Today in French...

(I don't mean to create a trend with this "Today in [Class]..." title, but it seems appropriate to me here.)

Today was mostly productive in the Hallway French class. 4th-year French is just making a movie for the end of the year project, so all of our work is essentially a "class" project/independent study. (Intradependent?) Today was (hopefully) the last day of screenplay/storyboard work, and a heckuva lotta script work. We were being quite productive, and even efficient.

However, forty minutes into the period, someone from the German class walked by us on a bathroom break, and let us in on a little secret:
Frau had ducklings.

So, three and a half quite-unproductive minutes later, 80% of the French class returned from Frau's room. 1 person didn't go; she's got quite the work ethic, not to be distracted by cute, fuzzy objects in Frau's room.

Her loss. =)

(This ends the light-hearted half of this blog.)
_____________________________________

(No amount of ducklings less than twenty will make my day truly memorable.)

Well, the significant part of my day came a few mintues after the French returned to the hallway work area. A girl from the German class called me from Frau's room (by my name, even; I felt special-like). I obliged and hobbled my way down to her.

She wanted to know "how my kid was doing."

Well. I had to fill her in on a few details of my life. And I might as well announce them here, since I never feel like it would be appropriate to announce these facts to the school.

°I am not a father.
Two years ago (October of my sophomore year), I started dating a girl. Two weeks after I started dating her, she told me she was pregnant, by her last boyfriend (I won't say any more on that subject). I can't exactly remember why not, but she would not abort the child. I decided to at the very least help her through her pregnancy, and do my darnedest to ensure the kid had a normal-ish birth phase of life. We stayed together for four months after childbirth. (The breakup is quite the less-significant story.)

°I know nothing of the child's status now.
My then-girlfriend wanted to give the baby up for adoption. She gave birth normally, and the child went to a friend of her family's. I haven't heard any word on the child since then.

°To reiterate: I am not a father.
The only time I actually announced this at school was in Sousbois's 2nd-year French class. So the people in 5th-period French that year, and the friends of me and my then-girlfriend, were essentially the only people on Oly High's campus that knew that the child wasn't mine.
However, I probably made a mistake by letting the school's populus reason its way through my patrimonial status.

Oh well. C'est la vie--ma vie. They didn't ask, I didn't tell.

I'm hot too

And inspired.

It looks like someone captured me in mid-"giddy."

Ah, to be purpose-free for but a few days...c'mon, June 21st...

Whining Wolf

(Incoming diary entry--craptacular pseudo-sobbing off the port bow.)

Dear diary, which I've never used before in my life:

The Jitterbug Club dances are gettin' kinda harsh. In The Beginning, way back in January, there was actually a social occasion that went on at Jitterbug Club "meetings."

Those weren't too bad.

Friday night, there was a free class taught by Alice Marinella. She did a pretty good job on teaching Foxtrot, Waltz and Salsa--but there were about twice as many leads as follows for a good deal of the lessons, so I didn't get to practice the moves and steps with a partner. Ah well.

After the class, though, Jen and I were the only ones dancing on the floor for a song or two. Three people, Tuesday night regulars at the Occasions Ballroom, didn't dance after the class (to my recollection); they just sorta left. The population of the SUB sorta dwindled after that, and eventually there were about five people remaining.

This hit Nick pretty hard; he sat next to me and lamented the "crowd." I couldn't say anything to comfort(?)/reassure him.

So, if anybody wonders why I was a bit disconnected at the Mariner's game, that's part of it. I don't like the idea of watching the Jitterbug Club population diminish with every passing week, either. I'm hoping that we'll have a decent turnout on the Stupid-Off night; I fear it would be hard to perform about ten Stupid Moves for a crowd of a half-dozen.

Of course, I wasn't spacey at the Mariner's game for only that reason. I also happen to be stressed: I never managed to finish my screenplay.

There. I said it.

Oh sure, I've written out more points of the story over the past week; I've got about three pages of screenplay on paper that I need to add to the Word document. I'm actually only two scenes away from completion, and they require little-to-no scripting. But I can't bring myself to update that document; I actually feel physically ill when I try to type up my pen-and-paper work.

So I play around with sound stuff instead. I've almost learned my Vamo' Alla Flamenco (from FFIX) variation completely on my Miracle Keyboard, but I've almost discovered that that doesn't count. The finger patterns are dandy, but I actually recorded a direct output today from the keyboard onto my computer, and discovered a few silly pauses of mine.

I played the tune on a real piano today, too. I actually have a little difficulty with a keyboard that (1) is at the correct height and arm distance, since my keyboarding has been done either involving a chair for a prop or seating on the floor, and (2) has a weight resistance in the keys. It's not quite like playing a grand piano where you can feel the mallets swing with every keystroke, but there was a definite weight not replicable by springs in an electric keyboard.

Ah, distractions, distractions--I have to start filming this project.

I love this movie project like a child, but damn! it's a lot of work to do on my own. And I have the stress of my Gettysburg term paper on top of this...

*Exhale.*

I'm going for a dunk Saturday. I hope I can relax in it; I'm trying to promise a helluva blog entry on my thoughts during the dunk.

Here's to the Psychology Club...

Matrix (NOT the movie yet)

Once upon a morn', of May 9th, a Matrix fan showed up to choir, as she did everyday. Nobody knew she was a hardcore matrix fan, though, until that day in choir; she had the look about her of much kickassability, and indeed did fling her kickage about the room.

That is, until she was stopped by a mere tenor's finger.

The tenor apologetically cleaned her shoe afterwards. How touching. How balancing. How...non-violent.

Beard and Legs

I have 2^2^2 hairs on my chin; not counting the small soul patch I'm developing, my 16-hair beard is almost becoming plausibly shavable.

This'll make tomorrow's skirt all the better. I hope I'm not kicked out of Battle of the Bands...

-Loup-Vert, he of white legs

On Assifying: Rebuttal

Once upon a time, I gave John Welsh, the SOGO Conservatory conductor, a big hug. It was in the middle of rehearsal, after the end of a "Good year, everybody!" speech. I gave him a mighty chest-to-chest hug.

Tuesday, I had an audition to get back into SOGO. For those who aren't familiar with this, 'tis a policy of theirs to have every musician re-audition for re-entry--perhaps to keep us from getting lazy with solos?

Anywhoo, I showed up at WMS at exactly my audition time. My timing sucks on Tuesdays; I'm late for everything that involves driving, mainly because of that extra hour in the morning that I still can't handle quite right.

While I'm late to Japanese Club in the morning by a few minutes, I was late to the audition building by 0 seconds. But Scarface (my viola) was in dire need of tuning--I left him in my car (for the last time) in the sun. To put how bad this was in perspective, consider the normal temperature of a shoulder-mounted string instrument: Room temperature. The metal that goes against the neck is usually colder, for reasons unknown.

When I stuck Scarface onto my shoulder one minute after I was supposed to be playing, he was warmer than my neck. Last bloody time I leave him in my car...

Anyway, my strings are magic and stay in tune through many a temperature change. I left Scarface out in my car on accident one January day, and he fell down to about 40 degrees--that was pleasant against my neck the next day, I can assure you. But the strings stayed almost completely in tune then; my A went pretty flat in the hot state, but that was because it's a new string.

So, with -1.5 minutes to warm up, I played a little Raymond Scott while marching on to the audition room.

Good thing I announced my presence.

Mr. Welsh himself stood at the door, greeted me, and gave me one heckuva bear hug, giving a guttural, jovial growl. Mr. Allison and a violin coach were at the judging tables and laughed their hearts out as Welsh held me in that friendly embrace. After he let go, I could only compliment his move:

"Sweet, sweet revenge, eh Mr. Welsh?"

______________________________

So, I played some Bach for my solo. Strangely enough, I played on the viola the same thing that Jeff played to start off his recital (which was an awesome afternoon of music, by the way).

The main critique of my audition started like this:

"So, Alex, you like math, right?" (quoth Mrs. Rydholm, violin coach)
I've never actually talked with Mrs. Rydholm about my future plans, or interests, or any of that; Mr. Welsh and Allison, yeah, but not Rydholm. She got my math instincts from my playing.

I'll paraphrase the critique:

The plus side: Excellent intonation, which I just thought was kickass for a comment.

The minus side: Nice notes; where's the music? The rhythm and notes were dandy, but I needed tone, the other heart of music.

I couldn't get tone out of that Bach. Give me the original Star Trek tune, and I can make music; give me Bach, and I can make notes.

They gave me the sight-reading piece, and I mentally studied it for a minute; I made music soon after. Long bows on sixteenth notes, a fine D-minor tone--except for one D-Major note, my mistake. I think all four of us were quite happy with how I did.

Before I left, they told me that the next stage of my musical growth would be to join a quartet, or duet--to play with any other musicians. I think they were right in saying that I need to have music on days other than Sunday next year.

Here's to you, Scarface...

New Pants and an Exposed Head

Tuesday, I decided I needed a haircut. I could take the front locks of my hair and pick my nose with them--well, I could stick them inside my nostrils, as opposed to the socially unacceptable act of actually picking.

Wednesday, I went to Doug's Bullpen in Tumwater--one of the most masculine environments I've set foot in. He has a gator foot trophy on his wall--I'll definitely call that a certain kind of manly.

I gave my barber some implicit directions on how to cut my hair--"Just trim the bowl." My mistake. He ended up coming close to shaving the short hairs off of my head-they're some negative power of two inches in length.

The night before, I had skipped dancing (quite regrettably) to go clothes shopping. SPSCC had a Job Fair, and my dad and I were under the impression that there would be some sort of programmer's position available there.

So, I dressed up in khakis and a blue shirt. I must say this about the khakis: They are absolutely joyless. The pant legs hang limply off of the seat, yet are large enough to cover all hints of a muscular lower leg set. I won't say I have bulging tendons in place of thighs, but I am happy enough with my leg mass that I wear fairly non-baggy pants.

I won't say I particularly admire my buttocks, either; but once I have those khakis on, I can only miss my derrière! The pants strike all individuality out of the sub-torso region of the body.

Needless to say, the felt-like-it-was-starched-yet-I-knew-it-wasn't blue collared shirt, coupled with the khakis, struck all notable facets from me save the height and head. And my ginormous neck.

I didn't actually start to be bothered by this until I got to SPSCC. Four minutes later, I made my way to the job fair, and the very first booth to greet me is...

...Mary Kay's Cosmetics.

A glance to my right: Thurston Public Schools, and something like Social Services (for troubled teenagers?). I have no griping with these, but they don't suit my tech-liking tastes; they're more geared for the socially minded, which I'm not beyond dancing and this Blog.

A glance to my left: The U.S. Navy, Army, and Air Force. Fred Meyer, off yonder by the "couch" area of the SUB.

I talked to people at two booths for tech jobs. Both of those booths, some DNA-vitamin sequencer company and a mortgage company, offered only sales positions, pay-by-commision.

I went home and got some blue jeans on. I almost celebrated having a butt again, but then had a sudden bout of dignity and didn't. (Honestly, it just hit me from left field; like hell did I know what to do with it.)

The highpoint of Thursday was when someone gave me the idea of getting a Mohawk into my hair. I thought a Bihawk sounded better (think Mohawk/head hemisphere). Friday gave me the last disappointment for the week; I got up early, showered, and gelled the bejesus out of my hair, thinking that it would hold in a bihawk shape.

Fail.

A shower and an hour later, someone at school told me that the trick to a mohawk was to put Elmer's School Glue in my hair; but not to worry, it washes out.

Where does that blasted Dignity keep coming from...

So, a worker's set of clothes, 25 printed resumés, and a slightly gelled head later, I still have nothing planned for Summer. And I'm happy with that; I haven't had a vacation since August of 2001.

On Assifying

Cheap coinage - making an ass of oneself. More on that later.

Friday night, at the Occasions Ballroom, there was an 18-piece band, The Sound of Swing. They didn't do an all-swing lineup of music, and I was fine with that - I'm equally as happy as a dancer as a member of the audience. I spent a bit more time in the audience than I intended, though.

I didn't touch the punch the Occasions had out for the first hour, because I didn't know if it was carbonated or not. I found out it was just a juice, so I drank...and drank plentily.

I knew it wasn't alcoholic, since I could get into the dance in the first place. However, it was loaded with sugar or syrup or a sugary syrup.

'Tis a nasty habit, to fall to the drink - somewhat embarrasing if "The Drink" isn't even alkee-holic. But, I got something close to drunk. Not the tipsy kind of drunk, though--I could still dance--but I sat in my chair and watched the music with a somewhat glazed smile. I was so loaded with sugar--about three glasses worth--I actually felt like I was at the light level of drunk that my dad gets.

Feeling like my dad, I suddenly wanted to hear Mahler. Ah well, 'twas a dance, not a concert. The Latin music ended, and I could start dancing again.

Something I discovered is that nobody--I mean NOBODY--from the Jitterbug club will do a Stupid Move with me. Sure, I can spin some of them about under my finger for The Toy Ballerina, and I can kick little Ali in the butt. But I asked three or four girls to do The Elwood Dance with me, and I had to ask one more before I got someone to have a little fun--and she wasn't in the Jitterbug Club.

I'm not sure I've entirely gotten the point of Stupid Moves, though I've taken part in creating more than ten of them. I seem to recall that they could be moves to be shown off. I take special pride in The Elwood Dance, and I'm sure (the big, tall) Nick is proud of his Pelvis Pump (or whatever he calls it). But few people want to do the moves in public. Shame, really.

Maybe I'm just a bit too eager to make an ass of myself.
Case in point: Tonight's SOGO rehearsal.

Mr. Welsh was inspired to give an end-of-the-year, last-rehearsal speech to the Conservatory. He stood in a little space between the podium and the first row of strings, and gave a "My Gosh I'm Proud of All of You" speech (don't mind my title, he actually spoke pretty well). He didn't notice me put down my viola and bow, even though I was right in front of him (and a slight bit to the right).

He gave one heckuvan easy cue to spot for the end of his speech. I guess that came from his conductor's instinct. He took a few steps back as he wrapped his speech up, almost as if he could get back to the podium without hassle from any orchestra members.

On Assification:

I leapt at the opportunity and wrapped my arms around him, hamming up as many tears as I could: "I love you, Mr. Welsh!"

Ah, yes. Many chuckles, laughs, and perhaps even a guffaw from the orchestra. Mr. Welsh asked me if I was going to be with SOGO next year. He didn't take my response as too painful of a reminder that he had another year of me to deal with.

After rehearsal, I was about to drive Ali home when she pointed out that our viola coach, Noah, had the word "Jigglypuff" on the back of his sweatshirt. She didn't know why, and was too shy to ask, since she didn't feel that she knew Noah well enough to ask. I stopped short of turning my car on, and stole a quick glance over--lo and behold, that Pink Puffy Pokémon name was on his shirt.

Ali read my face like a book. "No, Alex, do NOT roll down your window!"

Futile.

Whiiiiiiiiiir. "Noah? Whyfore does your shirt denote a pink round object?"

Apparently it's a random nickname given to him by friends.

I think Ali fears my innate ability to make a spectacle/ass of my self. 'Tis a shame few people respect assifying...

from the Computer Lab

It is quite sunny out.

I'm spending the next hour and a half in front of computers for class and blogging.

I'm spending the forty minutes after that in my car en route to Yelm.

And I'm spending the next two and a quarter hours in Yelm in front of a movie screen. Bring on the X-Men!

Carpe...uh, I'm not sure.