It was a magical weekend...

Montana was beautiful. The Grizzlies won. I saw the new UM Journalism building (it made me jealous; photos coming soon). Had a great time with my friends. Drank a ton of beer. Checked out all three local breweries (this just in: they're fucking awesome).

And I think I might just have fallen in love.

I know, absurd. I agree. I'm completely retarded for this girl, though, and I don't know how else to put it.

She's beautiful. And smart. Funny, interesting, dog-lover, lives in my favorite city on the planet. Drinks beer. Smokes pot on occasion. And all the little things that usually bother me about girls are the kinds of things that I find annoying about all women, I don't find even remotely repulsive when it comes to her. I don't know how to explain it.

For example: Saturday, we were all getting ready at The Girl's house (late... we were severely hungover, especially Thom, who was a complete and utter mess... there will be pictures... just not tonight) for the football game. Putting on our gear, getting psyched up for the game (and tailgates), Thom and I were ready in about .8 seconds, and the girls (Thom's girlfriend Laura, and Kim, our hostess who I ended up crazy for) were in the bathroom, of all things, curling their hair.

Now.

I'm not against having the ladies curl their hair. I find it very nice most times, even if I don't really notice it when I notice it. But that morning, it struck me as odd that the girls would be curling their hair, just to stuff it under a baseball cap and go to an outdoor, in the elements football game. And Thom and I discussed, both of us rolling our eyes at the situation. Our drunkenness had made us late for the tailgates, and now the girls' vanity was making us later. Suck.

But a funny thing happened at Washington-Grizzly Stadium that day. Aside from Weber State taking an early 10-0 lead and making me worry, I found myself standing next to Kim, this striking, slightly-wavy-haired blonde in the Student Section, and was astonished at how nice she looked. And as we bumped elbows, and flirted here and there, and joked around, I wondered...

Did she curl her hair to impress me? Probably not, but how sweet if she had.

Was this really happening? Is she maybe, kinda, sorta into me?



I'm so hopeful. I know it's absurd, I know she lives 1000 miles away, and I know that it's fucking retarded that I couldn't get her off my mind all the way home. And I hate myself for letting her get to me. And I hate her ex, the dreaded John, for showing up just when things were really getting off the ground for the two of us, and crushing any momentum I'd built up with this whole day of goodwill. Fuck the fuck off.

Thom asked, "Are you smitten?" And the answer is yes. Yes I am.

The thing about being smitten is, you have no control. You cede control to the other party, and because you (I) can't hide your (my) smitten-ness, you let them dictate the situation. Which effectively keeps you from doing anything. Like making a move of any sort. Like pulling her in for a kiss when you're up at 1am, your friends are in bed and it's just the two of you, watching Weeds and talking. Like telling her that you can't stop looking at her because she has an electricity about her that is completely irresistible.

Colleen, my friend from a million eons ago, is getting married in two weeks...

In Missoula...

Which is where Kim lives...

Perhaps you can see where this is going.

Perhaps that's good. Maybe you can tell me.

Because I have no idea.

So I will put it to you, my (5 or so) loyal readers. DO I make plans and go to Missoula, check out Colleen's wedding with Kim as my date (I've already asked, in the event that I make it, and she said yes)? DO I pursue this any further (she does, after all, live a 13 hour drive away)? DO I cut my losses and walk?

Tell me what to do. 'Cause I haven't got a clue.

VAY CAYYYYYYYYYYY!

I'll be in Montana from today, through the weekend. Don't expect any posts. But, should I actually manage to get 10 minutes to pound out a blog (and by "pound out a blog", I mostly mean "poop"), I demand comments.

I'll be buying a disposable camera at some point, and if I have a few minutes I'll get them developed and throw them up here.

Montana: It's Debauch-a-riffic!

Curses, you cursor!

You motherfucker.

Yeah, cursor, I'm talking to you.

Sitting there blinking at me, mocking me, making me feel self-conscious about not having anything to write on my blog.

That's right, bitch. MY blog. This isn't "Cursor Versus World," so fuckoff.

I'll write what I want to write when I want to write it.

Don't judge me. You can't even do anything but sit there and flash. Oh, cool party trick, Cursor! Your blinking line is really settin' this place off! Douche.

You can't even have a party. Because nobody would come, except for WoW freaks and other no-friendo, sun-fearing bipeds. Where would you have it? In a chat room? You're such a loser!

Cursor, you should know that you're nothing without me. Nothing! You can't even write your ow blog. Know why? Because you're a fucking cursor.

Fuck you.

Love,
Sam

Peetza.

defending your dumb girlfriend

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Speed Dating? Seriously?

Generally speaking, if I'm saying something that sounds authoritative, I'm either making it up (the key here is to sound confident, even cocky, about your knowledge) or I read about it somewhere. Option B is far more common in my little world, as I run across several pieces of information (called "articles" or "content" in said little world) about which I had no prior knowledge each day. This is good. I learn things, new things, each and every weekday.

I appreciate learning.

But I also like to learn. As such, I've always wondered about those speed-dating things, and being a single humanoid myself, have wondered how I would fair in such a setup.

I no longer wonder. Thank you, Jason Love of Associated Content.

Thank you for going through this, first hand, so I don't have to.

When you can't sleep...

Your brain starts asking crazy questions. On the heels of last week's incredible showing at the Bluebird Theatre for my band, I started thinking about fame. And famous people.

Here's the question of the day, kids: how famous do you have to be (either musically, or athletically, or whatever) to have the newscasters mention A) you and B) your talent or skill, on the 10 o'clock news? What I mean is, if you robbed a bank, would it just be "a man robbed a bank today in Denver," or would you get the proper, celeb treatment? Would you get "Local musician and citizen Blah Blerblah was arrested this evening under suspicion that he robbed the First Federal Bank. Blerblah, the guitarist for the band Bloobleeebloo, yadda yadda..." THAT kind of treatment.

I was thinking about who in the Denver scene might fit the criteria for number two. Not me, not by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, there's reason to believe that my arrest would result in either A) cheers or B) yawns.

Here's the list:

Isaac Slade - The Fray
Anyone else - The Fray
Jake Schroeder - Opie Gone Bad
Someone from Earth Wind and Fire

The "maybe they'd mention the band in passing, but they wouldn't be "person associated with band" person" list:

Brice Hancock - Rubber Planet & The Toad Tavern
Patrick Meese - Meese

The Anonymous-and-loving-it list:
Me.
My band.
Pretty much everyone else in the scene.

For whatever reason, as I lay in bed last night, this seemed like it would be a deeper post. Sigh.

If there's anyone else you want to put in one of the three categories, hit 'em up in the comments.

Not all bad...

I know I sounded negative about the whole weekend due to the rough experience with Ally, but all was not lost. We played on Saturday night at the Walnut Room, and did very well. It was a great show. Re-connected with a friend of mine I haven't seen since my junior year of high school, which is absurd. And got to hang out with a genuinely cool girl named Amy.

Oddly enough, Amy asked what I was doing for the game on Sunday, and instead of inviting her to Lindsey's house, which I could have done, I told her I didn't know what I was doing for the game. Then, I didn't call her. And hung out with Ally. I'm awesome.

Hope I haven't completely screwed the pooch on that one.

Shit. Even when I think I'm making the right choice, I'm usually not. I feel like I should pull a Costanza and start going the opposite direction of my instincts at all times.



Well, there's no telling what could come from this.

On being insincere

I was just in bed. I'm exhausted from the day, which included drinking (beginning at 9am... oof), football, and more drinking.

I also hung out with a girl called Alison, who goes by Ally, who I met at Jon's wedding in Winter Park. Jon and Jess had set up this little meeting, as apparently Ally was taken with me at the reception, where we spent a good five to ten minutes talking. The entire night. Which explains why she was interested. Any longer than 10 minutes and I reckon my conversational skills begin to falter a bit.

Anyway, the word from J&J was that Ally is tired of dating assholes, tired of the scene of dating, and wanting to date a "good guy." Enter, Sam.

After really hanging out with her for the better part of three hours, watching the Broncos' 15-14 fart-fest win over the Buffalo Bills, I've come to realize that this woman who I thought I would be very interested in has absolutely nothing going on. She's melodramatic, over-the-top, not very bright, and honestly, kind of annoying. I do not feel all that bad about saying these things.

Annoying Girl Singing in the Office

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That's not her. But it could be.

And yes, I wish I was kidding.

Where have I gone wrong?

A few weeks back, I was housesitting for my mother while she went to finish cleaning out her mother's house in Laurel, Iowa. During this housesitting stint, I water flowers, hang out with The Dog, and just basically putter around the house, like my grandfather used to do; shuffling around in a robe and slippers (and nothing else... lllllllllllllllllladies...), reading books, watching movies, doing the crossword... just being a total bum for the most part.

But it's so strange, being back in that big old house. There are a bunch of pictures all around, of me when I was younger, in high school, etc., and there I am, in a big house all alone, and everywhere I look, there it is.

My past. My future-is-just-around-the-corner, gonna-show-this-world-a-thing-or-two, how-successful-do-you-think-I'll-end-up-being, wide-eyed, idealistic past. I had so much going for me. I thought I had it all put together.

And it just went away.

I had hopes and dreams and aspirations. I was gonna do this, and that, and the other. And instead, I've wound up where I am. Doing okay, but not successful, not by any stretch of the imagination. No girlfriend. No money. Sweet apartment, but... where did I go wrong?

When did the road I was on curve to this little slice of normalcy that I call my world? When did a band - a fucking band! - become my last shot at being great? When did the one in a million shot become my best shot at accomplishing something truly special, something to be remembered for, something to be celebrated for?

I look at those old pictures of me. Thin. Tall. Athletic. Huge smile. Ready for anything.

I compare them with pictures of me now. Heavy-set. Tall. Certainly less athletic. And a smile that betrays my lack of knowing what's going on around me.

At what point did I end up on this road, as opposed to that road? At what point did food and work and rent become more important than dreams? And hope? And passion?

I don't know anymore. Perhaps I'll figure it out. I have another shift at the old house next week. Perhaps by then, I'll have it all figured out.

Or perhaps I won't.

(Leslie: we'll work on Super-Secret Project Vulcan soon, I swear)