March 8, 1993

Well, well. Where has the time gone? It is now 10 o'clock pm. Actually 10:03 but who really gives a damn? Ron Magers is enticing us to watch the rest of the news by offering a special health report on second-hand smoke. The last time I wrote this late was last March, in fact, when Bill Clinton "won a slew of primaries," my words. So, anyways, it sez in my last entry that I should write about Shanna 2day, but I think I would've written anyway. Don't U? How would U know? Actually, I think she is kinda replacing Stacie, if U know what I mean. Numero uno. U may be shocked at this, but I've kinda liked her for a while. Talk amongst yourselves. See, in theatre 2day, we all got up on stage to practice our monologues, and she was standing right next to me, so we were talking about how non-verbals have no point and other meaningless things. In fact, U were probably just about 2 say "Boy, that sure is meaningless", but the whole thing w/ Danielle started w/us talking about my Wendell cartoons (that seems weird spelled -- "Wendell" -- since I am used 2 Arrested Development's "Mr Wendal" song)

I even had the same feeling with her today as I did with Danielle, talking like that, looking into her hazel eyes. Actually, Danielle's eyes are brown; Shanna's are hazel, to clear up the controversy ... Well, I don't know, I just thought I'd tell U. More will come later. I don't think this time sets the record, but I wanna see the rest o' the news.
--JMC 10:22 pm

March 5, 1993

On March 30, 1993, at precisely 9:40 pm, our beloved President William Jefferson Clinton will have been President for exactly 100,000 minutes. One-hundred THOUsand minutes. That's right: extend the pronunciation of THOU. It should be two times as long as "sand". I'm planning on calling Becky R0senmayer to remind her of this fact, but first, I shall write. CAST LIST for A One-Act Play: JOHN CUNN!NGHAM---Tom Hanks, DANIELLE TH0MAS---Tisha Campbell, STEVE K0VEN---Jason Alexander, MRS BUTTERWORTH---Angela Lansbury, CAJUN MAN---Adam Sandler, DELIVERY MAN---Rob Schneider, MRS GAWL!K---Bea Arthur, R0NTAYA BA!LEY---Halle Berry, JIM---Charles Kimbrough, GARY---Grant Shaud, VOICE---James Earl Jones, TED KOPPEL---Dana Carvey. That's all I have so far. I think it's an excellent cast. Moviegoers will flock to it in herds. It will be produced by Larry David, producer of Seinfeld. I should also add that Jerry Seinfeld and Tony Randall play themselves. So, what else is new? I argued with MR WILSON for almost the whole period yesterday, but I think it unnecessary commenting on since everything I sed on Wednesday is what I sed to him. I've been thinking that I'm not putting enough information in here, but the reality of it is that I might even be putting 2 much in, if there is such a thing. I just think about everything about my life that U don't know and I feel that I should put it all in. Like how my mom got a job two weeks ago. I mean this is big stuff cuz she was unemployed for like a year and a half. But I only tell U now. And at the same time, I ramble on about how Tenille Jacks0n is singing Bobby Brown songs which has virtually no significance whatsoever. What's with that? Well, I just had to get that off my chest so U don't think that stuff is my whole life. But I gotta go now. Let me put a reminder here that I need 2 talk about Shanna.
JMC 11:55 am

March 3, 1994

I just finished reading a collection of disturbing poems and stories by Marie Rutk0ski. Very dark and deep and, like I said, disturbing. But why don't we begin on March 1st, 1994, approximately 3:00 PM, to start this story, when Scott Malz@hn (whose birthday, coincidentally was yesterday, March 2nd, along with Dan Gr@nt and Dan W0lfe) concluded his rendition of "Loch Lomond," the famous Scottish folktune. You see, when our pal Scott finished, it was Marie's turn to get up on stage and perform whatever she had to perform, because March is not only the month of her birth (March 9), it is also the month that she was selected to perform at the March 1st Thespian meeting. And that she did, reading three brief poems she composed herself, very powerful, especially her last one (and I have a copy with me now, so I know the title), "Black and White Photograph: Autumn Hanging, 1941." Marie introduced this piece by saying what inspired her to write this piece of what I call suicidal poetry, which is no way to be interpreted as something bad, because the people who write this haunting style (Karina Kramer-Sch3vers comes to mind) I admire very much because of this quality, and in no way are these people suicidal. But they write like it. I don't know; maybe I'm barking up the wrong tree here. So, anyways, I really loved the poetry and yesterday I began a poem of my own based on Marie and her poems and her personality and her verve (!). Or when she told me about how I could've been a preacher if I lived in the 19th century. I began it in Spanish class, which oddly enough, is where I do my best writing nowadays, (my Spanish notebook is chock full o' poems, plays, transcripts, etc.) and even more oddly enough, is where I am now, as Sra. Rosa comes around to check our homework, which I didn't do because we had play practice from 5-9 last nite, as we always do. So, anyways, as I'm thinking of an anagram of Marie's name in Mass Media, and as I finally title it "RIOT IS RUM KAKE" (Do you realize her name is made up of all five vowels?), Becky R0senthal, whom I have branded as my favorite person in the junior class, not including Brandon G0rte (Take it easy; I'm being "faaah-cetious," as Marilyn would say), comes up and says (I'm paraphrasing here) "What's that, John? A poem? Can I read it?" So I'm like, "well no, not really, it's not really done yet," even though it was. And Becky says, "So what's it about?" And I say it's about Marie, and she just about died because "Marie is my bestest friend in the world; I have to read it." And she bribed me with handwritten copies of Marie's three Thespian-read poems, so I couldn't refuse. Becky loved it. And she said she would show it to Marie. Okay, I guess. Fast-foward to 6:55 am, Thursday, March 3RD, 1994, a date that will be most remembered by me as the 2nd anniversary of my spat with Ryan over Danielle. ("Don't get demonic, John.") Marie approaches me before Sunrise and hugs me, whereupon she goes on about how she liked the poem, and would've liked it anyways even if it wasn't about her (if she was someone else?) like if she had read it in a book. She gave me some more of her work to read, which I did, as you already know, in English class. "But don't read it now," she said, because I had cast a glance down at the paper, just to look at it, I guess. We both felt kinda awkward, I suppose, after I reveal to her some things I've thought (in the poem, that is) and she tells me how she enjoyed it. Reminiscent of "Share a Garment Sea" and Wendie (see 7-22-93). Okay. So Marie & I haven't said anything since then (not as if we've had a chance to) but Becky beckons to me after 1st period, and tells me that even if Marie was acting kind of embarrassed (like I said, I think we both were), she (Becky) wanted to reassure me that (well, no reassure, because she never told me anything before then; how could she?) Marie was absolutely flattered and she did, in fact, as Becky did, love the poem. So that made me feel good. Just thought I'd share this story with you.
--JMC 11:12 am

March 2, 1996

Think of the last few weeks in February as my sabbatical. And let's just leave it at that. But my friends, today I thought I must write because now -- this very instant -- I am (although I don't suppose I am very good at estimating) thousands of feet above ground level, and since you know I am not one to frequently volunteer w/ NASA, your next guess is right -- up up & away in a jet plane! I'm on the return trip (it's about 9:45 PM or whatever) from the beautiful, but oh-so-frigid Minneapolis/St Paul area, as I was this morning competing for a scholarship at Hamline University in the latter city. But don't jump the gun, muchachos. There's a 90% chance I won't be going there. At least I hope not. But as I was advised, I kept my options open -- and they still are, for the most part. Yeah, I'm so indecisive. But as you may have guessed, too, I am starting to narrow down the BIG EIGHT that once were (smallest to largest, by degree of latitude): Hamline, Macalester (St. Paul, too), Kalamazoo (MI, which I visited last weekend with my dad to compete for a writing scholarship -- some shit about Frankenstein I had to B.S. my way through -- but some otherwise pleasant experiences, like driving there at night on a fast highway listening to Herbie Hancock jazz & talking with a student over lunch whose name is now curiously forgotten** -- he was a swingin' fellow, though, reminiscent of several characters I've met over the years, including a boy named Jesse who works at Record Swap), U. of Iowa, Washington U. (in St. Louis, which looks like it's my current favorite -- but then I probably shouldn't have written that, should I? Not when I haven't even been accepted or gotten any money or -- Jesus, I'm hunched over this dining tray with a plastic cup of ginger ale & I feel like a sportswriter drinking gin & tonic at midnight, pecking away at his typewriter, smoking his cigar -- anyway ... it was unwise of me to have said that lest I disappoint myself), University of North Carolina @ Chapel Hill (or UNCCH, if you, like I do, prefer), Duke U. (hell of a long-shot -- there's one scholarship that I could possibly get, but if I don't, it's way out of our league), & last, and it might as well be least, too, since it's already out of the picture, Emory in Atlanta, to where I wasn't named a finalist in their Emory Scholar Program (made it somewhat easier on me, though, since the scholarship weekend was on one of the performance dates for the musical). That's without a doubt the most I have ever written in this book about my college plans; don't know why I've been so reluctant -- maybe cuz it would've been akin to talking about my family (although a) I'm not sure why, and b) I'm not sure why I don't like talking about them, either... -- not interesting enough? too embarrassing? hmmm....) I'm sure Kristy Rav3n has written reams about M.I.T. -- a whole page on the actual process of running to the mailbox & retrieving the envelope... but then again, I'm not Kristy. And even though I dearly love the girl, that's not necessarily a bad thing, either. -- JMC 10:35 pm (and right on-time too, for landing!)

March 1, 1995

Today is Ash Wednesday, so I thought I'd ruminate on a few things before the night is through (it is quickly, my clock says, coming to an end). Becky, for one, is preoccupying my mind & has been since yesterday when she made her famous "it's not genetic -- it's a choice" remark which got me very much riled up that I was stewing over it all during dinner. And I wrote a poem last night to capitalize on my incense. Because I can't very well explain to her what I know for a fact. And Susan just laughs about it -- her own mother -- which to me is sad because it indicates views shared by parents, who of all people, should be steering their daughters clear of such ignorance (forgive the Ryan B@ttista-like vocabulary ... wait a minute -- how am I writing this now? I thought I didn't exist...). Good Lord, Becky -- if you only knew. But none of this matters because she has Steve, the perfect person in the whole goddamn world (Here, Sohail, I do swear), who makes us all look inferior. And he's cute & he's catholic & etc. And he agrees with her about statement made above, so I can't possibly be right at all. This has preoccupied me since 5 PM yesterday. She has continued today, saying that step aerobics is God's work -- and I don't know what to say because although it makes perfect sense when she explains it (it's a Lenten resolution), you still have to accept such notions as God, for example. And I think I'm a deist; that is, I believe that God created this world, but has left it in our hands. I'm not even sure about that -- because really, who's to say? Why can't the Bible have been a cruel hoax, written by a couple guys in Jerusalem with some good stories, seeing who will believe them. It's like Orson Welles' War of the World or some such thing. Why must this be true? And Stacie said this afternoon, as she explained her Baptist upbringing, that it's all a matter of faith. And I suppose that's true. But I am no less of a person because of my lack of it -- I know that much. I am content in my straying from Christianity. People like Becky I think I admire somewhat but am also confused by. To be able to sit there & say there is definitely a God & a Jesus Christ & to plan your life around such (to me) unclear ideas -- which she has -- I don't see how a rationally-minded person could agree with that without proof. It's one of those things that we are forced to accept without question: There is a God, end of sentence. And in closing (what an awful linear thought process!), I would like to say that this blue erasable pen, licorice-scented, gives me vivid flashbacks to sixth grade & Rita Cl3house. These pens are vastly underrated.
JMC 10:42 PM