It's 5:30 pm on Friday and I'm jealous of all you fucks who've already left the office. Friday afternoons means I usually find myself annoying the department by listening to something rather loud- or at least annoying the interns. Part of the rough life of being an intern is having to listen to me crank the Prids through my thin cube walls out into the world. I'm having my own little dance party of one in here and it's so exclusive that even you can't get in. Veep. It all leaves me excited about not sleeping until I collapse on sunday in a drug induced melancholia after a long day of shit talking about one scenester or another or all at once. One more song and I'm out like flynn.

I am SO BORED. I'm going to go soak up some moisture elsewhere.

I will be modeling some clothing items at this:



so make it out if you want, or can, or are at all interested.

Oh yeah, you wish you knew these hot boys
Unfortunately, they're all dead presidents who look kind of like the local geek pictured next to them.

Does YOUR office have a "creeper?" A suspicious looking gad-about-hallway? In other words, one who lurks?

This is pretty funny. If you're into things like the prime minister of Austrailia having a fake blog that makes him sound like a twelve year old girl.

"Whatever else it may be- a riotous Mobius strip of deranged word games and doppleganger metaphysics, a scalding allegory of professional and personal dissappointment, the missing link between Ferdinand de Saussure and Kentucky Fried Movie, a compendium of things you just don't do."
I didn't write that.

An "argument" about politics via e-mail running through some people in my office, non of whom know very much about politics. I only added one comment, near the end.


Thank you ralph nader.

------

He won't make a difference.  Bush will get at least 55% of the popular
vote, and the electoral vote will be even bigger.

-----

I am just tired of looking at john kerry. The face of a liar.

------

Who will his be vp, jane fonda?

------

Not as tired as I am of looking at George Bush. The biggest idiot in
Washington.

------

Chris, how can you call yourself a TRUE American? when you support a war we
can't win. Frank, how can you call yourself a TRUE American? when you support
our soldiers killing unarmed people. You actually found this to be funny!
Trace, you should think about your stance as a TRUE American. You support a
President that has no Libertarian views what so ever! Guys get a clue. Listen
to what John Kerry is saying. Don't listen using your emotions, the democrats
can reclaim the white house and save America.

------

How do you know those people were unarmed? Also, why weren't you crying about
all the "unarmed" people Saddam and his family killed over the last 30 years.
Where is the outrage from the Demodummies about that?  Huh?  Huh?

------

Tax cuts are Libertarian.  Understand, though, that I have never given money
to nor voted for George W. Bush.  If by "support", you mean my support of
Bush's foreign policy, then, well, that's called having a brain.

------

Enjoy frenchie.

------

Frenchie!  A new nickname for Kelvin.  I love it!  11% unemployment is okay,
because you can just get on unemployment until you find a job!  "Hey, Pierre,
let's go look for a job today!"  "Um, I could do that, or just keep collecting
my government check?  Well, THERE'S a hard choice!  Wake me up at noon for a
croissant and bon bons"

------

While we are welcoming a new nickname for kelvin we should also welcome jill, a die hard left winger. Almost as french as kelvin.

------

This is the one I wrote.
french? seriously? is that what you're resorting to now?
I guess when you run out of valid justification for your cause you grasp for anything...  

------

This from the same person who calls bush schoolyard insults like 'idiot'?

Can someone please pick me up a Happytime Harry dialysis kit?
Thanks.

I love it when you forget a song that you once liked existed and then you hear it for the first time in years. It was a New Order song, by the way. Quite tasty.

Last night I had a fitting for a fashion show I'm doing on Saturday night at Formosa. (ffffffffffff) The stylist had me walking around the store with just a bra and pants for a good portion of the evening...near the window, no less. It was fine, I don't really have modesty issues, though I do have some bruises that I wish would dissappear...(no comment).

I didn't take pictures so I have nothing from there that would get V+ fired, so in the meantime, here is me and Jenn's hands:

The new Air cd "Talkie Walkie" is really nice. Everyone remotely into Air should leap from thier vinyl loveseats and purchase it immediately.

Wow, this might have been my most risque post to date.

yep.

This is how it is percieved but of course it is foggy outside and my synapses could very well be lost on the access roads.
Dictation re: my internal dialogue to "cease at once" the search for constant justification of every action down to cellular division and just stop giving two shits about this dizzy downward spiral called entropy. Sources inform me that it's stupid and socially unacceptable to care about the wellbeing of someone generally dismissed as superficial, sources have been reading entirely too many manuals. Our collected seven am "this is becoming absurd" crossroom glances directly correlate with the thin cloud of sadness becoming entirely too tangible. I hope the sky falls soon so we can have this whole thing over with at the same time. If everyone dies together it will give us more to talk about in the afterlife.
Sometimes dealing with addicts has harsher side effects than dealing with the drugs themselves. The aesthetics of drugs intersect the aesthetics of sex and become just another distraction, as everything is just another distraction. Sober or otherwise, we are all waiting for our own little godot.
Outdated lighting accentuates resignment, giving up, too tired to fight. But how much can you tell from a look? Without compelling decency without interception I can't fight aggressors, this other presence to my left reluctant to accept no as an answer. You are holding my wrist a bit too long a bit too tight for comfort please I just want away, want another cigarette in relative solitude. We passed surreal too far back to turn around.

I am tired. The sky is hovering, still.

I just ate the remainder of my burrito from Moe's and I thought to meself "hmm now this does taste a bit odd." I couldn't quite put my finger on it until I recalled a post from Scarnsworth concerning a "sweaty" burrito and then I had my answer. Sweaty. My Moeritto was damn sweaty. My stomach does not feel tops anymore, though that could be due to previous encounter with delicious delicious king cake icing. Do not worry my friends for these stomach maladies are actually a good thing in my particular case. For if I am having trouble with digestion it means I am consuming actual food instead of just living off of nicotine. Which reminds me. I must to the cigarette-mobile, and fast. Later sk8-tor.

Mark's Latest Out-Of-Office Reply:

I'm off to Alaska.

Why? Well it seems the Alaskan Artic Seal has repopulated enough to move off the endangered species list. As grand an accomplishment as this is, it puts the Alaskan Artic Seal Foundation, of which I am a proud member of, in jeopardy of losing government funds. So in order to save the recently endangered Alaskan Artic Seal Foundation we must kill 275 or so Alaskan Artic Seals over the next couple of weeks. Why so many? Because we want to make sure those little bastards stay on the damn list this time.

Now many of you would say that our actions contradict the goal of our foundation. If contradiction means beating the living crap out of the one thing you swore to protect then yes, we're contradictory- ergo sum hypocrites. Look, the fact is those idiot seals weren't suppose to make a comeback. I mean it took us totally by surprise because we never really used the donations and endowments to do anything other than buy weed. So when the International Wildlife Association made the announcement that the seals had made a full recovery, we were as shocked as all the Canadian fur traders we let onto our wildlife preserve.

There's no doubt that you're probably curious as to how we're going to kill all those seals. Well, we're a little curious about that too. You see being that we're a predominately hippie organization, killing is something we usually shy away from. Not so much because we believe everything has right to live insomuch that killing requires some sort of physical activity. You see our whole philosophy of peace, love, and happiness was just a way to spend more time doing drugs and less time doing things that take us away from doing drugs. The thing is, killing takes work, and when you're working it's tough to sit back, get high, and make love. But if there's one thing we modern hippies are willing to fight for it's to keep our giant stash of free marijuana.

All right, what's our plan of attack? Well we've all decided that clubbing seals is a bit to cliche for our tastes. Plus none of us work out, and you really have to nail one of those suckers hard. So our solution is to take a bit of a gamble. Our plan is to use our existing weed to get the seals high, which according to all the advertising on TV and our own personal experience will make the seals lazy and unproductive. And unproductive and lazy is just the kind of thing that will get a seal ripped apart by a polar bear. Meanwhile, me and the other members will be at the research station striking up conversations about why giant red worms are coming out of the ceiling and how the universe is actually just a grain of sand under the toenail of God.

Hopefully our plan will work.

I know you can't really read the links on the side...but I'm not finished- just taking a short break.
Soon readability will reign supreme, like a Dairy Queen brownie deelight.

I rented "Dogville" (the latest from Lars Von Trier- sp) last night. It was one of those movies that gets under my skin and just stays there...it was very good but also pretty disturbing. (i.e. "Dancer in the Dark"- he has a reputation for humiliating women in films.) I give it the recommend.
Look it, I can center.

Do not rent Sylvia. That movie annoyed (and bored) the bejeesus out of me.

Mod.

I don't think she's really dead. I mean, I think she's actually....a ROBOT.

I wonder why so many people have never heard of media consolidation...
Could it be....



media consolidation?


Well if everyone else is gonna do it:
Expect a full body makeover in the spirit of one queer eye for the straight guy. Whenever I finish up this NASCAR stuff, that is. With new features! Including the quotable Warhol and other pithy things I thought of after being awake for several days.

I think "Queer Eye" would be better if instead of five gay guys it was just one freakishly large eye that made people over. Made them over or imprisoned them with their giant freeze laZor. Either way it would be entertaining.

I just left a party where I witnessed five extremely drunk (and straight) girls make out with each other.
It was so boring that if someone had pulled out a gun and shot me I would have been grateful for the distraction.

I like the fact that "Like A Rolling Stone" was about Edie Sedgwick.
(beware doll you're bound to fall)
I like that Dylan refers to Warhol as "Napoleon in Rags."
I read that Edie never bathed or slept. That dating Dylan got her off meth. That Warhol and Dylan were constantly feuding.
I think "Just like a Woman" was about her, too.

I am the random fact generator.

I ain't sleeping either.
Someone write me a song, dammit.

I'm beginning to think that existentialism wasn't so much a school of philosophical thought as just a bad mood.
I'm angry at structuralism because I cannot understand it completely (everything in pairs!), which means poststructuralism is completely out of my grasp (no pairs anymore!). Oh the things combining pretention and drugs and black turtlenecks can produce.
But I do love Ferdinand de Saussre.
But mostly due to the Magnetic Fields.
Maybe I should be a linguist. I like words better than the lack thereof.
Except for you, Thoreau, you keep quiet.

Open Letters
Dear drunk buckheady chick behind me at Trader Vics,
Nobody wants to hear you sing "Adieu adieu to you and you and you do do do do do..." at the top of your chirp when exiting the bar.

Dear driver of purple bitchin Mustang that cut me off several times on 400,
I'm sorry your dick is so small. Please let everyone know that your car can, indeed, reach 80 and make manly engine noises.

Dear Silent Pakistani Friend,
My Indian friend and I would like to stage a peace accord at your store as an example to the large scale conflict. And also, no I don't want a newspaper. Not even the back page.

Dear guy that fell at the party about an hour ago,
Thank you for pre-gauging the slipperiness of that area.

Dear Daytona 500,
I have to watch you on Sunday in the name of research. If you could eliminate the middle 300 laps I would be very appreciative. Does Jude Law drive a car by any chance? That would rock. Just a thought. Oh, and I also need you to be exactly like "Top Gun On Wheels."

Dear Elliptical trainer,
I am in pain. I blame you. Suck it.

Dear Peachtree Road,
Remember back when I told the elliptical trainer to suck it? That goes for you, too.

Dear Peace Corps,
Thanks for the $1000. I shall spend it devising a plan to stay as far away from third world countries as possible. Nothing personal, but I think they keep confusing "toilet" with "hole in the ground."

Dear Mary TYler Moore,
Thanks for turning my world on with your smile. And for taking my nothing day and suddenly making it seem worthwhile. I might just make it after all, or at least after this montage. (insert montage here.)

Dear 311,
Please break up as soon as possible, preferably right after composing an apology letter to The Cure and to music in general.

Dear potential press outlets for Coachella,
I bring in the literary noise and sometimes the funk. (though the funk tends to skew haiku) I can watch music and comment on it SIMULTANEOUSLY. Just ask Thurston Moore and the world's strongest panda.

Dear David Bowie,
You still have several hours to send flowers in time for V-day. Seriously, it's been 24 years with nothing. Must I spend another evening weeping softly in a vat of bubbles to "Dancing in the Street?"

Dear Gavin and Diana,
Thanks for setting the dance floor on FIRE. Metaphorically, I mean. Though real fire would have been pretty cool, too. But evil.

Dear members of the academy,
Thank you for this honor. Making this movie was a beautiful journey. Of pharmeceuticals.

Dear Mom,
Thanks for the Valentine's letter. I unfolded the paper only to see "Happy Valentines Day" printed in rainbow across the top. Like a big gay greeting.

Dear FantasmagoRIE!,
What are you? All I can remember about you is that you are pronounced "FantasmagoRIE!"

Yours truly,
dehumidifier



(a funk haiku)
my feet on the floor
and my head on the ground is
how I watch pixies




Hey, who likes gin?

Hey, who likes gin and is also sane?

Last Weekend, Part Two

(names have been changed to protect the obvious)

For the longest time I thought the lyric was "we can gather throw-up here," when it is actually "we can gather, throw a fit." Which, when you think about it, makes a hell of a lot more sense.
My world was locked in park, ignition off in the Lenny's parking lot. I was thinking about how my car was actually just one giant dent when I saw Pea race down the sidewalk after an unidentified predator.
"Pea? You changed my name to Pea?"
"What's wrong with pea? One split and you get a delicious soup."
"It's one letter away from p-e-e."
"I almost went with Lentil."
"Lentil's better."
"I thought people might assume it's short for 'linticular' and get confused."
"Do you know anyone named Linticular?"
"I know people."
"Not with that name."
"In Antwerp. He sold me some wrestling boots and matching assymetrical bifocals."
"Europeans are a high-class bunch."
"Lentil it is."
There are several varieties of the dance (or "moves") exhibited on a dance floor of aging scensters. As they are "aging" and have seen-it-all-from-Moscow-to-Minsk, little enthusiasm is put forth with the exception of one Mister Stickfigure. Though, to be fair, he can shake it like only those in the first (linear) dimension. Anorexics and vegans try to contend but alas they are not truly "stickfigures" but are just really really skinny.
You call them heroin chic, I call them strangely absent from any number of buffets because they are being groomed to date the septagenarians they meet while picking out calcium pills a la Lara Flynn Boyle and that guy that won an Oscar for saying "go sell crazy somewhere else. we're all stocked up here." I want that line for my files, unfortunately it relates to a Helen "girls just wanna stop squinting" Hunt movie and is therefore tainted.
Personally I am guilty of the shoulder-bob-foot-shuffle, though I cannot get my shoulders and feet to synchronize. My shoulders are trained for a 2/4 punk beat and my feet just wanna pas de bouree. Some girls are well versed in the booty shake, unfortunately my shake was paralyzed when my mother informed me that it was a tool of satan. (Or a tool of my stepmother- for awhile they were neck and neck on the evil charts.) Of course some young punk turks simply display a modified "jump and run" to supplement lack of talent. Most of these cats are, ironically enough, in the rhythm section of your favorite local band.
"Does Manheim Steamroller really need a rhythm section?"
"Completely superflous. I think Gunnar Nelson just likes the way he looks holding a bass."
"Have you heard of my Manheim Steamroller cover band? We're called Deck the...um...Malls?... Poopdeck the Halls?...Manheim Cinnamonroll? Damn I wish my hypercolor shirt still worked."
My best friend through grammar and middle school had a giant poster of "Nelson" on her closet door and would loop the "After the Rain" video on her VCR. We would sneak out with winecoolers to her tennis court and hang with this kid who later became Melissa Joan Hart's ("Sabrina Explains It All") husband. On live tv, no less. He was mega-cute. Ferguson mega-cute. And if I weren't the biggest dork in the crowd I might have let him hold my hair as I vomited peach winecooler. Thank god for the influx of Nirvana the next year. Out with the rain and in with my best friend's drug addiction. After I moved it was in with her running away and stealing a car, doing time in juvenile and having a probation officer in high school. She was badass. I think she has a kid now, is playing grown-up. I wonder what that's like?
Back to our show. Prian Barris, after a brief stint in the witness protection program, magically teleported from housemusicland to durandurania and was promptly placed in charge of mobilizing the dance floor. I was alternating between Lentil at the door, Mister Stickfigure operating in 3-D, and my literary idol Van Helsing (as played by Rippy) attempting to down a vodka tonic while having blades and shit for hands.
"I'm really tired of being asked to open beers. The best I can do here is tap at it."
"Your movie isn't out yet. Give it time."
"And no, I'm not going to topiary your ficus tree. Do I look pasty? I wish I were Freddy. Everyone knows Freddy and Freddy's wrath."
"Do you really want to do the knives thing again? After 'X-Men 2: Attack of the Clones'?"
"You need to pay attention in movies."
"I pay attention to Oscar contenders."
Last year I wasn't planning on hosting an Oscar party but nonetheless my friends showed up with trays of terror-tabouli and white devil burgers (we were knee deep in new war at the time). They placed bets on nonexistant categories and insisted on calling my then-boyfriend by the wrong name. SARS about that. (Fad diseases were a constant source of entertainment- monkeypox was almost too much. I imagine that someday poetic justice will kill us with a strange Antwerpen strain of Robopox.) I want to be prepared for another impromptu awards party involving food named after democratic candidates and mind-control cults.
"You were in Skull-and-Bones, right?"
"Oh yeah." Van Helsing seemed distracted by the shiny rotary saw on his thumb.
"With W?"
"Yep."
"What was he like?"
"Not much to tell, I'm afraid. He could never make it through an entire round of 'Clue' without demanding someone build him a billiard room. When we explained that we were, in fact, in a billiard room-hence the imported beer- he would pout in the corner until someone promised him an office shaped like an oval. He'd then spend the rest of the night marveling at the concept of a room without corners."
"That sounds awfully boring."
"Yeah, and that's only when he didn't go on and on about how 'Clue' made no sense because they didn't have mustard in colonial times."
(high hat)
"Sorry. For a second I thought I was Bill Mahr surrounded by mildly humorous celebrity pundits."
(high hat)
"Dammit!"
"Hey, we both know B+. Let's talk about him."
"Yes."
"Where is he?"
"You know very well he can't leave."
"Can't....or won't?"
"Used to be won't. Now it's can't. They changed the format of 24 to real time. It's literally on all day every day, though a bulk of it is just Jack Bauer watching VH1."
"So he's fallen into Keifer's evil trap of Keiferness."
"Exactly. Something must be done!"
"You're Van Helsing! You've got extension cords for veins! Instead of giving someone the finger you give them the Phillips head screwdriver! You must save him!"
"And save him I will." (WHOOSH)
The battle rages on. At the house of B+, under the watchful eye of a holographic Jesus, by the glow of a televised victory speech, good shall prevail. Or fall asleep trying.
Lenny's was Lenny's, as it is and shall be until it is eaten by a condo.
Destination Happygo St., but not before rescuing Lentil from his concrete garden.
"Your yard is Joni Mitchell's nightmare."
"We didn't really pave paradise, unless you count shards of glass and loafing backissues paradise."
"I hate Joni Mitchell."
"I hate Carly Simon."
"Stevie Nicks, too."
"Susan Sontag, too."
"The Jesus and Mary Chain, too."
(SFX: the collective sound of a thousand crickets dropping their jaws exposing the half-masticated heads of their mate)
I guess I'll have to stone myself later for not liking The Jesus and Mary Chain.
"I'm kidding. I love T-J-ampersand-M-C. Hey, look over there!"
"Where? I don't see anything."
"It was nothing, I guess."
"Hey, did you just forcefully eject The Jesus and Mary Chain out of the backseat?"
"They were getting on my nerves. Every time I tried to play a song they would add their own little fuzzy feedback and declare it their own song."
"Oh, well. I guess they'll find 110 Happygo Street on their own."
"Not without-" (surprise reveal) "THEIR COMPASS!"
"You're tricky when you're not pretending to be Mrs. Mia Wallace."
Car in park, ignition off.
"Don't be-"
"What are you doing?"
"I'm trying to draw a rhombus."
"It's not a rhombus it's a chopper."
"It's not a chopper it's a giant dent."
Some people might ask: "Hey what's an afterparty actually after?"
Still others might ask: "why is Prian Barris's face pixellated?"
Question 1: Why, after many things! Including, but not limited to- a hayride, a hell house, a hayride through a hell house, high tea, garden excursion, hell house excursion, 1852, the completion of the outer valence of an atom, complete and total destruction, Harry Potter discussion group.
Question 2: It's actually a photoshop error which occured during our conversion to OSX.
"Hey, can you play the Smiths?"
"Yeah, whatddya want to hear?"
"Do you have 'Meat Is Murder?'"
"No, I just have a best of album."
"Is 'Bigmouth' on 'Meat is Murder?'"
"I don't think so, but like I said I don't have that album."
"What else is on 'Meat is Murder?'"
"Do you have a request?"
"Yeah...um...do you have 'The Queen is Dead?'"
"No, sorry."
"I wanna hear, like, the third song on that."
"Can't really help you there."
"No but it's that one song on 'The Queen is Dead,' you know..."
"Play 'Bigmouth.' For the love of pete, just play 'Bigmouth.'" I felt I should interrupt, lest I get caught in more moronic circular logic.
Before we go any further, let me remind you that I am a bad seed in the grand tradition of Rizzo and Rhoda Morganstern. I will probably get asked to leave your intimite (albeit creepy) gathering in no uncertain terms.
And I will leave. But not without several sideways glances and/or dirty looks.
Maybe it was the cut of my jib or that anti-Vietnam protest I started in the kitchen (the food, not the war), but the night capped out under lock and key with me and the dent and the sweet sweet taste that fumes might leave in the morning air.

I think it went a little something like this...

From: V+
Sent: Wednesday, February 11, 2004 12:10 PM
To: dehumidifier
Subject: 24

I don't suppose you, uh, taped 24 by any chance?


From: dehumidifier
Sent: Wednesday, February 11, 2004 12:17 PM
To: V+
Subject: RE: 24

did you not see it?


From: V+
Sent: Wednesday, February 11, 2004 12:49 PM
To: dehumidifier
Subject: RE: 24

NO GODDAMMIT


From: dehumidifier
Sent: Wednesday, February 11, 2004 12:55 PM
To: V+
Subject: RE: 24

How is that possible?


From: V+
Sent: Wednesday, February 11, 2004 1:14 PM
To: dehumidifier
Subject: RE: 24

because I was out drinking with Raquel Welch.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

From: dehumidifier
Sent: Wednesday, February 11, 2004 1:18 PM
To: V+
Subject: RE: 24


this is what alcoholism does to a person.

it was a pretty good episode too.


From: V+
Sent: Wednesday, February 11, 2004 3:06 PM
To: dehumidifier
Subject: RE: 24

go to hell.

The Last 30 Songs As Spit Out At Random from My i-Tunes Music Collection:
(or, what has kept me awake while solo-concepting)
1. ...Trail of Dead- It Was There That I Saw You
2. Black Flag- Padded Cell
3. Sonic Youth- 100%
4. Arling and Cameron- Coconut Conga
5. R.E.M.- Parakeet
6. The Beatles- Happiness is a Warm Gun
7. Hot Hot Heat- Get In or Get Out
8. Strongbad- Fightsong
9. Modest Mouse- 3 Inch Horses, Two Faced Monsters
10. The Rock-A-Teens- Sun's Up
11. Joy Division- Incubation
12. Junior Senior- Shake Your Coconuts
13. Jesus and Mary Chain- Never Understand
14. Blonde Redhead- Untitled
15. Combustible Edison- Cat O'Nine Tails
16. Man Or Astro-man?- Evert L. Pipkin
17. Unwound- We Invent You
18. Weezer- Take Control
19. Ladytron- Re: Agents
20. Radiohead- Scatterbrain (As Dead As Leaves)
21. Je Suis France- He Had Metal In His Head
22. Pavement- Circa 1762
23. The Olivia Tremor Control- Hideaway
24. R.E.M.- Just A Touch
25. Rufus Wainwright- The Greek Song
26. The RZA (from the "Kill Bill" Sdtrk)- The Bannister Fight
27. Beck- Fuckin' With My Head
28. Clinic- Porno
29. The Beach Boys- Caroline No
30. The Apples in Stereo- Go

I just saw out CFO walking down the hall carrying a copy of "CFO Monthly."

For those accelerated students already reading at a 9th grade level, I stumbled upon a blog that I find quite interesting: In The Year 2525. I don't know who is responsible for such (as the red and black would say) chicanery, but I thoroughly enjoyed it meself.

I wonder if a rat-tailed Stipe is still looping over at the house of V+.....

(damn, I think I just wrote a malkmus lyric)

I spent a large portion of Saturday afternoon reading up on quantum mechanics and thermodynamics, on Hume, structuralism and numbers that do not exist. I would like to know as much as possible about as much as possible, and wish I had degrees in philosphy and physics for the purpose of this possible. Alliteration, anyone?
Let's see. It all started with an attempt to write something for Lick, but unfortunately I always tend to gravitate towards absurd science rather than sexual indiscretion. And noble gases (despite being the most masturbatory of the periodic table) aren't exactly guaranteed to bring in the horny male cosmo-cover demographic.
Maybe I'm too getting old for topics like what I do that makes my mother unhappy (leaving the office, basically). Not to worry, I am still working on my story about meiosis. Which is guaranteed a spot on the cover. Of my mind.
Which is what started the entire foray into the sciences.
Meiosis, that is. I like the word "telophase 2."

Did you know there are numbers that only exist in the 4th dimension? Man, I really need to visit this 4th dimension. What? What was that? I'm already in it?
I'm moving through it right now? And minutes don't actually exist?
I wish I were having imaginary conversations with Einstein instead of just a truck stop prostitute trying to pass himself off as Einstein.

Bowie at Chastain May 8th

Hell..................yes.

Good Cat Names
Lady Fancypaws
Mistress Meowington
Captain McCuddles
Sir Purrs-a-lot
Lord of the Litterbox

"sick upon the staircase sick upon the staircase blood upon the pillow climb into the parapet see the church bells gleaming knife that scrapes a sick plates of dentures full of air holes the tailor couldn't mend straight shoot her full of air holes climbing up the casket take me to the casket teeth upon her red throat screw me in the daisies rip apart her holler snip the seas fantastic treat her like a sailor full and free and nervous out to make his fortune either this or that way sickly or in good health piss upon a building like a dog in training teach to heel or holler yodel on a sing song down upon the carpet fire on the carpet set the house ablazing seize and bring it flaming gently to the ground ground Dizzy Bell Miss Fortune fat and full of love-juice drip it on the carpet down below the fire hose weep and whisky fortune sail me to the moon, dear drunken dungeon sailors headless Roman horsemen the king and queen are empty their heads are in the outhouse fish upon the water bowl upon the saviour tooothless wigged Laureate plain and full of fancy name upon a letterhead impressing all wheatgerm love you for a nickel ball you for a quarter set the casket flaming do not go gentle blazing tickle polyester sick within the parapet screwing for a dollar sucking on a fire-hose chewing on a rubber line tied to chairs and rare bits pay another player oh you're such a good lad here's another dollar tie him to the bedpost sick with witches' covens craving for a raw meat bones upon the metal sick upon the circle down upon the carpet down upon the carpet down below the parapet waiting for your bidding pig upon the carpet tumescent railroad neuro-anaesthesia analog ready for a good look drooling at the birches swinging from the birches succulent Nebraska" -from "The Murder Mystery," The Velvet Undergound

I'm not exactly well-versed in classical music structures, beyond knowing very basic facts like the parts of a sonata. However, I've always been fascinated by a group of practice pieces that J.S. Bach wrote for his students called "Inventions and Sinfonia." Not only do I enjoy playing the hell out of them (on the rare occasion when I get to practice), but I enjoy their brevity-compared to other baroque pieces- and the amazing structure governing such short pieces.
It basically breaks down like this (and this is a very rudimentary explanation): the right hand begins playing the melody which serves as the motif for the "invention." Several measures later the left hand repeats the exact same melody in the bass scale, whereas the treble is still continuing to play (think a "row row row your boat" round for the piano). They are written such that the treble and bass rarely sound discordant, and when they are discordant it still sounds brilliant. Many of them move through inversion and repetition phases still employing the same technique. "Sinfonias" are slightly different from "Inventions" in that (among other technical aspects I'm not going to delve into) instead of repeating the treble, the bass line acts almost as a musical counterpoint- same pattern as treble but different key. Sometimes they fuse two extremely dissonant keys- but it makes sense and sounds amazing. And there are fifteen of them, each with their own special set of rules. If you play piano and haven't given these a try yet I definitely recommend them.

Where am I going with all this? Somewhere. And fast!

I think I'm going to try applying this technique to a short story, in an obtuse sort of way.
Something along the lines of: starting a story, having the next paragraph being that same story had it started several minutes later, maybe having the two stories crash into each other and then divide again...it doesn't even really make sense in my head yet so I'm having trouble explaining it here.

Has anyone tried to apply the classical sonata form to writing? I'm sure someone has...development (exposition), inversion (plot twists), but then the tricky "repetition," which in literature would mean the author is simply repeating the exposition with slightly different circumstances...hmmm...

I think I'm going to research some Brecht while my art director battles the printer. See where that takes me.

I might be spectating a concert at the Caledonia tonight.

We shall see.

I have found a new band! Ok, I didn't find them personally but I always do like discovering new music. They're called "The Dresden Dolls" (outta Boston) and are self-described as "Brechtian Punk Caberet." Maybe a little showtuny for some, but definitely check them out if you have a minute.


They make me want to buy vintage lingerie.

Why on earth would anyone point out how talented/good looking they are?
Why can't I get peanut butter and marshmallow paste pre-mixed for easier fluffernutter access?
Why can't real life be more like "The Parent Trap?"

I could teach tap-dancing lessons if I had tap shoes. I can do the traveling time-step and everything. I am so talented.

Dammit!

But I need some tap shoes, really I do.

Enemies the rumor mill told me Van Helsing fights in his new movie "Van Helsing:"
Frankenstein
Frankenstein's monster
Dracula
The many wives of Dracula
Winona Ryder's character from "Bram Stoker's Dracula"
Satan
Satan's Four Horsemen
Freddy
Jason
Freddy and Jason United As One Force for Evil
Dr. Phil



Did I mention instead of hands he has blades and shit!

If you are reading this and live in Athens and are doing nothing tomorrow night then you should leave the house and go to the Caledonia to see "I Almost Saw God In the Metro."

My favorite Superbowl ad was the one Janet Jackson did for pasties.

I think John Kerry is actually the New England patriots mascot.

Last Weekend, Part One:

"You should've asked him to play that Morrissey song where Morrissey goes 'aaaaaaaahaaaaaaaaaaaah.' You know, the one with homosexual undertones?"
"Yes, let's please analyze some Morrissey lyrics. He's such a great poet."
"This time: from a Hegelian standpoint."
"Lacanian."
"Hegelian."
"LACANIAN!"
"HEGELIAN!"
"What the fuck are you guys talking about?" Voice 3: backseat right.
"Somebody failed to read up on philosophical side-effects."
"Yeah, what's your problem?"
Right now I'm falling more in love with the Magnetic Fields, thinking about Napoleon in rags and the pointlessness of long walks. Something about summarizing a weekend makes me shift to storybook expatriates, makes me want to be Lady Brett Hangover in San Sebastian. Minus the part about being a giant whore.
It's really a perfect book, isn't it?
Sometimes I think with British accents (of the Anna Wintour variety). Were I to describe the past weekend in said accent:
"It was quite odd, don't you think?"
"Not that anything physically happening was odd, mind you, it was simply a feeling that perpetuated throughout the entirety of the weekend."
"Much like an oddly-shaped grey stormcloud."
"Indeed."

Hot tea is only good in my head.

Honestly, does anyone really like house music? I don't mean as in giving the ol' one-two lindy hop on the dance floor. I mean as in sober, middle-of-the-day fluorescent office lights like it so much they crank it on I-tunes.
If so, are these the same people who allow Ashton Kutcher to be in motion pictures?
It's me at eight listing my favorite genre as "when I play a canned beat on my 1985 Casio keyboard and then I hit one note. Yeah, what that does." And while that is not (yet) an actual genre at Tower, as a kid I used to just speed up the beats (primarily samba) until they were unintelligible. If I had known I was dabbling in rudimentary jungle I would have ceased immediately and returned to dabbling in rudimentary Radiohead lyrics.

Five Things On Which I Blame 40-Year Old Cokeheads
1. House music.
2. Comeback tours.
3. Business Casual
4. Grape Nuts (for tasting like evil)
5. The "crap" portion of your evening.
Formosa, being the very opposite of me, thrives on these Buckhead leftovers. The dregs of urban middle-class Atlanta filtering down and landing in a giant pile of 1992.
When house music is not altered for a visit by indie scenesters, the scenesters chat up two hours of:
"This sucks."
"Yeah, there's nothing good about this place."
"There's basically nothing that doesn’t suck about it."
"This music sucks."
"This music especially sucks."
"Who listens to this?"
"People who live in a giant void of sucking."
"I think Conor Oberst lives there."
"Totally, Conor Oberst sucks."
"Hey, can you watch my Jack and Crystal Pepsi? I'm going to see if any 40 year old cokeheads dropped anything in there."
There's nothing quite like a runway show in a location ill-suited for a runway show. If I ever have a fashion show (Camp Basement: the scarf.) here in Atlanta, it will actually be in East Berlin.
Upon initial arrival at Formosa the only other person I knew in any capacity was Brian Parris, and after discussing how much the music sucks and sleeping patterns, the conversation dissolved into vaguely amusing head-bobbing. I was going to make a comparison to the IT mind-control planet of "A Wrinkle In Time," but everyone knows that mixing metaphors with sarcasm causes kittens to explode.
Walking the fine line between decent conversation-
"Hey, before you wax yourself too far off track, why on earth are you using Brian Parris’s full name? I smell impending legal doom."
"It's in the contract."
"I don't remember that part."
"Yeah, it's between 'Paris, France' and 'Parrris, Saskatchewan.'"
"But why?"
"You're seriously asking 'why?' in the middle of one of my stories? I just do what the British voices tell me to."
"What happens if you don't use his full name?"
"I don't know. Let's find out, shall we?"
Walking the fine line between decent conversation and annoying babble is tricky, and I tend to talk in excess so rarely that when I do I assume it annoys everyone in the room I know well enough to annoy, and has the capacity to become annoyed, assuming their part of the conversation is not even more annoying, which also assumes they are dominating the conversation. Which is probable, but not an absolute. Assuming this corollary contains no more than two constraints, we have to assume that the correct answer is: B) Brian.
(ANVIL FROM SKY)
"I guess that's what happens."
"Let me try!"
"Whatever."
"Brian."
(NOTHING HAPPENS)
"Nothing happened."
"That's because I was referring to that other kid Brian."
"What other kid Brian?"
"You know. When someone asks where Brian is and you say 'Brian Parris?' and they say 'no, that other kid Brian.'"
"A different Brian? Are you trying to outwit my subconscious by not referring to the agreed-upon Brian?"
(PIANO FROM SKY)
"This is not sketch comedy, dammit!"
(ACCORDIAN BODY DISCHORD, LAUGH TRACK)
"I'm leaving for Lenny's now, and I'm taking my disjointed narrative, ill-advised metaphors, characters introduced out of nowhere, and self-deprecation with me. And you know what else I'm taking? The giant pop-literary cliche that was that last sentence."
(MEANWHILE, SOMEWHERE NEAR EAST ATLANTA, A BESPECKLED DRIVER FELL FOR THE OL' FAKE PAINTED TUNNEL GAG AND PLUMMETED INTO THE CANYON. ALL THAT WAS LEFT WAS A VOLVO-SHAPED HOLE IN THE GROUND. PLANS ARE UNDERWAY FOR AFTERPARTY IN VOLVO-SHAPED HOLE.)

Part two coming soon, starring Rippy as "Van Helsing!"
Seriously, he has Swiss Army Knives for hands.