Living on the Edge

There's a remarkably refreshing feeling that comes from coming home at 11:07 p.m. on a Thursday night and realizing you have to type a blog and a comment by midnight.  Ooh that sweet adrenaline that you no longer receive thanks to your healthy diet of zero athletic activities and facebook overdosing.  You rush up to your father (who, as par usual, is still up and wearing silly pajamas) for a late dinner and plop down in front of the computer for the most frantic typing session of your life (besides that one time in third grade when you really wanted to beat that smart kid at a typing contest...you lied anyway about how fast you were after you lost, but this time you feel like a winner).  You pick up your guitar (your only source of solace in this Willy Wonka-esque poop factory you call a home) and, ballerina-like, snag the tray of recently-microwaved chicken from your father's lanky, too-skinny-for-his-own-good arms.  The time has come to prove who you are as a professional B.S-er.  Your talent is B.S.-erry began at a young age from your very first fib (that your dad, did in fact, have a job and it was a : Awesome basketball-playing astronaut karate-master) and has now grown into full fruition.  After Bull-spitting the king of all Black-swatters (A Mr. John Brownlow), you come to the conclusion that only way to go up is through meta-blogging...and ooh it feels so good.  Another quick bite of that semi-zesty chicken to spur you through the next sentence and you feel the end swiftly approaching.  This battle against time has left your left wrist feeling the familiar creeping arthritis that runs in the family (along with several other wicked awesome hereditary diseases like heart attacks and cancer!), but still you press on.  Just one more sentence. Something to end on that sounds like you actually have some intelligence left in that empty skull....Bingo! Yahtzee! You've got it! Eureka! End on something everyone remembers, a staple, a memory.

Thank you.

True Life:I Seem To Think I'm a Rapper Now

This is how I imagine I look when I freestyle rap in the middle of band.  Just kidding. I look way cooler than that guy.  If you have been anywhere near me in the past couple of days, you may have noticed me mumbling to myself in some sort of a lyrical fashion while awkwardly bobbing my head up and down to invisible bass drums.  No, I have not joined a cult, I have instead developed a sad belief that I can rap with some talent.  Why I have now chosen to drop into a rhythm-infused faux hip-hop artist at this point in my life, I have no idea.  I can possibly attribute this to a vast knowledge of hip-hop instilled at a young age (I was given a copy of The Chronic when I was nine) finally coming into bloom or perhaps some sort of mid-young-mid crisis due to our newest book Everything Matters!  What if I die tomorrow without fulfilling my secret dreams of being able to rap!?  No one will feel the heat of my rhymes, hear my simply popping (with a hard "g" sound) lyrics, or stomp to the mad beats that I put down!  No one will experience...Dr. Bear...yes that is my rap name...Dr. Motherscratchin' Bear.  With this new persona, I can do anything!  People will say "Why does Dom keep calling himself Dr. Bear?" and someone wiser will say "You mean, 'why does Dr. Bear keep calling himself Dr. Bear?'".  It can only grow from there: I predict some fancy cars, a new laser helicopter (I'm a nerd), and a whole bunch of ladies (uh...to keep my girlfriend company...I hope she does not read this...I'm a nerd).  So, when I own the airwaves with my vernacular of the streets (or go to jail), you can remember me as that kid with the dream...who ended up in jail.

Let's Play:Pop The Bubble!

I, like many of you, have decided on a senior project that I find creative, educational, and a good use of my time for a few months.  Also, like many of you, my senior project was rejected by some administrator who shall remain unnamed (in order to protect Mr. Steven Ast's anonymity).  My senior project involves me producing and directing a student-production of Samuel Beckett's Endgame, a very powerful one-act play, and seemed to me to further my studies of theatre and expand my knowledge of my craft so, of course, I found myself very confused to be called down to the office for a meeting. Mr. "Last Name Rhymes With Sast"'s reason? It was too "In the Bubble"...what? Because the only theatre that in their right mind would let a teenager direct happens to be in Chagrin makes it not worthy of my time?  I can not learn if I spend time in Chagrin? What does that mean? If we live in a well-to-be (albeit predominantly white) community, why does that cancel out a sense of worldliness? After posing these questions to Vice Principal Dingus, I was awarded my right to direct, but what about others who actually think out consequences before they do things (like refer to their Vice-Principal as a dingus?) The bubble may hold us back culturally but the students here are blessed with a wealth of opportunity that should not be discouraged for mere geographic location.  If you had your senior project rejected (and it wasn't something stupid like "Interning at a party factory in Cancun!") then pose these questions. I'm sure you'll get results!...and that I'll get in trouble for this.