SO!

I'll be weighing in tomorrow with a post or two about the last couple of days, but for right now, here's something I wrote in opinion writing class which Professor Thompson thought was particularly good:

Me, Dad and Baseball

When my sister and I were little, our parents were both working, and had their work schedules arranged so that they traded off on who was working late and who was watching us at home.

Wednesday nights were dad's.

My father, physically, is more or less a more solidly-built version of me; when I was five or so I remember looking at the man and thinking to myself, "Well, no point growing my hair long; it's not going to be here for a lot longer."

Me and dad have watched quite a bit of sports over the years. It started with football. I blame him for my being a Raiders fan. When I was little the two posters on my bedroom walls were the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and Bo Jackson. So there is that. And then Bo Jackson got his hip broken and really there's been no good times in the Perrucci household while football's been on tv.

Back to baseball.

I loved Wednesday night. There was a ritual: He'd get home, we'd watch the news--to this day I try to emulate Peter Jennings when recording voice-overs--eat dinner, and while my sister went off into her room to do whatever it is she was up to, me and Mr. Fun sat on the couch and turned on ESPN.

Wednesday Night Baseball.

So there we'd be, sitting on the couch, and I'd follow along. The first thing I ever remember was watching a baserunner trying to pick off second and beat the throw from home: "He's gotta get there before the ball does."

The second thing I remember learning was that the designated hitter was a stupid idea, and from there I was hooked. Up through 1995, when we moved out of our family's first house, every night I was watching some game or another. The Marlins started up in '93, so when they were on it was even better.

One night, dad came home, walked over to the t.v. stand, and grabbed three tickets. "Put some shoes on," he told me and my sister, "we're going to the game."

The Marlins beat the Expos, 3-1.

It wasn't until years later that I figured some stuff out about my dad: That he was all of 23 years old when I was born, and he had a wife, two kids, a mortgage, two car payments. He's worked for the same company since he was 16 years old. He turns 49 this October.

If you've ever worked in a grocery store, you know that it's not something that offers a lot in the way of personal satisfaction. I put in seven years and got out because I just couldn't take it anymore.

Comparing me at my age to my father when he was 25 doesn't even match up. The man's killed himself to provide. You can't begin to thank someone enough, so you don't even try.

It's the little things. A five-year-old boy learning what a sacrifice fly is and why it's important sticks, because he's got no frame of reference when it comes to putting in 70 hours a week at a job you hate. Even though you don't understand what working 11 hours a day after waking up at 4:00 is, you do understand three seats in the upper deck and a two-run Marlins victory on a school night.

My father never got to be a pilot, he never got to travel a lot, he never got to do a lot of the stuff he wanted to do.

But I'll never stop being thankful that he got to be my father.

Wednesday. April 21. 2010.

It's 2:21 in the morning on Wednesday, April 21.

Today will either be a great day or the worst day I've ever had, no middle ground, nothing in between, and it's all out of my hands.

Here's the situation: I need Cs in all my classes in order to graduate.

I have an A, two Bs and a C, with two grades left to recieve.

And today, April 21, I get those two grades. And I have no clue if I'm going to make it or not.

Most of my peers and classmates are excited about graduating. They're moving, they're hunting for jobs, they're preparing to go to grad school. I haven't been able to muster up even the slightest bit of giddiness in anticipation of walking across the stage specifically because I just don't know if I will or not.

There's still a pretty good chance that pretty much my entire family will be getting to St. Augustine just in time to see me flunk out of college on the last day of my last semester: Ant hits rock bottom and starts to dig!

I mean--and pardon the language, here--what the fuck am I going to do if my fears are confirmed? Not only would it be an unspeakably violent kick in the nuts (figuratively speaking) but what, realistically, would my options be?

Go back to Ft. Lauderdale in utter defeat, get my job back at Publix, spend the rest of my life unloading grocery trucks and stocking shelves? Fuck that.

Pretty much the only thing I can think of would be to suck it up and join the military. Sure, it'd buy me a couple of years, but after that? I'll be 30 and smack-dab in the middle of Shit Or Get Off The Pot territory.

I don't know. I just don't know, I feel like I'm adrift at sea and I'm absolutely scared shitless of what's going to happen in about 12 hours.

This Is Not Good.

Rules for Bands

My radio show runs until 9:30 p.m. Adam ("the Sloth") comes in then until midnight, playing two and a half hours of metal.

My last song was Metallica. As I didn't have the 8 and a half minutes to play "Master of Puppets," I instead put on "Unforgiven," off of their Black Album.

Adam told me he bought that album and threw it out the car window as he was driving down the road.

I asked him if he went through the five stages of grief.

DENIAL: You know, I actually like this album. They've got a cleaner sound, it's more accessable for new fans, and it's a good evolution from what they've done before.

ANGER: Those sons of bitches! I want my $10 back!

BARGINING: You know, I bet that after this album, and the tour, they'll be right back at it, putting out 10-minute-long thrash epics like they've always done!

RATIONALIZATION: They're never coming back from this. But, hey, at least I've still got Ride the Lightning to listen to.

ACCEPTANCE: God, they suck.

Adam said no, he never went through denial. Apparently, like everyone else, he went straight to anger and set up a tent. We were all there for quite a while.

There should be rules for bands.

Like, say you're in a band and your new album is a drastic turn in another direction, you've replaced a core member of the group, anything like that. You really owe it to everybody--yourself, your fans, your legacy, everybody--to just start a new band.

It could be the same four guys, but just think up a new name.

For example:

Green Day. Green Day is, was, ought to be, a snot-nosed punk band. Now they think they're artists, writing rock operas and wearing eyeliner. Cool. Go for it. Knock yourselves out. But get a new name. Insomniac got me through 6th grade, and American Idiot is just... it's terrible. It's not worthy of the name. Get a new name. It's not like those three haven't proven themselves able to sell records. The record company would have sellable product. But the Green Day name isn't what it used to be.

There are exceptions, of course. Bands evolve. Hey, the Replacements went from being hardcore punk to college alt-rock to incredible pop songwriters, and it all flows naturally.

Radiohead went from Pablo Honey to the Bends to OK Computer to Kid A. Probably the best run any band has ever had, ever. I will fight you about this. Physically fight. Their albums post-Kid A are brilliant, of course, but those four? Bliss.

Radiohead's evolution makes sense. You see how they grew. And you see how what they grew into led the way for what followed.

These aren't set in stone, of course.

Bon Scott died, AC/DC replaced him with Brian Johnson. Johnson and Scott sound nothing alike, but Johnson has the same swagger, and an appropriate rasp in his voice, and the band soldiered on.

On the other hand, David Lee Roth left Van Halen and was replaced with Sammy Hagar. Gone were the days of getting albums like Fair Warning, and in came albums like OU812. That ain't Van Halen.

R.E.M., Idlewild, hell, even blink 182 matured. But they matured for a reason, and their songs maintained the same quality: Peter Buck bought an effects pedal and they put out Monster, but the songs were still good. Idlewild traded the "flight of stairs falling down a flight of stairs" quality for a Smiths-esque sound, but the songs were still good. Blink still sang about donkey-punching someone's mother two songs an album, but even with their more mature stuff THE DAMN SONGS WERE STILL GOOD!

Metallica went from thrashing your face off for 15 minutes at a time in songs about H.P. Lovecraft books to writing four-minute songs in 4/4 about cars.

There oughta be a law.

Ever drive your car too fast? I have.

I've been on I-95 around 3:00 in the morning, and with no one else around, there's no reason not to step on the gas. So you're accelerating, and the higher the needle climbs, the more your car--if you drive a crappy car, that is--shakes, strains and vibrates.

And then you hit 100 and it's like you're driving on a cloud.

That's about where I am right now. It's 9:03 on Sunday night, and finals start tomorrow; in six days I'll be strolling across the stage at graduation.

I've been fielding phone calls from family wondering what our plans are, what we're doing, where we're going; I've been trying to make sure that I have time off of work; I've pretty much given up and said "fuck it."

Whatever happens, happens. I know I have to work on Tuesday night, I know I'm pulling a double on Wednesday, and I know I'm scheduled for Thursday night, but I know I'm getting out of it.

I know there's a party on Thursday, rehearsal on Friday, the ceremony at dawn on Saturday.

I know enough to know that I have no idea what is going on. For me, that's enough. I have plenty to worry about, like the fact that I still haven't gotten cleared with the business office (as I owe my $100 graduation fee) (and a $25 parking ticket) (and I have fifty cents in my checking account).

I just need to get through this week without something horrific happening, like sleeping through an exam or getting hit by a bus or falling over, dead from a stroke.

Six more days.

Sunday morning fight club

A wise man once said, "Nobody ever wins a fight."

Okay, so it was Patrick Swayze in Road House, but let's face it, fights in real-life don't play out like this example of Swayze taking out the trash.

Last night, while at work, two guys walked into the hotel lobby, one of them with some pretty nifty bruises on his face.

He tells us that he and his friend got jumped, could we call the cops?

So, I go outside and there's a good, oh, I dunno, 25 people getting real mad at these two guys. There I am in the middle of it, on the horn with the cops, trying to keep words from coming to blows.

Eventually (and thankfully) the group made their way back into their hotel rooms, and the two guys were sitting on the sidewalk waiting for the police.

It being quarter to 3 in the morning, the local cops don't have a lot else going on, so about seven of them show up.

Turns out that the group of 25 people were a family coming back from a wedding reception, the two drunk guys ran their mouths about something or another, and got their asses beat for their trouble.

I didn't know--I really didn't care--so all I was interested in was keeping blood off the sidewalk in front of the hotel. Some drunk running his mouth asking for an eye jammy notwithstanding, I don't need that hassle while I'm at work.

Either way. The two guys were clearly in the wrong, no?

But I gotta say, when I'm standing there trying to keep the two big guys from swinging on the skinny drunk dudes, I can't really find a "good guy" or a "bad guy" in the equation.

And when the shrill old white lady mother figure's telling her daughter off for getting in the way ("Mom. Mom. Mom, calm down!") while she's calling the two instigators homeless white trash, well...

It's like Dalton says. Nobody wins a fight. And by and large, the two guys that started it didn't come off looking any worse than the large family in nice clothes with money to burn.

It's like Bill Cosby said. You can't fight brain damage.

On Monday, one of my professors (Helena Sarkio, for the record) told me that I was the most frustrating student she’s ever had.

“We get so many kids who come through here that can’t write, and you could be a great writer if you’d just apply yourself.”

I’ve heard variations on this theme for 20-odd years.

So here you go. To make up for being lazy and getting Cs and Ds because I never saw the point in applying myself to get, you know, good grades, I’ve got A List.

(An aside: Part of the reason I’ve earned Cs and Ds throughout my schooling career is that I don’t understand the mindset of people freaking out because they got one B this semester. OMG ONE B NOW YOU’LL NEVER GET INTO HARVARD OH NOES. Calm the hell down.)

You see, it’s not that I’m lazy. It’s that I just don’t care. Math? Don’t understand it, couldn’t care less, just let me get a C so I can get on with my life. On the other hand, if I’m in a class where I’m learning something new and get to work with my hands? Hell yeah! I’m your man! Which is why I’ve aced my classes where I get to play with a camera and edit on Final Cut.

But a class where we have to write? I already KNOW how to do that. And if I’m not getting paid to do something I already know how to do well, then what’s the point? As don’t put food in my belly or keep the rent paid. If it comes down to boosting my GPA or getting my bank account into a position where it isn’t threatening to crawl under a duck, hey, sorry. Drift takes precedence.

Not putting down the concept of education or learning. I love to learn. I just prefer to do it on my own, without someone judging me. Or “grading” my progress, if you prefer.

The rent, by the way, is now a week overdue and I still don’t have my paychecks from Drift to pay it. But I digress.

So for Ms. North, Ms. Bigwood, Mr. Gordon, Ms. Hardy, Ms. Essen, Mrs. Cook (who, in 1997, told me, “Look, I know middle school sucks. High school will be worse. Just PLEASE get your work turned in so you can get through it and I promise you that college will be the best years of your life.”), that one teacher that ran Gifted at North Andrews when I was in 5th grade and I cannot for the life of me remember her name despite driving her crazy, and, yes, even for Helena Sarkio, here’s the list of what I’m going to do after I graduate to make up for me not caring about school between 1991 and 2010.

I’m going to be Ernest Hemingway:
-Catch a fish.
-Kill a bull.
-Make love to a woman.

I’m going to be Douglas Adams:
-See something on my last chance to do so.
-Learn to enjoy the “wooshing” sound deadline makes when it goes flying by.

I’m going to be Hunter S. Thompson:
-Get a fast car with no top.
-Fill it with two bags of grass, seventy-five pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high-powered blotter acid, a salt shaker half full of cocaine, and a whole galaxy of multi-colored uppers, downers, screamers, laughers and also a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of Budweiser, a pint of raw ether and two dozen amyls.

I’m going to be some combination of Ken Keasey and Stephen Fry, in the document-a-trip-across-the-U.S. sort of way, not necessarily in the eat-acid-and-go-insane or become-an-icon-of-British-comedy sort of way.

I mean, that’s the plan, anyway. Apologies to all my teachers who’ve looked at me with that mixture of depression and regret (If only there was some way to paddle motivation into the boy! Alas, alas) but I’ll make it up to you all.

Just not in the gradebook.

Thoughts while at work.

It's nearly 4:30 on Sunday morning, and the march of time is bringing me nearer and nearer to oral defense.

Suffice it to say that I'm not looking forward to it. In fact, what I'm really looking forward to is Monday night after oral defense, when I'll be at the Tavern, either toasting my resounding success or bitterly cursing my abject failure.

My spirits are buoyed by the fact that I'm not going to be that chick who only had two pieces to defend (I've got seven), I'm not going to be that guy that didn't show up (fuuuuuuuuuuck that) and I'm not going to be that other chick who had her Facebook status updates read aloud (because I unfriended Professor Eaton for the time being and I've sanitized it all anyway).

But the darkening clouds aren't going away. Just writing this blog, I can feel my stomach clenching and my head starting to hurt.

Or maybe that was the two Whoppers Junior I ate in the car on my way to work. Even though that was like six hours ago.

It's funny. When you're running late to work, you seem to hit every red light between where you started and where you need to get. On the other hand, when you're early and trying to get 30 seconds to cram something in your mouth _{(that's what she said)} it seems that all you see before you is a string of green lights offering you no repose, rushing you onward.

The waning days of my college career feel a lot like that. When I was 21, desperate to just get the damn degree and get out into the world, there they were, the red lights: You have to take two math classes here, a semester on Microsoft Office there.

Here I'm 25, still desperate as ever to get the degree and get on with my life, sure, but at the same time I find myself envious of the juniors. Another year to go, more time to kill, more parties to go to and days where grabbing a bar stool and a couple of beers and watching the tourists walk by feels like the best idea in the world.

The older I get, the fiercer my desire grows to have an ever-increasing surplus of adolescence and young adulthood to fritter away.

They say that youth is wasted on the young. But I'm not as young as I once was and I'm dying to have it back to waste it all over again.

The pros and cons of senioritis

It's never good when you feel yourself losing your drive to write, especially when it's the one thing you're good at. To say nothing of the fact that it's what you're banking on to keep a roof over your head from now until the day you die.

The "big things" I had planned was a package I was going to shoot and edit from my trip to Ft. Lauderdale a few weeks back.

It never really got off the ground, but I did manage to get a column out of the experience.

It's just past 1 a.m. on Tuesday, two days before spring break starts, so I'm blaming my lack of drive on that. It seems like a good place to start laying blame.

I need to pull straight Cs in all my classes to graduate, as I've exhausted my allotment of Ds in my major. I have found that I've got a 75% average in ethics and law, which I suppose means that I can be counted on to do the right thing three-quarters of the time.

In other news, I got published again in the Record this Sunday. Go me!

Now if only I could get paid. I've got $4 to my name; I'm still waiting on a check I invoiced Drift for two weeks ago, and if I have to wait for my Harvest of Hope article money to come in the mail, I will surely starve.

There's other stuff on my mind: Dissatisfaction at work (as I write this, I'm sitting in the office, Craigslist open in another tab), figuring out where I stand with a couple of my other classes that I'm nervous about my grades in, etc.

I guess I just need a break for a few days. If I can manage to get the Record to cut me a check this afternoon, it'd be great: I might be able to fulfill my dream of getting so drunk on St. Patrick's Day that I'll be the first person to vomit off the side of the newly-refurbished Bridge of Lions.

You have to aim high, is what I'm saying. Everybody needs something to strive for.

At this point, however, I'd settle for having something to put in my stomach. Or, at the very least, a Coke and a cigarette. You wouldn't think it so much to ask for, but I bought a 2 liter bottle of Coke today and it was flat when I opened it, so I guess I might just be asking too much from the universe.

Four and a half hours left.

I'm at work, it's 1:30 and Craig Furgeson's on TV.

Four and a half hours left.

Today in one class, it was more or less decided that I'd be writing 600 words this weekend about where my future's going in light of the fact that I would rather have been born in 1585 instead of 400 years later.

There's no adventure left, no romance in the world. Nothing new to explore, nowhere left unspoiled, unseen, untrod upon.

Today in another class, inspiration struck. A plan hatched.

In related news, I got home Wednesday night around 9:00 p.m.-ish.

Thursday afternoon, around 4:30 or so, I was going to go run a couple of errands, come home, eat and nap before work.

Then I found this:



That's right. Some unidentified douchebag hit-and-ran my car.

Guess who's going to be driving a rental for the next several days?

Anyway. Watch this space. Big things soon.

The future! And why they'll all hate us.

So I saw this cartoon once wherein a young boy asks his grandfather if he was ever one of those people who owned 'animal slaves.'



Grandpa starts ranting, as grandpas are wont to do: "They weren't slaves, they were pets! They were lucky to be pets!"

Got me thinking: What do I do on a daily basis that future generations will consider monstrous?

For starters, I'm a big fan of meat and the eating thereof. The universe, loving a good practical joke, has decided that it would be a good idea to make my friends vegetarians and vegans.

My roommate will often enter the kitchen: "What are you cooking?"

Bacon and eggs.

"I hate you," he'll say.

But you're not supposed to like to eat meat, people tell us. Meat is murder! Dairy is rape! Go veg!

I don't know about that. I don't know if comparing sexual assault to cheese is a great idea.



The best way to overcome this, I think, has been laid out for us in the pages of science-fiction. In Douglas Adams' The Restaurant at the End of the Universe, we're introduced to a cow that's been bred to want to be eaten:

'Are you going to tell me,' said Arthur, 'that I shouldn't have
green salad?'

'Well,' said the animal, 'I know many vegetables that are
very clear on that point. Which is why it was eventually
decided to cut through the whoile tangled problem and breed
an animal that actually wanted to be eaten and was capable of
saying so clearly and distinctly. And here I am.'

Arthur's dinner party orders four steaks:

'I'll just nip off and shoot myself.'

He turned and gave a friendly wink to Arthur.

'Don't worry, sir,' he said, 'I'll be very humane.'

It waddled unhurriedly off to the kitchen.

Scientists of the world, take note: I don't care about the flying car. I want a cow that begs me to eat it.

Or consider the humble playground. European safety standards are being used to update playgrounds in Malta to keep them "safe."

I don't buy it.

When I was a little kid, our playgrounds were made out of wooden beams and steel poles on top of gravel. And we liked it!

Dr, Chris Said, of the Maltese Parliament, said,
“Many accidents are unavoidable because of the way children play. Children need some risk in their play to help them develop."

But what happens when some kid gets it into his head that because the new playground is made out of plastic and has a bouncy, spongey ground surface, it's now safe to go take a header off of the top of the monkeybars?

Then he'll split his head open and not understand why. If kids were still playing on blacktop, they'd understand that fun is inherently dangerous and not to be trusted.

Generations into the future, I can foresee my grandchildren looking at me like I'm the worst person on the planet for yelling at them to put down their XBox 1080s and go outside and play.

"The outside world is bad, grandpa! I could hurt myself!"

Perhaps, though, it's the way of the world. When my own grandfather would yell at me and my sister for watching cartoons instead of getting some fresh air, we didn't understand what he was talking about or why.

The weird thing about it is that for all the yelling and teeth-gnashing that people do about violence on tv, sex in the movies and, of course, rap music, it's probably stuff that we take for granted that will color us as inhuman savages to the world in the future.

Why did they drive CARS? My God! You mean to tell me they actually ate sugar?!

Which is why my usual approach is to just not care. I have no real way of knowing if my love of medium-rare steaks will put me alongside Mussolini in the eyes of posterity. So why spend energy worrying about it?

Wherein we get this show on the road

I was told to pick a topic for my blog for opinion writing. I decided on sports and entertainment because it's easy. And I can knock out rants about how the Chargers suck and Jay Leno's a bad person without thinking about it.

And I'm lazy.

I was told:

Sports and entertainment!?! What? Come on.

and:

Man, you’d have some great observations on this funny little town and the people you see around you. Comment on it. Find issues among it. Find things that riles you and piss you off. Things that you just can’t stand to let go unnoticed. And things that speak to bigger things.

Because that sounds like work. It would require effort and the expenditure of calories. And besides, I'm lazy.

Besides, at the moment I don't have anything to write about. Nothing going on in and around town, I mean. What am I going to write about? The homeless? It's been done. And done. And done.

What I've got worth ranting about is my utter lack of money. I don't have money because I don't know if I've got a job.

See, here's what happened:

I got a job working overnight at a hotel. I was "security/night audit." Basically, I showed up at 10:30 and baby-sat the hotel until 6:30 in the morning. Which was the perfect job for me.

People show up? Park their car, haul their bags to their rooms. Lock the doors at midnight-ish, pass out the newspapers, slide the bill under the door. Otherwise? I sat on the couch, watching tv, surfing the web.

Anytime I was bothered, I was secure in the knowledge that I'd at least get a couple bucks in tips for my trouble.

Perfect job for me, because why? Because I'm lazy. That's why.

Then I was told that a guy at another hotel needed help. Was desperate for help. They used that word: DESPERATE. FOR HELP.

So I go, on a Monday, to see the manager. And I wait, in the lobby, for 30 minutes, to talk to the man who I'm told is DESPERATE. FOR HELP.

We talk for 20 minutes. It seems to go well. He has to interview another guy the next day but I've pretty much got it, wink-wink, nudge-nudge, don't worry, call on Wednesday.

I call on Wednesday. I call TWICE on Wednesday. I leave a message, twice, on Wednesday.

He calls on Thursday. "Hey Ant, just to let you know, we don't need you after all, sorry."

Well. Alrighty then. Glad I called.

It is now two weeks later. Two weeks of me not working and not earning money later. And I'm not on the schedule for the place I was perfectly happy working at before THEY came to ME and asked me to lend a hand to the guy who was DESPERATE. FOR HELP.

My landlord does not like this story. My landlord's response to this story: "So when can I cash the check for January's rent? Also February is soon."

I'll think of something worth writing about for next week. Not tonight, though: I'm lazy.