Tuesday, December 11, 2007

It's Too Late to Apologize


I will not feign this entry as an actual post; it clearly does not qualify. It is merely an apology and a vow. It has been a long while since the last post, for which I am regretful. Consequently, I am aware that there are still a few dedicated fans left. Fear not! I have not forgotten about you. Time can only tell, but believe that I will not do anything else until I make an entry into this blog. Oh, except take time out of blogging to study for Dumar's Duo: Calculus and Honors Physics tests on the same day, which isn't so bad when compared to a certain looming Hamlet oppportunity, as any reasonable person can
assume is much more important than any other undertaking.
And the picture, well it was either that or Hova.

Thursday, November 1, 2007

Merriam-Webster would seem to dictate...


Andrew Fluegge \and-roo, fleh-gee\ n Of Philip and Nabila Fluegge 1989
An aspring applicant, blossoming blogger, and conspiring essayist, Andrew Fluegge can be seen walking briskly through the hallways of Lutheran High North; galloping at times to ensure his clean tardy record. He is always seen toting an abnormal quantity of textbooks around, fumbling with his car keys, as a befuddled look overtakes his face confused as to why his peers are not doing the same. At a glance he seems unorganized and scatterbrained, but a toothy grin gleams on his face as he realizes, it’s not so bad being different. His knack for conversation comes from his mother; his yearn for knowledge of the niceties of this world from his father. He knew the States and Capitals at three and is fluent in the ’89 Pistons and ’72 Knicks, Bill Bradley is his favorite: Rhodes Scholar and Renaissance man, the model citizen. The 36 has eluded him, as have the fleeting 1000 lb. Club hopes. Three sisters prepare him for the perils of women. Enough attitude is supplied by any of the three; the sum is almost unbearable. Fret not; he is not stifled by their selfish attempts. YooHoo and Reese’s Puffs are not Andrew’s Breakfast of Champions, they are his lunch and dinner as well.
Syn see: A Flu, apf4, Money
A Flu- In the vernacular of his cronies, an unoriginal name for an original character. A well-received byproduct of the name shortening craze that has engulfed Lutheran High North; A Flu can be seen chatting with chums and conversing with educators in the classroom or on extracurricular turf. A weekend warrior, he enjoys College GameDay, Clive Staples Lewis, and calculating molar heats of formation.


apf4- Affectionately known to those on Comcast, YouTube, Blogspot, and StubHub, apf4 is not just a User ID, but a personality. Adamant readers daily peruse his discourse on all
information pertinent to high school life. He has been known to generate a profit or two, selling tickets to uneducated consumers who offer unscrupulous amounts of money just to see middle-aged, former entertainers make fools of themselves in the latest tour of Dancing With the Stars, or to take Free Enterprise’s Dream Jr. to see Finding Nemo on Ice.
Money: An apparent appraisal of athletic prowess, Money continues to live up to his name; as long as the football is not thrown to him. The dedication in the weight room, winning sprints in practice, and even the starting spot are indicators. Just don’t throw Money the ball when he is wide open and it’s raining, chances are you’ll come up just short. In fact, the term hasn’t been recently circulated.

Conventional or quintessential? Both. Neither.

Sunday, October 21, 2007

"News to Me": Meyer Wolfshiem did not fix the 1919 World Series




Public enemy Number 1, a James Gatz, a.k.a. Jay Gatsby a.k.a. The Original New York Giant a.k.a. the fourth worst sin committed by college applicants, whose dreams of matriculation are now just about as solid as Jay's chance at love.
I am not necessarily certain what the next three sins are, heck I probably committed them too. Well at least I caught this one before it was too late. With my mom nagging at me all weekend to "get those applications done or you're not going to school on Monday" I decided to finish off the five hundred word essay with a clever rendition of The Great Gatsby, which was nothing more than a regurgitation of West Egg stew from AP Language class.
Simply put I was a fool for even considering writing this essay, if that is foolish then idiocy would describe me becuase I actually put it on paper. Enough of this rambling, I have work to do. New essays need to be written if I want to make first hour tomorrow. Hopefully I can submit a new transgression to the list, it may even become the cardinal sin.
Telling the University of Notre Dame that my dream decade is living in the 1520s with Martin Luther doens't seem that bad, does it?

Saturday, October 13, 2007

Sophomore Slump


It came straight off the silver screen. Friday Night Lights, Metro Conference style. The preparation, the hype, the adrenaline; The game, the fight, the heart. The pride, the championship, the season; gone. Somehow the proud tenor of the Mustangs chorus of the Common Doxology rang empty Friday Night. No perfect game, no threepeat, just anguish.


Walking off the field, nothing left to give; there was no reason to hide your tears. Everyone knew. The fraternity of high school football bridges the gap between generations. Coaches, referees, teachers, they all know what it feels like. Our pain was felt by everyone. Even the waiter at Ram's Horn cried a tear for the Mustags Friday night.

The muffled sound of tears was unmistakable on the otherwise silent bus pulling out of the parking lot. Harper Woods hooligans taunted, jeered, and jabbed. The bus remained silent, nothing left to fight back with, the Mustangs rode away dejected.

It is impossible to capture the essence of sports. If you haven't played high school football, it is difficult to grasp a handful of seventeen year old athletes in tears, hugging one another, muttering soft "I love yous," after a loss like this. It is a unique love, those who walk past unnoticed in the hallways, are your brothers on the field. The world of sports are filled with cliches,"it isn't whether you win or lose it's how you play the game". The emotion speaks for itself. I know how we played the game.

Leave nothing.




Tuesday, October 9, 2007


The ever important first blog post has finally come after weeks of preparation. After being warned numerous times by a certain, AP Literature teacher that the Lurker Alert was in full effect, I had to simply wait for the right topic to come along. Funny how father and son seem to make use of a collaborative effort. This display of photographic savvy, captured by Aaron Brandt, timelessly displays the night that was Senior Homecoming '08, a Rendezvous in Paris.
Oh and what a fun-filled night it was. Don't be alarmed or even fooled, this look of collection should not be mistaken for the exhaustion factor from dancing one too many 90s wedding staples, the Hustle, Cotton Eye Joe or the Macarena. No, not even a lenient Ms. Haupt, walkie-talkie in hand, Cranking dat Souljah Boy, could have kept me at this dance. Which explains, the look. Dancing my one and only, with my once, one and only, to the musical selection, "L is for the Way You Look at Me" only confirmed the next necessary course of action.
In what was a terrible day from the beginning, it looked like Paris and I, would share but a short fling. Having in mind to leave the dance after my duties as a jester in the Homecoming Court, I decided upon arrival I would look to the good doctor for a bit of advice to cure my problems. "Dr. Buuck, I know you did not attend your Senior Prom, any regrets?" "Not for a second." Well this put it over the edge for me, as I decided to follow our esteemed leader's footsteps. Pictures taken, poses uncomfortably maintained, and smiles forced, I was ready to leave the dance. After making a quick exit I was met by opposition at the door once, twice, nay thrice. The likes of Mr. G, Ms. Haupt, and Mr. Reincke all decided to have a word with the young delinquent, who leaving the dance before 8:00 p.m. must have been to no good. Yet when all was said and done, I fanagled my way out of the parking lot, buckled my seatbelt, slithered off that paisley tie, and settled down to a night of college football, alone.
Questioning whether or not I had made the right choice, as I lay in bed, I decided time will soon tell. I haven't been squirming yet, and now wish just in the slightest that I could have been kicked out of Homecoming, like a whole herd of Mustangs were, to ensure I won't be tempted to attend the next Lutheran High North dance. The following Monday, my hope was reassured as Dr. Buuck pounded his chest and rallied my spirits with a supportive "No regrets!" Absolutely doctor, I now realize, I couldn't agree more.