acetaminophen, you see the medicine, oh girl, you have no faith in medicine
Still teh sick, but managed to get through my classes today. Not really sure how. Probably going to call in sick to Teeter tonight.
Not much in way of e/n to report. We have a new CSC at Teeter. Her name is Renée. I say this simply so I can write the 'é' that is in the name 'Renée.'
The Oscars last night were a sham. Aviator should have swept all the awards. At least they gave Charlie Kaufman an award, I was very happy about that. However, only letting him speak thirty seconds and then giving Jamie Foxxx five minutes to talk about his grandmother was unconscionable.
illiterati lumen fedei, god is with us everyday
Being sick sucks. I just want to curl up in a ball and stay that way while people tell me amusing stories while I zone in and out of listening.
This people calling me and not leaving messages is getting creepy. Maybe I have a stalker. I wish.
his goal in life was to be an echo
The Verdict is everyone. Guy I know, he randomly met Kurt the other day. Another friend of mine saw someone in a Verdict shirt. Guy from before, girl sitting behind him in a class is listening to Verdict on headphones. Friend of mine will be opening for Verdict in April. Verdict is everyone.
In other un-related news, today was the third anniversary of the Target thread. If you don't know what that is, count yourself lucky.
unlock my body and move myself to dance
What the UScan is really saying:
"Please scan your Harris Teeter VIC card now!"
Take your little card, and put that little bar thingey facing TOWARDS the scanner...that's it...no, no! Not away from the scanner! Get your finger off the code!
"Please scan your first item, and place it in the bag."
Scan ONE item, and then put it directly in the bag before scanning another item!
"Please place the item on the scanner, and wait."
Place it on the scanner. It's a scale, dude. You can't put it on for two seconds and expect it to register. No! Don't take it off! Get back here! I said WAIT! Why are you asking the cashier for help?!
"Please remove all items or objects from the scanner, and wait."
Please sit there confounded while the cashier laughs at you for putting your purse on the scanner. It'll just be a moment. Once he's sufficiently laughed, please take your purse off so you can continue your order.
"Please show your ID to the cashier now."
Please turn your ugly mug towards the cashier for a moment so that he can verify that in fact you are sixty, wrinkly, pale, and buying a twelve-pack of Miller Lite.
"Do you have any items under your cart?"
I mean CHECK under your cart. And everywhere else. Do you have any more items? Why are you pressing the button before I finish talking? Did you even LOOK?
"Do you have any coupons?"
Remember thirty seconds ago when you were trying to scan your coupons and your cashier told you to wait until now to do them? You need to hit YES now. No, not the NO button. NO! NO!! HIT YES YOU IDIOT!
"Please give all coupons to the cashier now."
Why are you scanning them again? Stop it! Give. Them. To. The. Cashier. This is easy!"
"Please choose your method of payment, and touch the screen where indicated."
Remember when you were complaining to the cashier thirty seconds ago that your payment wasn't going through, and he told you to hit Pay Now, and then when you get to this screen, hit Debit? Well, this is the time to do it. No. You can't keep sliding your card. It won't work. Stop it. Stop. St--STOP. HIT THE DEBIT BUTTON!
"Remember to take your cash, located below the scanner."
Okay, this is easy. I'm putting a picture up for you and everything. All you have to do is reach down and get your money. But, you're still going to stand there clueless while the cashier laughs at you. It's okay, really. It's part of why the cashier doesn't mind his job. Please put a really confounded look on your face, it's the key. Please don't mind if the cashier takes a picture. We have a wall for these things.
In other news,
"Have fun with your tattoo."
"I will. First, I'm going to put some oinment on it. And hide it from my dad."
she fell in love with the drummer
If you're the person who keeps calling me with a 704-651-**** number, please call again, but next time leave a message. I don't mind you calling me, I just want to know who you are.
Working tonight.
ahem
there's bourbon on the breath of the singer you love so much
he takes all his lyrics from the books you don't read anyway
his jaw's been broken, his bandage wrapped too tight
his fangs have been pulled, and I really want to see you tonight
In more confirmation of my geekiness, I am now on The Facebook. Pathetic, I know. But what's actually funny is, no matter how esoteric you think your interests are, there's always like 15 people with the exact same interest put on their profile. In that vein, I have started the most esoteric groups I could possibly think of. One of them, a Fan Club for one of my History teachers, got 2 other members within half an hour. Kind of scary, really.
I really should stop finding the Live Journals and Blogs of people I know. People are entirely too honest in these things.
at least that's what you said
'Spiders (Kidsmoke)' lasted a half an hour, I swear to God.
Wow.
Jeff Tweedy is, and I will say this many times, Jeff Tweedy is the man. People kept calling out songs they wanted the band to play next, and at one point, one dude yelled out 'PLAY SHE'S A JAR!' while Tweedy was still singing the last line of the song. He said,
"Okay, what the ****, man? Does anyone know what the last line of that song was? It was a ****ing Woody Guthrie line. It was the most important line in the song! Oh, you didn't know that? Well maybe if you'd shut the **** up and listen, maybe you'd learn something once in a while!"
Much later, they come back for an encore, and he says,
"You know, maybe I was too hard on that guy. Well, not that I'm apologizing. See, 'cause there's two sorts of people in the world. You know how when you're playing a record for a friend, and you're really into it, and you want to get them into it, but then he starts talking? Don't you just want to strangle him? This reminds me of my dad. This one time, I was playing a really long song, it was like 30 movements, and I was really trying to concentrate, and he turns to the person next to him, and says, 'You know, I'd really love to hear 'She's a Jar.' The man has never gone an entire meal without wishing for the next one! Wow, this steak is good, but boy could I use some lobster right now!"
Then, right before the end, he says,
"You know, 'She's a Jar' was on our list. But it isn't on our list any more. We'll play it tomorrow, we'll play it next week, but we're not going to play it tonight. Just because of you, man."
He eventually relented, but not after an enormous amount of 'awwwws' from the audience.
Great guy. And the show itself was fantastic, too. New arraignments, new structuring of songs, dissolving into dissonance and feedback, and then starting a new song...all the good stuff. Yeah, and it's Wilco, so it's gonna be good.
Wow, man. Wow. Well worth every penny. The guy I was with said he didn't really like the dissonance. I mean, I guess I can't blame him, but...HE DIDN'T LIKE THE DISSONANCE? Some people, eh?
and no one's listening
At what point did I stop being the guy laughing at the people doing price checks, and start being the guy doing the price check?
Since when am I the guy people go to for advice?
Isn't it just a little sad that I'm really good at table tennis?
off with his head man, off with his head man why don't you remember my name?-- I guess he does
So I suppose I have someone to see Wilco with. Not my first choice, but at least it's a friendly human, and on top of that, it turns out that a couple of my other friends will be there too, Christina and Jason, which just ups the ante of the fun.
...
I'm seeing Wilco on Monday.
...
//dances
Today is Jimmy Traver's birthday. He is 21. Everyone, wish him a happy birthday, and pray that he won't kill himself at the bar tonight.
it's a war on war
There's an article about Wilco in today's paper.
Nothing much to report. I should point out (by way of bragging) that my IPMs (that would be Items Per Minute) are at around 35-40 now. The HT 'goal' is 25, and most people have between 17-23. We apparently will be getting a new Customer Service Manager, replacing Wendy, who will join us on the first of March. I'm hoping for the best.
Working pretty much all weekend, then Wilco on Monday.
one night only
Okay. To everyone out there in the blogosphere:
If you, or anyone you know, would be interested in seeing the Grammy award winning band Wilco on Monday, Feburary the 21st, I have one ticket (quite a nice seat) that I will provide to you, free of charge. The concert is at 8 o'clock, Oven's Auditorium will open for seating at 7, parking deck opens at 6. Two caveats:
1. You will have to sit next to me. There's just no way to get around that one.
2. Parking will cost something, although carpooling is a readily available option.
Okay, if anyone else is still reading, examine yourself. Do you have any interest in seeing an absolutly amazing band, in a great venue, for the hard to beat price of $0? If so, you have a couple options:
1. Post a comment as to your interest right here in the comment box.
2. Shoot me an e-mail, to gregory.harbin@gmail.com
3. Or call by phone, 704.975.9027. Operators are standing by.
Please let me know even if you only have interest, and are not sure you want to or can go. I hope to hear from someone soon, or I'm going to just start offering this thing to complete strangers.
I always thought I'd see your name in flashing lights
NIN is coming out with a new CD in May. [anakin]Yipee![/anakin]
I'm *this close* to knowing if I can go see Wilco. Signs point to 'yes.' New just to find someone to take my other ticket.
I am one of only 8 people in my Astronomy class to get an A on the first test. The girl that sits next to me got a 54. Here's the actual Grade Distribution for Exam 1. Abysmal is the word she used. But not referring to me, of course.
the freckles in our eyes are mirror images
I brought home the Love Express poster from work. Why? I really couldn't tell you. But it's awesome.
In related news, people should come by my work more often. It's awesome.
In related news, I missed Evamarie's guitar playing today, and that made me sad. I was quite close to just leaving school, but then I realised that would be a bad idea.
America: The Book is quite good and all of you should read it.
she's all alone again, wiping the tears from her eyes
If I hear one more girl complain about how horrible men are and how they never get them anything good for Valentine's Day I think I'm going to, oh, I don't know, but it's something violent.
Working tonight from like 4 to 11. Yay and wonderful.
i am finally seeing why i was the one worth leaving
Fun weekend.
I don't even know where to start.
People rock, at least most of them.
My thumb hurts from where a big rose thorn decided to attack me.
our mama shoulda just named ya laika
I guess I'm just a pushover for girls in bright green jackets and matching Chuck Taylor's.
Went to Applebee's tonight, Katie was great as usual.
Saw The Aviator. I can honestly say that it was one of the greatest movies I've ever seen, although it took a scene or two to get used to Cate Blanchett doing a Kate Hepburn impression.
if you still want me, please forgive me
For some reason, every time I play The Arcade Fire's Funeral in my car, I feel like singing along. I never sing along with any other albums, but I seem to always sing along to that one.
Still haven't gotten any of my tests back yet, nor have I gotten a responce back from my ENGL teacher on my paper. I had to read the first three chapters of The Great Gatsby for English tomorrow. I struggled through it, but I think I got through without too much scarring.
I called two people today, talked to neither of them. I went to go see one person today, and talked to her. And people wonder why I hate the phone.
I'm a saint
I wrote this for English class, comments would be appreciated:
Flash in the Pan
by gregory harbin
A lone Ford four-door moved past green farmland, its loud green flowing over the more muted grass and ground colors of the pastures. An observer from behind the fence would take note of the car for a moment, then the memory would fade, not leaving much of a stain upon peaceful memories of cows, and of sheep, and of peaceful Sunday dinners with the preacher.
A sturdy male hand lay on the steering wheel, its fingernails blackened by polish applied at around one in the morning the previous night. The girl's name had been Christine, or Amanda, or something. A large dose of tap water in the morning, and Jason had fully recovered, although he wished his recollections were a little clearer. He knew that at around seven, his cell phone had buzzed in his pocket, and at the prompting of a collection of friends, he had driven ten miles, parked in front of a house, and gone through the semi-open door. His memories at that point became more fuzzy, as his senses were taken over by the sounds and sights and smells of another hundred highly connected twenty-four year olds. He could still feel phantom humans on his shoulders and elbows from the effort of pushing through the crowd, struggling to find someone he knew. Glancing over a sea of heads, he noticed someone, a dark-haired post-punker in a Clash jacket, and he started to move towards her.
A grey Olds bumper leapt frantically into his field of vision, and somehow both of his hands moved onto his wheel, his mind just now realizing that was still there, and with his mind still remarking how strange it was that he'd forgotten, his hands moved the Focus back into its proper lane. The other driver didn't even notice that he'd been there; he was a sixty-something geriatric with a permanent handicapped parking tag and a penchant for focusing on ten feet in front and nothing more. Jason felt compelled to laugh at the old man's ignorance, but he realized that he happened to be at fault here, and it was a miracle he'd pulled the car away in time, and it's probably best not to tempt fate anyway, right? He pushed the gas pedal gently against the floor, taking note amusingly of the speed limit sign.
He shouted to the girl in the Clash jacket, who couldn't hear him over the ugly mainstream music blaring over an anonymous stereo system. He almost tripped over someone that suddenly halted his momentum, and then moved on wordlessly. He sighed, and pushed a sigh out, muttered an obscenity at no one, and continued his push onward.His body moved past the others, becoming indistinguishable from the others. Amid a sea of humans, he latched onto the sound of his own heart pumping, the only rhythm that was his own. The soft beating, the warm fluid flowing quickly past organs: livers, and kidneys, and spleens. The veins in his hands grew large, oxygen-starved blood rushing through, gasping for the sweet relief of the lungs.
Warren G. Pickford drove silently in his grey Oldsmobile down the old highway right outside town. He was seventy-five years old, and he was entitled to drive whatever speed he wanted to, down whatever road he wanted to. He also was entitled to his silence. That new Ford, hardly able to call itself a Ford after all the changes that company had gone through, after all the pandering it had done to the younger generation, that new Ford was only a momentary annoyance, he could keep from paying attention to it, at least once the sound of its wimpy engine would die down. The Ford slipped on the pavement, ducked down into the valley by the side of the road, and then rose up again to the surface, and with the loud reverberation of bending metal, it crashed into the median barrier.
Warren pulled out of his lane, applied the brake quickly, watched for traffic, then opened his door. No other cars were on the road with them. He picked up his cane from the seat beside him, placed it on the ground beneath him, and, supporting himself on his good leg, his right, he moved from his car. The sun beat down on his bald head, and he squinted into the air before him. The Ford's engine was on fire. An ambulance and fire engine must be called, but Warren didn't have a phone. He didn't carry a phone. In this instant he cursed himself for the constant soliloquies he would preach to his middle-aged children about the evils of the American Cell Phone. But it didn't matter. The boy, he was sure it was a boy, in the Ford, would surely carry a phone. His main objective should be to get the boy out of the car, away from the burning fuel, and hope that the boy was lucid enough to call someone.
The girl in the Clash jacket had disappeared. He knew Mark had to be around somewhere, but he couldn't find him. He sat down on a couch, hoping that it would be able to ground him, but instead, he sunk into the cushions, and didn't get up for a half an hour. He accepted a few drinks from passersby, and then someone said something to him, and he got up, and followed the sound. He heard it again, closer this time, and he glanced around furiously, sure he would locate the source at any moment. But his head wouldn't move, he realized with a start.
"Young man! Young man? Do you understand what I'm saying?" The boy's face was covered in blood and glass. Warren had helped enough men back from unconsciousness to know that it simply took time. But he also couldn't just stand there, waiting for the boy to die. He couldn't move the boy, he would risk injury to him. What if his neck was broken? What if Warren couldn't lift him? There were too many variables. And he couldn’t take the risk. The fire grew larger and larger as each passing moment went by. He needed someone to drive past. Anyone would be fine. Almost everyone carried a phone these days.
Laura Whitaker owned a small business on Trade Street. She drove a black BMW, which parked next to white BMWs, and red BMWs, and grey BMWs. She was leasing hers, and probably many of the others had purchased them, and at least the exorbitant sum they spent each week went towards eventually owning the car. But she did have one, and that was the important thing. Christian rock played over her stereo system. She had grown quickly tired of the talk station; the light rock station had wearied her, and the oldies station had too many commercials. And this way she at least felt like she was doing something good, if even it was a small thing.
She noticed smoke ahead of her on the road. She pulled out her cell phone, pressed down on her accelerator, and sped closer to what she could now see was a burning four-door which had crashed into the median barrier. An old man was standing outside the passenger side door, leaning on his cane, and shouting into the car. She slid her car gently behind the four-door, and then the old man noticed her. She quickly dialed 911, and got out of her car.
“Who’s in there?” she shouted to the man. “It’s a kid. He’s beat up really bad. I need you to call emergency!” “I’m already calling 911—yes, hello! There’s, there’s an accident.” She gave the operator her location, and was told that an ambulance was on its way. She ended the call.
The man was looking at her “Did you tell her the car was on fire?” She thought back. “No, I didn’t.”
“It’s important, we need a fire truck. This car is dangerous.” The man was shouting at her. She grabbed her cell phone again.
“No, just help me get him out.”
“What?”
“Just help me get him out of the car. Out of the car. You and me.”
“Aren’t you supposed to wait for the emergency personnel?”
“Lady, I’m happy you’re here, I really am. You needed to call 911, and I’m glad you did. But right now, I need you to do what I tell you. We have to get this boy out.”
The boy’s neck was broken, according to the paramedics who got there fifteen minutes later. But by then, the fire had swept through the cab of the car, and he would surely have died had they not moved him. The paramedics had thanked them for their help, and moved him into the ambulance. They never saw him again.
Warren and Laura were never the same. Jason died in the hospital, a result of complications from surgery. His family sued the doctors and the hospital for five million dollars in real and punitive damages. The case has yet to see a courtroom, but newspapers are already warming up to the story. Warren and Laura have given depositions to both sides in the lawsuit, and the plaintiff’s lawyers had decided that neither of them was negligent. Before the TV cameras, Jason’s family thanked Warren and Laura for what they did to help save their boy. The unspoken insinuation was that if the doctors had done what Warren and Laura had done, their boy would still be alive. And they wanted to prevent this tragedy from happening to another family.
Warren died four months later of a heart attack, old age catching up to him. Laura’s business increased slightly after her name was mentioned in the paper. She returned her black BMW to the dealership. Something had changed about the car, but she couldn’t figure out what. She was happy, however, to never see it again.
where have all the martyrs gone
Today was...Boring. Mellow. Tiredful.
I'm reading John Grisham's The Brethren right now. Well, not right now, but you know what I mean. Anyway, it's really good. At least, good if you're talking from the point of view of just a normal story sort of novel. You're not going to find brilliance like in Hornby or Franzen books, but it's a nice thing to consume if you've got time to fill.
In other news, I was going to buy a new pair of Converses over the weekend, but my mother decided that I couldn't spend my money on any more Converses, and if I wanted to buy shoes, I would only be allowed to purchase what she calls 'real shoes,' which means shoes made of leather, i.e. Rockports, i.e. shoes I would never wear. Suggestions?
till then I walk alone
An easy Econ test, an easy WCHA test. Yay.
Now I have to study for what will probably be an easy Astron test tomorrow...
is it overwhelming to use a crane to crush a fly?
Ever had a short term life goal (thinking three-six months) that unexpectantly happens long before you expect it to?
That happened to me this morning.
I'm a rebel vigilante
So Jason Pearson comes up to me today at work and says 'Do you know Erin Coffin?' It's always interesting when people find my blog/web site, and then learning how they found it. And it's also weird to find out about some people that still read it. And it's annoying not knowing if certain people still read it.
I feel like being emo for a moment.
Life is actually pretty good right now. I'm meeting great people, I'm getting back into friendships where friendships had been broken, and I'm not failing school. I'm learning guitar, I'm learning song writing, I'm learning whether or not I have anything to say. I've reached the point in my (fiction) writing that I can write nice, connecting sentences that flow and everyone congratulates me for how well it's written, so now I have to step back and figure out what I'm trying to say with what I'm writing.
One theory I'm working with at the moment is that I can write the stories that come to my mind, write them as vividly as I see them, write the people acting exactly as I see them, and in all that, a point, a 'moral' will arise from the story without me having to spend time sloppily slapping a point onto my narrative. Life is life, right? Maybe I'm the only one that finds stories of people's lives other than mine interesting with nothing blatantly attached to them as something I'm supposed to 'learn' from having read. Maybe I'm the only one that thinks any day is a lesson, and any day you read is an extra lesson you got to learn. But I think I can't be the only one.
The main trick is writing people different from me. But how do I know how people other than me think? This is where I think that writing is 10% writing skills and 90% acting skills. You've got to put your characters in a room and have them all be themselves. In TV and film, you get separate human actors putting themselves into the roles that you right, so right there, you know everyone's differences. But in written text, you have to give a specific voice to each person in the story. I was reading John Grisham's The Testament, and I realized quickly that none of the characters acted or thought differently from any of the others, unless we're talking blatant stereotypical exposition, as in the teenage son wanting to start a rock band. Sure, he gave them motivation, but motivation is not character, motivation is what you add to a character to give him a purpose in the story. But you still need to have a person, a base person, separate from all other persons, that you apply the motivation to. If you have an old man who is dying, you must know who the man was when he was young, and when he was middle aged, and then when he was old before he was dying, before you can know how he would think when he is old and dying. I am considering just writing myriad backstory for every character in my stories, text that the public will never see, but text that will inform every second of my character's lives in the story.
And maybe that's just where I'm heading in my writing 'journey.' Maybe that's what I really need to do. This is my character when he was born, this is him at five, at ten, at fifteen, ect. These are the important things that happened in his life. Then I write the narrative that I want to tell.
'Holly and Jason are nice people,' I tell my mother. I'd like to meet more nice people, you know that? People that are simply nice to be around. People that aren't expecting something from you, that you're not expecting something from.
I'm working tomorrow (well, this, if you want to get technical) morning, ten until I think six pm or so. Amanda should be working some of that, and I think Eric's coming in at 2.30, so it should be fun, aside from me being a bagger, and the masses of football fans. It can't be worse than last Friday, though, so all should be good.
Two more things:
1. Jealousy, thy name is Gregory.
2. If I was able to post a private message I would do so extolling the name of someone whom I will not mention because I cannot post private messages.
i...i should have been listen to eeeevery word you said
School today was incredibly boring. Looks like it will be boring tomorrow as well. At least the days are moving faster now.
I'm working on a short story for English. Why we're writing our own fiction in a class called Writing About Lit, I don't know, but apparently we are.
I'm also still trying to write lyrics for what will eventually become some sort of CD that I will put out under the name Johannes.
Okay. I'm going to post this thing, because everyone else is and I don't like feeling left out. Respond, please:
[01] Reply with your name and I will write something about you.
[02] I will then tell what song[s] remind me of you.
[03] Next, I will tell you who you remind me of, celebrity/animated or otherwise.
[04] Last, I will try to name a single word that best describes you.
listen to my eyes
Everyone should have a blog. That way I wouldn't have to call them to make sure that they're still alive.
Velcro Mary linked to me from their news page. I feel special now.
I talked to someone interesting last night. That was interesting. I wonder if she'd want to see Wilco? Still don't know if I'm going or not, though, so I guess it's a moot point.
No work until Friday. It's weird not working for so long.
i've got a paper cut, and now you can make it worse
Why is it that most of my friends that have blogs are on Live Journal? I hate Live Journal. All my posts are on Blogger. But yet I can't be on their friends list nor can they find my blog easily from my comments. So that's annoying.
So I guess I'm talking to Christina again.
Everyone apparently loves my cover of 'Something In My Eye'. I guess I'm going to have to retreat further into low fidelity and meager song structure before I can whittle my fan base down to only the few, the proud, the devoted.
Nothing much else to report other than Adam, I'm feeling for ya.
you're so (very) special, I wish I was special
So I posted my picture on the UNCC LiveJournal community blog.
First comment was a girl:
'*waves* HI! I am an English major and a senior here...You're a cutie! :)'
Hot.
Second comment was a guy:
'you are in my spanish class and i sit right beside you.'
Creepy.
Hot and creepy, that about sums up my life right now.
I'll be shocked if it moves
Erin just wrote a very nice comment about me in her blog. That makes me happy.
Other than that, there's not much interesting for me to report. Work was fairly boring tonight. No more work until Friday, which is just crazy.
I'm working on some more music stuff, stuff I've written myself. Hopefully it'll turn out well. I'm not sure when I'll be able to record. I'm hoping Wednesday, but nothing will probably be ready by then. In the mean time, you guys that haven't yet listened to my latest song need to listen to it listen to it and give me feedback.
