Victory! (OR: Ray 1, Technology...a lot)

I finally did it. I got music onto the memory card for my cell phone. Finally, Butch is a music machine. (Yes, my phone's name is Butch. And yes, I name my devices. And yes, I am straight.)

You see, this is, sadly, more an accomplishment for me than I'd care to admit. I like to consider myself at least technically savvy. I'm no expert, but usually I can work my way through a pile of cables with relative ease.

Then this little chip entered my life. It was Elise's birthday present to me, as temporary replacement for my iPod (which I lost. Because I am awesome.). It seemed simple enough: plug in my phone with the USB cable, or put the music on the chip, then put it in my phone, hit the play button, and jam. I was gonna enjoy the flight to Nashville with tuneskis of my choosing, all thanks to my little phone.

Ray's face, meet wall.

I finally got the phone connected to the computer after trying about four thousand times or so. I get all the best music I had into a neat-o little playlist, and load it on...

One song? What the fuck, phone? Most things with a play button play...more than one thing. Fuck that.

So I load the little chip into the computer...and I still can't get it synchronized with my phone. I put it straight onto the damned chip! I'm swearing every sentence now, Butch. Is that what you wanted?

I manage to load one song on: "Technologic" by Daft Punk. Ever since the end of April, I've managed to inadvertently press the play button on the front of the phone and start that little voice...stares ensued.

So I finally decide...what the hell, let's see what we can do. I've not even been able to connect it previously, and things went the same tonight. Then...I hold in place.

CONNECT

You mean...the only way I can ensure that my $150 phone will connect the way it's supposed to is to hold the cord in place? What the fuck, technology?

Now I have some dandy songs on the playlist. And what's the first line one hears when the music comes on?

"If you havin' girl problems, I feel bad for ya son/I got 99 problems, but a bitch ain't one."

Smoov, Ray. Smoov.

Number Four (OR: My aunt's new nickname is Jaws)

"Diane's getting married Wednesday."
"Oh, that's nice. Tell her I said congrats."

Most little girls spend there lives dreaming of their wedding, the big elaborate day that they get to spend oodles and oodles of daddy's money on. The dress, the cake, the caterer, the reception, and the groom - all pieces of the day (gentlemen, do not be mistaken. Your role in a wedding is to show up on time, smile, and not sleep with the stripper from the bachelor party. No more, no less.). It's the biggest day they may ever know, and the bigger the wedding, chances are she's off to begin a fledgling career as a professional trophy wife.

At least, that's the dream.

The above was the approximate involvement of most of my family when my Aunt Diane got married last week.

Diane New-Ray-Ballard-whathisname-Jaworski. Yeah, her fourth marriage, and she's not hit 45 yet. Dear god. I don't think any of us remember number three's last name, as they were married for about forty-five minutes or so. All I remember about Dwight (that was his first name, anyway) was that he ran over the dog. Not necessarily the fondest memory, but Diane's dogs have a tendency to be annoying as hell, so maybe it's not a tragedy either. (Don't jump my shit, here people...I'm a dog person. But annoying dogs are not fun.)

This one is theoretically going to work. Diane's actually got her act together, which is far more than can be said of any of the others. Hell, actually falling in love with Mickey was not quite inevitable. The only problem is, there are four kids involved, three of whom still are present in her life, one of whom isn't even in high school yet. And the oldest is still attached to her dad. Never mind he happens to be an asshole. This is a guy who'd pawn anything that wasn't his the minute the owner stepped out of sight. Thank god he was never my babysitter...

Oddly enough, ask anyone who's from Kentucky or has relatives within, and you'll hear at least one similar story.

Good luck Diane. Or should I say...Jaws?

Don't ask me how, but I pull myself back up like that. No prolonged agony, at least none perceived. No epic moping or sel-pity. There's something I tend to be good at...self-pity. Of course, being as secretly self-absorbed as I tend to be, that really should come as no surprise.

But I'm in a pretty good mood. Maybe it's the fact the fact that I actually accomplished some things yesterday. I'm [hold finger and thumb about an inch apart]this close to a job...either a temp job or something a little more definite.

This morning, I'm practically bouncing. I suppose it's the Henry Tumbleweed filming, or maybe that I'm still hopped up on Sunkist (I've been drinking that stuff like it's water lately). I'm not entirely sure if I know what the reason is, but it's definite. I'll throw on some old clothes, head out back, and work on the fence some more. I said I'd have the inside done by the end of the weekend, and tomorrow's not looking that great, what with grad parties and whatnot.

It'll get done. I'll get my lines right today. And things, I hope, will work themselves out. God knows something gotta change.

Ray, and His Lack of Sleep (OR: 1 a.m. rant)

Cranky.

One word describes me this week, and agitated is a good shot.

I haven't slept peacefully, slept well...slept heartily, since forever ago, really. And I think that's part of my issue. I really wanted to catch Shaun of the Dead or L.A. Confidential since I have 'em both, but I think I might heed my own advice, for once. Hell, I can hardly type well, I'm missing the same letters over and over. It took me four tries to type "advice" a few sentences ago.

Hanna and I have been discussing this, and school really gave us more than we anticipated. The summer has already been a challenge, and I'm two weeks in. What happens if I get a 6 a.m. job?

"Sleep without pets, without phones, without a million things to do, without parents...solid...good...restful...needed sleep. No waking up in the middle of the night because home doesn't feel like home anymore.

That, quickly, is my summer.

Oh, how I miss my freshman year.

What's on Your Mind, Ray? (OR: Never mind. It's past your bedtime.)

I'm distressed right now. Frazzled? Stressing? Tired? Yes. Distressed? No, my friends, not yet. I think I'm working toward it, though. And being awake at 1:30 in the morning doesn't help.

I forgot how much I love A Rush of Blood to the Head. It's my stress album. It's what I listen to when I need to get myself out of whatever hole I've dug for myself. Much like Hot Fuss (my ultimate goodtimes album), I physically get into, and I don't care how dorky that is. It works somehow. Music is like therapy, but cheaper. And more reliable.

Grace and I played the "secret game." How that helps me I may never know. But the fact someone else can acknowledge some of my incomprehensible jabber is definitely encouraging.

I definitely missed Jeff. We actually get a lot from him. I remember why conservatives aren't evil, and why despite the fact I miss college, I still miss my high school days, too. Same with Matt. We're three guys who legitimately get each other and revel in who we are. If you have that and you know it, don't ever let it go. Every now and then, they'll remind you why you need them. When I went through some of my trouble, they were there. Jennie and Erin and many others did, too, but these guys helped me like no one else could. That I give thanks for all the time.

You know what I need right now? Some legitimate direction. A clue. A solid sense of something, anything. I'm mulling around when I need to be taking some kind of action.

My only problem is that, frankly, I have no fucking clue what that action should be.

The Almighty Dollar (OR: All About What I Don't Have)

Lord, I can barely afford to hang out with my own friends. I've called the zoo for the last two weeks, at least once a day. No answer from HumaCare or the zoo. No response. Now I've received another notice from US Bank -- insufficient funds? I had the money in there, but they charge me anyway. (Don't get me started on banks and their ways...damn banks. All of them. To the deepest pits of hell).

When you can't even be sure you can see your friends...

This is the wonderful thing about growing up. All of my old ghosts are really haunting me. I desperately want to return to Western this fall. I don't care if I'm a six-hour car ride away from home, it's just as good. There are people there I've shared some of greatest moments with. And now...it could all be gone. For good or for now, I don't know. But what's done is done, and I have to wait how things play out...one extra paper turned in to McMichael...one extra night working on a speech...a few more interviews for my Public Affairs final...so many things that, with the glorious benefit of hindsight, I clearly see I should have done.

Hindsight is a pain in the ass. I've said it before, and I'll say it again, knowing myself. It's never particularly helpful. It comes directly from making the very mistakes that you then learn you needed to avoid. There are so, so many points I can look to and say, "Damn. Why didn't I do that?" And while I can learn from them, I'll never have the chance to correct them.

I've got plenty on my mind. I'm not normally a quiet reserved guy. Any time spent with me makes this obvious. But I've been relatively sedate lately ("sedate" by my standards still means more active and...ADHD...than a sizable chunk of the populous) and I'm not sure I like it. Ray Lockman is a live wire. It's what I am, it makes me who I am. It's why the people who love me love me. It's why the people who can't stand me want to strangle me.

Oddly enough...I've learned to use that energy to my advantage. I've really made huge strides in my confidence since high school. It's probably one of the things I really lacked until late in high school, and now it's made me feel almost invincible. My optimism, my energy, my zeal have been a shield, and armor of sorts.

I'm feeling worn, like a toy that's been wound a few too many times. And staying awake doing about nothing isn't helping. A sane person would be asleep right now. Then again, a sane person can do more than just identify their flaws...

And here's where the chinks start to show. I'm wearing thin and tearing apart. It's not a disaster, but it certainly isn't boding well for the future, now is it?

Summer Days (OR: Tomorrow's gonna come too soon)

Finals week is bringing me to a state I'm not all that accustomed to: a calm determination I've not experienced as much as maybe I should. I suppose that I haven't really needed to go into panic mode like I have the last few years or so. I guess making it to class day in, day out is actually a brilliant idea and should be imitated by some of my peers. All goes well and I'll be back in Bowling Green.

As for the meantime, I had in interesting recall yesterday, while in the shower of all places. (I know some people say that you do your best thinking in the shower, but I tend to do mine while mowing or driving.)

Like the majority of people on this planet, I'm a creature of habit. I wake up about half an hour before class, or kill time until I have half an hour till class. Dinner is usually a each day, and lunch is almost constant. This changes from one semester to the next, depending on a few things.

The last thing I do before I get to bed in take a shower (growing up in a house of five, you learned to get warm showers whenever it is possible). And as I stepped into the showers on the seventh floor, I suddenly remembered those first few hours alone in Keen Hall. My parents, my sister, and my girlfriend were all on their way home. All my other friends were still in Ohio...hell, Ohio was still my true home. And on that evening in August, I was as alone as I've ever been. I knew exactly one person. That would change soon enough, but for the moment, I finally grasped the reality of all this.

For the next nine months, this was home. This was were I'd eat, sleep, and live out the day-to-day. I'd be home, but not very long. These people, I'd grow with, learn with, all that generic stuff. It was all a little overwhelming, but I promised I'd make the most of it.

And I just about have. Like almost any long experience, I've had things I wished I had done differently, but overall, I'm pleased with my time here. Marching band, the thing that made high school bearable, helped soften the blow. It introduced people as nerdy as me to me. I met close friends, eventual foes, and plenty of....intriguing folk, to say the least. And soon, I'd meet some of the closest people I've ever known.

Now, the day-to-day is over. Finals week is a different beast enitrely. And I have so much to do before I leave this world behind for the coming months. It isn't going to be easy, saying goodbye. I've shared so much time with so many people, and even more with a few. They are the ones I'll remember: the faces, the voices, the true friends who've been there. The ones I'll actually talk to late into the night when they pop up on AIM.

To you, I say thanks. Thanks for the memories made, and the memories yet to be made. Here's to surviving the summer, and those familiar welcome-back hugs in August. Here's to drunken weekends, and Thursday night "country drives." Here's to every cry of "you skank!" that was heard down the hall.

Here's to what made us who we are, different even from the nervous, anxious freshman we were when we started it all.

Summer will be different with you. And without you.