"I am Romeo and I'm thirty-six, I get my kicks dating younger chicks,I satisfy my karaoke fix, outside your window singing like Hendrix,I got a bottle of expensive fancy wine, we'll party like it's nineteen-ninety-nine,This pretty song I wrote for you, it's getting late, I'm turning blue.
Juliet, a-ha, where the fuck you are?Juliet, oo-hoo, where the fuck are you"

Day 2: I have decided to give my room a tiki flavour, or at least bamboo...keep the lines clean, do a lot of green and browns, maybe some caligraphy and woodprints. It'll be a nice change. Thinking of painting the place a sort of tropical green to go along with it, but maybe not...I have this great idea involving a small bansai, 2 lanterns, my window, and awesomeness. You heard it here first.

One a bright note, the Red Elvises are coming to allentown, PA. I have been a fan for a while, though I became disenfranchised in about 2000, but I really dig their old stuff. Allentown is where John's school is, so I can totally go down there, see them, and chill with my boy. It will be...awesome. Like a hotdog, awesome. Or a pair of socks.

I miss my accordion...I'll need to have John bring it up, if he comes. Which reminds me, I need to call him.

"Oh oh oh oh! Ayayayayahhhoooo!"

(first lyrics by the red elvises www.redelvises.com, the second by the talking heads, or yoko ono, if you will)

Guess that I'm the only one that's awake now...funny that. First day in the apartment is actually pretty damn good. Who knew? Saw Josh and the Nick from Japan first, got a hot dog at spike's in Providence, some green tea smoothy action, and issues 0-11 of "the authority". I rule. I think so at least. On the down side, I forgot to pack shower sandals or pillows, but that won't be too much of an issue, just run out to Target in the morning. Maybe hit an artsy poster store and get some swank pics for the walls, which are barren now. It looks like Ferrantino's room (spartan, and not like the greek). Thumbtacks would be good, as well as a drawer for my desk, the other half of my sliding close door, window shades of some sort. I'm in prime "kill me while I sleep" position, with a ground level window. Yay.

"I'm losing my favorite game...
you're losing your mind again.
I'm losing my favorite game
you're losing your mind again
I'm losing my baby,
losing my favorite game"

-ccm

(lyrics by the Cardigans)

"Well I've seen the danger of your rising sign
and I swear, I'd like
to drink the fuel straight from your lighter"

A claw game. A doll. Illegal fireworks. Immense burgers, brats, beer, and most of all, Monday Night Raw. My friends really know how to make a guy feel at home before he takes off. Seriously, nothing beats blowing up a doll at 3 am with incredibly loud fireworks. Nothing. Well, maybe sex...but GOOD sex.

On another note, I think I am sufficiently freaking out my apartment mate. I need to talk to her about some things, but it'll be cool.

To think aloud for a bit, if I have a room, it should be my room, thus my domain...I don't know about some things...I'm sort of viewing the apartment as a small dorm where I just happen to have a room. When I'm in that room, I'm in my world, though I'll leave the door open. If I invite someone into that room, that's my perogative, ja? Like, if I were sleeping with someone, or if I wanted to play D&D with someone, or smoke a joint, that would be my perogative, in my room. The last example is a bit much, but in general, if I'm just letting someone sleep there, that should be my problem. I'm not forcing this person upon all the other people. I'm bearing the burden. This is going to get me so fucked, I fear, like I'm using this to play politics, but you know what? I don't know what. I just want to write out my thoughts. Maybe this whole public blog thing is an experiment gone wrong. Intended to give people I know and care about that are far away a mirror into my life, it may bite me in the ass, as local folks will read it, really realize my side of things, how I feel, and then accuse me of propoganda. Maybe not. Maybe that's a good thing. I've always been better at saying what I'm really thinking on paper, and not saying it to people. It's that Italian temper. I avoid conflict because when I get into one, I have to win. I don't back down on things I care about. I just feel like my room should be my place, and who I bring in there should be my worry, especially if the person is sleeping there.

God, my mind is all over the place. I'm a little loose with my thoughts now, but not too loose. I really don't want to upset anyone, heavens no, but I will discuss things with people when I get there, and by "there" I mean my apartment. I'll set things straight. I think that the jist, or gyst, or however that is spelled, of what I desire might have been misconstued over the net. To Erika (sara), I don't mean to put up this person for a long time, just a few nights, and by a few nights, I mean sleeping nights. I'm not going to be that into hanging out after the first bit anywho, because I need to have a proposal researched and typed out, and handed in very early in September. This person would literally just sleep there. I may hang out with her because while I have met her on several occasions, it is only over the summer, and mainly through the internet, that myself and this person have become friendly.

Sorry to use the old blog to deliver a memo, but I figure if I go AWOL tomorrow, you'll probably see this thing, and as such get a better idea of what I was trying to say. Or not. I'm not overly sure what I just wrote makes a ton of sense, as I am tired, very mildly inebriated, and just writing for the sake of. Don't worry kiddo, I won't do anything to freak you out.

Did I mention I'm making a shoe box coffin for the doll?

"I used to love her, but I had to kill her
I used to lover her, but I had to kill her
I knew I'd miss her, so I had to keep her
she's buried right in my backyard"

(first lyrics from Mike Doughty (www.mikedoughty.com) second from Guns N Roses)

-ccm

"Person man, person man
Hit on the head with a frying pan
Lives his life in a garbage can
Person manIs he depressed or is he a mess?
Does he feel totally worthless?
Who came up with person man?
Degraded man, person man"

I am realizing this now, that I am the degraded man or the song, in a sense. I feel constrained, in a way, by tons of stuff, but not really. It's just a feeling of being stuck somehow, but yet I'm hopeful...like something is going to give soon. God, I don't take shit from anyone anymore. I've lost my qualms, my cares, and my tongue is loose, which can be dangerous. Recently one of my avid readers intoned that she didn't know I could be angsty...people have no idea just how angsty I can get. That's why I write. This is going to be a very productive year because of that angst. I'm looking for someone to share that angst with, I guess, or something. I am looking forward to school, but at the same time I'm worried. Always worried. Not because I am going back to school, no, but because I will have to be with people again. It's been 2 full years since I've had to share space with other people. I mean my personal space. I figure that it will either go one of two ways. The first way will be that everything will be all happy and good. THe second way is that I move out. There is middle ground in there, the ground in which I will be living, but in the interest of time and sanity, I'm leaving it out. And for dramatic effect. It's all in the delivery after all. That and the wrist.

I need to pick up a squash racket before I go back to school. God, I can't wait to just go there and whack a ball around, get better, and work out. I feel like I've been a lump all summer, though I must say that I absolutely kicked ass in my hockey game this past night, winning 7-3. For those who don't know, ice hockey is one of my great loves, aside from the ladies. I must say, that the ladies can be colder than the ice, but I think I'll go through some more relationships before elaborating on that all too common point. Back to task, hockey is something that I have been playing on and off for a good many years, about a decade or so. I played almost everyday until about my senior year of high school, when I suffered a knee injury. This injury cut my ice time dramatically, but it also allowed me to explore my more artistic side, namely playwriting.

Things have never been the same since then.

John had an odd revelation yesterday, or I guess two days ago since I can't sleep for the second night in a row. Both he and I were the absolute bottom of the barrel in our school band, middle school band. We blew. We didn't know jack, really, and it showed. We had some great, great fun, but really didn't learn about music. One thing that we all had to do was practice. To make sure we were, they gave out these practice sheets that we would have to fill out as part of our grade. Everyone lied on them, but the best instance of this lying, and the most blatant came when John turned in his practice sheet to Mr. Wojowicz (Woj) at the end of the year trip to Riverside amusement park. Without thinking, he just filled in the time he needed, and gave it to Woj. Woj looked at the sheet and said, "Funny John, that you could practice with those stitches in your lip." You see, John had been hit in the face with a frisbee during a game of ultimate, and he had a few stitches in his lip that kept him from playing his sax for about a month worth of classes. John, realizing his folly, turned to Woj and said, "Yeah, that is funny." And walked away. That sort of shit was our forte. But the revelation, yes, the revelation. We are probably the only people that are playing instruments right now out of the entire band. We both play annoying instruments, at that. He plays the bagpipes and I the accordion. If we end up living in that apartment in the city after we graduate, our neighbors are going to kill us.

It's amazing what you will do when you choose to do it.

I wonder if I am an insomniac yet?
Oh yeah, and I am me.
Not you, not he
(though to some that may be)
but I am me
myself
a pair of mes
will rock the party
admittedly so
we'd be foolhardy.

And that's why I'm not a poet, not by anystretch. For further evidence, got to poetry.com and search for Topher Zanzibar. That's my pretencious pen name. I actually like those poems though.

"There's a girl with a crown and a scepter
who's on WLSD
and she says that the scene isn't what it's been
and she's thinking about going home"

(lyrics by they might be giants)

HOLY CRAP

I went to my old webpage. In July someone posted that they like "A Boring Play". I wrote that. I performed it once, in a conservatory, with my best friend John, Cindy Heslin (sp?) and myself. We rocked. It got published in a best scenes book thanks to my now friend Jocelyn Beard. She saw a lot of potential in me, and wanted to give me a break. I kind of squandered my talent in stagnation, but I think I'm on the rise again. The common thread between then and now? I'm single.

But the point is, I've been affirmed by an outside person. It reminds me of my desire to be loved by others. Just kidding, but it definately boosts the old self esteem.

dun dun dun dee dee dee dee dee dun dun dun dee dee dee dee dee

"I only watched he walk, but she saw it
I only heard her talk, but she saw it
I only touched her lips, but she saw it
I only kissed her lips, but she saw it"

Some wine, some games, and I have 1 free day left in my summer, not tomorrow, but Monday, where I will have a bbq with 2 of my very good friends, and maybe Tim. I think that would be cool. Meld my groups for the first time. Tim is the kind of kid that will fit in anywhere, which is a good thing, and will make the bbq good.

Then the apartment. Tuesday I'm in. Claire might end up crashing there, as she is homeless until the 6th. This would be a good way to get to know her, in person. Hope I don't fuck that up. Then John will come up sometime during the week to help christen the place. Man, I'm ready. I'm ready to get back into it. I also am looking into buying a keyboard to fuck around with. The musical kind. I figure that it is more copacetic than the accordion in the quiet housing, and it would let me learn how to play the piano at times.

dun dun dee dee dee dee dun
dun dun dee dee dee dee dun

"I know I won't be leaving here
with you"

Trepedation, temptation, and tremourous rumbles the vibrate the spine. The car lept forward, like a scalded man who just spilled coffee on his lap. The car revved and pulled, and flew, flew forward. The pull of the acceleration pulled me back into my seat, and for a moment I'm very scared. I see the posts flying by, faster and faster...I know that if I keep this up things will get very dangerous, but I can't stop. To slow down is to fail, but to speed up is to be a god. The speed grows geometrically with the risks, and finally something goes wrong. The speed is above the century mark. The music is loud, but inappropriate: Tom Jones. Love songs. Love songs for speed junkies. The mood is queer, nothing is right. I know this, and I am losing control of it, the car was part of me, but it's spinning, not in the literal sense, but spinning out of my control. I try and get it back, get in touch with it again, but I take my eyes off the road. The speed is double the century, breaking the sound barrier and all land speed records. I have no time to pause. I think of a girl that I once saw, not personally, but saw in passing. She was fair and beautiful, the kind of girl that you want to marry at the sight of, but forget 10 minutes later. I think of her as the sandstone colored divider looms larger in my diverted field of view. The steering wheel is meticulously stitched, I notice, before the impact. The actual impact, to repeat the word for emphasis, tears the seat clear from the car. I am propelled into the stratosphere, which is very high, so high in fact that I can see my house from there. I mutter this to myself, amused. The flight was quite nice in fact, relaxing. The approach smooth, but the landing rough. I unbuckle my seatbelt, dust off the dream, and walk into my house.

"You see her
You can't touch her
You hear her
You can't hold her
You want her
You can't have her
You want to
But she won't let you"

(music furnished by me, lyrics by Franz Ferdinand, again)

-ccm

"relax the fraying wool
slacken ties and I'm
not to look at you in the shoe
but the eyes find the eyes"

Barbiturates, violent axioms aligned against the pragmatics and the prose of the priests, the paupers, the proles and the bourgeoisie. Falling through the pages of the prose, the priests the proles, the paupers and the prose, again, I find a dot of inspiration, fondling my mind, my thoughts, my way, and I stare. Offended, it stares back, wondering if it has a spot on its tie. Though not known to many, the spots of inspiration that cause me to fall through the pages of prose of the priests, paupers, popes, puppies and the proles, and sometimes the bourgeoisie, wear ties. Stylish ones that go well with their blazers, match their shoes, which instinctively match their belts. The belts are sequestered from the waist by pants, properly aligned with the hem, and complimented by a chain. The chain is connected to the watch, to time, to the leg bone, and to reason. The inspiration spawns from this reason, but does not return to it. The rational becomes irrational, and then the dot starts to have fun. It acts like it's going to catch me as I fly by, fall by, die by its side, but it lets me go, plummeting and spelunking into the depths of the text, the words, the prose of the priests, popes, paupers, proles, puppies, puppets, and once and a while, when I feel indulgent, the bourgeoisie.

"all the girls I hate
all teh words I hate
all the clothes I hate
how I'll never be anything I hate"

(lyrics from "the Dark of the Matinee" by Franz Ferdinand)

-ccm

"7 to 11 or 11 to 10,
the night is black, but the night is when
i see them,
the little green men"

Tonight I helped some people I know eat 100 wings. I was questioned about my shirt, which I have determined is the interior monolauge of Fidel Castro. The shirt is black with a relief of Castro with the caption, "Smoke a cigar or start a revolution?" The woman with the question was a cute girl who works at the Starbucks in Orange, Connecticut. She was about 5 foot 6 with brown hair, longer than shoulder length but drawn together into a sort of lopsided ponytail. She had a slender build, and a face to go with it. Her arms were languid, and her hands were like flowers wavering on a vine. She asked about the shirt, informing me that she did not get it. I told her my thoughts, that it is the interior dialogue of Castro, whether he should just smoke his cigar or start a revolution. She responded by telling me that she thought that the shirt was about Miles Davis, and that the caption didn't make sense for Mr. Davis, but it made sense for Fidel. I don't know about Miles, but Fidel is killer on the piano.

"Oh don't you see them?
Oh my dear,
don't you see?"

The wings are probably my last blast before my senior year of college begins. To celebrate the event, I got a new pair of Docs. The Docs, are Dr. Martens, boots. They are black and leather, with eight eyelets. They have a thinner sole than my last pair, which to me makes them infinitely more wearable, as they are more shoelike. I love them. I got a pair at the start of my freshman year, a pair that were wonderful, but they lacked the sole that I wanted. This pair are exactly what I was looking for, which is sort of how I'm feeling right now.

"I've got a brand new best friend...
come with me, come and see
come see the little green men.
Come with me, come and see"

This is exactly where I want to be right now. The year is about to start, and it is filled with nothing but promise and potential. I hope to have a great apartment with my friends, and to still keep in touch with my pals all across campus (as opposed to what I said in the pissed of post). I hope to kick ass on my thesis, and to get into a grad school, easily. That's really it. The other thing would be to get a girlfriend, preferably a very hot freshman with low or skewed standards (though let's face it, I'm hot). This way I would be covered on all fronts, and senior year would, in short, rock. I would also like to play the accordion in a band, pop or punk, either or.

Here's to rocking out the year, and to my political jacket.

"Oh don't you worry,
don't worry,
about me?"

(Lyrics from "Little Green Men" by Drink Me)
-ccm

Right now it is 12.41 am, on Tuesday the 17th of August, and I am full of rage.

I have developed a twitch in my eye that really causes me a lot of stress, which is sort of funny as it is caused by stress. It's a viscious cycle, to be assured. Tonight I went off the handle, just being a total dick to anyone that crossed my path, which was mostly my family, which sucks. It's a completely sucky thing to do to people, but I'm sure in time, they will understand.

I'm stressed. Very stressed. I have been in the limbo of home living for a month, and I cannot take it anymore. Not a single one of my friends has been around in that month, so for the majority, I have been in my house, day in and day out, watching tv, working out, and eating. My life has become so basic and uninteresting that I don't even see the point of it half the time. I do not mean that in a dire, "I'm going to kill myself, boohoo look at me way", I mean it in the sense that I don't know why I'm doing what I'm doing. Only recently have I begun to crave intellectual stimulation again. I've started reading more books now and working on my thesis. I find that I am growing frustrated with my surroundings, and this is in turn leading to me lashing out at people, and being irritable.

To make matters worse, my family wants to go to Maine for a few days. This would usually be awesome, but for the first time in my entire life, I am dreading the prospect of a family vacation, something which I have never done before, not once. I have always loved my family, and loved hanging out with them, but now I find myself more and more annoyed by them, and their everyday foibles. It really makes me sad. Part of me thinks that it is time to leave, time to go out and get my own place. I don't want to make them sad, I never want to do that, but I find that by staying here, I am. It's horrible to think of it that way, I'm damned if I do, damned if I don't. I will sort of have my own place next year, one that I can go to when I'm feeling down, or just to get away. I want to hang out with people my own age, and do things that are fun. Stupid things. Just things. I don't want to be stuck in my house anymore, with so much freedom that I can't do anything at all.

I'm just stressed about everything, and nothing can help that, not a thing at all. I am thinking that I don't want to be part of River Ridge apartment 3. I want to live there, cook there, and hang out there, but I don't want to drink the kool aid. I want to be able to go anywhere I want on campus whenever I please. I don't want to be bound by any one person's desire, other than my own. I just want to be able to go where I want. Go smoke a cigar, or drink some wine. Just be away from it all, and enjoy myself. I want to write, to live, not deal with all sorts of crap. God, I should just live in a dorm and be done with it.

On the other hand, I don't want to deal with shit this year. If shit comes up, I'm out. I'm not dealing with other people's hard times. If I'm not hanging with you enough, get used to it. I'll be around eventually. If I'm a douche, get a new friend. Seriously. I just don't want to deal with it. The most satisfying relationships that I've had in the past year were with Tim and Chris F. Why? Because when we would talk we wouldn't get into shit. We would talk about deep stuff, or local goings on, or how we felt, but by god it never got down, never became a session of trudging through the muck. I just want to enjoy my last year of college, without it being clique-y or annoying. If I'm hanging with someone you don't like, I'll see you later. Don't wait up.

I'm aiming for total alienation by the end of the year. I'll be a cynical island unto myself in notime flat. I can only hope that John will still be up for living in the city at the end of the year, because be god, I will be.

Between the twitchy eye, my burnt knuckle, and my charming personality, I'm doing fine. How are you?

-ccm

So i went to japan, survived. It's an interesting place, to say the least. I don't really love it like the world wants me to, and I don't really want to talk about it. I kept a travelouge, and I'll try to sum up the experience here, soon. Maybe writing it would make it more manageable.

The reason that I'm posting now, after all this time, is because I'm at my wit's end. I wrote a play over winter break, not a long one, about 29 pages. This play was very dear to me, and I really put a lot of the emotions that I was feeling into it. Whenever I would work on it, I would be physically as well as mentally exhausted, it was so close to me. And I finished it today. I went through the entire thing, and edited it the way that I think it works. I'm still going to have some people read it and take some feedback, but for now, it's done. If I wanted to, and could find people, I feel like I could put it up somewhere. There is one catch: the file for it has been deleted from my computer. So I'm left with the hardcopy, the program with which I wrote it, but minus the CD that I need to work said program. I am drifting further and further up shit's creek, minus my good friend, senior paddello, made of Mexican Oak, a tree which I just thought up.

I want this thing to be done, to move on to new projects. I feel alive again, creative, vibrant, colourful. I want to use that, but now I am actually stifled. At least I have the hardcopy, which is going to be kept VERY safe, as it is the only record that I have of my work, my soul on paper.

That's dramatic, but then again, it is a play. A play on words.

-ccm