Some Preliminaries

Let me tell you now that as I type I can hear my finger joints creaking.
I think they're whispering "oil can."
That's how rusty I am.

I have been out of practice at this personal write-up thing for almost a year.
I hope it's more like riding a bike, and less like . . . uh . . . something that's hard to remember how to do after an extended period of not doing it.


Well, it seems my simile skills are up to snuff.


Er, what's next?

Yes, I return to the grind- the exhausting, daunting, depressing task of expounding on the character of my friends.

This Reverse quiz will be a re-hash of the oldest story in the world. That is to say, how great Andrew is. Humans have been writing on this subject since they first took charcoal bits to cave walls. That's the level of awesome Andrew has achieved: he pretty much transcends time.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
I have touched upon the subject of Andrew before in this periodical, a little over two years ago.
You have to scroll down some distance, but it's here:
http://whiteytighties.blogspot.com/2004_07_01_whiteytighties_archive.html

Okay. Just a few quick announcements before we move on to our theatrical portion of the show.

First up is the matter of the Reverse Quiz itself.
Does anyone even remember what exactly is on it? On what scales do I judge you? What juicy tidbits you can expect?
So, before we go any further, let me give you a summary of my quiz formula.

01. I will write something about you. (No less than one paragraph length.)

02. I will then tell what song/movie remind me of you.

03. If I were to apply a time to you, it would be...

04. I will try to name a single word that best describes you. (Or, that failing, a half dozen words.)

05. I'll tell you one of the most memorable moments I've had with you.

06. I will tell you what animal you remind me of.

07. I'll then tell you something that I've always wondered about you.

08. I'll tell you which hanky signal you'd probably go by.

09. I will describe my ideal day with you.

10. I will tell you which villainous character actor you remind me of.

If any of you happen to remember the details of those reverse quizzes that were circulating the blogosphere a year or so ago, you'll notice that I devitated somewhat from the traditional model. So, in an attempt to preemptively halt all questions that I might be bombarded with later, here is a thorough explantaion of each item on my version of the quiz:

1. Self explanatory. Same as errbody else's, but longer than most.

2. I'm big on making things as explicit as possible. Perhaps it comes from the years of being misunderstood and subsequently villified, but whatever the reason, I go out of my way to explain what I say. One fish, two fish. Red fish, blue fish.
As such, when listing the songs you remind me of, I will include a description of the ditty, my reasons for picking it, and, occasionally, specific lyrics. Unlike my illustrious predecessors, I feel you shouldn't have to hunt for specifics on these.There is one other variation from the formula I am including. I realized that in order to do justice to this thing if more than one person is involved, you need to create some sort of similar scale. I needed something which would unite my readers and make them easier to describe. Thus, in addition to telling you which random song or songs you remind me of, I will tell you which Mike Doughty song you remind me of. This way I can capture your personalities more fully.
(One last note for this one: If you think about someone enough, every song you hear, and every movie you see, will remind you of him or her. So, while the tunes and films I pick have some relevance to who you are as a person, I choose them more because you're special to me and I think of you a lot.)

3. I over-did it on this one. When choosing time I picked not only an o'clock, but also a day, season, and month, and, in some cases, year.

4. Impossible. I did my best.

5. Ditto. Also, I probably held back on these.

6. Once again the universal scale approach. Aside from picking assorted animals of varying genus and species for y'all, I picked for each of you a dog that you remind me of.

7. Obviously held back on this one.

8. Yeah, the Hanky Signal.
The Hanky Code was a system of wordless, sartorial communication developed by the gay community, which has spread in limited amounts to the fetish world as a whole. It shows, by the color of the handkerchief you wear and its placement in one of several locations on your person, what your particular kink is. I declined to post explanations for these. Have fun looking them up and remember to clear your history when your done.
You know what's really funny? The code varies!
(I used this one: http://www.fetishexchange.org/hanky.shtml).

9. Might be partially based on actual events.10. You won't know who this is in many cases. Just "role" with it.

Good, I think that wraps it up.

Now, I realize it's been so long that any references to past posts are fairly moot, but here are some additions to an old Rerverse Quiz, Looney Tones, about my perennial Italian-ninja cohort, Anthony Celi.

There are but two items I need to touch on left over from the Tony's post.

The first, sadly, is a negative assessment of the poor fellow. In my write-up of him, though he asked me to take the gloves off and not pull any punches, I said almost nothing about his slightly less appealing character traits. At the time I was so enamored with the guy that I couldn't even see any faults, let alone bring myself to write about them. A few people even commented after reading that they could think of some bothersome qualities Tones possesses, and wondered why I hadn't included any. And so, now, for the sake of closure and completion, I will type about reasons why I do not like Tony. (This is, oddly enough, in spite of the fact that I do like him, and am closer to him now than ever.)

Tony can be stubborn. Annoyingly so. He is capable of digging his heels in further and with more tenacity than anyone I know. (It's as if he wear those ninja climbing foot-spikes all the time . . . in his mind!) One of my biggest problems with Tony is his absolute unyielding nature in the face of peer pressure. This contradicts strongly with his at times too-passive attitude in social situations. If Tony only wants to "go with the flow," God help the individual struggling to get him galvanized enough to make a decision. However, if he has his mind firmly set on something, save yourself hours of your life and give up trying to get him to change it.

Tony is a genius. Literally. Certified and saluted. As such, he has a right to be arrogant. He can, however, becoming sickeningly condescending sometimes. Not usually to me. I don't know if this is because he won't do it directly, or I choose not to see it, or-my favorite- he recognizes me as close to his own intelligence level. But I digress, to people he sees as intellectual inferiors- which is, rightfully- much of the population of planet Earth- he can be superior to the point of callousness. With me, his arrogance occasionally manifests itself in our arguments and debates, especially the petty ones, when he lowers himself to cruel jibes, which, when blended with his already assured air, become intolerable.
A side note from the above: Though this is no fault of Tony's, one thing I cannot stand is knowing more than him. The hierarchy is clear enough to me that any disruption of it becomes almost nauseating. So, if there is a fact Tony is ignorant of, yet I know because of my memory or voracious appetite for reading, it seems, well, just wrong somehow.

Tony is selfish. When it comes to creative collaberations, that is. The skits we wrote, for instance. He dominated them. In fact, to even use "we" to describe the force behind them is absurd. He wrote them. He didn't do it to earn more praise for himself, however. That's the infuriating part. He never wanted any credit for them. It'd be one thing if he pushed me out of the way to bask in the limelight. But as soon as the applause began, Tony tucked himself away in the corner. He does this often. With projects or good deeds. Does all the work, takes none of the credit. It's bothersome mostly because it makes so little sense.

Tony can be fussy and rule-bound. This intrudes in his competence as a host and his duties as a friend. I imagine his reverence for rules and boundaries- which he sometimes abandons to riotous results- is inherited from his parents; conditioned just as my hatred for rules and authority was by mine. Still, it can be discouraging.
For instance, the drinks in his fridge downstairs. Mentality in my house is always, in a lax way, you want something, have it. If my dad bought a bottle of soda for himself and my friends want some, take some. He'll happily buy another. The inherent boundaries of material possessions mean very little. And, in some ways Tony is like this. However, when my brother Sam asks for some cranberry juice, which Tony's parents use- I assume to make drinks- he is not just denied but reprimanded. I realize this is more a side-effect of the specific Celi household mentality, which is neither right nor wrong, merely different from mine, but Tony, as an unyielding instrument of that mentality, gains my scorn and disaffection.

And, at times, for whatever reason, Tony can slip up. We all do. What I mean is, in the very pure qualities that he exemplifies, that define what a magnificient person he is, he falls short. Happens to everyone. For instance: Tony had his house to himself this summer. I came over one night, between 10 and 11 I think it was, with a change of clothes and asked to use his shower. He appeared scandalized, and denied me access to his facilities. I admit, it might have been presumptuous on my part to act as I did. But, thing was, my house was undergoiing renovation and I had only ice-cold water coming out of my taps. I was working full-time in a grungy warehouse then, and just wanted to get clean. For Tony, normally the genial host, to not just deny my request, but appear insulted by it, was as harsh as a slap in the face. If Tony had come to my house, with my parents there, at 3 o'clock in the morning and asked the same of me I'd have drawn his goddamn bath for him.
Continuing in the bathroom theme: He gets angry when one does number two at his house. For fuck sake, it's a toilet! Tony could shit on my kitchen floor and I'd hold off on losing my temper.

. . .

I think that's all I got. What I guess I'm driving at is that Tony is a person and people are complex. Understandable, but nonetheless annoying and hurtful.

But, onto the good things:

Tony is a hard worker. I did not mention this in the his post. I greatly admire anyone who can apply themselves to a task, especially a physical one, and remain diligent. Tony isn't the strongest guy I know, and I tend to think of myself- rugged, powerful, slightly masochistic, with the work-ethic of an ox, as a hard worker. But Tony, in a quiet, unassuming way, can work just as hard and as doggedly as I do.

And the only other thing which needs mentioning is how thrilling it is sometimes to banter with Tony about the most esoteric subect matter imaginable. Whether it's bouncing quotations from Dexter's Lab or Johnny Bravo off one another or discussing obscure Spiderman villains, I cannot express how happy I am that Tony and I function on the same nerd wave-length. Tony is my friend, confidante, and pop-culture geequal, and I value this greatly.


Two final notes on the concept of Reverse Quizzes as a whole:

Note One:
When describing something it is often necessary to compare it to something else. When composing my Friends paragraphs, I held back as much as I could for fear that in complimenting one amigo I would insult the otro. In this series of personal write-ups, however, I have decided to take Caution, douse him in gasoline, light him on fire, piss on the ashes, and throw him to the wind. So, fair warning, you may see some comparisons when reading these. If they offend you, I am sorry. I do not mean for them to, and will try to keep them as bland as possible. If you're still sore, feel free to write mean things about me in your online journals. That always helps me relieve stress. Or, punch me in the face. Seriously. If you're angry, I won't stop you.

Okay, Note Two:

I am not an insightful person. I agonized over these for hours before finally deciding to just write what I thought was coming from my heart (but what might very well have been coming from my right kidney.) As such, don't put too much stock into what I say. Regard me less as a prophet and more as one of those shallow online surveys which, based on a pattern of dots, decide the kind of person you are. I tried to be intelligent about this. I doubt it worked.

P.S. The actual hanky codes for Becky, for all those curious enough to want to know but lazy enough not to left click on the link and read several words, are as follows:

Kelly Green: This was proceded by the statement that Sam had made me add it. That is because Kelly Green hankies have something to do with whores, or role-playing as whores.

Kewpie doll: This one I picked, though. If you wear a Kewpie doll on your person it indicates a love of cuddling.

Okay, now onward to victory, Mule!

AL: You need his love

a.n.d.rew.



01. A Tall Tale

Man, oh, man! Where to start, huh? Where to start? . . . I'm serious here, guys, I have no idea where to begin.
Anyone got a suggestion?
Anyone?
Bueller?
Fine! You lot are useless! What do I pay you people for, anyway?
Okay, looks like tonight the lone wolf . . . hunts alone.

Andrew, you are loved and admired the world over, but I don't think anyone gives you quite enough credit. No one appreciates your inner complexities. I realize it's like this with all of us. Woe for the unsung talents and hidden depths an' all that. But with you, Drew, it goes almost to the point of not understanding who you are.

. . .


I thought I'd dig myself a nice philosophical trench to start things off. Test the waters, you know.

. . .

Where was I? Ah, yes. No one understands you enough. 'Course, as I launch into this rant, do not think that I appreciate you any more than the others reading this. Th'only difference twixt them an' me, dear Andy, is that I see myself for the ignorant fool I am.

. . .

It appears that in attempting to justify my trench I unwittingly turned it into a Grand Canyon of sorts.

Nevertheless! Lemme begin here by describing how I assume most of us perceive you.

We see you as a loveable, lanky, easy-going chappie, a talented musician, a lover of film, a sharp dresser, and a breakfast-sandwich-making extraordinaire. And all of these things you are.
These are all of the reasons I was first drawn to you; chief among them being our mutual devotion to film and music.
You're handsome and athletic and charming- in a quirky, vulnerable way.
You're a sound-thinking Christian and an occasional rebel.
You're our Andrew.

And, don't get me wrong, budsy, you are all of these things. But you're more. With you, it's as if people watch, but don't see- listen but do not hear.

There are intricate levels, you see.

And one of them, which must be addressed, is Andrew the attention-grabber. As I sit and type and think of it, now, in the calm light of reason, I realize that in the past when I've called you an attention-whore I was speaking out of place. Most of the time you're quiet. Cool and collected, even if you're shy. But still, there is that childlike need to receive the full attention of any group, even if it only rears it's cute lil' head every once in a while.

At the risk of sounding insulting, I will expand on this concept of being "child-like."

Too often the word is given a negative connotation. Indeed, it applies to some of the negative aspects of your personality.
For instance, you are tactless. You show no more care with words than a child who barely understands how to use them. I should know, I'm occasionally much the same. There are three negative aspects to your personality, and this, the obliviousness in the face of hurting people, is the worst.
Next comes the disregard for others material possessions. You, Andrew, are the most willfully destructive person I have ever met. Once, you broke a chair of mine- from a set that belonged to my grandparents- by tipping in it until it snapped. This was after hearing it creak in protest, and after my repeated pleas and warnings to not continue testing the old chair. But I knew at the time what would happen. I saw that devilish gleam in your eye. The look of mischievousness that represents a complete disregard, almost verging on disdain, for the possessions of others. I hated you for that at the time, and I still do, a little, even now. I belive you finished that visit by hurling darts at anything that caught your eye. Including, if memory serves, a holy Bible. You've stepped on, stomped, crushed, snapped, up-ended, and kicked some of the material things I care most about. You drop my expensive HEX dumbells from about halfway up your lanky frame onto unyielding concrete. You have spit on the floor of my gym. I realize this ruinous, pestilential behavior is not a result of malice. You're usually one of the nicest guys I know. You're more like a curious kid that grabs some crayons and draws on a wall, or breaks windows for fun.
The third negative aspect is the selfishness. It's not greed-based, necessarily, more simple obliviousness again. Being unaware of anyone but yourself. And these only happen in rare moments of weakness.
Also, sometimes you get whiny, pessimistic, and impatient. But we all do.

And when you reach the end of that particularly short list, you have reached the end of "What is 'Wrong' with Andrew."

And, indeed, much of what makes up those flaws makes up your better qualities, as well. That childish nature-- childish as in innocent, unmarred, unaffected, in the way Jesus advised us to be more childlike in faith, that kind of childishness, not immature or juvenile-- that childish nature also makes possible your spirit of adventure, your natural curiosity and sense of wonder. It makes possible your laugh. It's what makes you care so much about others. It's what makes your emotions so fine-tuned and sensitive.

What an odd paradox that is: What makes you selfish makes you selfless. What makes you insensitive makes you sensitive. Go figure.

And, again, don't misunderstand me, o' bestest bud. Using the term "childish" automatically makes me seem condescending. Nothing could be further from the truth. I hold you in the highest respect, and consider myself in very few pursuits to be anywhere close to your equal.

And, moving past this childish nature, more interlocking levels.

You're a poet. A songwriter already as gifted as your father. And you've pushed yourself to this point in the course of an unimaginably short 3 years. You possess a depth of spirit and clear perception of the world that I cannot comprehend.

D'you know, I used to harbor the belief that I was the only person with any depth? I figured others might have some, but I never saw any evidence of it. That is, until reflected on View Master. The title of your first CD. It made me realize that you had given this abstract notion much thought. You had crafted the CD cover, with the metaphor of the child's toy, and poured heart into it. I realzed that this evidence of deeper thinking, of wheels within wheels and thought behind thought, in others, finally proved me wrong. It opened my eyes to the completeness of every human being. This I say with a straight face, and I shit you not, dear readers.

You have the soundest taste in film of anyone I know. Although your personal preferences run a little more toward the avant-garde, you are the one to turn to to find a film, whatever the circumstance. You have never given me an entertainment tip, be it music or movies, that hasn't been worth following up on. You're a pop-culture diving rod, a guru of grooves.

You're one of the best athletes I know. Though I've only seen your prowess on the frisbee field, you move with a natural grace and desire for sport I have never seen elsewhere. On top of this, you're a good sport. You never gripe or grumble or trash talk. You're perfect.

You have a marvelous imagination and a talent for romance.

You have a splendid, unburdened sense of humor. Slapstick to sophisticate, you appreciate, and produce, it all.

Occasionally you seem a little image-conscious, but no matter. You dress well, groom well, style your hair well. Yet you make it seem effortless.

That's the key, I think, efforlessness. In sport, in song, in picking movies, in making breakfast snadwiches (sic, sandwiches). You carry yourself with a confidence, a maturity that is unhindered by the sagging weight of the world.

And so, what else is there to say? What makes you occasionally annoying makes you ultimately great, and adds to the third, clashing element of Andrew: A maturity mixed with a child-like love of life and everything it entails.

No. There is no way to do you justice.


P.S. Odd as this sounds, I love watching you eat. You seem to revel in it. And I enjoy the little crumb-crumbling gesture you make by rolling your fingertips against your thumb after every bite.

02. Song & Cinema

Settle down, now Punky Drewster. I can feel you chomping at the bit for this one.
First of all, you remind me of every independent, alternative pop/rock/folk song- and every independent, alternative movie- out there. Bad or good. This is simply because of your taste. The same way Tony reminds me of anime, good or bad, and Steve reminds me of the scream-whiny Nirvana/Smashing Pumpkins heavy grunge rock, bad or good. It is the genre I associate with there person and personality.
But let's talk specifics, shall we?

Movies: I am reminded of you when I see Garden State and The Science of Sleep, because the main characters mirror facets of your personality. You remind me of Me, You, and Everyone We Know, because we saw that film together and it made a lasting impression. You, Sam, and Tony remind me equally of Happiness of the Katakuris. Tony because it presents zombies and the people of his adopted culture, you because it was your genius and foresight that brought that film into our lives, and Sam because he's so much like so many of the characters..
You remind me of Anti-Trust, because it's the only film of its genre you've publicly professed to liking.
You remind me of The Matrix, obviously. For many of the same reasons I remind Tony of Commando.
You remind me Snatch and Saving Silverman.

Music: You remind me of St. Jimmy and City of the Damned, by Green Day. Also of Your Winter, by Sister Hazel. You remind me of The Mountains Win Again, by Blues Traveler and Whatever It Is, by Ben Lee. You remind me of Calling All Angels, by Train, and Good People, by Jack Johnson.
I think of you and your misadventure with a certain lady friend whene'er I hear Crooked Teeth, by Death Cab for Cutie.
I think of you in the same way, but with a positive spin when I hear Going the Distance, by CAKE.
I think of you when I hear Brian Wilson, by the Barenaked Ladies. I realize you don't like this song particularly, but it fits you so well.

Drove downtown in the rain,
Nine-thirty on a Tuesday night,
Just to check out the late-night
Record shop.

Call it impulsive,
Call it compulsive,
Call it insane;
But when I'm surrounded I just can't
Stop.

It's a matter of instinct,
It's a matter of conditioning,
It's a matter of fact.
You can call me Pavlov's dog.
Ring a bell and I'll salivate- how'd you like that?

. . .

And if you want to find me I'll be
Out in the sandbox,
Wondering where the hell all the
Love has gone.
Playing my guitar and building castles in the sun,
Whoa, whoa-huh-whoa,
And singing "Fun, Fun, Fun."

Another BNL song you remind me of is Tonight is the Night I Fell Asleep at the Wheel. It's the kind of song you would write: quirky, sad, soulful, almost silly. Original. If I'd heard you play it first, I'd have thought you the author.
Plus, the subject, a romantic young fellow who gets into a car accident, it disturbingly appropriate.

"From the ceiling, my coffee cup drips,
While out the window the horizon does flips."

Yipes.

I always think of you and me when I hear Mr. Jones, by the Counting Crows. If I could pick one song to be our theme, this'd be it.
And, of course, you remind me- ever time I see you or think of you- of your songs, which I value above all the previously mentioned others.

Mike Doughty Song: Circles. Not necessarily because of the lyrical or melodic qualties, but because it was the first song I heard by Soul Coughing. Ever. And I checked it with you first. You gave it your okay. To this day it's one of the few songs by that marvelous band that you tolerate.
Plus, it's a hip song, no doubt about that. Were you to star in a Circles music video, you'd make it even hipper.

03. Time Challenge!

Andrew strikes me as a 7:00 P.M. kinda fellow. A semi-late dinner hour. In the mid-fall. On a Friday. In the air hangs that cinnamon smell of autumn. The breeze is crisp but slow and casual, as if it, too, has just enjoyed a good meal. The leaves rustle quietly. The sun has all but set, gilding the russet foliage with its farewell light. It's a relaxed time. A time for food and friends. But there is that tang in the air, keeping everyone at least a little alert, because, there is still the chance that someone might dodge a cat, accidentally drop a platter of glassware, trip over an ottoman, and land upside down in an overstuffed chair.

04. Word association

Flexible, fragile, flailing, friendly, sensitive, and, above all else, soulful.

05. Memorable Moments

Hmm . . . I have known you intimately for around 5 years now. Even if one extrapolates that I've spent a third of that sleeping and another third masturbating, that still leaves at least a sixth left over for time with you. (With a sixth left for work, school, recreation, and pudding cups.
It all works out. Trust me, I've done the math, like, at least once in my head . . . while eating pudding cups.)
So, that's a lotta time, amigo.
For the sake of brevity- which I have never cared two snaps of a chick's snatch for- I will narrow down those memorable moments to 5. One for each year.

1. Sophomore year religion, Missus Blainey's ass, and the invention and first trial runs of the movie game.

2. Junior year . . . is actually coming up blank. It was a crap year, let's be honest.

3. Senior year talent show. You and me, mostly you, rocking out with Perverse Psychology and putting that boundless energy and stunt-man attitude to work in a rollicking, screaming rendition of Tribute.

4. Freshman year. I'd have to say the pleasure of seeing your smiling face as you ran in circles around the parking lot of St. Joe's in your 200 dollah jeans was one of the happiest moments of that entire year. I was buoyed by the ride there with Amy- who was still a prospective romantic interest at that point and not just another member of the growing legion of girls whom I've had crushes on, fallen into dead-end friendships with, and then alienated. Where was I? Oh, yeah, I was buoyed by the ride with Amy, and happy to be out of the car after 8 solid hours of driving, but it was seeing you that really made my day.

5. Visiting you with Tony, seeing your awesome show at the Mad Monkey, and meeting our perennial chum, Fat Dog.

I gotta throw in a 6. here:
Any time you pull me aside and play a song for me. Those are some truly touching, personal moments. I treasure them all.

06. Animality

You have always reminded me of a giraffe, craning it's long neck and slowly manuvering it's thick tongue, snatching leaves in the Serengeti.
Also, staying on the dark continent, a cheetah-as you move with such grace (sometimes) and speed, a lemur, and a howler monkey. Basically any simians, so long as they're thin, agile, and accident-prone.
And a snake. A big one.
Dog: Greyhound? 'S that too much? Also, a golden retriever. And, though not in a physical sense, Jack Russel Terrier, specifically my aunt's. You and he share the same spirit.

07. Wonder Blunder

I actually don't wonder that much about you, buddy. You can be hard to read, and sometimes darn near opaque, and you're complex, like all of us. But you're complex in a more solid, safe-feeling kinda way. It's rather hard to explain.
The biggest wonder I have for you is this: Why are you not more successful with the ladies?
Although it is pretty much my only wonder, it is a whopper. It keeps me awake some nights. You have every quality that most women desire in a romantic companion, and yet you've barely had more experience than me. What gives? I know you're shy, but that can't be the only reason. Your lack of a girlfriend makes me question the sanity of the universe.

If I wondered about anything else, it'd be about boundaries. It's long been a theory of mine that you like the movies and songs you do because they are edgy, original, and hardly known, rather than for any inherent talent or quality therein. You like them because they're different, and so make you different. Ours is a culture which values above all else the power of the original individual, and you strive to reach that exalted perch more than anyone I know. Others come as close as you, but none try so hard. Now, I know that you don't only like those movies and bands because of this. If you did, there'd be no wondering. What I want to know is how much of your taste in music and film is governed by a like of the product- an internal synergy, if you will- and how much by a desire to like the product for the sake of being cool.
I imagine the line is pretty well blurred to obscurity, but I wonder nonetheless.


08. Hanky Panky

Definitely not medium blue, but I doubt you could avoid it.
Lime green, for sure.
Lavender
Paisely

Teddy Bear
Mosquito net
Cock ring


09. Ideal For Real

The day would begin, bright and early, with a work-out. (You have long been my most consistent, non-family work-out partner, Andrew, and I thank you for it.) We'd push ourselves, sweating and straining, for a good two hours or so. Then off to shower, change, and head to breakfast. After breakfast we'd get started on an art project for Ninja Pirate Incorporated. Something big, something bright, something impressive. Sawing, drilling, nailing, painting, sewing. We'd work alongside each other, occasionally helped by friends from all over, and eventually wind things down around 2, for a late lunch (the key to any day with Andrew is to include as many meals as possible) at Woodbridges. We would then work on a script for a movie we'd be planning to direct, star in, and send to Channel101.com, but just to make them jealous. We'd eventually display it online ourselves and start our own funny tv website. Jack Black would stop by to say hello. Thence would we set out to explore Northampton and surf, as they say, the turf for some chickeroos.
As it's an ideal day, we'd find some.
"Hellooo, ladies," we'd say in unison, not creeping them out in the least (ideal day, ideal day), we just so happen to have tuh-hoo extra tickets for that Mike Doughty/Decemberists show tonight at the Calvin. Care to join us? Of course they'd care to join us. Might I take the time here to add that they both have very, very nice boobs?
We'd stop at Turn It Up, and buy our female friends some CD's, whilst endearing them to us further by hamming it up with our semi-intelligible pop-culture-fueled madness and Randrew Speak. (This is the name for that language we share.) John C. McGinley would be there, and we'd each receive five good ones from him, along with a smile and a best-of-luck-with-the-ladies wink.
Off to dinner at some nice place, Fitzwilly's, perhaps, and then on to the show. At some point, Connor and Mike would share the stage to sing The Gambler, and they would spot us, front and center, and call us forward. We'd sing along with them, and tell jokes. Again, ideal day, so I'd be as close as I ever get to being on-key. The crowd would love us. The show would rock, and roll.
After the show we'd head back to your house, which would be deliciously parent-free. Splash would remain to keep some modicum of order.
Bonfire, s'mores, and stories.
In the basement, you'd play the girls songs and I'd perform stand-up. Then we'd get blow-jobs.
As we'd be so full of zim and zeal, and in no mood to sleep, we'd curl up on your couch- with dates- and have a movie marathon. Saving Silverman, Snatch, and Rat Race.
Eventually, as the sleepy fingers of dawn crept over the tree tops -just as our sleepy fingers crept over our date's luscious breats- we'd decide, a bit late, really, to call it a night. You'd walk me to my car and we'd part ways, mentioning to our dates, who I have grown attached to enough to now name . . . Veronica and Alicia, that we just so happen to have two extra tickets to the Iditarod. (We know someone who's competing, Oh, boy, Oh, boy.)
And there would the day END!


10. Character Actor Accuracy:

Although they are both too famous to be character actors, Tim Robbins and Jim Carrey. For, in physical appearance and respective personalities, both are very much like you.
You, Andrew, are like a weird blend of Carrey's manic, rubbery hysteria and Robbins's quiet, thoughtful poise.
Also, I'ma say it. John Travolta. Anyone who has seen him a) sing in Grease, b) dance in Saturday Night Fever, c) ham it up in Battlefield Earth, or d) give that head-lowered demon-eyed look in Broken Arrow cannot help but pick up on the resemblance.
And, Kevin Bacon? Kevin Bacon, anyone?
http://www.sitevip.net/kevin-bacon/images/index_botom_left.jpg
If I had to pick less-well-known actors, I'd go with Alexander Godunov, Karl, from Die Hard.
http://www.kmf.org.pl/fx/link/diehard/real/19.jpg
There is a moment in which he spins his head around and we see his reaction to news of Bruce Willis's survival in the face of bullets and broken glass, and the look on his face is pure Andrew. Plus, at the end {spolier alert!} when he returns from being supposedly dead and tries to kill Willis, the flames of insanity raging in his eyes, always makes me think of you. It's a pure Andrew crazy look.
Everett McGill. You know that face you sometimes have, when your mouth droops into a small, slack frown, and your eyes get all hodded, like you're either evil or sleepy, and your head tilts back a bit? It's like your creepy face. Well, anyway, except for a slight sharpening of features, that's pretty much the face McGill has all the time. He's tall and lanky and always plays very no-nonsense fellows. He fought drunken Gary Busey and wheel-chair-bound Corey Haim as a werewolf in Stephen King's Silver Bullet, he tangled with Steven Segal in Under Siege II: Dark Territory, and he tried to kill former presidents Jack Lemmon and James Garner in My Fellow Americans.
He'd be my candidate for evil Andrew.

Say hello to evil Andrew:

http://www.radiohound.com/MaleCelebs/pics/everettmcgill.jpg

I was down at the New Amsterdam,
Starin’ at this yellow-haired girl.
Mr. Jones strikes up a conversation
With a black-haired
Flamenco dancer.
You know she dances while his father plays
Guitar
She's suddenly beautiful.
An we all want something beautiful-
Man I wish I was beautiful.
So come dance this silence down through the morning.
Sha la la la la la la la yeah
Cut up, Maria!
Show me some of them Spanish dances an’
Pass me a bottle,
Mr. Jones.
Believe in me.
Help me believe in anything.
I
Wanna be someone
Who believes.
Yeah.
Mr. Jones and me
Tell each other fairy tales
Stare at the beautiful women
"She's looking at you.
Ah, no, no, she looking at me."
Smiling in the bright lights.
Coming through in stereo.
When everybody loves you,
You can never be lonely.

Well l will paint my picture-
Paint myself in blue and red and black and gray-
All of the beautiful colors are very, very meaningful.
You know, gray is my favorite color.
I felt so symbolic yesterday.
If I knew Picasso
I would buy myself a gray guitar and play
Mr. Jones and me
Look into the future
Stare at the beautiful women
"She's looking at you.
Uh, I don't think so. She's looking at me."
Standing in the spotlight
I bought myself a gray guitar
An’ when everybody loves me,
I will never be lonely.

I want to be a lion-
Everybody wants to pass as cats.
We all want to be big, big stars, but
We got different reasons for that.
Believe in me
‘Cause I don't believe in anything,
An’ I
Wanna be someone
To believe.
To believe.
Yeah.

Mr. Jones and me
Stumbling through the barrio.
Yeah we stare at the beautiful women
"She's perfect for you.
Man, there's got to be someone for me."
I wanna be Bob Dylan-
Mr. Jones wishes he was someone just a little more funky
When everybody loves you,
Oh, son,
That's just about as funky as you can be.

Mr. Jones and me
Staring at the video-
When I look at the television, I want to see me,
Starin' right back at me.

We all wanna be big stars,
But we don't know why
An' we don't know how.
But when everybody loves me,
I'll be ‘bout as happy as I can be.

Mr. Jones and me, we're gonna be big stars . . .


Well, I tink dats allz I got fa tonight-ah, ladies an' germs.

Tune in next time for some fictional exploits. That's right. The insanity returns. And just in time for Halloween.
And, while I'm busy making false promises, let's have us a look-see at who's next in line ta get branded with the white-hot iron rod of platonic love.

-Brendan
-Eddy
-EJ
-Jason Frank
-Pawel
-Dan
-Steph Lepine

I'll get to Caitlin eventually. After I finish those last seven, and her, I'll do one of myself. If you're not slated to get branded, feel free to toss your hat into the ring. I'm sure I'll get around to you eventually.

So, on behalf of myself and Everett McGill, blissful blogging and safe sandwiches, Everyone.

A-good night!


Current Mood: Moderately elated.
Current Music: Harland Williams, Har-larious.

No one but Dan will read this for at least two weeks

Greetings, blogosphere. I hope this day finds you well.

What's that? You don't remember me?

How can this be? Think of the hours we've spent together, the discussions and quarrels, the stories and statements, the memories.

Still nothing, huh?

I suppose it's to be expected. I have been away from posting for almost a year.

I wish I could say it was a planned hiatus. I wish I could claim that I had taken a year off of my own volition, to soothe my troubled mind and focus on the more important things in life.

Alas, such is not the case.

I've been suffering through a terrible streak of melancholy, laziness, and bad luck. It is entirely my fault-- and, paradoxically enough, not at all my choice-- that this blog has gone un-updated for so long.

But, while I can't claim to be any better off, financially, physically, mentally, or emotionally, than that bleak day one year past that marked the beginning of my exile, I can state that I have come to some important conclusions.

One conclusion is that this blog is dear to me, and, while possibly not crucial to my existence, is pretty close to it. It helps maintain connections, it keeps my creatively active, and it gives me a shade of purpose.

The other conclusion is that my pants are too tight.
Seriously.
I'm, like, chafing in these bad boys.

So, shedding off my normal flourishing, bombastic eloquence, I stand before you today and state simply that this blog is back and here to stay. And I hope you'll all find your way back here.



. . .



Man! An update on my current status would be nice, huh?
I mean, a lot has gone on in a year that many of you poor dolts are not privy to.
Yes, an update is required.

. . .

But I ain't gonna take the time to write one.

Here is item one in this new blog post:

Any facts and figures and fill-in-the-blanks from this date stretching back to those dim days when I was still writing this thing must be formally requested in the form of a question.

Remember those questions sessions that Tony once held? It'll be like that. 'Cept I don't want to ask anything of you in return. Unless you like that sort of thing.
So! Any details you want will have to be specified. You wanna know who's kissed whom, which friendships I've started, strengthened, or left in tatters? What movies I've seen, where I've gone, what I've been doing, just ask.

I eagerly await your inquires.

Item two on the agenda is a basic plan of what's to come. I realize I've never really fulfilled my promises on proposed blog posts in the past, but I am confident now that I will follow through.

So, what's next?

First, a return to those reverse quizzes. You didn't think I'd forgotten, did you? I've done about 4 out of 20 and so have my work fairly well cut out for me.
I believe Caitlin Szewczyk's pretty little head is next on the chopping block. However, due to what a psychologist might call "technical difficulties" I will not be resuming whence I left off. I am going to leapfrog over Caitlin and move right onto that lanky, cranky, hank-panky giant of a friend, Andyroo LuhTellyay. Preceded of course by some preliminaries.
Then on to more fictional adventures.

That's all for now.
I can't think of anything worth writing just yet, save a basic log of what goes on in my life from day to day. Normally I would look upon such pedestrian topics with utmost disdain, but that attitude is more appropriate when my accounts involve anyone who would be reading them. It's fairly pointless to write about how I went to the mall with Brendan and Caitlin when Brendan and Caitlin are some of the only people to read this thing. But, now that we're all making our way in the big world, it makes a modicum of sense to let my friends, spread as they are to the far corners of the globe, what I'm doing.

So that's what you can expect in the immediate future.

Now I'm going to have a stretch, curl up with a copy of the Bhagavad-Gita, and call it a night.

But rest assured, this blog is up and running once again, and further updates are on their way.

. . .

It feels good to be back.

Good night, Ladies and Gents. I'll be typing to you soon.

Current Music: Library chatter and key-board clicking.
Current Mood: Hopeful