I'm a Survivor.

Heavens to Murgatroyd, man, but I am exhausted. It's hard work trying to relax when you're predisposed to panic at all times. And no, I did not know the proper spelling for Murgatroyd before I spelled it just there. Nobody's perfect. Well. Almost nobody.

I just interviewed a world-famous violinist I've seen in concert several times, and whom I admire greatly. "Exhausted" is the word for how I feel just now after having hung up and sending a thank-you note to his publicist. (See, Mom and Dad did teach me some manners. It just takes extraordinary circumstances to yield any fruit.) I prepare for all interviews basically the same way: I have some ideas for questions in my head, I read everything there is to read about the person and their field as a general overview, I see if there are any new or revised ideas for questions I've thought of while researching, and then I write out several dozen questions for them, and rewrite them several times.

It's like training for an interview that way, so that when I'm overwhelmed by the glow of my subject's sheer fame, my mouth can form the questions my mind cannot. Then, once we're on the phone, I start naturally and kind of navigate the questions I want to ask organically from there. That way I can deviate and ask new questions as they come up, and I have a good feel for the overview of the interview. It always has a really casual feel to it and I really enjoy talking to them. It's a generally good experience and I'm really grateful. Apparently Eisenhower once said something to the effect that D-Day went nothing as planned within ten seconds of its commencement, but it wouldn't have worked without the planning process, even though the plans themselves were rendered useless. It's kind of like that.

Yes, well, this time I basically just felt like an idiot. Any time I asked a question, I basically mouthed, "What the heck?!" to myself while squinting my eyes really hard and bracing myself for some kind of physical reprimand. I would squish three unrelated questions together whenever I looked at my notes because I just couldn't handle the agony of trying to maintain even an ostensibly lucid facade. (In case you have a silly image in your mind, it was a phone interview. I wonder if he's going to start reading my blog when it's famous in the future, look back on this, and have a whole different view on things?) It's like a slug trying to take a nap inside a salt lick and pretend it's no big deal. It's more like a single kelp among zillions trying to communicate with the whale by whom he's just been ingested. (Do kelp have gender? I don't know. But I do.) (Do those analogies represent the feelings I had? Don't ask me now. Not right now.)

I don't know when in human evolution our mental self-sufficiency was selected to be abandoned in times of social panic, but I'm calling shenanigans on it having anything remotely to do with my social or biological fitness.

Anyway, I'm just unwinding now. That might have been a smidgen hyperbolic, but there it is, on the record, for the world to see. And that's how facts are made. I was literally kelp earlier today. Dispute me. I defy you.

I Have Never Been Hungrier.

I had a crappy (sorry, there's that PG rating rearing its ugly head again) week this week, due mostly to being overwhelmed by my frankly overwhelming capacity for failure. It's times like these when I unfortunately turn most to video games and stomachaches for my solace. I say unfortunately because it doesn't really do much to alleviate the craptitude of the time as it crawls by (and sometimes teases me by convincing me it's going backwards). I had hypnosis performed on me today, as a side note, which at the very least was incredible at making me want to feel peaceful forever. Not recommended for participation while driving, though. If the reasons are not obvious, then perhaps driving itself ought not to be recommended in your case.

Speaking of having my best friends leave me forever for the East Coast or go on missions to Central America or Western Europe, a fourth best friend of mine got married today. Like the others, I feel less abandoned than the victim of others' forward progress. But gee whiz if that reception didn't make want to get all kinds of married as soon as possible. Oh, and the ice cream. Did you know there's a wedding cake flavor? There is. Enough said.

You might be wondering why I didn't blog this week until today. Well, just like printed newspapers of yore (those things aren't around anymore, are they?), my blog is apparently printed in issues and volumes. Oh, or rather, an opus and a number. Maybe each post here can get something like its own Kochel number, like Mozart. I just need to be studied on a university level and be considered a major contributor and my blog a contribution to the field of art and academia. So this is season or volume or opus the second, episode or issue or number the first, in increasing order of potential for airs of snootiness. Maybe I am the Great American Novel.

Speaking of which, it's about that time of life (specifically, after a quarter of a century) where it's time to get cracking on my memoirs. The main contender for the title at this point will have to be something like Megalomania: Why the Rest of You Might as Well Quit Trying.

Also went to Temple Square today with some friends. Now that place is just a recipe for tender memories. Not to mention there was some fresh bread being baked somewhere nearby that I could not stop smelling. Nor did I ever want to. Gracious me, am I hungry now after writing this.

Nothing to Do. Nothing to Lose.

Technically it is past midnight. Technically I'm zonked out of my mind. But technically, lots of cereals I love were half off today so I'm feasting on Trix. I tried to stay away from them for awhile since they're ostensibly only for kids, excluding rabbits in particular, but I'm disappointed to say they're just lots of little fruity swirly spheres, no longer the imitation fun-size fruit bites of my youth. When this change took place, I do not know. All I know is it's a sign of the times.

General Mills, I'll start respecting your exclusionary "It's for kids!" advertising mantra once you start respecting my childhood. Honestly.

The other day I parked somewhere I wasn't quite certain I would be able to. An hour later I had no ticket, no boot, and no towed vehicles. That's when I knew I am a son of royal blood and destined to be king of all parking everywhere.

Here's to me. And you. And all of the people.

No Country for Old Men.

I have had so many interviews come through in the last two days that I don't know what to do with myself. Out of control.

Friend went into the MTC yesterday. Weird. Friend's moving next week and we went out to lunch with some mutual friends today. Crazy. Friends requested to be mentioned in-blog. Requests denied.

Tonight I went with some folks to go see Star Trek Into Darkness in the dollar theater, but the tickets ran out about three people in front of us.

When I gave many of you my blog address, I specifically told you not to expect anything, since I'm just trying to write in this every day. Sorry not to disappoint.

Long Live the Campaign.

Walking around campus today, I noticed there was a rogue piece of paper in some of the... shrubbery? Shrubbery. No, it's smaller than that. Landscaping? I don't know. The fancy green stuff with bits of other colors for variety and beautification on campus. Flowers? No idea. Anyway. There was a piece of paper there that I noticed, but it wasn't litter. It was folded too neatly and placed too deliberately. I came up closer to see what nonsense this was. I stopped when I could just make out very loopy, bubbly, and neat girly handwriting. Some words like "love" and "dear" I think were scattered in there, too. I didn't dare read on, for fear I would see the phrase "circle yes or no" at the end of my mystery love letter. I have to believe that college students are past that.

Yesterday I got a package in the mail: from China. Well, maybe it was Hong Kong. No political statements about that here, I just can't remember. It was probably Hong Kong though. My mind went racing through the possibilities while I opened it, since I didn't remember ordering anything. First and foremost it was Edward Snowden passing on some secret documents to my safekeeping because his life was in peril. That was pretty exciting, but I have to admit I was not feeling up to the task. I was glad when I remembered I have that foreign contact (read: friend on an internship) in China this summer, and maybe he was sending me a pack of Chinese bubble gum. (It was a very small package.) Then when I finally got it open (seriously, that took herculean effort—my knife just barely did the trick), I was kind of let down to remember that I was getting some little commemorative trinkets from a project I funded on Kickstarter.

Biggest bummer of my life. But at least now I have something of a prerecorded mental protocol for barreling headlong into international espionage.

It is so hot in this room right now. I can't wait for winter: nature's air conditioning without an "off" switch.

I Want to Graduate and Move, Fast.

Yesterday as I was leaving my apartment I passed the best-smelling girl I have ever... smelled, I guess. Had the pleasure of registering by scent? She smelled like cream that you put on a fluffy angel food cake and top with blueberries, raspberries, blackberries, strawberries, and raspberries. As far as the cream goes, I couldn't quite discern if it was more frosting-like or yogurt-based. It felt very sweet but still had a tinge of wholesome healthiness to it. Anyway, if I ever see her again, I'm going to refrigerate her.

This morning when I went running, every single house had their sprinklers on. (Passively mentioning of an active lifestyle! I'll blow right past it and hope everyone thinks that it's so natural to me that I mention it without thinking.) Some of them kept away from the sidewalks, and others sprayed full blast at the sidewalks, almost exclusively. Hoping to get some concrete-berries out of the deal, I suppose. What would those smell like? Well, it's making me think of the all-natural air freshener we get after fresh rainfall. Today's post was obviously brought to you by my sense of smell.

Anyway, it feels great to run through sprinklers in the summer. To everyone who has sprinklers in this city: make sure you're getting that sidewalk. It's, uh. It's needing a good. Sprinkling. So. Please.

Post-script, here. Look at yesterday's post again for a written-while-awake updated version.

I Need More Blog Fodder.

Note: this post was written while Ambien was taking effect, and as such had some weird stuff going on, like being copied and pasted three times, being tagged as "I okay with Benin excruciating to deal sith," and being principally about comic books. Make sure you blog before taking your sleeping pills, boys and girls. Now back to the lecture at hand.

Not too much news today, blog fans. Just working, interviewing, emailing, writing, and relaxing all day. Word.

So apparently these days in the world of Marvel comics, Dr. Octopus switched bodies with Peter Parker so Peter would expire in the venerable doctor's decrepit body. But just before Peter died, he implanted Dr. Octopus's mind with each of his formative memories and gave a dying wish for Dr. Octopus to protect New York in his stead.

I don't know, I see some cool things they could do with that, which I do not see being done. I sort of feel that once a character becomes as iconic as Spider-Man, they get a certain level of immunity from canonical murder from within his own mythos.

But Peter Parker? Spider-Man? Dead? In multiple series and universes? What is this world coming to? Spider-Man dying and me blogging? I say.

Now Go, and Take Your Dreams With You.

Today was literally very, very hot. I don't even want to go back to change that to "emphatically, though metaphorically." It was that hot.

Every few weeks there are days when you walk around your room and you realize that you're regularly lifting your legs higher than your waist to climb over the stuff you have... stored... on the ground in between your desk and your door. I wouldn't know anything about it, since I'm a picture of pristine, clean, walkable personal pathways, aren't I? And besides. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: life is just too short not to arrange your room however you want. Live a little! Put a box right on your way to the door! You don't need to apologize to anyone any more. Like Aladdin to Genie, I give you freedom.

Liberating, huh? Now go out there and capture your dreams! Or, if you are lacking, appraise others' dreams and take their dreams from them by force!

A Day of Rest from Orderly Thought.

Whatever, blog. Whatever. I'm not going to argue with you. No, you're right. You're totally right. Sure. Yes, no, whatever you want. Fine. Mmhmm.

Oh, hello there. I didn't see you come in. I was just arguing with my blog. We were arguing over whether Batman or Spider-Man is more popular. I took the moral high ground and capitulated to my stinky dumbhead blog.

Sundays are basically my favorite days. There's the tension between resting after the last six grueling days and the mental tensing in preparation for the next six. So, those cancel each other out and Sunday just is. Everything and nothing. It's a lot like Mario Kart in that regard.

Sorry, no cogent thoughts today. Sometimes my thoughts are, dare I say, too cogent? If that makes any sense at all. Well, of course it does, my being unable to escape cogency and all. It's my gift to make too much sense. A gift and a curse.

Please present the cashier with your receipt in order to get your money back.

I'm Dealing with It, Okay?

And what do we do when all our friends leave for the weekend for some kind of ridiculous nature-walk vision-quest nonsense? That's right. We weep the bitter tears of the lonesome, we use a gift card at Subway, and then we go on a date. Yes, in that order.

Incidentally, my sandwich wasn't that great at Subway. My gift card wasn't good, or good enough, for a premium sandwich, which I suppose is the kind of fancy-pants aristocratic super-meal I prefer. So I tried a tuna sandwich with all the fixin's.

(Now there is a curiosity of punctuation. "Fixin's" looks like the name of an out of the way diner, while "fixins'" looks like what the diner would stick on the sign out front. Is there no hope for compromise? I'll have my top men working round the clock till I crack this case cold.)

Right, my fixin's. I used to love tuna at Subway, and pretty much never ordered anything else whenever I went there in high school. But last night I could barely stand it. Why so, you ask? What changed? Well get ready for a possibly super gross story, depending on how vividly you paint the picture I'll present.

On my mission one of my companions made the best omelette: egg, onion, and tuna. And that's it. You can see where this is going, but I'll be the legal guardian of any type of subhuman primate if it wasn't completely delicious. So one day I struck out to make it on my own. Bad decision, right? Wrong. It was just as delicious. Not too hard to mess that up.

But that night was the night I started to come down with the flu. Several vomit sessions and one blurred passage of time later, I was better, and thought I'd try to make that omelette again. No dice: once I made it, it was as repulsive to me as the idea of it was to you when you first heard about it. I did some experimenting, and I had no problem with plain tuna, plain egg, or plain onions, nor with any of them in league with other ingredients. But when they combined forces in any capacity, it would shut me down and bring out the worst in me. So to speak.

Well you can bet I asked for onions on my tuna sandwich last night. Waste of a gift card. Dear me, though, thank goodness I didn't ask for eggs.

Wow. Anthropomorphize, Much?

I don't know if this is how the rest of you feel when you get up, but I always feel remarkably like I've been run over by a train and dragged for a hundred yards before I start to stir. Then I have to wander around the house looking for bandages to keep my torso from falling apart. I don't remember the last time I felt spry enough to just jump out of bed. Is that just a myth? Because it's a very rude myth to keep giving me hope that I can be like that one day, too.

Dear Little Sister flew home yesterday after a lovely week or so of visiting the folks here out west o' the 'ssippi. We had good times, I trust. For her sake, she had better consider them unforgettably precious and dear and fun. Or else.

So it was weird, yesterday, interviewing someone on the phone whose name shows up first when Googled. (Or Binged. Huh. That explains why nobody writes it out. Microsoft was that close to its very own verb.) Turns out he's a regular human, and a very nice guy. Well I knew that since I'd met him a couple times before, but it's nice to be reassured when your life is on the line.

I have some similarly interesting people I'm going to interview in the forthcoming weeks, that I'm also pretty excited about. Definitely my favorite part of writing for the newspaper.

But no interviews for the blog. Blog, you'd better catch up, better make things a little more interesting and sweeten the deal a bit before I get bored and dump you by the wayside. I don't know who I'd interview here. I think if I ever interviewed anyone for this blog, it would be my blog itself. I'll leave it up to my blog to gain a makeshift soul and a consciousness in preparation for its big break.

Run Away, and Never Return.

I get to interview a New York Times best-selling author later this afternoon, and coincidentally one whom I love to read and admire a lot professionally. It's no big deal. I'm sure you guys get to do that kind of thing all the time, right? Right? No? This is something of a big deal, you say? Well, great, thanks. Now I'm nervous.

Netflix is a many-headed beast: once you cut off one of its loading times, a dozen more rise to fill the void. Such was my experience last night trying to show Dear Little Sister the last episode of the first season of Sherlock (read: one of the most riveting episodes of television history). It basically stopped working altogether for the last 15 minutes unless you consider loading ten seconds at a time to be working. Which I do. But the folks? They're not so inclined.

I thought of something: I'm going to list some things about some of my friends that I really appreciate, without identifying which friends belong to which attribute. Then a witch-hunt can ensue to ferret out the offending parties and pop their positive influence like so much bubble wrap. Ready? Set? Go.

One is that they just naturally take in anything you say without ever letting it influence their opinion or outlook on you. That is, they don't ever take what you say and silently reevaluate you on its basis and treat you like a machine that they just found out has a faulty part to it. If the very next day you were to take the opposite stance or do something completely contradicting what you say or do today, they probably wouldn't notice, or if they did they wouldn't care, because they're not keeping score. They're just being your friend, no matter what. Go friendship!

Now when I say "you," I mean "I" or "me," case depending. The style guide is your Alamo. Remember the style guide.

Now I'll do one about a fictional character I admire. He killed his brother so he could become king, but instead of tying up potential loose ends, he sowed the seeds of his own demise by knowingly letting his only witness escape unscathed (save emotionally from watching his father die). I don't really admire him, actually. More like, "have participated in works of fiction in which he figures prominently." But I'm not made of precise wording. I'm made of carbon mostly, from what I hear. And some vitamin B12, I hear there's some vitamin B12 in there.