Writer's Blockade

OR

A Visual Guide To Alan's Room

The world is full of excuses, and the bullshit per unit (BPU) varies from person to person. Today, I present to you, an excuse so high in BPU that it could power an automobile.

"Writer's block" has, by way of writers controlling nearly every form of non-interactive consumable entertainment, become a term that nearly everyone recognizes. Woody Allen gets writer's block. Hunter S. Thompson got writer's block. And I, Alan Orlanski, have occasionally been known to not have anything to say.

But there are other forms of writer's block aside from the well-known kind; typically, we think of it as a lack of inspiration or a marked dissatisfaction with the fruits of our labor, but the true definition of writer's block is, simply : A thing, or collection of things, which delay or prevent the creative process.

I present to you, my writer's blockade :

Yes, this is what happens when a procrastinator with an oversized wardrobe moves back into the room of his childhood; things get dangerous.

Our first stop is The Pile:

The Pile was born just last night. My mother forced me to empty all of my belongings out of my car, so I put everything on my bed and slept in another room. Upon learning this, she forced me to clear off my bed so I could sleep on it; so, around 4 AM last night, I pushed everything off of the bed and onto the floor.

But why so dangerous? Well, I own a pack of sewing needles--from when I sewed stars onto the sides of my denim flares--and the pack managed to open and spill when I pushed The Pile off of my bed. I found two needles on the floor, but it was a twenty-pack. God forbid I forget this and take a barefoot step.

What's more, I've got Alfonzo's guitar to deal with. He didn't have enough room for it in his sardine ca--I mean, station wagon, so he asked me and Belinda to take it home for him. However, the strings are wound extra tight, such that the E-string popped off and lashed my arm when I was moving it into the house. No surprise that Alfonzo's guitar is high-strung, but I feel like even a subtle movement might cause me to lose a leg.

Climbing over the bed, we come to The Sac:

The danger of The Sac is two-fold, the first of which is merely a benign annoyance; static electricity. The bag is filled with a sort of low-grade memory foam. The foam tends to cluster when left unfettered, and I am occasionally required to physically pull clumps of it apart to keep The Sac comfortable. But all this foam rubbing about inside a giant linen bag makes a hell of a lot of static electricity, to the extent that if I jump on the bag with the lights off, the room is momentarily lit.

The second, and far more formidable danger of The Sac is it's legacy. Those of you who frequent St. Louis malls, the internet, or college dormitories might be familiar with the brand name "LoveSac" (for purely educational purposes, I have provided a link). Well, if you looked at the prices then you'll understand what I mean when I say that LoveSacs are the Beemers of bean-bag furniture; one might even call them Beaners. What all you consumers should know is, if you pay $250-$400 for a LoveSac, you are buying a $50 piece of furniture with an expensive name. Which brings me back to The Sac.

The Sac is not a LoveSac. The Sac is a Siesta Sac (which makes it a Beaner in its own way). It was a gift from Maggie, who told me not to worry about how she obtained such an overpriced piece of furniture. Over the course of the semester and with the help of Maggie's good friend, Jack, she revealed The Sac's grisly origin:

Some dude died on it, and nobody knows why. Which means, of course, that coming into contact with The Sac puts me at risk of both death and haunting.

You may have noticed, in the first picture of the Writer's Blockade, a happy iMac in the top-right corner of the image. This iMac, though now 5 years old, is equipped with wireless internet and all the software required to make a Blogger post. However, there's a bit of a snag :

In case you can't tell from the picture, it's a car battery, alligator clipped to a coathanger, hooked onto the neck of the computer. I can't even begin to explain how such a monstrously complicated danger arose organically from the mess in my room.

Of course, I'm not completely naive regarding electricity and things of that sort. If my intuition serves me well, then I don't think I could actually get shocked unless I touch the coathanger, which I could avoid with only a little forethought. However, my slight familiarity with electrical currents is not something I'm willing to bet my life on.

Finally, all the way over on the desk, sweet salvation it's my computer.

But BEWARE, for before it sits the Be-wigged Mannequin Head of Doom. She is a simple lass to outwit, but no matter what she may whisper into your weary ears, do not look her in the eyes.


So this, my patient readers, is what I'm up against. Until I get this mess cleaned up, I'll have to traverse this plane of woe, misery, and various forms of electricity to write for you.

So you'd better appreciate it.

-Alan

Summer Season

Yes, like the first season of The OC, Suite 3100 will have a Summer Season, filled with all sorts of "no responsibility" hijinx and tumultuous love interests (I hope I hope I hope).

It was strange, walking away from this blog's namesake. Vlad was the last to leave Suite 3100, just as he was the last to enter. Alfonzo and I had left, separately but simultaneously, the morning before (Alfonzo got to Atlanta 2 hours before I did). Chaz was the first to go.

At the end of any good season of play, a responsible team will look back and analyze themselves, looking for ways to diversify and improve their methods. It is in this spirit that I bring you...

Raw Data OR The Suite 3100 Awards
Most Words Written
#1. Myself, with "Dorm Adventures"
#2. Alfonzo, with "Go West, Young Man!"
#3. A tie between Carl's "Oh, Shit, Carl's Blog" and Chaz's "Fresh Squeezed Is Best" (Chaz has written a few hundred more words, but Carl has been on for less time. This is a stoner's tie).

Word Frequency
Carl's most frequently used common word was : "the" (663 times)
Carl's most frequently used less common word was : "because" (61 times, because some people just aren't going to get the right answer)
Carl's most frequently used illegal substance : "Old Navy" (??? times)

Alfonzo's most frequently used common word was : "the" (1213 times, which is a lot more than Carl).
Alfonzo's most frequently used less common word AND his most frequently used name : "Alfonzo" (65 times)
An interesting note for you all : Alfonzo's word frequency breakdown reveals that he is right to believe that he's smarter than the rest of us. He uses more unique words than the rest of the Suite put together. 55% of the words he's used he's only used once, and 20% of the words he's used he's only used twice. I am completely in awe of this.

Chaz's most frequently used common word was : "the" (569 times... more like Carl).
Chaz's most frequently used less common word was : "think" (44 times, which sets up a joke only Alfonzo would touch).
Chaz's favorite suitemate : "Vlad" (54 times, as compared to Alfonzo (45) and Alan (35))

Bridget's most frequently used common word was : "I" (154 times. Finally, someone less articulate)
Bridget's most frequently used less common word was : "know" (53 times)
Bridget's blog, "Know The Osmosing Volume" wins the award for the most words written in another language.

My most frequently used common word was : "the" (2313 times, which may be more times than everyone else put together)
My most frequently used less common word was : "song" (162 times)
I write my own last name more frequently than I write the first name of anyone else.

Vlad's most frequently used common word was : "I" (279 times. It looks like the Russians really do drop their articles)
Vlad's most frequently used less common word was : "post" (38 times, which is funny, because Vlad didn't even post 38 times since the blog started).
A sentence formed from the frequency list : "Four slyly content pop singer names speak female; multiple variables come."
An ominous warning loomed in the next random sentence : "United States doomed children; isolation, worse. Objectionable."


I was the only one awake when Chaz left. He booked a mid-morning flight to accomodate one last night of partying, and I heard him banging suitcases around on the other side of the wall. I put on a bathrobe and stretched out on the sofa.

He came out of his room a few minutes later, and he jumped a little when he turned to find me on the couch. He asked what I was doing up so early, so I told him he'd woken me up; I didn't mind, because I'd wanted a chance to say goodbye. He set his bags down and extended a sturdy hand.

I've known Chaz for about a year and a half now, and this man has done nothing but hug me. I believe he hugged me before he knew me. To see his palm upturned before me was simply too much; I snapped a little.

I threw my arms up in the air, ready to perform a very awkward bearhug, when he unfolded his unemployed arm under mine, catching my kamikaze embrace in mid-air. I had one arm over each of his shoulders, hands clasping behind his head, the front of my chin mashed into his shoulder, and I believe I might have been standing on his toes.

Sliding my arms back over his shoulders, I forgot to unclasp my hands and I pulled Chaz's hairless mug towards my grizzled jaw, and I kissed the fucker.

Posterity will argue endlessly over how long it lasted. I couldn't pinpoint it any more accurately than 2-8 seconds, though Chaz would almost certainly insist that it lasted only as long as it took for him to gather his wits.

I kissed him and I heard him inhaling through his nose as he built up strength with which to push me away, but I didn't dodge him. He sent me sailing back onto the sofa, and he clumsily grabbed his luggage and stormed out the door.

And this was an event that I would have kept secret if Chaz was still a member of the blog. Now that he's part of the outside world again, everything is fair game.

I've been home for two days now. I'll tell you more about home next time.

-Alan

Blowing Off Dust

For the two minute drive from this fine night's destination and the Suite, I hastily picked a playlist from the top of my serpentine and poorly organized collection: "''''''''''problems"

I remember, vaguely, making this playlist. While certain friends of mine are very sparse with their playlist making, paring everything down into ten (or so) playlists that fit certain moods or themes, I have a rather more unorganized method which operates under a certain set of rules :

1. Never delete any playlist that has more than a single song in it. The reasons for this are both positive and negative; negative in that, given that a "playlist" occupies maybe 16kb of space on your computer, your music library should always overshadow your playlists in terms of volume occupied and, given that, there is no practical reason not to keep everything; positive in that, any grouping of two or more songs could, and should, have a significance which is worth holding onto.

2. Playlist names should be minimally descriptive, or, less is more. If you care enough about the playlists you make, you should be able to remember which one fits a given mood, as necessary. When people are forced to navigate my ipod, they instinctually go to the playlists, at which point they become baffled by my nomenclature. Who, but me, could know the difference between "''''''''''Sigrid" and "''''''Falleika", or "!!!!!!!!!ack". I know the difference, and that's all that matters.

3. Things that do not belong in an existing playlist, deserve a new playlist. This one is pretty simple.

My reasons rhyme. Order = chaos. Bless it all, it works. Just not for anybody but me.


I feel a little delirious, actually. The reason I started writing is, the only playlists I've made all semester have been those for my radio show. So jumping, without warning or preceding thought, into something as old and weighty as "''''''''''problems" may not have been my smartest move. The list seems to be a compilation of all my best morbid songs. Of course, these aren't really morbid songs if you listen to them; I've just buried them in morbid connotations. "Canary", "Hands Away", "Glass Vase Cello Case", "Dramamine", "Wise Up". It's fucking with me.

I feel like some ghost of myself is whispering to me in the darkness. What's worse is this feeling of darkness, as my room light is on and burning high.

I haven't had the heart to eat dinner recently. My new year's resolution was to cut down on my fast food intake, limiting myself to Chick-Fil-A. In the last few weeks, I've completely blown that resolution by realizing that I essentially eat fast-food when I eat on campus. I started making evening drives over to Jack In The Box and White Castle (same intersection, which would be convenient if I ever felt the simultaneous need for both, which I don't). It was only in the last few days that I lost the desire to do even that. It's all bad for me.

So dinnertime would come, and it would linger, as it does, from 5 to 10. And at various times in this stretch, I would feel hungry and not hungry intermittently. But for the last three days, I've come out of that stretch not having eaten anything. I made the even more difficult stretch from 10 to bed without eating, as well.

And I'm hungry, but my options disgust me. And there are other options, but the effort involved disgusts me just as much.

And now my ipod is reminding me of some of my most twisted and ''''''''''problematic times, and I'm hungry enough to eat it. And it's dry. And I'm still hungry.

-Alan

April Bud, Pt. 2

Now that's it's no longer the month of April, I suppose I can continue my epic 4/20 post from where I left off.

Where did I leave off? Oh yes.

April 19th, 2006; 10:30 P.M.
Arriving in Dauten in a reeking cloud of smoke and recieving their criticism, I made my excuses and we all moved on. I showed my stash (the 6 joints and 5 spliffs) to everyone, breaking the rule that I laid out in April Bud, Pt.1 on never revealing exactly how much you've got.

So every year, on April 20th, stoners, pot-smokers and liberals of all persuasions gather in all sorts of places to toke up. I have heard tell that one of these gatherings takes place right here at Wash U, in the Brookings Quad at 4:20 A.M. Last year, there was a sit-in for workers' rights taking place in the Quad, complete with a squad of police on overtime; I believe there's a facebook group bemoaning this fact.

It was while showing my bevvy of paper tubes that Brody's suitemate, Dylan, fed me a few new details about the annual gathering. Apparently, everyone gathers sometime near 4 A.M., but they are not alone, for at every exit to the quad stands a WUPD officer. And they just stand there, watching.

Upon hearing this, any minute desire I had to stay up all night and smoke in the Quad was extinguished when I imagined it. I count myself as unlucky, and I could imagine the clock striking 4:20 and myself nervously lighting a joint and breathing that first puff in. And I would look over my shoulder at the closest WhoopDee, only to see him turning to the officer next to him and, with a knowing wink, striding into the Quad with a nightstick and a flashlight. I figured, with my luck and America getting steadily more progressive, that this would be the year that WUPD would beat the shit out of some unlucky stoner. Me, maybe. Or more likely, Brody.

So, in spite of the tetrahydracannabinol in my body, I thought ahead nearly six hours and decided not to risk it. No worries, though, because 4/20 was right around the corner. 10:45 P.M.? Yeah, totally no time at all.


It was the longest 75 minutes of my entire life. Mario Kart was played, troops were gathered (by which I mean Marina's roommate and my new stoner pal, Karen) and we set out onto to road at 11:50-ish. It was an unusually stupid man who, in a moment of profound clarity (he was high), pointed out to me how bitterly ironic it is that the law enforcement agencies of this nation have made it such that the safest way for us to get high is while driving in a car at night. So all you black-jumpsuit-wearing, African-American, late-night joggers beware; we smoke on the road because they'd catch us if we didn't.

On a side note, black-jumpsuit-wearing, African-American, late-night joggers should also beware the crooked fucking cops in St. Louis, who consider late-night blackness in the vicinity of rich white people a crime. If the cops didn't do such a good job keeping law-abiding black people off the streets, who knows? Maybe we'd run over a jogger or two.


I feel like my 4/20 is taking forever. I'm fucking exhausted right now, but classes have officially ended, so I hope to write the third and final part sometime later today. After I sleep.

-Alan