New Year’s Resolution #1

Eat more. Lift more. Get bigger.

Do you know that really annoying guy who seems to check out all the good books you seem to need from the library?

For about half a year now, I’ve been slowly making my way through the famous Allegro Solemne movement of the fantastic piece La Catedral by Paraguayan guitarist and composer Agustin Barrios Mangore.

It’s said that Barrios dedicated this monumental work to the beautiful cathedral in downtown Montevideo, Uruguay — and in particular, the final kinetic movement represents the impression he had when leaving the calm, spiritual atmosphere of the cathedral and entering the hustle and bustle of the busy streets.

I can already play the entire piece. Slowly. Painfully slow.

With frequent water breaks.

The problem is no matter how you play it, by the 1:30 mark, your left hand fingers are already numb and exhausted. By the 1:50 mark, there’s a burning sensation in your left thumb, and by the 2:00 mark, your fingers are literally ON FIRE.

Oh, and let’s not even talk about the end of the movement, which contains a few insane runs involving some finger gymnastics. By that time, you’re seeing stars.

It’s pathetic. I’m such an amateur.

Anyways, one of my New Year’s resolutions was to get everything up to tempo by the end of 2007.

Who knows — I might be coming to a street corner near you.

But while you wait for me to practice, why don’t you listen to a fine performance of this famous movement by the guitarist David Russell.

A month ago…

“Should I be panicking [about my thesis]?”, I asked my supervisor.

“You’re panicking?” he asked me back.

“Aren’t you?”

He cackles wickedly. “S’not my thesis.”

If you’re wondering why I haven’t been spending too much time with you, my loveable, cuddly readers, it’s because school has been totally owning my life.

During the so-called Christmas break, the only days in which I wasn’t at school working on my shit was on the 24th, 25th, 26th, and 31th, largely because the entire Universe tends to shut down around those days.

These days, I end up going to school twice. Once from morning till 5-6 PM to attend classes, go to the library, chat with my supervisor, and work on my own shit. I’ll drive home at dinner time, eat dinner, then sleep for an hour or two. After that, it’s back to school until 2-3 in the morning.

So yeah. Life sucks. Blog suffers. Deal.

Hot Coffee Girl, the self-proclaimed ruler of the world asked me to fill out this small meme. And as much as I’ve groaned and grumbled, it’s an opportunity for me to write something — anything! So why not.

1. Give me a nickname and explain why you picked it.

Pookie-Snookums. Yeah, you heard me.

2. Am I loveable?

Honey, I don’t call just anybody Pookie-Snookums. Of course you’re loveable.

3. How long have you known me?

About a school term.

4. When and how did you first find my blog?

I submitted my site to the I2TM girls for a review.

You saw the coffee cup on my site and asked me if I was hitting on you. I decided that any girl with that sort of bravado deserves a second look.

5. What was your first impression?

Lady has some great jugs.

6. Do you still think that way about me now?

My respect for your coffee jugs has only grown ever since. Besides I like how you’re not afraid to dress them up for special occasions like Christmas.

7. What makes me happy?

Trashing SUV owners who think they own the roads.

8. What makes me sad?

My site’s lack of comments.

9. What song (if any) reminds you of me?

10. If you could give me anything what would it be?

A spanking.

11. Do you consider me a friend?

The very best of friends, my dear.

12. How often do you visit my blog?

Every day.

13. Describe me in one three words.

(1) Hot, (2) Coffee, (3) Girl

14. What do you like most about me/my blog?

You’re callous and brutish enough to be my personal superheroine, but still feminine and deep enough to be a heroine.

15. What do you dislike most about me/my blog?

How you’re always putting yourself down for your green template.

Shit’s hot. You can tell all your jealous naysayers to fuck off courtesy of Mr. Phil.

second wind

Later in high school, he went through more women than I through textbooks.

And I assure you, that was no small feat.

There was this girl way, way back in Grade 8 that I fancied. Sort of.

But you know how trivial adolescent love is — it’s a truly turbulent time, what with swirling hormonal mood shifts, awkward hair, squeaky pubescent voices and bad, bad, bad posture.

She was cute. Short, brown eyes, shoulder length brown hair, itty bitty hands, and a button nose. Almost the very definition of sickly cuteness.

I’d often stop by her locker in the morning and sorta squeak out a measly excuse for a conversation.

“Sup,” I’d say.

“Not much,” she’d say.

Then we’d sort of grin at each other and go our separate ways.

No long deep conversations on abstract math, no lustful eye-gazing, not even a bit of innocent flirtation.

I was young. It was hard enough to walk without tripping over my own shoes.

So Christmas comes, and she surprises me with a small gift. Which was totally out of the blue because we were locker buddies in spirit. Certainy not the kind of friends to exchange gifts.

It was a really cute present: a packet of a few dozen pennies individually hand-wrapped in red Christmas paper. The story of why I had such a public obsession with pennies is so vague to me now that there’s no real point in trying to remember it all.

The point is I liked pennies.

She gave me pennies. A lot of them. Individually wrapped.

And this, I reasoned to my young, naive self — could only mean one thing: She wanted to jump my eager little bones.

Obviously.

So school lets out and I deviously find her number. You know, through a friend of a friend of a friend. I’m not sure what outrageous lies I had to tell my friends to solicit her number without warranting suspicion, but I’m sure my hastily fictionalized excuses were entirely noble and pure at heart.

“Hi, is this Sally?”, I said.

“Sure is,” she said.

“It’s Phil,” I said.

“Hi Phil,” she said.

She was cheery. And the fact that she didn’t say, “How the fuck did you get my number, you perv?” pushed me onwards.

“Iwuzondring…uh…if-yud liket’go… [muffled cough] movie w’me?”, I gasped in one entirely strangled breath.

Smooth, Phil. Real smooth.

Right. But this is where it all gets blurry. If you were preparing yourselves for some amusing climax, I’m afraid you’re going to be severely disapointed.

It was a bust.

From my vague recollection, she agreed, though somewhat unenthusiastically. We then carried out an unusually protracted game of dueling datebooks which consisted of me: serving possible days for our coveted event and her: clumsily returning sympathetic excuses.

Oh, but what a tumultuous phone call it was. Minutes later, I slumped, exhausted and sweaty into my chair, mopped my forehead, and pondered the final decision: we’d both agreed — well, it was more 70/30 — to wait a week or so until school started again, after which we’d find a more suitable date.

It never came.

But you knew that already, didn’t you?

Only a few days after school started, I found out that one of the schoolyard kids — an asshole, even at that age — had asked her out and they were now an exclusive couple, whatever that meant.

Which you know, kind of sucked.

I would have appreciated a bit of an advanced warning. I don’t think she spoke to me much after that whole fiasco.

It didn’t really matter, of course. They eventually parted ways a whole 3 weeks after and he was off oogling another girl before I had a chance for a second wind. Later in high school, he went through more women than I through textbooks.

And I assure you, that was no small feat.

I did hear about Sally from a friend a few years ago. Apparently, she’d put off plans for university after high school with the intent of moving in with her amourous partner.

And here I am. 7 years later.

I don’t think I’ve ever look at a penny the same way since the Christmas of 1999.