I wonder, if I shouted into my Livejournal, if it would just echo for a while.

So...to kind of blow the dust off this thing for a moment:


1. I'm at college now.

2. Who wants a Christmas story, aye? ( reno.spiegel[at]gmail[dot]com. )


Take care, folks.

Listen:

I don't use this thing as much as I'd like to anymore. And that is very much my fault.

But I do use Facebook more than is healthy for me, so if there are any of you cats that'd still like to keep in touch, fire me an email or leave your real names here or ask me for mine or something, nyao? It'll be great.

Let me explain where I am:


I'm about to graduate. Two months. Holy shit.

I'm going to Bemidji tomorrow for a publication ceremony. They took four of my pieces. Unprecedented. Holy shit.

I'm writing a lot of original work and am submitting to Coffee House Press, an independent publisher in Minneapolis that focuses on new writers and collections of short stories. It's perfect. Holy shit.

I'm going to Hamline University next year. A private school. Me at a private college. Holy. Shit.

I don't know how it happened, but there's a cynical girl that I adore, four months ago vehemently opposed to affection and commitment, that says she loves me and it scares the hell out of her. It scares me, too. Terrifying. Terrifying and liberating. Holy shit.


Where am I?

'doesn't matter.

I'm so alive.


Cheers,
Re.

Huh.

So.

I posted a new fic. Review, perhaps, ifn's you'd like?

Um. . .

Yus. Hello.

Hah. And just when you thought it was over. . .oh, no, he won't do it again this year, he's too busy. . .he never writes fanfiction anymore. . .Reno Spiegel has a Livejournal? For real?

Damn straight, which means it's time for:

RENO'S SACK OF GIFTS, YEAR FIVE.

Five years? You bet your ass, as hard to believe as it is. I apologize for putting you on the spot if you want a story this time through, since it's so late and all, but hey, imagine how down-to-the-wire I'm going to be.

Still, I don't have any homework these days, so I should be able to rattle these out quite quickly.

Here's the skinny: You give me a list and I give you a piece of fanfiction. I just need a bit from you first:

1. Fandom ( I'll love you if you keep it to FFVII if possible, for easier posting. )
2. Characters.
3. Setting.
4. Something special.

And your story ends up between five-hundred and two-thousand words, and posted on my fanfiction.net account as close to Christmas day as I can get it.

Keep your eyes open.

For everything.



Sincerely,
Spiegel Claus

Hello, you lot.

Needless to say, I've kind of vanished from here. Lately I've been doing those MySpace and Facebook things because they're quick and easy, and my life, too, is quick and busy. I'm not going to abandon this thing, but I might not be rapid-fire blogging here.

I am alive, though.


I've reached a point in my life ( and maybe this isn't a permanent thing ) where every day is slightly more amazing than the last, and I'm starting to dread the patterns I have to follow in order to move from one to the next. I just feel so bored with waking up at the same time, eating the same breakfast, going to school for the same amount of time to learn things that don't really seem to help me outside school anymore ( for I am, also, at a point where they teach us things that help us in taking tests, which moves us to a higher learning place where we learn more things to do well on more tests to make the colleges look good ) coming home to take care of a dog that just isn't getting the idea of going outside to let himself go, going to bed around the same time after browsing about the Internet. Lather, rinse, repeat.

And maybe I'm just overreacting to finally being happy, but I spent the last five days ( two of which, last week, I skipped school for it ) doing beautiful things and now going back to chemistry, algebra, history, composition, and lunch duty just seems like throwing a blanket on the spark.

Because I spent Thursday with my best friends in the world, just being ourselves, then driving a few hours to see a Kurt Vonnegut play. Friday I went to school with Mike, my teacher from MITY, my hero, then we watched Doctor Strangelove together and enjoyed each other's company. Saturday I went to Ohio and saw Freezepop, which was nothing short of spontaneous and wonderful, and Sunday was spent driving the thirteen hours home in a storm that had all the potential to push the car off the road. Yesterday was bliss; Melissa came over and we napped, we cooked things, we talked and adored each other, we met friends for coffee so she can know some people at prom, we went shopping a bit. . . I could spend days with her, really.


Today? I go to school and catch up on chemistry worksheets ( translating grams to moles to formula units to moles to. . . ) and algebra assignments ( how to simplify fractions within fractions and balance and cancel out what's left ) and write note cards for a grad standard paper ( fifteen pages, ninety note card requirement, three book sources ) which might be the most enjoyable of anything I get to do today.

It all just seems to blah compared to what I could be doing. I talked to the counselor at school ( because she's more my friend than anything else, and it's a joy to talk to her ) and she told me to do what I love and what's beautiful; not what's going to make me the most money and get me the nicest car. I don't know if that's what she's supposed to be telling me to do, but it's nice to meet someone who has dreams and aspirations like we're supposed to.


I told her, "I don't want to look around myself as an old man and realize I spent the last thirty years of my life just trying to get by, doing something I hate. Because it happened to my parents and it's happened to my friends and it's all too possible it's going to happen to me."

"I could be making four times as much money doing something else than I make doing this," she told me, "but this is what I love. And that's what counts."


We all know it, but it seems too often that we're told the exact opposite: Go to school and learn a lot, because it matters to get into college, and college decides the rest of your life for you. When you get out, get a good job -- besides, you're going to have tens of thousands of dollars in loans to pay back. It's not that money will buy happiness eventually, but being poor is truly miserable. It's nice to be financially comfortable ( and I know that it really is, but I'm not going to pick the roads I walk down based only on that. ) Work nine to five. Buy a big house. Get a shinier car than your neighbor has. Raise children. Work so you can put them through school, so they can learn things and go to college and follow you to good jobs. Die old and not miserable; not so much happy and having loved what you did, but just not where you regret not doing more.

And what if I get to that point and regret doing as much as I did without doing the smaller things? Well, it's too late. Too late. Too late. We've got ninety years, tops, and the way the world is, it's hard to live your life for love and beauty anymore. If your ACT and SAT scores weren't great, good luck in life, they tell me. If you don't finish college, your life is going to be a struggle, they tell me. My other counselor told me that we've reached a point where only the wealthy can happily go to college, because you can't pay tuition in dreams and desires, as important as they are.


. . .Maybe I'm scared. I'm on the cusp of college and the rest of my life, and maybe what I've done is lived my high school years too much for the thrill of one day to the next and excelling in college and getting a good job and dying on feather pillows really is the way to go.

Maybe I'm completely wrong. Maybe I don't really know how to live correctly ( don't worry; I'm not going to off myself of anything -- I'm much too happy ) and I'm going to wake up one day and realize my step-father was right, I should've gone into computers, because there's no chance of survival for a person who wants to live for something beautiful rather than something stable.

I suppose we'll find out before too long. I have a feeling that I'm either headed for a life where the sunsets will only get more colorful or a life where the nights will only get darker.


Take care, you lot.

Cheers.

( it might be best to ignore me, for i may have no idea what i'm talking about. the weekend has spoiled me, i think. )

A letter to Ticketmaster:


Dear Ticketmaster,

Looking over the walls of my room, I see that we have quite a history with each other. Granted, people my age have been dealing with you much more frequently and for a longer period of time, but I still like to think that our exchanges have gone well. Kathy and I used you to see Incubus and The Music in Saint Cloud in the fall of oh-four. You let me go to Warped Tour in 2005. You let me see Weezer and the Foo Fighters later that year, and a Fall Out Boy, Hawthorne Heights, All-American Rejects, From First to Last, and The Hush Sound thing the following spring ( where I met a bizarrely friendly girl named Catherine who spoke maybe three words of English and tried to dance with me during Honorable Mention, which she'd probably never heard before. ) And who can forget the first time we exchanged names? Van Halen in 2004. It was a glorious night for me and thousands of alcoholic Omaha-dwellers with mullets, tour shirts from the eighties, and license playes that said 5150, I must say.

Admittedly, we've had our differences since then. The local scene has been getting to me. Java Joint and Cheap Thrills are cheaper and more accessible -- and maybe that makes you angry. But hey, I never got hit in the face by some scrawny teeny-bopper during Doorstep Paradise -- whereas you let me be assaulted that way during the From First to Last set, when all I wanted to do was survive to get a good shot of Hawthorne Heights with my disposable camera. So perhaps that's where the split started. I didn't use you to get a Flogging Molly ticket, I know, but it was a college show and that couldn't be helped. That one wasn't my fault.

I gave you a chance, though. I tried to see The Spill Canvas and Halifax last September, and what happened? You dropped the ball. You dropped it and it fell real far, mate. I admit, you didn't know that The Quest was going to catch fire, but after it did, you could've told me that the show was moved to the other downtown of the Twin Cities. That would've been nice. But you said it was still at The Quest -- oh, and did I not talk to you already about letting me know when the event time is pushed forward two hours so I can get there on time? Three-fourths of The Spill Canvas' set was excellent for me, which is why I didn't ask you for my money back, but. . .c'mon. Couldn't I have at least caught one song of Halifax?

Tonight, though, you've stopped being funny. You've insulted me, you've insulted my thirteen dollars, and I want to know why. I called the venue for tonight's show -- The Spill Canvas in Fargo; no, don't look at me like you don't know what I'm talking about, because it's on your website and we both know it, you prick -- to ask about the camera policy. That was all I wanted. And I -- no, let me just tell you the conversation I had with the nice woman at the box office. Here it is:

"Hi, I'm calling about the show tonight."
"Pardon?"
"The show tonight."
"Oh, The Spill Canvas?"
"Yeah; I was calling to ask about the camera policy."
"Actually, they had to postpone the show until Tuesday."
". . .Oh."

Casual goodbyes were exchanged, and I went back to you. I checked the page, and it said, indeed, still, that the show is tonight. What is that? You're not even playing with me this time, like when that club caught fire -- maybe you weren't told about that one, so I forgave you. But today, you lied to me. You lied to me twice, as a matter of fact. I went to check on the refund policy ( needless to say, I won't be driving three hours to catch a show on a school night, as per the parentals' orders ) and you told me clearly that I was told when purchasing my ticket that there are no refunds.

That is arrogant and untrue, Ticketmaster. I purchased my ticket from an elderly woman in the shoe section at Macy's. I was never told that there were no refunds -- I was told that my hair was interesting and to drive carefully because the roads were icy that day, but I was never told that there were no refunds. That's very assumptuous of you.

I will be doing what I can to get my thirteen dollars and fifty cents back.

And when I do, I'm going to use it for two or three shows at the Java Joint.

And there's nothing you can do about it, you bastard.


Sincerely,
Lewis.



In other news, I've been very well aside from all that. Most of my time lately has been spent with Melissa, which I'm definitely not complaining about. She's got me in a real good mood lately.

On the agenda soon are such things as starting the fifteen-page research paper required to graduate from this school, casting and directing a play that I wrote, more time with Melissa, and things like that. We've been out of school since Wednesday, and to be honest, I'm not quite sure what day it is.


Take care, you lot.

Cheers.

So I used my weekend to write slam poetry, be with a couple of my best friends in the world, and spend a good deal of time with Melissa ( the girl I had Valentine's Day plans with. )

Friday night, Cody and Brandon came over, and Melissa and Amanda stopped in on their way back from Moorhead. It was probably the largest amount of people I've had in my house since my birthday party, but it was a lot of fun. Mother was surprised when she got home, anyway.

Saturday was a long day of nothing at Brandon and Cody's ( it's actually my friend Adam's house, but. . .well, it's a long story. ), with a few hours at home for dinner and random miscellany. It was excellent. We went grocery shopping and out for a bit of dinner. I could definitely deal with them as housemates.

Sunday morning -- let's call it three in the morning -- found Brandon, Cody, and myself taking a walk about town in the snow, taking pictures, before we went back to the house, set three mattresses on a staircase, and slid down them like little kids. When I climbed in the laundry basket sled and Cody insisted on being hit in the face with a cardboard box on his way down, we decided we'd had too much fun and dismantled it.

Later Brandon, his girlfriend, her friend, her boyfriend, and I all went to a pizza buffet, which was paid for by the friend. It was a little awkward, and I don't know if my car's exactly pure anymore -- it was dark and the music was loud, but I can't be sure if they listened to me yelling at them -- but it was a good evening. Brandon's a great person to be around.

Yesterday was spent at Melissa's for a "hey, we have the day of school" kind of a thing. There were a few other people there, which was nice, because now I'll know a few kids at prom. Guitar Hero and Dance Dance Revolution were played ( the latter of which, Melissa says, I'm never allowed to play again. ) We watched The Rocky Horror Picture show, which led to Time Warp-ing and a few singalongs, cause half of Ferris Bueller's Day Off, and I came back home to learn that the new dog and my step-father had a bit of a row while I was gone, so I guess we're getting rid of him today.

. . .The dog, not my step-father.

It's sad. I was just getting attached to him, too. My parents named him Nelson, but I refuse to call him anything but Mister Mandela. I'll miss the little sucker, I can tell, even if he did hate me and most of my friends.


Where does this leave me today?

Oh, yeah. Chemistry and algebra homework unfinished. Untouched, really, and I've got those two classes first today. But I feel like it was a worthwhile trade. I mean, Abby showed me a lot of things in life, but especially in death she showed me that we can go anytime, and I don't want to walk out of the house today, get hit by a car, and realize in that last second that my final weekend was spent balancing chemical equations or factoring polynomials.

I'm much happier about sliding down mattresses in a laundry basket and singing along to Rose Tint My World with the head on my shoulder.

I know that might sound irresponsible, but it makes me happy.

Alright, Sabe. Here's what I've got ( admittedly, I wrote four-thousand words between this morning's hours of four-thirty and seven, which explains why I'm real effin' tired ):

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/2098292/8/

How's your end looking?



Also, happy Valentine's Day to anyone who won't shove a stick through my head for saying it. My friends page is littered with "fuck this day" posts, so I'm a bit skeptical, but. . .I had a good day. The plans went well, it was a lovely evening, and that was all good and fun.

Cheers.

Take care, you lot.

So Imogen Heap just got beat out of the Best New Artist award by Carrie Underwood.

I'm going to raise hell.

It feels so nice, calling to say you're sorry for something small. They appreciate it, and you feel so much better, as trivial as it may have been in the first place.

Valentine's Day plans have been found in a girl who loves swing music and wants to watch the stars with me. It's funny how these things happen. She makes me real happy, in that certain kind of way that's just this side of romantic.


Take care, you lot.

Cheers.

Dear Florida,

I'm really sorry. I truly am. I understand that tornado was miserable and awful and came out of nowhere, and I feel bad about all the people that died in it. However, it stands that I have places to go today, and you shouldn't push your luck with the weather upon Minnesota. It's just not nice.

"What?" I hear you asking it. Maybe it's not your fault. Maybe God's having a bad couple of days or something and just needs to settle down. But he should do it quickly. I need to go to Foley today for a one-act play competition, and then back to Saint Cloud to catch a movie with Melissa. This day means a lot to me, Florida, and I don't need what I have right now. It's just uncalled for.

What's that? You're still confused. Well, let me say it this way:

JESUS FUCK, IT'S NEGATIVE EIGHTEEN AND THE WINDCHILL IS NEGATIVE FORTY-FOUR! I NEED A GIANT-FUCK HAIRDRYER OR SOMETHING!


Sincerely,
Frozen to the Keyboard in Minnesota.


In other news, I wrote a ten-or-so minute play last night. I'm hoping they'll let me direct and perform it in May. I'd love it if any of you could come ( Kyle, Grant, M'randa, Fones? ) More details to follow.

So it's finally time for me to make a fandom post.

The other day, I sat down and read Sabriel's Not What I'll Have You Believe in a little over one sitting. Time to sleep and all that. And Sabe, if you're like me, you might never update that again, or you might take a year to do it. Like I said, I do that, too.

Then I got an email from a reviewer of mine telling me to please update Strange Bedfellows and In Stride, as those stories made him start writing and wanting to be a writer. That, by the way, is the best feeling ever. But I realized that I really should update them. . .

So here's what I'm suggesting:


AN EYE FOR AN EYE FANFICTION SCRAMBLE!

Trading chapters and stories. ( It's not an original idea, I know, but it's also never been on widely-practiced. )

One person says to another, "Hey, I'll update [this] if you'll update [that]." Or maybe, "Hey, I'll write about [this] if you write a new chapter for [that]" or vice-versa. A deal is struck ( set deadlines for even more fun. get on MSN or something and talk to each other as you write for each other. ) Two authors get reasons for new chapters of beloved stories. Everyone goes home happy, and maybe the creative juices even start to flow a bit for those who aren't writing as much anymore.

I'm definitely participating in this, but if you like the idea, don't confine it to me. Challenge other writers. Mix up the rules. Accept off-the-wall challenges. Challenge someone even if you haven't written for the fandom ( any fandom's acceptable ) in years. This is all for the benefit of the writer as well as the person. It'll be fun, I promise.


That said, I'd like to challenge Sabriel. I'll trade a chapter of Strange Bedfellows for an update to Not What I'll Have You Believe. What say ye?

eins. SCARRSCARRSCARR. IGOTYOURPACKAGE. ZOMG. I love the tie. And I absolutely adore this CD. It's so. . .it's a soundtrack for anything. When you said you didn't listen to rock, then that you were sending me a CD, I assumed the worsts and thought I'd either be getting twangy country or MOFUCKTHEPOLICE rap. But this. . .this is wonderful. ( my using 'this' means I'm listening to it, of course. ) Thank you so much. Do you have a track listing for it, by chance?

zwei. I now have a homemade pirate flag attached to the antenna of my car. It's real neat, yo.

drei. Umm. . .there's not much else. I'm doing pretty well, I guess. I mean, I'm doing better than I was, which is always good. I'm headed to Ohio in March ( I'll be in Wilmington, Drakon, on the twenty-fourth; you should come visit, wherever that is in relation to you? ) for a Freezepop show with my friend Bryan, who I met through Grant and Kyle. It should be fun.


Aaaand. . .that's about it.

Take care, you lot.

Cheers.

I've found the cure to boredom, in five easy steps.


1. Call all your friends and tell them you're throwing a party at your house at eight o' clock. Make sure you do this early in the day, so that there's no way they can make any other plans for the night and are forced to come to your place. They don't want to miss this.

2. Go to your local Wal-mart. It doesn't matter where you live; Wal-marts are pretty much all selling the same things at the same time, I'm pretty sure. When you go to Wal-mart, act as drunk as possible, so it might excuse the purchase you're about to make. In fact, you might need some alcohol before long, so go to the booze aisle and pick up something. Something hard. One-sixty proof should kill enough brain cells for this.

3. Find the one-dollar DVD rack, if you have one. It's the one with all the slim-cased DVDs that are a step or two short of being given away off spindles as DVD-Rs. Look past the Willie Nelson cowboy movie and seek out what you're really there for: The Guy With Secret Kung Fu. You'll know it when you see it. Large Asian print on the cover always draws people's eyes in, and this is no different. Turn over the case and realize they've mixed up 'their' and 'there,' and you know this will be interesting. Buy it. Don't forget the alcohol.

4. Go home and do something productive. Preparing for the party might be the common sense thing to do, but writing your will might be more useful. Don't open the movie until the last possible moment, when all of your friends are there and perhaps a bit of pot has been smoked. When the clock strikes eight, on with the show.

5. This is a fun place to start placing bets. Offer a thousand dollars to the person who laughs last. Be serious. Shake hands and sign in blood. Don't worry; if you can make it through the opening credits, you're in good shape. After all, they hold the name of Kao Pu and two lines that, when read downward, make up Wang Chung. Be prepared for a movie that seems to have forgotten that there need to be logical reasons for someone to run from one room, shirtless, into another one, fully clothed. Forget all you knew about characters who are important to the plot, or trying to tell the girls in kimonos apart, or asking when Hung Wen-ting and Hu Ah-piao moved from the underground lair to a wheat field, chased by characters you didn't know lived around there. Remember, kung-fu masters do indeed make plane engine noises when they do cartwheels, the snapping of wood sometimes sounds like a blacksmith taking a swing with a hammer, and that if they want that large Asian man to be a half-metal demon, they're allowed to make him clink and chime with every footstep.

Disclaimer: While I've said that this movie will cure your boredom, I made no promises about surviving the night, keeping your friends, and not losing a thousand dollars. I just want to be totally clear about that. If you want to have a little extra fun, strap on a pink bike helmet, print this picture out, and take it to Wal-mart, asking for the movie in the loudest, most garbled voice you can manage:



That should do it.

A cup of irony to set the mood:

You're The Great Gatsby!

by F. Scott Fitzgerald

Having grown up in immense wealth and privilege, the world is truly at
your doorstep. Instead of reveling in this life of luxury, however, you spend most of
your time mooning over a failed romance. The object of your affection is all but
worthless--a frivolous liar--but it matters not to you. You can paint any image of the
past you want and make it seem real. If you were a color of fishing boat light, you
would be green.


Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

Now then. . .

Evenin'.

I could complain about things right now. I could complain about my car not starting, my step-father being a general dick about everything, my persistent hormonal issues, Cody finally getting caught stealing from the local sporting goods store, my real father guilt-tripping me at every chance he gets, how much I still get upset about and-or cry about Winona, but I'm not here to do that. I'm just here to mention it and make you wonder if I'm okay.

Honestly, I wonder.

My resolutions for this year are childish and passionate, full of things I've always wanted to do but always thought were stupid. I thought they were stupid right up until Emily showed me that the most wonderful people are the ones who do things they enjoy without caring about looking stupid. It was running down a dark, icy road at midnight on New Years Eve, myself and six others in a flying-V formation and laughing our heads off, flapping our arms like we might actually soar into the sky, that I realized I have to enjoy the little things before the big picture can look pretty.

I need help learning some things. I've always wanted, primarily, to do three fun things aside from writing: juggle, play the harmonica, and tap dance. I have juggling balls now and can get three throws pretty well, four if I try real hard, and I think in a few months I'll be able to do it.

But I lack a harmonica. And tap shoes. But I hope to find them.

If I don't get either one, at least I tried, right?

. . .So there's that. I mean, I'm okay. As far as seeing Neil Gaiman in Minneapolis, I think my lack of money isn't going to let me do it. What money I have is going toward a film festival in Winona, where I will sleep in my car for fear of wearing out my paper-thin welcome in the Eng household. I know her mother tried not to cry when I left, and I don't know if Emily's not coming upstairs of her own will to tell me goodbye was a good sign or a bad, but I don't want to ask them if I can stay with them. I've been invited so far, and I like to keep it that way. It means that Emily's okay with me being around -- a lot of the time I wish I could just ask her what she thinks.


So take care, you lot. I'll cheer up in time.

Cheers.

Home now.

I. . .

. . .

. . .sigh.


Happy new year or something.

So I'm breaking my looking-back-at-2006 entry into the meme that's floating around and my own personal review. The second will probably be much longer winded and useless. So, in that order, here we go.

( The meme. )


( My own review. )

News for CRAIGGY WRIGGY kids:

http://www.raintaxi.com/readings/

If you're too lazy to look, Neil Gaiman is going to be at the Walker Art Museum with Dave McKean at 7:00 P.M., January eleventh. And I say we should make our best attempts to go see him, eh? It's a free event and tickets can be picked up an hour beforehand, and I think it'd be a great mini-reunion.

I'll definitely be calling Mike and Kevin about this. If anyone needs a ride, I can possibly provide it. Also, just in general let me know if y'all can make it.


Cheers.


( othernote: I'm in Winona and have zero phone reception. Just to let you know. )