"War with hipsters. Trustfund babies should not be allowed to own records.
Enough said." -Jennifer Trezza, who will be performing with The Prids Saturday nite at Lenny's, presumably for a bunch of hipsters.

Last night I saw credits roll near the end of my afterhours dream and everyone was playing themselves and I was a supporting character in small print. Except it didn't end with credits because I tried to hide on the stairs and in the bathtub and he said "if you say a word twice does it lose all meaning? Try it." which killed any lingering romance. If it were a real movie it would be depressing the way wood panel is depressing under bad light.

Ok. Maybe it's just me.

My friend Sam wrote this:

To the editor of People in response to the article concerning the sexiest man alive.

Dear Editor,
This letter is the first of many that you will be recieving I am sure.
While I do not subscribe to your magazine I do occasionally see the
cover while at the local supermarket. It was just last night while I was
picking up some Vitamin B-12 I noticed the cover to your magazine. I
must say that was as far as I got. After reading the words emblazoned
on the cover that stated Johnny Depp was the sexiest man alive, I went
into a panic. I got a little dizzy and my mind started racing. I screramed
at the lady behind, "Hold me, I think I may very well be dead!" She
looked at me with fear in her one good eye and fled to the frozen foods
section some twenty yards away. "Can you see me?" I asked the cashier.
After he tried to kick the bejeezus out of me, I threw a five on the
floor and ran out of there clutching my B-12. As you might imagine,
the bus ride home was just as strange. Surely these people can see me, I
thought to myself. Yet, like a ghost, I sat silent at the back of the
bus. It took me quite some time after I got home to realize that I was
alive, and you, sir, had made a horrible mistake. I do not know
whether it was the fact you did not know I was still alive or the quality of
your research department had slipped greatly. In either case someone should
be reprimanded for the error which dashed my sexiness onto the rocks of
uglification. I have started a grass-roots campaign to get a recall
vote going and be forewarned, it is quickly and quietly gathering speed.
Like a riptide of radiant beaty against a wave of withering sexiness this
procession will spread throughout your readers and leave them demanding
a recall in this illegitimate crowning. I speak for the people, sir, and
with great pride I say, "WE WANT A RECALL!"

Vote Sam!

Me and Kristin under surveillence.

"Concourse" is one of my favorite words. It's very mod, don't you think?

Home, provided I was actually remembering "home" and not a carefully planted facsimile, promised mismatched socks and less-than-glossy backissues.
So driving driving and eventually I end up in a chair, because eventually everyone ends up in a chair. They don't want to explain the chair, or explain themselves in the chair, because even after years and years of French kings named Louis trying to glam up the chair, a chair remains inherently boring.
"Of course you could, say, trip over the chair or throw the chair and then you really have something. But my god. Furniture. Is it really worth the effort?"
"Well. Beds, probably. Posturepedic."
We were trying to layer topic on top of topic and still retain coherence, scattering "uh-huhs" and furiously bobbing heads. Trying to remember where we lost track proved dangerously close to migraine territory.
But there really is no better way to spend a Sunday morning, into Sunday afternoon, into Sunday evening. Because we did after all have what in common, and had who in common and could throw around names and places in record time. And motivation! like a poster, like a sad motherfucking school counselor. Yeah, everything's on fire sometimes. Just give it a day or two.
Every time is like coming back to life, like coming back to life after a small death, just look away or you'll see how scary a blank stare gets.
She likens it to the pull-cord bringing the living, breathing, talking true-to-life as it gets doll back to life so it can kick and scream it's little cord out.
"Just don't let it get stuck." Too long alive and the doll begins to think everything is real and everything can stay magnificently real. The cord rips, she falls too fast. It hurts.
"I'm fine. Really. God, I hate metaphors. Why do I spout metaphors? Shit."
Feet. One. Two. Still there. Excellent.

"I've got a fever. And the only prescription is more cowbell."

Maybe I'll shake it up and become the female portion of a female/MALE DJ team. We'd be called DJs Steve and Edie. And if anyone asked, that's Steve McQueen and Edie Sedgewick to you.

From McSweeneys.

A N���O P E N���L E T T E R
T O���U M L A U T .

October 13, 2003

Dear Umlaut,

You think you're so damn cool, huh? Just hanging out, chillin', above all those vowels. You're all, "Ooh, look at me, I'm a chic umlaut. I make girls' names look modish, like Zo� and Chlo�, and I rock with strung out '80s metal bands!"

Well, guess what? You're only an umlaut if you're modifying the pronunciation of a singular vowel, like in "F�hrer" or "�ber." If you're stressing the second of two consecutive vowels or one that would usually be silent according to common English usage, you're just a plain old boring dieresis. How 'bout that, you na�ve jackass? God, you're such a poseur, umlaut. You're nothing but two measly dots. You're a Eurotrash colon lying down. Nobody thinks you're cool.

Sincerely,
Josh Abraham
Kew Gardens, NY

There really are no words to describe how wierd and funny last night's Captured! by Robots show was. It was some sort of musical (death metal, mostly) reenactment of the Ten Commandments, starring J-Bot as Charlton Heston as Moses and the other robots as the supporting cast. Interaction sort of went as follows:
"Let my people go!"
"No! Fuck you!"
"Please?"
"I said no!"
Hopefully Jal will have the pictures up soon so I can post some on here.

Anyone else notice the larger and larger amount of bad/uninteresting photos on the "most viewed" list on fotolog?

Does bashing The Hiss and watching episodes of Sex and the City count as productive? If so I had an incredibly productive Sunday.

The hipster trend of two-girl DJ "teams" is nauseating. They usually just stand behind the turntables looking bored, because they are bored, because they're too good for all this. Get a motherfucking job.

Don't look at me with those puckered lips.

I now have pizza. Life is ok.

Melting Dolls has the Designing Women Quiz. I am blatantly ripping her off as I bring you the WHICH GOLDEN GIRL ARE YOU? quiz. It don't get much better than this, folks.

I also have huge hair.

If you're gonna eat lunch at a small airport, make it "Downwind." (don't ask)

Nobody but nobody is on AOLIM today. And that's a shame. A damn shame.

I'm listening to "Up" right now. It's not that bad. Actually I kinda like it. Yeahhh...then again you have to take into account that I'm losing my mind one healthy cell at a time.

Is anyone still angry about the assasination of Lincoln? Becauce the folks at Cingular sure think so.

Today I paid 5.99 for three bites of noodles. I'm such a rock star, wasting food.

I had to sit down this morning after blow-drying my hair, because I used up too much energy and got tired. Fuck. Can I sleep on this desk?

It sucks when there's someone in the world that hates you so much they can't stand to be in the same room as you.
It sucks even more when you don't know why they hate you.

This is soooo good.

Saturday nite was my friend Kristin's birthday shindig. And oh what a shindig it was! I always enjoy an evening that ends with someone hanging a giant satellite dish from the ceiling. Chris said he was going to hang all his furniture from the ceiling. I told him he could be like Christo, except with hanging.



That's me (looking fabulous...I wasn't actually drunk at all) and Carrie, who is mentioned in the AJC article on Friendster (she calls it electronic crack. I'm suprised the AJC printed the word "crack").

He had read "The Stranger" at least a dozen times, judging by the dog-eared copy that managed to find it's way across the floor and into my hands. He could quote Camus. I could quote Ayn Rand. Our so-called intellectual conversations were a complete joke, the funniest part being that I didn't necessarily agree with or even like Ayn Rand except that my Libertarian father forced "Anthem" into my hands as soon as I put down The Babysitter's Club.
"And I certainly have no interest in architecture."
I was never ever going to find time to read his favorite book. I was going to remain a disappointment, not wanting to redeem myself at these late stages.
It's a funny thing, being responsible for someone's self-torture. No one trained me for that growing up, not at any stage, not in any capacity. For months a storm cloud had been gathering in the corner that no one wanted to talk about, and we stare at the ceiling, at the floor, anywhere anywhere else.
You stay on your side of the bed, I'll stay on mine.
Don't think I'm not grateful for your contributions to my nomadic lifestyle.
But none of that funny business, okay?
"Do you want to go get some coffee?" Oh god, not coffee. Coffee requires traveling time, cooling time, drinking time, and I'd probably end up paying for both cups. (It should be noted now that some people study cheap like science, and become so good at it that no one really even notices.)
"I have...crap. To, um, do." It wasn't awkward, it was just time. I scrambled for my shoes. I was sleepy, and in party clothes, and was stumbling to my car. This was definitely not in the plan.
My upper hand needs to be slapped, I kept repeating, until it became a bad song lyric or bad grafitti wisdom. Write it down then tear it up.
And the whole time Camus was baking in the passenger-seat sun. Maybe I'll just read the last five pages.

An example of how flawed the new system mentioned below is: When I try to send or reply to e-mail, it takes at least three minutes from the time I press the "send" button to the time the e-mail actually gets sent. In the meantime the computer freezes and is rendered completely useless. My art directors' computer has the same problem. Both of us mailed help desk Detroit and got the same answer: "We fixed that problem last night. There shouldn't be anything wrong with your computer." But...but...there is. Clearly there is something wrong. And replying to that message takes another ten minutes. If we could only, I don't know, walk around the corner to HELP DESK ATLANTA for some help than I wouldn't have this problem. But no. We have to go through Detroit.

Flat Stanley visits Ari Fleischer! More at White House Dot Gov

Today has been a BAD DAY. That is all.

I'm on a rampage. A blogging rampage.

Best game ever.

Latest incarnations of goth:

Gothcore
Electrogoth

I can't wait one more dang minute for my new supercomputer. And here's why: It's gonna be one of those tiny mac laptops with OSX. CD and DVD burner. I-tunes with apple store compatibility. My computer probably won't freeze fifteen times a day. And last but not least, it won't take 3 hours to access the V+ and Melting Dolls blogs. Which I have determined is solely the fault of my slow-ass might as well be Commodore 64 computer.

This morning my art director and I decided to download some of the songs from the first Stone Temple Pilots album. You know. Plush. Sex Type Thing. etc.. I'm not sure why.
It really took me back to my days of being a flannel-wearing 8th grader.

Tonight I complete the Cremaster Cycle. 4 and 5. Then I'll stop talking about it.

Road to hell is paved with unbought stuffed animals. Not my fault.

Excerpts from Halloween weekend:

1. I dressed up as a Golden Girl. Over the course of the evening all the other Golden Girls mysteriously dissappeared. People kept asking me if I was Southern Baptist.

2. Cremaster 3. Trying to completely understand that movie is like trying to understand the relationship between Matthew Barney and his subconcious. And I barely understand my own relationship with my subconsious. I think I got some parts of it, but I'd greatly appreciate it if someone would please explain the potato part.

3. MJQ, Saturday nite
Me: Halloween would have been so much better in Athens.
Gavin: Yeah, but that's Athens.
Me: Uh-huh.
(Proceed to dance to OutKast and The Rapture, proceed to competely lose voice)

4. I coughed so much last night that my new landlord probably thinks I have tuberculosis.

It will have him in it, and her, and the other two hims. The setting is somewhere unremarkable, within the city limits, managable. Never straying too far from the issue at hand, exploring subcategories on a superficial level. Politics, being a subcategory for any number of topics, might be brushed aside at any moment. Some people lack class. Some subjects are taboo. Halfway there is meaningless. Three-fourths is stupid. Likes and dislikes will be assigned accordingly. Every word counts. From now on, when people question my ethnicity I will tell them that I'm half sperm, half egg, and billions and billions of cells coexisisting in relative harmony. Yep, that's a definite keeper.
I have a notebook, but no pen. A pen, but no notebook. Oh well. The stock ticker I call a brain moves at breakneck pace, too many ups and downs. Eventually this one will cross again, in two hours or two months.
Midway point- stretching across the floor I was hoping to be mistaken for dead. Then maybe someone would scream and break the monotone vocal buzz. Because that's what people do when they see a dead body. They scream. Nobody was screaming. I was beginning to think maybe this crowd wasn't adequately prepared should this have been a real emergency.
Every single one of his stories seemed familiar. Did anyone else feel that way? Was I just being polite? Should I save him the trouble of reciting the ending?
"Does this count as meditation?"
"It counts as sleeping."
"Well what the hell counts as meditation?"
"I think you have to reach a higher plane or something."
"Higher plane? On this higher plane, is everything pink with sprinkles?"
"You might want to ask someone with actual religious tendencies. Or hippy tendencies."
They could talk and talk and talk and information would stay on this plane, my plane, one dimensional, the line from nerve ending to nerve ending. Seven years old, Sunday school dropout. We were instructed to talk to Jesus. Jesus would then talk back. We as students would then relay information to the class. What the teacher never told me was what Jesus sounded like.
Was Jesus the voice from the breakfast cereal commercial? The one reciting multiplication tables, or a one-hit wonder? Was he one of my characters from the stories I made up, wrote, and destroyed? Was he simply random dialogue? I looked around the room. Everyone else seemed to know exactly what was going on. I panicked.
And made something up. I knew I wasn't crazy. Religion was crazy. Motions, nothing but.
Going through the motions requires no special skills or training.
It has nothing to do with brainwashing.
It is a means to get a full night's sleep, and maybe a nap in the afternoon.
"I need more sleep."
This needs a once-over.