Senior Year

There was a CNN report on contemporary hate crimes in the work place: lynching, swastikas sprayed on doors, etc.

I thought, “What the hell is wrong with people?” and tried to imagine where these things happen…maybe Mississippi or somewhere…surely not Miami.

And then I remembered that I have faggot, nigger, or variations of those words (like battiman) written on my door at least twice a week. Hm.

In other news, I seem to have been transported into a movie…

The smiley old cashier at Publix said, “You look tired.”
The smug Walgreens cashier told me “You look exhausted.”

…since when did I become the Machinist? I get a full night of that dirty, hardcore snoring, farting, snot-nosed good sleep, and everyone tells me I look like crap.
Well everyone: I’m very rejuvenated right now thank you very much. Those must be excitement bags under my eyes from being the Jammy jam.

…Frugal with my money and jealous of my time.

Working, writing, and fiercely devoted to 8 hours of sleep… things are good.

Vintage Jansen right there…

…from back in the day when things were cool.

Had to perform as Pistol and Justice Shallow in my Shakespeare class. It didn’t go as well as I hoped but it wasn’t a disaster.

I tend to bumble through class presentations if I don’t practice them at least ten times. This is why I don’t participate sometimes – have you noticed how the guy who stays the stupidest shit in class never realizes that the everyone else is rolling their eyes?

Overly trendy for Halloween in the Design District. A lot of Adam’s family Wendys for my tastes.

The highlight of the night was the goth remix of Soulja Boy’s “Crank that.”

Hopping around the dark, hopping around my dorm.

Uneventfulness: reading novels that aren’t for class, trying my hardest to ignore the quotes from John Dufresne that are plastered about… and trying to decide on this application thing.

Read PD James and fed ducks by the business school all day because I do what I want.

Well, I was a bit more productive than that… Teach for America and college essays… some vague RA-stuff, etc.

11:38pm and Racquel and I are zipping past downtown. We were trying to make the midnight showing of Saw IV and not doing well.

We get on the 195 approaching Club Space when my engine stops on the highway. I curse, take the US-1 exit and coast down the ramp onto a side street.

It is 11:41 now.

A homeless person is across the street. The neon sign of GoldRush strip club is ahead of us. Racquel is laughing, I’m still cursing. I turn off the car, sigh, and say the obvious – “this is some bullshit.”

I then try to restart the car. It starts. We decide to see the movie. Why not? 11:43 now.

We are back on 195 and going past P. Diddy and Shaq’s darkened mansions when I mutter, “shit.”

“What?” Racquel said, “the car doesn’t look like it’s dying.”

“No it’s not. But I’m being pulled over,” I said, eying the blue and red flashes in my mirrors.

I pull over. It’s 11:46. The he-woman cop asks for my license and registration and then disappears.

“What the heck could she pull me over for?” I wondered aloud.

He-woman returns and shoves a ticket across Racquel towards me, “Here’s your ticket. Can you sign for it here?”

“Uh, what am I getting a ticket for?”

“Speeding.”
“Speeding?”
“Speeding.”

“What’s the speed limit?” I asked. I had been going 45mph. She wasn’t really giving me a ticket for going 45 in a 40 was she?

“The speed limit is 50 sir.”

“…and how fast are you saying I was going?”

“You were going 65. We had to speed up to 70 just to catch up with you. We were on Palm island. You were going so fast you didn’t even see the cop car.”

“No,” I thought, “It’s Thursday night and the highway is busy, and that’s why I didn’t see your ass.”

I signed for the ticket. It was 12:06am, and some bullshit.

We got to the theater at 12:13. We were in the seats by 12:16. A full 2 minutes late.

Downtown’s construction frenzy has reached NW7th with a hint of foreclosure. “Affordable Condos starting at low 300,000’s.” – yeah, I do live Miami.

“Little Havana heat” seems like a cliché, but it was Little Havana and it was hot. So there. Spent too much time there this week “getting the car fixed” at this decrepit mechanic shop attached to a Westar gas station on 22nd… Empanadas and Coronas … the Westar has a Cafeteria run by a guy who speaks over-polite English.

I’ve had to bring the car back so many times this week that I’m quite sure Juan the mechanic is going to cut my brakes if I go back.

Early morning trips to the country.
Gas station coffee, the smell of soggy air,

…tires in the canal, and the constant threat of alligators and boas…and plent of random pictures.

Sometimes teachers are useful warnings.
Donut students: eyes glazed over – and the professor, ranting or tripping through another lecture.

Sure, ratemyprofessor.com is fairly accurate, but no one has the decency to say anything to the professor – not even on those little evaluations they pass out once a semester…

Sprees and fits, building Trollopian castles, and old school rocking out.

Pacing around, wringing my hands, and probably giving myself that sharp headache.

This girl screamed at me for about a solid hour tonight. This has been happening a lot lately. Stereotypes and caricatures: The NYC-NJ-Jewish-Italian girl who, when caught breaking the rules, becomes the 4-year-old brat in the department store toy isle.

If there’s one thing the RA job teaches you – it’s patience.

Little Havana because the car broke… the refurbished alternator seems like less of a bargain because it keeps raping my battery – and Jose can’t fix it. Come back Saturday he says.

I wasn’t the only one who broke down that day.

Quiet productive nights, tired days.

Humidity, Cuban heat and light — and that little camp in the Everglades.

Lining, outlining, and delineating. And well, deciding.

JHR jumped into the canal outside of his house.

I bitched that it was a stupid idea ‘cus of gators’ – he bitched that it was a stupid idea ‘cus the water’s flippin’ cold.’
Either way, it was a stupid idea.

Ira sucked on her cigarette, smiled, and flung it at JHR when he called her a something in Spanish.

I swear he’s going to get pneumonia.
Or a real bad canal-water-related fungus. That itches. Bad.