Because the best reappearances are fleeting

Well, it all began one Friday night before I knew you--two years ago, to be precise. Since I had no one to chat with, I was very bored and decided to teach my plunger how to sing.

Of course, due to the plunger's complete lack of vocal chords, I couldn't get it to sing. It didn't matter how many methods I tried; it remained as dumb as the day it had been made somewhere in Tajikistan.

Exasperated at this, I screamed out into the night, "I would give my soul to allow this plunger the gift of speech!"

In a flash of fire, Satan appeared in my bedroom closet.

"Aha! You wish to give your immortal soul, the most important thing in your possession, for something material, ephemereal and ultimately disappointing?" He asked. "I can set you up with that."

"Well, I figure a singing plunger is probably worth an eternity in Hell," I responded. "So I think I'll accept your propostion."

Unbeknownst to Lucifer, however, I had had the time to set up a pentagram and murder ten people through my Death Note while He extirped Himself from my freshly ironed shirts and pants. Therefore, thanks to the deaths of Dan Greene and Jethro Tull, my soul was now in nine other objects.

And so, I accepted his deal. Within minutes, the plunger began to sing. I was overjoyed!

"And now," the Fallen One crowed, "you owe me your soul!"

"Not so fast, Fairest," I responded. "Which one?"

"W-w-what do you mean, which one?" He stammered. "A human only has one soul..."

"Not me," I explained calmly. "My soul exists in many different things. I can't take it out... you'll have to do it yourself."

"Oh, that's okay," the relieved demon sighed. "Where are the soul fragments?"

"I don't know," I said, grinning.

"You don't... KNOW?" Lucifer's surprise grew to a hellish furor. A rain of hellfire shot out of his mouth and into the room, nearly torching Mephistopheles and burning a hole through the wall. "Then how am I supposed to GET YOUR SOUL?"

"Do it yourself," I suggested. "Find my soul."

"Damn you!" He (ironically) cried. "Damn you!"

"Not yet," I chided. "Not until you get my soul."

With a final cry of rage, he disappeared back into Hell.

And so, that is why I protect certain objects in my life more than others... because if Satan finds them, I'm one-tenth closer to eternal damnation.

(End.)

This has absolutely nothing to do with anything, but I found it funny. It originated in an MSN conversation.

My favourite sentence is, "In a flash of fire, Satan appeared in my bedroom closet."

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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

Eight hours, forty-four minutes and a few seconds.

Six hundred and nine pages.

It was one hell of a ride.

Not that special

A particularly habitual thing happened to me today.

What, did you think I was going to say that something wonderful or amazing had happened? Perhaps I could have begun my post with a good hook, like a literary reference: "Call me Salerio." Or perhaps something shocking: "Stabbing isn't as fun as I thought it would be." Or even something like "Something new and interesting happened to me today." Anything to get the audience interested in my life. But I choose not to do so. It seems to me that some bloggers write stuff like "on my way to the Parliament this morning..." or "I fought off ninjas today..." just to make their lives seem more glamorous and interesting.

Not me. I don't put any icing on that cake. Geared towards the average rather than the exceptional, I am. That's the funny thing about life: it always seems mediocre, but really it depends on... but that's a topic for another day. I digress.

Anyways, something habitual. I was singing while walking up to the train station, which is perfectly habitual for me. And my sister was telling me to stop it, as she usually does.

People are staring, she says.

Thing is, there was nobody around. But in any case, the squabbling with my sister made me think: what's so wrong with singing in public? Or humming in public? Or, for that matter, whistling or talking or making any type of noise in public?

And that, again, made me think: why does it bother her and not me? My level of self-consciousness is about zero(well, let's face it. I'm an actor), but I still know when I'm making people uncomfortable. My sister, on the other hand, freaks out when I'm wearing the wrong kind of pants(what's so wrong with blue plaid cotton pants?).

I find it strange, the chasm between my sister and I's view of what is normal. For me, it seems the social acceptance scale was thrown away a long time ago. I'm not sure whether it's good or not, but I suppose it'll make for an interesting life. Perhaps I'll be able to start one of my entries with:

"Something interesting happened to me today..."

A new beginning. I guess.

Hmm.

This is a strange situation to be in. I feel the need to blog, but for some reason can't come up with a good idea. Though, then again, perhaps that's my problem: trying to get ideas. Perhaps I should stop trying to write about ideas and just write. I mean, how many people are going to gripe about it if I incoherently ramble on about anything and anything, without just ranting? Three? I can live with that. I've gotten more criticism for making sandwiches. This blog will now become a receptacle of wayward thoughts and idle brainwaves. Be warned, peasants. this could get ugly.

So, what to talk about in this new beginning of blogging? Well, I'm listening to Styx. Which is strange, because I don't particularly like Dennis DeYoung's voice. Perhaps because he reminds me that my voice can't go that high, which hurts my singing ego.

Now here's a topic for you: why do prog rock singers have such high voices? I mean, think about it. John Anderson sounds as if he hasn't yet hit puberty. Don't talk to me about Phil Collins, either­. It's quite annoying to sing to, I tell you. Falsettoing my way through a ten-minute song is not my idea of a fun time.

Is this true musical torture? Prog rock: high voices and long songs. And long, instrumental passages which are impossible to repeat by yourself because of the sheer musical virtuosity of the other band members. I get so frustrated by my choices in music sometimes, I tell you.

Oh, Johnny Cash just came on. Now that's something I can sing to.

Oh, and as an afterthought: Fresh template love. I was getting annoyed with the other one.

I've just been through one of the most mentally exerting challenges in my entire life: arguing with a three-year-old.

Now, I like to think of myself as mildly competent in the fine liberal art(is that a pun? Must check) of debating. My arguments may not be the most stable ones and I'm told that I back up fact by opinion, but when it comes to kicking off an annoying sec. 1 off the library computer, I can put up a pretty good verbal joust. I've passionately fought teachers, fellow students and even the occasional train guard with nothing but logic as my spear and reason as my mount.

However, last night, I faced my most dangerous opponent yet. A three-year-old child.

Small children, let me tell you, are the most difficult debating opponents in the world. It's not that they have irrefutable evidence or a mastery of rhetoric or anything--oftentimes their arguments don't even make sense. It's just that they're so damn persistent. For example: putting pyjamas on.

I ask her if she'd like her Dora the Explorer pyjamas.

No, I want my Dora pyjamas, she replies.

But those are your Dora pyjamas.

No, I want my real Dora pyjamas.

There aren't any other.

I want my Dora pyjamas!

And you know what the worst thing is? You can't win. Not ever. If you're winning, they pout and cry and occasionally scream so that you have to let them have their way, because it's nine o'clock and the parents are coming in soon, and they had to be in bed half an hour ago.

So here's what I propose: forget debating. The next time I need a bratty sec. 1 to get off the computer, I'm bringing a three-year-old with me and watching as the (older) kid dissolves into tears.

Richard Scrimger Owns My Soul

I came out of the library yesterday holding something I don't usually hold: a book with less than three hundred pages. (Usually, my page range is from 300 to 700-ish, and I read about four books a week. I think there's a reason why my eyesight is dropping faster than a carrot down a horse's gullet.)

That book was Richard Scrimger's The Way To Schenectady, the most brilliant novel about stowaway hoboes I have ever read. Or, come to think of it, the only novel about stowaway hoboes I have ever read. In any case, it was a good one, but I couldn't help but notice that dear Mr. Scrimger owns my soul.

Why make such a bold claim? Because the book is a reflection of my life. Well, certain aspects of my life. I've never been in a car on the way to Schenectady; I've never helped an elderly man stow away under the seat to get to his brother's funeral.

But the baby's name is Bernie. My name is Bernard. Sharing a name with a book character probably wouldn't be particularly odd if your name is Harry, or John, or Simon. But when you have a name like mine, you look out for your name in whatever you read. When you are the only Bernard in a town of fifty thousand, you snatch any proof that your parents didn't invent your name at any occasion. And while it may possibly have been a complete coincidence, I think that somehow Mr. Scrimger unconsciously--because he owns my soul--decided to put my name in that book.

Secondly: fingernails. I am a freak of nature when it comes to fingernails. Since I'm a guitarist, I have to either use a pick, which is for sissy guitarists, or grow my fingernails on only one hand, which is for manly guitarists. I, of course, am a manly guitarist, and consequently get odd looks shot at my hand from time to time. People often compare my right-hand nails to claws. But guess what? Marty, the stowaway hobo, has long nails on his right hand. Because he played guitar. Again, having a physical characteristic similar to a character's wouldn't be particularly odd if it were brown hair or green eyes, but when you're talking about a guy with long fingernails on his right hand, the coincidence is improbable.

Conclusion: Richard Scrimger owns my soul. He knows where I sleep. I will now live my life in fear of him, certain that one day a sibling of mine will have her funeral service in Schenectady and a girl who recently dyed her hair will offer the pile of old rags that is my old carcass a can of root beer. I just hope their car doesn't break down, because I'm horrible at mechanics.

Holy crap.

Sorry for the not-so-PG title. Oh well. If you're under twelve and reading this, you shouldn't be on the Internet anyways, you little punk.

I am taking a break from writing a story to speak of another story. This one, however, has come to an end rather than a beginning.

Macbeth is over.

Over. Holy crap, the emotions that can go into that word. We had our two presentations last night and I don't think words can define what I felt backstage.

I remember sitting cross-legged in the darkness next to the curtain before the show, hearing the low rumble of the audience and thinking, this is what I live for. The Leviathan.

I remember coming onstage for the first time and seeing everybody in the audience through the mist of the smoke machines and not even caring, because I was no longer myself. I was Malcolm.

I remember listening to the audience when the ghost of Banquo came out and hearing nothing, not a laugh, not a whisper.

I remember the lights shining on me as I spoke for the final time and the roar from the audience as the stage was covered in darkness for our exit.

I remember the applause and the screams of delight when Donaldbain and I bowed.

I remember the audience standing--standing!--when we all came out for a second round.

I remember the hugs, the kisses, the screams of happiness at the end.

To those who were in the play with me: It was an honor to share the stage with you. I will never forget this production. Ever. For months we toiled restlessly for this play, and we came out on that stage with more than I ever would have thought possible from us.

I can't wait 'till next year.