Lacking Rhyme and Reason

2006-05-09T14:46:00.000-04:00

So, it's finally happened. I'm going to move into a new house where I will actually live with friends instead of strangers. I'm excited in a way that makes me question my sexuality. In response to the move I have created a new blog for myself and my new roommates. We'll have a podcast up there once we move in and get settled (early August). You can go there now and look at my opening gambit, eventhough not much will happen with it until late July. Add us to your links. And once I get it up and running we can be your myspace friend, too, because that is so damned important to everyone.

LINK

2006-05-02T14:59:00.000-04:00

I'm currently working on a sketch for a mural that will go on a wall in our new house. It's going to be the Deposition of Jesus as portrayed by the Transformers at the death of Optimus Prime. If you don't think I'm a genius, you are totally wrong.

2006-04-21T12:22:00.000-04:00

Oh yeah, and now I'm not even a very good slacker it seems.

LINK

2006-04-21T08:53:00.000-04:00

What the fuck is happening here? Because it is awesome.

LINK

2006-04-18T11:02:00.000-04:00

Just a couple of things that make me feel wonder and awe:

The negation of TV shows through St. Elsewhere.

LINK

And this video. It's 12 minutes of magic.

2006-04-11T15:56:00.000-04:00

The Things I've Been Thinking About
A list

1) A world in which all the letters of the alphabet are sentient, but can only know each other through direct proximity. B doesn't know X for instance, but everyone is friends with E. Can you imagine the second hand rumors that would fly about the letters that weren't use very often? I'm sure Z would take a lot of shit from the rest of the alphabet.

2) My dog doesn't look out the vehicle window when we go to the park. He just lays down on the seat and dozes until I stop the truck and we get. Now a) I worry if this is some defect in his doggy sense of adventure. Is he missing out on one of the truly rewarding perks of being a dog by not sticking his head out of the window? More importantly is b) my dog thinks I have a magical teleporting couch. All he knows is that he lays down and in one place and then wakes up in another. No wonder he follows me around all the time. I would definitely follow anyone who had a teleporting couch, mostly asking them if we could teleport into Elle Macpherson's shower.

3) Trees are the most promiscuous creatures on the planet. You can take a roomful of bonobos and they will mate with anything that moves, but they still can't compare to the trees of this world which shower absolutely everything with their sperm. Trees don't care what they fertilize as long as they fertilize everything. If you have gone outside in the last week you have inhaled more sperm than Alanis Morrisette that time she supposedly had to go to the hospital and have her stomach pumped.

4) Spring is a good season because of all the natural beauty (see number 3), but Spring is a great season because there are boobs everywhere. I'm not talking about just plain old sweater boob, or even t-shirt boob, I mean scullery maid boob. 100 years ago pretty much every girl that I have seen in the last month would have been ostracized for indecency. And thank God I wasn't alive back then because I am loving the exposure. Or actually if I were alive back then I probably could have started a refuge for all the ostracized slatterns and had myself a pretty good time. Silver linings.

5) What does make the sky blue?

6) I think I could go fishing all day everyday. This might sound weird, but I think that the Native Americans should give up bitching about the land being taken from them. That was a terrible thing to happen, but they did get thousands of years to spend all day hunting and fishing and being outside. Comparitively I only got 4 summers of that when I was a kid, and even then I had to come in when it got dark. Wow, that sounded pretty terrible even for me.

7) Is there an octopus constellation? Because there should be.

8) The caracal is described as the heaviest and fastest of the small cats. Jeremiah and I took that to mean that the caracal is a cat made entirely of dark matter that travels at light speed. Nothing is more interesting to me than a terribly massive, lightning fast, killing machine. Then we conversationally bred the caracal with the liger and got the ligracal, which is only dark matter on the back half so that everywhere the ligracal sits down there is a bend in space time. It's a wonder to me that no one has appointed one of us as the new Eperor of America with those kinds of ideas.

9) Babies are small so that bears will feel sorry for them. Very smart,babies. One less thing to worry about.

2006-04-03T12:41:00.000-04:00

Someone else needs to find out if this thing is real or not. I will totally buy it. I will plant them on every patch of grass in a 5 mile radius. Swear.

LINK

2006-03-23T09:10:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I went to Wendy's (drive-thru because it smells like grease and corn chips in there). When I was ordering I would alternate between screaming a food item at the speaker, checking the new total, then glancing at the fiver in my wallet. Up, down, back, repeat. I had already decided to cut out the drink because I didn't think I was going to have enough for the biggie fries and I am completely helpless in the face of those delicious taters. She read me my total when I had finished ordering and glancing, and lo and behold I still had room for a medium drink. I asked her if I could add on a medium Pibb (formerly Mr. Pibb but changed due to drastically clever feminist plan to overthrow the evil soda chauvinist's regime), please, mam. She said, "You sure can." In a voice that was obviously smiling and you could tell that she was really a nice lady which is even more surprising in fast food where the average customer hates your guts just because they need to feel superior about being a janitor at Whole Foods. I smiled because of her audible smile, and then I sat listening to Postal Service and then Sun Ra while I waited in line. I thought about how much I like my truck. And I thought about how I bet that woman is really nice to her kids and how I have always wanted a black grandmother who would call me Baby or Sugar in that syrupy sweet voice and would kiss me on the forehead when she hugged me, smelling of dough and honey and salt. When I got to the drive-thru window I watched the woman at the headset register and she seemed tired, slightly confused, a little nervous, but somehow confident and strong and happy through all of that. Like sure this job isn't great and it's stressful but when I leave here I am going home to love and a life that I am proud of even if it is hard sometimes. I didn't even realize that I had been smiling so much from thinking about all of this, but when she opened the window to get my cash and hand me my food she saw me smiling. She handed me back my change and really smiled back at me and said that I should have a great night, meaning it. And I said thank you, mam...meaning it. She knew just why I was smiling, and it's not often that complete strangers understand each other so well. It's nice to talk to someone, even if we didn't say much, and mean it.

2006-03-16T14:24:00.000-05:00

Myspace finally gives me something worth being amazed by.

2006-03-15T08:46:00.000-05:00

I have a dog. He is the smartest dog in the world. His farts smell like raw meat at the bottom of a hot dumpster in the middle of summer. His name is Sanchez. I am so in love.

2006-03-02T16:37:00.000-05:00

watch this. you life will be forever changed. bitch.

Link

2006-02-21T07:53:00.000-05:00

From an University e-mail that I received re: Torndao Drill

Statewide Severe Weather Drill, scheduled for Wednesday,
February 22. The National Weather Service (NWS) will
initiate the drill. Governor Perdue urges individuals and
organizations to participate. In the event of bad weather on
the day of the drill, it will be rescheduled for Friday,
February 24.

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHAJKASFIWEQRI{POJK:

In the event of bad weather.

hoo, that is good stuff.

I hate myself.

2006-02-19T09:24:00.000-05:00

Favorite!

2006-02-06T12:26:00.000-05:00

Dear God,

Alright already. I get it. Lay off. Geez.

2006-02-02T09:41:00.000-05:00

I just drank some Cocoa this morning. The real deal, not your namby-pamby hot chocolate. What I don't understand though is that if Moctezuma drank so much of this stuff everyday why did the Aztec nation get conquered? Because I tell you what I only drank half a cup and I could kill at least 40 people with my bare hands before I even needed to exhale. Also, a rocket has just been fired through my bowels. Ah, the world is a many splendored place.

2006-02-01T08:15:00.000-05:00

Well, there goes that.

2006-01-30T12:28:00.000-05:00

Go look at these

Somehow trying to cover up the scent of your farts with a pleasantly scented spray allows the fart to travel farther and maintain its smell longer. This is a note to my co-workers. Working in an office of nothing but guys is a tour-de-force of male integrity. I am required to be more manly now than I have ever been, otherwise I will perish. Here's to building character, Dad.

2006-01-27T13:38:00.000-05:00

Go read Perry Bible Fellowship. That Guy is inhumanly awesome.

Perry Bible Fellowship

2006-01-27T13:14:00.000-05:00

Seriously, is this guy real? How can one person be so completely creepy, and annoying, and ridiculous? I have to imagine that compared to mine, other people's eccentric and annoying roommates don't even know where to fucking begin. No, you can't retroactively pay for less of this month's power bill because you were on vacation for a week. No, you had better not ever threaten me again just because I used your computer to watch a movie. No, according to the law of resistance your computer does not use less power because it's been cold in your room. No, I don't want to get rid of all my furniture just because you got a futon without checking with me first. The level that this has gotten to is absurd. I just want to live in my house in peace and quiet, not dread coming home everyday because the other person living there is insane. Fuck. My stomach hurts from this stress. I have to try not to throw up until I can make sure I throw up on him. Anyone want to sublet? Please?

2006-01-26T15:58:00.000-05:00

I was thinking about a variety of things yesterday and one of them was thinking. Wait...better: I was thinking about thinking yesterday. Best: I am adorably college student-like in that way that my parents think is naive and so I was thinking about the nature of thought in our society yesterday, which most people are too busy "feeding their families" to do (and from observational data whenever someone uses the term "feeding my family" in that special condescending way that trys to imply that they work much harder than you and suffer through it because they love something that you couldn't ever hope to understand, you should just know that they mean "watching TV while my kids huff airplane glue and antifreeze in their rooms.") How is that for a fucking run-on sentence English language? You fuckin like the way I made you feel just then? But anyway, thinking, this is about thinking and what it means to not think. What it is to be stupid.

Let's start with an operational definition of Stupid for the viewers at home, because relativism and generality and overuse have turned words like Stupid into catch-alls for a lot of other slang and daily tripe of society.

Stupid here means: Tending to make poor decisions or careless mistakes in relation to something outside of yourself. And not the other sort which describes those with a slower mental acuity. I don't care how long it takes anyone to learn something as long as they are trying to learn it and hopefully they eventually do learn it. And I know that even the definition that I'm using is both specific and general in a way that could cause trouble, and that's fine. A little trouble now and then can keep you sharp. I'm rambling, let's get to the point.

So, in all the documents and treatises etc. that define our culture and other cultures and societies there are a plethora of freedoms and privileges granted, some inalienable and some alienated almost daily, but nowhere in any of those documents does it say: You have the right to be stupid. Guess why. Because you fucking don't. No one, be they single person of governmental body or otherwise has the right to make poor or careless mistakes in relation to something outside of themselves. No one. It seems like somewhere along the way though a lot of the freedoms got twisted to indirectly include the right to stupidity. That, however, is not the same. Just because everyone thinks that rights and freedoms imply other freedoms collaterally simply because they don't state otherwise does not make it true. We don't have the right to do whatever we want whenever we want. That's anarchy, and no matter how much people in studded leather jackets carve that damn letter A into anything and everything they see there are still no anarchical societies. We do not have the right to make poor or careless decisions that are going to hurt others (people, animals, trees, rocks etc.) Thing is I tacked on the "outside of yourself" as a fun little mind-breaker, because in a Society the number of things that effect you and no one else are almost non-existent. I'm pretty sure that you can do drugs under this definition as long as no one ever knows about it, and it doesn't adversely affect your relationships with others, but good luck making that work out.

What I'm trying to point out here is that none of us have the right to not think about the consequences of our actions, none of us have the right to act in a way that will harm anything without clear and precise thought considering all the repercussions. Due consideration should be given to all actions in regards to their effects on everything else. Stop letting your kids think that intelligence is a swear word, because that does actually hurt them. Stop hating other people out loud or acting in hate. You can hate them, but your reasons had better be flawless, and you keep it to your damn self. Opinion is not fact, and don't try to make it so. God is not proof enough to hurt someone or something unless He himself comes down and gives the go ahead. Just actually think about everything that is going on around you and how you are affecting it. You do not have the right to be Stupid. None of us do. I'm not demanding, I'm stating my argument. And I'm not trying to hurt anyone at all, because believe me much thought has gone into this. And no one in the world has to read this or believe it, because making you do so is not a right that I have, and it's not a right that I want. Think for yourself. Think about everything. You are free to do so.

2006-01-25T10:34:00.000-05:00

I've only done one thing on my "top ten things to do with my life" list, but they say that if you can manage to do three by the time you die you have been leading a pretty good life. Some of them I am just not ready for, like #4: "Have a family of my own, and don't screw it up too badly". And some I just haven't really had the opportunity to accomplish yet like #'s 5&7: "Live in Fiji & Bhutan" and "See the Northern Lights" (respectively). The point is that these are things that are difficult for me to accomplish. They might not seem so, but believe me they are.

I need to start saving money or start holding rich people's kids hostage, I haven't decided which yet. Also, I need some good sweaters so I can spice up my image a bit, get more dressy casual, because I have noticed that most of my clothing is leaning toward the hobo chic look. Shopping at Habitat for Humanity is probably part of the problem. I've been poor for too long and now that I have money I don't know what to do with it. I'm gonna have to start checking The Gap and buying second-hand designer fashion on e-bay. It's time to get classy, and get classy hard. Feel my class, motherfuckers! (Narrowing eyes) Feeeeeel it.

A side note: I have finished my terrarium and it is amazing. Pictures to follow. Eventhough none of you care about my dorky hobby. My frogs appreciate it though, and that's all that matters. I'm lying. You guys hurt me bad. I'm gonna go put cigarettes out on my arms. Or maybe just read a book, I don't know.

God Bless. And Ganesha save you.

2006-01-19T16:07:00.000-05:00

Now the Weekend is everyday!

Here is his blog ( and also on the sidebar):

Taint Misbehavin.

Make us proud, Little Weekend. Let your soul shine through and press your bare asshole against the glass of our worlds to make us see the truth.

2006-01-19T11:56:00.000-05:00

I was going to write an incredible treatise on how Superman is a representation of American Imperialism, but instead I will give you a link to a website that is more interesting:

I give you Subtopia. Enjoi.

2006-01-18T16:10:00.000-05:00

I think I'm gonna get rid of my brain. It's the only thing standing between me and happiness eternal. When something bad happens it's my brain that tells me it's bad. When I am happy it's my brain that foils it. All the things in the world that I know about that are terrible, or painful, or cruel or all of the above are held in, and understood by my brain. I write better, draw better, and feel better when my brain is not involved. The only thing it has done so far is make me overly logical and unemotional, and more than a little crazy. I love it for showing me knew dimensions in the world and unlocking the mysteries of creation and everything, but I'm starting to question the necessity of that sort of thing. Babies barely use their brains and they are happy almost all the time. I think if I can keep the knowing how to wipe my own ass and feed myself etc. I could be perfectly delighted all the time. It would be like nitrous oxide 24 hours a day. I could so get down on that action. So, notice to my brain: your days are numbered.

Tomorrow's episode: My feeling that I have never been passionate about anything in my life, and the fear I derive from it.

2006-01-12T12:01:00.001-05:00

With the moonlight pouring down on me, and the inky, dreamlike, black silence of night just one step away from the cars and noise and the sticky web of life, I found my pace. I had almost forgotten how much fun it is to just run.

And along those same lines here is my favorite passage from the book I'm reading right now called Einstein's Dreams:

The world will end on 26 September 1907.
Everyone knows it.

In Berne, it is just as in all cities and towns. One year before the end, schools close their doors. Why learn for the future, with so brief a future? Delighted to have lessons finished forever, children play hide-and-seek in the arcades of Kramgasse, run down Aarstrasse and skip stones on the river, squander their coins on peppermint and licorice. Their parents let them do what they wish.

One month before the end, businesses close. The Bundeshaus halts its proceedings. The federal telegraph building on Speichergasse falls silent. Likewise the watch factory on Laupenstrasse, the mill past the Nydegg Bridge. What need is there for commerce and industry with so little time left?

At the outdoor cafes on Amthausgasse, people sit and sip coffee and talk easily of their lives. A liberation fills the air. Just now, for example, a woman with brown eyes is speaking to her mother about how little time they spent together in her childhood, when the mother worked as a seamstress. The mother and daughter are now planning a trip to Lucerne. They will fit two lives into the little time remaining. At another table, a man tells a friend about a hated supervisor who often made love to the man's wife in the office coatroom after hours and threatened to fire him if he or his wife caused any trouble. But what is there to fear now? The man has settled with his supervisor and reconciled with his wife. Relieved at last, he stretches his legs and lets his eyes roam over the Alps.

At the bakery on Marktgasse, the thick-fingered baker puts dough in the oven and sings. These days people are polite when they order their bread. They smile and pay promptly, for money is losing its value. They chat about picnics in Fribourg, cherished time listening to their children's stories, long walks in mid-afternoon. They do not seem to mind that the world will soon end, because everyone shares the same fate. A world with one month is a world of equality.

One day before the end, the streets swirl in laughter. Neighbors who have never spoken greet each other as friends, strip off their clothing and bathe in the fountains. Others dive into the Aare. After swimming until exhausted, the lie in the thick grass along the river and read poetry. A barrister and a postal clerk who have never before met walk arm in arm through the Botanischer Garten, smile at the cyclamens and asters, discuss art and color. What do their past stations matter? In a world of one day they are equal.

In the shadows of a side street off Aarbergergrasse, a man and a woman lean against a wall, drink beer, and eat smoked beef. Afterwards, she will take him to her apartment. She is married to someone else, but for years she has wanted this man, and she will satisfy her wants on this last day of the world.

A few souls gallop through the streets doing good deeds, attempting to correct their misdeeds of the past. Theirs are the only unnatural smiles.

One minute before the end of the world, everyone gathers on the grounds of the Kuntsmuseum. Men, women, and children form a giant circle and hold hands. No one moves. No one speaks. It is so absolutely quiet that each person can heard the heartbeat of the person to his right or his left. This is the last minute of the world. In the absolute silence a purple gentian in the garden catches the light on the underside of its blossom, glows for a moment, then dissolves among the other flowers. Behind the museum, needled leaves of a larch gently shudder as a breeze moves through the tree. Farther back, through the forest, the Aare reflects sunlight, bends the light with each ripple on its skin. To the east, the tower of St. Vincent's rises into the sky, red and fragile, its stonework as delicate as veins of a leaf. And higher up, the Alps, snow-tipped, blending white and purple, large and silent. A cloud floats in the sky. A sparrow flutters. No on speaks.

In the last seconds, it is as if everyone has leaped off Topaz Peak, holding hands. The end approaches like approaching ground. Cool air rushes by, bodies are weightless. The silent horizon yawns for miles. And below, the vast blanket of snow hurtles nearer and nearer to envelope this circle of pinkness and life.

2006-01-10T14:06:00.000-05:00

I accidently drank some hippie relaxation drops in some water over at the girl's house last night and then conked the fuck out when I got home. I didn't wake up once during the night, and all my dreams were filled with doors, hundreds of doors, no matter what the dream was about. What the fuck are you playing at hippies? I ever catch you slipping me something like that again and I'll kill every member of phish and widespread panic, then cripple all the guys from STS9, because they're young and they don't know better than to make that stupid music.

What sucks more is that I was going to make myself have dreams about flying with puppies. Seriously. But I was sleeping too hard to do any of that.

It would have been awesome. Me and Sancho the wonder puppy flying all over the world, seeing thai hookers, dancing on the top of Mt. Everest, eating whatever it is that they eat in Portugal. I really want a puppy. And some giant bat wings made of fire. Then I can just sit back and enjoy life because I will have everything.

2006-01-05T09:41:00.000-05:00

Magic is almost exclusively the realm of children these days. Those adults that do believe in it are generally hoping desperately that it's there in order to give meaning to something in the world, or just so they can know there's something greater than the small and lonely creature called Man, so often impotent against the many nuances of life. Children don't hope for magic, because they know it to be real without question. When everything you see and feel is new and amazing, how can you but believe in magic. I used to control the wind and the clouds with my hands while standing in our front yard. Parts of me still believe in that, but they're almost all the parts of desperate hope, hope for proof that I'm truly part of the world. Adults lose magic and with it, faith. Most of us need proof even for our beliefs. Even religions, as much as they use the term faith, still needed miracles and magic to believe that they're seeing divinity. But when I watch old television clips I can still feel an echo of that real magic that I knew when I was a kid. It's an echo from the hundreds of thousands that first experienced the modern miracle that is television, the bridging of the gap between people from all over the world. And as sad as the state of TV and its current uses are, it's even sadder to think upon how it used to be, when television was filled with images of man exclaiming at all the wonderful things we could do, all the little parts of us that made us all human, and how everyone shared them. That was the magic of it: finding out that everyone was just like you at the core, that you are not alone. And there is a very small part of me, that sometimes I can't even hear, that resonates with that echo and others from lives lived, and it knows magic is real without proof and without desperation. If you can find it in yourself you will always feel joy deep in the center of yourself.

2006-01-05T09:15:00.000-05:00

My rat is dead.

When I came home I noticed that she didn't pop up and give me a hello look. Then I realized that I hadn't said hello to her in a couple of days. All I could see was her tail sticking out of her house, but it wasn't moving. It was my fault she died. I know it was since I didn't even know she was dead for two days or more. Nothing should have to die because of my irresponsibility. She was cream colored and she liked to sit on people's shoulders and look at the world. Her name was Reepicheep, but now she has no name.

2006-01-03T11:29:00.000-05:00

This year I'm going to make a drawing every single day. I may post them here, I may just keep them to myself. We'll see. Or maybe we won't. New Year's is ridiculous, because everyday is a year away from that same daythe previous year. Today is a whole year since last January, 3rd. Not that I mind getting drunk and setting off fireworks and singing Toto's Africa in a giant crowd of people at midnight or anything.

2005-12-22T13:09:00.000-05:00

Hello, Blog. You never call me anymore. You never write. Why don't I ever see you anymore? I'm hungry right now. You could bring me some food. We could chat over some lo mein and hot and sour soup. I bet your fortune cookie would be great, yours usually are. It used to be nice when you and I went for walks in the park or just around the block. What happened to us? I was just writing to let you know that I was thinking of you. Always at 1:11 in the afternoon. You used to say "Make a wish." I miss that sometimes. Well, later.

2005-12-21T10:23:00.000-05:00

The closer I get to the holiday break the louder the Nightrider Theme plays in my head. Someone had better be waiting with a beer and a bongrip outside the Library's main entrance on Friday. Laws be damned I'm kicking up my heels.

You'll notice the sparse decoration round these parts, and it's probably gonna stay that way for a while. I'll do something fabulous whenever I decide to sit down and futz in Photoshop. I'll need to clean my bathroom before I do that. Judging from the state of my bathroom and the likelihood that I will touch anything that gross with anything less that a flamethrower (which I don't have. Wink Wink, Hanukkah present, Wink.), you might as well settle into this look. Just you me and a dog named Tim. You don't like it, then I'd be glad to accept a free, full version of Flash from anyone, as well as the newest Photoshop. Nothing inspires me more than the opportunity to dick around with something new and exciting.

My toilet is broken. When I flushed it and it just filled up with water my exact words were "ah, shit." Sometimes language is so apt. APT!

Just so you know, I really hate it when people put dried fruits or candied fruits in cookies or cakes. If no one eats them by themselves, wrapping them in sweet dough is just going to piss people off. They'll bite into something that looks and smells delicious only to find that it is filled with malicious and vile tidbits of evil. How dare you, madam.

Everyone around me is getting married, and all I can think about is going to Bhutan with The Flaming Lips and DJ Shadow. And Samuel L. Jackson can come along too. Goddamn that would be sweet.

I actually had a dream about DJ Shadow the other night.

It was nowhere near as great as my other dream though. I give you my greatest dream ever:

In this dream I am mildly retarded. And I live at an institution for the mentally/physically handicapped. I overhear one of the men in charge of the facility talking about something terrible that he did, embezzling lots of money or some other high-end, white collar crime. He notices me and I run away. Now I, and my bumbling but lovable bunch of misfit retards must solve the mystery, and protect ourselves against an evil bunch of retards working for the man in charge. The evil retards are led by none other than retarded Scott Bakula in a wheelchair. Of course the ending is a formulaic one. We triumph but with the loss of the cute, lovable, youngest retard in our gang. I hold his hand and we all sort are sad but don't really understand what's happening or what to do, and everyone in the audience would be bawling their eyes out. It was a fucking amazing dream. When I picture it in my head I see my gang and Scott Bakula's gang facing each other down on a playground, looking tough, while a giant gryphon towers over us, watching the whole thing. Yeah, that's just how I roll.

Fucking Nightrider. I am so out of here.

2005-11-30T14:42:00.000-05:00

Let's make this a long one.

Firstly, I would like to provide everyone with a very quick lesson on visiting their parent's home for any major holiday. If the parents leave or, like mine, weren't there in the first place, DO NOT SNOOP. I cannot emphasize this enough. Don't go through their things. Not even the junk drawer that was there when you lived there and has since only just accumulated more of those goddamn Val-Paks and an odd assortment of thumbtacks, some from countries as far away as Mars. Just don't do it. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it severely nauseated and psychologically scarred the human being. Let's have a "hypothetical" example just to demonstrate what "could" happen if you disregard this simple rule:

You are sitting around the big, empty house, minding your own biz and maybe watching HBOWestActionHitsIV on the ridiculously big screened TV. They are rerunning Men In Black for the 3000th time, and in fact you remember watching it the last time you visited about 6 years ago. This is of course a boring situation. You can't just snack the time away because all your folks keep stocked in the house is wheat bread, protein shake mix, and the "Foods of Nations that Mostly Eat Dogs" selection of Lean Cuisines. You can read a book, perhaps, but no, the TV is on and there is no way that you can turn it off. You leave it on, but start to wander around the house a little. You begin small, just checking out what's under the counters in the main bathroom off the hall. Not much. Some cotton balls, gauze, some weird scissors that you play with for a second pretending that you're Neil Scissorhands, Edward's younger brother. Lame. You move on to your sister's private bathroom. Nothing too great. Blowdryers. Tampons. Weird role playing garb on the floor. Does she have anything weirder, you wonder. This is of course the point at which you should stop. You don't.

The chest of drawers seems likely. Girls keep all their secret things there, right? First drawer: socks. Lame. Second drawer: lingerie. Creepy, but interesting. Why would anyone need 8 corsets? Too much black, slutty for girls who don't know how to seduce but think they do. But wait...what is this? Eww. Jackrabbit. Aaaand lipstick pocket vibrator. Does she think she is going to need to get off on a bus trip or in line at Schlotsky's or something? Ok. So, hilarious and weird, but nothing too....oh God. Oh No. Leather Riding Crop. A little vomit tries to escape. The part of you that thinks people falling down stairs is hilarious whispers, "Take it out. Examine." It's caught on something. Tug harder. OH....MY....GOD. Tangled with the riding crop is a ball gag. Shove it back in the drawer. Run. Oh Jesus run. Regroup at the couch. Ok. Ok. Just breathe. Your brain isn't listening though. Your feet are already making their move for your parent's bedroom.

Just a cursory glance, right? Just a quick check for any cool sweaters your dad may have left, or cash in a sock, or easily modified life-insurance policies. Nope, nothing. Onto their bathroom. Pills maybe, or at the very least some cough syrup. Hmm, some Prell, Colgate shaving cream, Breck, who the hell uses Breck, they don't even make that anymore do they? Oooh, Brut. Ny-Quil. Save that for later, maybe. Other than that a big fat nothing. Closets...nothing. There used to be a gun under the bed. That could be good for a few minutes of inspection. Damn, it's gone. What's that on the other side, though? Black garbage bag. Jackpot? You open it. More vomit, lightheadedness, is this what a heart attack feels like? 6, count them, 6 vibrators of varying array, some of which you can't even imagine being pleasurable let alone legal. And they sit on a nest of Penthouse Forum, Playgirl, and Hustler, surrounding by a ring of VHS tapes with names like Peter Meter, and Pink Heat, everything looking like it has seen better days, most of which were probably sometime in 1978. Part of you is revolted. Part of you is cool and scientific and detached. That part is thinking, "Hey, another Jackrabbit. And a g-spot vibrator. And that giant one seems to be glow in the dark." The other part isn't thinking anything because it is cowering in a corner, rocking back and forth, and singing songs from "Annie" that it remembers from fourth grade. Both parts unanimously agree to push the bag back under the bed and get the hell out of there. You return to Men In Black just in time to catch a witty remark from Will Smith, the black version of Christian Slater. In a few hours you'll be hungry. Enjoy your Lean Cuisine.

Now, all of these terrible events could be prevented by following an even more cardinal rule, which is: don't ever go back to your parents house once you have moved out. Sometimes, however, this can't be avoided so follow Rule One: Don't Snoop. The life you save may be your own.

I, on the other hand, am more than willing to come to your parent's or loved one's houses and snoop through them for a nominal fee of $5 or something really cool that I find that no one will miss.

2005-11-14T08:09:00.000-05:00

Mr. Weekend and I went camping in the North Carolina wilderness. My shoulders are sore from carrying all that shit 2 miles into the mountains. We still had a blast. Our campsite was secluded and soft and perfect and right on a peninsula so we were surrounded by water. We drank beers and talked about everything we could ever think about. We cooked vegetarian meals that carnivores would eat they were so delicious. We honed our skills at skipping stones. We smoked too many cigarettes. We blew up a lighter. It was one of the best things that I have done with my life so far. I would put pictures up for you, but I don't have them with me, and they pale in comparison to the real thing.

This weekend coming up is the Reptile and Amphibian show at the Gwinnet Civic Center. I am going to buy everything that I will need to set up a much more elaborate vivarium in my house. And by elaborate I mean ludicrously large and detailed at the same time. This thing is going to be the best ever.

2005-11-03T08:17:00.000-05:00

Get some things done while it's quiet.

This morning, while I was walking to work, I overheard two very boisterous doucheteers behind me talking about their futures and what they wanted to do with them. This is an exact* transcription of their conversation, please insert high fives and snickering at random intervals:

Dude1: I mean, I think I'd rather be the person, like, selling policies. Selling insurance would be sweet (said with the undertone of insurance salesmen being badass cowboys and loose cannon cops or a little bit better than a ninja)

Dude2: Yeah, that would be sweet, but I think I'm gonna shoot for real-estate law.

Dude1: Finance Law, man. Like fraud cases and stuff. That's two really good paying jobs in one.

Dude2: I don't know if I would be any good at finding...um...like on CSI...

Dude1: Paper trails?

Dude2: Yeah. I'd like to be in advertising.

Dude1: Yeah, like, beer commercials.

Dude2: Yeah, that would be the best job ever. And anyone can do it. You just get a bunch of hot chicks in bikinis and make people look like they are having a good time.

Dude1: Plus that would be the coolest thing to tell people.

Dude2: Yeah, that would be a great pick-up line. "So, I make beer commercials."
(note: He was acting out how he would pick up women with this line. There were women around. They hurried away.)

Dude1: "You know those Budweiser frogs? That was me." (note: still acting)

Dude2: I mean, plus, working in the beer industry means I could drink beer all the time. And that's why I was a pharmacy major. You know, either way I'm gonna get my hands on something.

*by exact I mean mostly exact because I was trying to not have my mind explode by listening to them.

That was the point where they walked off in a different direction.

The thing is, these two date-rape aficionados will get jobs doing at least some of those things, because they have rich, well-connected parents, and also because the people hiring them were once the exact same kinds of people. Maybe I'm a little old-fashioned, or maybe I'm so progressive that I don't know it, or maybe I'm just not a douchebag, but since when are Insurance Salesman and Finance Lawyer such sought after, machismo-instilling jobs? I guess someone has to do those things, and it's better if they're really excited about it. I know I wouldn't want my insurance salesman to hate his life so much that he just takes the money for my policy and spends it all on strippers in a trailer park brothel where it doesn't matter if you vomit because the astro-turf can always be hosed off. I was mostly just surprised to find these two dildoes up and about at 7:45 in the morning, and that they were so chipper. I probably should have asked them for a line. Guys like that love sharing their coke. They'll both be great at being mediocre. Thank God the women around here are smart enough to not settle down with guys like that. Oh.....wait.....

2005-11-01T09:11:00.000-05:00

This morning while I was standing at the busstop, and the morning sun was shining on me (but not in a way that hurt my eyes because the morning sun is very gentle), a girl drove by in a red SUV. I saw her and she saw me see her, and she smiled, but only to herself. And the whole time Nico was singing in my ears. I would hate to not notice the good moments. They're like warm raindrops that send a shiver of joy through me.

2005-10-26T13:54:00.000-04:00

Fuck you, Motley Crue. You don't even deserve that umlaut.

2005-10-25T11:17:00.000-04:00

blogging on work time.

I have come to the conclusion that we have reached the point in the year where I must once again ingest the Lysergic Acid Diethylamide and find out just what exactly is making me tick these days. Just one day a year, more if I"m lucky, given over the exploration of my innermost thoughts and illusions and fears etc. Tracking it down, that's going to be the hard part. Enlightenment is in small demand these days, and so the gateways are closing rapidly. But dammit some of us are still exploring, some of us are still learning, and just because the majority of the world has stopped trying to evolve doesn't mean that we should have to suffer for it. However, part of the quest is the process, the seeking out, and I have come far enough to realize this. So my quest has begun. With these words I am embarking on my annual mission. What lays on the other side could be disappointment, could be profound realization, but is definitely a lesson and an experience. Knowledge is for its own sake.

Also, if anyone in the area knows of a great place to live, contact me. I am trying to move out by December. I'm going to make some calls today, but not every rental has a sign out front, and some of the best ones are the secret ones. Keep me posted.

2005-10-17T09:00:00.000-04:00

45 degrees in my burgeoning autumn paradise; a world where the rain is made of pecans and acorns and leaves crinkled like the skin of old grandmas (they smell just as sweet to me). The grass outside is taking its time, no more shoots and ladders days of summer, and foot high blades of late-sunset heat frenzies. There is a dream curtain being lifted to the sound of a Liszt waltz, all stuttering crashes and harmony. The haze of oppressive, black-tar heat rises and leaves me in the moment when I forget that I'm part of the audience. The blue of the sky dances with vibrancy and echoes off my heartwalls, making a tune for frost to gather on solemnly but with relish. To savor, in food, can be to season or to enjoy the seasoning of. The air is savored once again, of season and in season. The blood of the world is slowing in sleep, but not before one final gasp of steaming breath into the skirling winds of the Northlands. The sun itself seems to sing a delicate lovers song into the orange evening and husky remembrances of life which surface like wraiths in the dew-soft fields of fireside memories. The autumn of my year peers jovially into the hollow colds of winter, into the crisp mornings of frozen breath and rosy faces where cold becomes a living beast, as it prepares to lock up the world with the hearty laugh of the reveler, and the shaking off of its skins as a dog shakes water, smiling for the sheer crazy, living, joy of it. I sit awestruck in this world once again. Autumn is a time for leaving, but proliferation occurs here too, as new birth is given to my sense of wonder and my faith in magic. The hearts are full of stars and the skies of tears as the Earth truly opens with its closing.

2005-10-13T15:07:00.000-04:00

New job, new season, new rat. If I didn't know any better I would say that someone up there likes me.

The rat's name is Reepicheep, and madd props to Paul for knowing where that came from right off-hand.

Frogday on Saturday and I am so fucking excited. I just wish I had more money to bring so I could rock out of there with some fantastic shit. I may end up coming off well anyway.

I am excited. I am ecstatic. I am the golden electrical sheepdog of the fifty-first ring of Saturn. That's how good things are going.

I cannot wait to get home and spend time with the rat. In the future I plan to get him a ballin' ass cage with tubes and all sorts of fun. And a human sized one for me. What I mean is: I'm moving out. Don't know where yet, but it's happening. Gonna live by myself now that I have fallen ass-first into a new tax bracket. (Jefferson's Theme Starts).

Hollatchya'll

2005-10-08T17:52:00.000-04:00

I just had my face rocked off by this.

Click here

and share in the soundgasm

2005-10-02T22:22:00.000-04:00

As you may have noticed there has been some major overhauling done here. Or, if you have your computer set to 800x600 you haven't noticed much because you can only see a tiny fraction of this page. I don't want you to see it anyway you nearsighted weenie. If you have any suggestions you can leave them in the comments section and I will promptly ignore them because I am stubborn and solitary and I don't need any of you, but please don't leave as I am afraid of abandonment.

On a heavier note: who came up with cheese? I mean, how in fuck did it get invented? Someone's just sitting around one day with some cows thinking, "Ya know, I think I'll let this milk spoil and add some bacteria-culture just to spice things up, see what happens. That'll show Farmer Pinchley that I'm no stuffed shirt. And maybe it will draw the eye of Madame Pinchley, because she is ye olde foxe." I doubt it went that way. I pose this question with full intention of going to look it up once I'm done writing about it, and with the knowledge that I soar several levels higher in geekhood because of it. But you know what, I like cheese. In fact, I love cheese. I enjoy the hell out of some cheese. I have Havarti and Camembert at the house, and neither one will last more than a week. Then I will move on to Edam, and maybe a good Buttercheese. Next will come a Feta and a Gruyere. I had Brie for Labor Day. Maybe a Baby Swiss sometime soon. There are a ton of cheeses and my mouth has only ever disliked one: Blue Cheese. I hate Blue Cheese for it's taste, texture, and the fact that it looks almost exactly like my grandfather's feet. Truth be told, I would sooner bite into one of his pale, blue-veined ankles than I would a giant hunk of Blue Cheese.

There's always one to hate out of the many. I love cake more than my life itself, but I loathe Carrot Cake. Putting a vegetable in a fucking cake is a crime against nature worse than Judy Garland ever being allowed to procreate, and worse than that ungodly offspring not being torn into pieces and nailed to a burning, upside-down cross before it could ever gargle out the opening lines of Cabaret. When I hate something you better damn well realize that it knows it's being hated.

Regardless, I love cheese, and I love cake, and now I'm going to learn about both of them in the geekiest way possible, because it's what I do.

And a quick message for those of you in 800x600 in case you've gotten this far:

F
U
C
K

Y
O
U

2005-10-01T18:35:00.000-04:00

I am tired of being at work. It's a Saturday and it's pleasant outside and I'm all pouty like a 13 year-old girl on her birthday. I hate this job.

Look at me breaking all the rules of blogging. Never blog about work because you will get into trouble. Bring it. I'm sure I'd rather be rolling around in a pile of leaves somewhere or building a bonfire or drinking 40's on the curb in front of the house with my gloves on. So all you're threatening me with is freedom. I don't have a family, or many bills to pay, and I can live for upwards of 4 months on peanut butter sandwiches and kool-aid. Just you try and intimidate me, working world. You'll soon find that I am the Rambo of the office. You can't scare me and you can't stop me. With nothing to lose all I can do is win.

I am going to eat so much B-B-Q this fall. You have no idea.

I'm gearing up for more apple cider, and the smell of burning leaves, and foggy mornings where the moisture hugs tight to your skin, and hats and jackets, and more stars, and a singing in the world that shakes me down to my core and just you fucking wait, planet Earth, because I am comin out swingin. In the Fall, all bets are off.

The World utters a collective "oh shit" under it's breath.

You goddamn right.

2005-09-28T10:48:00.000-04:00

This guy has reinvented the puzzle game. Click here and play grow cube. You won't be sorry.

2005-09-25T20:35:00.000-04:00

I keep clearing my throat, but there is no one around to hear it.

Do you know how easy it could be to communicate instantaneously anywhere in the universe? I do. Very easy. I just need to work out a couple of engineering problems, but the theory is sound.

Seeing the future doesn't mean a damn thing. You can't change what you saw otherwise you wouldn't have seen it. And as far as being prepared for it, you were obviously already prepared for it when it will happen because you learned about it in the past. Make sense?

I am an enigma wrapped in bacon.

The show must go on.

2005-09-19T01:21:00.000-04:00

you always hurt the one's you love.

the word static can mean so many things, some of which are diametrically opposed to each other.

how the fuck should i know. I'm just an alien.

2005-09-10T19:03:00.000-04:00

Good response to the last post. And since you liked it so much, let's do some more. I'm gonna get my damn Ph.D. in philosophy so I might as well put my work to some sort of use.

We'll do sort of a call and response thing here. I'm going to post the basic framework of the metaphysics that I'm creating and then you can ask questions or point out flaws in the comments. It's pretty lengthy so I may cut it into sections. That being the case just cover what is in the post in the comments. That way we don't have to tangent off into space or start on something I will cover in another post. Ok? Ok. Here we go.

Basically what I've started out with is Idealism. This means that there is no physical matter, only non-physical. In the original forms idealism said that these non-physical forms only existed in the mind, or in some cases the mind of God, depending on who you've read. My system stipulates that there is no physical matter, only ideas, which are non-physical, but the mind itself is also and idea and so the other ideas cannot exist within it. Let's get a little further and I will explain more. So, we have nothing but ideas. The catch is that the ideas are active. They are constantly connecting with other ideas. Existence itself is the process of the ideas connecting. By connecting I mean here that the ideas, the non-physical matter of existence are experiencing each other. Every time you do anything you are experiencing multiple ideas, creating connections with them, creating, as it were, your own existence. Of course this applies to all ideas, and not just those that we associate with. Our minds themselves are just the groups of ideas that have experienced each other in connection with the idea that is our consciousness. You see?

Now, in the original forms of idealism the problem was that if everything is ideas then why the existence of the ideas of physicality. Why not just be a mind floating through ideas? I've worked that a little. Physicality in my system is an aide. The idea of physicality, which some ideas are connected to and some are not (intangibles), aides in the ideas experiencing each other. Physicality makes it easier for our minds and to create connections with other ideas. The idea of physicality creates an order to the experience, a sequence if you will, but without the planned progress of determinism. But where do these ideas all exist? This being a metaphysical system there has to be some mention of God or a lack thereof. And there is.

God in this system is the idea of existence. If God is the idea of existence then all the ideas that exist must be a part of God, connected to God, whether we know about these ideas or not. This means that everything that we could ever experience, think of, create etc. are just as eternal as God, because they are God. They exist already, we just haven't connected with them through experience. Free will still gets to make an appearance in that we connect to the ideas, eventhough they already exist without us, in whatever way we want; we follow our own pattern. God, being the idea of existence, and existence occurring through the experiencing of ideas, must be experiencing all ideas at all times eternally. (Although eternally must be used carefully as God has to exist outside of Time and Space). So the universe is now a multitude of ideas (infinite in fact, since God is infinite) that are constantly being experienced both by each other and by God as a whole. Existence is the active process of ideas being experienced. Fun, no?

Now let me here what you think. Try not to stray too far, but don't worry about it much. The more interesting things get the better I can make this system. It's not finished and it's not perfect. Enjoi.

2005-09-04T20:20:00.000-04:00

A thought occurred to me a few minutes ago, but I was outside, now I'm inside so here it is: Why is that so many people readily accept and embrace the idea that they are physically a combination of the traits of their parents, but everyone assumes that their soul (if they believe in one, anyway) is entirely original? Couldn't it be that your soul is a combination of pieces of both your parent's souls? Or even more accurately: since you genetic make-up is a set of combinations passed through the generations of your family then your soul is also a set of combinations passed thusly. Your soul could be the product of all the progenitors in your immediate lineage back through time. And so on through history, making your soul a natural product of evolution. A non-physical evolution. Remember also that a non-physical "object" wouldn't necessarily be limited by the spacial relations that apply to physical "objects". The soul could split, branch, break etc. and never lessen in scope. Space is a physical limitation and this is a non-physical object. Setting aside the Mind/Body problem for a minute (though I have my own ways for getting to the end of that as well), this would mean that your soul would be the product of combination and selection throughout history. This leads to so many other questions and necessary clarifications such as: do animals have souls? If so then are our souls evolved from theirs? What happens to the soul when it dies? If you have no progeny does your soul-lineage stop there? How can one denote the end of a non-physical object? If space and time are interrelated for physical objects wouldn't they be for non-physical as well? And thus would time not apply to non-physical objects? I could go on forever, and I probably will in my head, but for right now I just wanted to raise the basic questions; plant the seeds of dissent as it were. Hopefully you are thinking about these questions already. If you figure anything out, let me see the logical arguments. Enjoy your homework.

2005-09-04T16:06:00.000-04:00

* Students who have been affected by the closing of their colleges in Louisiana, Mississippi or Alabama due to Hurricane Katrina may seek enrollment at UGA for fall term. We are attempting to accommodate first those who have previously applied to UGA. Inquiries from others are also being considered on a case-by-case basis. The limited window of time and overwhelming response limits us to working mostly with students who have applications on file. Due to space limitations and the fact that UGA classes are already into the third week of the fall term, we will not be able to consider anyone who has not contacted the Office of Undergraduate Admissions by noon on Tuesday, Sept. 7. Those interested in being considered should immediately call 706/583-0570 or send an e-mail to kadmit@uga.edu to discuss your situation.

They are also clearing out most of the Ramsey Center to make room for evacuees. I'm impressed. I'm still not a football fan, but the University itself has just been raised higher in my esteem.

Oh, and if you want to volunteer your house for evacuees that are coming here then you can e-mail madeline van dyck at madelinevandyck@gmail.com. There is also a meeting for those that want to volunteer on Tuesday the 6th at 4pm in the Tate Center. I'm sure any help you would like to offer would be much appreciated.

2005-09-03T16:39:00.000-04:00

Refugee housing with me can be requested here: Click This. If you know someone who needs a place to stay, point them my way.

2005-09-02T16:12:00.000-04:00

*transcribed from my paper journal*

There aren't any sirens in a place like this. At 3am all I can hear for miles are crickets and the occasional soft laugh from an open window as I walk down the street. The pavement is still warm under my feet and smells of tar. The world is wet with the afterbirth of night, and it coats my skin. In this world I am a cat as I slip down the road past all the sleeping families. I can taste their dreams they're so close. But this cat just keeps walking. My skin burns from earlier when I washed the car with no shirt on, and my knees ache from riding bikes through the dusk traffic like minnow in a school of sharks. My whole body is a tired smile. The salty sheen of sweat reflects the street lamps and I look like I'm glowing in the windows of houses as I pass. My image stares out from the eyes of every house, a glowing savior of night. I feel like I could hold my arms out and my fingers would snake vine-like into the earth and breathe in the whole planet. I could taste the breeze on the part of the world where life began. I can taste it. I can taste it in the perfection of my existence, in the perfection of the sleeping families. I turn and walk back home quietly with my hands folded behind my back. She's still sleeping soundly in bed as I climb in and wrap my arms around. I can't help but be part of the beauty. My last breath is like a prayer of thanksgiving. A deep sigh before I sleep and the whole world with me.

Written on her hand, because I wrote it there earlier is: If you were made of leaves I would pile you up and jump in. Goddamn, it can be beautiful.

2005-08-27T23:50:00.000-04:00

Listen. Let's just stop for a second. Why does that have to be so hard? Get at it. What is really holding me back?

Let's clean this mess up.

2005-08-21T16:39:00.000-04:00

Jimmy Buffet is music for white people who hate music.

Jack Johnson is the new Jimmy Buffet.

I am going to quit my newest job. I can't handle the back to back 18 hour days. Or actually I can handle it just fine, but it makes me bitter and angry and tired, which, come to think of it, isn't really handling it at all. Last night I found myself yelling at family and friends in my head for whatever way they were instrumental in convincing me to keep this job eventhough my initial instincts said that I should drop it like nannies drop babies. It's not their fault. They were just looking out for my best interest. The trouble is that they are much to career driven. My parent's especially are all about work first and happiness second. That is fine for them. But I am too young and naive and idealistic to sacrifice my happiness for gas money. I only get a small window to be an idiot and enjoy myself before I have to support my own family or burgeoning marriage. I think I might even be able to handle this kind of schedule if it were during the week, but it happens on the weekends. I am sick and tired of telling my friends that I can't come out for a party or show or drinks because I have to be at work or work early the next morning. What the hell kind of freedom is that? All I've ever wanted is to work normal hours like half of the people in the world. No more graveyard shifts or early shifts, no more shifts period, just a regular working day. I like working and I'm not going to stop, but it's going to be on my terms now. I will eat ramen and free bread for the next 5 years if I have to. The vitamin deficiencies are worth the rotting smile that I will have etched onto my face. It may not be pretty but it's a smile dammit. The bitterness is just getting too heavy. It's too much like the sack, and no one so young should ever fear the sack coming down.

I'll work full-time if an acceptable job becomes available to me. I am actively seeking work, but I am being more specific now. No more "just get a job so you can live." I am already alive, and nothing short of widespread nuclear holocaust is going to change that. When I get home and am so filled with anger and frustration that I barely want to kiss the most wonderful girl in the world then something is wrong. When I have to sleep so fiercely for 5 hours that I ignore her then the madness has to stop. There are more important things in life than money, and regardless of the veracity of that I am young enough to get away with believing it. I am also young enough to live in the back of the truck if things get too bad. I'm not scared of hard living, I'm scared of not getting the chance to live at all. I'm not phoning this shit in anymore. We all need a breath of fresh air sometime. And right now it's time I got a little breathing room.

2005-08-20T22:48:00.000-04:00

She loves me when I wear my socks to bed.

She loves me when I'm too tired to speak.

She loved me when I almost broke her heart.

She loves me every afternoon around 5 o'clock when she gets bored at work.

She loves me when we read together.

She loves me all the times I think about kissing her in a storm.

She loves me when she waits for me to get home.

And everything wonderful in the world happens when she looks over at me with her morning hair from the sleepy pillow on her side of the bed.

2005-08-14T22:51:00.000-04:00

Yesterday = worst day ever.

Today = much better.

But that's like saying that a snake bite is much better than a plane crash.

Bonus: I have a burrito left over from lunch and two more episodes of Scrubs to watch. Muy bien.

I don't think that this delivery job is for me. They're way too impractical and inefficient.

My birthday is on Thursday. Here is a short list of things that I would like to receive:

1. My rent for September paid
2. A nice meal (already taken care of)
3. Sex (including all oral and carpal divergencies [also already taken care of])
4. A tattoo
5. A visit from my best-friend
6. Drugs (most likely taken care of)
7. Megaman buys me a beer
8. Miles Davis LP's and 45's (and shit...albums from anyone else who played with him)
9. MORE TREEFROGS!!!
10. A tank of gas

Number 10 was really just to pad the list out because if you're going to have nine, you might as well have ten.

Tonight's post-script: Why the hell didn't anyone tell me that Reed College is awesome? People just keep not telling me about awesome things. I'm gonna start cracking skulls if folks don't update my knowledge on awesomeness.

2005-08-13T21:31:00.000-04:00

Nearing the tail end of an 18 hour work day you are lucky that I am even cognizent enough to update this bastard. 6am til midnight. Same again tomorrow. I work or I starve. And to top things off Murphy's Law has been trying to prove itself to me all day long. Like I would ever have doubted Murphy Brown in the first place. Psh.

I deliver breads to restauranteurs now. None of them are as sophisticated as the adjective used to describe their lot in life. I work in a place that smells like cinnamon rolls, but somehow it makes me just a little sad. I only saw one person smile there today, and he is obviously the crazy guy.

I'm skipping all the witicisms I could spout about this job: a stand and deliver reference, ya gotta sell bread to make some dough, the list goes on and on. When you have 18 hours to think about it you too can create a line of humor reminiscent of a young Lenny Bruce.

I'm going to take pictures of my delivering adventures and post the best one for each day that I work there. This may only result in about 5 pictures due to the effects of air-born yeast on my asthma. Wow. That was an urkel-tastic bit of info.

I didn't see any meteors last night. Where the hell were they, Jesus? Why can't you come through just once?

And why didn't anyone tell me that Scrubs is an awesome show? Did you guys not know that? If you didn't know: Scrubs is awesome.

When you are seeing shadow people out of the corners of your vision and slurring your speech like a drunken boxer the last thing that you need is for your close friend to call you up and ask you to crash on your couch because he has to go pcik-up the tiny dirt bike that he won on e-bay from a man who lives in Ellijay before that man goes to church. And then my boss told me that there are such things as miniature cows. 80-90lbs. Needless to say my mind has been filled with the following panorama: The red-headed squirrely friend in question gleefully pilots his mini-motobike across a teletubbies-esque landscape complete with creepy babyfaced sun, while miniature cows dot the pastures in the distance and all the while Donovan songs are playing. It seems like a happy enough scene, but why am I left with the feeling that it all floats on a sea of evil tears inhabited by glistening steel narwhals of death?

T-minus 2 hours until sleep. T-minus 6 hours until work. Sleep when you're dead, youth of America. Your motherland has her legs spread and she's ready for whatever you can hit her with. Party on, brah.

p.s. Olde English is the new Street. Fo shither my nither, and thou knowest this.

2005-08-07T21:22:00.000-04:00

There is something like 8,000 millipedes on the floors in the hallway outside of this office. Some are dead. Others are very much alive. Either the Sixth Seal has been broken or I am totally missing something here.

I saw a movie once where a woman gave birth to this evil little girl who would then give birth to the anti-christ. I seem to remember the woman as being Shannon Doherty. If it wasn't it should have been. Cause she is the cat's pajamas. I mean she's no Markie Post, but who is? Who is.

2005-08-06T16:04:00.000-04:00

I went out to get my mail without shoes on, because it's only about 20 feet to the mailbox from the front door and I like the warm grass on my feet. Somewhere near the pecan tree (10 or so feet) I felt something like a sting on the bottom of my foot. It fucking well hurt. A lot. I checked. Nothing was there. There weren't any splinters, stingers, thorns, or sharp objects of any kind protruding from my foot. I got the mail and hobbled back inside. In the next few minutes the sharp stinging increased and my foot started to tingle. The muscles contracted a little. Your average person would probably start to freak out a little bit at this point. And being close to average I certainly did. But being not quite average I opted for continuing to watch the Chapelle Show instead of maybe calling someone about it. Nothing terrible has happened in the last two hours. For all I know something evil is climbing its way up to my torso, so that, once there, it can feast on my organs. The only lasting side effects are that every now and then I get a little jolt from that spot on my foot, and it also feels like my foot is scared of more pain. Almost like it is preemptively cringing. It has already been established in the past on a psilocybin adventure that my feet are pussies. And understanding that mindset and the imagery that the phrase "pussy-feet" conjured up, you can also understand why the half hour following the statement were spent curled up in a ball in the grass trying to breathe through all the laughing.

This afternoon story break has been brought to you by the good people at Borden Dairy Products.

"Borden. If it's made from milk, we probably have some around the factory somewheres."

2005-07-27T17:38:00.000-04:00

He moved 500 pounds of furniture so that one piece could be closer to the 20 pounds of lamps that he could've moved instead. Not to mention that I had just rearranged the livingroom in a way that was both functional and attractive; while the previous incarnation of arrangement that he had made sitting, moving, and even breathing awkward if you weren't him sitting at his computer desk.

When he moved all the furniture he mopped the floor because we are cleaning the house. Like yesterday when I cleaned the entire bathroom (more terrible than I care to describe) including the floors with nothing but a sponge. The floors are now mopped. That's all he did. Except for the part where he took everything of mine out of the livingroom and piled it in front of my door. He didn't move anything of his out of the livingroom. At all. In fact there is so much crap on the various couches and chairs that there is still no place to sit in there unless you are him at his computer desk.

I may in fact be insane, but this seems to me like either a not so subtle "fuck you" from him to me, or proof positive that my roommate is a)mentally retarded or b) the only person that autistic who can still talk. If I smash his head into the sidewalk maybe he will get the point.

I'm not overreacting here, am I?

2005-07-24T16:34:00.000-04:00

In a group of about 10 kids there is always one who has to spoil the fun for everyone. It's usually the kid who has no sense of humor, but not always. Some things in life were not meant to be taken seriously at all, some things such as blogs. Before any one of you jumps to the conclusion that this is going to be some half-assed postmodern diatribe about blogs, it pretty much is, but stay with us anyway. My point is this: if there is one person in 10 who will overevaluate something that is just as superficial as it appears, and beautifully so, then there will be millions among the hundreds of millions. In the more specific case I'm referring to those who take blogging seriously. There is nothing serious about blogging; or there wasn't until these people started showing up. Case in point:

This Guy.

I don't question his talent or his creativity, he has both in spades, but I question his purpose. Blog efficiency? Reaching your market? If there is any indication that the metaphorical and somewhat literal death of an artform is occurring it is the shift in purpose of that artform from expression to advertising.

Take the visual arts, and by that I mean mostly painting here even though painting is a small part of the visual arts as a whole. The majority of prominent visual artistry in our time is being dedicated to graphic design. Graphic design is marketing. It is the creation of art for the purpose of selling something, be it that art itself or a product whose makers have commisioned the artwork. Here again, don't take this as my lambasting artists for not expressing themselves, because they are without a doubt still very talented and expressing themselves in their chosen style. The message behind the words is that soem serious kids went and ruined the whole thing for the rest of us. Somebody decided that Van Gogh paintings were worth millions and some other people decided that they could keep their market appeal current if they hired fresh young artists out of school to do their adwork. They don't need to research marketing trends because their target demographic works for them. Internalize your market. Great for advertising, but terrible for art. It makes for a vicious trend-following, limiting, and an overall lack of passion in popular art. Popular art of course being the form which the most people in the general public will see, and not that which the obscure collectors in the art world adore.

Advertising is the death of an artform.

And here is blogging coming into its advertising phase. It started small with the popularity of blogs leading to little sidebar ads. Then corporate blogs started cropping up. And then of course everything turned to politics except for a very few amazing blogs run by people who just could care less about what anyone else says to them. I wish that I could say that even the small ads on a blog are ok, but they aren't. For one thing I don't agree with the "screw you, suckers" mindset that is so prominent in modern society. The idea that "I am just doing this for fun and you want to pay, well then it's your loss, buddy" bothers the shit out of me. It's like taking as many little sausages as you can at the free-sample table in a grocery store. It's not only tacky, but a disgusting for of gluttony. Anyway, the minute that you allow someone else to put their ads on your blog you begin to take yourself and your blog seriously. You admit to the popularity of your blog, and therefore to the existence of an audience. An audience has things they want and don't want from your blog. They exhibit some form of control over your expression. Welcome to the death of blogging.

I'm blowing through all of this very quickly because it could take forever to lay out all my arguments in a decent manner. So keep up.

The serious folks start everyone else taking blogging seriously, and then it is considered by many to be more important than whatever else, and then it becomes highly influential, and then we have no joy or fun left. We're left with a bunch of imitator douchebags out to make a buck or become more popular and a powerful minority of persuasive writers who use their popularity to follow through with their own agenda. Hey! Welcome to every major government in the world!! You see how this goes? Then scholars create themselves, making the subject even more serious until everyone is analyzing every aspect in such minute detail that no one even knows what the hell the point of it all was in the first place.

Well I'm calling Shenanigans on that, because it hasn't happened quite yet, and it shouldn't if people play their cards right. It probably will, but it doesn't have to. If it were up to me I would stand at whatever virtual boundary there is between the good and the evil in such things with a big stick. I would beat everyone who approached with a grimace or a sly look and shout, "Go away. There's nothing serious here. Not a damn thing to take seriously. We're all smiles and we're keeping it that way." I would laugh the whole time.

And in case you're thinking that this whole thing is hypocritical because it is a serious rant about not taking things seriously: you are absolutely wrong. If I took any of this seriously I would never have written it here for everyone to see. I keep those things to myself, and they are a scant few things indeed. So enjoy, enjoy because in the immortal words of a blogger who bought into his own image and let me down: Nothing in here is true.

A-fucking-men.

2005-07-23T23:21:00.000-04:00

I mostly do this for myself.

I mostly do this by myself.

If anyone else reads it, it's purely serendipitous.

Just so you know.

Every reader loves to learn that they're superfluous.

The author is going to write whether you're there or not.

So read if you want, jack, but the show will go on without you.

What surprises me most is that more people in Athens don't read this.

But, in truth, most of them don't like me.

I'm not in their crowd and I dress better.

I am an object of envy and contempt.

Eat my lonely words, bitter contemporaries.

p.s. I note that Bunny, one of my best friends of all time, gets 30 comments just by putting a picture of herself with a shotgun up. Well, I will not pander to your depreaved sensibilities, internet. I will not post a picture of me in Hane's Fashion Briefs and a silver fedora just so you can get your jollies. So consider yourselves spurned, horny masses. You'll get only mental debauchery here, and if you're lucky a picture of my big toe painted red.

2005-07-17T22:21:00.000-04:00

If I could just capture the essence of all those days combined, it would be enough magic to carry me through the rest of my life without having to forget what Joy tastes like. I want to bottle up the day when my best-friend and I stood in the street outside his first real house staring up at the sky. The clouds were so marvelous that I couldn't breathe and I thought that I was going to die. The words Beauty and Joy were made of light just behind my eyes and they burned so brightly that I could barely make them out. They melted together to spell Boy. That's what we were, just boys, young and daring and brilliant and invincible. I told him and he didn't have to say anything back. He always understands exactly what I mean.

I would distill the days down. All of the times we sat at the park in the back of my van, giant jug of orange juice between us, three foolish sages pointing their sails to the horizon and never looking back. We never squandered the bravery that our inexperience allowed us. We sang songs to each other in Waffle House as they played on the jukebox, and we narrowly avoided a fight when Kris sang Genie In A Bottle to that fat trucker. We went insane and put each other back together again. We dug into the meat of the world with out bare hands and held it up as a sacrifice to our youth. We smoked too much, and drank till there was nothing to do but laugh. We were wild in a place where others thought they knew wild. None of them went half as far as we did. Hell, we went Furthur.

Walking to the grocery store when it was too hot to think straight. Eating oranges in the grass outside in a town where no one ever sits outside. Working hard and cracking jokes to avoid the tedium. Taking no shit. I don't think I can remember a single day that I regret when the three of us were together. And so much emotion builds up inside of me when I imagine your faces. The family I chose. Changed now, but still the same spirit. Shit, man. I don't have to say it. You would know what I was thinking anyway, in the sunrise of my mind where the three of us will always live the way we want, and adventure is always calling.

2005-07-17T21:20:00.000-04:00

Papa's so cold out here. Come in from da snow, Papa; come in out da cold.

2005-07-16T18:40:00.000-04:00

T-minus 5 hours 15 minutes. What I want to do is just sleep those hours away and wake up fresh in time to go home. What I want to do is just walk out of here right now and feel the humid twilight. What I want to do is to call in well. I've been sick ever since I started here and today I am well, so I won't need to come in anymore. Just give me a job so that I can get out of this basement with its lifeless machines, no grace, no folly, no nothing. Just the cold. It makes me want to burst through the windows like some giant bird made entirely of Sidney Bechet music. This room makes my eyes hurt because all the moisture in the air is removed. They're red and bugged-out drowning in all this air. And outside are trees and bugs, warm and free. Hot as it is, at least out there is Something. In here is Nothing. This must be how the worm feels in the jumping bean, all energy and movement with no place to go. I feel like I am cheating the system by getting paid to do nothing, and I don't like cheating. I would love to work hard, even for less money. Not that I get paid a king's ransom here. Instead I am left with the options of sleeping or staring or typing. Had I a better muse I could turn my free time into a profit of prose, publish a book written from the point of view of a prisoner with all his freedoms. But hell, even this is sounding kind of tired.

2005-07-13T22:52:00.000-04:00

Sitting here in the cool, summer scented dark I can hear the crickets outside in their continous high-pitched tremolo that reminds about the small ball of life that we're all clinging to somewhere out in the vast tapestry of stars and noble gases. My feet are propped on a box fan that thrums with power, and sends the bass vibration through my body, as close to the Om as we'll ever get from modern technology I guess. And how can I feel anything but content here, no matter what my worries. I realized that I am breathing in time to the rise of fall of the cicadas humming. This quiet intensity of love is much more than I am able to feel at one time. I want to go into the fields, among the wet grasses, and lay on my back, pressing myself as far into the warm soil as I can go, and sprout further than my skin will allow, breathing liquids and sounds and light. Touched by the secret synchronicity of Humoreske, I have been smiling ever since. There is nothing like a glimpse of the bigger picture to make me let go, to do high jump kicks in the yard, kicking off the heads of sunflowers. It's one of the nights where I can feel the Magic. Science is a way of talking about the world, but Magic is a way of talking to the world in a way that it cannot ignore. Believe me though, it talks back. And I'm also homesick for a Home. Glass in a front door, and a bathroom with windows and tiles, steam mixing with fresh air on my wet skin, making me feel the life of me. Who cares the course of this narrative, seemingly disjointed, but still just a murmur in the bigger babble. The point is more than just these words, but the air I'm breathing and the sounds I'm hearing and the life I'm living, which is too big for 26 letters. Imagine the vastness of space in your mind, and now think of all the others who have the idea of that space as well, different and their own, and you can see that it really is infinite, because ideas can go as far as they like without worrying about limitations. Now is the vast idea. Now I am sighing silently in the cool dark, dreaming of pipe tobacco and sun on the grass. Now there are songs in the world, and rivers and streetlights and coffee and ships and infinities more than words, more than 26 letters. Love is one of these, and now I am Love.

2005-07-10T22:02:00.000-04:00

In fairy tales it's always the seventh son of the seventh son who makes the name for himself as a hero/savior/all around nice guy. What about the other six sons? They all have to go out and get regular jobs. Some of them go to college, get a degree. At least one will study something that interests him rather than something that will earn him the most money. He'll end up with high hopes and the realization that eating isn't free. Not only that but he needs insurance and gas money and rent and thousands of dollars worth of various other necessities for the modern world. All six will face that. The seventh won't have to because his good luck and geniality will bring him all the wealth he would ever need, and it won't even be very important to him. Of course it isn't, because he didn't have to work very hard to get it anyway. The other six brothers might want to devote some of their time to charities and samaritanism but won't have the time because they are mostly unemployed in such a small job market and with so little experience in the working world. Sure they have free time for philanthropy, but they have to use it to find a dead end minimum wage job that they will barely get even with their $50,000 college degrees. Various kinds of depression will probably set in from their dissatisfaction with their jobs. They will want very badly to be satisfied with just being alive and the wonder that that entails, but they won't have time to experience the wonder because of mounting credit debt. The Seventh is happily retired at a young age with a family that most envy. The other six struggle to maintain pleasant marriages just so that their children can grow up mildly happy, if they get married at all. And as much as this is a bitter existence the six brothers will have one thing, and they will share it even with the seventh, that will help them to survive and scrape by and be at least a little bit satisfied with breathing: they will have each other. They will have a support system of people who care about them and have their interests in mind even while trying to take care of themselves individually. Most of all: people who will listen.

I have had a job on the weekends for well over a year now. Every Saturday and Sunday I go in and sit from 4-midnight. And yet almost every week one of my friends will ask me what my plans are for the weekend, or invite me to some party or barbecue. It bothered me for a while because I thought that no one was actually paying any attention to me. Then I just convinced myself that it was good that they were inviting me, that they wanted me there at all. Recently I quit calling people to ask them what they were doing. Let them call me, I thought. My phone never rang. I have been unemployed now for close to two months. I eat approximately $30 worth of food a week, most of which is peanut butter and bread. I pay my bills on time, always. I have exhausted myself everyday looking for a job. Everyone that is connected with my circle of friends knows this, or at least I thought that they did. I have surely said enough about it over the last month or so. There is no summer vacation for me. I cannot afford to party it up with everyone else, and even if I could my weekends are still devoted to this hellish job, because it is my sole source of income. There is a point to all this, but it has already been made to anyone that should be reading it. I am not a person who experiences emotion in any noticeable form for the most part. But I am hurt, both by actions and by words in this case. Why didn't I say something sooner?, you ask me? I did. I have been saying something for the past month and a half with the apparent misconception that someone, anyone, was listening. And it hurts, to know that I am alone, that I have no brothers.

2005-07-02T21:31:00.000-04:00

I haven't said anything because I don't know what to say. It's not writer's block, I just can't sift through the thousands of scripts in my brain to focus on just one. It's hard enough trying to live day to day without having to try to explain the process of my living to an audience in an interesting and beautiful way. So until I get a glimmer of one particular piece of prose out of the multitudes I'm afraid there will be a lot of dead air.

Salud.

2005-06-26T23:17:00.000-04:00

Wanted: Actors and Actresses. It's for a porno. Yes, a pornographic film. I really use actors and actresses loosely because if you are attractive, have functional genitals, and little to no moral qualms with such a thing you are fully qualified. Apparently I am the director. I'm not sure how I get myself into these things. Leave a comment if you are local and interested. I have to get a cast list together before I can start working on detailing.

Also: I really miss Flight of the Navigator. I haven't seen that movie in ages, and it used to be my absolute favorite...after Stand By Me.

And another thing: Why does everything I eat from the vending machine end up in digestive tragedy? I'm almost depraved enough to give myself an enema just to spite the potato chips. Fucking things didn't even really taste like potato skins.

2005-06-24T11:44:00.000-04:00

When you're putting Al Green songs on a CD for someone there should be no question in your mind: you are in love. We all love Al, or at least anyone who still has ears and the ability to use them loves Al. But when you're in love the songs take on a whole new plane of existence. You want to share them with your lover, listen to them together, harmonize with the wisdom that good brother Al is throwing at you. Al Green is lover's heroin. He's about the most perfect companion to love that you're ever going to get because when listening to him you can only think of the good times, past, present, and future. It's hopeful, and soulful, and beautiful, and passionate in a calm, quiet way. When you love someone you want to share the things that you love with them, and find that, hey, they love them too. Al Green is the perfect tool for this job. I put an Al Green song on a CD for her yesterday. Sha-la-la-la.

I find it odd and amazing that every few moments I am reminded again that I am in love. It's like little lightning bolts bouncing off my skin. And then I want to call her and tell her or open my ribs and and squeeze her inside of me.

p.s. we are deep in the heart of athfest. all bets are off.

2005-06-19T23:21:00.000-04:00

p.s. This is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen done to a car

2005-06-19T23:08:00.000-04:00

Best thing to have been forgotten in the 80's: Leatherette.

Word of the day: Potable.

Favorite topping of Branson, Missouri: Cool Whip

Number of animals funnier than the platypus: 7 (this includes the My Little Pony but not any of the Care Bears or their Cousins)

Random Data brought to you by my nearly inexhaustible and yet mostly pointless love of lying on the internet.

2005-06-18T16:20:00.000-04:00

Too much to cover since our last installment so we will just start from now. If you wanted to know every detail the only life you could ever read would be your own.

I've spent a lot of time analyzing the girls that are in my age-group through their various comments and expressive outlets and I've managed to glean a fair account of what they want themselves and the rest of the world to be like. Everything should be soft-glow, love obsessed, starry night conversations and secret glances, sadness should come in inspirational waves between hand holding and dancing. Here's the thing though: life is not a Death Cab for Cutie song. At best those things are transitory, and they don't hold a candle to something as mundane as taking a nice shit, which your body does all by itself and is one of the easiest, most natural things in the world. For every coy, over the shoulder self-portrait of a girl with razor cut bangs I see I will punch someone in the face or lick their eyeball. I am going to balance out the dreamy, cerebral patter with some abrasive physical awareness. I'm not saying don't be happy, just realize the difference between really being happy and some goddamn song lyrics.

2005-06-12T22:53:00.000-04:00

Freewayblogger

Who's in?

2005-06-11T22:47:00.000-04:00

His feet stand firm on the dark brown, almost black, soil; his toes dig deep, pushing grass aside to penetrate the ground, to be solid. The feet are hard and coated in a thin layer of dirt, the kind of layer that all children seem to have when they've stepped out the door into their backyard worlds. His feet know the ground well, know what it will do for them and to be wary of it. So rough and black are the soles that they could be mistaken for bark. Like the bark that his hand touches, hoary and dark and thick in a way that gives at the same time. His hand knows bark like his feet know the ground. It always feels like if he could push hard enough his hand would just go straight into the yeilding flesh of the tree no matter how firm it thought itself to be.

He stood looking expectingly, curiously, up the trunk of the tree; his one hand poised and experimental against the grey-white specked treeskin. He wore no shirt or pants. His pale, birdlike chest covered in thorn scratches and varying thin patches of earth, his legs even more so. Small and scarecrowlike, the boy still possessed a feral radiance that could only be called spirit by men. The tangle of his black hair whipped and rippled in the breeze that had come up leading a storm along behind it. The mass of hair seemed to move in time with the dark grey clouds overhead, they breaking and reforming brilliantly in the storm wind, occasionally letting a pallid sepia light shoot through, only to drown it again in their numbers. The boy cut a dramatic figure against the world here, staring at the one great tree as if it were the last.

He stared so hard into the branches that his eyes watered and tears created white streaks as they rolled through the grime on his face. He blinked once his eyes that were the color of a snowstorm, steel grey and sharp. He saw no nest in the branches, but he felt that there was one there, just beyond his visual ken. His toes released their grip slightly as his other arm came up to touch the tree. He stood as if arm in arm with the great oak. Thunder rumbled in the distance and the wind began stronger, more savage, as if knowing the boy's intentions. It would stop him if it could. He knew the wind hated him.

He moved quickly, without any warning from his ropey muscles, almost throwing himself against the tree in a leap. His feet had come up and pressed in against the bark, while his arms wrapped themselves as far as they could around the enormous trunk. His face was pressed against the bark and it rubbed his cheek raw as he began to inch and climb his way to the first low branches. The old tree groaned, but from the wind or this new injustice. The boy was pressed tight against the tree now, purposeful and grim. His eyes never left the branches above almost as if he feared losing them if he looked away. The clouds had come together as a solid mass, a tacit audience watching this new spectacle. Another wave of thunder passed in the distance and like thousands of arrows from the sky the rain appeared into being.

The child has reached the first low branch and swung himself up onto it. Crouching and holding the branch with one hand he panted heavily from the climb, his face now scratched and bleeding, the blood mixing with raindrops to wash down his bare chest. He still looked up, sheilding his eyes from the rain with his free hand. He could definitely feel the nest up there somewhere. His heart had only the one fierce desire: to find the nest. It meant his life to find it. If he could find it he could go with them, be with them. He had tied some of their feathers in his hair, hoping that more would grow from the example. The glossy black feathers now twirled by the vicious wind. It wasn't a swelling in his heart, it was more of a pulsing magnetism that pulled him upward to what he knew must lay hidden deep within the rustling leaves.

The tree was swaying and creaking in its struggle to fight against the torrent of air and water that combatted it. The boy ignored these things, barely noticing their existence so firm was his will. He reached up his hand and grasped the next highest branch, quickly testing it for stability and then pulling himself up. His palms were sore already from the rough texture, but they kept grasping inexorably upward. The storm raged harder, reaching a malevolence unknown in the world, almost roaring with its fever pitch. The higher the child went the more the branches shook and swayed. The leaves slashed through the air, stinging his face with their thin, membranous bodies. His eyes were slits against the rain, his hair blown straight back, and struggling like a mad, black hydra. He knew their nest was there. His heart told him it was there. He had to keep moving. If he could but reach it this storm would mean nothing to him. For what does wind mean to a crow, but greater freedom.

They were the first thing that he ever remembered seeing. He was on his back on the soft, warm ground, dead leaves cushioning his body. One of them landed next to him and stared with its head tilted. It had opened its mouth and spoken to him, one loud, sharp word that he didn't know. He tried to answer back. Another landed beside it and hopped closer to him. It stared at him in that strange, alarmingly intelligent way and then turned to its friend. It blinked once and then flew away. The other had looked at him for one last, long second and then spread its wings and beat the air until it had risen, turning, and floated away. Those had to be his family, and he knew he could find them if he just looked hard enough. He would right this mistake and fly away with them.

He snapped from his memories as the tree gave a great shake back and forth. The storm had begun to assault him with a singular force, its one purpose seeming to be his consumption. Still his legs stretched and his arms reached the next highest branch. He climbed higher into the mass of limbs. The rustle of the leaves had become an oceans roar, engulfing his every thought before it could be grasped. His body moved by will alone going upward.

He reached one of his hands to a thinner branch above his head and just then a gust of wind like a hammer came rushing through the treetop. The limb that he grasped for snapped from the force and his hands and feet slipped back. His head leaned back, out over the gulf of air to the ground, his body following in a slow arc, arms thrown out in crucifixion. The rain seemed to slow, almost to pause in the air, all becoming quiet and still. Time for him had been engulfed in molasses. His body slowly floated in mid air, gently moving downward. He kept his arms out, believing that this time he would certainly fly. His slow arc continued as he lay back on the air and the ground rushed ever closer. He looked up into the storm-torn sky as a cloud was broken and a yellowed patch of sky showed through. Slowly circling against the pale light, sillhouetted, he saw one of them. His arms reached forward to the bird so far above him, flying lazily as if ignorant to the storm below it. He could see the tiny black feathers shake in the currents of the air, and the liquid black eye watching him as though waiting. The ground rushed ever closer, time regaining its normal speed like a boxer shaking the last punch from his mind. The boy wasn't scared. It was his time to fly home.

And perhaps he did. For who knows what part of the bird is flying. Perhaps there is nothing but a spirit soaring gently on the air. Nothing else is so light.

2005-06-11T18:56:00.000-04:00

In lieu of becoming a mover for a company that I once thought would promote me to full time IT professional I am instead going to be mostly unemployed. I know; startling turn of events isn't it. This way I can look for actual jobs instead of getting dropped like a bad habit come July. And due to my not having a job I am going to apply for food stamps as soon as possible. I haven't been to the grocery store in almost a year.

I've applied for some jobs in the Bay Area because that is where she is going, and what the hell is keeping me locked down here? There is a sweet library job on campus, but I can't tell if I've applied for it or not because the Human Resources system only displays the first 10 jobs that I applied for. But does that mean that I can only apply for ten at a time, or that I just won't know what happened with those jobs until it's too late. Either one of those options is crap. Let me remove some, Human Resources. I will gladly decline my position in the running for Boiler Operator to have a stab at Library Associate. It looks like I have a lot of footwork to be doing come Monday. Lucky for me I have deep connections in the library, powerful connections, maybe not equivalent to a library Illuminati, but not far off either. If I can't get a job there then I just need to start felating my way to the top. A boy's gotta do...

As for Thursday night: the party at the moontower was brilliant, and happily crossed the line into "parties that make me feel at home in Athens." I'm sure all who attended can agree. My body is tired, my brain is tired, but there is still beer left and so we shall drink it. And there will be merriment. And when at last the binge has expired I will reap it. Reap and rue. I told you I cure all stress/emotional situations with a binge. It works like gangbusters.

2005-06-09T14:00:00.000-04:00

Update: I just applied for almost every available job on the campus Human Resources listing. If I get turned down for janitor I am going to be very offended.

2005-06-09T13:25:00.000-04:00

I lost my job today. Lucky for me they gave me a handout and said that I can help them in moving offices from now until July 6. I fucking hate handouts. I have stepped from white collar back into blue. Sometimes I just can't get a break.

Everyone is required to bring me things to get me wasted tonight. The period of mourning is on. We have three days. God help anyone who stands in my way.

2005-06-08T11:53:00.000-04:00

I was reminded last night of my very inappropriate reactions to people's serious emotional experiences. When a girl in a movie gets half-way raped (yes, half-way, you heard me) and after a couple of scene changes you are yelling for her to "fucking get over it already, it's been more than a week!" people will not generally agree. I just can't imagine staying seriously emotionally involved in a conflict like that for more than a week. After 7 days you should have been able to think through and cope with all the necessary trauma. Not to say that there won't be residual damage, of course there will be, but you don't have to sit and cry and bitch and moan about it. How does that help you move on in any way? It doesn't. And yes I have been through something equally as terrible, but I dealt with it and got on with my life. Break-ups for instance, though not nearly as traumatic, should only be mourned for a week. A drunken week yes, but 7 days nonetheless. There is nothing that you can't handle within 7 days. If God can make the universe in that amount of time then you can get over the death of your dog, Scraps. Not only am I not sympathetic to the self-pity-ridden (of whom I occasionally qualify), but physical pain, death, carnage, or senseless tragedy all elicit an initial laugh from me. Not because I don't care or think that they are funny, but rather because no one is ever expecting the full weight of something like that to be dropped on them at once, and I have never heard of it happening gradually so we won't consider that. When faced with such a scene I laugh. It is my brain's way of keeping things from getting out of hand in the hysteria department. It allows me to keep my cool in a serious situation. And I do. Often. So if you ever divulge some painfull secret to me, or have a broken bone or something, don't expect the norm reaction from me. I will be sympathetic, but in a way that might seem a little harsh eventhough it is for your benefit in the long run. I mean, get over it, pussy.

I enjoy going to the bathroom for a long time, especially at work. The problem is when someone else, specifically a cute female someone else sees you going in, and even worse she is going into the other bathroom. This then creates the following situation: you are prevented from staying in there very long. She knows what you are doing, but not exactly what you are doing, and vice versa. You hear the toilet flush through the wall, and you know exactly what she is was doing. Now, if you don't emerge before or shortly after this cute female she too will know exactly what you are doing. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure it out. Why is this bad you might be wondering? I'll tell you why? Because if you are moving your bowels, that implies that you have bowels, and that implies organs, and organs implies organism, and no one wants to be an organism. Organisms exist around a system of eat, excrete, mate, sleep (not necessarily in that order), and then they die. To be an organism is not only to confront your mortality head on, but someone else knowing that you are an organism means that they know of your mortality as well. The part that we each play in the life cycle, and the eventual ending of our lives goes mostly ignored everyday as do many other unpleasant aspects of existence. It just makes things easier to cope with. So, now this cute girl knows that you are an organism, that lives and shits, and dies, and is fallible in a hundred different ways, and eventhough she isn't consciously considering all this at the time that she discerns what you are doing in that bathroom, she still realizes it subconsciously and it affects her decision to mark you off the list of potential mates. All this because she realizes (in actuality she was probably thinking of a hundred million other things and paying no mind to the guy who went into the bathroom once he had crossed the threshold of the porcelain chapel) that you are still in the bathroom when she comes out. But then again I never did hear her wash her hands. I mean, shit man, that is just gross.

Shitman was a song by the band Green Jelly (formerly Green Jell-o), which was the first band that I listened to to ever say "shit" while my mom was listening. She didn't seem to care. Not nearly as much as she did when I bought NIN and the word "fuck" came up in our mutual company. She took that tape from me and hid it in her sock drawer and forgot about it, and where I eventually found it some months later, but by then it didn't matter because I was already way into my Nirvana phase which would last for years to come, so NIN was just a less pure form of art to me. I still don't know if she realized that tape was missing from her sock drawer. A month later the song Shitman would get me kicked out of my friend Nick's house because his parents were the kind of conservatives who don't like to walk past their garage door to hear a couple of 10-year-olds singing "Shitman" over and over again to a background of fast-rockin' guitars. Some people just don't know art when they see it. Although I did once pass off a drawing that my sister's boyfriend did of a cougar as one of my own and they asked to keep it. And Nick's dad is the one who made me listen to The Rolling Stones. I guess they weren't all bad. They had just lived in Ohio for too long. It can do that to you if you're not careful.

2005-06-07T14:36:00.000-04:00

Today is the first practice of Megadogmanboy. If our band doesn't kill you, nothing will.

Sometime in the near future I will get paid to go and get myself a smoothie.

I love the summer.

I also love cake.

Send me your cakes.

And I will love you too.

2005-06-06T13:29:00.000-04:00

I am happier today than I can remember being for quite a while. The arrival of the real summer always makes me swell up with joy. And sweat. Sweaty joy. It's really sort of like an old-fashioned Baptist revival in and on my body. There's even some "snake handling". ZING! You see what I did there with the quotes? Implying that there was a relationship between my penis and a snake, and that someone handles both things. You see that? Huh? Huh? Do ya? See it? Huh?

Huh?

Something about June makes me want to play baseball in the dusklight. And eat sno-cones in between at-bats. There's got to be a sandlot around here somewhere.

It's an All-American summer this year, folks. With fire and pie and baseball and kissing and rock music. Welcome to the jungle.

2005-06-05T20:58:00.000-04:00

Work or not, today is the first day that it really feels like summer. It was sweltering all afternoon, the asphalt making the world look like it's underwater, and the soup-like air thick with humidity, coating your skin with a thin film of hot moisture. Now that evening has come the sky is a symphony of post-storm cotton candy magic. The courtyard here smells like rotten magnolia blossoms, sickly sweet like cheap body lotions, almost overbearing. The heat has been reduced to a soft, warm blanket kind of feeling, the exact temperature that draws the blood in the veins closer to the surface, leads it along faster and faster, makes adventure stir in the soul. A quiet restlessness, a decrescendo, adagio. It's a time when breathing can feel like a pleasant chore. The cicadas buzz like electrical pulsing, the crickets chirrup softly under blades of long grass, the colors vivid but deep. I saw a bat chasing lightning bugs across the lawn, swooping and diving and rolling, eating up the flamboyant little dancers. A cat hurried across the parking lot and ducks into some bushes on her night errands. I threw a rock just to see how far it would go in the slowly deepening molasses sky. The world gently nods its sleepy head and everything is miraculous. Summer has returned, and with it, Wonderment.

2005-06-04T22:26:00.000-04:00

I have decided that what this summer needs is more fire/explosions/hard rock/me saving babies from one or all of the above/making out.

Get to work. We've only got three months.

2005-06-04T18:27:00.000-04:00

While walking to work today I stopped to consider the ramifications of this phrase which had just occurred in the stream of consciousness conversation going on in my head: Yeah, but my sexual personality really enjoys destruction, chaos, and murder. I was a little worried for a second, but then I realized that, yeah, that's pretty much right. What I can say?

The Beatles are great and all, but I have had the chorus of Michelle in my head continuously for the past half hour. If anyone so much as says the name Michelle I will sock them in the kisser.

We need to bring back 20's slang. Who's with me?

2005-06-04T00:06:00.000-04:00

If you don't like Jim Carrol then you are a fucking douche. That is the poetic way to say it anyway.

I'd like to watch myself holding you above something really vast like a vast sea, or ocean. And when I was through watching I'd become someone else, seducing the heavy waters, allowing nothing to change. As the sands are changing and night comes and we're not aware of all this endlessness, which is springing up like the moonlight sonata ascending from the glare of a 1000 frightened moans.

And also Etienne has blog rolled me and I found out mere seconds before I got the chance to do it to her first. You win this round, lady, but there shall be a Reckoning. Note the capital R. Like a Highlander movie. Oh yes.

2005-06-02T11:34:00.000-04:00

I know how romantic the rain is but I am going to get seasonal depression in the wrong season if the sun doesn't put in an appearance sometime soon. In the summer, because the days are longer, you really get to see just how much wonderful sunshine you are missing out on while the clouds cover your world.

For some reason today I feel deadly. Very deadly. I hope this doesn't cause problems with me and the authorities. Wait. Yes, yes I do. Give me some people to deal with. I will smite them all. It all just feels like cold venom in here.

2005-05-31T10:48:00.000-04:00

Remember when making out was so new that you could just make out for hours at a time. You'd sit in the woods behind all the houses and make out for 3 hours after school until it was time for you to go home and eat. Why isn't that good enough anymore?

2005-05-30T19:32:00.000-04:00

Whenever it rains things seem more haunted, more full of stories and ghosts. And if you ever stop to think about it haunting is really just history. It's the history of something making itself present. Ghosts are the past unwilling to be forgotten. Nothing inherently terrifying in that, so perhaps we're just scared of history itself. It's too frightening to think that the past won't stay behind us, that is will force itself once again into the present. The rain must wash away something more than the dust in the joints of the world. It seems to wash away some of the protective layers that we imagine for the collective life we lead. It brings us a few inches closer to the truths that we try to avoid. The thing about hauntings is that they always have to happen inside you to have any real effect or meaning. Ghosts are just memories until someone is there to be frightened by them. Of course this is all just subtle metaphor for the most part. Spirits and ectoplasm etc are not the subject here. The real subject is memories and the rain, and why those two things are so closely tied together...at least in my life. The sun draws you out, bott physically and mentally, while the rain takes you in. I can feel it coming in my bones as much as I can the chill of old memories that refuse to be forgotten. Particles travel better through liquids like water than a gas like air. Smells are stronger, usually of copper and dirt and green things growing; the light is sharper, and everything glistens and glows with a gentle, sad aura. Could it be that the thoughts of thousands, the dreams and rememberances and events of billions of lives lived, all still floating around, are coming that much easier across the void between each person. I can never tell if I make the rain this way or if it makes me. But I can feel the world being just a step closer, a proximity that makes me colder and more anxious. No one ever said that the past was benign, and I have no reasons to think that it would be. I think it is able to lacerate as much as it is able to mend. The internality of it makes the fear so sharp. But the haunting has to come from inside, so we all have something different to fear. The rain just makes it a little more apparent to everyone else that we're all built of such things. That unity can be more frightening than anything else.

2005-05-25T10:42:00.000-04:00

There's a weird feeling I have in my stomach today. It's that sort of cold pressure that makes me feel like something is about to go topsy-turvy-helter-skelter-willy-nilly all over the place. It's just such an odd sort of feeling. Usually when I have it I am so preoccupied on why that I never really get to examine the feeling itself. Isn't that just the way with feelings though? My tattoo itches, but I am more concerned with making the itching stop (lotion lotion lotion) than with what the itch actually feels like. I have very little idea why this is an interesting thought to me.

I never got aroudn to reading Godel, Escher, Bach yesterday. Instead I got stoned and took a thousand pictures of my front yard with a slow shutter so that I could make weird patterns. I am a little disappointed in myself, but it was fun and so that's alright. Plus I got some terrific pictures. I also took apart a baby toy to mess with it's circuitry and aqlter the sounds it makes, but then I couldn't find the soldering iron so that plan fizzled.

Fizzle is a spectacular word.

More bike riding today.

Autechre on Friday at Variety Playhouse. If you're not going then you are missing the voice of God. Poppy tea for ambience. I can feel the joy already.

Beach next week if everything falls into place.

Jeremy's girlfriend is the hype shit and he knows it. That is a cute couple.

I'd really like to talk to my best-friend today. What with fixing up their new house he hardly ever has any time. With luck I'll get a little chat. I really miss him.

2005-05-24T11:53:00.000-04:00

Yesterday was creepy day, of that I am sure, and today...today is noise pollution day.

At 7 a.m. this morning. 7 in the christfucked morning!!, a road crew decided that they should start using their jackhammer. Thanks a lot guys. I had only been asleep for about 4 hours. Then the neighborhood Harley-Davidson buff really likes to roar around the streets at 7:30ish, so add that to the growing cacophony. And of course we only live a block from the train tracks, so go ahead and toss in a horn happy conductor for good measure. This is what I had to fight in order to glean those last desperate minutes of sleep. I did not win. I can only imagine what new parents have to go through with crying children.

In other news I rode bikes with Megaman yesterday, and it was awesome and we're going to ride them all the time now. Even in our sleep. At one point I was going so fast that I passed two cars. Yeah. You know that is fast. I was like Kevin Bacon in that movie Quicksilver. That was a pretty bad ass cycle movie in case anyone cares.

Today I begin my assault on Godel, Escher, Bach for the 300th time. The only difference now is that there is nothing else preventing me from reading it. No class. No assignments. I will win this time. I even have a blank notebook for taking notes and dialoging questions with myself. Prepare for an entirely unheard of amount of mind power and revelation.

I am going to try to work full time during the week and drop my weekend job. I just can't spend all summer locked up in dark, machine-filled buildings. I will take back my weekends. I will free up time for living. You have no idea what you're about to be hit with world. I am going to rock you so hard. Know this.

2005-05-23T10:48:00.000-04:00

The old woman next door likes to feed cats. Yes, she is the stereotypical old woman with a multitude of cats, only in this case she is real and lives next door. That's the part I have a problem with. She apparently cares about only one cat out of the whole bunch: Gilbert. I know Gilbert. He is a moron. He is a giant siamese colored persian who's fur has clumped into one giant dreadlock on his back. He is a cat version of the kid who crapped his pants a lot and didn't care, but no one ever wanted to go near him. How do I know that this particular cat is the gem in her donut? Because she likes to stand in her yard, ratty brown terrycloth robe and slippers, shower cap and all, 8 in the morning, and yell his name over and over in this odd high pitched voice that I assume she thinks is her "sweet-talking-to-animals" voice until finally the fat lug comes lumbering up from whatever spot he had found to lay around and look dirty in. This is my alarm clock most days. If the voice doesn't wake you up the horrific vision that she cuts in an otherwise beautiful morning will not only wash the last remnants of sleep from your mind but also give you a grim determination to get up and away from the house as soon as possible before you pull and Oedipus with the hot poker type action.

This morning, upon exiting the house, not long after the literal cat-calling, I noticed that most of the cats had gathered in the front yard. I have no idea what there purpose was, a picnic perhaps, or a group therapy session, a funeral hopefully, but I do know one thing: it was fucking creepy. Walking past a house and having about 40 cats, all sitting in various stations around the yard, stare at you, their heads following you in unison is one of the most scrote-tingling sensations I have ever had to endure. I kept waiting for a flock of crows to swoop down and join them, one of the crows croaking "beware." I like my house. No, I love my house. We have a brilliant garden and pleasantness abounds. I love coming home to it in the afternoon after being at work all day. I feel like a resident of somewhere. I feel like I am coming home. Today I am deathly afraid of going home because something was fishy (no pun intended) about that group of cats. I just know that upon turning the corner onto my street I will see the house on fire, or the old woman crucified in the front yard, her mouth and eyes stuffed with FreshStep cat litter, or something even more terrible that I can't imagine. What is a group of cats called? Lions are a pride, but what about just plain old domestic cats? If there isn't a name yet I propose this one: a terror, as in "oh yeah, I was walking down this alley and there was a whole terror of cats eating out of trashcans." It works, because that is exactly what you feel when you see it: terror. If those neighbor cats so much as look over at our house with their beady little eyes they will meet the business end of my BB gun that is for sure. I don't want to hurt animals, but with these guys it is obviously kill or be killed. If I could fight them with hugs I would. Instead I must fight fire with copper shot.

And I don't hate cats or anything. We have one and he is a good guy. I like cats a lot most of the time. The ones next door are just something else entirely. It's like pet cemetary over there....only without the grampa under the bed thing...probably.

My boss is talking on her phone to someone about worms. Since we work with computers I am thinking worm viruses. Then she says something about blood and stool. So....that means its time for me to run screaming to lunch where I won't be able to eat anything anyway. This day is just one long Boris Karloff nightmare so far.

2005-05-22T17:36:00.000-04:00

vibrator shopping is one of the weirdest things ever. A part of you has to actually take all of it seriously and make an educated decision. The rest of you is trying not to cry from laughing so hard. I got lost in the plethora of available products and the damn thing isn't even for me. I hope you have enjoyed this excursion into the realm of too much information. Thank you and goodnight.

2005-05-21T19:46:00.000-04:00

Haircut and Tattoo yesterday. Pictures soon.

I have to say that as little as pain bothers me I still know what hurts and what doesn't. Getting a tattoo on your ribs hurts. At one point it felt like my entire ribcage was vibrating with a dull burning pressure. It was still fun though. And Billie, my tattoo gal, said, "This kid sits like a rock." To me that is a high compliment. I got a lot of positive feedback on it later on in the night. It's been called both "beautiful" and "hot" so I am pleased with it and pleased with everyone else being pleased with it on top of that.

Michael Stipe looks a lot older in person. I would really rather see him reading a book or something instead of being fawned over by hipster girls at the cool kid's bar. Oh well. I don't control life, nor do I have any right to judge it. Each action is as much a part as any other.

I'm reading The Neverending Story today for the second time in my life, and it's about 3000 times better now than it was when I was little. I have been rereading a lot of the books from my childhood lately (Phantom tollbooth, Wayside School series, Maniac Magee) and I've started to form a theory about books, though probably not an original one. Every time you read a book it's a different story, even if you have read it over and over again (like me with Phantom Tollbooth). The reason: You are different. Not only does the book change you, it will if it's any good anyway, but once you have changed the story becomes something else entirely. The author has written the words but you create the story. And if the you creating the story has changed, as we all must from moment to moment, then the story will have changed as well. So you can never read the same story twice. This is why books seem so magical to me. The point is not that they can take you anywhere through imagination, which they can, but rather that they can take you anywhere through your imagination. I suppose this might be true about movies to a much lesser extent because a great deal of the active creative process (visualization and emotive indices) have already been taken care of by the director and crew. With books it is in its pure form. Bastian asks in one part of The Neverending Story, "What happens in a book when it is closed?" The answer: You can never close a book once it has opened your mind. Hi, my name is Dogboy and I love books. They are a race of themselves, friends and enemies, lovers and warriors. I love books, and they love me in return.

I have to go now because my side is on fire and needs more A&D ointment.

2005-05-19T13:29:00.000-04:00

So we drove on toward death through the cooling twilight - The Great Gatsby

30 constant milligrams of this cursed prescription speed to keep me from wanting to tear my face of; thanks to Laura C. Flowers for putting it in the dumpster where I would later find it and use it to keep myself sane while going crazy. It always rains on Thursdays this year. When I'm by myself and it rains I am always sadder than before. I'm always sad on Thursdays this year. Spending the whole morning without saying a single word to anyone, staring at girls grasping sea bass, and red clouds, and life's works, and 8,000 different other kinds of art. My voice came out choked and glottal when I finally did use it to utter the 6 words required for me to get my lunch. Reading alone and feeling like someone reading alone in front of a large glass window, like a blurred watercolor person from the outside on an inside of smeared ink. Being a boat on a lake that's come unmoored and spins slowly as it rocks on the cloudy gray afternoon when all the children have gone back to their homes. One sits and thinks of the boat as he stares out the window of his parent's high rise apartment on 6th, making the boat feel lonelier for being desired as a dream. I can remember the mouse that fell in love with the Hibiscus flower and when it died and fell from its stem the mouse wore it as a skirt to dance in because it loved the flower so much. And I always wanted to mouse to dance till it died, wearing the flower, the two of them lost to something more beautiful than they could even imagine. By the time she leaves in a month and a half I will have just fallen in love with her. I'm always ready to love but never ready to stop. She had a dream about us dancing and making toast which is her warmth, and makes me burst just a little to hear her talk about it. Sick last night and to bed early and she stayed on to come in occasionally and kiss me and stroke my hair. I want her to just stay inside me where there is a lake for us and tall trees for shade; we never wear shoes and in large letters on the side of our house it says: eden. The dancing mouse and the hibiscus. The long wooden dock for the little lost boat.

2005-05-17T15:09:00.000-04:00

Alyssa and I went to see the Flaming Lips documentary last night, aka The Fearless Freaks. It was a great documentary if you love the Flaming Lips, and a good one even if you don't. We were that annoying couple that cuddle at the table right in front of you, so entangled in each other that they form a giant lumpy mass of person that blocks your view of the screen. At least we weren't making out or anything. How would you like to only be able to hear the sloppy sounds of heavy kissing while trying to get your Lips fix? We have more respect for the general public than that. Not by much though.

She gave me some tea to drink, but I don't trust anything outside of my body to make me get better, even if my body is who got me into this in the first place. I am going to be sick for a while.

The world of computers is becoming a little more wearying this week. I wish I could just have a month off. A solid month of absolutely nothing to do. I would tear my hair out from the boredom and love every second of it. Here's to hoping that I get fired.

2005-05-16T18:44:00.000-04:00

I am a graduate. A very sick graduate.

Click the buzznet thingy to see highlights.

2005-05-13T14:02:00.000-04:00

Warning: The Following Post Contains Nothing But Porn!!
If that offends you then stop reading....pansy.

This is not to be taken seriously...which is too, too bad.

Ann Coulter Sex Fiction + Hilarity = A dirty feeling and a smile.

The Suicide Girls and Eon McKai team up to make a video for Louis XIV. The song aint half bad either.

This is just brilliant.

PERVERT: The Movie. Porn that makes fun of itself is both wonderful and disgusting...though the disgusting just makes it more wonderful.

That's it for today. I hope most of you enjoyed our little foray into the world of pornography. Truth of the matter is none of it was anything serious. It was like a light lunch. Bon Apetit

2005-05-11T11:30:00.000-04:00

This happened while we were walking home last night (we= Me+Alyssa).

*walking along*
*Brad stops...listens....thinks he hears a tree frog somewhere in the vicinity of the apartment complex on his left*
*Alyssa stops*
Brad: Do you hear that?
Alyssa: What is it?
Brad: Tree frog?
*sound increases in volume and slightly in pitch*
*Brad's facial expression changes from standard to mirth in .3 seconds*
*Alyssa gives him a quizzical look of disbelief*
*sound has been revealed to be a woman moaning/panting*
Brad: Wow. That makes my night.
Alyssa: That is pretty great.
Brad: It's like overhearing a nice secret that was never meant for you.

The only problem was later when I started to worry if that same thing was happening only now we were on the other side of that situation. It's too hot to not have a window open at night. Could people hear us from the street? Were they silently judging? At that point I got...er...distracted and realized that I didn't really care either way. I hope we made someone's night as well.

This morning when we were walking downtown so I could go to work we had to pass the same building only we were on the other side of the street. I paused and listened. Sure enough. We dashed across the street, but might have made too much noise doing so because it had stopped by the time we got over there. Way to go, mystery lady. If I had some Mentos on me I would have given you a giant thumbs up as soon as you noticed us listening. We both agreed that it was hot though. Aint gonna deny the sexiness...and slight perviness of that situation. Lucky for me I'm comfortable with my kinks.

2005-05-10T15:50:00.000-04:00

The post-graduation ecstasy comes to me in little bursts. When wondering what I should do for the evening there is instinctually the initial "well, what do I have due?" only to now be quickly followed by a loud "NOTHING" in my head. And now that work starts at 10 a.m. instead of 8 I don't have to worry about getting up so early. My sleep is no longer desperate. It takes its time, strolls around a bit, stops to have a hot dog in the park, maybe smell some flowers. My sleep has taken its shoes off and put its feet up on the table. I sleep like the long relaxed sigh after the first sip of cold beer on the hottest day of the summer. I can physically feel the burden having been lifted, like floating when I walk down the street. The breezes are cool and I follow their lead. My life has always been my own, but the various excuses I've had kept me from living it the way I really wanted. One of the last giant excuses is dead at last, so live now or forever hold your peace. Drink more soda. Stay in hotels with roaches. Eat things that have a myth behind them. Take off your shoes in the tall grass and try to feel for snakes with your toes. Dance. Sing your own made-up songs. Pretend to be a firework and rocket around the front yard. Jaunty is my new word. Fear has been cast off. This is no metamorphosis, this is a realization of all that I can think of. This is actualization. Liberation. And it hasn't felt this good for years. Not since Sundays of fireflies and forts and sleeping in my backyard with the dog under the giant pecan tree. I can hear a whistle of welcome on the breeze. Welcome to the rest of my life.

2005-05-07T20:32:00.000-04:00

A modern dilemma: is it acceptable to buy condoms on Mother's Day? At least I wouldn't be buying her flowers and my condoms together. Just imagine the semi-questioning look on the clerks face as he rang up my purchases.

I would reply with a quick nervous laugh and "I love my mom."

If you can't fuck with the service industry who can you fuck with?

I still need the condoms though.

2005-05-06T08:51:00.000-04:00

Last night we had una celebracion de Cinqo de Mayo. This just means that we went to a Peruvian restaurant near my house and drank a lot of beer. Megaman kept yelling about Cinqo de Marzo over and over. Rob poured water on his pants several times because they are made of something that water can't stick to. He tried to impress the waitress with his fluency in Spanish. What he didn't stop to think about is that why would she be impressed with someone who can speak a language that pretty much everyone speaks where she comes from. I'm not impressed when people speak English to me. Americans just can't escape that fallacy. Eventually he poured water on his pants to impress her and she hilarously blew it off in a cute little venezuelan woman way. Then Paul's girlfriend pissed her off by calling her Colombian. Jeremy got called Bryan all night for absolutely no reason other than we wanted to call him Bryan. Rob's date told us how she was half American Indian and then we all yelled various witicisms based on popular stereotypes at her while she laughed so hard that she was constantly spitting beer all over herself. We all talked very loudly about how lame sombreros were because a guy sitting behind us wearing one had given us a scathing look when we came in. The toilet in that place was the deepest that I have ever seen. Rob ordered Horchata and I think I drank most of it because no one seemed to be touching it. It was like a little taste of heaven. Some went downtown for the salsa dancing (rob is teaching himself flamenco) but I went home because my brain was tired from writing the philosophy paper that ended up being 3 pages too short and not worth a damn anyway.

I will have finished college in t-minus 11 hours and counting.

Is tomorrow going to look any different because of it, or will it be one of those things that will take a while to really sink in? I want to wake up with the song "I'm walking on sunshine" playing, I really hate that song, but it seems like it would be necessary to really convey the idea of my being happy about graduating.

2005-05-05T15:02:00.000-04:00

There are times when it feels like I am in complete unity with my destiny. There is no conflict between myself and whatever fabric I'm walking at the time. It feels most like I am reaching into the very soul of the world and running my fingers through the various strands, choosing which are meant for me. I can think of a person and the next instant I will see them come around a corner. It's been happening more and more these days. The happier I become the less I have to try to live and the less I try the more the universe just unfolds its mysteries before me. Call it a taste of Nirvana. A split-second glimpse into the future right before it happens. Premonitory. Powerful. And wholly for my benefit just because I'm not trying to make it any other way. If you expect everything then the unexpected never happens.