All Things in Time, But Hopefully Not Too Many in Rhyme

Greetings and salutations to all. Now that I've established that I'm either a) gay or b) a huge geek, we can begin.

This is my blog. Before you start gagging and desperately reaching for the mouse, I assure you there is no picture of a bodily organ that follows this paragraph. A blog, as I understand it, is basically an online version of a journal. I would say diary, but diary implies privacy, and the entire blog concept beats privacy all to hell. This blog is meant to be read, and I encourage any and all to do so at their leisure. See, the real deal is that my ego is massive. I assume somewhere deep in the bowels of my perception that since I don't often hear from people I know (outside of my parents and fellow Fighting Irish), that means that all my loved ones and acquaintances are somewhere huddled by a phone or a monitor waiting with baited breath for me to contact them and bring joy and fulfillment to their lives. I don't for a second consider that they might have actual productivity holding them back from climbing up my proverbial ass and investigating the maddening inanities of my daily life.

So, I set up this blog as an excuse to tell everyone I know that it exists and that if they want to know what's going on in my head, all they have to do is check the blog! That way I can wallow in the blissful assumption that people everywhere are soaking up my brilliance and telling all their friends, "Look what my good friend Jake wrote in his blog! Isn't that profound/hilarious/romantic? Don't you just want to hang out with him all the time/model your life after his/throw him on the floor and do him?" It'll be the best self-diluding drug since thefacebook. ("I have 278,00o friends from all over the country who I don't even know! My life is complete!")

The entries in this blog may become infrequent and even incoherent if I ever drink again (signs point to "get some money first, asshole"), but I estimate that they will range from random kevetching (that's Jewspeak for bitching) to glorifying figures and quotes from useless pop culture and sports that I enjoy to general philosophy about the world. All on a very uncomplicated level, to be sure. So for those of you who have read them, just a longer version of my AIM away messages. My entries may amuse, annoy, and certainly offend, but I promise they will never inform, because if you wanted to learn you'd go to class, right? If we're agreed, let's see what's on my mind at the moment.

I was in Cinderella. Yes, I fulfilled the dream of every 6-year-old princess alive and I didn't even have to ask my dad what first grade girls do for fashion nowadays. The show was at Notre Dame's sister school, the all-woman Saint Mary's College, and that's a story in itself. SMC, or "smick," as it's pronounced here in the Bend, has a bit of a reputation around ND. And when I say reputation, I mean it in the Brat Pack, teeny bopper, after school special sense. At ND we think that, like if colleges were girls, USC would be a cheerleader from the valley, Northwestern would be daddy's princess who always got the equivalent of Malibu Barbie's dream house for Christmas, Harvard would be the bitchy bookworm fighting for grade points, Notre Dame would be the ugly prude you would only hook up with if you didn't have to talk afterwards, Wisconsin would be that all-around great girl who drinks just a tad too much, Illinois would be the weird goth/stoner/witch chick who you were afraid of but strangely turned on by, Kishwaukee College would be Antonia from Mad TV and SMC would be the Catholic school girl whose uniform made you grizz yourself and who had become insatiable after all the years of tension and discipline. That's what I thought, at least.

After 6 weeks of rehearsing and basically living at SMC, I discovered that there was definitely both truth and falsehood in that description. When I first walked onto campus to go to auditions and rehearsals, every eye immediately shot my way. I felt as if I was a young colt being cut from the herd. I would imagine my appearance produced either chuckles or short fits of disappointment, but in any case I felt like an alien; an interloper in a sacred land. Speaking with the inhabitants only reinforced my findings, as having male genitals made me a much sought-after commodity. And since that time, simply responding to those attempts at conversation politely has made me the apple of many an eye. Make no mistake, it's not a position I am comfortable in. Luckily there were other guys in the cast to take the pressure off, but for the most part they proved themselves to be, well, guys, and I was declared unofficially the only easy one to talk to. We all eventually got used to each other, however, and it became a really fun experience. Not only because I was surrounded by ladies every night of the week, but because they were fun, interesting, talented people. And call me a pillow biter all you want, but I do miss the feminine sensibilities sometimes living in a dorm of 200 guys. You can only wake up the guys down the hall with your balls so many times before you ask yourself, is there nothing more?

The show was a blast; it was great to do a musical again for the first time since my DHS glory days. I'd like to think I did Mr. Solomon and the whole DeKalb Thespian crew proud. But then again, I didn't get to mangle the script or make any cracks about Genoa or pop up out from behind something, so I guess I did miss something. Still, it was a great time. It got stressful as hell toward the end, and even though my memory always seems to fail around the end of a production, I swear I was never part of a cast that wanted to be done with a show more. Yet, like always, my doubts were unfounded, and the show came off great. We sold a pantload of tickets, we got 3 straight standing ovations, and even got a good review in the local rag. And I owe it all to those crazy smick chicks for allowing me a brief glimpse into their world, letting me pretend to be talented again, and most of all for making me feel like part of a very female-loaded family. I really needed it. And now, I give shout-outs to:

Anna and Aiea, the loves of my life. Thank you for the absolute joy of late nights, reruns on TV, showtunes, cuddles, and keeping me funk free. I promise never to be abusive unless you really get out of line. And I will be around whether you like it or not, I promise.

Liesl, my dancing partner (in a purely non-prison lingo sense). Thank you for making me look graceful and reminding me I'm a guy. You are a blast; thank Heaven for little girls like you. And yes, it is now naptime.

Betsy, my pimp and fearless dictator. Being dominated was never meant to be this much fun, little one. I will take orders from you anytime.

Lorraine, my favorite friend at the ball. You kept me going when I thought I sucked. Thank you for liking the Chef and making me laugh. We'll have to dance sometime. You are truly magic.

Varley, best prop mistress ever. I really loved singing about your name and taking pictures of paint on your back. And taking credit for tearing your pants. Get some sleep, you deserve it for making all our lives easier.

Erin, who made me want to be bad. I loved doing "Barbie Girl" with you at Legends. You were delightfully evil, no matter what that respondant said, and it looked good on you. For you, bitchy is the new black.

Meg/Robo, who finally made it to the ball. You are a hoot, and I would be priveleged to hang with you more often. If you ever need help with a crossword, look for me in LaFortune. And fuck croquet!

Kathleen, Nicole, Tori and Lindsey, you are all beautiful in many ways. You were all an inspiration, great work.

Johnnie, thank you for your encouragement, you don't know how much it meant. And that horse outfit was something else. You really pulled it off.

Marianne, thank you for your whimsy and your knowledge of movie quotes. And for my new catchphrase: "Angry!"

Kelly Lynn, my fleeting dance partner. It wasn't much, but it was always good while it lasted. And remember, you were never behind, you were only fashionably late. :-)

Keri, thanks for the rides, both in your car and on the dance floor. Scandalous, girl, ow! (just kidding, just kidding)

Monica and Bri, my intern cooks who did my bitchwork. No one ever made those Chef Boyardee outfits look better. You made that opening scene very fun.

Regina, Laura, and all the other ladies in the cast and crew. I was blessed just to be in your world and help out for a little while. Hope I didn't bother you all too much. It was truly my pleasure.

As for the guys, to Louis, the future Lt. Dan, Zonder, B-Gunt, and of course no party is complete without a Johnson and a Fister. Solidarity, brothers, we made it. And I think we still managed to look damn manly doing it. Hell, we made makeup look sexy. No? Too soon?

And of course HUGE thanks to Mark, Dr. Menk, Terry and Indy just for giving me the chance and making me better. You were our lights on the path, and we only made our way because you willed us there. I personally can't thank you enough.

Ugh, I'm getting all verklempt. So, I'll just say I love you all and wrap this up (finally) with some quick hits:

Baseball is off and moving. The honeymoon will be over for the Cubs if they don't start pitching right. And can we please win a few so we can avoid listening to people begging for Sosa back? The Sox I have very few problems with. But weren't they too much offense last year? Now they're too much pitching and not enough bats? If you're going to be inconsistent, at least stick with one phase of the game. Otherwise I won't know what to bitch about.

The Bulls will win the NBA title again within 3 years or never return to the playoffs. I'm not even ruling out this year. And did anyone else notice that this team would be the greatest college dynasty ever if they all went to one school? I have reason to watch the playoffs again, and that is indeed good.

I haven't watched WWE (or much TV at all) in 3 weeks. Take what you will from that, but I'm starting back up this week. WrestleMania was very cool, but webcasts are annoying. So is firing perfectly good midcard talent because YOU can't come up with good creative ideas for them. Why don't we just put HHH out there for every match, that's where we're headed anyway. I don't know how I feel about Hogan yet.

Stephen Lynch is a genius. But he better not pull a Hedberg, I mean a Farley, I mean a Kinison, I mean a Belushi, I mean a Kaufman. Man, comedy is depressing.

I need to learn showtunes. Quick, somebody put Rent and Avenue Q and the Last Five Years on a CD. And put some Grease and Guys and Dolls on there too, just 'cause they're badass.

Britney Spears should be struck in the face. Ah, I'll just let her redneck husband do it.

Eddie Izzard for Prime Minister, Fr. Jim King for Pope.

Peace out, y'all!
Jake