That's the best game since Yahtzee, commander! Thanks for sharing.
Did I ever tell you about the time I thought I was going to die? I think I did, but the guy holding the joystick at the Internet zapped that post away.
Anyway, it was in eastern Colorado, the night when I was supposed to complete my twentieth year on the planet Earth. I was sleeping on the ground, in my sleeping bag. Here's a tip: when you're out West, if you put fresh sage from the side of the road into the bottom of your sleeping bag, it's almost like you don't even need a shower or deodorant when you wake up. You smell like a million dollars.
It was the last night I was to spend at the end of a two week journey from Lubbock, Texas to Cape Blanco, Oregon, and back again. I was convinced I wouldn't live to be twenty. No particular reason- I didn't have a terminal illness or anything, and I wasn't suicidal, and I don't think anybody hated me that much, yet. My feeble post-adolescent imagination just couldn't cope with the idea of being an age that doesn't rhyme with "you know what I mean." I'd always been able to see myself, when I was younger, as eighteen, nineteen, no problem. But twenty years old was, as they say, a horse of a different feather. Who did say that, by the way? Comedic genius.
So this whole trip had been just an elaborate(well, not so elaborate: pack, go, point thumb at the sky...) scheme to die far away from anyone who might mourn me, alone and conquered by the world, by whatever it was that I was sure had come to conquer. There was near dehydration in Grand Canyon National Monument, trying to find the actual monument. It shouldn't have been as hard as I made it- it's a big crack in the ground that stretches beyond the horizon. But then, I was expecting death at any minute. Remember that Mr. Belvedere episode where old Belvy has told everyone not to make a big fuss over his birthday, but then spends the entirity of the episode swinging around corners and putting on his "fake surprised" face? Death was my surprise birthday party.
Leaving the Grand Canyon, I was told that no hitchhiking was allowed in national parks, and so a park ranger drove me out in her jeep, and left me by the side of the road in the desert. I survived. I got well past San Francisco thanks to the kindness of strangers, and got trapped at the edge of Cape Blanco, the westernmost point in the continental United States, when the tide came in. I had to climb cliffs to get out, I swear. Looked down once, practiced my "fake surprised" face.
There was a crazy old hunter who swerved to hit prairie dogs and pulled over to the side of the road at the Utah/Colorado stateline to look for the carcass of an elk he heard someone had hit earlier that day. He wanted to pull its front teeth out with a swiss army knife and carve them into rings. Okay, I didn't think I'd die then, but I wanted to. He didn't find it. The elk.
There was the guy that claimed to transport capital criminals from a temporary prison to death row. He "proved" it by showing me the orange restraints and leather muzzle, all Hannibal-the-Cannibal style, in back of the seats in his pickup truck cab. I'm almost sure they don't transport inmates like that anymore- please tell me I'm wrong... He bought me a salad at Burger King.
So there I was, in eastern Colorado, where it begins to look alot like Kansas, and I'm about to be twenty whole years old. Dark. Middle-o-the-night. I wake up. A bright light getting closer. No joke. Train whistle. I sit up in my sleeping bag, smelling like sage. An old hippy in a beatup Volkswagon who rescued me from the desert taught me that trick. Closer now. Louder now. Brighter now. My wager is, based on your theory, James, that that was it. I was absorbed into the light, the sound. And I'm sharing your purgatory. Good company. Thanks for everything.

Could the idea of writing a paper about my foreign language teaching philosophy be more unappealing to me possibly? Could I get a little more boredom on my mediocrity sandwich? Yeah, that's right... Perfect. How long have you been a sandwich artist? Really? Only that long? Well, let me tell you kiddo, you spread on the condiments like a fucking pro. Keep up the good work, champ! I see a bright future ahead of you.

Commander Jamey- I was referring to a passage pretty early on in DA, where old Jack is playing a rather involved game of baseball(a sort of his own invention), utilizing I think a pack of baseball cards and perhaps some mind-altering substances(here's where a rousing rendition of the "no shit" chorus comes in). Angels comes chronlogically immediately after Bums, so it's easy to get confused. The reason I know said passage is near the beginning is because I only got about fifty pages into the book before I put it down, let it go forever. I might pick it up again sometime, but after the sincere, world-shattering amounts of impressed I was with Dharma Bums(not so with On the Road), it was kind of a let down. Seemed he was going a little overboard with his "travel, come home to my mom's house, take alot of drugs, write for three weeks straight on a benzedrine high" formula, to me. Bums was contemplative. I like contemplative. What can I say, I'm emo. I could be wrong, too, as I've only given the book a fifty-page trial. Is literature innocent until proven guilty? I suppose any book ever written could arguably be of some worth, to someone, if only the author, or to Mr. Lomax. Keep with it. Knowledge is powder.

Good evening. Still fluctuating in regards to the color arrangement. I think that the deciding factor will come when I am able to put some sort of graphic on the page, which will hopefully make it less "blocky," and might suggest its own scheme of things, as it were... James and Johny, I commend you for embracing this technology, as I hoped you would. Fista seems to be coming around, and I'm still waiting on the rest. A short diatribe about my hopes for this page, which I've related in part to Mr. Fista: Having observed your interactions together for quite some time now, I've come to the conclusion that your collective talent for communication goes much further than that of an esoteric conversation relegated to a shelf in a closet full of inside jokes and syntactic quirks. These are, of course, components to the language, but by no means do they constitute its full potential. Furthermore, I feel that the output of every individual within your circle complements that of all the other members, and that the whole, as they say, is greater than the sum of its parts. Of course that's not to say that the individual is without his merits- indeed, I plan to, if the demand arises(and I hope it does), create additions to this page, other "rooms" if you will, for the individual contributors to showcase their less group-oriented offerings, be it stories, complete lyrics, mp3s, crossword puzzles... But all joking aside, the bottom line is that I think you all have something to offer, and that you as a group have a dynamic not often found within the confines of the internet, or anywhere, for that matter. I'm not asking that you capitalize on that. Only that you let the world, whoever chooses to seek you out- in on it. I know. I probably overdid it. I'm done. Godbless.

Okay. I've been told that this site was looking a little bit... on the Texas tip, so I've opted for some color changes, as none of our contributors can legitimately claim the lonestar state as their own, wish as they might. I'd appreciate your comments regarding color selection... and suggestions. I have a feeling the colors I choose may not represent the interests of all involved. Participate! Input please! I will be experimenting throughout the coming days. Lots of love.

No amount of failure in the university system could make me regret abandoning my studying duties last night to experience of montreal with my good friend fista. Sample conversation:

johny: What's that? Is that the voice of angels I am hearing in my ears?

fista: I think he changes keys like every time he changes chords.

johny: I think he changes keys as well as time signatures as well as tempos as well as the history of rock and roll with every note he plays. Is it okay that this makes me never want to play music again?

fista: It's okay for now, I guess.

So, yeah. See them at a venue near you. Bring extra socks, because the ones you're wearing will be knocked the fuck off. Shoes, oddly, remain intact.
I should get to work. More papers, tests than I know what to do with. I'm sure my complaining about "college life" is about as relevant to you as James' baseball spiel was to me, though it did strangely remind me of Kerouac's baseball ramblings at the beginning of Desolation Angels. Make what you will of that. And here's a hint: the man in the television tower might possibly be somehow related to the person that operates the joystick for the pay channels that you don't get, occassionally straightening out the picture enough for you to see, more than likely, a man's anus.
I love you all.

In response to popular demand, here are the translated lyrics to the spanish song I wrote to teach preterite and imperfect verb conjugations:

El amor no correspondido(Unrequited Love)

When I was very young, I was acquainted with a young lady.
I was poor, and she was quite rich.
I gave her a present enclosed in a small box.
When she discovered that it was a fajita,
She dumped it hatefully on my head,
And this caused me much sadness.
So then I took up this old guitar
And played it nightly at the local bar.
I sang every evening, and cried every day,
And if anyone listened to me, I would say:
"My true love goes unrequited-
I gave her a fajita, but all she wanted was a burrito."

I got an A. of course.

Johny cassettes' dream #3549:

I'm going to camp. As a camper, and not a happy one. The camp I'm going to was formerly of the concentration variety- the "cabins" are big brick buildings which surround a black square. There are smokestacks somewhere in my peripheral vision. My counselor is Julia Hanley, who in another life was my Applied Linguistics professor. In that other life she never gave me higher than an 80% on the pop quizzes that she would give. Quick- What is an advanced organizer? She is smiling, and she is driving me in a Buick into the gates of a former death camp. I realize, as I ascend to my "cabin" in a dark stairwell, that I have nothing. I vaguely recall packing my duffel bag the night before... and leaving it by the door.
My bed is a steel frame without a mattress or covers. Dr. Hanley needs someone to return an extra trash can to the school. I don't know what school that is. I don't know why she can't return it. But I hop off my steel frame and volunteer. She drives me out of the compound, again in the Buick. We take turns driving, Chinese fire-drill style, except faster. I mention that I don't have anything- clotheswise, anythingwise. Can I go to a store and get some? We're in Guadalajara now, now in Lubbock. I know where some thrift stores are, and I can get all I need. Except for underwear- I won't wear thrift store underwear. She hesitantly agrees.
We are in different cars now, the Buick has mitosized(sp?)(real word?) and I go my way and she goes hers. I return the trash can on the way, to her classroom at St. Francis High School in Alpharetta. I think about snooping around some- I have keys, but I decide against it. Which is good, because it turns out she's following me.
We're in the same car again- what's the opposite of mitosis? Myosis? (sp?) Am I getting the two mixed up? We pass a car at a street corner that has pulled over to the curb. Out of the back seat, driver side, steps a midget. Except not just a random dream midget, but my friend Matt from High School, whom I haven't seen in how long? I roll out of Dr. Hanley's car while it's still moving. She glares out the window at me, but keeps going. Going. Gone. The other car, too, the one that carried Matt, is gone.
Children dressed in nineteenth century London street urchin garb begin to surround Matt. He sees me and jumps into my arms. He pecks me on the cheek, and tells me how much he's missed me.I'm looking at my watch- I'm late for something. I ask for his phone number, and he evades the question. After much prodding, he points to the telephone pole on the corner, around which has been built a rather sturdy-looking, treefort-like structure. There is a small bed, with a mattress. Matt says that he is obliged to live here because the radiation is good for his kidneys, and it's the only thing that keeps him alive.
I wake up to this song. In my head all day. Does that make me a misogynist?

Good morning all! For those of you who might be using the Internet Explorer server to view the actual page portion of this, I apologize for it looking a little bit like buttocks. I'm working on it. I've found that it looks the way I want it to on Netscape Navigator, but I've had little opportunity to view on anything else. Those of you on AOL, maybe you can give me some feedback. Other housekeeping matters... Fista, James, and Johny- good to have you along for the ride! Peer pressure the following people into joining us:
Billy Holiday
John Charlie
and Vegas Valentine (I'm not sure about his e-mail, but give it a try!)
Also, while we're on the subject, if anyone has information regarding the cyberstatus of one Clint Horace Comedy, King of All Media, please let me know.
That's all for now, I'll go back to some tweaking of the system here and there. I hope you all are enjoying this as much as I am!

James, it's interesting you should ask about name changing, because Fista asked the same thing. Therefore, I'll go ahead and post a short explanation, to avoid further confusion. First, sign in as you normally would at the blogger site, with your name and password. When the posting screen comes up, move your cursor to the icon on the toolbar that says "team." When you've clicked on this, a new screen will open up with a roster of our current associates, namely you, johny, fista, and me. Click on your name, which I've highlighted, and a screen will open up with what I like to jokingly call your "vital statistics." On the right hand side of the tool bar will be a phrase which says, "edit my profile." This is exactly what you want to do, so click it. In the field where your name is shown, change it to whatever you want. Have a great time! If you have anymore questions, I will be right here. I've taken the liberty of adding links to some of your various pop-culture references, I hope you don't mind. I'm using every opportunity I have to figure this html code out! Happy sailing!

Hey just to make sure... are we all clear on the fact that there is a web page here that is beyond this little set up area? Mr. Lomax went to a lot of trouble today to get it in tip-top Americana shape, and I think we should all do him the favor of clicking the "publish" button and then scooting over to the "view web page" button. Don't be bashful!

Hey, kids. Remember to click on the "publish" button after you've posted. Posting on top only brings it down to the bottom. Mr. Castle, it's nice to have you along for the ride. A pleasant evening.

Americana?

There. It is good. I've edited out for your viewing pleasure the hours of posting I've been doing today, mostly consisting of the word "test," various swear words, and sarcastic declarations of myself as a "hacker." Housekeeping stuff. I see that johny and Fista have joined the roster: nice to have you boys- this operation could use some new blood, as the saying goes, new grease on the wagon wheel. Fista- I'll send you an e-mail regarding the name changing. I hope you enjoy this- any suggestions are welcome!

couldja get to the park&ride circa 4:15? sorry- this webpublishing thing doesn't work really well as instant messaging.

Good evening my child. I'm still working out some kinks.

I wonder if God got like really frustrated that time when he was trying to create the world. I wonder if he cussed at the computer screen, or like the abacus, or whatever he had that was telling him he couldn't do something that way.

Creating...

Take this cup away from me. I've chewed its styrofoam rim to a non-biodegradable, plasmic pulp, and the coffee has been gone now for an hour and twenty-one minutes. I've been thinking. I need to pull "The Old Switch-A-Roo." I want to exchange identical briefcases on an elevator with someone who has cooler shit than I do. Like money. Or like, porn. No, probably just money. That would be the coolest.
Chris- lets do it this weekend some- I'm in friday. Another leadership deal- I'm totally not trying to recruit you, but the love of a lifetime will definitely be there. If you want, I'll be approaching the alpy area as early as three o'clock, probly. let me know.
Perry- it's good to have you on board. Or should I say "on bored?"
James- I can't wait to hear it. The manic/depressive cassette will definitely be appropriately thematic, with powerpop on one side and softly sung suicide on the other, if it ever comes to fruition. I'm not sure what project it would be for. Of the icing, perhaps? Who knows. (?)
A class is soon, and I must go to it. I've skipped more school I think this semester than ever in my universe. I hope you are all well. Get some substantial stuff on here, please, so I don't feel as if I am moaning into a vast worldwideweb-shaped hole.
Audi.

Wow! You've done a splendid job, Mr. Lomax. I am honored to be a part of this.