TONY AWARDS 2005- A LOOK BACK.

-I had an entire two minutes of rapture as soon as The Great William Crystal rose up from the stage, supposedly assuming the role of host. When he played his Frogs cell phone gag, I heard (distinctly) Nathan sneer in sheer disgust. When Hugh Jackman answered on the other end, I realized that God was cruel, vicious, and only toying with my petty emotions.
-Nathan's little "buzz-cut" is annoying and disarmingly attractive, all at the same time. No, maybe that's still just Nathan. Hmm.
-None of the performances were "top-notch," excluding from that list the enchanting Light In The Piazza, 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee (as if that show could pull off anything but pure genius), and even Lithgow and Butz's adorable off-stage chemistry that was only defeated by Dirty Rotten Scoundrels' atrociously ordinary libretto. Oh, and of course, La Cage looked as stunning as it always has. Thank you, Jerry Mitchell.
-I found Sara Ramirez rather ho-hum in her acceptance speech, but was absolutely amazed that she managed to pull through "Find Your Grail" despite her nearly debilitating illness at the time of performance (Over-exaggeration, you say? Have you ever tried to be a gorgeous, belting, bonafide Broadway Diva, Comic Actress, AND Tony Winner In Her Debut Tony Awards Ceremony Performance, not to mention ill? No. She wins serious Scene Points.).
-Most Poised Acceptance Speech Of The Evening: No contest: Doug Hughes (who, after seeing him at fifteen-billion ceremonies, I am beginning to fall head-over-heels in love with). Just take a look:
"Thank you. I've done a very great honor by this award, none greater than to have my name spoken in the same sentence of those masters: Joe Mantello, John Crowley and Scott Ellis. I'd like to thank my beautiful wife, Lynn, for the boundless supply of love, patience and belief she's lavished on her director/husband. I'd love to thank you, my mother and father, great actors, great parents. I know it must seem like a wild act of Oedipal revenge for the son of two actors to become a director, but I assure you that's not the case. What happened with Doubt is very, very simple. John Patrick Shanley wrote a play for our time and I was given the opportunity to work on it everyday in the company of geniuses. So if you will indulge me, I would like to live a fantasy and simply say, I love working in the world of the theater. Safe and dangerous, small and infinite, I am overjoyed to have a place in it. Thank you so very, very much."
(Believe me, it sounded much better live.)
IN CONCLUSION
-Hugh Jackman needs to get a life- one that does not involve hosting the Tony Awards. And, hopefully, the Wing has finally begun to understand that. As a performer, he's thoroughly enjoyable. But that stops very rapidly when he starts ruining classic showtunes. I love Hugh, but in the sense that he's just a little too gay to be a straight man. He played The Peter Allen, for Christ's sake.
Any questions?

HUH.

"When someone says, 'I Love You,' all it means is that you're a failure, but they have to put up with you anyway."

-Unknown

SHOWTUNE UPDATE: PART ONE.

The good graces that see fit to grant me monetary rewards as a result of high school graduation have allowed me to bring this little segment out for viewing purposes.
And so it goes...

Monty Python's Spamalot

Whereas the music is revoltingly begging to be adored, I have to say that I've grown fond of the brainless melodies and the captivating parody (Everyone says to look out for "The Song That Goes Like This" and "You Won't Succeed On Broadway," and they do so in the most rightful of manners.)
Sara Ramirez is vocally AND comically gorgeous (Both "Find Your Grail" and "Diva's Lament" showcase her powerhouse vocals and some of the nicer pieces of the score), as is (Who knew?!) David Hyde Pierce in his brief shining moments.
Hank Azaria: Are you even in this show? Despite his two-and-a-half minutes of appearance on the album, I'm sure that Azaria's Lancelot makes up in physicality whatever it lacks vocally (At least, I certainly hope it does. I shudder to think...).
Tim Curry is met with a score far below his range, which is sad for someone with so much talent and legend behind him. The loveably-quirky Christian Borle makes some very nice turns in his multiple onstage duties, despite the overly-campy "His Name Is Lancelot," which Borle still handles with grace and energetic ferocity. And after hearing his falsetto in the show's finale, I finally understand why he's Sutton Foster's boy-toy.
The strongest features of the album include the integration and re-affirmation of decades of old Python musical material. Most of it is well executed and abundantly scored for the Broadway stage. The attempt to tie in Broadway's own over-indulgent nature is a fitting choice for the low-brow Python humor, and it comes across relatively nicely on the album itself.
I am almost positive that the show stands fully alone by itself in performance. It appears to be a production where the visual antics can be imagined by sound alone, but would prove to be nothing in comparison to what Mike Nichols and his creative team have staged. It simply has to be seen, especially when we miss out on witnessing The Black Knight and The Knights Who Say "Ni" on the cast recording.
(Oh, well. I just have to wait until November when Azaria returns to the show after his June 6th leave of absence. We wouldn't want to miss another Birdcage-worthy homosexual performance from Hank, now, would we?)
This is certainly a must-have album for the musical theatre geek, the secret, "Lumberjack"-adoring Python fan, or simply those who can genuinely appreciate the value and divine nature of a Forbidden Broadway-esque bashing.
I know I can.

OFFICIAL TRANSCRIPT: ON ITS WAY.

Done.
Over.
Finished.
Final.
Ended.
Stopped.
A mere sprinkling of my high-school life as it is at this moment.

YOU NEVER CALL, BABY, WHEN YOU SAY YOU WILL...

It's hardly late enough to deem myself 'exhausted,' but I may decide to do so anyway.
The eternal summer of graduation has hardly begun to sink in, and, dare I say it, I wish to find my way back into the hallways of ritualized servitude.
Oh, to be a geek.
Sunday allowed for a sleek visit to the Enzian, one of my most favored cinema locations. And, I must say, Enron: The Smartest Guys In The Room lacked in the emotional dynamite its reviews ensured me of, yet was thrilling nonetheless. In total and complete honesty, the Lou Pai sequence with gratuitous stripper footage was only rivaled by Jeff Skilling's retort to a Harvard professor inquiring if he was "smart":
"I'm f---ing smart."
Sheer brilliance.

AN ARGUMENT IN FAVOR OF PARENTS.

Mine, in particular.
A laptop for college (and general misbehaving) was my gift to end all gifts, on top of the promise of a new coat of paint and a de-accident-ification of my darling little automobile.
Life is beyond amazing.
Further impressive is my newfangled ability to "borrow" internet access via the pre-installed WiFi card deep within my darling little cadeau.
Which I happen to be doing right at this second...

C'EST FINI.

It is astoundingly nice to be done with high school.
Completed.
Finished.
Grad-u-at-ed.
I managed to crawl into the house somewhere around 6:10 AM, slept for a few meager hours, and am now celebrating my first--genuinely--free day as a human being/adult/college-bound graduate.
It feels kind of nice.
And I am so bloody exhausted.

JUST A REMINDER...

...Call time for the Gala is 4:30 PM for all of my Lyman kiddies.
Here's to no sleep and prom attire!

OH, EM, GEE.

I literally just walked in the door after the 12:00 AM showing of "Star Wars: Episode III."
It was fan-diggity-tastic, if I do say so.
And I do.
It totally made up for the last two crappy episodes I was forced to sit through. Seriously.
I still adore Yoda, Ewan, and (what the hey) Frank Oz for continuing to voice Yoda.
That's about it, but trust me: It's worth forking over cash to watch.

"EXCEEDINGLY BORING," SAYS GOD.

I made the mistake of asking how my life was going.
Stupid Kelley.
My day is perfectly wasteful as far as content goes- needless attendance in classes I am completely finished in. A joyful thought? Indeed. But one that makes me wish I was at home in a down comforter.
Ahh...

IN OTHER NEWS...

I like to consider (to at least some degree) that I stand separate from my own existence: you know, the foolish notion that I have a fate only so far as that I can control said fate and dictate its movement (incessantly negating even the notion of fate by my obvious fault in logic).
I suppose I'll never let go of that nagging resolution, and rightfully so. But, in some deep-rooted portion of my mentality, I acknowledge that there is certainly something dictating the way I live; not dictating, however, so much as allowing me to move in the directions I choose, as long as I follow the general course of action required to get me wherever it is I need to go.
As a theatrically-oriented person, it makes all the more sense: we stand as actors, taking cues and directions from The Great Script Of Life, which requires that we go through proverbial piles of crap to get to the denouement. And, ultimately, we should be better off for it.
If we're not, my theory is completely and entirely wrong, and I should not be allowed my own Blogging capability.
That being said, I sit to ponder where it is my life will end up in the next few years. School is one rather obvious direction, but mentally and physically, I'm beginning to question whether or not my past experiences will provide me with any tangible guidepath to begin upon, or whether or not I'll have to begin my own quests over again.
Quests?
What quests?
I feel as though I'm the most boring human being on the planet. And I probably am.
As Oscar Wilde has forced me to say before, "my first impressions of people are invariably right."

PUTTING THE WORDS IN MY MOUTH.

Five monologues to be recalled and recited at the whim of Mrs. Backel.
Freaking halarious.
And nearly impossible.
But I shall try...

WHILE YOU WERE REVEALING...

Bill Pullman in NBC's "Revelations" = Seriously Hot Old Man Factor.

I AM THE MASTER BUBBLER.

At this moment in time, my life feels like nothing more than an Exam: the ten-minute breaks wedged between one-hundred multiple choice questions and four essays with six sections apiece.
Thank God, they give us a granola bar.
I'll feel blessed as soon as this drastically tiring week has passed, but even moreso once I have the energy to wake myself back up and enjoy it.
Two more weeks.
Not enough time, if you ask me.

AND YOU'D THINK I'D BE CONCERNED ABOUT A.P. EXAMS.

As if I didn't have enough excitement in normal, everyday livelihood, we've just received the nominations for the Cappies (Critics and Awards Program), that Kelley is happy to say she's helped foster into toddler-esque form.
How exciting; how very, very exciting.
So, without further halting:


THE 2005 CENTRAL FLORIDA CAPPIES NOMINEES

Male Critic
Nominees:
Brian Dowling, Cypress Creek High School
Benjamin Rush, West Orange High School
Dany Shaffer, Cypress Creek High School (Regional Team 1)

Female Critic
Nominees:
Valerie Marks, Cypress Creek High School (Regional Team 1)
Asha Singh, Timber Creek High School
Kelley Smith, Lyman High School

Critics Team
Nominees:
Cypress Creek
East Ridge
Lyman
Timber
Creek
West Orange

Sound
Nominees:
Ricardo Colon, Kevin Little, East Ridge High School, Little Shop of Horrors
Alex Hewitt, Matt Willis, Timber Creek High School, Musical Comedy Murders Of 1940
Andrew Terry, West Orange High School, Man of La Mancha

Lighting
Nominees:
Patrick Akers, Mike Osborne, Timber Creek High School, Musical Comedy Murders Of 1940
Disney Bolin, Rickey Burke, Brianna Johnson, De-Lyn Williams, Lyman High School, Diary of Anne Frank
Matthew Cox, West Orange High School, Man of La Mancha

Sets
Nominees:
Jamie Davis, Nicole Ellis, Stephanie Lister, Anthony Testa, Lyman High School, Seussical
Aaron Godwin, Asha Singh, Timber Creek High School, Musical Comedy Murders Of 1940
Benjamin Rush, West Orange High School, Man of La Mancha

Costumes
Nominees:
Jackie Albright, Jamie Davis, Nickie Ellis, Jasmine Fonseca, Crystal Johnson, Stephanie Lister, Stacey Marchant, Reenie McDonough, Meghan Miller, Katy Moore, Allison Schnoor, Ashley Stockwell, Anthony Testa, Lyman High School, Diary of Anne Frank
Kate Osterloh, Ashley Small, Timber Creek High School, Musical Comedy Murders Of
1940

Make-Up
Nominees:
Michelle Olimpo, Heather Strickland, Timber Creek High School, Musical
Comedy Murders Of 1940
Tina Oquendo, Harmony Pelletier, Angela Pimpinella, Kelley Smith, Anthony Testa, Brianne Willett, Lyman High School, Seussical

Stage Crew
Nominees:
Jaime Frank, Aaron Garcia, Cypress Creek High School, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
Stephanie Krupp, Lyman High School, Diary of Anne Frank
Jessie Reed, East Ridge High School, Dracula

Props & Effects
Nominees:
Geneva DeTommaso, West Orange High School, Man of La Mancha
Kate Maguire, Vanessa Bittner, East Ridge High School, Dracula
Chelsea Mock, Brendan Kingsbury, Garrett Jablonski, East Ridge High School, Little Shop of Horrors

Ensemble in a Play
Nominees:
Loonies, East Ridge High School, Dracula

Ensemble in a Musical
Nominees:
Bird Girls, Lyman High School, Seussical
Muleteers, West Orange High School, Man of La Mancha

Cameo Actor
Nominees:
Robert Jones, West Orange High School, Man of La Mancha
Jeffrey Stiles, Lyman High School, Seussical

Cameo Actress
Nominees:
Jamie Davis, Lyman High School, Diary of Anne Frank
Destiny Jones, Cypress Creek High School, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
Emily Juhl, East Ridge High School, Dracula

Male Dancer
Nominees:
Chase Davis, Lyman High School, Seussical
Jordan Maxwell, East Ridge High School, Little Shop of Horrors

Female Dancer
Nominees:
Jessica Morales, Lyman High School, Seussical
Jessica Reed, East Ridge High School, Little Shop of Horrors

Male Vocalist
Nominees:
Shawn Hebbeler, West Orange High School, Man of La Mancha
Jimmy Reichle, Lyman High School, Seussical
Francisco Santelli, Cypress Creek High School, Godspell

Female Vocalist
Nominees:
Crystal Carter, Lyman High School, Seussical
Deryn Harbin, Cypress Creek High School, Godspell

Comic Actor in a Play
Nominees:
Asef Mahmud, Cypress Creek High School, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
Michael Moncrieff, Timber Creek High School, Musical Comedy Murders Of 1940

Comic Actress in a Play
Nominees:
Eleise Costello, Timber Creek High School, Musical Comedy Murders Of 1940
Deryn Harbin, Cypress Creek High School, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
Michelle Tribbey, East Ridge High School, Dracula

Comic Actor in a Musical
Nominees:
Andrew Bushwitz, East Ridge High School, Little Shop of Horrors
Asef Mahmud, Cypress Creek High School, Godspell
Nick Marrinson, Lyman High School, Seussical

Comic Actress in a Musical
Nominees:
Lindsey Carter, Lyman High School, Seussical
Megan Rush, Cypress Creek High School, Godspell

Featured Actor in a Play
Nominees:
Brian Dowling, Cypress Creek High School, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
Brendon Kingsbury, East Ridge High School, Dracula
Adam Reilly, Lyman High School, Diary of Anne Frank

Featured Actress in a Play
Nominees:
Shannon Jennings, Lyman High School, Diary of Anne Frank
Jessica Ordon, Cypress Creek High School, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
Kate Osterloh, Timber Creek High School, Musical Comedy Murders Of 1940

Featured Actor in a Musical
Nominees:
Torey Scarbrough, West Orange High School, Man of La Mancha

Featured Actress in a Musical
Nominees:
Kelseanne Breder, Cypress Creek High School, Godspell
Kelly Prince, West Orange High School, Man of La Mancha
Kelley Smith, Lyman High School, Seussical

Lead Actor in a Play
Nominees:
Patrick Akers, Timber Creek High School, Musical Comedy Murders Of 1940
Anthony Cobb, Cypress Creek High School, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
Tony DeLuca, East Ridge High School, Dracula

Lead Actress in a Play
Nominees:
Cayla Clifton, Lyman High School, Diary of Anne Frank
Madelyn Grubbs, Cypress Creek High School, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
Amanda Riggio, East Ridge High School, Dracula

Lead Actor in a Musical
Nominees:
Brian Dowling, Cypress Creek High School, Godspell
Bobby Grenon, Lyman High School, Seussical
Benjamin Rush, West Orange High School, Man of La Mancha

Lead Actress in a Musical
Nominees:
Jessica Bodine, Lyman High School, Seussical
Kate Gordon, West Orange High School, Man of La Mancha
Amanda Riggio, East Ridge High School, Little Shop of Horrors

Best Song
Nominees:
"Aldonza", West Orange High School, Man of La Mancha
"All for the Best", Cypress Creek High School, Godspell
"Alone In The Universe", Lyman High School, Seussical

Best Play
Nominees:
Musical Comedy Murders Of 1940, Timber Creek High School
Diary of Anne Frank, Lyman High School
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, Cypress Creek High School

Best Musical
Nominees:
Godspell, Cypress Creek High School
Man of La Mancha, West Orange High School
Seussical, Lyman High School

Congratulations to all the nominees! And don't forget to catch the 2005 Central Florida Cappies Awards Gala at Cypress Creek High School on May 20th. Visit www.cappies.com for more information.

[Editor's Note: As a post-gala extravaganza, I've made bold our wins from Lyman High School. Neato.]

"THAT'S OUR HITLER!"

I could not have been more proud of Robert Sean Leonard if he had burst out into "Betrayed." But that's more Hugh Laurie-Style.
I was planning to type something witty about preparing for the AP Statistics exam tomorrow afternoon. Instead, I'm going to go "actually" prepare for the AP Statistics exam. Fun.
Uggh.

ADVANCED PLACEMENT IS UPON US...

...And the fires of Hell are just beginning to consume my weakened mortal frame.
Hazaah!
(Which might be considered a variation upon "Hoorah!" or "Umpahh!")
Nah! I'm honestly looking forward to aggravated teachers glaring at us with aggravated faces and even more thoroughly aggravated lesson plans.
It should be nothing more than a tediously-driven inferno of demon-labor.
[Editor's Note: The sarcasm has simply up and left my body tonight. I couldn't be more of a straight-man if I was a straight-man.]
It's amazing.

MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH MEAN, BITTER INDIVIDUALS.

Dr. Gregory House can diagnose me with schizophrenia any day.
Unless they find some other mystifying disease to slap on my case file...

Enough jabbering. More Jabberwocky.
Mmm. Jabberwocky.
With mere days until the start of Advanced Placement Fest 2005, I must stop to ponder whether or not I am truly "prepared" for that which I shall be facing, be it Fictional Analysis, Slope Regression, The Phillips Curve, Freudian Hypnosis, Judicial Linkage, or good ol' fashioned Hydrocarbons.
Alas, tis' time for my waking to cease.
I'm going to go sleep.
Either way, I'm finished typing.
Sort of.
In a rather non-conformist sense.

I can't bring myself to quit. Something about the rain tapping overhead and the cool draft from our porch door brings me to typing. It has little to do with the fact that the keys being hit sound much like the fall of rain, like lengthy words and quirky phrases dropping out of some sky at my command. And it couldn't possibly be the fact that these stupid cats refuse to let me be. They purr and scratch and claw their way into my attentive span of thought, and for some odd reason, I can't bring myself to crowd them out. My mind feels neglected, perhaps, after the long days without physical disclosure of thought, or extensive sleep deprivation, or maybe even bizarre responsibility to relinquish my daily existence for someone else to ignore and fail to partake in. But I haven't given them the opportunity, so...
If I could print out five copies of my life story and hand them to people with a guarantee that they would be fully read and (even better) understood, who would they go to? And far more importantly, would this be an autobiography or some primeval, editorialist crap written by Robert Downy Jr.? These, people, are the important questions.
In five ridiculously generalized personas:
1. Someone compassionate.
2. Someone intelligent. Ingenious, even.
3. Someone with looks to kill. Definately someone I'd sleep with.
4. Someone I've always wanted to trust, but never had courage enough to do so.
5. Someone who has always disliked me.

I suppose you could guess names for each separate category. Most wash over into each of the others. I may find someone who is each and every one of those things. A talented individual, indeed.
Something tells me I've yet to meet most of them.

PROM? AND KELLEY WAS THERE?!

I come to you from the Land Of The Dead.
The Day After Prom.
My evening was beyond amazing, and I certainly didn't expect it to be. However, after 24 hours of non-stop action, I collapsed into my Bed Of Seclusion, and slept.
It was relatively nice.
I am, however, still unable to communicate at normal velocity, so I'm afraid that de-briefing will come at a later time.
A much, much, much later time.

READING...

If I didn't enjoy the art that is reading, I don't know how I would spend my "free" time.
-Sometimes, I wonder just what the author/poet/journalist was thinking as the words flew from their fingertips/mouths/etc.
-Sometimes, I question whether they even understand what it is they're trying to inform me of.
-Often, I write snotty notes to them in the margins of a page, just to see if I'll return to that page, finding a disgruntled response or an angry outburst over my free analysis of their work.
-And, of course, I find it easier just to skip the book and drift off to sleep.

Damn you, Mary Shelley.
I've read through your words so many times before. We should have history. But even Franz Kafka is kinder on my schedule than you and your raving lunatic of a scientist, Dr. Frankenstein.
Damn you to hell.

POPE BENEDICT XVI

VATICAN CITY - Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger of Germany, a hard-line guardian of conservative doctrine, was elected the new pope Tuesday evening in the first conclave of the new millennium. He chose the name Pope Benedict XVI and called himself “a simple, humble worker.”

To draw sentiment from 1776:
"Good God, sir, is that fair?!"

SATURDAY IN THE PARK WITH PAUL AND CYNTHIA.

(Move over, Sondheim.)
I have to admit, this afternoon was, without much doubt, the most fun I've had in a long time. Pitman was a riot: We heard "The Machete Story" for a second time, "The Hook Story" (in a new light), "The Homecoming Story," "The Meeting Tom Story," (I missed) "The Prom Story," and many more than I care to mention. Let us just say that it was an afternoon of Literary Merit.
And then, to top off all great storytelling, Plyler took me to The Gap.
The Gap.
We were heading toward Starbucks and, as all trips to coffee shops inevitably do, I was pulled into an egocentric clothing hell-hole, with their number-one customer as my guide.
He browsed, perused, scanned; he was in his element.
Distracted by the pretty lights and colors, I, on the other hand, fell by the wayside, and stumbled into the Sale section. It was my only salvation, despite the fact that I "partook" in none of it.
Finally, he told me it was time for coffee, and I was off like a rocket. After all, he was the professional. When Plyler says that you've spent enough time in The Gap, you have officially spent MORE than enough time in The Gap.
(It's how these things work.)
It was just genuinely nice to spend an afternoon with people I don't necessarily communicate with on a regular basis. "Sure, we have six classes together, but I've been convinced (since Freshman year) that you're a psycho-biatch. Instead, we take a Saturday off, enjoy ritzy Winter Park, and throw neon-orange Koosh Footballs. Now, we're the best of friends."
A nice change of pace, I think.

...AND WE JIVE AT STATE ZERO-FIVE.

[Editor's Note: This is while we stood (Read: Allowed ourselves to be herded like cattle.) in Morsanni Hall at the TPAC, waiting desperately for Beauty and the Beast to open its great, brown doors. We were in pain. We were nearly trampled. We stood there for two hours. It was not a "grand ol' time." In fact, if State was actually called A Tale Of Two Cities, this would be "it was the worst of times." Seriously.]

WACKA, WACKA.

I'll be driving to school momentarily so as to embark on the great adventure of State Festival 2005...
God, I love State.
Five days of intensive, high-octane theatre (and some low-grade fuel theatre) that is made better only by the enormous amount of time we spend away from school.
School and I have recognized our differences. They may prove to be irreconcilable, but we're working towards joint custody of the kids and an even 30-70 split.
After all, School was dumb enough to sign the pre-nup.
Stupid School.
If anyone feels like stalking me, head over to FLThespian.com and check out our festival program. Not only does it provide a complete record of all that will occur over the weekend, but significantly raises my chances of being abducted against my will.
Good stuff.
Well, I'll check in later via AudioBlogger, and if that fails me, you're screwed.
Ha.

MOOSE VS. MOUSSE: WHO WINS?

With multiple deaths and my Glaze Under Fire/Ross From Hell experience on Saturday, I was simply too exhausted to try and compute anything, let alone write up some mindless post about my meager existence.
[Editor's Note: I am rather distraught over the death of John Paul II, and have spent the last few days in some sort of wayward-vigil state of being. It's odd, mind you, but a relative tribute to what I felt he brought the Catholic community at large. He'll be greatly, enormously missed.]
Tomorrow brings THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL FOR THIS WEEK, and the beginning of my State Packing Adventure. Choosing clothing that will be acutely assessed by the most underpaid homosexual actors alive is no small task, and daunting to the ragged, non-girly among us. But, I feel I'm up to the challenge.
I need to go wash out the orange dye in my hair before it all falls out and I find myself earnestly shopping at Wig-Villa come Wednesday afternoon.
Wig-Villa. Sweet.

MITCH HEDBERG (02/24/1968-03/30/2005)

Rest in freakin' peace, man.

DEFINITE SITE OF THE DAY.

(Someone please take pity on my soul and buy me one of these...)

TAKE ME OUT.

Q: Did Kelley actually take the time to e-mail Hugh Laurie and ask him (most graciously) to attend her Senior Prom? Could anyone be so very senile?
A: Yes. And yes.

But on the bright side, I found a reasonable dress.
("Reasonable" serving the purpose of a more vulgar, deceptive turn of phrase that would lend this blog into wayward, "blog of the streets" sort of diction. I simply refuse to go there at this point in time.)
One thing I will not refuse is our annual Dinner With Don Jones at Florida State Thespian Competition 2005. Why would I? D.J. is a god, and a darn good waiter as well.
Can you tell that I'm ready for a week off? Maybe? Yes?
I certainly hope so; otherwise, I've completely wasted your time.
Ha, ha!

"AND WE SAVE THEIR ARSES."

HUGH UPDATE:
Laurie on Leno = Absofrigginlutely Amazing.

"WITH DUE EXPEDIENCY, PUTTING ON THE REGENCY."

Here's one senior who's making the most of her Spring Break Experience:
Example I- I spent the afternoon with my family.
Example II- I spent the afternoon with my family, in the hospital.
Example III- I spent the afternoon with my family, in the hospital, with doctors looming wearily overhead, questioning the fate of Kelley upon this dear old planet earth.
Lots of fun, I promise. With Go-Karting to follow.
Needless to say, I have a ridiculously high tolerance for needles, testing, observation, etc., so this afternoon bothered me not in the slightest. However, if I had been without those productive mental build-ups, I might be facing utter lunacy. Absolute insanity. And not the good kind.
We'll find out more later, I suppose. But for now, I have little emotion running through my thoughts. At all. Really.
I need some help.

BREATHING TOO DEEPLY, THINKING ALL DAY.

I've already completed a list of four rather obscure endeavors I had hoped to do over my Exhilarating Spring Break.
(Read: I've done four incredibly stupid things.)
Would you like to know of my shortcomings, dear Blog Who Cares Little For My Existence? Here you go:
-I found a date to my Senior prom.
-I changed my appearance in a manner whose productivity has yet to be determined.
-I've fallen in love with an actor.
-I realized that I have no friends left to spend a week with. Fun.
Dear Lord, I wish I was making them up. I wish I had never been fool-hardy enough to fall into that pit, but lo and behold, I did. Whoopee.
Nothing is making sense, but I've been long awaiting the breakdown. Things were becoming far to happy to sustain themselves...I suppose I tricked myself into thinking they might actually care enough to stay that way.
Ha.
My mentality is alleviated in comparison to earlier this morning, but knowing me, that doesn't say much. It's like SAD, except, instead, it's HAD.
And that's why they call me a Titan of Psychology.
(Yes. Because I'm insane.)

CLICK.

Alright, I give in.
After a few weeks of absolutely thoughtless blogging, Spring Break has arrived, and I can once again become desperate and lonely.
Hoorah! Yippie! She has returned!
I've spent a great many days fighting for my sanity, and far fewer to return away from it, making this (ultimately) the greatest struggle in my young existence.
"Sweet," I feel, would be appropriate.
I haven't slept on my own bed for six nights, I can't even step into my room without feeling nauseous. I don't know what it is. I think I've grown up- or in this case, over- without definitely realizing it. I'm scared beyond any recognition, I can't write, my mind feels so ridiculously cluttered that I've lost the ability to shovel through the crap and find my way to the surface.
I'm finished with my typing- it's doing absolutely nothing for me.

ALY SAYS:

sean campbell hit me in the head. his wife's mom is a ninja. we're going to buy jesus candles. don't be jealous! I want to eat lunch with a senator(!)

I've learned that if the Chinese don't eat chicken to the BONE, they get gochoked.

HA, HA!

I took a very long nap.
I just woke up a moment ago, and to my surprise, none of my Advanced Placement Literature work had done itself for me! What great astonishment I was in as "Digging" lay untouched, unwritten, and even more baffling, unwanted by any member of the human race.
[Editor's Note: Boo-freaking-hoo, Seamus Heaney. Let me know when you write something that doesn't sound more Irish than St. Patrick's Day, okay?]
So, I must take it upon myself to work my freaking end off in order to prepare myself intellectually and mentally for the mother of all Comprehensive Tests.
But I want to go back to sleep. Egad, I am still exhausted.
It's too bad I won't be able to focus in AP Economics tomorrow. Poor Coach Caughell! I should apologize to him at this very instant for not paying attention during his class, taking calls, emailing athletic organiz---
Oh. Wait a second. That's not me; that's Caughell.
Oh!

AM I ADDICTED?

Yes.

But can you blame me?
No.

NO, I AM NOT JUST PLAYING AROUND.

"I look preeety sweet, eh Steve?"

I'm also wasting time.

THE BEDBUGS SHALL BITE ONCE AGAIN.

Dare I run the risk of such weakness?
I feel as though I should be ignited with energy, fervent and bouncing off the walls and whatnot. Instead, I sit disheveled and exhausted beyond any inhumane degree.
What shall become of this rugged exterior of mine, fighting against conditions I had no expectation of?
Who knows?
But I'm sleepy, and that's what matters.

PROCRASTINATION .

Can I help it if I've wasted weeks of valuable writing time in order to complete my senior year of high school with passing grades? And now, my scholarship essays are the most due they shall ever be, and here I sit, trying desperately not to think about them.
Smart.
Still on the plate:
"Qualities Of Leadership"
"Statement Of Purpose"
"Give Us Your Money"
I've gotten pretty far on the last one, yet I find myself struggling with the remaining two. Egad.
Alright. I'm going to attempt to focus (once again) on these banes of my existence.
But tomorrow, they will be gone, and I will be able to devote myself to luxur---classwork.
There is truly no rest for the weary. And the procrastinators.

ADMISSIONS ESSAY

Without much trepidation, I consider myself a unique individual: I am outspoken and ambitious, yet the Myers-Briggs definition of an introvert. Passions of my existence include more than a few "normal teenage" idiosyncrasies, including (in no particular order) show tunes, classical literature, grammar, and juggling. Slowly, and without my permission, writing has leapt up and become one of the true joys of living, and I aspire to babble in the traditions of Dave Barry and other tactless specimens at some far away point in time. (In a rather desperate attempt to further my journalistic career over the summer, I applied to a sports-writing institute through The Orlando Sentinel, where I was promptly informed that I was ranked eleventh out of their ten winning finalists, and the only of fifty applicants without "previous athletic experience" beyond 'marathon writing'.)

Much to my own introverted dismay, I have forever felt a calling to leadership, be it within a church, peer, or academic community. My parents, youth ministers with the Catholic Church from before the days of my livelihood, had long ago implanted deep within my mind the seeds of humanitarian productivity, and the innate draw towards service, something which thrives ever more vehemently inside me today. I credit my persistence to those two noble beings, as well as the insight of several extremely motivational and influential advisors. Through their aptitude and guidance, I have great desire to make something out of myself, and more importantly, assist society at large. Exactly how I plan on doing so, I am, honestly, not sure.

But, I think that's where Flagler steps (rather precisely) into the picture.

Theatrically speaking, I have spent years technically entangled, directorially seated, and in a Stanislavski state of mind. I feel a great awareness of myself as a "theatre geek," yet I know the mental and spiritual development my work in the theatre has brought about in my life. To be on the stage is a dream, but overshadowed magnificently by the desire to influence, direct, and guide. I know the opportunity provided through Flagler's "well-rounded" theatrical curriculum is precisely what I need to attain those goals.

I have always been drawn to communities of rich culture, historical significance, and vitality that simply cannot be found in a majority of collegiate settings. For me, the city of St. Augustine and Flagler College offer me a grand combination of all three. Living on the outskirts of Orlando for the past seven years has given me a genuine appreciation (if not toleration) for the excitement of a tourist population and transient lifestyle, and both of those elements have become increasingly attractive to me, promising a college experience that will be familiar, yet new and exciting, as well as educationally enriching. (To this day, my few career goals happen to include guiding a "Ghost Tour" along St. George Street. Immature? Perhaps; but who wouldn't want to gallivant in costume, carrying an enormous lantern?) The vibrancy of St. Augustine is a rarity indeed, and, coupled with the majesty of the Flagler campus and the inviting array of curriculum in theatrical, English, and theological studies, is an educational opportunity one such as I cannot bear to pass up.

I genuinely hope that I shall be given the opportunity to explore, grow, share, and enrich the Flagler College community in the coming years.

"BE COOL, [INSERT EXPLICIT RACIAL SLUR]."

What a waste of seven John Travolta Dollars.
Highlights of the film included Andre's sophisticated performance ("That is not gangsta, Dabu! That is so not gangsta!"), watching Robert Pastorelli's posthumus performance, and sitting in the most utter of all confusions, trying desperately to decipher what this film had to do with anything.
It was a success, by far.

ADVANCED PLACEMENT STATISTICS CAN WAIT.

Afternoons


She sits, rocking,

In the only chair she can call her own.

She stares, silent,

At the white wall. (He doesn't allow color.)

There, on the wall, framed by the whiteness,

Hangs the painting --

The half-hidden profile, the half-clothed torso,

The hand, gripping the sword

That is dripping with blood.

Then she hears it: the familiar creak.

She starts; then she stops rocking.

Suddenly still, she sees the colors --

Colors of rust, of dried blood.

Slowly she starts rocking again.

She wonders what she's waiting for.

-Written by someone I'd expect to leave poetry lying aimlessly online for the world to divulge in.

"I HAVE A CONFESSION TO MAKE," SAID HE.

Of all the gauzed, self-deprecating secrets I hold, there is one that clings most blatantly to the innermost folds of my deepest compassion.
And I truly, genuinely, hate myself for it.
Rarely does it rear its ugly head, but when that time comes, I have little capacity for restraint or even the sheer logistical cognation that runs so steadily in my veins. All reasoning is cut off. Deluded are my sobering understandings, and suddenly, a frightening world that I, myself, have created zooms into focus, crystallized and picturesque and so very, very attractive.
Perhaps it’s that glamour I cling to. Not the versatility or spontaneity of the situation, but those fleeting glimpses of something so imagined, so surreal, so relentless and uninviting. I know I cannot stay in those instances, yet the temptation to do so goes far beyond my knowledge.
[Editor’s Note: This "one" I speak of suddenly illuminates an "other" that forces me into my precarious state of illusion. I used to imagine that their circumstances were far unaligned; they were indifferent towards each other and hardly compatible in their mental appeal. Now, I understand them much differently. Especially at this moment.
In truth, one is far more distant and unattainable a dream (if you can call such realities "dreams"). The other stands in front of me, yet is no more likely a realization than the other. Both free themselves in my thinking far too often, yet this "other" holds nothing close to the illustrious glitter that blocks my gazing thought and sweeping palpitations whenever the first comes into view. ]
These "dreams" are unlike any other I see around me. I have created beings, deities, identities around them, so as to further pursue them in the earthiest of understandings, to make my trivial needs more systematic and far less symbolic. Yet symbols they are: icons; they stand as a mere transport for that which I seek in ridiculous vanity.
Again and again and again without fail, I, myself, rear the head of undignified longing, forcing my way into stalls and mirrors, attaining not the beauty to impress nor the charisma to enthrall; instead, I stand hollow and hallowed, someone else's transport for a deity greater than I. I wish not to be this shrine of someone else's desires! I wish not to be their conduit for sanctity, just as I have unfairly shoved the burden upon them, lacking knowledgeable consent or reciprocity for my deeds.

He looks at me, but not at me.
He looks at her, whoever she is.
I realize that she is all I'll ever be.
So, in utmost retaliation, I look at him.
There we stand, gazing longingly into each other's eyes, never even glimpsing one another.
And, perhaps, that's the safest place for me to be.

CONCERNED FOR THE POPE'S WELL-BEING?

Look no further, my friend.

THIRTEEN WAYS OF LOOKING AT A BLACKBIRD

(Obviously not by Wallace Stevens...Are you crazy?)

VII
My weary tuft of memory folds back into its place,
Hidden not from the palpitations of beating, flapping, pumping
Shame personified;
Remorseless, his feathers still quake with a knowledge:
The If and When and How that shall never be again, all
Laden with a tinge of the blackbird’s gaze.

IT'S A BEAUTIFUL DAY IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD.

Bright, sunny, and pollenated.
I may not make it through the morning. And if that is, unfortunately, the case, I've just a few things to say:
A) I have never been cliff diving with Pauly Shore, and for that, I am saddened.
B) I have never kissed a boy, and I am perfectly alright with that. However, come Flagler College Time, I will have to erase that statement as you all laugh gleefully at my disgustingly stagnant coming-of-age rate.
C) Down comforters, no matter how appealing and attractive, will eventually poke you with their feathers from hell. It's just bound to happen. Be prepared.
D) I've run out of tissues. Someone buy me a few more. Boxes, that is.
Okie dokie. I've wasted the internet's time enough for one day. Time to stop before my computer willingly picks itself up and hurls its angry plastic frame in my ill-weathered face.

DAMN THE COMMON COLD OF ALL COMMON COLDS...

I suppose saying that I'm "horrendously ill" is insensitive to all the dying patients in hospital beds, but as of this afternoon, I consider myself much closer to "horrendous" than normal; I'll let it slide just this once.
Besides my throbbing head and basic symptomatic inklings, I can't wait to find some rest. Indeed: rest, and eight chapters of combined Advanced Placement Statistics and Macro Economics. (Not actually combined, mind you. Two separate, individual courses, both of which I have "horrendous" amounts of work to complete in order to find myself comfortable and a successful high school graduate. No pressure.)
I depart into the wild terrain of St. Pete, only to return by Sunday.
I leave with you an image of hope and grace:
David Hyde Pierce as Sir Robin

Spamalot: The show that just looks too good to be true.

AN ODE TO V.D. (OR "VALENTINE'S DAY," AS SOME LIKE TO CALL IT.)

Written (ever so eloquently) by the Great Jennifer Gerhardt and the not-so-great Kelley Smith.

So, it's Valentine's Day. Hallmark sells out of those cutesy kissing teddy bears, Godiva swims in chocolate-induced profits, and local jewelry stores revel in how culpable most boyfriends are to the popular media. The world seems in order. Valentine's Day appears, as usual, a sappy and sentimental affair.
Not to burst the proverbial bubble, but this cannot be true: Valentine's Day is ridden with venomous evil unseen to the naive and relationship-inclined. How vast is this evil, you ask? Evil as vast as the distance between the ground and the balcony that Michael Jackson nearly dropped his baby off of, as vast as the crocodile that came within inches of consuming Steve Irwin's infant son- combined. It is the spawn of Satan and some seriously demented executive who thought no one would actually take the time to research the Pagan history of this little holiday.
Well, Satan and Mr. Demented Executive Man, we're onto you and your twisted games. We're taking a stand!
No longer will we tolerate those cheesy pictures we take with our significant others. What, we ask, is the point? Two weeks from now we'll have either chopped them into tiny bits, have superimposed the faces onto voodoo dolls, or have burned them; the future looks that promising.
The future looks so promising, in fact, that we have decided to send our coupled friends gifts to show our "appreciation" and genuine astonishment at their devotion- and what better a way than by sending either a Condolence Basket or Wreath for Sympathy, easily ordered off of Coast To Coast Florist. The Standing Rose Cross or Spirit of Love Angel also prove perfect for any occasion, even for funerals.
Not that we'd dare compare a funeral to a holiday faction centered around love, joy, simplicity, and happiness (or disgrace, in the case of the "personal ad" fad); after all, death is God's way of saying, "Take some time off from the Love-fest. Meditate on total isolation, utter and complete loneliness, things like that. Builds good character."
Chocolate builds things up as well: your serotonin, your cholesterol, your cocoa addiction, all in one fell swoop. Chocolate motivates; chocolate inspires; chocolate infuses Valentine's Day with enough sugar to send anyone into a diabetic coma. It is, quite possibly, the world's most supportive and nutritionally indecent food; therefore, it is the perfect significant other. Although those fake helpings of coconut and cherries, with their regurgitated and shriveled appearances, don't deserve to be coupled with such perfection, we are willing to make a few vital sacrifices- "In the name of love," as Bono and U2 once sang. Fork over that heart-shaped box, complete with Cupid image, now.
While on the subject of hearts, hold a mock drama of saying The Pledge and place your hand over your heart. Feel that familiar "lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub" and think of what Bill Nye once taught you. A heart, in fact, never has nor never will be shaped as the type of hearts manufactured in conjunction with Valentine's Day; it would be interesting to see a heart of such fine symmetric shape, we think, but wholy detrimental to the human body. However, for the sake of amusement, we wonder: would sales surge in Valentine's Day propaganda were its icon an asymmetrical valve-ridden blood-pumper? With the anatomically correct form of a heart promoted, would cannibalism reach an all-time high? How would people react to shop windows with functional models of everyone's favorite blood circulation device? The answer: repulsion, re-gifts, and rejection. Oh, and profit plummet.
Valentine's Day has gradually deteriorated, rotted, and dwindled away to nothing more than a holiday of false hopes, false advertising, and false encouragement; yet, we continue to cherish and celebrate the "spirit of love" that it brings. Honesty remains underrated: we cast it aside with disturbing nonchalance. We opt to dupe ourselves into a devastating series of fabrications that ultimately leave us bitter, cynical, and alarming to small children- look to the authors of this column for living proof.
A few fleeting words of advice to actually make Valentine's Day mean something: try and retain the content of this holiday, ditch some of the excessive optimism, and definitely, be practical (we, of course, speak monetarially). This day is by no means the only day to celebrate the ones you love; why pour all of your effort into it? Inconsistency makes you appear haphazard.

IS HOWLING "REALLY" SINGING?

Perhaps I should ask Daniel.
Why would I bother? It would be more productive to jab a lead-ridden pencil into my ears. Which would still lack in productivity.
It is finally the weekend, which promises lots of time thinking about the coming week, defeating the purpose of a weekend.
Luckily, I'm dead to the world. But in a nice, happy way.
I'm relaxed, passive, and far to constructive to be deconstructive.
Breathing is nice.

BAHAMAS UPDATE

-I viciously accosted Bill Clinton (more later).
-My cell phone stopped working as of 3:40 AM this morning.
-I've never eaten so many chicken fingers in my life.
-Too many children exist. Period.
-This time on the internet is costing me far, far too much money.
-I finally found a way to cheat Sean Campbell out of extra credit. Way hot.
-I have less than a minute to finish, post, and get on a ferry.
Under pressure.
More later. I swear.

GET ME A DANISH.

Here I sit, awaiting none other than an escape from this wonderful nation where I can sit for hours on end, listening eagerly to an illiterate Texas oil man who may or may not have served his time in the Texas Air National Guard.
So, instead, I had a sandwich.
Speaking of Jesus...
To end the week with an immaculate yet tiny excursion is probably just what Michael Palin ordered. Not only am I exhausted beyond normal human repair, but the calling of a giant Disney massage is becoming very, very appealing.
Off to bed I trample, to sleep; to sleep, perchance to dream.

AND THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN KELLEY IS LET LOOSE ON BROADWAY.COM.

Perhaps it's arrogant of I to assume that I'm worthy of a Patrick Wilson comment, but even further than that, I'd like to say that I deserve it. Especially after his half-sung Raoul. Grr.

(Oh, and a big hoorah to Broadway.com for initiating frequent dialogue between the lucky and the never-will-be-lucky.)

From Kelley: I'd just like to commend you on obvious talent. You are truly a joy to watch. As a St. Petersburg, FL native, I grew up watching your father on the news on a daily basis, not to mention seeing he and your mother perform on various occasions. How much easier have your pursuits in performance been as a result of such a supportive and performance-oriented family?

Patrick responds: Thanks for the compliments, my fellow Tampa Bay citizen! I'm glad you enjoy my parents as well. They always gave me nothing but love and support, even when I came home at 16 and said, "Mom and dad, I wanna be an actor." I think it helps that they perform, even thought they aren't actors. My dad majored in theater in college, and my mom in music, so it's definitely in the blood. While I am the only one in New York, all three sons are loosely in the business. Mark is a TV anchor, and Paul runs an ad agency/media group. I'm very thankful my parents never pushed me, yet were always were behind me. Every young actor should be so blessed.

SATURDAY NIGHT IS ALRIGHT.

That party was the most fun I've had in a long time. Really. Without a doubt.
I have minimal stamina (or endurance, as Mike would say) at this point, so I think I'll lean into my room, hoping that my bed will stretch and accommodate my ridiculous laziness.

SCHEDULE (WITH THE IMPORTANT PARTS OMITTED).

FRIDAY:
-Nothing.
SATURDAY:
-SAT, which will be fun.
-"Absolutely Nothing. Really."
SUNDAY:
-Work, I think?
MONDAY:
-Huh?
TUESDAY:
-Senior Lunch.
-Sneak Preview.
WEDNESDAY:
-Who cares?
THURSDAY:
-Districts
AND FRIDAY.
AND SATURDAY.
NOT SUNDAY.
OR MONDAY.
TUESDAY IS BORING.
AS IS WEDNESDAY.
THURSDAY:
-Disney Cruise. Not that I have anything to do on it, but a vacation with food is a sweet vacation with food, and I dare not complain.
COPY THAT FOR FRIDAY, SATURDAY, AND SUNDAY.

THE END.

"JAWS" IN THIRTY SECONDS, RE-ENACTED BY BUNNIES.

"Die, you son of a---"

CRAZY FOR YOU.

Nothing says "I Love You" better than a straight jacket.

AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT.

Last night was amusing (to say the least), but I don't think I'm cut out for Chuck-E-Cheese any longer.

Hokay, so, heure's vhat happened:
We stalked Nick.
We were stalked by The Pagemaster, and then by the Giant Mouse Himself, at which point we exited the building.
Next was Blockbuster, where no one seemed to care about picking out a movie...
Finally, we managed to find our way home, where we indulged in Mel Brooks humor.
Eventful? Relatively. And nice.
The end.

EXAM WEEK, MEET YOUR DOOM.

Exemption, that is.
I must admit, it's a true treat to sit back and watch others writhe in the grueling discomfort of high school exams. That, of course, makes me a fiend among men, but who cares, I ask you?
Not I.
And now, I sleep.

LIVE, FROM NEW YORK.

[Editor's Note: This sounds like a horribly ridiculous post, but I really don't care.]
I just finished watching what I believe will go down as one of the most memorable SNL shows for the current cast.
(And yes, I'm aware of the fact that it was a repeat. Sue me.)
U2's performance has to be one of the most amazing I've ever seen. Bono leapt offstage, brought Adam Clayton with him (and The Edge trailing shortly behind), and took over the cameras. Single-handedly brought down SNL. Four songs. The cast was weeping, with Amy Pohler sobbing mercilessly into Bono's leather jacket and his D&G glasses.
And he molested a girl in the front row.
Unbelievable, this thing called television.

ANDREA'S NOT-SO-CHRISTMAS PARTY, TAKE TWO.

ANDREA'S NOT-SO-CHRISTMAS PARTY, TAKE ONE.

GINGER ALE- LIQUID FROM THE GODS?

I think so.
Okay.

NOT SUNG TO THE TUNE OF "FRERE JACQUES."

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, STUPID KELLEY.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME.

BELIEVE IT OR NOT.

I think, as a mere curse from some celestial presence with a death wish, I have the worst headache ever attributed to a living human being.
Not that I'm complaining.
Wow. I'm an hour away from eighteen, and I couldn't care less.
Really.
I have a tidy sum of work ahead of me in the coming week/two weeks.
Better start resting. Tomorrow shall prove an exertion of great effort on my part, as I have no doubt that the date in history shall fall away, highlighted no further than any other day in history, and certainly unannounced by those I hope will remember it.
No one ever remembers your birthday when it's the first day after vacation.
Ever.

YES, I DO FEEL LIKE A FIVE YEAR OLD, THANK-YOU-VERY-MUCH.

I don't think I've posted a childish "list" thing in quite some time. This one caught my attention for the simple reason that it mentioned "The Fresh Prince of Bel Air." That has to count for something.
My own commentary will be in the form of [Editor's Note]s.

BOLD the ones you did as a child:
[Editor's Note: Horrendous grammar, how I despise thee. And, I prefer to italicize. So, there.]

1. You've ever ended a sentence with the word "SIKE!"
[Editor's Note: Never. Sike.]
2. You watched the Pound Puppies.
3. You can sing the rap to the "Fresh Prince of Bel Air."
[Editor's Note: In west Philadelphia born and raised, on the playground was where I spent most of my days. And so on.]
4. You wore biker shorts under your skirts and felt stylish.
5. You yearned to be a member of the Baby-Sitters Club and tried to start a club of your own.
6. You owned those little Strawberry Shortcake pals scented dolls.
7. You know that "WHOA" comes from Joey on Blossom.
[Editor's Note: "Blossom" was quite possibly the greatest sitcom ever, if only for their great strides in the development of ugly "bucket" hats.]
8. Two words: M.C. Hammer ...
9. If you ever watched "Fraggle Rock."
10. You had plastic streamers on your handle bars.
11. You can sing the entire theme song to "Duck Tales"
12. You remember when it was actually worth getting up early on a Saturday to watch cartoons....
13. You wore a ponytail on the side of your head.
14. You saw the original "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles" on the big screen.
15. You got super-excited when it was Oregon Trail day in computer class at school.
[Editor's Note: I still do.]
16. You played the game "MASH" (Mansion, Apartment, Shelter Shack, House).
17. You wore a Jordache Jean jacket and you were proud of it.
18. L.A. Gear
19. You wanted to change your name to "JEM" in Kindergarten. ...
20. You remember reading "Tales of a fourth grade nothing" and all the Ramona books.
21. you know the profound meaning of "WAX ON, WAX OFF"
22. You wanted to be a Goonie!
23. You ever wore fluorescent clothing. and tie dye too!
24. You can remember what Michael Jackson looked like before his nose fell off.
25. You have pondered why Smurfette was the only female smurf....
[Editor's Note: And still do to this day...]
26. You took lunch pails to school
27. You remember the CRAZE, then the BANNING of slap bracelets.
28. You still get the urge to say "NOT" after every sentence.
29. You remember Hypercolor T-shirts.
30. Barbie and the Rockers was your favorite band
31. You thought She-Ra and He-Man should hook up.
32. You thought your childhood friends would never leave because you exchanged friendship necklaces.
33. You owned a pair of jelly sandals
[Editor's Note: And dare I say it, I owned two.]
34. After you saw Pee-Wee's Big Adventure you kept saying "I know you are, but what am I?"
35. You remember "I've fallen and I can't get up!"
[Editor's Note: Funny story there, if you're not a part of my family. My uncle who thinks he is a musician, Jack (and has his very own website at www.smilingjacksmith.com), wrote a song entitled "Help, I've Fallen, And I Can't Get Up". Although largely disputed, I feel quite strongly that the story follows his bar-room experiences quite nicely.]
36. You remember going to the skating rink before there were inline skates.
37. You ever got seriously injured on a Slip 'n' Slide.
38. You have ever played with a Skip-It.
39. You had or attended a birthday party at McDonald's.
40. You've gone through this list occasionally saying "totally awesome."
41. You remember Popples.
42. "Don't worry, be happy."
43. You wore like, EIGHT pairs of socks over tights.
44. You wore socks scrunched down..
45. "Miss MARY MACK MACK, all dressed in BLACK BLACK BLACK"
46. You remember boom boxes vs. CD players.
47. You remember watching both "Gremlins" movies.
[Editor's Note: At the age of 16, my cousin decided it would be a "hoot" to give his five year-old cousin a "Gremlin" cake for her birthday. Needless to say, I enjoyed the cake, but fear Gizmo.]
48. You know what it meant to say "Care Bear Stare!"
49. You remember watching Rainbow Brite and My Little Ponies
50. You thought Doogie Howser was hot.
[Editor's Note: Are you kidding? In merely the last calendar year, I have bought two musical recordings merely due to the fact that Neil Patrick Harris was on them for at least one song. That, dear readers, is devotion.]
51. You remember Alf, the lil furry brown alien from Melmac.
52. You remember New Kids on the Block when they were cool.
53. You knew all the characters names and their life stories on "Saved By the Bell," the ORIGINAL class.
54. You know all the words to Bon Jovi - YOU GIVE LOVE A BAD NAME
[Editor's Note: No.]

[Editor's Note: Although an obvious failure at many of these 90's requirements, I feel quite substantial in my relative coolness.]

C'EST 2005.

It's the first day (afternoon, at this point) of 2005, and I, myself, am quite prepared for the New Year.
I "rung it in" with Tom Green, helped the Central time zone celebrate with my favorite true-to-life leprechaun, Conan, and had my share of creme soda and champagne.
(Non-alcoholic? You decide.)
Anyway, today will commence in Birthday Celebration as both of my parental units will be in St. Petersburg come tomorrow and through at least Tuesday.
Party at Kelley's house on Monday?
Rhetorical?
You decide.

5:18 PM

Get a life, Smith.

FIGURATIVELY "UNTITLED."

I've not been in such a contemplative mood for weeks. Perhaps years, or at least months have passed since I've felt the withdrawn stab of legitimate intellectual thought. At least, to this degree. It's heightened, and not due to some waggling emotional fiber hidden within, not as a result of tragedy or humanistic need to substantiate my life from the supposed twenty-two thousand others who no longer share my binding livelihood on this great planet earth.
No. I'm far too self-absorbed for that.
And so, I ponder, what shall be my legacy to the world? Will I decipher some distinct purpose or being before I grasp mortality by its reins, or am I destined to live life as most do, with both eyes closed to the greater realm of possibility? Do I have such distinct calling? Or is that just the indignant greed talking?
(-) I've stopped sleeping like I used to. I'm sure it's merely transitional, but I can't rest for more than a few hours at a time, and when I wake, it's as though I'm panicked, or even frightened. Not mentally, mind you, but physically. And I've stopped retaining dreams altogether. I feel as though brackets of time are merely stolen from my consciousness, never to be supplemented or returned to me. Just taken. My breathing is far from improving, and that can only be signs of my left lung taking out its vengeful vendetta against medicinal treatment at large. I don't even want to have to think about it at this point.
(+/-) I've spent eighteen years of life without a romantic relationship of any sort. In my book, that's not only tolerable; it's the only righteous thing to do. Yet, in short, I've been ushered into thinking that perhaps it's near time for me to find someone to bond with for at least the short period of time between now and the beginning of my college career. Intimacy of any sort is supposed to increase a person's vitality, so why not toy with it, at least as an experiment for the Bettering Of Kelley? I have my doubts, and the likelihood of finding anyone to become involved with merely furthers my insecurities, but I'll leave that to chance and happenstance to deal with.
(+) I've decided I'm going to apply to Loyola in New Orleans. I wasn't even considering it as a possibility, but something deep and painfully digging is calling me in that direction. I'm not sure why, and I don't know how, but there's no application fee, so it's settled.
I continue to find myself in an odd and eerie state looming between depression and what I'd like to describe as madness. It's a bitter form of creative thought I wish I could harness and utilize, yet it evades me as even these words do. I struggle to make syntactical sense, let alone construct something of beauty or grace. And there it sits, elusive and just beyond my powerful, hungry grasp. I wish, dear God, I could step out and exude the verbal magnitude I know I must be capable of, but I fear I'll never reach such heights of majesty. And so I remain, bitter and eternally remorseful of what I'll never truly posses: the ability to write.
Gasp. It's certainly time to go to bed. Even if I'll find myself bitter and restless in a few hours. Hopefully, I'll move far from this state of mind by morning, but I'm not truly certain of anything at this point.
'Night.

TORRID, I LOVE YOU.

What can I say?
I'm a sucker for a Day-After sale.
I think I cleared out the store of anything worth buying...And I'm okay with that.
Tomorrow (later today) should bring me in a homeward direction with homework, applications, and friends to follow.
[Editor's Note: It certainly doesn't feel as though I have an entire week left of vacation. In fact, I feel more pressed for time in my remaining seven days than I normally feel in the midst of a hectic and compact weekend. I guess that's just the irony of time.]

AND TO THINK I WAS CURSED BY A BUDDHIST MONK ON HIS VERY SPECIAL PILGRIMAGE.

December 24th, 9:37 PM, Eastern Standard time.
From here on in, I write without...RENT.
What a glorious Christmas Eve this has been so far. Mass was wonderful, luminaries suck, and I'm high on my cloud of glory: the definite reality of The Phantom Of The Opera at TPAC tomorrow, and the possibility (Read: Reality) of Patrick Wilson in all his wimpish glory...Ahh.
It's almost too much for one girl.
But I'll contain myself into the evening and through tomorrow. For, at some point, I'll have to wake up from vacation and the reality of happiness, into a begrudging reality of pain and unfeeling isolation.
But that's later.

There's only us, there's only this...
No day but today.

Thanks, Larson.

HAVE A PRE-DETERMINED CHRISTMAS.

I have yet to behold the splendor of a holiday, and I'm not entirely eager in anticipation.
I am ready to nap. But that's a story of higher caliber for a more enlightened mind-frame. Going on...
Tomorrow will be, by calendar date, "Christmas Eve." I'm rather sure I take for granted the celestial prominence associated with such an occasion, but it's not my intolerance or indifference I'm concerned about. My breeding futility focuses around something much simpler, and much more provocative in my own mind:
What have I wasted the last year on? I don't honestly remember anything that's happened in the last three-hundred, sixty-five (or "-six," as it's a leap year) days of mortal bliss. And does that strike me as painful, indulgent, insensitive, and plain corrupt?
Yes. Yes it does.
I can handle corrupt and insensitive and so on, but I have to hold myself accountable for something in this deity-forsaken existence. What shall it be, I ask?
Coming Soon: Kelley's Steps for Change in the Midst of Heated Indifference.

THAT'S SOME SWEET VACATION, DUDE.

Hells yeah.
I'm so very in the mood for rest and relaxation; conversely, I want to leap up and run, just for the sheer capacity to do so.
It's almost finished.
This year is so close to completion, I can feel is leaning against me like a bad case of frotteurism. And still, so much is yet to reach completion. I have to send out application letters, endorsements of my personal value, and sealed transcripts.
Capital F-U-N!
My mental capacity is far beyond its normal reaches, and I can feel the weight of dragging lobes, damaged by excessive work in the last six months. Hopefully, these next two weeks will prove successful in grinding all of that toned grey matter into a healthy, Napoleon Dynamite-ish sludge.
Ehh...I'm going to relax for a few minutes. Then, it's off to my lazing about.

HIGHLIGHT REELS FOR DECEMBER 15TH, 2004.

If I have learned anything in the past week, it has been horribly surpassed by these stunning revelations:
-I am surrounded by some of the greatest individuals ever to walk the earth.
-The opposing team is close by.
-Elise can do anything she puts her mind to- like Duke University. GO Blue Devils! (And Elise!)
-Paul Farmer's recommendation letter for me would have to include the statement "I-Robot was a shared experience with Kelley that I will never forget, as we established the correlation between Les Miserables and Will Smith."
-Hanukkah songs are better when sung in rounds.
-A re-write is never a re-write until it is a re-write re-write re-write.
-The only real question is, what is the tragic vision of my existence in relation to my life as a whole?
-Officer Moore is my friend.
-The iPod holds a lot more music than I would have previously assumed. Really.
-Sleep, although hard to get, is a highly underrated thing.
-I'm definitely not a lesbian. Contrary to popular belief, that is.
-Air-conditioner "cold" is absolutely nothing compared to real "cold."
Finally (and of the most dire importance):
-I need a Barry Manilow hoodie for Christmas, Festivus, Kwanzaa, or any other holiday you'd like to throw in. I'm not picky.

RATIONALITY.

Why are hurt, immaturity, and cruelty the only things human beings truly master at?
I don't think I've ever been brought to tears by a rumor, and I'm damned if I start now.
They can say whatever cruel things they want to about me, but why bring them into this? How do the passive survive in this world, constantly trampled and beaten by the incapable hands of ogress and thieves, unaccustomed to civilization and dignity. Compassion is so far from their grasp, it makes me ill.
I may be tough, but I am fair, and hardly inhumane.
You, dearest offenders, fail to rank as "human."
Good evening, dishonest world.

DON KNOTTS MUST BE CRYING.

Dubya, The Movie.
It outlines (with great magnitude and glory):
-Family Values
-The Lost Years
-The War President
-The Hunt For Bin Laden
-The Hunt For WMD
-Tax Relief
-Compassionate Conservatism

A landmark achievement by all means, but a scratch on the fair record of such a glorious comedian.

WEEBLES WOBBLE.

Here I sit, ready to topple, yet horrendously sturdy.
Placid.
Obtrusive.
Hardly exclusive.
Infuriated/Invigorated.
Undesirably situated. How?
Unknown; still incredibly unknown.
Look. A bloody effing pyramid scam entry.
[Editor's Note: I had to add in "effing" to make the whole thing work out. Otherwise, the entry would have been a waste of your time. Obviously, now, it is not.]

EVEN MASTERCARD DOESN'T MAKE ME SMILE AS MUCH AS PREVIOUSLY ASSUMED.

Regardless of my status as a "check card" carrying member of society, I feel far from economically productive.
Actually, "failure as a human being" might more adequately describe my state of mind.
I feel as a gum-spattered shoe must feel. Ignorant. Divergent. Unclean. And most importantly, alone. Hideous, and alone.
Tell me: what provokes these despondent moods in my multi-faceted hemispheres? Is it pain? Fear? A genuine desire to rip apart whatever maladjusted humanity lurks within me?
If only I knew. For then, I could make fun of the problem so as to divert attention from myself onto other human beings in the midst of suffering. Ha. What blissful joy I bring to the world.
But, instead, I allow it to sit there, laughing, lurking, and of course, tormenting, as all vile (and therefore productive) distractions do. It's their job. And who am I to keep them from their work?
That's right. You guessed it- nobody.
Full of mocking and far from the object of idolatry, the life of one so insistent upon strength and self-provoked isolation will remain forever circular in content- impacting, halted, singular, detrimental, and finally, positively meaningless- until it is taken from them, whether willfully or by brutal force.
And that, Cynthia Pitman, is the tragic vision of my existence.

WHAT DOES KELLEY HAVE THAT YOU, POOR SPECIMEN, DO NOT?

An iPod named Bono?
Precisely.
As the Apple God intended, I first downloaded and listened to "Vertigo," slowly making my way through my library of greatness, and finally, the time had reached 1:03 AM.
It was time to sleep.
But not even in sleep did I forget about its sleek outer shell, that bright backlight, and it's glorious game of "musical trivia."
Yes, dear reader, I am content.
And so is Bono.

NO GOOD DEED GOES RE-FURBISHED.

Now, tell me why Stephen Schwartz couldn't write something interesting like that...
It's rather late, as I'm well aware of, and I couldn't care less. Tomorrow should be a mindless, hazy day as far as I'm concerned. And far be it for life to get in my way, lest it shall be trampled under my mighty hoof.
Yes, I said hoof. Laugh. Get over it.
Moving on.
If Cynthia demands yet another essay revision, I shall rip my fingernails out, pleading insanity and that my keyboard is too painful to look at. She'll just demand that I dictate all future papers, but I'll just show her my bloody, stumpy masses deemed "digits" and evoke all kinds of spiteful sympathy. And then, she'll write me up. And I'll complain to Frank, and he'll complain to Deborah, and I couldn't stop name-dropping if I tried.
Sorry.
I must admit, however, I will be giddy as a clam by the end of December. It will be an ultimately useful change to get out of the habit of school and into the habit of "me time," as well as applying to colleges and watching rejection letter after rejection letter pile in.
I'm writing in a manner most crapfully this evening. I can't even find humor in my spitefully disgusting attempts at grammatical wit. Gross. Someone take me out to pasture and shoot, for I've no other purpose on this earth but to drone on, endlessly and unceasingly about positively nothing.
Alright. Three more sentences about Barbara Kingsolver and her decrepit team of Congolese whores--I mean, Southern Baptist missionaries--and I'll move in a bed-ward direction.
Maybe.

IN THE NAME OF...BONO.

Bombarded by Instant Messages From the Realm of College, I sit, paranoid and gasping for breath.
Applications. Oh, spittle; how I hate applications.
Gracious Lord On High, Toss Me A Peanut Brittle, and a Common App.
Oh, Common App. I love you.

VACUOUS, SAYS THE COLLEGE BOARD.

I hope they deem my essay vacuous.
That would make my day.
Take a peek---
Ooh. Better yet, don't. It's pretty crappy in its infant stages, and speaks directly to the idiotic, internet mind within each of us.
Ehh, it's far too late in the evening to give an accurate depiction of my progress on the Essay From Hell.
But I'll tell you one thing- I use the word triumvirate. In context.
Ha!

CASSIUS LOVES YOU.

Okay. So, maybe he doesn't, because I'm Brutus, and I can only speak for myself.
But as I type and re-type and re-type and re-type my AP Literature essay for the Pitman of Death, I must relay the fact that Julius Caesar is my most loathed enemy on top of anything in the universe.
That's right. You heard me, Bill.
But that's okay, because you're dead, Bill. And as far as I'm concerned, that means that you're restricted from writing an equally dreadful sequel.
Or so I'd assume.

REGISTRATION-R-US.

How grammatically satanic...
It's only 9:30, and we're hiding out, waiting for District registration to begin.
FUN.
Chaz and I get to run around like dying animals and post up our troupe cards, and I must say, I could not be more excited.
A Vice President doesn't have much more responsibility than that...
And I'm milking that responsibility for all it's worth, baby.

HOW TO RAISE A CHILD, TAKE TWO.

And, I romp in my thirty-eight seconds of glory...
Romp. Romp. Romp.
Romp. Romp.
Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp.
Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp. Romp.

Okay. I'm good now.

THE DRIVE OF SHAME.

Was I upset this afternoon?
Duh.
I was, however, gratified that Backel had the courage to at least justify in person what she wasn't willing to disclose earlier. Not that it didn't pang with hurt to hear, but it made the post-blow a bit cushioned.
I was angry. I became distressed. Not to tears, but close enough to embarrass myself writing about it.
Alright. To tears.
And I'm sitting in the glaring Longwood sunlight, blinded by a combination of my own insecurities and that radiant ball in the sky, when I hear an unassuming chorus float through my stereo system and consequently, my enraged thoughts:

It's disgusting
Their priorities:
How we're entrusting them
With authority.

What kind of disgraceful Vice President am I? Not only will we be adding so many to our ranks this spring, but I can honestly (and boastfully) say that I contributed to that stockpile. I've encouraged that growth, fostered it, picked out its musical events, and given it a preemptive Superior rating.

I welcome my family new members, holding capacities I would love to share in, but would never fully appreciate myself. But she will. And if nothing else, that seems to mean that she deserves it so much more than I ever would.

And I realized, basking in the glow of a far more superior light, that my job is to be the person who lives out the reality of those last two sentences, not with aggressiveness or bitterness, but with the genuine and warm embrace of a "mother hen."
A "beautiful mother hen," mind you.

WOULDN'T IT BE LOVERLY?

I keep running back to pages already turned in my life.
Dare I stare back, longingly, at words already deemed blasphemous? Am I too good for that? Not good enough?
Seriously. Rank me, O Futile Existence. I dare you.
And here I go, droning mindlessly like the rest of them.
There. I said it.
Relationships are stupid. Love is pointless. Investing yourself in another human being is only the square root of evil, if not simply disaster.
People are yucky. Period.

GOBBLE.

Here's to a relatively "festive" Thanksgiving on all ends: plenty of turkey, Kelley's mushroom gravy (which Kelley oh-so-kindly refuses to eat, as she despises gravy), significantly more than a tiny bit of smoked fish, Smith family Irish potato dressing, and best of all, sleeping in random places at random instants throughout the day.
Thank you, chemically-exhausting bird.
And as the week lurches forward like an over-fed in-law, so too comes the busiest day in shopping history, a day when I browse the mall, watching bumbling idiots (parents) tripping over their beloved, whiny, smelly infants, trying desperately to appease them without letting them know exactly what is being bought in their honour. Gone are the days when Tickle-Me-Elmo and Furbies were the rage: what new, destructive, and ever-encompassing fad item will tomorrow bring?
My guess- An eerie combination of Barbie and heroin, in that order.
Alright. The hour approaches at which time I must sleep legitimately and for over five minutes.
And remember:
Custard Creme Pie < Pumpkin Pie. Easily.

SEAN CAMPBELL IS MY DEMIGOD.

What's the rate of natural increase in the Marshall Islands?
3.70%
Yeah, baby.
Oh, as if anyone on the planet besides PRB.ORG gives a flying flip.

"Just looking at national fertility rates. Yep. Ol' fertile, fertile, fertile."-Sean Campbell

Say something, Aly:
I like Jeffrey as a crab. He's one hot sea creature. You know how we crustacians do.

Thanks, Aly.

ROUGH AND TUMBLE EVENING.

Quite possibly, today was an agonizing day.
-I'm fighting with someone I have too much respect to fight with. I don't think they even realize that we're fighting, which just makes matters all the more delicious.
-Seussical. Woot.
-My heart hurts in too many places to count. Breathing is taking the utmost effort.
-I cried in front of someone I'd never dream of showing intimacy towards. (And that, by far, was the most relieving portion of my existence today.)
It doesn't really matter what's going on (as far as specifics will lead), but I will be immensely glad to begin production tomorrow with a bang. I desperately hope that everything will fly according to plan, and I have a sincere confidence in our ensemble at large.
Plus, I'm under contract not to say anything destructive or demeaning.
So, mum.
I need to take twenty minutes and sit down to a logical, rational conversation with "Little Miss Last Night," which will, hopefully, lead not only to a peaceful solution of some sort, but to a raging cry of glee ensuing from my pursed and overly-rouged lips.
One can only hope.

SENIOR LUNCH.

Fourth period at Dellinger's house.
The Birdcage, a la Kelley.
Pizza, a la Pizza Hut.
General mayhem provided by other major sponsors and viewers like you.
Thanks.

DISAPPOINTED, YET TO NO AVAIL.

Please. Fail me as a human being.
Destroy whatever hopes and dreams I've stored within you, the very core of my faith in humanity and/or the population at large, as they amount to very little but my naive opinions. Not that my opinions matter, obviously.
I believe in you, and this is what you hand me?
Kelley stands on the sidelines of life, genuinely cheering for her team to come out victorious; but instead, her standing is deluded, disgraced, and utterly crushed. Arrogance? Is that the form your actions take? Or is it stupidity? Eager longing to belong? I feel that as well, yet somehow manage to contain my insecurities, to find real ways of expressing myself as a human being.
But this? This is what you degrade yourself to? Degrade me to, for I stood behind you and still remain with my palms facing forward, bracing for your eventual and guaranteed fall.
I take so little pity in you now.
It seems the world has left me behind, chasing after brighter and better ideals, and attacking with the same dull points. You do not captivate me any longer. Instead, you stand as a beacon of that which I vow never to set myself along side, that which has become increasingly more pungent with each proverbial whiff.
You have failed me in more ways than you will ever conceive, although your conception at large may prove far more generous than even you could handle.
Enjoy the progression that your life seeks.
Or the lack thereof.
Take great pleasure in that which you will someday become.
Or fail to be.
Invest yourselves even further in the things that elevate you to this higher level of being.
I hope they stand firm to support you; I must refrain from doing so.
From this point forward, you stand on your own.
I've failed you, it seems.

ABSENT.

I'll refrain from trying to make up and/or explain for my lack of posting over the past weeks...
Blame it on Paul. Or Cynthia. They want me to get into college, those silly geese.
Actually, I can make a rather concise listing of the things most detrimental towards my Blogger posting over the previous months, including (but not limited to):
-Seuss.
-Seuss.
-Seuss.
-Seuss.
-Seu-u-uss.
Ha! That's ridiculously overstated! It must be, for me to post it five times! How silly!
Or truthful. Good Lord of Musical Theatre, please kill this poor creation of yours to spare the theatrical audience at large.
Not that our production is awful. It could be entirely worse, and I know how destructive a show can be for an audience to sit through. It's the score, the consistent repetition of a few fun chords and refrains, and the lofty, "Seussian" book.
Aggh.
[Editor's Note: If you've yet to visit AccuBroadway.com, please do so before the rest of the world realizes what a miserable failure you are. Come on, people- they have a "Finales" sub-category. What kind of miserable doofus do you have to be to pass up an internet music library like that?]
Tomorrow begins the grueling yet intensely enjoyable process we call preview, and I could not contain within me further excitement beyond that which is bursting from within me. It shall be absolutely destructive towards my portion of the actual show, as Byron and I perform our entire thirty-eight second Song Of Death.
Enough about Seussical.

CONCESSION SPEECH (THE END OF DEMOCRACY AS WE KNOW IT).

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you so much. You just have no idea how warming and how generous that welcome is, your love is, your affection, and I'm gratified by it. I'm sorry that we got here a little bit late and a bit short.

Earlier today, I spoke to President Bush, and I offered him and Laura our congratulations on their victory. We had a good conversation and we talked about the danger of division in our country and the need – the desperate need – for unity, for finding the common ground, coming together. Today, I hope that we can begin the healing. In America it is vital that every vote count, and that every vote be counted. But the outcome should be decided by voters, not a protracted legal process.

I would not give up this fight if there was a chance that we would prevail. But it is now clear that even when all the provisional ballots are counted, which they will be, there won't be enough outstanding votes for us to be able to win Ohio. And therefore, we can not win this election.

My friends, it was here that we began our campaign for the presidency. And all we had was hope and a vision for a better America. It was a privilege and a gift to spend two years traveling this country, coming to know so many of you. I wish that I could just wrap you in my arms and embrace each and every one of you individually all across this nation. I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Audience member: We still got your back!

Thank you, man. And I assure you – you watch – I'll still have yours.

I will always be particularly grateful to the colleague that you just heard from who became my partner, my very close friend, an extraordinary leader, John Edwards. And I thank him for everything he did. John and I would be the first to tell you that we owe so much to our families. They're here with us today. They were with us every single step of the way. They sustained us. They went out on their own and they multiplied our campaign, all across this country.

No one did this more with grace and with courage and candor. For that, I love than my wife, Teresa. And I thank her. Thank you. And our children were there every single step of the way. It was unbelievable. Vanessa, Alex, Chris, Andre and John, from my family, and Elizabeth Edwards who is so remarkable and so strong and so smart. And Johnny and Cate who went out there on her own just like my daughters did. And also Emma Claire and Jack who were up beyond their bedtime last night, like a lot of us.

I want to thank my crewmates and my friends from 35 years ago. That great ‘band of brothers’ who crisscrossed this country on my behalf through 2004. Thank you. They had the courage to speak the truth back then, and they spoke it again this year, and for that, I will forever be grateful.

And thanks also as I look around here to friends and family of a lifetime. Some from college, friends made all across the years, and then all across the miles of this campaign. You are so special. You brought the gift of your passion for our country and the possibilities of change, and that will stay with us, and with this country forever.

Thanks to Democrats and Republicans and independents who stood with us, and everyone who voted no matter who their candidate was.

And thanks to my absolutely unbelievable, dedicated staff, led by a wonderful campaign manager Mary Beth Cahill, who did an extraordinary job. There's so much written about campaigns, and there's so much that Americans never get to see. I wish they could all spend a day on a campaign and see how hard these folks work to make America better. It is its own unbelievable contribution to our democracy, and it's a gift to everybody. But especially to me. And I'm grateful to each and every one of you, and I thank your families, and I thank you for the sacrifices you've made.

And to all the volunteers, all across this country who gave so much of themselves. You know, thanks to William Field, a six-year-old who collected $680, a quarter and a dollar at a time selling bracelets during the summer to help change America. Thanks to Michael Benson from Florida who I spied in a rope line holding a container of money, and turned out he raided his piggy bank and wanted to contribute. And thanks to Alana Wexler who is 11 years old and started kids for Kerry all across our country. I think of the brigades of students and people, young and old, who took time to travel, time off from work, their own vacation time to work in states far and wide. They braved the hot days of summer and the cold days of the fall and the winter to knock on doors because they were determined to open the doors of opportunity to all Americans. They worked their hearts out, and I wish… you don't know how much they, could have brought this race home for you for them, and I say to them now, don't lose faith.

What you did made a difference, and building on itself -- building on itself, we go on to make a difference another day. I promise you, that time will come. The time will come, the election will come when your work and your ballots will change the world, and it's worth fighting for.

I want to especially say to the American people in this journey, you have given me honor and the gift of listening and learning from you. I have visited your homes. I have visited your churches. I've visited your union halls. I've heard your stories, I know your struggles, I know your hopes. They're part of me now, and I will never forget you, and I'll never stop fighting for you.

You may not understand completely in what ways, but it is true when I say to you that you have taught me and you've tested me and you've lifted me up, and you made me stronger, I did my best to express my vision and my hopes for America. We worked hard, and we fought hard, and I wish that things had turned out a little differently.

But in an American election, there are no losers, because whether or not our candidates are successful, the next morning we all wake up as Americans. And that -- that is the greatest privilege and the most remarkable good fortune that can come to us on earth.

With that gift also comes obligation. We are required now to work together for the good of our country. In the days ahead, we must find common cause. We must join in common effort without remorse or recrimination, without anger or rancor. America is in need of unity and longing for a larger measure of compassion.

I hope President Bush will advance those values in the coming years. I pledge to do my part to try to bridge the partisan divide. I know this is a difficult time for my supporters, but I ask them, all of you, to join me in doing that.

Now, more than ever, with our soldiers in harm's way, we must stand together and succeed in Iraq and win the war on terror. I will also do everything in my power to ensure that my party, a proud Democratic Party, stands true to our best hopes and ideals.

I believe that what we started in this campaign will not end here. And I know our fight goes on to put America back to work and make our economy a great engine of job growth. Our fight goes on to make affordable health care an accessible right for all Americans, not a privilege. Our fight goes on to protect the environment, to achieve equality, to push the frontiers of science and discovery, and to restore America's reputation in the world. I believe that all of this will happen -- and sooner than we may think -- because we're America. And America always moves forward.

I've been honored to represent the citizens of this commonwealth in the United States Senate now for 20 years. And I pledge to them that in the years ahead, I'm going to fight on for the people and for the principles that I've learned and lived with here in Massachusetts.

I'm proud of what we stood for in this campaign, and of what we accomplished. When we began, no one thought it was possible to even make this a close race. But we stood for real change, change that would make a real difference in the life of our nation, the lives of our families. And we defined that choice to America.

I'll never forget the wonderful people who came to our rallies, who stood in our rope lines, who put their hopes in our hands, who invested in each and every one of us. I saw in them the truth that America is not only great, but it is good.

So here -- so with a grateful heart -- I leave this campaign with a prayer that has even greater meaning to me now that I've come to know our vast country so much better. Thanks to all of you and what a privilege it has been. And that prayer is very simple: God bless America. Thank you.