Costume Week

Kudos to my suitemates on their choice of costumes. I could not have written more accurate representations of each of you than you have written for yourselves.

The only thing that ever stood between Chaz and being a salty seaman was the distance between himself and the closest shore, plus the distance of the dock. He's about 5'11", unkempt, grimy, his hands and face smell of fish and, as he said, he already had all the clothing items necessary for his sailor "costume" to become a reality. I guess I'm the only one with the heart to say it--if you had all the clothes beforehand, it isn't a costume.

As our audience, you may not know that Alan is a hopeless loser. If you didn't know, I shall remind you that "Video Game Week" was his idea, and that he responded with such geeky fervor that I, inadvertedly, spoke through my nose for nearly an hour after reading his post. So we have a Nintendo freak who wants nothing more than to relive his childhood by being Link for Halloween, but it doesn't end there. No, Alan is what we call a dreamer; he sits on his ass, fanning away a conspicuous cloud of smoke, and thinks of all the "cool shit" he could do. Does he get off his ass and hunt for a costume? Not unless his dealer is selling apparal.

And, finally, Vladimir--the ultimate space-case. When I was 11, I convinced myself that I was from another planet; I could find no other explanation for the vast differences between myself and everyone else I knew or had ever heard of. In High School, when I learned the various theories of superior and inferior forms of humanity, my convictions shifted slightly, though I retained a certain nostalgic insistance that I was not of this world...until I met dear Vladimir. You might be thinking that cultural differences are often stark, sometimes bizarre, and that many of Vlad's eccentricities might be easily accounted for by a close examination of Russian history and cultural practices; you would be right, though not entirely. It's not that Vlad did not come from another planet; it is, simply, that he went to Russia first.


But enough debasement. I have assembled a costume which does all that a good costume should: it is recognizable by most, and not easily confused with anything else (eg. Link with Peter Pan or Robin Hood); it requires no great physical alterations, though it is not something that the sight of me is likely to evoke (unlike Chaz and his seaman's look); and it is a character only tangentially connected to me (Vlad's whole life is beyond the stratosphere, so why be surprised that his costume is, too?).

Behold:

Schroeder.

That is all.

"Goddamn Idiot" Week

Every single one of you deserves to die. People who aren't reading this deserve to die. People who are reading this deserve to die. If the person next to you can't read English, they also deserve to die; doubly so, in fact. But whoever is responsible for closing my god-damned door deserves to burn in Hell for the rest of eternity.

Until this Saturday, I had lived within the walls of the Westfield Shoppingtown in West County for over three weeks. The times when I would wend my way back to Suite 3100, I never needed a key because : a) the suite door was always unlocked. b) my room door was always wide open.

The staggering irrelevance of my room key led me to, in my time at Westfield, lose the key. I suspect that it is buried deep within the folds of a LoveSac but, as I said, it did not matter. The door to my room never closes.

Dystopia had gone home for the evening; she's willing to sleep with me in a mall, but Wash U. beds are simply too uncomfortable for two bodies. I was laying down for some "Alfonzo Time," featuring The Postal Service, when the fire alarm went off. I tell you, were there not a fine for ignoring fire alarms, I wouldn't have moved an inch (save to turn up the music); but, being that my door was wide open, I thought it best not to be caught prostrate by a fireman.

As much as it hurts me to rely upon my suitemates, I found Chaz, Vlad and Alan outside and we stood motionless, staring at the flashing lights spinning out the windows of our building. Chaz took a swig from his handle of vodka and asked whether or not it was an actual emergency. His question was answerered when a long-haired, lanky figure burst out of the dorm's second entrance, screaming and waving what looked like a flaming bag of popcorn.

"Number eleven school in the country and he can make popcorn without setting it on fire," I said. We all had a jolly chuckle at my wit. That's when things started to go wrong. Alan realized that the keys he picked up were not the right keys; nevermind why anyone would have a set of housekeys five-hundred miles away from their house. Chaz had neglected to pick his keys up, thinking it much more important to save the handle of vodka. He claimed he "didn't have time to get both." He took another swig.

I, of course, being only a transient resident of Suite 3100, could not reasonably be expected to have my keys, though my suitemates may have different opinions on the matter.

We all turn to Vladimir, poor simple-minded Vladimir.

"Vlad," I said to him, "do you have your keys?"
"Da," he nodded. The three of us sigh with relief, and the fire alarm gets shut off. We file into the building and shuffle up the stairs to our door. Standing in a semi-circle around it, the three of us look expectantly at Vlad. He proceeds to reach into every one of his pockets before shrugging and saying "Wrong pants."

These people are going to give me a twitch.

Alan and I attempted to open the door with a bent coathanger, a process which is about as productive as simply urinating all over myself. Chaz got impatient and ran off to innovate in the world of drunken hijinx, leaving his handle of vodka by the door. Vlad then told Alan and I that be believed his keys were in a pair of pants he left the bedroom of one of his campus concubines; one who he had not seen in some time. Though it is, apparently, against Russian tradition to acknowledge a woman once you have deflowered her, Alan and I forced him to retrieve his pants and the keys within.

Meanwhile, I sat and contemplated the lock. I thought if I could just force a bit of coathanger into the lock, it would open and my problems would be over. I broke off a piece of hanger and began to fiddle with the lock. I hear a chuckle from over my shoulder and I turn to see not Alan, but a long-haired, lanky boy laughing at my misfortune. I shot him a glare that, in a perfect world, would have sent pain of an undescribable magnitude shooting down his spine; instead, my glare seemed to spur him to utter an unforgivably ironic comment:

"Number eleven school in the country and he can't remember his damn keys."

I turn to try my psychic attack again, and I realize where I've seen this boy before. He was the fucker with the flaming bag of popcorn! I pull the coathanger shard out of the door and begin chasing him down the hall, shouting a string of explitives as I went.

Those of you who might have read Alan's post on the subject have been mislead. It is true that I do no engage in the low-brow "physical activites" that my peers take part in, but my psuedo-coma was not induced by a lack of muscular strength on my part. I am anemic, and the shift back to Bon Appetit food has left my iron count dangerously low. The momentary weakness which Alan has so hilariously made light of was actually a dire medical situation. The electrolytes he force-fed me were not, in fact, helpful. I needed protein, and I'm lucky to have woken up this morning, though the circumstances under which I woke up this morning were not, themselves, lucky.

As you read, Alan propped me against the door to our suite, right next to Chaz's vodka. My rude awakening came when the door to the suite was opened from the inside by our dear friend, Vladimir. I opened my eyes and saw nothing but green, thinking, for sure, that I had been blinded. As I collected myself, I found the green blind to be a post-it note from my RA, reprimanding me for having alcohol in the hallway, as well as for passing out. Apparently, I am to be fined.

But yes, you must be wondering, how did Vlad open the door from the inside?

He had retrieved his keys, of course, though he neglected to unlock the door once inside. But even a man as hateful as myself has moments in which he is blinded by relief. I was inside the suite, and my problems were solved.

Except that the door to my room was closed....

In a period of 24 hours, I've managed to lose $50 for falling asleep next to alcohol and $170 for losing both my keys, necessitating not one, but two, replacement locks.

This whole experience simply serves to solidify my undying hatred of humanity, and of popcorn.

That is all, you bastards.

The Dream Is Gone

My home... my kingdom.. my people have betrayed me, once again. Am I destined to be forever without the loyalty of my bretheren? First my own state patrol has the nerve, the audacity to ticket me on my way to St. Louis, and now a faux law enforcement officer has kicked me out of my sanctuary?! I'm afraid this world we inhabit does not know the meaning of the word "freedom"; if it did, then why should I be ejected from the mall for nothing more than climbing onto a food court table to extol the virtues of Chic-Fil-A? I wonder, was it my standing on the table or my use of free speech that led to my exile?

So Dystopia and I have taken refuge in Suite 3100, my home away from happiness. We are plotting together, and we will exact our revenge. Stuart Morton, Footlocker's clerk turned mall cop--you will feel the pain, the fury and the wrath that is Alfonzo Johannes Debussy. Expect more than graffiti on your car window; "tiny willy" is too good for you, Stu. Yes, expect something far worse.

That is all.

Video Game Week / You Loathsome Fools

Perhaps it is my strong sense of symmetry that keeps me coming back here. Perhaps it's my desire for omniscience. Whatever it is, I have sought out a computer to bring you yet another theme week post. Were it not for these themed weekly posts, I might have achieved enlightenment long ago. I'm certain that each time I use a computer, I fall further through the ranks of reincarnation; if I posted half as much as Alan, and I were to die today, I'd be lucky to come back as a rat.

As usual, my niche is unrepresented by my peers. I don't do fighting games, or anything that requires coordination; if I wanted to be coordinated, I'd go outside and get a football; then I'd get good at football. Alan's theme week posts strike closer to my interests than the other's do; the storyline of the Zelda series always interested me, and the strategy and puzzle elements were, at least, unique. I was always put off by the real-time gameplay. I want time to think and to plot. I don't want to be quick; I want to be right.

Final Fantasy VII was the apex of the series. FFIII was interesting, but the graphics and humor were pathetic. The latter-day FF games are falling victim to The Sims fad, and they remind me more of an RPG-styled "The Real World" than of the the world is about to end and we need you and a rag-tag bunch of eclectic adventurers to save us....again-style that I know and love.

Gaze upon your master....



Regarding my progenitors, and their visit last weekend: I dealt with them properly. It was important that I conceal my true day-to-day activities, as they are too simple to understand to pursuit of purest truth and indifference; aside from a few meals, I made myself out to be so incredibly busy with schoolwork that I couldn't spare a moment. I did not allow them to visit my mall. I wouldn't want my reputation soiled, nor would I want anyone sharing my surname to actually buy a non-consumable product there.

Surely, I will return to this forum next week. Until then, I hope you all die.

And I mean that.

That is all.

Go Home; It's Better There

Alan's comment sparked the vaguest of recollections in my mind.

With every hour I spend in this, the best of all places, I come closer to realizing my true potential as a human being. Perhaps I am approaching nirvana, or simply the end of my life on this plane of existence, trapped in my foul homo sapien form. I find that being here, my mind is freed from everyday troubles and concerns. Similarly, I am freed from the burdens of being happy, ecstatic, excited... really any feeling at all. It is mostly out of habit that I return to read the posts of my suitemates, and occasionally to post my own.

"Are your folks coming for parents' weekend?"

Parents? What... where have I heard this word before? It must mean something, have some significance from my previous life. Parents' weekend.... I know what a weekend is, but I can't quite recall....

All at once, I was gripped by the fear, remembering not only that I have "folks", but that they are, in fact, coming to visit me this weekend.

I am not sure what this will entail. Were things to go well, we would meet only long enough to assure them that I am still alive. I am certain that this is not their plan. They are staying the whole weekend. Surely they have no other reason to come to St. Louis, the linty belly-button of the United States; the arch, a piercing of the distended belly of this obese nation.

Perhaps I can find someone to stand in for me, to take care of my p...progenitors while I continue to pursue enlightenment in West County.

Anyone willing to take on this burden should contact me immediately.

That is all.

Home And Away Week

This post is brought to you by Chaz, who has his dirty little fingers in everyone's pies.

Dearest Chaz informed me, some eight hours ago, of a prank which was recently played on my arch-nemesis. On Friday, a friend of Brody's from high school in Atlanta--let us call him Ghandi, such is my admiration for the man--wandered into Dauten 23 to say hi. With Brody's door unlocked, but Brody nowhere to be found, Ghandi saw his opportunity. He had, on Labor Day, cooked up a terrible plan which he had always wanted to try: he wanted to strip naked, then take a polaroid of himself reclining on Brody's bed.

He checked Brody's camera for an auto-timer, and was disappointed. So, Ghandi called his girlfriend, Mother Teresa, to come assist him. He warned her of the rigors of this task, and she was up to the challenge.

So, stripped down to his socks and squatting on Brody's pillow, his anus and balls resting on the soft cotton, Ghandi gave the signal to take the picture. Mother Teresa pressed the button... and nothing happened. The camera was out of film.

At precisely this moment, Brody returned to the suite, was informed of the situation by his suitemates (who had done nothing to stop it from occurring), and began trying to knock his door down. Mother Teresa, in a stunning display of passive resistance, curled into a ball at the foot of the door and thwarted his attempts to get inside. Meanwhile, Ghandi wrapped himself up in Brody's comforter, to avoid losing his dignity. Changing back into his clothes, Ghandi and Mother Teresa strolled out of Brody's room, whereupon Brody began whipping Ghandi with a rubber hose.

There are two things you should take from this story : 1. Brody Hates Ghandi. 2. The man who put his balls on Brody's pillow is my new favorite thing about Atlanta. Any city that harbors anti-Brodies goes up a few pegs in my book.


Now, something I like about St. Louis... I hate to sound like a broken record, but Dystopia might be the best thing that's ever happened to me. You may not know this about me, but my equilibrium is somewhere between depressed and nearly suicidal. My mood is always in the red, so to speak. Since meeting her, though, more and more of my days have been black (to keep the stock market metaphor); perhaps this is because she, herself, acts as a blackness magnet--such is the extent of her commitment to all things goth. When she can manage to yell at her parents until they lock themselves in their bedroom, she sneaks out and stays the night with me. I don't think Cliff likes her, but the mall is certainly big enough for the three of us.

Ah yes, that reminds me. I've done some more research on Cliff, and what his story is. One of the security guards told me that, as with any major development, the Westfield company had to buy out all of the stores and residences which occupied the mall's projected space. One by one, every home and every store fell to the Westfield checkbook; every home, except Cliff's.

If you've read about Cliff in my previous entries, then you know that he's conspicuously insane. It should come as no surprise, then, that he's one of those nutjobs you read about in the papers, who chain themselves to their houses as the bulldozers loom. City ordinance stated that they could not force him out of his home, and the zoning board said that the mall could not be built around his house. So, a clever team of lawyers came up with the solution. Cliff was in his twenties, at the time, so they figured "what better place for a twenty-something to live than a shopping mall?" Cliff, being the nutjob that he is, accepted the offer. The lawyers drew up the papers, and Cliff became an official resident of the Westfield Shoppingtown in West County, the second resident of a mall in history--the first was a man who, in 1993, lawfully annexed a Jello store in the Mall of America by claiming squatter's rights.

So, in a roundabout way, I discovered that the reason Cliff lives in the mall is because Cliff literally lives in the mall. Why he lies about it, I still don't know. I suspect it has something to do with his lack of sanity.

I hope my next post will be many days from now.

That is all.

Favorite Movie Week

One should never allow one's taste to dawdle, becoming archaic or even obsolete. When a true contribution to art is made, you must grab hold of it as though it were your only life preserver in a sea of Action Buddy-films. Art can never progress if we consider the classics unsurpassable; respect the past, but revere the present, then hope for the future.

With this in mind, I present my new favorite film. I saw it Friday, the first day it was playing in St. Louis. It is called MirrorMask, and it is more beautiful than you could possibly imagine. Of course, I would expect any of you to have heard of it. Plebians.

Neil Gaiman, one of the few acceptable writers of contemporary fiction, wrote the story this film is adapted from. He had a hand in the screenplay, as well, so don't worry about it being unfaithful to the story. The synopsis is this : a 15-year-old circus girl falls into a dream world, the realm of her imagination as explored through her drawings. Her drawings are black and white, and quite surreal; the world she falls into is colored, but surreal in three-dimensions. She must find the "MirrorMask" to escape the world of her creation. I, of course, leave major details of the plot out, so no spoiler warning is required. Besides, the plot is not the real reason to see this film.

It was produced by the Jim Henson Company, which has come a long way since Kermit the Frog. In other words, these ain't your daddy's muppets. They aren't even proper muppets. This is a whole new level of film production.



I met Dystopia for the first time outside the movie theater; she dressed like the antagonist (pictured above). She was beautiful.

I know what you bastards are thinking, and you're wrong. It was neither risky nor stupid of me to agree to meet a stranger through the internet. I understand that there are people in this world who are easily manipulated, who can be made to imagine a pretty young woman when, in reality, they are talking to a 45-year-old man. The greater risk, of course, comes when women meet men on the internet, but that is beside the point. The point is, when you pay attention and use your sweetbreads, you can easily tell a liar. Furthermore, you can just as easily tell that someone is exactly what you need, even though you've only exchanged words. And to further prove my point, I was right. She is young, and she is pretty, and she is a she.

That is all.