There should be a tenth level of Hell. This level would be an endless morning after your 21st birthday. There would be an abundance of direct sunlight and tequila-flavored water.

Upon arriving at Casey Moore's (a bar) last night, I quickly assessed the situation. Harnessing my rudimentary math skills, I calculated that if I had just one drink with each friend there, I maybe wouldn't die. Empowered by my estimate, I bellied up to the bar and got to work.

I was averaging about a shot or drink every two minutes. In the brief period where I was able to notice that the empty glasses in front of me were beginning to outnumber the amount of friends present I realized my fatal(?) error. They were buying me more than one drink each. I don't remember being concerned...

I was awoken by my roommate, Mai Linh. She was taking it upon herself to see that I made it to my 9:00 final. I hadn't set an alarm or anything the night before. That could have been bad. So I slurm out of bed to the stark realization that I am still drunk. And not just kind of drunk. Can't walk in a straight line drunk. I had stopped drinking around 4:30 in the morning. We had all gone back to my house to continue drinking after the bar. I remember throwing up on the walk back, and then cracking open a forty and playing beer pong with Matt when I arrived. There was some more throwing up later, but for some reason I was still drinking up until I must have passed out.

So I found myself stumbling to my class for my final. Mai Linh and Matt had driven me to school because I was in no condition to drive. It was fairly obvious to the rest of the class that I was drunk. I'm sure they were amused. The professor handed me my final kind of chuckling to himself. "It's not my fault that my 21st birthday was the night before finals!" I said in my defense. He just laughed a little more. I'll bet he was jealous. I was living out the American Teacher's Dream: going to class drunk.

I finished my final before anyone else. We shall see if that is a good thing or a bad thing.

I came home and slept.

I awoke, showered, counted my injuries, fixed my bathroom sink, picked up all of the stuff I had knocked around while trying to take out my contact lenses. Yes, I'll admit it, I fell completely over trying to take out my contacts. It looks as if I tried to grab the sink as I fell, knocking toothpaste, toothbrush, my razor, soap, and my contact solution onto the floor. I landed partly in the shower where I lay there, only managing to get up after two failed attempts. Yay 21...

Now I'm feeling slightly poisoned, very sore, and a little wiser.

But older? I do not yet feel older.

What possible harm can come from sitting down to write without a specific direction?

I'm sure that the only one to suffer will be my backspace key as I grow increasingly frustrated with 'train of thought' ramblings. It isn't late for me, but I am weary. The darkness encroaches like a gaggle of roaches. Last night (Tuesday?) a few of the crew was over at my place. There was drinking. I had a few things on my to-do list for the following day such as preparing to moderate a panel discussion and memorizing questions and answers for my Italian oral final exam. I'm still not too clear on how it happened, but somehow playing drinking games, getting burritos at Amado's, and torturng myself with a cold shower made it to the top. I hate cold showers. But I do love Amado's and drinking, so overall the night was enjoyable. Ah, Tuesdays.

Wednesday morning found me a bit sodden. I slurmed out of my bed somehow and made it into the shower. Cold again.

I got an A for my mad moderating skills. My instructor noted that I "asked great questions." That was probably because I hadn't finished the brunt of my research and honestly didn't know what the hell everyone was talking about. Fortunately, moderating doesn't necessarily require knowledge of the topic. As long as everyone else knows what they are talking about, you let them yammer on until you get tired of their voice and then try to get that pretty blond girl to talk because everyone (and I mean everyone) is looking for an excuse to give her their attention.

Yes, my fellow classmates carried me on their shoulders like a hung-over hero.

Life is so hard.

Kevin Spacey on Inside the Actors Studio. Pretty sweet. Watching it makes me almost consider ordering those VHS tapes of the show. Almost. Maybe when I have more cats.

Oh, in the Stuff I've Been Hesitant To Discuss category (which is broad, but nothing compared to the Stuff I Sho As Hell Won't Discuss,) I am turning 21 on the 12, the day after Mother's Day. My mother lucked out on that one, because I had turned eighteen the day before Mother's Day and gotten my Batman tattoo. My mom said it was the worst thing I had ever done to her. Yes, happy Mother's Day to all. No, but this way she'll be able to have a nice Mother's Day, and then early Monday morning come and bail me out jail for whatever fool thing I am going to get arrested doing after my power hour.

I forget I have a tattoo sometimes. I see it in the mirror and it will surprise me. It has been the same with my pending adulthood. Several times a day I realize that I will be turning 21. I'm still not sure how I feel about it.

So this Sunday night, my power hour. Are you in? And if you're worried about finals the next day, give me the name(s) of your professor(s) and I'll talk to them, see what I can do.

As I said, Life is so hard.

This would be the crazy guy who liked to sit next to us at on the train in San Francisco. I suppose that he found us more interesting than the characters in his head.

And here are Merik and Josh Hagler realizing that they don't like each other:

Miss Dana Pompa always finds the most interesting things...

The Dante's Inferno Test has banished you to the Second Level of Hell!
Here is how you matched up against all the levels:

Level	Score
Purgatory (Repenting Believers)	Very Low
Level 1 - Limbo (Virtuous Non-Believers)	Very Low
Level 2 (Lustful)	Very High
Level 3 (Gluttonous)	High
Level 4 (Prodigal and Avaricious)	High
Level 5 (Wrathful and Gloomy)	Moderate
Level 6 - The City of Dis (Heretics)	Very High
Level 7 (Violent)	Very High
Level 8- the Malebolge (Fraudulent, Malicious, Panderers)	High
Level 9 - Cocytus (Treacherous)	High

Take the Dante's Inferno Hell Test

There are a couple of things I'm not too clear on:

So do all the high scores mean I did well?

Whose idea was it to throw all the "lustful" people together in the same place? Apparently I am rubbing elbows with the likes of Cleopatra and Helen of Troy. Yeah, that'll teach me.

Why is the Pope here, and why does he keep making googly eyes at me?

My final query is to you, Dear Reader. Will I be seeing you in Hell?

The midnight hour finds me shakily recuperating from the festivities of the previous evening wth a veggie burger, a bottle of Killian's Irish Red, and The Nightmare Before Christmas. I listen intently to the respective laments of Sally and Jack. I struggle to pinpoint exactly what they are emoting. The feeling of having lost something dear and precious? Or perhaps simply looking for it and never finding it? Or just loneliness, I suppose. The film leaves me with a bittersweet feeling. I really like the movie. It helps remind me that the only place on this planet to find an entire universe is within another human being. The world is big, but not as big as what is inside there. It can be frightening to think that so much can be contained within so small a thing..

Raise Your Hand If You Have Been Taking Yourself Too Seriously

Behold me as I return triumphant from my most recent excursion: a trip to San Francisco for the WonderCon with Joey Moore, Brian Young, and Nick Gordenski. I had many a good time and learned many a lesson.

I have finally fulfilled my life-long dream of getting drunk in a comic-book store while sampling fine cheeses. The owner of the store was throwing a party for the comic artists that were in town for the WonderCon (a comic-book convention) and Josh Hagler had been invited. I believe that we were serving as his entourage, a role I embraced. No, Josh (who had gone to Mountain Pointe) was working on a comic for Vertigo and was friends with the owner. So we were in.
Actually, I had to sneak in since I was the only one under 21. It wasn't too much of a James Bond operation; Josh went in and talked to the owner, the owner came out and told the bouncer, "Hey, sneak this guy in." and I was in. There was an open bar, but I had brought a couple of forties (Mickey's, of course) so I was good to go. I don't remember when we left, but I do remember finishing my last forty while stumbling down the streets of San Fran back to Josh's apartment (another life-long dream of mine.)

Oh, more proof that I have no idea what goes on in my head when I am asleep: The four of us slept in the living room of Josh's apartment, usually wherever we fell. I have been told that I snore and had warned my traveling companions ahead of time. "If I am snoring," I advised, "It means I'm on my back so just wake me up and make me turn over." Joey Moore had been paying attention when I said this.
Apparently that night I was snoring mightily. Joey wakes up, takes off one of his socks, and from across the room throws it at me. He told us all that upon being hit by the sock, I immediately sat up, looked at him, and said, "See? It's that easy." Then I laid down on my stomach and went right back to sleep. Well, at least I didn't try to kiss anybody.

I learned that a lot of places in San Francisco don't care if you're not quite 21, like the Sasquatch Bar, or the Italian restaurant where Joey and I had a couple pitchers of beer.

I also learned that the world is a small place, since I ran into Merik Woodmansee (a Mountain Pointe Theatre Co. Alumni) on the bus. That was groovy. He says he is doing well, and I believe him.

Again, it was very cool to be around people just doing what they do. Even the odder ones, like the two kids shouting insults at each other on the bus. One got off, and then the insults continued until the doors closed, at which point the kid on the outside began punching the door and broke the glass. There was also the bum we kept running into on the bus who must have thought our conversations were pretty entertaining since he would move and come sit closer to us once we got on. Erik Larson, creator of The Savage Dragon, humoring me while I drunkenly tried to tell him how much I had loved to his comics when I was little (I had prefaced our conversation with, "Against the advice of my friends and my better judgment, I thought I would come over and say hello.") Mistaking men for women and vice versa enough times to make me very wary when drunk and in dimly lit rooms. The guy in the kilt crossing the street. Heh, and being a minority again was nice. In Phoenix, one tends to forget.

Overall, a great time. I look forward to the next one in San Diego this summer. If you happen to be interested...

A Surly Beginning

I wrote this almost exactly a year ago, but I still like it.

The scruffy, red-goateed kid looked quite comfortable upon his perch, a thick iron bar set in front of a side entrance to my high school like a giant blue horseshoe sticking up out of the cement. I had presumed the placement of the bar was to prevent any vehicles that might lose control in the adjacent parking lot from crashing in through the doors. I had less idea as to what purpose the corduroy-clad sophomore upon it might serve.
I sat in my usual lunching spot, a small patch of shade outside the door that was already dwindling as the sun crept ever-higher. The diligent sun was a firm reminder that the precious 35 minutes of freedom and sustenance I enjoyed in the middle of my daily sentence of droll scholastic study was dwindling away. The sun also served to chip away at my shade patch, forcing me closer and closer towards the outward-swinging door. At some point, I would be forced either to enter its swinging radius and risk being struck as soon as the next student with an early release anxiously hurtled through the door to freedom, or brave the delicious-but-deadly sunshine. It was autumn in Arizona, but the only thing dropping was my tolerance level for other people. The daily battle against sun-stroke and physical bodily harm was typical of a school day. If one were to suggest to me that I go inside and eat to avoid these things, I would coldly assure them that I was aware of this solution, but doing so would bring a far greater accompaniment of problems.
The stress involved in enjoying a quiet repast can be considerable.
All of these conditions made me wary about the stranger invading my little corner of habit and routine. I resolved to avoid eye-contact and pretend to be completely engrossed in my cafeteria-supplied lunch, which consisted of some ambiguous breaded meat, limp french fries, and an equally questionable fruit cup. The unkempt youngster hovering ominously above had no such discipline of etiquette. He ejaculated a cheery "Hello!", and thus began my torment.
I do not recall the exact content of our conversation. It dealt mostly with trivial matters from which I gleaned nothing of the boy's past or political leanings. I did not offer my name, nor he his. I was irritated by the apparent ease and familiarity in his voice. I found it somewhat offensive. I would certainly never take such liberty in assuming such a �buddy-o-pal� tone with a complete stranger. I spoke as levelly and as formally as my growing dislike of the boy would allow. I wolfed down the last of my fries, then gulped down the fruit cup like a shot of unsalted tequila. Finding the napkins inadequate at cleaning off the grainy ketchup remaining on my fingers, I muttered something about going to wash my hands and excused myself. Safely in the restroom, I rejoiced in my undisturbed quiet for all of 30 seconds until a bell resounded through the school, heralding the eminent return to the drudgery of academia.
These events took place almost four years ago. From the rocky ground of our first meeting a friendship grew, and surprisingly, has flourished to this day. He is still an un-refined boy, as I believe he will always be even if in man-form. This characteristic, at first highly irritating, went hand-in-hand with my own refusal to accept any responsibility whatsoever for anything. We were also both involved in theatre at the Mountain Pointe and excelled in improvisational comedy. Around our junior year we also began drinking heavily. All of these factors helped congeal our friendship into a quivering goo that has withstood the test of time, although it does tend to get runny whenever it gets above room temperature.
We have worked together on shows. We have constructed ghetto robots. Countless liquor bottles have met an untimely demise at our hands. Along with Alan Schuler, we have been declared Best Comic Trio. We have seen each other naked (far too) many times. We had been unofficial roommates back when I had my apartment and he was over so often he became universally known as, "the couch guy." I know him as Matt Summerfield, aka "Surly" due to his bouts of assholicness. I laugh at this nickname, since I will always remember how friendly he was the first time I met him, and how I foolishly risked not making a great friend by being overly "surly" myself. It would have been a tragic loss, although I do not think either of our livers would have greatly missed the other. But I can honestly say that I will take that scruffy, no-good Matt Summerfield over any healthy, fully-functioning organ. As long as it isn't one of the vital ones, of course.