Me & Dr. Jones

They never did tell us where Dr. Jones was the entire time.
I was excited to be starting my college career. Both of my parents had gone to the prestigious Barnett College. When I got the acceptance letter, I started dancing with the family dog until my dad called me a homo. Then, he grilled me about what I would choose as my major. He wanted me to go into business and mom wanted me to be a doctor. Either way I was going to let one of them down. Luckily, I let both of them down so they could loathe my career choice together. I chose to go into Archaeology. Dad didn't quite understand what it was considering he pumped gas his whole life. He thought it had to do with finding dinosaur bones which would be blasphemy considering God only put those on Earth to test our faith.

I wanted to do more than find dinosaur bones. I wanted to uncover lost civilizations and use that knowledge to improve human kind. I had no interest in these "intro" courses. Why should I waste time learning all that jargon when I could head out there and pull the skeleton of a long dead Incan out of the ground?

I signed up for Lost Tribes and Sunken Continents my very first semester. It was a lucky thing that I got in there. It was taught by this faculty member that everyone seemed to love. Dr. Henry Walton Jones Jr. walked into class on the first day and I fell in love with him. Not in a homo way like my dad would probably think. He told us anecdotes that I'm pretty sure he exaggerated. Talks of an Ark, a Thuggee Cult, a Sankara stone, the Gestapo and a grail. Despite his hyperbolic stories, I adored him. I wanted all of his knowledge.

One day Dean Stanforth came in and told us that Dr. Jones wouldn't be returning for awhile because he was called away on business. His leave was unpredicted so Dean Stanforth tried letting the TA run the course. The only sunken continent he could think of was Atlantis and he showed us the same National Geographic special three times because it was the only one available at the library. Dean Stanforth tried teaching the course himself but he considered Oompa Loompas as a lost tribe. When final exam week came around he had forgotten that it was his duty to write up an exam. He asked everybody a true or false question on the Oompa Loompas. I picked true on a guess and was granted an A for the whole semester. I was ready to take on more courses in the field and become just as great as Dr. Jones.

The Strain of Sleep

Dear heavenly father, I have terrible terrible dreams. I wish they were those bizarre dreams where I'm being castrated with a rusty railroad spike or falling into a pit of something horrible. No, what makes my dreams so terrible is how real they are. A dream where I'm looking into a mirror and I don't know what I'm looking for. A dream where my wife won't forgive and I keep apologizing for something even though I don't know what it is. A dream where I'm waking up from another bad dream only a year has passed by since I've been asleep. You know what has changed? Nothing. There aren't any messages on my machine. There isn't any mail piled up on my door step. No one has been trying to reach me and my life is the same by simply not living it.

Its different to wake up and realize you missed out on something. Sure, you're bummed for a few moments. When you were sleeping, your room mate went to a wild party with the biggest chocolate cake he's ever seen and the girls rubbed it onto there bare breasts to emphasize how much of a dessert it truly was. Yes, it sucks to have missed it but knowing moments like that exist and that had you just been awake a bit later that night, you could've have been apart of it makes you stay awake so you can catch the next one.

But to wake up and realize you've missed nothing, you might as well go back to bed. At least in a terrible dream, you've got something to live for. Yeah, I'm dreaming that my wife is leaving me for Salvador Dali but at least I have something that means a damn. While all I have is the pain of the dream, I can fill in the blanks. Its a bad dream because I love her. Its a bad dream because we use to dance naked in front of the mirror together. She would take me out in the middle of a busy intersection and kiss me there to make sure I'd remember it. This bad dream is a result of good memories we have. I might not know who she is but I'll be damned if I don't love her. She's my wife after all.

So, heavenly father, I'll take any dream whether I'm a bottom feeder or at the top of the food chain. I just don't want to wake up and realized I've missed nothing.

Mr. Palmer Logan

Outward Appearance

Young but with a grizzled look. Hair like a rat's nest. Very simple wardrobe. Blue jeans and a wife beater with a black coat to cover up his arms. 

Inside Information

Palmer is a former amateur boxer. His ring name was Kid Gorgeous. He went into semi-retirement to care for his ill father. He hasn't fought in the ring since his father's eventual death. Now, he works as a bouncer in a titty bar to pay the rent. It also allows him to pick fights he knows he can win. 

What he is thinking

Palmer wonders why his brother didn't show up to their father's funeral. Having him there would've made it so much easier to deal with. Instead, he was left alone to arrange the burial site, put the wake together, greet every single guest and hear everyone's deepest condolence. Why wasn't he there?

Palmer remembers the post-it note clung to the ceiling just above the bed. It hangs there for him to read each morning when he wakes up. It reads 'Don't Kill Yourself.' It first appeared the morning his girlfriend left him. Without a doubt she's the one who put it there. She had balls to think he would do such a thing without her. Even if he wanted to before, doing it now would only prove her right. Fuck that.

The local boxing circuit is going gaga over this guy, Darius Moss. The guy calls himself the Perfect Specimen. Palmer could turn his face into hamburger meat. He could easily dissect that specimen. 

One For The Bartap

I'm a guy who loves to sleep. I look forward to sleeping. I get upset when I can no longer sleep. Sleeping is peaceful for me. No one can piss me off when I'm in my sleep. Lately, sleeping is looking like more of a luxury than a nessicity. That's thanks in part to syllabi from certain professors that make no sense to me. Do I have less than 24 hours to read an essay, write a paper and write up discussion questions Prof. Burt? That course list isn't helping.

I will look at the silver lining. I'm busy. Since I've been busy I've had no time for my fits of depression. I'm also thankful for the little annoying things that drive me up the wall. Like how the other day it took me nearly 25 minutes to find meatballs at the grocery store and no one could help me. I felt my IQ dropping each minute I spent staring at the frozen food. Dealing with that has been nicer than dealing with other things. For instance, receiving my 2nd traffic ticket in 2 months. Also, the incredible cost of college tuition and how I can't motivate myself to do enough with my life.

I think about what James McAvoy said to me at the end of Wanted. Yes, I say me because he looked directly at the camera and made his address to no one else. He said "what the fuck have you done lately?" I truly wonder that sometimes. I tell myself I'm 20 and still got lots to stretch out and do things but last year I was saying the same thing, only claiming that I was 19. Will I be saying the same thing when I'm 29? My film professor had has PhD at 29. Will I watch it all fall in place or watch it all fall down?

Instead of doing that I think I'll just go get lost in the gorcery aisle again.

This Island America

You know what's great about this semester? All of the time I am forcing myself to kill. My visits to campus are made into all day trips since I moved into my apartment. I get to come into the library to snag computers away from students registered under the name "Old Man River" and watch them seethe at me. They've got lectures to cross reference and research to do. Me? I'm talking shit to everyone in my fantasy football league and looking up answers to the USA Today cross-word puzzle clues. Anyone want to tell me what they mean by Barcelona Bear? That's all they're giving me to work with.

I liked Obama's pick for VP in Joe Biden. It's about time he started fighting fire with fire. "Old white guy, meet my old white guy." I didn't quite expect McCain to be doing the same thing. He almost made his selection like it was some kind of dare. "Obama thinks he's young and experienced? I'll show him," then viola, meet Sarah Palin. Both of our VP candidates are representing the two most boring states in the country, Delaware and Alaska. What sort of issues has Palin been settling up there and I mean her politics not her at home junk. Her down syndrome son and unmarried, pregnant teenage daughter are surely enough as it is. I also enjoy how their using her daughter's pregnancy as a pro-life stance. Good going, strategist.

Don't take this as purely anti-McCain/Palin material. I just don't know that much about Biden. Which either makes him boring or riddled with a dark past. I hope its the latter. Him and Obama would then know how to go through even when you're low. America does end up voting for anyone open about his drug use. Marion Barry wasn't even about it but he still got re-elected and Bill CLinton liked a little weed every now and again. But maybe America is done with people with substance abuse problems. Obama did smoke a lot of crack and Bush did do a lot of drinking and driving. That kind of substance abuse will get a man elected and then re-elected.

The McCain campaign is now boosting his leadership credentials. You know, because service time means so much to us. What with John Kerry getting shot at on a river boat in Vietnam. That sprung him into the...oh, wait. We've been given the war hero thing already and we didn't like it. Hey, Obama has never been to war just like Bush. So zero service time and prior substance abuse means odds on favorite. I'm liking Obama's chances.

Well, I'm getting daggers stared at me all over this place. I'm also guessing that by Barcelona Bear they mean the Barcelona Teddy Bear who would be Ted for short. Anyway, if you need saving, look no further then your next door savior.