The great Aaron Kellogg offered me some excellent advice tonight as we trekked across Comm. Ave. to the GSU to gather quotes for the most inane man on the street story ever.

"Just don't think about it," he said. "If you find yourself thinking about it, just stop right away."

Brilliant advice.

I must lose myself in pleasant thoughts and memories. I must dwell on triumphs and coups. I mustn't dwell on the times I feel out of place or out of the social circle, when I think I'm contributing little to the world at large and never will. I mustn't focus on the fears or the inadequacies. I must push those things from my mind...but I must remember all the good.


I must think about things like Tuesday night, which found me in the press room at the CNN/Rock the Vote Democratic Presidential debate. Ladies and gentlemen, on Tuesday night, I felt like the biggest journalistic badass I ever have. I wore a suit, for chrissakes. Until Tuesday night, I had worn a suit exactly one time before in my life -- and that was for my Agent Scully Halloween costume the previous Friday. I had press credentials and a laptop...I had fucking access, man! And when it was all over, I ended up in the "Spin Room," which was basically a media feeding frenzy comprised of a whole lot of pushy jackasses with cameras (note to self: broadcast people are bitches) and lots of desperate reporters. I shook Wesley Clark's hand and was close enough to see the sunburn on John Edwards' neck. What a rush it was to be in the middle of things -- to be out there with the real journalists, reporting on something important. Finally, finally, finally -- a relevant story. (Although I must add, that in a rather disheartening coda, the next day, the Rock the Vote story had about 100 fewer online reads than my crime log stories usually get.) In short, 'twas hot shit.

Also hot shit from Tuesday night -- Katie, the photographer, managed to actually get credentials to get into Faneuil Hall to photograph the debate. The Daily Free Press is the only student newspaper in the nation to have carried photos from the debate. Pretty awesome.

I left the FreeP at 2:30 a.m. on Wednesday morning, wandering down Comm. Ave. with Aaron and Tim, exchanging what we thought was pretty witty repartee (although I've found that the definition of "witty" changes in the wee hours of the morning). I was still on a total journalistic high -- so much so that I made it home and stayed up for another couple of hours doing work for other classes...and proceeded to sleep through class on Wednesday morning and really not care. I'm a goddamn working journalist -- who needs JO307?

Oh, and by the way...read my article if you haven't yet:
http://www.dailyfreepress.com/main.cfm?include=detail&storyid=548940

I must think about how incredible this weekend was. Two days spent with my best friend in the world, wandering around and watching a BC football game and reading Thucydides in the coldest apartment on Beacon Street. Excellent. Absolutely ideal.


Other random notes:

While I was walking back from the FreeP tonight, I noticed that someone had written "fuck the FTAA" on the side of the parking garage near Espresso Royale. Really, people, does a free trade agreement really make you mad enough to warrant the word "fuck?" I understand using the word "fuck" when describing something that causes you to feel pure, visceral disgust...but I really don't understand how a trade agreement that doesn't affect you directly could do so. Damn sloppy social activists...completely bastardizing the word "fuck." Now, I've no problem with the gerund form -- the widespread use of "fucking" is fine (i.e. "stab me in the head with a fucking pickaxe!" or "awww...really fucking special"). "Fucking FTAA" is more of an offhand remark, a gentler dismissal of what may be an unfair policy. "Fuck," however, should be reserved for truly special occasions -- for things that really, really need to be fucked. "Fuck you!" for instance, or "fuck the police!" or "fuck the registrar's office!" or even "fuck the dining hall for taking away my mashed potatoes!" It's okay to fuck these things, because these things directly affect you -- the fucker. The FTAA, however, has no direct impact on my general well-being, nor on that of the most likely dreadlocked, nose-ringed, incense-smelling, white, middle-class BU student-cum-activist who so vividly denounced it on the wall next to the Espreso Royale. C'mon, y'all. "Fuck" is a special word. Let's fucking preserve it.



It's cold in Boston. Very cold. Fuck winter.

This, kids, is how we use the word "fuck."


Through the wall, I hear Cynthia talking about lighting matches just for the hell of it. I think I should investigate. This sounds interesting.