Hmm. My friend moved to Chicago yesterday. Which makes me sad.

But I found out they released one of the Cremaster cycles on DVD. Which makes me slightly happier.

I went ahead and added some links to blogs I read semi-regularly. I don't actually know any of these people (except for blogaventure, who I've seen walk through the room SEVERAL times, and has a car that will someday fly), but there you go. Soon I will probably be attempting to add you cats to friendster. (I WILL beat Jal!!!...maniacal laughter) I also added Plane Rep, which is a promotions company (group? co-op? commune?) run by my friend Carrie. Her job is so much cooler than mine. Wow, I need to stay far away from the computer when I'm messed up. Luckily the existance of this blog is keeping me from sending friendster messages to ex-boyfriends. Ill-advised, my friends. Ill-advised. I really do want to know what's with the make-up. Because it's just plain scary is what it is. Is what it is.
On the positive side, I did get two modeling gigs today. That almost never happens. And by almost I mean never.
Alright, off to Jackie's birthday party. I love dancing.
Oh, and sorry about any friendster testamonials written in or within the surrounding hours.

God, I am so freaking tired. Rediculously tired, even. The R.E.M. show last night was awesome, though, and completely worth the loss of sleep. Instead of writing anything comprehensive myself, I'll just direct everyone over to V+'s blog and let him do the talkin'.

Headline of the day:
"Now is the winter of our discount tent."

I didn't write that (thank god).

I just looked up directions to the R.E.M. show in Birmingham tomorrow (actually Pelham, AL, south of Birmingham). Get the shotgun ready because the directions include, no kidding, taking a right at the log cabin.

I might make a Falco song play when you open this page. "Vienna Calling," I think.

Well, this is addictive.

Some of the guys at work are going to make bumper stickers that read "My girlfriend is an honor student at Woodward Academy."

Some observations:

I've written more billboards lately than anyone should have to in their entire life.

I'm so glad there's an R.E.M. show to cut this week in half. Otherwise it might be unbearable.

Last night I went to see a DJ spin at Echo Lounge, and I felt old. I then walked over to Raw (R.Land's gallery) to see a punk band and I felt young. Then it started raining and I felt moisty.

I'm going to Circus graduation this afternoon. People keep asking me who I'm going to graduation to see. I don't know. Random friends? It's an excuse to leave work, people. I'm thinking I would make a really good DJ. Not the radio kind, but the 2 turntable sort.

Also, right now I'm listening to "fhqwhgads," starring Strong Bad.

Last night I noticed they used an Interpol song in an episode of "Friends." Interpol seems less cool now, if they ever were to begin with. I'm strictly listening to The Rapture now. Ok, that's a lie. I still love you, Interpol.

What an odd morning. It seems as though last night some young vandal took it upon his or herself to slash tires in our apartment parking lot. For some reason my car (along with one or two others) was spared. The irony being that I need new tires, and the insurance company picking up the bill for it sure would've helped. The chicken bomb is starting to smell. It's going to be lovely in here Monday.

How much do I like the new R.E.M. video? A lot, that's how. I made my art director watch it, who does not at all like R.E.M. and he even thought the video was really cool. (he later admitted that the real reason he doesn't like R.E.M. has less to do with the music than it does with the fact that he can't look at Stipe for very long.)

This morning I watched Matt Lauer interview David Bowie on the Today Show. It was kind of painful, in a way.

I love the band enon. I went to see the band enon last night. I did not appreciate it when the lead singer (who seemed beyond wasted) began berating the crowd. I don't know. Maybe I was in a bad mood.

Do you think the Carbonas argue before every show about who's pants are the tightest?

Mark's new automatic out-of-office reply on his e-mail:

I�m currently out of the office as I�m going to my high school reunion.

Yes it�s true. I�m having my high school reunion. Which should be nice, because I was home schooled and this will be the first time I will have seen my parents since college. My Mother and Father have told me to look at them as teachers and not as parents on this occasion, being that this is a school function and not a family one. They�ve even insisted that I call them Mr. and Mrs. Billows and that I wear a one of those �hello my name is� stickers so they�ll know who I am. Certainly, most people have never been home schooled and some, if not all of you, are probably interested in how my home schooling was different than your own schooling. So I�m going to quickly describe it for you.

My home schooling was probably typical of any school. I had extracurricular activities just like you did, for instance I was yearbook chairmen, class president, and captain of the chess club. I also had a senior prom, which consisted of my mother, my father, and myself standing around a punch bowl. It was a good time until my father saw me dancing with my mother and hit me with a beer bottle. I think that whole episode is why I went from an A to a C in his history class, but I graduated from Billows High, that�s what my parents called it, and started looking at Colleges. I applied to several Universities out of state, all of which sent back very pleasant letters if it were not for the word rejection repeated several times. I did however get an acceptance letter from Billows A&M, which strangely enough was located in my very own basement. I felt quite fortunate for the acceptance as I hadn�t even applied there, but the letter explained, and I quote, �Your advancement through the prestigious Billows High as well as being under the tutelage of the fine teachers who grace that school is qualification enough for you attend our college.� So I packed up my stuff, said goodbye to my parents, drove around the block three times and then pulled back into my driveway where I was greeted by Professors Mr. and Mrs. Billows.

I was nervous like any other college student upon their first days on campus - you know, about fitting in and stuff like that. I noticed a flyer on the refrigerator for pledging a fraternity. So I figured it was worth a shot. The fraternity consisted solely of my Father at the time and the only pledges were me and Rosco, the family dog. Initiation consisted of doing the chores I normally do, except this time I was to do them drunk. Two weeks later I became a proud member of Alpha Sigma Sigma.

Unfortunately, being an Alpha Sigma Sigma didn�t do much for my social life. We threw parties that basically ended up like my senior prom did, except it happened much more frequently and painfully. Most of my fraternity life was spent in the basement listening to my Dad talk about Vietnam, or Nam, as he liked to refer to it. He�d tell me about all the buddies he lost in places that sounded like food packed with MSG. He�d always start out with something like, �We were in the Migong Delta, and me and this greenhorn private were leading our platoon into the jungle�� Every one of these stories, regardless of how they started always ended with some guy being blown to pieces all over my father. In this particular story it was the greenhorn private. The only thing I could surmise about Vietnam was that if you were within a ten foot radius of my father you were going to explode into a bloody mess and be buried in a shoebox.

Anyway, after telling me how every friend he had died, he would proceed to tell me how I wouldn�t last five minutes in Nam. He would begin by informing me of all the numerous ways I could die in the jungles of Southeast Asia. Imaginary tales of me being shot or blown apart in rice patties, villages, and rainforests made for very stimulating conversations. I of course would counter his scenarios with my own. One�s in which I would stitch up my wounds, or in some cases, regenerate my limbs like a combat hardened starfish, and set out with only a knife and some piano wire and proceed to wipe out an entire brigade of VC regulars. My father hated my scenarios and would scream, �That crap only happens in the movies you jack ass.� But by the time he finished his sentence I had already been shipped back stateside to receive the Congressional Medal of Honor from Lyndon Johnson.

Amazingly, my history classes were virtually the same thing as my fraternity. I spent the better part of my first four semesters listening to my father continually talk about Vietnam. Somehow he believed that all of human history was neatly bundled into a small thied world country halfway around the world. By my sophomore year my mental stamina for this particular conflict in this particular country began to wane. This was apparent to my father who finally accused me of failing to respect the job he did in Vietnam. I replied that I thought killing serves a great many purposes and that there should be more of it. I then went on to say that it was terribly rude of Vietnam to hog most all of the world�s killing from 1966 to 1974. My father took my sarcasm as sarcasm and hit me with a beer bottle.

Besides lectures, many of my history lessons were spent learning how to take apart and then reassemble an M-16 assault rifle until I could do it blindfolded. My father then came to the conclusion that all my final exams should be done blindfolded. Much to his surprise, I proceeded to fail that semester as well as lose two fingers. Fortunately my fingers where reattached. However they put the wrong fingers on the wrong stumps. I wanted my parents to sue for malpractice, but they replied that suing wouldn�t be as humorous as my hand was. And the matter was summarily dropped.

As you can see my college career wasn�t turning into all that good a time. I decided at this point to quit my fraternity and drop my major in history. This began the downward spiral of my college experience. Eventually I became depressed to the point that my grades suffered. Plus I started making a habit of skipping classes, which was no easy task. I basically had to hide in my attic like I was Anne Frank. And just like Anne Frank, I kept a diary in hopes that it to would one day be published and become required reading at middle schools everywhere, but before I could get passed my first entry the Nazis busted in. Okay, maybe they weren�t real Nazis, but that�s what I screamed as my parents dragged me downstairs to class.

By the beginning of my senior year I had the distinct feeling my parents were passing me just to get me out of the school. One of my requirements for graduation was to write a thesis. So I wrote one entitled, �You�re both Fascists and here are sixty-seven pages why.� It received an F. I think the spelling mistakes are what did me in. Anyway, because of that grade I failed to graduate from Billows A&M. However, several months later I was given an honorary degree on the condition that I move out. I agreed, and that was the extent of my home schooling.

I�ll be back after the reunion.

Maybe I should stop leaving my house.
Maybe that's the problem.
Yesterday I felt like getting a real fruit smoothie, but I wanted company as well. I wasn't sure who to call so I ended up listening to Kraftwerk instead. Nobody is not on fire.

RIP Johnny Cash.

Friendster is evil. It sucks away time and inflicts unnecessary pain.
It's nothing but a hipster clusterfuck.

Went and saw The Sounds last night. Very rad. Very dance-able. Very hot. Swedes are hot.

On a happier note, I think I must repel men. Just, you know, in general.

Good name for a smartass death metal band: Sarchasm.

There really aren't any convincing modern-day beats. Sometimes I have the strong desire to dress in black, smoke opium and just see what kind of creative shit occurs.

I tried it one day, about two years ago during a Kerouac phase. Sans the opium. I was pseudo-beat, at best. It was probably the lack of opium.

I'm going to go to the store downstairs and attempt to have an interesting customer service experience.

My ability to lose important documents is amazing. Uncanny, even.

Clearing up a couple of hipster rumors floating about:
1. A DJ did not go flying through the air as a result of a spat last Friday night at Lennys. Someone knocked someone else down. That's it.

2. The drunk driver at the drive-in invasion only hit one guy in a chair (and a couple of cars). Yes, the ambulances came, but there was not a death race 2000 type massacre.

And don't for a second think I won't light you on fire as well.

Because I'll do it.

Death Race 2000 is now my favorite movie. I just ordered it from Amazon.com, and when it arrives there will be a Death Race 2000 party. Oh yes.
You have to dress like Carradine.