a new header's appeared at the top of this page, and that has discouraged you.

I understand. I am not a great writer; I lack creativity and material, yet still I desire to share something with you all. So this period of stagnation has been rough on me, too. Those times that I've had something interesting to discuss with you, something comes up and prevents me from logging on and writing about it. It seems that whenever I lack something to relate, I have the time to do so. It's a vicious paradox, I tell you.

But that has changed. The end of the semester approaches, and as I battle with tests and reports, I also find that there exists some time I can spare; rejoice that it shall be spent in the cold confines of the digital realm, with you. Yay. We can all be happy.

Finals are a time of despair and anguish, woe and hopelessness. It is the crucible in which dreams are crushed, the club of reality by which we are beaten. The boot of a cruel world, forced into our teeth, the splintered broomstick that is thrust int-.... I digress. Suffice it to say, as finals approach, happiness retreats; there exists an inverse relationship between the two. But while crying yourself to sleep tonight, know that there is a man who fights for you, the downtrodden student. He brings a light to oppose the darkness that is the end of the semester. I am that man, and ???????(Armadillo-kun) is that light.

Ladies and gentleman, I give you ???????? (Fantastipo)!

T.S Eliot begs the question: "What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow/ Out of this stony rubbish?" I can't answer with erudite analysis of his magnum opus, but, utilizing the sterling example of my bro Chaado, I can propose this: alcoholism.

My bro, you see, hit the milestone every young man dreams of during long years of adolescence, when the Spring winds evoke visions of flesh and sensations of heat which bloom in Summer to full, pulsing stars of longing and tension.

No, he didn't lose his virginity; he turned 21. The only way to temper those lustful thoughts, I've found, is to drown 'em in the nectar of the Gods. The nectar of the Gods being, of course, that which Dionysus himself was patron: fermented spirits. Without further dragging out the concept of being able to drink legally, I will proceed with the story.

This past Friday was Chaado's birthday, and being the devious soul that I am, I convinced him that I had forgotten. How could he have been so fooled, you ask? How could he, knowing me, have allowed the pleasant wool to have been pulled over his eyes, you ask? It was a strange dynamic I, with the help of his family and nearly all his friends, wove. I played phone-tag like it was a guitar, and I was Stevie Ray himself. Using the buffoonish humor for which I am best known, I tugged his train of thought away from his birthday, and to the concept of running train of his girlfriend. In short, I was a master of distraction and misdirection. So, Thursday night when he was calling me and wondering how I could have forgotten the anniversary of his birth, I was cruising the open highways of New York.

This, by the way, could never have been accomplished without the help of one Kenny "Richstud" Richstadt. He is the man in more areas than I have the ability to elucidate. Beyond being one solid individual, he is also the epitome of a badass co-pilot, burning CDs, bringing food, paying for gas, chatting and keeping my lazy ass awake... Needless to say, inasmuch as a thirteen-hour drive can be enjoyed, we did our utmost to do so. However, even the combined awesomeness of yours truly and the Richstud could not ameliorate the haunting odors of Pennsylvania. This state, best known for its steel and coal factories, should in fact be revered for its ability to drive a splinter of pain into any and all olfactory sensors you might possess. It was horrid in a way that I cannot explain without reliving the event, which I assure you is well beyond my mental and emotional fortitude. My father's generation had echoes of Vietnam and cries of "Charlie in the tree!" during the hours between dusk and dawn to relive and cope with; our generation will have road trips in which Pennsylvania, as the key antagonist, assaults you with fragrances which can only have been conceived of by the Devil himself, effluviums which are the Slayers of Worlds.

But I digress. The point of this story is how drunk Chaado got.

Kenny and I arrived at the residence of the Richaado Ishikawa Goeres at 5a.m. on Friday morning. Biding our time, Kenny and I ghosted into his house, moving as silent spectres intent on harm. Without even disturbing his parents, who were awake, we made our way into Chaado's bedroom. Kenny, his imposingly muscled form silhouetted by the gentle light filtering from the hallway through the open door, stood mute with arms crossed while I disturbed Richard's sleeping form. And he, the poor fool, woke with the most feminine of horrified cries. I don't say that as a friend in jest, trying to make my brother's cheeks redden slightly in embarrassment. No, I say that as a dignified and unflappable reporter of events; his cry of fear was as the warbling lilt of a man who needs to change his skivvies, climbing octaves without regard to note or form. So, after Kenny and I got a heart laugh, and Richard tried to pretend that what we had just heard did not actually occur, we hugged and enjoyed the surprise and happiness that is a group of true friends reunited after prolonged absence.

My plan, as it followed, was to give Richard the fabled "Booze Bath," showering him with the bottles of liquor that Kenny and I had purchased for that purpose. Strangely enough, even though Richard's mom had agreed to this particular facet of the party, Richard himself was steadfastly against it. So, when I commanded him to enter the bath and take his place in the shower stall, he, with noteworthy dexterity and nimble evasion skills, retreated to the safety of the kitchen. Striking a bargain, Kenny convinced Richard that if he was going to puss out on the Alcohol Ablution, he would be doing a few shots before we let him go back to bed. Without tremor, complaint, or hesitation, Chaado downed two slugs before we all hit the hay in preparation of the long night of drinking and mischief which awaited.

And drinking we did. Gathering the crew unto ourselves - Gloria arrived by plane that afternoon, and Beejay drove up from Roanoke - we painted the town red. Or at least I think it was red; every time Chaado vomited, I tried to turn my head. So I suppose it could have really been painted any color at all.

We started at Logan's Steakhouse, where Chaado, three double-shots, managed to at least appear respectable... If you can get by his mouth, which seemed to hang open at an impossible angle any time there was liquor of some form in his hand. And cheers to that, by the way! It's nice to see indoctrination into the fold of alcoholism go so smoothly, and with such palpable anticipation and enjoyment on the part of the inductee.

But as we all know, nothing good can last. Alas, while I was drinking and flirting with Richard's sister, Gloria, in an effort to really piss him off, he continued to down the beverages at an alarming rate; well, alarming if you're not me, I guess. I kept goading him; when he tried to weasel his way out of a double of tequila, it was me shouting at high volume in a family restaurant: "Pussy!" So, yeah. That's what you get when you get when I'm at the party.

But Chaado persevered. We regrouped at a karaoke hall, and as everyone who was present in Japan knows, I've got me an addiction to the act of singing other people's songs in front of an intoxicated audience. And this audience was a fucking scene, let me tell you. They are the white people that give all other white people bad names. I mean... Kenny summed it up nicely by stating that they were, in no uncertain, the dregs of society found only in the good ol' South.
I mean, c'mon! Lookit the size of that mullet! The thing should be released back into the wild and allowed to pass on such incredible genes.

But again, enough digression. After some more drinks, Chaado and I took the mics to put Jon Bon Jovi to shame. I am indeed a cowboy, wanted dead or alive. This is information about me that you may not have known. I don't blame you; I conceal my rocking facade beneath that of a suave, debonair ladies man.

And though he is my best friend, I have to admit that my night was not done until I heard the tell-tale heaves of a man in pain. It was not until then that the nimbus of a smile lit my face, and Kenny howled in shared glee: our bro was puking his poor, intoxicated guts out. No 21st is complete until your best friend picks you up off the bathroom floor and deposits you in your bed with a glass of water and a trashcan next to the nightstand. This, ladies and gentleman, is why I drove 15 hours down to Virginia.

Thus ends my story. It is a tale that encompasses a lot of information, I know; I expect you will even forget some, especially if you are not directly connected to either the events or the characters herein related. But there is an underlying moral, a glimmer of truth that is information which you can never forget; the world may depend on it someday.