I went to see the Psychologist at my school last friday and I was diagnosed with severe depression, so I've been taking some medication they gave me; but ever since I started taking the pills I've been having weird dreams. I'm standing alone in the middle of a street with huge buildings on each side, and I hear a soft crashing noise above me. A boy a couple years younger than me, riddled with what looks like gun shot wounds slams into the ground smiling, and when I look up a hologram sign is above me, but it's blurred.

That's only one of the dreams I've had, but in each one I hear this loud buzzing noise. It penetrates right through my brain. I wake up and sometimes I swear I can hear it. It's like it is in my head, clawing at the back of my skull. I can't focus.

What's happening to me?

Some weird shit is going on; I'm having more and more blackouts. This isn't normal for me. This shouldn't be happening. Sean disappeared two nights ago, and when I finally heard back from him today I could tell something was different about him. I don't know what exactly it is, but it scares me.

This is his blog: http://bornoutofbinary.blogspot.com/

I've been having deja-vu more and more lately, so much I feel like I'm just sitting back watching the world unfold around me. I have to find out what is going on. I need to know.

Beer. What would college be without it? Probably a lot harder to make those tough decisions when rushing a fraternity (yeah Frat boys, you know what I'm talking about.)  The great thing about beer, though, is that it can be enjoyed by people of all ages. Now, I'm not condoning any illegal use by minors; that's a no-no (as if we minors care about legality.) It's a beverage that is served to the depressed and the joyful, hopefully making the depressed joyful and not vice-versa. Sometimes it makes up giddy; and sometimes it makes us sick. Yes, we've all been there. Sometimes it's great for a great game of beer pong, which for the people who are unfamiliar with what that is, you can contact the guy pictured below about it (yeah, he's a pro. He also has the best hangover cures ever. True story.)

I've only got one problem with beer: the fifth or sixth one always jumps out of my hand!

But really, beer has become one of those iconic symbols of a sporting event. At major league baseball games I look around and almost every adult has a beer in their hands, and they never settle for one beer either. While at my colleges homecoming football game, nearly every person in the stands had a beer (students included [oh, we're so naughty!]) Drinking beer is just one of those things that has to be done, or else it's not a football game. Hell, I woke up that Saturday morning only to be confronted by my neighbor - a Montana local - who had a pained look about him, telling me that we had missed Kegs & Eggs. (For those of you who don't know, Kegs & Eggs is literally what it sounds like. Beer Kegs and breakfast eggs. Yum!)

As kind of a joke, one of our friends made a bet with him that he couldn't go a week without an alcoholic beverage. So while I was enjoying the incredibly intense film 300, he came in and handed me his last beer. Apparently the can of Bud Light was becoming too much of a temptation, and needed to be in "trustworthy" hands. This tells me two things: (1) I'm a trustworthy guy, and (2) sometimes beer can be a devilish temptation.  I thoroughly expect one in three college students here at the University of Montana to be alcoholics by the end of their college experience.

It's been a while since I wrote for this blog, but I figured I'd write about something distinguished and prevalent in international society today. I mean, it's probably the only thing Germans and Americans have in common.

But never forget the Aussies; their passion for a good brew goes unrivaled. Jolly good job, chaps.

P.S. I love beer. <3

And so it was that the Lone Wanderer ventured forth from Vault 101 intent on discovering the fate of a father who has once sacrificed the future of humanity for that of his own child. But it was not until the end of this long road that the Lone Wanderer learned the true meaning of that greatest of virtues – sacrifice. Stepping into the irradiated control chamber...


Oh wait, wrong thing; my bad.


Last night Gio and Robert allowed me to stay in their dorm with them, so naturally the only place I was able to sleep was on the floor. Not only was it dirty and uncomfortable, but it was increasingly cold. At one point it got so cold that I had to slip on my leather jacket and curl up in a ball just to stop shaking. I chalk up the temperature to the coastal location and the window my dumb-ass left open during the night. Aside from the random slogans about sex that sit above Robert's bed on the underside of his shelf, the dorm room is actually pretty welcoming.


It's too bad that Robert and I had to freeze our asses off during the whee-hours of the morning. You see, all Robert brought with him was a backpack filled with clothes for summer, DVD's, and cassette tapes. Gio on the other hand brought everything he'd need: Mini-fridge, computer, printer, hangers, bed sheets, pillows, kleenex, summer clothes, winter clothes, and enough food to last three weeks in a fallout shelter. What I see here is a perfect example about why it pays to be prepared beforehand, because not only did Robert have to sleep in the freezing cold air with no sheets, but he'll have to worry about getting a set, plus a few other nuances for around the room.


So while Robert has to find a Bed, Bath, & Beyond (or something like that), Gio is able to travel around the campus freely to meet others and enjoy the day. If that doesn't show you that it pays to be prepared, then nothing will.

Welcome to San Francisco, land of the fog and the freshest seafood money can buy. It's some 400 miles away from home up the golden coast of California, and it's a lot more than the typical stereotype of homosexual city. In fact, is so far from that stereotype that it's ridiculous. The city is bustling with life, young and old, and it doesn't yield to the feint of heart. To be perfectly honest I love this city, more for the life and the joy it brings me. It's like home, but more lively and teenage/young adult friendly.

I've experienced the Fisherman's Wharf, Chinatown, the Red Light district, and San Francisco State University. I've met several young ladies and a few cool guys, and Giovanni Zuniga and Robert Rodgame have really showed me a good time out here.

The drive wasn't all that bad either, since Robert knew to stock up on cassettes, red bull, and beef jerky. We drove up the I-101 freeway all the way to San Francisco, and what a beautiful drive it was. I realized that one of the things I'd miss the most about California is the smell of the ocean and the cool breeze that blows over the mountains. There were a few sentimental moments for me, like when we were about to leave my house and head on our way. As I walked through the hallway of 1047 Maple St. one last time I felt my heart pounding, almost like it was attempting to leap from my chest. Tears welled up in my eyes and I lifted my chin up high, keeping in mind that I'd be back.

So barely twelve hours into the trip I had become home sick, so I took the advice given to me by some good friends of mine and got my mind off of it. I said, "I'm in San Francisco, the California Manhattan. I'm going to have some fun." And I truly did. Tomorrow will be a day out on the town with my family, and hopefully Gio, Robert, and I will go out again during the evening. After all, we're young adults trying to make it in this hostile world.

With a little luck, maybe we'll get somewhere.

Welcome to Santa Monica, California, home to over 87,000 privileged persons. My name is Michael Hammer and I was born here some eighteen years ago. I grew up in this coastal paradise in a small apartment that looked out over the scenic and historic Main Street. When I think back little images flash through my mind, images like my father sitting me in the backseat that he hitched to his bicycle or the memorabilia store that housed several artifacts from movies like Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back and Terminator. It wasn't long until our family grew from three to four, and space was no longer readily available in our establishment. We moved out in 1999 to a four bedroom, two bathroom house on Maple Street. 

The house we moved into was where I truly grew up and defined myself as a person, and it was everything my mother could have asked for. She loved the house whole-heartedly with every fiber of her being, from the front porch to the shingles on the roof. It would be the only home my brother would remember. Life went on as usual, learning how to ride a bicycle and other such nuances. Elementary school came and went, and then middle school threatened to take me for a ride. Looking back I can honestly say that my time at Santa Monica High School was much easier than my years at S.M.A.S.H. All in all, the past eighteen years have been pretty standard in terms of teenage life (parties, drugs, sex, etc.) But mixed in there at different intervals were little experiences that I will never forget. They inevitably defined who I have become.

On March 13, 2006, a Beech A36 experienced engine trouble as it began it's trip from Santa Monica to San Diego to pick up a passenger who was in need of treatment at the UCLA Medical Center. I was thirteen years old at the time, and I was with my science class at Lifeguard Station 26 (depicted above) to collect samples from the ocean in order to test the Ph levels. I gazed up into the sky and my eyes met the small plane as it glided closer and closer toward the ocean. I had immediately recognized that there was no engine noise and that the propeller was not spinning. What happened next is to be expected; the plane crashed nose first into the water directly in front of Station 26 and I stood their in shock as it sank beneath the waves. Nobody surfaced from the wreckage.

We began our return trip to the school which was only a fifteen minute walk away up Ocean Park boulevard, and we were met halfway by our principle. As soon as we got back to the school grounds we were herded into a classroom for us to talk, cry, and share our minds and feelings. I was sent home early along with a few other students, and I sat there at home in front of the T.V. watching the news for hours until around four o'clock there was a report. I found out that the pilot and co-pilot were both killed in the crash, and that SMPD was asking for witnesses to come forth at the Beach and give a statement. I rode my bicycle down to the beach right after the program was over, gave my statement, and tried to put that day well behind me. Unfortunately, the things that scare us tend to have a way of haunting you. In my case, for the next three years I refused to go to the beach and swim in the ocean, and the fear of not being able to act when I need to most grinds at my core.

I suppose that nagging feeling in my chest and the voice in my head that told me I'd always be too late to help anyone got the better of me, because two years ago I saved my older brother, Chris', life. For years he and I have gone on an annual trip with a Karate studio to the Sequoia National Park and camped out along the Kern river. Well, two years ago the camp director decided that we'd all go on a little hike up to a place where the mountain run-off had eroded natural water slides in the rock face. As the two most senior persons there we were tasked with checking out the "water slides" for safety before the little children were allowed to have a go. There were three slides that we had to look at, and we had already deemed the first "slide" safe and the second "slide" not really a slide. 

As we approached the top of the third slide I slipped and slid down the rock face and into the small pool at the bottom. It was a tiny "slide" but we figured it'd probably be better for kids younger than eight. The only problem with it was that I couldn't find a way out of the pool at the bottom because the rocks jutted outward and were slick all the way around the pool. Chris slid down and began to look for a way out with me. After a minute of searching I caught some movement in the corner of my eye and I heard a small yelp and a splash. I turned and looked suddenly and found my brother floating half-underwater unconscious. As I said, that nagging feeling got the better of me and I thrust myself into the freezing cold water after him. I grabbed him and pulled him out so that I was laying on the slab of rock on the side of the pool with him sprawled out on top of me facing upward.


Five hours later my Dad and I finally got him to the hospital where I had to sit in the waiting room for two hours while they diagnosed him and gave him medication. When the doctor finally came out he told me that my brother wanted to see me. I walked into the emergency room and stood by his bed where they told us that his collar bone was broken in two spots and he had suffered a major concussion. The doctor left to get him a sling and Chris looked up at me, obviously in a daze, and said, "Hey Mike." I turned to look him in the eye and he said, "Thanks for saving my life, man." That moment in time changed me forever, and would come to define me as a person.

And so it's now past midnight, and I should be off to bed. I leave this house at 6:30 AM tomorrow, and I won't be back for a long, long time. I guess I can't even really call it home anymore. I will update this blog as much as I can with my experiences and my observations, and maybe I'll even throw in a few opinion posts as well. My destination and new home is Missoula, Montana.


Godspeed, Santa Monica. I will miss you dearly.