I shall not reveal the words of the Golden Eel.

Slyly peeking around the corner of his book, Glen stared at it. It isn't that anybody should care about his staring, just that he felt an inexplicable sense of guilt for doing so. But he couldn't take his eyes off of it. It was the ugliest thing he had ever seen and he could not for the life of him tear himself away from drinking in its disgusting form. Unwilled, the edges of his thin mouth curled downwards into a snarl.
The object of Glen's secret, shameful study was a sculpture; one of many that populated the library. There were only four or five attendants on hand at any one given time in the Wolshire Branch Library, but there were a thousand eyes.
The sculptures were, Glen fancied, the deathbed wish of some crumbling aristocrat who tried to balance the scales of heaven by flinging vast sums of money at honorable institutions in the twilight of his debauched life. The swollen, cracked lips of this imaginary man (it was of course, a man) spoke in Glen's mind, hissing authoritatively "Use some of my money to fill the Wolshire Branch with scuptures..." and the man's eyes rolled halfway back and saliva pooled in his mouth before he regained composure and continued, "sculp...scuptures of sea creatures-the beasts of the ocean to watch over our books."
And then he died, and went to Hell anyways.
Glen looked from left to right, safely behind his novel and then, upon seeing that it was safe chanced one final glance at it. There it was, a hideous golden eel as large as in nature and ten times as menacing. Its body, a cleaner, clearer gold color was wrapped around jagged black sculpted oceanic rock. Its head rise above the rock, a dulling shade of gold as the hands of many children had rubbed it or, more likely Glen thought, mothers covered it from their babies' eyes.
It was at that moment that Glen, timid Glen, decided that he would steal the golden eel. He would steal it and he would kill it.

Its wednesday. Always a smashing night, what with Trivia at Applebees and all. Also, due to some recent events there is more cause for celebration in my life and the life of my colleagues at The Current. More on that when it's all worked out and safe to speak. Suffice it to say that it is cause for relief and joy.

I've done my three crosswords for the day. I never, ever get sick of them. Yesterday there was a clue, "alternative rock band" and as I filled in other letters wondering what on earth band it could be, I realized with ecstatic delight (redundant? get off my case). that the answer was Ween! I have listened to more Ween this semester than any human should. They are too, too good. So I am saving that crossword.

I have started a successful gym routine with my buddy Gene. We do 20-30 minutes on the bikes and then use the weight machines. We've gone 4 times in the past week and a half- about every other day. It feels great.

Tried to grow mustache. Got stuck in a permanent (3-week-long) "ugly stage".
Shaved it and then got a haircut, to boot. Feeling pretty slick.

Must go to Math class now, though I have more to say. Must sumarize. Love to all. Car working and day a little warmer than past few. Life is picture of ease and fulfillment.


A thought, and maybe a song.

I should be other places, doing other things.
I shouldn't worry so much,
(but even thieves have kings).

I could have let my mind fly off
(like a helium-filled baloon)
And we could all give up and when asked to participate,
we could all refuse.
But the widow in the shabby shop who cuts my hair
still wears her wedding ring.
I shouldn't want to live without faith
(but even thieves have kings).

Yes even killers have lovers,
and they buy them fancy things.
Even children have wicked ways,
and it's a strange sight to see.
Even Caesar finally bowed to death
and even Nietzsche liked to sing.

Even the wise have teachers
and even thieves have kings.

Don't jump, George Bailey.

They are putting nets on the side of the Golden Gate bridge to stop the some 20-odd suicides that occur there every year.

I like to watch Fox News' morning show with Bill and Megan. It makes me feel like my friends have taken over a t.v. channel and are pretending to be newscasters.

Nearly went to the new Bond film last night. Stayed in and had Gene over to watch OnDemand instead. Passed out before I could even slur the words "how about a game of Scrabble?". Honestly, I've got to stop falling asleep and leaving my friends to awkwardly wonder if they should wake me up or just....go...

I am (trying to) growing a mustache. Every time I mention this, Jessie makes a certain face that is a blend of a smirk, a look of horror, and the face she makes when wondering why she ever talked to that new kid from Oman.

So I was trying to sign in here and wasn't sure which e-mail address they should send my password too (that's right I forgot it). I typed in my Hotmail address, which I've had for years, and they e-mailed me a link to....an old blog! That's right, I have an old blog. No, dear reader, i was no more aware of this than you, having (mercifully) expunged all memory of this years ago.

Strange, that it is still there in all of it's odd 16-year old glory. People are always telling me how things stay on the internet forever and that I should be careful what I put out there because it's all public forever. Well it's true.

If I ever ran for president; I would no doubt be poised for victory, enjoying a cracking good lead in the polls, one foot in the oval office, and just weeks to go until election day and then BAM! Someone would dig up this God-forsaken thing and it would be curtains for candidate Stewart. I mean, would you vote for someone who's blog had a background that managed to incorporate both Rachel Leigh Cook and the business cards from American Psycho? and that was just the photos. Here was my first ever post in full glory.

Apparently, I understood then that brevity is the essence of good manners...

Introduction (yes, I need one...)

Well, I figure it's about time for me to start injecting my thoughts into the veins of the unsuspecting world.
Or perhaps this is PoetSpeak for I-will-explode-if-some-of-these-ideas-remain-in-MY-brain-alone.
I guess noone will know which it is untill I am famous; then and then alone can my rambling, mistakes, mental problems, and whatnot be taken as early signs of genius.
For now they just make most people "Angry".



I no more know why I put quotations around "angry" then I know why I had the text in a tasteful red. Nor does my aging mind recall what exactly I thought "PoetSpeak" was. After viewing this artifact, I did realize that a few things remain the same.
To wit:

1) I overused the word "whatnot" then, as I still do.

2) I wrote in another post then that "I am entertained by reading these and seeing how they don't sound like me." Well said, 16-year old Chris, well said.

3) I had exactly....zero comments there. Actually there were a few robo-comments on there, trying to sell me insurance, etc. Looks like Blogspot has cleaned that part up.

So some things will never change. A final quote from the ancient blog I uncovered: "When a free man walks the earth, even the pain don't hurt."

Hot and hungry and healthy and hip.

Mesothelioma. There's something you want to avoid.

The debate is on tonight! I have found that parties pale in comparison to having a few friends over and watching a debate this particularly juicy presidential season.

It was Will's birthday a few days back. Love you lots Will! Hope Cairo's treating you well! I miss you and hope to see you, but also conflictingly hope that you get into the Peace Corps like you want to in which case I probably won't see you for a couple of years!

How is anyone supposed to leave home and make a life on their own, let alone we Stewart kids? Goodness knows we ought to just hunker down and get serious with a family restaurant.

I have written a lot of songs lately. If I had a nifty Macbook like some of you silver-spooners out there (ahem, Siobhan); then I would be on Garage Band right now making a record and not complaining about it here.
Actually, what would be really top notch would be to round up a band and rent out a studio for a day and just jam. And then during our jams I would throw in my songs, sprinkling them throughout the day inconspicuously and acting like they just spontaneously grew from the music.

Speaking of things that are cool, I saw the new film "W." last night at a screening. It was really good, I must say. A sold, good-looking movie that really, really didn't bash Bush, but actually gave him a full story and made him a genuine person with genuine beliefs and sympathetic reasons for being so stalwart in those beliefs. It was well-made, thorough, well-acted, occasionally funny, but mostly just kind of fascinating, if not morbidly so. But then again, I've always felt the same way about Bush the man.
Either way, the movie was no hatchet-job and no second-rate production, though I can't say that I have any clue what audience it is meant for. As I left the theater I heard a couple of people to the left (chuckle) of me loudly agree with each other that "he got off way too easy..." while some fellow film enthusiasts to my right (grin) wondered vocally if the film would be screened at the White House.
I, in the middle (hint, hint) of course was simply concerned with why A) Laura Bush never aged. B) Condi had a wierd speech thing going on and C) Can the next president somehow make popcorn not cost as much as a movie ticket?

And life, love, and politics go on.

I wish that:

1) McCain-Biden was the ticket for either party. That would be neat.

2) Obama-Palin were a celebrity couple, like Brangelina, only, whiter and blacker. Palama? Obalin?

3) I can some day not overuse italics.

4) When Siobhan is running for president she has to disown me because I have gone and written something controversial or I am a former member of the Stewart Underground, or I am in an institution somewhere, or I am a fencing instructor in the future when fencing is outlawed, or I have started an embarassing cult, or I write awful blogs, or I am involved in a sex scandal, or I am not involved in a sex scandal and in the future they are acceptable and required, or I have defected to Omani citizenship, or I try to buy into her fame by producing my own beer (Billy Beer, of course), or I named my first two sons Gilgamesh and Enkidu and they are publicly acrimonious, or I was homeschooled, or I am too liberal, too conseravtive, too short, too tall, and too much.

Yeah, I would like those things.

I went shopping today. It rained. I went to French class. I wrote some lyrics, I watched a lot of the news.

I love you all, and very much so.

Thanks for stopping by.

Monday is...a nightmare.

I spend every Monday under the weight of a debilitating, completely undeserved hangover. No, I do not get drunk on Sunday nights. I stay up at The Current until 5:30 a.m. or so. It is one thing to stay up until 2 or 3 palling around with buddies and then sleep in until 1 p.m. It is another beast entirely to be up working nonstop until 5:30, not get home until 6:00, not get to sleep until 6:30 or 7:00, and wake up at 10:00 and head off to school again.

So needless to stay, I awake Monday morning and think of my beloved Aunt Betsy as I greet the day with generous doses of Ibuprofen and a swig of orange juice.

I set my Facebook to Pirate English, and you can to with the settings-languages tool. It's fun, and I am surprised at how thoroughly they go to change every last phrase to ye olde pirate. Nearly all of them are quite humorous, and it's a fun party trick (Hey check out what I can do!").

I was lucky enough to cover a concert for the paper, Ricky Skaggs and Bruce Horsnby playing bluegrass. The two put on a great show in my school's lovely Touhill performing arts center. The more country I hear the more I like bluegrass. It was really fantastic and the musicianship was top-notch and often blazingly fast. I just might buy some of the cds they've done together.

I'm starting to bore myself here. Why is it that the one day I finally buckle down to catch up on all the writing I have put off is by far the least inspired I have ever felt? My foul lack of sleep has rendered me utterly bereft of all wit, insight, humor, and I'm guessing, spelling. Siobhan, you can't let me know about that one.

It's getting cold out.
Okay I just edited this blog and deleted the story I had posted here.

Friday is Sigh-Day...

I feel good, just pulling out of this nasty sore throat that everybody at UMSL got. I had a productive week, playing in a talent show, taking on three articles for the paper, and getting all of my homework done. To begin, the talent show. It happened on Wednesday at at the South Campus Honors College, in the chapel. About fifteen people/groups competed in all. I and a good friend of mine, Lydia, played three songs with both of us singing and me strumming.

We played "Televators" by the Mars Volta, "Smugglers" by George Cavanaugh and the Browne Sisters, and "Baby, One More Time" by Britney Spears- as a sort of treat for the audience for sticking through our more thoughtful first two songs with us. It was a lot of fun, we sounded fairly well and came second in our category. Now, there was only one other guy in our category, but still. He won (after singing "My Wish" by Rascal Flatts along with a recording) when the audience applause-o-meter (the chosen method of judgement) was sent soaring by his two adoring and hideously vocal gal-pals who jumped and screamed like banshees at a barn-raising. They were pierced, spike-haired hipstresses who could be heard saying "he's so adorable" about their effeminate boy-toy and laughing at his every flamboyant gesture. I mean no slander to him. He sang very well and wholeheartedly and seemed a perfectly nice fellow. He just needs to lose the dimwitted duo that comprised his screeching posse.
All in all, it was a fantastic night in which I had the pleasure of watching three operatic pieces, a virtuoso four-mallet marimba performance (my favorite of the evening), a delightful barbershop quartet, a jazz trio, and much more. And there was free food, always a selling point.

I had a dream some months ago in which I was back in beloved Boerne at my Aunt Betsy (hey you!) and Uncle Mike's house. I and all of our family was there as we often are in the summer time, and we were all having a great time. The, my grandpa Stewart entered and took his place in the rocking chair he had so often sat in before his death a few years ago. He was talkative and lively and I didn't think anything of it in the dream, until I remember suddenly that he was dead.
When I asked my aunt Betsy what was going on she said, "Oh don't you know?" and then explained that there was a new company/service which provided look-a-like actors who would study up on deceased loved ones of clientelle and then dress up as and "be" that loved one for a holiday or other such event. I looked more closely at my grandfather and only then realized some slight distinctions in his appearance from my real grandfather. I was quite taken with this idea in the dream, and upon waking, decided that it was a crackling-good idea for a story.

I began to write this short-story yesterday and should I complete it, will post it here.

Sunday is game day!

Today is Sunday, and that means that after my morning routine is finished, there are two words on my mind and on my schedule, filling me with dread and excitement. These words are of course, The Current. The Current is our belove paper here at school, and for a good fifteen straight hours it is my cruel, unyielding taskmistress.

I am design editor here as of August, which means that of our twenty-or-so staff members, I am one of two people (the other being our editor-in-chief Mellisa) who must stay until the very second we send out the final edit of the paper. This usually occurs between 4:30 and 6:30 a.m. Monday morning. I arrive, by Melissa's orders, at about 2 p.m. Sunday afternoon. I will leave campus only once during the evening, driving down the street to the QT to grab a 69-cent 32-ounze energy drink and, if dinner calls, a $3.99 club sandwich. Tonight I was not hungry, having scarfed down a late lunch right before leaving my house for school; so I got a trail mix from the QT and even that I couldn't finish.

I enjoy the work here, love feeling productive, adore the atmosphere in the Current HQ late at night and am crazy about my co-workers. There are about five of us here until midnight or so. Then anyone in photos will make their goodbyes, leaving Elizabeth (managing editor), Melissa (editor-in-chief) Gene (business editor) and myself. An hour or so later, Gene ducks out. Elizabeth tends to turn in between 2:30 and 3. We are short-staffed, which is why our business editor and managing editor do a hell of lot of page design with me. Elizabeth is interviewing potential new staffers this week, and we are all desperately hoping that she hires every bloody one of the unwitting applicants.

Anyhow, I am here now, brain-deep in it. I'll tell you one thing, compared to any other situation and compared drastically to previous jobs I have held, this is the fastest flying fifteen hours of my week.

An experience about recently:

I covered The Arianna String Quartet's "Folk Infusion" performance Friday night and was incredibly drawn into the experience. The music was awe-inspiring and lush. I was reminded of Alduous Huxley's statement in The Doors of Perception:

"After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music. "

A quartet is a much more intimate experience than a full orchestra. There is an incredible sense of synchronization and coordination among the four players, two violinists, a violist, and a cellist. This synchronizations extends far beyond the music into their bodies which sway and jerk with and, occasionally, seemingly against the music.
These movements seem completely unwilled, as if there is some physical force, some second gravity that affects on these musicians, compelling them to performe this strange dance. How prevalent in dystopic and post-industrial literature is the idea that there can be no worse fate than for a human being to be reduced to a cog in a machine? Yet these four players looked like nothing so much as that as they enveloped the theater in Dvorak's "American" opus. Suddenly the idea reversed in my mind and I could think of nothing more beautiful and perfect than to be a a cog in the most flawless of machines-nature.

And now it's back to the salt mines for me, but I'll leave a treat, some more quotes from the brilliant Huxley.

"An intellectual is a person who's found one thing that's more interesting than sex."

"A belief in hell and the knowledge that every ambition is doomed to frustration at the hands of a skeleton have never prevented the majority of human beings from behaving as though death were no more than an unfounded rumor."

"Maybe this world is another planet's hell."

"Science has explained nothing; the more we know the more fantastic the world becomes and the profounder the surrounding darkness."

"To his dog, every man is Napoleon; hence the constant popularity of dogs."

and finally, and I feel appropriately:

"Words, words, words! They shut one off from the universe. Three quarters of the time one's never in contact with things, only with the beastly words that stand for them."