It seems that, throughout these prolonged days in the boondocks, I am suffering from midsummer insomnia. Sleep comes uneasily at night, and I wake up groggy in the early morning. I find myself needing to take long naps during the midday, which doesn’t help my night rest later on. My energy is depleted. Summer crawls across my eyes like it’s just a dreary heat cloud. The world is a shade dryer.

I’m a firm believer that everyone should have a little play in their work and a little work in their play.      

I took a walk around town barefoot this morning. Picked up a box of empty beer bottles in the park, along with another bottle nearby. Imagine a tall, lanky, barefoot man going down Main Street holding a bunch of empties: the only thing that was missing was my cardboard box shelter.

It’s hot out, and I have to wash the car.

            To begin, I drag the hose, along with the soap bucket, over to our blue Pontiac G6. The air is thick. I wear my straw cowboy hat, but the sun still burns. The water jets out from my hose and patters across the hot blue surface. It sets into a thin wet film on the roof and hood, just a fleeting layer before it begins to get blotched by evaporation.

            I hope my friend is having a blast in Italy.

            Dip my scrub mitt into the bucket and begin to manually scour the roof. Have to start top to bottom, as my mom says; that way it’s easier to squirt all the suds off. I go in circles like you’re supposed to for an effective clean; you can’t miss a spot that way. Squirt the roof and watch the soap roll off down the sides onto the black, hot pavement. Wipe, wipe, wipe, down the doors and fenders, panel by panel, and spray it off top to bottom. The humidity is stifling.

            What town was she in again? Somewhere by the sea, I think. Must be a living paradise there.

            My brother points out that there’s no more soap left in the bucket, only water. He gets the soap and pours in a good helping, then I stir it up with a blast from the hose. The trunk and the other side of the car get lathered up, top to bottom, and then sprayed, top to bottom, under the sun. I can feel the rays piercing through the tiny holes in my straw hat onto my face. Nothing else moves in the subdivision. The lawn beside me is baked brown. This is the Dead Summer.

            It’s probably dinner time in Italy now. Perhaps she’s having the sweetest frutti di mare straight from the sea, along with a glass of rose red wine. On the table in front of her there is likely a vase full of fresh, brilliant flowers, and the waiters that brush by are tan, handsome, and courteous to every slight request. Nothing is out of place; the evening seems to ease on by. As the sun hangs low over the dazzling Mediterranean, she probably shares a laugh or two with her friends as she raises her hand for a small dish of tiramisu. A cool breeze is moving in from the ocean.

            I start to finish with the hood and front when my mom walks up. She looks at the back fender and says, “This part still looks dirty. Someone didn’t do a good job washing this.” There’s always a smidgen of dirt left whenever I wash it, and I never know what I do wrong.

            I hate washing cars.

I just saw the last Harry Potter movie. Now I feel in the mood to kick some serious ass with my nonexistent magical powers.

They have thank you cards, but you never see “you’re welcome” cards, do you? Wouldn’t you feel completely flattered if a thanked person sent you a card with a large “You’re Welcome!” on the front of it? The next time someone sends me a thank you card, I think I will make a “you’re welcome” card for them.

There is no such thing as a “family film.” It’s called a kid’s movie. Admit it already.

The one thing we can always look forward to in the summer is our annual trip to Ludington. Which is where we get to be with our cousins from California for a week. Which, in turn, is when our epic, drawn-out games of Risk are held. Almost as soon as we see each other for the first time, they, my brother and I walk into the cabin, get out the board, and begin claiming our territories. So commences our traditional week-long bids for world domination: each of us becomes an enemy in the other’s eyes, and things heat up in an instant. As armies are waged against each other and the cusp of power fluctuates unexpectedly, names and insults are hurled across the board: everyone is a pussy, a son-of-a-bitch or a piece of shit at some point, among a wide rainbow of others. Turns can be dragged out to the ridiculous, as I have been guilty of doing from intense strategizing. There are real cries of agony, shouts of surprise, groans of defeat, and dances of victory that revolve around the fall of the dice. It is not a game for the faint of heart; however, if you can grit your teeth and persevere, the respect of you opponents will be won.

            Not really.

It was back in the spring, near the end of classes. I stumbled upon a group of friends in the halls who wanted to go on an ice cream run, and I was invited to ride along. I had class in a little while, but this was a rare invitation that I wasn’t about to pass up. And so I followed them out to the parking lot and crammed into one little car with the rest of them, and we took off.

            Down the highway we flew, a pack of happy, carefree college students with nothing better to do on a sunny afternoon. Someone plugged in their iPod, turned it up loud, and the cabin was filled with a burst of music. Everyone began to sing along to it (loudly, I might add), which didn’t hurt the mood one bit. I was being whisked away in a cloud of bliss.

            We drove to the city south of us and pulled up to a TBCY, which happened to be the driver’s place of employment. (I call her the Frozen Yogurt Queen for this.) She went behind the counter and made each of our orders; I got a parfait. Afterwards we went to the corner and savored our treat of the day.

            It was the same on the way back. We had the windows open and Adele singing into the air as we swung back onto the highway towards school. Everyone was smiling and laughing, and I felt free.

In Traverse City during the weekend we went to a brewery for dinner. My family and I were shown to a table and we ordered our food. A group sat down at the table in front of us, including a girl in a black International Harvester t-shirt. There was something about her that was captivating: her eyes were unassuming in glance, her face was round and modest, and her hair was a wispy brown. She looked around here and there, smiling at some points and talking at others. It was a beauty of a reserved sort, something one rarely comes across these days. Pretty soon our meal was done, and we got up and left.

Agh! My attention span is too short; I can’t read a book for more than a few minutes without craving a distraction or something exciting to happen. What have you done to me, society?!

World of Warcraft is quite a strange thing to me. I watch over my friend’s shoulder as he dashes his figure through a crowd of goblins and wizards and dragons and beasts all manically running up and down and here and there and everywhere and what the hell just flew over us? It’s a little overwhelming to watch them and then figure that each creature is an actual person somewhere in the world. My friend became virtually wealthy through both crafty entrepreneurship and his other friend on WOW, who has spent at least $100 (real dollars) on upgrades and handed down luxuries he no longer cares for. Now my friend can turn into the most (virtually) expensive dragon to fly around as, and he has a host of “pets” that follow him and don’t do much else. I’m not exactly sure what he does now: perhaps he just gets himself bigger and richer. Besides that, I have not yet deduced an actual point to the game.

                                                                                                  —The Metro Times

I sit at a picnic table in a vacant lot in my hometown. I face the Coney Island across the street, and behind that, to the right, is the red brick church with the tall steeple. The traffic only heads in two directions—north and south. There’s a nice little breeze I this lot. A great place to sit and think.

My two friends are proud to say that they’ve started two chants at the Palace of Auburn Hills. Both times, when the band on stage had left for the night, the two of them began shouting “One more song!” out into the open, snowballing into a stadium yell. And both times the band returned with an encore. I wish I could have seen that.

I saw a dead raccoon on the roadside as I rode my bike to the town south of mine. It was splayed out like a human, paws outstretched in all directions. Its fur had fallen off to create a flat circle around the carcass. Jutting out from the center of the creature were its black, fingerlike ribs. The raccoon’s expression looked as if it had been frozen in a snarl, its dead, sunken eyes staring out at nothing. That was the creepy part of the day.

Yes! After being inspired by a tasty treat in the Traverse Bay recently, I have successfully created my own decent Italian ice. This isn’t willy-dilly shit, either: it’s so flavor-filled and cold that it can make your mouth water. So far I’ve only done lemon ice, but I plan to try with other flavors like cherry and mango. Maybe I could even sell it. I’ll have to make some when I go back to college.

Someone across the street just yelled at their kid and made him cry. You baby-yeller.

Does anyone remember this guy who used to advertise his child behavior program on TV?:

My cousin once made the offhand comment that he looks like the type of person that would beat his kids, and, in both a sad and funny way, I have never been able to look at him the same again.

There is an exhibit at a gallery down in Romeo with paintings of mythical and fantasy figures. I have to go explore it sometime. To have the human figure posed in romantic ways is my favorite type of art.

One of my friends from my home town went to Oakland last year, so I saw her around here and there. She works at the nearby Logan’s Roadhouse, and she would invite me to come by there. I felt like going and saying hi, but I couldn’t bring myself to spend the money, so I never did go.

             She was always one of the different girls in school, always quietly creative and set within herself. I wonder how her life is going these days.

My friend at college is a poet (or at least that’s what I think of him as). He sometimes goes to Open Mic during the school year, and every once in a while he publishes works to his friends on Facebook. Often his style is very epic and dark, but he is a unique voice.

            I think that is the niche that poets and writers have these days. We scribble stuff down, think it’s worthy, and pass it around to our friends to enjoy and comment. We’re not that big, and we by no means live off of our craft, but it is an honor in itself if we can shape our surroundings to accept us and embed ourselves in them. We have done our part then. When you look at a piece and say, “That’s an Andrew,” or “That’s a Doug,” we can’t ask for more. Our hat is in the ring.

6/15/08

Sunday

            Sick with a fever yesterday. Damn, right on vacation, too! Well, I feel somewhat better today. Yesterday we left the hotel to move on. We took a ferry across the river Shannon to reach Co Clare, and then we drove to the Cliffs of Moher. Man, are they spectacular! We looked over the cliffs until it was time to go, and then we traveled to the Burren, a great limestone seaside where wildflowers grow. We went on to Galway, where we walked around the town there, and then we went to the Ardilaun Hotel, where we ate dinner and stayed the night, at which I caught a fever. Today we left for a ferry to Innis Mor, one of the Aran Islands. We caught a little bus tour there that took us first to a ruined church and graveyard, and then to the pathway to Dun Aengus, an old prehistoric stone fort on the cliffside. You can look straight down the cliff if you lay down there. When we were done we hiked down and had lunch. Then we caught the little bus back to town, and we explored the shore before it was time to be ferried back. Then we got we got back to the hotel, where we ate and turned in.

            Oh, and Dad got a sweater on the island, too.

There was one morning on the radio when the DJ played the song “September.” As the opening part began to sound throughout the studio, he and the girl that was with us suddenly got up and began to dance to the music. It was random, but it was a spark. The place was instantly radiant with that song, and I couldn’t help but move my body to the beat as well. Anyone could have watched us through the window, but no one cared. It was a flash dance party. When it ended, we all returned to our seats in front of the mics. One of the most lighthearted moments in recent memory.

School is done! Summer is in the air, but I’m not resting so easy: the fall semester sees me with five classes, a job as a career mentor, a position as an editor for a journal, a possible radio show, a continual Open Mic attendance, and a continuation as the treasurer of the Grizzdance Film Festival organization. Better enjoy this summer for what it’s worth.

I would like to thank my brother and father for attending to and solving my car’s recent troubles. Without your magic mechanic’s hands I’d still be grounded here and/or out of a lot of money.

I really don’t know why I was never into “following the crowd.” I guess I always thought that it was fake. The one downside, though (at least in grade school), is that it’s a more lonely path. But you keep a charm within you that blooms later on.

My sister got my 3-year-old nephew to refer to me as “Uncle Can Man” from my soda can collecting. Cute.

One of the girls I know from college was proud to say that her mother was legally declared insane by two counties. She’s a fun one to be around.

6/17/08

Tuesday

            Well, well, this is the end. Yesterday we packed up and headed to Dublin, but we stopped at Clonmacnoise, an ancient monastic site. The Cross of Scriptures stands there, as do many weathered gravestones and two other high crosses. The ruins are a sight to see, too. We continued and stopped at Tyrellspass for lunch, which was a rather pleasant town, and we headed on until we reached Dublin. For dinner we were driven to the Abbey Tavern, where we were welcomed with good food, exciting song and dance, and Irish coffee. A memorable night!

            Today we flew out of Dublin and now we wait for our flight to Flint from Atlanta. Overall, the trip was worth it. It’s fun to experience another country. Until the next trip, it’s time to say goodbye.

(Okay, now I have to play this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2S8ZrQG0y6g)

6/11/08

Wednesday

            Yesterday we got to Kilkenny, caught the taxi, and finally caught up to the bus, which was quite a relief. The guide, Jim, let us walk around the town for some time, which was quite quaint, and then he drove us to a B&B in the countryside called Castle View, and dropped us off. The woman Bridget owns the house, and cooks meals to die for with her mother. After dinner we took a walk around the countryside, in which we passed an old cemetery and the ruins of Baleen Castle, and then we turned in for the night.

            Today we got up, had a brilliant breakfast, and then waited for the bus to take us to Waterford. We went to the Waterford Crystal Factory, which was really interesting to see, and then we went into the city on our own and then on a walking tour about it. Then we traveled to an old farmhouse of a famous hurling player, and we got another classic meal and a storytelling/music bit of entertainment that came with some warm Irish coffee. After that we went back to the house and turned in.

            What a beautiful land!

(That county walk is still the lovliest evening I have ever experienced. The current face picture I have was taken then.)

I have a romantic project! After great deliberation, a simple idea formulated within me, and as of now I shall go for it: on one morning I will step outside my house and walk for a whole day through the countryside…barefoot. Leave behind my watch and wallet; just travel through the hills with my bare feet and a sack on my back (preferably of old cotton, but probably just a backpack), filled with a day’s worth of food and water (in a wine bottle or a wineskin, ideally). In the silence I shall relish; o’er the hills and fields I shall tread in wonder, traveling as far as ‘tis willed. And when the day has come to an end, I will withdraw my phone and have my brother pick me up. Looking at my schedule, this shall have to be done Friday. I hope to see things I’ve never seen and do things I’ve never done. Wish me luck, good fellows!

I wish I could be the King of Great Britain just so I could dress like this: Those are some sweet golden cuffs.

Guess where New York brand Texas toast is from? Ohio!

6/12/08

Thursday

            This morning we left the house and made tracks for Cobh (pronounced cove), pausing only to take pictures of the mighty Rock of Cashel. In Cobh, we received another walking tour of its history and its ties to the Titanic, the Lusitania, and other historic events. We parted for Blarney, and here we had lunch before climbing up the towering Blarney Castle and having Matt and I kiss the Blarney Stone. Then it was time to head to Killarney. There we got to our hotel and unloaded our things. We walked around the town, and then returned for a classy dinner. Then we saw a show with the accordionist Liam O’Connor, which was highly energetic. It was a fun day.

I don’t drink, and I don’t have a girlfriend, BUT…if I was one in which both of these applied, I’d never “loosen up” or get wasted in front of a girl. I personally think it’s rude, and plus it’s better to have your feet firmly on the ground around female company. Just a musing…

Saw a kid on a bike as we were driving out of town. He was making gestures like he was rapping while riding.

My grandmother’s house is empty. The last owner got evicted. She never really tended the home; the gardens and the lawn were left to grow wild, and we heard that she left the house hoarded with junk. Now the lawn is trimmed and the house is cleared out. I peek inside whenever I walk by.

6/13/08

Friday

            First thing today we had breakfast, then we all went on a jaunting cart ride through a beautiful forest to a mansion on a lake known as Muckross House. We took a tour of the house and walked around the exterior, and then we set off to go around the Ring of Kerry. There were beautiful untamed mountainsides and valleys everywhere. We stopped for lunch in one town and had some good chowder. We went on, and we later got back to Killarney. After another fantastic dinner Dad & I walked around, and then we went back. Another full day!

(I’ve always said I would be perfectly content with a small house when I get older, but if I had the money, that mansion would be an exception. The grandest establishment I’ve ever walked through.)

As I was walking down a hill, a small child called from the porch of a condo, shouting “Hi!” I said hello back, and she responded in her sweet voice by asking what my name was. I told her, but when she told me what her name was, her voice was drowned out by the rush of a passing car. I just smiled and walked past.

In my British Romantic Literature class I have to come up with a romantic project for my final exam. No, not “romantic” in the modern sense, but something that would be in the spirit of the Romanic writers who existed in the18th and 19th Centuries. Many of their themes were of creativity, imagination, resisting authority, retreating to nature and looking at things from different perspectives. The professor gave us a few examples of past projects: many students had done one where they went out to a natural area and sat for long periods of time, doing nothing; one student ran naked through a golf course with her husband while no one was around; the professor gave his own example by suddenly packing up, walking out to the front of the building, and reciting poetry out in the open for all to hear. I’m having trouble coming up with my own: my current idea is to ride a horse valiantly into town, dismount, and kiss a random lass on the street. But I don’t think that will happen. Anyone have a better suggestion?

6/9/08

Monday

Trapped in Atlanta last night. Missed flight to Dublin from weather and other plane’s “malfunctions.” Spent night at Hilton. Hope to catch noon flight to JFK, then flight to Dublin—arrive there by morning, catch bus.

I find myself imagining in my mind that I am other, more famous people because I’m afraid to fully accept my own, relatively uneventful life. I thought admitting that to myself might stop it, but it hasn’t.

When you choose to take the time and listen to someone—no matter how crazy, dumb or opinionated they may appear—you end up gaining a friend.

I seem to fuzzily remember a time when I walked around naked, not giving a care about who saw me. This either happened in reality or was from a dream I had long ago. I’m guessing (and hoping) it was the latter. (And if this did indeed occur in this dimension, I apologize to anyone who was tainted by such an image.)

6/10/08

Tuesday

            Made overnight flight to Dublin. It’s a city with a unique twist, especially along the river. We can’t stay, though. We have to catch a train out to Kilkenny, where our bus is. We have to get off and hail a taxi, then call the bus and have him take us to it. A hell of a plan, if it works. Oh, well. The ride should be nice, and this trip has been nothing short of an adventure so far.

Saw a man with a brimmed hat and a baggy coat riding on a bike while pulling alongside him another bike.

I see that TV Ann changed her name to TV Leza. Wonder why “she” did that.

(She should really do something about that beard shadow, too.)

My “dude” song used to be (and probably still is) “Cocaine.” Don’t judge me. It’s a badass song.

Forgot my stainless steel water bottle at school and lost it. I really hate it when I do things like that.

Here I sit, watching the tube, fried. I don’t want to talk anymore. Summer glory.

So they’ve come out with Miracle-Gro Moisture Control potting soil, which is basically dirt that they’ve engineered so you don’t have to fret over watering your plants too much or too little. Should we be more worried about the energy going into testing the wetness of dirt or that people actually feel pained enough to pay for it?

Where I live it is not hard to hop on a bicycle and take a ride out to the countryside. Pedal down the dirt roads and you pass by expansive fields and old barns that have stood for a century. It is always a peaceful ride.

            Last year I was riding down a road when I thought I saw something lying near a tree. I stopped and investigated. It was an old memorial roadside cross, and it had fallen long ago from being nailed to the tree. I decided to try and hang it back up on the nails that stuck out from the tree, but that didn’t work; it was too rotted. In the end I propped it up at the base of the tree and, seeing that was the best I could do to show respect, I got back on my bike and rode on.

            Recently I was riding down the same road and rediscovered that spot. The cross had been replaced with a newer one that, like the way I had left the last one, was propped up at the tree’s base. Roughly inscribed on it was: “Steve King; 9/19/97.” And behind the cross, after all those years, a small, dull scar still remained from where the bark had been bashed away.

Struttin’ around in my new chocolate shorts (they’re not brown; they’re chocolate). They feel light enough to be comfortable, yet sturdy enough to shield thy loins. Actually, they kind of have a purple sheen to them. Purple chocolate.

(Purple Chocolate…Sounds like a rapper’s or a soul artist’s name.)

My pajama bottoms are starting to develop a large hole in the crotch area. I should probably stop wearing them.

On my way to school today I passed by some gigantic fish lying on the side of the road. Got to beware of these things; they can jump out of nowhere.

I now know what it’s like to change a flat tire in the middle of a Whole Foods parking lot in the evening. I bet none of you have done that.

“Heat stroke is the number one killer of earthworms.”—The Burning Ponies

I caught my radio DJ friend as he was about to leave with his lady interest yesterday. His ride was a bike, a Honda Nighthawk, and it looked sweet. I asked where they were headed, and he said he was going to stop at a shop to get a new journal before heading home. With that, he wished me a nice day, and the two of them, donned in leather jackets, hopped on and rode off.

            He’s cool.

5/28

Traveled over to Frankenmuth to pick up my grandmother, who is watching my uncle’s dog while he and his kids are off in Canada on a fishing trip. We went in a Buick that my dad is testing out for a few weeks. Now we’re in Midland at her house. I’ve wandered around, walked to the park, came back. Dad is fixing Grandma’s clock. We’re all going to an Italian restaurant later on for a belated Mother’s Day dinner.

            Her house looks nice. It was redone a while ago, of which I helped some. Now the walls are lavender instead of pasty yellow. The floral sofas and the rust-colored carpet are still here, though.

            Skies are overcast up above. Weather nice.

I have a radio demo next Wednesday! Wish me luck!

Now I have no idea what the color of my shorts is.

A long time ago when we were camping, my cousins, brother, and I got bored, so we went and bought some Beyblades (those battle tops), along with an “arena.” After a slew of battles, two things became apparent: my blue swirly top, which I called Hurricane, seemed to win the most, and my little cousin’s white top always went down first, no matter what. He named it Buttlicker. And it continued to live up to its name.

            I bring this up because I think we all have objects in our lives that we could easily dub “Buttlicker.” Maybe your dishwasher leaves chunks on your dishes—Buttlicker. Perhaps your stapler deforms the staples half of the time—Buttlicker. Your Internet is crap—Buttlicker.

            If you go into one of those auto shops, you’ll find a section of chrome letters and numbers that you can apply to your car. (My friend put “2004” on the back end of his.) I always thought it funny that you could spell out anything with those letters; however, if I owned a junky, rusty dog of a car with no way of denying it and nothing to prove, I would put right on the trunk, in bold chrome script, “BUTTLICKER.” I think that would make it worth owning.

A quote by me: “Ophelia…that’s a nice name to name a cat.”

It is night. Everyone else is sleeping, and I am writing these words by my desk lamp and listening to the sounds of the distant highway from my window. It is a unique feeling.

Hmm, it looks like The Office has already done a skit on “Buttlicker.” Oh, well.

My brother is going to graduate from high school today. Weather looks sunny as of this morning. I hope they hold it outside this time.

Congratulations, Matt!

I forgot my raincoat when I went to school. Now the ink from my pen has seeped out through my pocket and marked a small blue stain on my new white pants. Shit.

Can anyone tell me what the hell synthetic urine is? I saw it in the town smoking shop.

It would be neat if, at least once, someone referred to my brother and me as “the brothers Wernette.”

Free from class! Weeeeeeeeeee!

Any professor that sits on top of an empty desk in class while giving a lecture automatically becomes a cool teacher.

When they started minting the state quarters back in 1999, the one thing I was anxious to see was what the Michigan quarter would look like. (As did every Michigander, probably.) Georgia had the peach, North Carolina had the Wright Brothers, Connecticut had…that tree: what was going to symbolize us? I figured that it would be an automobile or something like that; after all, what’s more famous around here than the Motor City?

            Finally, after five long years, it came. Right off of the mint the quarter went to stores and banks and finally into my hands, and—this was it? Stamped onto the back of the quarter was…a picture of the state of Michigan, with the Great Lakes surrounding it.

What the hell! Who wants to see the outline of their own state? I didn’t want geography: I wanted soul. They at least could have thrown a wheel or an assembly line worker in there. I know that we’re officially “the Great Lakes State”—at least Rhode Island, which is “the Ocean State,” has a bridge and a sailboat to show for it! All we had was a two-dimensional image that we’d all seen a million times before. (It could have possibly been acceptable if they had engraved “The Only State That Looks Like A Mitten.”)

            Disappointed, I buried away my hopes and set my eyes toward the coming of Florida.

(Look up “state quarters” on Wikipedia and look in the “Collectible Value” section. Some of the die errors that occurred in making these quarters are a bit humorous.)

I came across a dead baby bird on the sidewalk. It was pale and flat, like a small ghost that had fallen to become an imprint on the wet pavement. Its blue embryonic eye remained closed. Little thing.

There’s nothing primally male about eating a slab of cow that was raised behind a fence. When you kill a leopard with a knife and drizzle its steak with wolf sauce, let me know. I want a bite of manliness, too.

(Just by coincidence, we had steaks for dinner tonight. Beef steaks.)

I once said that I thought “Eileen” was the prettiest name for a girl. I would like to add the name “Iris” to that category, also. It sounds so artistic, simple and beautiful.

There are a lot of war stories on TV. I think they are like pieces of a sad human tragedy. Sad, but in a perverse beauty, real.

There is a city on the northwestern edge of Lake Superior called Thunder Bay. It’s a spot of civilization vastly surrounded by Canadian wilderness and countryside, but it’s quaint with some life. You can go up the hills, walk the shops, cruise the strip, and watch the lake. Only about a hundred thousand inhabitants, so it’s a small big city. But it’s there.

            For some reason, perhaps because it lies across a massive lake far up north, I’ve come to think of it as a romantic place of exile.

One time while we were on a beach at Lake Michigan, my cousin Chris from California forgot where he was for a moment and asked if we had to beware of sharks while swimming.

In honor of my brother’s last day of high school, I would like to dedicate to him this humble token of congratulation: <http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t4SKL7f9n58>

I think I’ll try for my own radio show. They’re not too hard to get at Oakland.

A while ago my friend, my brother and I went to go see Harry Potter at the theatre. We were early, and the room was nearly empty. We joked around in our seats while we waited, and people began to show up. The pre-show ads were being run through, and one came up about a veterinary clinic. “So-and-so has the gentlest care for your pets; they’re committed to keeping your best friend safe and healthy…” I suddenly was tempted to jokingly yell out, “They killed my cat!”—but I didn’t. I wonder what would have happened if I’d have gone through with it.

It looks like my mother ordered our new garbage disposal unit off of Amazon. You can get anything from Amazon.

Got my “bejazzled” camel key chain on my keys. My roommate David found it once and tried it out, but at the end he said it just “didn’t go with him.” So I took it out of curiosity and hooked it on, and it’s still there. It’s the strangest thing to have, but, then again, that’s why I have it.

It is a lazy Friday. Bleh.

It’s always slightly uneasy for me to visit my old high school. On the rare times I go pick up my brother or see an event, there’s always a tense feeling like I have no belonging there: kids I’ve never seen before stare at me, and those that do know me sometimes look at my presence as if to say, What are you doing here? I always get the sense that all eyes are on me. Also, eye contact is something I try to avoid, in an attempt to stave off awkwardness.

            Maybe I say this because I’m off to see my brother’s band concert tonight.

I can see the night aura from the village lights outside my window. It’s almost magical.

There is a sensitive spot on the side of my ring finger that I always feel when my little finger brushes against it. It’s like there’s a cut or a splinter there, but I’ve examined it closely and found nothing. Guess it’s a mystery.

As a child I suffered from irrational fears. I worried about being haunted. I was scared of being mugged. I was afraid of what would happen if my parents died. The world was daunting to me.

When I was in fifth grade a kid in my school died suddenly from a brain hemorrhage (if I remember correctly). I think the story was that he fell asleep on his couch and never woke up. Even though the chances were remote, the thought of such an unexpected way to go fixated itself into my psyche. Every time something in my neck cracked or I felt a sensation in my head, I feared I could be gone within minutes and went through any last thoughts, just in case. Eventually I grew up, but even now, if I feel something pop inside, I’ll breathe a little prayer before continuing on.

The butt of my pants is damp from taking all those walks in the rain. No regrets, though.

I still respect the girl from college who once said: “I’m not one to have a relationship with just anyone. I was raised to believe that I deserve the best, and that’s what I go by. I’m not going to settle for anything less; I deserve the best in a relationship.”

            You go, girl.

Anyone familiar with The Metro Times would know that some of the advertisements that the newspaper exhibits are, say…for intended audiences only. In the way back you have the Personals (I see that “Love Slave” is still up there), ads for women who do “services” (always guaranteed a 100% woman!), and then there are the “tranny ads” (not-so-100% women).

            A little ways in you come across a section that’s chock-full of medical marijuana certification ads. All of them look rather cheesy, but I do have a favorite. One of them takes up a whole page, and the caption at the top says: “START A CAREER IN A GROWING FIELD.” The picture they have is of some smiling, successful young people standing in an Eden of pot (“Weeden”), and they also have this guy, this chump right here:

            Now, whenever I flip through this paper and come across this ad, I always smile at this guy. Why? Something about his radiant, beaming face just makes me laugh: he looks like he fits perfectly in this marijuana heaven. Anywhere else he would just be a sucker, but here he has seen the light and found his purpose. And if you strive to become a certified MM caregiver or grower, you can become just like him, lost in a green leafy bliss.

            (I have since decided to tack this picture on my pegboard in my room next to other inspiring bits of media.)

I’ve been running my tongue over my top front teeth lately. I’ve never realized that they were that sharp. It’s infatuating.

The band concert was fantastic. It always is. Superior job, Almont. And I apologize for not sticking around to say “hi” to anyone. It’s…well…you know.

            I guess that’s my last (viewing of a) concert at my old high school. Damn. It’s been a long road.

I couldn’t fall asleep and it was after midnight. It was muggy in my room, and yet out my window the storm poured down. If I could only slip out into the rain, I thought. And then I figured, Why not? I got out of my bed and put some basketball shorts on, and then I quietly snuck down the stairs in the dark to the back door and slid it open.

            I could hear the rain fall all around me. In the darkness I stepped across the soaked wood of the porch while I quickly became wet. Once I was on the patio I paused: This was it. This was what it was like.

            Readers, there is something about being alone and vulnerable and shirtless in the chill nighttime rain that just makes you feel alive. You are in a world where the elements seem to be against you, and yet your heart beats. Looking up, you surrender yourself to the rush of the dark heavens above, and then you know freedom. Let your toes brush along the wet grass and explore the nightscape. Smell the sweet waters that surround you. Breathe in the pure air. It may be wet; it may be cold, but, oh, the burning heart of rapture lies within.

            I could have stood all night out in the nocturnal showers, but I figured at some point that I had experience all that I needed to, and so I crept back inside and tip-toed upstairs. After drying off a little I climbed back in bed, and I’m pretty sure that fell asleep with a smile on my face. A memorable night.

I see that neighbor Greg is fertilizing his lawn. Wearing a blue trim getup; I wonder if that’s part of his motorcycle attire. That’s it, fling that nourishment. Let it slip through your windblown fingers to fall upon your green turf.

I took a walk around town this evening. On the porch of one house sat a girl, somewhere in her twenties. She wore a purple sweater and pink pajama bottoms, and she smoked a cigarette. Her eyes gazed off into space, like she was staring at something I had no hope of seeing myself. The cigarette came to her face and she took in an indifferent pull, blowing out the smoke. I walked on past.

My mother proposed that I have a 21st birthday party this year. I don’t know what to say; most of my friends live far away, and I wouldn’t know how to keep a party going.

Had a Klondike bar for dessert. I knew what a Klondike bar was before I even heard of the actual Klondike. I know I’m not alone.

My iPod is sitting right in front of me. The chrome has worn off from parts of it, and the little orange bar of the “lock” mode has faded to white, but otherwise it works like a charm.

            I lost it back in January of 2009 on Michigan’s west side. Our family had gone there to go snowshoeing, and it must have fallen out somewhere while we were slipping and sliding on the iced-over dunes. I noticed that I didn’t have it when we were back in the car, but we just figured that it was hidden in our luggage somewhere. It wasn’t. I eventually learned to live without it.

            Last week my mother got a call from a strange number. It happened to be a park ranger that we were acquainted with from the same place. He explained that he had my iPod (which has my name on it), and that it had been in the park’s office for some time. Turns out that it had somehow been found the spring following our excursion (after all the snow and ice and sand and who knows what else), and was turned in. But it somehow got misplaced in the office, and so remained out of sight for two years. And then it resurfaced when they were cleaning things out recently. He said he’d mail it to our house, and my mother thanked him

            It’s still functional, just the way I left it. I don’t quite know what to say at this point.

(I bet Apple would really like to hear the above story.)

As I write this, our old kitchen is being redone. The spot I knew for my whole life is now a space of bare wood and pink insulation. The refrigerator is moved into the dining room; the oven is sitting near the computer here. Everything’s sort of humble-jumbled around here.

            On the side of that, I’m slowly transitioning back to life in Almont here. It’s a little different since most of my friends are off and far away. I find myself walking around town almost every day, and also riding my bike through the countryside, which is a pleasure. I read a lot, too. Still, it’s a shift.

            On top of that I have summer classes. I’m commuting, which is something new for me. Every Monday, Wednesday and Thursday I head off in the morning and come home in the evening, almost like a working man. I have one class before lunch and one after. You notice in the summer that it’s not quite the same walking around campus: there’s an empty feeling hanging about the place. In the period between the two classes I go to read with my friend, who works on campus, but even then it seems quiet.

            All of this seems to have set a recent mood on me of which I cannot fully describe.

My dad is a twin. I bet not many of you can say that. Ha!

            (But he’s just a fraternal twin; it’s not that awesome.)

My uncle used to live on his sailboat. I always thought that was cool.

While fear persists, peace cannot exist.

I think you know something’s wrong with you when you find yourself buying meat off of the Internet.

Someone’s parked right in front of our house. Maybe he’s spying on me. Wait, never mind, it’s just one of the builders.

My friend Fara asked me if I had any hobbies, and I told her that I really didn’t. I think one of my drawbacks is that I’m not skilled at too many things. She suggested I take up knitting, and said that she would help me learn. Perhaps I’ll take her up on that offer.

Looks like my brother will have to get glasses. I still maintain that more than half of all the people I know wear glasses or contacts.

It is Friday. I have a job interview at 11:00. We’ll see what else happens today.

Every so often I go over to my neighbor’s house for a haircut. A mother of two, she runs a miniature haircutting business from the basement of her own home. I go over and she greets me at the door, letting me in and asking how I’ve been. She shows me downstairs to her work area—a swiveling chair that sits in front of a big mirror and a bureau that holds all of her supplies. I sit down; she drapes the cape over me and asks what I would like this time. Whatever I had last time, I usually say. She sprays my hair wet with a water bottle (historically my least favorite part of a haircut) and begins to snip, snip, snip away. We chat about life, college, her family, mine. I usually sit with my eyes closed as she does her work, answering her questions and making comments. When she’s done, I look it over, thank her, and pay her ten dollars. We go back upstairs where she always shows me her three parakeets. They are very interesting creatures; one of them is even trained to sit on your finger. Sooner or later I say goodbye and leave. It’s always an experience.

I do believe I was in Washington D.C. four years ago today (Tuesday), on a band trip. We stopped there on the way to Norfolk, Virginia, to play in Williamsburg. I remember traveling with a group around the Smithsonian museums before finally meeting up with the rest of the group to have lunch at the Reagan Center. Now, I remember that I got one thing there, and that was cake. Italian cake. Man, that was perhaps the best slice of cake I’ve ever had. The Italians really do know how to do their stuff.

            After lunch we went to a hotel room to change into our nice clothes, and then we made a quick stop to view the White House before going to eat dinner at a sports bar. Then we were off to the Kennedy Center for the Arts to see the National Symphony. I must say, it was one classy evening.  The large hall we sat in was tailored to the fanciest degree. We listened to performances of the works of Antonín Dvořák, smaller ones at first, and then one that was forty-five minutes long. I still remember my band teacher’s triumphant “Hurrah!” at the moment the piece ended. We filed out and made our way to the bus for the night journey to Norfolk.

Driving home today, I slowed down just the slightest bit as a big semi truck swung way out in the distance to enter a small local nursery. It reminded me of how someone was killed there a few months ago from pulling out in front of a semi.

This Facebook thing is not the same as face-to-face contact. It’s less. I miss my college friends.

I see that my little tomato plant is germinating. One of the floors in my dorm gave it to me before I left.

Found my grandfather’s old straw cowboy hat. Going to have to find or invent a good time to wear this thing around.

There’s a Canadian penny sitting in front of me. My brother used a blue pen on it to outline the bust of the Queen. It’s easy to get bored around here.

At the end of one year of band in high school I was given the mock election award for “The Biggest Tromboner.” I have no further comment.

Just watched the neighbor’s dog go across our patio. Her name is Sadie, and she’s going deaf. We used to think that the neighbors trained her to always relieve herself in our yard. She’s a Boston Terrier; the one before her was named Trixie, and there were three or four other Trixies before her.

A trove of my grandmother’s books just surfaced from the basement, including novels such as Shogun by James Clavell, The House of the Seven Gables by Nathaniel Hawthorne, Chariots of Fire by W. J. Weatherby, and the four volumes of A History of the English-Speaking Peoples by Winston S. Churchill. I think I’ll put them on my list of summer readings. Anyone ever read any of these classics?

Most chewing gums are made with a type of rubber these days. Just so you know.

As much as I may grumble about the cafeteria food at college, I’m a sucker when it comes to making breakfast or lunch for myself at home. I try and do the least amount of culinary work to satisfy my dietary needs. For breakfast: Option #1 is toast with peanut butter on it; Option #2 is a boiled egg; #3 is cereal, which I reach for the least because we only have three so-so kinds—Crispix, shredded wheat and granola. I rarely stray beyond these simplistic boundaries.

            For lunch, I go for leftovers first if we have them: just throw them in the microwave (or eat them cold) and you’re set. If those are not present, I might just stand in a confused state for a while, trying to decide what to do. Many times I take the snacking route, nibbling on raisins or nuts or whatever simple food there is for the afternoon. I hardly have the will to make myself a sandwich or cook something on the stove. If my mother is around, many times she will graciously make me a dish along with her own meal, but happens only part of the time. I think I’ll have to work to overcome this cooking conundrum before I get an apartment in the fall.

You go to Canada through Port Huron and make your way up the coast a bit until you come across an Indian reservation. Keep following the coast and soon you find a small, secluded rocky peninsula called Kettle Point. You have to park your car in order to walk along it. Many of the rocks that make it up are called kettles, a geological phenomenon consisting of perfectly spherical boulders. On either side the shallow waters move in their own way; sometimes it seems like the currents change direction, flowing one way and then flowing the other. It juts quite a ways out; there’s not another living soul around. Peaceful with a hint of eeriness.

            That is the most haunting place I have ever been to. I don’t know when I’ll return.

Happy Cinco de Mayo!