My mom, and while I love her

dearly, is someone that I will

never fully understand. She is

by far one of my biggest enemies,

and at the same time, my biggest

fan. Strange. Yes, I know. I’ve

never seen someone switch a mood

as fast as the woman. One second she

is loving on life, and the next, she

is flipping out for a reason that

only she ever knows. She is

basically a walking time bomb.

But I guess that’s just one of

the reasons I love her so.

Okay. Actually. I lied.

The whole mood changing

thing doesn’t really have

anything to do with my love

towards her. In fact, it only

makes loving her harder.

How sad is that? The two of

us have never seen eye to eye.

She said blue, I’d say green.

It is pretty much how our

relationship has always worked.

We have had plenty of screaming

fits, tears have been shed, and I’ve even

been known to throw a glass or two

of soda at the lovely lady. How

out-of-control does my family

sound right now? And the truth is,

my family is anything but 

out-of-control. We’re actually

pretty normal. Despite the random

craziness that lurks in every family.

It’s just when you throw Psycho

Mom into the equation. Yes. That’s when

the norm because radical.

Case in point:

I get home from class a little

over an hour ago. My dad is in

the kitchen putting some

dishes away. Mom is out and my

little sister is away in New York

for some school conference thing

for the weekend. My dad is in a

good mood, as usual. I begin to

make myself a salad and tell my dad

about my day. I ask him where mom is

and he tells me that he just talked to her

and she should be home any minute.

Sure enough, she walks in the door

moments after. However. The sweet,

“I’ll be home soon,” cherub face he

had just been talking to is now

“I hate life, everyone leave me alone,”

devil face. I kid you not. What possessed

the normally cheerful disposition of my

mama? Who knows. All I know is that

for a span of ten minutes, she wasn’t speaking

to either one of us, and “Just wanted to be

left alone.” Whatever you’re currently thinking

about my mom at this point, go ahead and

think it. It’s probably true. But whatever

it is that you’re thinking, she will never

admit to, or talk about. Grr.

And just for the record.

Right now. She is currently

sitting in the living room

with my dad, who she called back

down from upstairs after chasing him

away, so the two of them could

watch the movie she  rented from

Blockbuster together.

Yes. I know.

Ridiculous pretty much sums

her up in one word.

 

I Believe. . .

-That you can’t win unless you play.

I Believe. . . 

- That a card really is the best gift.

I Believe. . . 

-In fighting for what you want.

I Believe. . .

-That sleeping until noon is okay sometimes.

I Believe. . .

-That everything really does happen for a reason.

I Believe. . .

-That Bruno’s team will win on Dance Wars.

I Believe. . .

-In flirting my way into free drinhks at

the bar is still all right, even if I do have a boyfriend.

 What do you believe in this week. . .?

So, after almost 13 hours of deep sleep, I’m awake on Saturday morning, with only a vague memory of the week that has passed.

I went to campus on Monday with the intention of streaming together a single scene from my Capstone (thesis) film for screening in class on Wednesday, and ended up there until 2am, assembling the entire film with obsessive determination.

That’s pretty much how the rest of the week has gone for me. For two days, I spent every spare minute locked into that little editing suite, with zero light, clicking - forward, blade tool, delete, assemble, lasso, delete - until the wee hours of Wednesday morning when I burned a DVD of my cut for class, which would be in a few hours.

I stumbled home in satisfaction to hear my roomates wonder, with a marginal amount of interest, where I’d been. Upon realizing I wasn’t having an affair with a married guy or stripping to pay the rent, they promptly lost interest again.

Class was anti-climactic. My classmates, all talented individuals, all making their own films, suck at feedback in a big way, which was a major let down. I peddled my way through the rest of that day in a slump, got through my Personal Finances and Investments class (which runs three hours from 6-9pm) in more of a slump because it was the retirement lecture, and got home to a scary realization: I had a test in the morning.

Now, this might sound like a common college scare, but I haven’t had a test, with a real scantron and studying and crap in three years! I’m a Fine Arts major, and as such, was admitted into a super special program that’s based more on producing work than memorizing facts. I had to go out and buy highlighters and remember how to do this studying thing. I slept maybe two hours.

Again.

I got through the test okay, then had to run home to find the book I was supposed to have read (for a different class, obviously) two chapters from and respond to. It’s gone. I still haven’t found it. I managed to find one of the chapters online and somehow got through that and back on campus without dropping dead.

So, then Friday rolled around, and I was awaken at 10am by my phone and the unfortunate realization that I was having a marathon editing session with a musician that I did a music video for in July. Today was the day we were finishing this thing, by God.

So we did. And then I had an asthma attack.

So, I’m still in bed. My computer snuggled into my shins, offering me sympathy where no one else will.

And while the sounds of my roommate arguing with her ghetto thug boyfriend, who unofficially lives here while he’s not off doing nefarious things or being in jail (I’m so comfortable with this situation, let me tell you), are a comfort, because they mean I’ve made it to Saturday alive, I still wouldn’t mind retaliating in a way that involves something creatively violent. Like maybe a Harpoon.

While the cliffsnotes version of my week (see above) are actually present in my memory, they don’t really feel like they happened to me. I have vague memories of other things that I feel like I should remember with clarity.

Like that moment on Tuesday evening when I was having Subway on the patio outside of our Student Union, and one of my friends yelled over to me that Heath Ledger had died, and I completely disregarded it, feeling as though this was a perfectly appropriate joking thing to yell at someone having dinner.

So, I’m going to go regroup, and then I’m probably going to end up working on my film more. Because I can’t stay away.

Wish me health.

 

I am a celebrity whore.

No really. I am.

I know more about little

Suri Cruise than I do about

some of my friends.

Sad? Maybe. Pathetic? Sure.

But they fascinate me in a way

words can’t exactly describe.

So the recent death of Heath Ledger

has me cringing. I even contemplated

on skipping school just to go to

New York and put flowers outside

his place. (My better judgement

took over, and I attended all of

my classes just like a good school

girl would do.)

Nonetheless, I am in total shock.

I have read every piece of possible

news regarding the situation. He was

that adorable Aussie who swooned

my friends and I over in

10 Things I Hate About You.

Going on to do bigger and better

projects…being nominated for

an Oscar…and than,

dating Michelle Williams.

(Former Jen Lindley from my

most favorite show-Dawson’s Creek.)

Not to mention, being the daddy of their

child.

So here’s the thing. The media

has been comparing him to

James Dean. Both being in their

prime and deaths  happening

suddenly. James Dean is

quite a culture icon. Ladies

have his signature  pose

hanging on their dorm walls.

A guy that died well before

half of them were even born.

But it’s obvious to say that

James Dean is in fact someone

that people know. Whether it

be that he simply looks cool in a leather

jacket…or that he enjoyed his sex, it doesn’t

really matter. Marilyn Monroe is another one

among young Hollywood’ers who stand as an icon.

She was at her peak in her career, died…but

her name will live forever.

I can’t help but wonder if

Heath will be joining Biggie, Selena, Elvis,
River Phoenix, Kurt Cobain and whoever

else on the path of stars to be

remembered.

Will Heath be one of these

culture icons in years to come?

Or will Heath Ledger’s name fade

out as soon as the media is no longer interested

because Britney Spears finally

decided to show up to court on time?

It’s unfortunate to say

that it took the death of this talented

actor to give him the coverage

he’s been receiving.

But I guess like every above

star mentioned, their deaths are

almost what made them larger than life.

An untouchable status.

It just goes to show that in our sick

and twisted culture…

ya’gotta die to be famous. 

When my boss called me in to work security at the Q102 Jingle Jam at the Tweeter Center in Camden, NJ, I immediately began to wonder what living with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder was going to be like. I also began to wonder what exactly constitutes abuse in the workplace, because if corporal punishment does then surely the same applies to eight and a half hours of Avril  Lavigne, Good Charlotte, Timbaland and high school-age girls—what kind of sick person is equipped to deal with that?

Not me. This became blood-chillingly obvious when the lights went down and up came a screen to which the audience could text message various rallying cries. As in, a girl might text “Screme if u liek Avril Lavine!!!” so half an hour later that very message would appear and the place would go insane. Some of the more popular refrains were “Scream if you think the Jonas Brothers are hawt!!” and “Scream for the Eagles!!” among other insightful and socially conscious…forget it, I can’t do the sarcasm. It was all drivel.

            There was some enjoyment to be had, however, because despite all the screaming girls’ collective lack of intelligence or souls, they were pretty much uniformly smoking hot. Even the hideous ones had sexy friends. Of course I’m referring to only those who were of age, and, disappointingly enough for the future of the nation, there were tons of voting-age adults at this dumb show. So I came upon a pair of earplugs and shamelessly leered at the girlies for some time while making sure that people stayed out of the aisles (my entire job, by the way). It made for a nice rhythm: smile at attractive girls, yell at ugly ones, repeat—all while getting paid.

Until, suddenly, the loudest scream of approval thus far penetrated my earplugs. “Oh, good”, I thought, “Somebody is pissing on a picture of Mother Theresa.” But on the stage there was nothing. I looked for a fight that might have possibly broken out and, god willing, resulted in a torn-off tube top—nothing. And then I saw it. The text-message screen displayed four words that I am now convinced have signaled the end of Western civilization: “Scream if your emo.”

            Notice: not ‘you’re’ but ‘your.’ Not that I really expected the total erasure of culture as we know it to be grammatically sound, but it would have been a nice consolation.

            So that was it; I’d talk about the rest of the show, but it’s all a blur. The cognitive dissonance I experienced shortly thereafter would have given someone half my weight a stroke. So, uh, until next week and stuff.

 

I really wish that the library at St. Joseph’s University was more exciting.  Maybe if it was like a gay cruising zone or something (not that I would want to be bothered with closeted catholic boys), you know–anything more than just a place with books and a few scattered people on computers and at study tables.  I like to spend my time at the library because I can spread my shit out on a table meant for about 6-8 people and enamor myself with the idea that I have an executive desk.  Between my books, palm treo, laptop, coffee, notebook, bag, etc. (sometimes I’ll just bring stuff that I really don’t need, just to fill up the table), I can make a pretty nice improv desk at the library.  No one dares sit down at my table either.

Abercrombie models would be nice… if SJU would pay you know, maybe, 2-3 of them to swing by and just walk around the library.  I’d be impressed, and would know that my tuition money is going to good means.

So, yeah, 4 days back to school was too much for me (not to mention I ran over someone with my car the week before.  They survived.  I had the right-of-way.), I decided to take a trip to Dallas this weekend to visit this kid who is normally kind of an asshole but who I have sort of a goofy friendship with.  That’s a topic for a whole blog in itself: people who are dicks who you’re friends with anyway for whatever reason.  It was fine, I had a good time.  I didn’t realize that the downtown was so ’suburbia.’  Shit, we parked in an OfficeMax and walked through a shopping center to the clubs.  I never knew how lucky I was to live in Philadelphia until I saw a Hallmark store right next to a nightclub.   Culture shock.  I gave the person a ride home.  The one I hit with my car.

Until next time,

Anthony 

I Believe. . .

-That a smile is the best accessory.

I Believe. . . 

- In wearing high heels even when my

feet are blistered and torn to shreds.

I Believe. . . 

- That laughing is the best form of exercise.

I Believe. . . 

-In wearing lot’s and lot’s of make-up.

I Believe. . . 

-That it’s okay to care more about

celebrities than the average person, even though

they’ll never care about me.

I Believe. . . 

-That it’s alright if I watch more TV

than I probably should.

I Believe. . . 

That a brand new pair of

super cute, expensive shoes can

make me feel better.

I Believe. . . 

That kisses aren’t contracts, and presents

aren’t promises.

 

What do you believe in this week. . .? 

This is me.

This is me also. I’m painstakingly crafting lyrics for my ninth-grade screamo band.

This is me, moments after the man in the striped green shirt frapped me in the nuts.

Not to worry; I got him back.

My name’s Greg. I grew up in Connecticut, spent a year at college in Binghamton, NY, and then transferred to Temple University in Philadelphia. I live in an apartment with two friends from home.

Tim is a wafer-thin South Korean. Please keep in mind that I approve of neither his hat nor his tattoo.

D’ar is a shit stain.

Our neighborhood is wonderful. We have no need for pets because four or five cats greet you every time you walk out the door. We also have no need for mirrors; if you walk around late enough at night then someone will almost certainly remind you that you’re white.

So I suppose I’ll be updating this thing on a fairly regular basis. Hopefully it will be funny or insightful–if not then I will resort to whining about my parents and ex-girlfriends. Either way, I hope you read it.

Down on her luck, a friend of mine

decided to join Dr. Phil’s Match.com.

I was extremely against it. I thought

it was dangerous, silly and simply

not the way to find true love.

Last night, despite my battle, she met

up with one of the stud muffin’s she

had been ‘winking’ at back and forth on the site.

Nervous, anxious, and unsure of what

to expect, she calls me on her

way to the date. I quickly prep her.

Telling her to stay the three C’s.

Cool. Calm. Collective.

I know my charismatic gorgeous friend

had nothing to worry about.

The brown haired, brown eyed beauty

was sure to knock his socks off.

I couldn’t help but wonder
if this online personality she

has been shamelessly flirting with via IM,

was going to be the very same

guy that would give my friend her

very first boyfriend. Would they eventually

be joining my boyfriend and I on double dates?

And would the dude swoon my Grey’s

Anatomy obsessive pal right out of her

Thursday night routine?

Can the World Wide Web really be a

feasible way to find ones soul mate?

Or is it simply a settling tactic for desperate

people who want someone right now?

I’ve heard all the testimonials.

But my skepticism keeps getting in the way.

Maybe I’m just old fashioned. But I think I will stick

to the cheesy pick-up lines in the bar by sweaty men.