I am proud to announce the premiere of Don't Pick At It Radio, my very own internet radio station.

MATT LOUV HAS HIS OWN INTERNET RADIO STATION, AND HE'S NOT GOING TO BE SUED FOR LICENSING INFRACTIONS!!!

For now, I'm still uploading songs and getting everything straightened out, but you can listen in any time of the day, seven days a week. Diggity checkit.

Back in the day when the main focus of this weblog was Chihuahuas and the squeezing/kicking thereof, I made a vulgar post on a message board about dogs. I was browsing through my archives and revisited said post, and to my surprise people had actually responded.

My dog sucks

Perhaps the strangest lie that we, as young people, are told, is that without school we'd have no/less friends. As evidenced by the fact that we all seem to be getting along just fine after two weeks of un-school and I have since discovered a completely new social hemisphere, I would conclude that stated lie is complete and utter bullshit. If anything, school disrupts our relationships by forcing us to deal with each other five days a week.

Another lie: without school we'd be roaming the streets, raping old ladies and selling ourselves to sailors for crack money. I see no chaos and no more or less degradation than during school.

Don't you see? We can live together without the government telling us what's best.

Anyone who has digital Time Warner cable needs to go to channel 900 and watch the Eek-a-Mouse! video "Schitzophrenic."

Guess whose new album totally rules.

On Scripps Lake Drive there is a construction sign that reads "WOMEN WORKERS AHEAD."

Jeff: "Just tell Peppy you couldn't do a barrel roll because you were getting stoned. He'll understand."

Spent the day in La Jolla. All the money in the world can't buy personality.

Everywhere I walked I was behind the same family, the father of which wore a shirt reading "I'm not an alcoholic, I'm a drunk! Alcoholics go to meetings!"

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRGH

Michael Jackson -> Popularity peaked in the 80's -> People in the 80's were different than we are -> People who act different than we do are funny -> Michael Jackson is funny -> ASB plays Michael Jackson daily at lunch.

Kelso called me a badass today.

That is all.

Fading sunlight. Specks of light floating. Leaves. Little spider with white legs. Infinite, infinite lines. God is in the details. God is in the details.

SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!

An incredible reaction to a drunk-driving lecture the other day. We all gather in the gym and listen to this guy talking about how his son and two of his friends died in a car crash because they were drinking, how it disrupted their lives for years after and how many family members were barely stuggling to stay functioning.

Basically no reaction. People are giggling, hitting each other, etc.

"My daughter, before the accident, was a 3.0 GPA student. A month after the incident, her GPA was 0.9."

Gasps, disbelief, shock.

Fuck that.

I miss Santa Cruz. I want to feel involved like that again. I want to feel stimulated by everything around me, instead of barely crawling through chemistry homework because I'm too listless to give a shit anymore. Back to that land of giants, where every person was like a painting you kept walking back across the museum to see again because it was just that intriguing.

As I grow older the mist parts. The gap is shrinking between now and then. I know why people did what they did; I'm starting to move and talk like them. The mystery is gone.

I feel like something important is missing. I feel passionately about next to nothing. I am excited by next to nothing. I am becoming nothing, consumed by myself.

What would be good would be to get on a plane, alone, and stay for a month in a city I've never been to before. Need to experience.

To anyone considering taking it, Video Production is the easiest class I have taken since web design. Once again, I have sat staring at this computer for an hour, with another forty minutes to go. To my right, Matt Kelly also stares at his computer, an iMac that behaves like it was dropped as a baby. Likewise, to my left, twenty other people stare vacantly at Shockwave games, the hands, the shambles of their empty lives. At the front of the room, the teacher has inflated himself to "ward off predator" stance as he confronts something shiny.

Matt and I have found ways to entertain ourselves. If we didn't, we'd spiral into a comatose twilight state.

Matt and Matt's top five methods of distraction:

1. Inordinately beat each other. If the teacher interferes, beat him too.

2. Harass the teacher to let us do news stories such as "Is our school prepared for attack by dinosaur?" and "SRHS video teacher android from the past, demands human sacrifice." When teacher rejects, argue. When teacher continues to refuse, hold magnets up to his head and rub.

3. Hide in the news room and play with the SRHS time machine, a metal box of unknown purpose or origin which we have determined is our key to a wacky romp through the circuits of time. If teacher hassles us about deadlines, reassure him that we can simply go back through time if we have more work to do.

4. Claim we are going out to gather footage for our stories and instead exploit the power of having a camera to hold free reign over the campus. Pull friends out of class, have Mortal Kombat-esque melee battles and hit stuff with big sticks.

5. Staying in our seats and staying on task, completing the items in our packets in the order listed and not screwing around on the internet. Writing story proposals, interview questions and scripts, capturing SOT and B-roll, logging with Final Cut, editing the SOT and B-roll together into a linear, coherent story and submitting the quicktime-formatted stories through the local server.

When do we stop distracting ourselves? When do the curtains draw? It doesn't end after school, does it? We have to start now, don't we?

What doesn't matter is that I will likely get a C in math.

What does matter is that when I start adding up variables, the answer is hidden, maybe not even there.

And yet, why is it that I will continue to do my math homework? I should set it on fire.

Absurd.

Nothing like waking up covered in bruises from a No Dough Show.

Like, incommunicable complexity of feeling, and stuff.

Badger badger badger badger badger badger badger badger badger badger