First off, the title has nothing to do with the rest of the post. Transformers is just a really good movie, and you should give it a shot. I don’t even like transformers (few years before my time) but I enjoyed the movie. Watch and enjoy, but please don’t start posting your opinion of the movie here (because that is the first thing I would do if this was someone else’s post).

My week at the beach with friends and family was wonderful. Weather was great, as was the food, and even the shopping. However, I shan’t bore you with tales of how I had an amazing time while you were stuck home, most likely bored without me to entertain you.

Jeepers, I am really tired right now. Just finished a 10 hour shift. For those of you who don’t work *cough* Elliot *cough* that is a really long time to be working. That to say, this is going to be short and pointless, beyond reassuring you people of little faith that I have not left you again.

So now I shall do an ‘Independent Thought Segment.”

Elliot, a plastic replica of you should be in every home, and when I become president, that dream will become a reality.

If rich people lost their sense of entitlement, there would be a lot less rich people.

Take your favorite pastime, give it up and take up nothing to replace it, and then you will know for certain if you are a person, or a shell.

If Good and Evil exist, then give me a sword that I may chose a side and fight; this veiled existence is driving me crazy.

If Love does not break your heart, it’s not love.

Catch you all later when I actually have something to say.

P.S. Go ahead and discuss Transformers, I didn’t really bring up anything else worth discussing. I will be surprised if someone can come up with a good reason for not liking it.

Hey guys, my apologies for lack of posts. I just bought a new computer, so that toy has been occupying my time lately. It’s pretty awesome; if only the friggin keyboard worked. Trying to write with every other letter doing thiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiis is rather frustrating.

I’m off to my summer vacation for a week. One whole week on the Oregon coast. Its always a blast. Even when it’s raining. Promise a post when I get back. Try to find some way to push on without my inspiration.

Catch ya on the flip side.

As a waiter at Creekside Golf Club, I serve almost exclusively the culturally elite of Salem. The ‘of Salem’ is important, because it signifies the same level of elitism as can of SPAM, if it came into large sums of money. No, I am being harsh. SPAM has WAY more culture than the majority of my customers.

Let me qualify: rich people really are just like us, except they have too much money, and their brains have been rotted away by money fumes. Money fumes are what turn normal people (or normal West Coast hicks, in my case) into people who spend the majority of their time doing retarded things no regular person would consider, such as playing golf.

I jest, of course, and all you golfers don’t need to tell me how golf is a legitimate sport of the common man. First, golf isn’t even a legitimate brain fart, much less a sport. Secondly, please don’t hit me with your large metal clubs.

Back to the rich folks. Before I worked this job, I had dreams, as most deluded college students will, of becoming rich and famous. Granted, they were the wildest of my fantasies, being a journalism major. Mymore serious dreams were of one day, after years of labor and toil, being able to pay the phone bill on time.

Now, however, I have seen what money can do to people. The rich are secure. Their security comes from power, and their power comes from money. Money begets money, so they have no fear of running out. And in their security they become complacent, stagnant, and dry. There is no need, no stress, no worry. That sounds so appealing at first, but then you see what it does to the human spirit. The body is content, and desires only to remain content. The spirit suffers, neglected and withering. The spirit is eternal, yet there is nothing eternal about wealth.

I see this tragedy of the human condition played out every day. Jesus knew of what he spoke, saying it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter heaven. Jesus was not saying the rich are inherently evil. I serve some wonderfully nice people. Jesus simply knew of the dormancy the spirit of a man suffers while the body needs nothing. Why look beyond yourself, outside your little box, if everything in your little box is perfect, because you have the money to make it so.

Money, and the power and comfort it brings, drive the majority of people in this world. Yet the end result is terrifying. Beware.

“You can’t buy true love with money. But you sure can buy high-quality fake love with it.” - Dave Barry

I would like to point out that Dave Barry is a genius. I also must point out that most of my humor style is derived from his work. Please don’t sue me, Mr. Barry. Collections of his syndicated newspaper column can be found at your local library, and if you enjoy laughing at all, read them. Now.

Today I learned that you cannot judge the quality of a tipper by their cover. By this I mean, no matter how rude or scary a customer is-even if they are physically sprouting horns from their forehead and trails of sulfurous smoke leak from their nostrils-there is the same chance of them giving you that coveted 20% tip as the saintly old lady across the dining hall.

Tonight I took a large table led by a glaring, snobbish wannabe aristocrat. His very presence at the table made me screw up mildly several times, including but not limited to serving chicken instead of fish, breaking a cork in a bottle of wine, and flirting shamelessly with his wife. Ha! That was a joke at the end there. I NEVER break corks. However, when I retrieved the bill at the end of their meal, it was a shiny 20% tip. Go figure.

Contrast this to the kindly old ladies who frequently come to dine, laugh at my little jokes, call me hansom, then forget that America actually did make it through the Great Depression and tip me 4%. The only depression was the one in my head, created by banging it repeatedly against solid wall-like objects after I saw their tip.

Moving on.

I would like to know who is reading this blog, and in the likely event that you have your own that updates regularly, what is it’s address so I can add it to my list? I promise to reply to your posts if you reply to mine. Pretty please?

And a note to anyone who is not a real-life friend: your comments are quite welcome, and I appreciate you reading my rants. That said, please be kind and civil in all that you write here. Arguments and rebuttals are encouraged. Flaming is not. Especially if it is against one of my readers who happens to be a real-life friend. I WILL have the last word if it comes to that.

Final thought: now that I’m done playing World of Warcraft, what game should I take up? Suggestions? I am quite aware the Halo 3 comes out in November. I hope you are all aware that I intend to dominate all. Resistance is futile. Nothing shall prevail against my terrible SMG fury.

Except Elizabeth…she tends to prevail over everything I’ve got. Except when she’s folding socks.

I certainly don’t mind.

*Ahem* Your attention please…thank you.

I’m back.

Thank you for that rousing welcome. You may all take your seats, except those who apparently wet themselves with excitement over my return. You folks may head straight to the restroom, and not come out.

It is great to be back; I missed all my blogging friends very much. On the same truthful note, I also missed the allergies of the Willamette Valley that transform me from an amazingly hansom person to an amazingly hansom person producing boogers the size of small coconuts. Perhaps some of you are catching on to the dripping sarcasm. You might want to wipe it up before it gets your screen all sticky.

Honestly, I did miss you guys. The fact that you continue to comment on my blog, even after I have been away for months is both heartwarming and causes me to wonder how many of you really, truly need a life. Speaking of life, let me tell you about mine. I’m sure you are dying to find out all the juicy details of my passionate affair with Angelina Jolie. Or maybe it was with Brad Pitt; they both look alike to me.

Ok, really going to try to be serious. I am currently employed as a server at a golf club. This would be Creekside Golf Club, motto: Drunk People Suck at Golf. Serving is certainly a giant step up from my previous job as a checker at Safeway. The money is better, the work is easier, and while the managers are just as stupid as all managers in any company will aways be, they are at least friendly at Creekside. The abundance of liquor likely helps with that.

In case you have been negligent and lost count, I recently turned 21 years old. By all legal standards, I am an adult, and will be prosecuted as such. At least that’s what the judge kept telling me. I have only drank seriously once so far. The good news is I have a high tolerance. Six or seven shot of tequila (yeah, I kinda lost count) made me tipsy and very bad at World of Warcraft, but I could still walk in a straight line, even if my WoW character could not. My conclusion is that getting tipsy is fun enough to choke down whatever alchohol is present, but only with trusted friends, in a safe environment, and with video games. In case any of you younglings are wondering: Yes, it is true what they say, alcohol will make doing very stupid things sound like a grand idea. Consider yourselves warned.

Moving on. I have officially become sick of World of Warcraft. After playing for three years and logging over 2,000 hours, I have reached my WoW limit and will retire permanently at the end of the summer. Don’t get me wrong, I still think WoW is an amazing game, but I have had enough. Now if only something new and exciting game would come out for me to get hooked on. I hardly know what to do with all this free time. Perhaps something constructive? Haha! We can all have a good laugh over that.

Alright, so I am going to make a serious effort to posting regularly. No promises, but I am a writer, and thus, I suppose actually writing once in a while might be a good thing. Just a theory.

Until next time, keep working on those underwear stains.

For those of you hoping to find an amusing or deeply provocative post today, I warn you now, this is not to be. This post is dedicated to providing anyone who cares with updated information regarding the life and times of Peter. These are the kind of posts I personally avoid reading on other blogs, mainly because ‘updates’ usually translates to ‘trivial matters incessantly whined about because only people as intimate with the whiner as, say, their tape-worm, would really care to hear about.’ I will try my utmost to avoid a retelling of all my personal woes, and instead relate various occurrances in my life you might actually care about. This should be a short post.

Another semester of college down, and only three to go. It’s mildly terrifying to think that in a year and a half, I will actually have no choice but to face the real world. Facing the real world implies having a degree, getting a job, working full-time, living on my own, and-if I’m very lucky-getting married. This worries me as last time I checked, I am definitely not an adult. Anyone who knows me can vouch for this. I’m pretty sure it will take an act of God to transform me from a smelly adolescent into someone with an active idea of what the word ‘responsibility’means.

Speaking of the getting married part, I’m sure you’ve all heard by now that I’m engaged. Her name is Elizabeth, and the wedding is set for July 17th. It will be a private affair at the Light’s Hope Chapel, an EPL affiliate.

Man, I wish I could see the look on your face as you read that. I am sure it was priceless. I am, of course, very much kidding about the engagement. However, I am still dating Elizabeth, who continues to be an absolutely wonderful influence on my life. If anyone has noticed improvements in my civility or manner in general, you probably have her to thank. It’s strange…besides final exams, she is the only force on the planet that causes me to voluntarily quit playing World of Warcraft (a game to which I am hopelessly addicted). She does not even have to ask me; she just shows up at my door, and suddenly I find myself closing down my computer and heading out to be social with her. Truly a terrifying power this woman has over me. And yet, I have never been happier.

My Christmas break has been quite enjoyable. Family and friends continue to welcome me back, somehow managing to keep smiles on their faces as they greet me. Was there an acting class everyone took that I didn’t know about, because if I did not know better, I’d think you guys were happy to see me. I have even been invited to a few parties, which worries me. Actively encouraging me to join a social setting without even the requirement of a paper bag over my head calls into question the sanity of the hostess.

A final point of interest is that I have been doing some serious writing as of late. For a creative writing class I took last semester, I really went to town on an original short story. I also wrote some poetry, which was amazingly well recieved. I will be posting this work on my site. If you are curious, look for it in the pages section of the site. I am actually rather proud of the story, and I would love to know what you all think of it.

Until next time (when hopefully I will have something worthwhile to write) happy New Years to everyone. Peace.

“Peter, turn…turn, turn, TURN” is not what you want to hear while strapped to a pair of skies intent on taking you over the river and through the woods in a painfully literal sense. Especially if your name is Peter. As I threw my meager weight to the right, I noted with some concern that gravity was apparently playing ‘opposites day,’ as I continued my undesirable jounrey left. Even more unfortunate, the pine tree I was barrelling towards did not have a kindly disposition towards mankind. In fact, I am pretty sure I heard it laugh in a deep, malicious tone as it readied barbed pine-cones aimed for my oncoming face.

None of this would have happened, had I not agreed to go skiing with my best friends on Thursday. While my natural charm and excessive good looks propel me smoothly through most adversity, I discovered that fair Lady Physics possibly the only female not susceptible to the charismatic fireball that is myself. This being my first ski trip, she and I were about to become intimately acquainted.

I realized I was in trouble the first trip up the chairlift. Looking up from the ground, the gentle pace of the chairs ascending the mountain appeared quite safe. It was only when I reached the summit that I realized this contraption was going to dump me down a slope at what then seemed about 20 mph. Naturally, I fell on my butt, and they had to stop the lift while I hauled my carcass out of the way.

Down the bunny slope I went, and with some guidance from a friend, I began to learn. Emphasis on the word ‘began.’ Up the chairlift I went again, launched back on the slope I flew, back on my butt I landed. Yep, this was going to be fantastic.

Yet after only two runs on the bunny slope, my friends graduated me to the green runs. I’m thinking this had less to do with my natural skill, and more with the fact that my wipe-outs were sure to be more spectacular at improved speeds. Peering down these new slopes, I estimated these new speeds would be rivaling that of sound itself. This leads me to the encounter with the Pine of Doom.

Thankfully, Lady Physics came to my aid, sending my skies in the direction I pointed them; namely, away from that tree. Although I managed to kiss a branch on the way by. Which is lame, because that means a tree has gotten more action from me than my girlfriend over Christmas break.

At the bottom of that hill, I was faced with another choice: do I continue on at a velocity usually reserved for space travel, or do I stop before that large metal pole gets intimate with my face? An obvious choice, except for the minor detail that I didn’t really have the whole ’stopping’ gig quite figured out. At all.

So I opted for choice #3: a 90 degree turn at the last second. The good news is I missed the pole.

The bad news is I didn’t miss the ground.

You see, while my legs turned, the rest of my body seemed content to continue down the hill towards the pole. The next few seconds were all a blur, very literally. All I know is you can still find several perfect impressions of first my left side, then my head, then my right side, all chronicled in the snow.

In my defense, my best friend who is an expert skier nearly crashed on the very same run. I am sure it had nothing to do with the internal bleeding brought on by laughing hysterically at my cartwheel biff.

Amazingly, I made it out of there with no broken bones, although the tattered remains of my pride still flutter like a rag in the wind, stuck on the edge of a ski pole.

I would end this with an upbeat comment on how I sure seized the day, but in retrospect, I’m rather positive the day seized me.

Then proceeded to beat the snot out of me via snowdrifts and gravity.

Most people have heard the expression ‘emotional rollercoaster’ to indicated dramatic, rapid shifts in one’s feelings. I am here to inform you that my recent experiences would register on more of a “sky-diving off Mt. Everest, rocket-jetting back up, and repeating” scale, with serious turbulence in the middle. Allow me to explain.

Let us start with an evening slightly over a week ago. That night found me in deep conversation with my good friend Elizabeth. We have been friends since the beginning of last Spring semester, and some of you may recall me mentioning a scary girl, smarter and snarkier than myself. Elizabeth would be that girl. Oh, and I should probably mention I have had a ‘crush’ on Liz since the beginning of last Spring semester. I put ‘crush’ in quotes because 1) the word ‘crush’ does not accurately represent the amount of emotional turmoil being near her put me in, and 2) because I was supressing these feelings for all I was worth. As far as I was concerned, I had as much chance with Liz as a Chihuahua has with a Siberian Tiger. Plus, Liz did not need another boy chasing after her. She already had several of those. A friend without ulterior motives was needed, so I told my ulterior motives to shut up and sit down, and went from there.

Back to the evening in question, it came to light in the course of conversation that Liz had somehow developed romantic feelings for me. I discovered that the problem with suppressed emotions is that, while hidden, they are not ever gone. Picture a little shoe box sitting in the middle of a dusty, barren strip of desert. That would be the resting place of my suppressed emotions within my subconscious. Enter the words “I really want you to kiss me” from her mouth. Now picture a nuclear explosion where that shoe box was a moment before. More or less how I was feeling, although on a larger scale.

Alas, it was not to be. After many hours of discussion, we decided that a dating relationship was just not an option at the moment. We both had our reasons, and they made perfect sense at the time. Now imagine me running into the nuclear explosing, grabbing it by the neck, and shoving it back into a slightly charred box. It was not fun, but her friendship, and her happiness, were more important to me than my own feelings and desires. In case anyone missed that class on friendship, that is how friends are supposed to work, regardless of what you may have experienced.

Next we have a large nasty episode involving Liz and an ex-boyfriend turned stalker. The situation was large, complicated, and painful for everyone involved. It got to the point where Liz gave me permission to step in, and so I wrote a very strong letter, telling this dude to stay away from her, and got her and several other friends to sign it. We gave it to him, he ignored it, so I confronted him and ended up calling security to see if they could restrain him. Understand that, as a pissed-off Sicilian, everything in me wanted to turn this guy’s face into a mashed potato, but less recognizable. Going through security and Student Life was not my favorite choice, but it was the best choice for all involved, and so things were slowly resolved in a civil fashion. Behaving civilly for my free-spirited nature (by ‘free-spirit’ I mean ‘the typical Peter jackass’) was strenuous, but we all do what we must, when the situation requires it. Stalker Boy has promised to leave her alone, and she has promised to file a harassment charge if he breaks his word.

Moving now to early Friday morning, the nasty events of the past week have finally come to a close, and Liz and I are once again wrapped up in quiet conversation. I will spare you the details, but somehow I asked Liz the question “will you date me?” to which she was quiet for a moment. Telling her I should ask at a better time, the conversation moved on. Then I heard the words “yes, I will date you” slip from her lips. I would like to say I had some suave response at this point, but after sitting mutely for some time, I managed to say “uhh, let’s back up a bit…preferably the part where you said you’d date me…does that mean yes?” Let no one doubt that I am a man of words. Assuming I have written those words down, edited them a dozen times, and committed it to memory. Otherwise I am pretty much screwed.

So Elizabeth and I are officially a couple, and have entered into the realm of itemhood. This is to what the ‘rocket-boots up to Mt. Everest’ refers. Yet regardless of how I feel or how many trips through heaven and hell circumstances may take me, my prayer remains unchanged. I only ask that God will use me as an instrument in her life, and that through me she will find safety and happiness. As far as I am concerned, when it comes to our relationship, nothing else matters.

Fine, I will admit it: I am a lousy person. I have not updated in nearly a month, and that is unacceptable. Scruffy as you all are, I am deeply touched that you all read my rantings and take the time to reply, even if it is insulting-espeically if it is insulting. Life as a university student is slowly congealing into a smooth routine. A smooth routine surrounded by sheer madness, of course, but that is typical.

My friends from Salem, wherever you are right now, I am going to let you in on a little secret: I MISS YOU!! Yes, you read correctly. Peter Licata, the one-man-freak-and-geek island unto himself actually feels emotionally saddened at our separation. I have a handful of good friends up here in the hinterlands, but I miss the unique dynamic we have back home. By ‘unique dynamic’ I mean me scaring the crap out of the ladies and having all-night gaming sessions with the guys. The essence of healthy relationships right there. Honestly, I should write a book, Peter’s Guide to Ninja Skills and Sticky Grenades: Making Friendships Stronger than Adamantium.

Alas, text books call, but I assure you all, more updates are on the way. If I can make my gaming-geek reclusive life an interesting read, the rest of my papers this year shall be ridiculously easy in comparison. Bring it on.

For those of you unaware of everything that goes on in the epic saga of grandeur that is my life, I have again left the fair shores of Salem, Oregon and returned to my place of study at Trinity Western University. I bear a new title now, for I am the exalted uppper-classman. Having two years of training under my belt, I have come to grace the halls of the elite third and fourth years. We are a jolly bunch, hailing each other with vocal, back-slapping greetings, smiling at the memory of shared jokes and mutual suffering. The campus is our playground now, and we intend to spin the proverbial merry-go-round with the proverbial motorcycle, if you know what I mean.

As for myself, I was able to snag a spot in the apartment housing on campus usually reserved for student leaders. In this I am fortunate, for the only area wherein I am a leader is in the Halo 2 scoreboards. The rent, all told, is less than that of the dormitories, while the size is nearly tripled. I have a bedroom the size of my bedroom back home, a living room as large as the dorm room I resided in last year, a bathroom with two sinks and a tub, and a small-yet fully stocked-kitchen. There is just one catch: I have to feed myself. With my own cooking. Queue the Jaws music of doom right about now.

This would not be so bad if 1) I was on a budget so tight even the producer of The Blair Witch Project would despair, and 2) Canadians are a bunch of rich maple syrup slurpers. I am basing #2 on the fact that when I visited several Canadian grocery stores, including (but not limited to) a Canadian Costco, the prices were so high I had to stand on my tippy-toes to read them. Actually, while I mean to say that the prices were ridiculously steep, stating that I had to strain to see something only implies it is slightly above ground level. I can only assume that the Canadians have been exporting their hand-crafted igloos overseas (what else are you going to do with them), and the revenue has shot the market into the rafters. Let me put it this way: I could have spent same amount of money and gotten either a block of cheese or a new video game. It was a horribly painful decision, let me tell you.

So here I am, relaxing in a lovely apartment without a care in the world. Unless you considered a continued consumption of food a care. Then I might have one. We will see whether my budding cooking skills, pounded into me by my parents, will suffice. Or I could put some talent points into ‘Conjure Food’. Whatever works.