I enjoy writing sentences that would be a nightmare for a fourth-grader to diagram.
I hope casual readers realize that the "autobiography" entries are supposed to be overwritten and nonsense, and not at all like an autobiography. Otherwise I probably look like a really bad writer.

Hey, if Burroughs were here he'd maybe say the same thing. Or maybe shooting up in the bathroom. Like the owl says, no one will ever know.

Excerpt from the autobiography of Josephine Drake, who does not exist.

April 1st, 2001

I'm not entirely convinced the IRS exists, or at least that it exists as one entity in one building. There must be at least two buildings, one for all the conveyor belts and giant calculators and one for paperwork. If this mystery network of agents insists I keep all my paperwork, including receipts, I'm just going to pull the rubber and glue comeback and insist they show me all their paperwork as well. We'll see who's glue then!
Of course if the IRS actually doesn't exist they automatically become glue because that makes their whole "tax" theory (or scheme), a shamble.
I don't question where the refunds come from. I don't question a lot of things, but I especially refrain from questioning free money magically appearing in my account.
I've been trying to keep better financial records, so every bit of information I gather regarding taxes or how to get more money so high quality items are not beyond my grasp goes straight into the notebook. Number one: writeoffs. Somehow the key to more money. How remains a mystery buried in mathematics. If I were clever enough about such things I could say that technically "finding" and "adopting" are the same thing. And that "puppies" and "broken television sets" require the same amount of maintenence. And that "puppies" and "babies" weigh roughly the same. And conclusions would be met! I could be rich. Math could work for me, proving the age-old saying true: "Math. It can work for you!"
Should I put my apology in writing? I can't find all my reciepts and I'll admit it, IRS, sometime I never even requested a receipt. Sometimes upon pulling up to the gas pump I haphazardly pressed "no, I don't need a receipt," thus keeping my transaction a secret between me and pump 10. Should I find that pump and beat a receipt out of it? Can I be responsible for my actions when the IRS is contantly breathing down my neck, watching my every move, censoring my letters home?
So far tax season is proving to be the worst season and I think we all know how I feel about summer. I feel I'd be leaving important information out regarding taxes if I didn't mention how close I'm getting to the perfect cocktail of medication. They say any day now. I take comfort in their vagueness, or will once I do a thorough background check.
This will prove important later. I didn't know it at the time, but I certainly do now. As does the IRS department responsible for fielding complaints and foriegn objects.

I've been watching CNN for awhile now and they keep showing footage of people dancing in the streets of Iraq. This one guy's been doing the "swim" for several hours. Every time they cut to his crowd there he is, doing the swim. It must be the only dance he feels confident enough to exhibit.
Me? I'd be doing the electric slide, as it is the official dance of unearthing evil dictators from spider holes.

Thanks, cnn, for giving me the opportunity to throw around words like "spider hole."

It's very odd to hear about Saddam's capture at an afterhours party, and then spreading the news to others.
"I guess that justifies the war."
Yeah, I just didn't feel like getting into a discussion about that particular reaction.

(insert some thorough political examination here)

(because it's damn 7:30 in the morning)

Operation Red Dawn? Wasn't Harrison Ford in that movie?

I think Meatwad said it best: "Can I go swimming? CAN I GO SWIMMING?"
My car had a slight collision with a parking-deck pole this morning. That was really only a matter of time, considering my poor judgement of distance. Nothing serious, a small(ish) crack in the front bumper. It adds to the crap-fest charm that is my car.
But still. It's Saturday and I'm at the office and I ran into a pole already and now I want a sandwich.

Oh, okay. Never mind, then.

Me and Sebastian, who rocks it out as only a cat can rock it out.

Why are there two ads for getting rid of moles at the top of my blog? I don't recall ever writing about moles. Maybe they ran "espionage" through the synonym finder. That seems like a lot of work, though, doesn't it?

I should join a band, and cram something else into my schedule. Because, honestly, 2 hours of sleep a night is just not enough.
I've written, like a hundred commercials today. Only one features slugs and salt shakers in a war to end all wars. And that spot is going to get killed, mercilessly, like a slug cowering under a salt shaker.

Check it out, this blog is going to belong to a 13 year old for a minute:

Boys are trouble, aren't they? Rather.
I need a guidebook. For me, that is, not for boys.

Aaaaaaand over.

Now we can get back to espionage and existentialism.

I wish I had something significant to write about.
Like foriegn policy. Or espionage.
But I write ads for a living, and it's not as glamorous as you may think.
Or may not think; I don't live inside your head.
My friend Geoff called today from NYC, from his desk at the ad agency in NYC.
I might go up there for the Rufus Wainwright show in February.

Yes, I like Rufus Wainwright, and you probably didn't know that. It would be nice to see him in New York. Hell, it would be nice to get out of town for a bit. This weather is bringing me down, man!!! (though I know it's no better anywhere else).

Now, whether or not to go see Placeabo...

I don't buy that someone with a heroin problem can get things done, especially things of such a grand nature as saving the U.S. from a fate worse than death, or something like that. Do you hear me producers of the show 24? I don't buy that for one second.

TV is a magic box.

Of all the Pavement albums, "Brighten the Corners" has to have the most obscure lyrics, especially "Type Slowly." Maybe I should do a Pavement lyric of the week feature, and have everyone guess which song it's from. You know, for all 4 people who read this blog. Any takers?

(one of us is a cigar stand)

You know what this blog needs? More pictures of me.
So there you go.

Now, I'm off to watch my requisite Tuesday nite TV.

I don't know if you guys ever actually go through the "blogs of note," or whatever on the blogger home page, but this is from that list. I don't even know if it's true.

Ladies and gentlemen, The blog of a London call girl.

Interesting stuff, especially if you enjoy reading about sex.
And who the hell doesn't?

Aaah, the annual Flying Biscuit Christmas party. This year seemed a bit tamer than the previous two, considering no one broke a limb or even threw up on the floor (or at least not before I left). It's kind of lost something now that I don't work there anymore...

Kristin and I sang "Bohemian Rapsody" a la karaoke. We were the last performers and certainly brought the house down in a blaze of glory. It was almost magnificent, just how bad it was!

But open bar. Damn. Not a good idea for some people.
Not me; I was driving and responsible. But for some people. I mean, damn.

The headlines on netscape news this morning:
U.S. Rep. Convicted in Killing
Woman Kills 5 in Red Square
Boy Dies in School Bus Stabbing
Dru's Blood, Knife Found in Car
Victim's Kin Spare Killer for $1M

Jesus Christ.

Here the beginnings of an idea I had for a short story, maybe around ten excerpts or so (though I doubt I'll make it past two):

Excerpt from the autobiography of Josephine Drake, who does not exist.

April 16, 1987
One tends to remember unfortunate encounters with flora, and remember them either quite well or rather vaguely. Or not at all, depending on the species of plant. Because I was only seven some details are obviously fuzzy. Others are sharp. The sharpest of all being the complete erradication of the last remaining honeysuckle plant of the season by a sugar-mad group of third graders, leaving us with nothing to fulfill our need for trace amounts of sugar in the afternoon.
Blame it on our poor knowledge of botany. Blame it on a suspect batch of stew at lunch. Either way we somehow reached the understanding that not only were azaleas edible, they were at least ten times more delicious than honeysuckle nectar. And they were pink, which didn't hurt considering the large number of second graders known to consume frosting by the tin.
Perhaps if I hadn't been distracted by the sight of a nearby game of red rover slowly turning into a clotheslining deathsport for the weak, it would have been I that consumed enough azaleas to kill a small bear, or perhaps even a larger bear. The larger bear would most likely have to have an azalea allergy in order to die, because larger bears probably eat whole rose bushes without the slightest bit of indigestion. At some point in my life I hope to study bears and perhaps publish a dissertation on the relationship between bears and their digestive systems.
The poor kid who did finish off an undetermined amount of azaleas was later found wandering the halls muttering about how he was trapped in the body of a chicken.
And that chicken was trapped in the body of a famous basketball superstar. A very sick famous basketball superstar. It didn't help that we had yet to learn responsibility, and that resposibility meant dialing poison control and not just a random seven digit number. One isn't just handed responsibility on a platter. One has to earn it, with multiple mortgages and a relatively clean credit record.
I think we all learned an important lesson that day. Start building credit early. Credit card companies don't know you're seven, especially if you tell them you're thirty-four.
No, that was the lesson we learned several months later when I became the first person in our class to charge my Swatch. And my seven other Swatches.

Plantlife can be ruthless. Plants feel no mercy, because they have no feelings due to lack of a central nervous system. Photosynthesis produces oxygen. Not love.
That particular azalea bush was destroyed by the fire, but not before tasting my cold dish of revenge. Which probably tasted a lot like fire.

Second grade was a good year.

I hate Christmas shopping. I hate it so very very much.
I hate standing in line at Starbucks. Because you need caffiene to determine which colors match.
I hate how much Anthropologie charges for everything.
I hate people who can afford to buy presents from the Apple store.
But most of all....
I hate that song "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus."
I hate all Christmas music, but that one really sticks in my craw.
Alias twinkletoes, next time you want to go shopping you can take alias v+ with you.

Beige and darker beige do not match.

Oh god. I have to wrap someday.
Maybe this year instead of wrapping I'll just hide all the gifts and let people find them.

Aussie Girls Story
Squirrels with Coffee
OrchidSex - The is a smal...
Ninnypoopoo
WienerBoy
Jah Jah Dub
Growing Pains
The blog of doom
Brownie com Sorvete
ageing as exile?

These were the 10 most recently published blogs a few seconds ago. Out of all those, you wouldn't think "Squirrels With Coffee" was the one targeted towards young gay men. But it is.

If I were to audioblog, it would sound something like this:

3:30 pm:
So yeah, I'm sitting here in this chair. It's pretty comfortable, I guess. Kind of a greenish color. Not really seafoam green, more like a pea green. I think it's adjustable, but I'm okay where I am so I haven't tried to adjust it. I might get more coffee in a few minutes.

3:35 pm:
Bill just walked in and asked where Chris was. I said check the pool table. He said okay and left.

3:43 pm:
I just got some more coffee. Dark, one equal. I don't like milk...wait, what? What was that? Oh, they were looking for Bill. Sometimes people call out for Bill and I think they're saying Jill so I respond but it turns out they weren't looking for me. They were looking for Bill.

3:50 pm:
Well, I just filled out my timesheet.

4:00 pm:
Fifteen. Fifteen tiles.

I love waking up and having a message from my friend Sara on my machine. It just makes the day that much better. I'm visiting Seattle again soon, I promise. I wish I could just stay there indefinitely, for I am in love with that city. Stupid having to have money.

That graffiti in the bathroom at the Earl? That's ours. The squirrels, evol high, evil cats.

To the moon!

To the arcade!

My comments work. Everybody do the joy dance, all together now.

My friend Geoff has a new charity he's very excited about. I would let him tell you himself, but alas he lives in Brooklyn and not in this blog:

For those who don't live in New York, or those who do but don't
recognize me on the street, I'm part of a charity called Mustaches for Kids. It's
sponsored by the Make-a-Wish Foundation and basically a group of guys
get together every year and grow mustaches. When someone says, "Are you
growing a mustache?" You can respond, "Yes I am. It's for charity. Would you
like to make a donation?" By drawing attention to ourselves we draw attention
to a good cause. We meet every Wednesday (at the big styrofoam cup so you
know it's all business) and pool our money. Why am I telling you this?
Because I want a piece of your paycheck. That cold hard cash you've been stowing
in a cookie jar or under the mattress. Do you really need that latte today?
Are you ever going to wear that tacky Christmas sweater you've been eyeing
at the mall? Is that new car a necessity or are you just saying that
because you look good in leather seats? Seriously, if you can afford a buck or
two and the stamp to mail it that would be great. And remember it's going
to help a bunch of kids who would be forever grateful. But if parting with
a little spare change makes you uncomfortable, just think how I
look...less like Burt Reynolds and more like a French exchange student. Cash is
great. Checks are perfect (make it out to Make-a-Wish Foundation). If you live
locally I'd be happy to meet and pick it up. Otherwise just mail to the
address below. My one last plea is that it ends December 16th so we
have to get the money it by then. Thanks for your help! This is an official tax
write-off charity so if you need a receipt let me know. And the next
time you're watching a Magnum PI rerun remember you're helping a kid make a
wish-
Geoff

p.s. Anyone who donates is invited to a gala on the 16th where the best
mustache will be picked by judges and the amount of money raised will
be announced. I'll send the details if you're interested.

My favorite part about "Queer Eye?" The running.

Whenever they leave the SUV to go to Emporio Armani or wherever, for some god unknown reason they run. My other favorite part? The random black guy. Huh? It's the ol' Darrin switcharoo. God. I need better topics.

So you may be asking yourself, what happened at that mountain house, anyways?

Norma Jean the dog wore a wig sometimes.

So did this pineapple. This pineapple later met an untimely death by way of butcher knife.

Meanwhile, I pretend to djdj by standing.

Foiled!

Jal put on as many pieces of clothing as possible, which turned out to be eight, thereby proving the theory that a person cannot wear more than eight pieces of clothing at one time.

And Chad made a tater-launcher!

Somewhere there is a deer walking around the chi-chi gated mountain community of Big Canoe with a potato lodged in its head. And that makes me smile, when you really think about it.

Q: Cinnamon or nutmeg?
A: Cinnamon is a nice spice people are comfortable consuming throughout the year, sprinkled either on toast or in a delicious coffee beverage. Nutmeg is a nasty, gritty substance that wants nothing to do with us in the spring or summer but demands our favor come November, only to disappear to the back of the shelf for another year. Why do we continue to accommodate this so-called seasoning? Nutmeg is a stupid jerk.
-from McSweeneys.net

Ben Kweller makes boring music. He's like a boring version of Weezer. I'm so bored with him. Boring, boring, bored. Let's all sing a dull song.

Oh, yes.

Now I'm frowning. I have my reasons.

Someone I work with has more R.E.M. on his i-Tunes than me. This situation needs to be remedied, and soon.

In other music news, I now feature "Lyric of the Week" under "on rotation" down below my links. I guarantee "shake it like a polaroid picture" will never ever be a lyric of the week.

Yeah, I know. I haven't been posting much lately.
The reason, however, is three-fold, so that should make you happy:
1. Aqua Teen Hunger Force DVD has kept me rather occupied.
2. Lack of internet access in North GA mountains.
3. Pie.

"Reports that say something hasn't happened are always interesting to me, because as we know, there are known knowns; there are things we know we know. We also know there are known unknowns; that is to say we know there are some things we do not know. But there are also unknown unknowns -- the ones we don't know we don't know."
-Rumsfeld, news briefing, February 2002.

"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.

There is some sort of sickness slowly attacking my sinus cavities and throat. It is the opposite of fun. No matter how sick I am, I'm still going out for Halloween. Mark my words. I'm not staying inside for the best holiday ever.

Apparently if I had stayed past the Electric 6 after party at Lenny's weird and wacky things would have happened. Alas, the 9-5er.

My blog is now the color of chocolate. Or poo.

Two phrases I've been throwing around recklessly this week: "contingency plan" and "tort reform." (originally I had this spelled "torte reform" but I think that's a pastry. Or not. I actually have no idea which is right, which is kind of sad for the 7th grade spelling bee 4th place champion).

So...busy...writing...ads...

The blogaverse (blogniverse? blogauniverse?) is getting smaller.

My blog is now the colors of my new bathroom.

Junior Senior really really want you to remember that their name is "Junior Senior." It's in every song. At least 10 times. Fun show, but I really expected Junior to be the crazy one, when it was in fact Senior. Some guy was standing behind us was wearing a shirt that said "I'm Rad." It was a lie. It should have said "I'm lame."

Belle and Sebastian rocked it out hard core! I don't know if I've ever been in a wilder pit!

Ok, one more for the masses: they're malnourished emo kids. They break easy under mosh pressure. Alright, that "joke" is officially retired. I told it twice last night; the second time I didn't even realize it because I was so lacking sleep.

Also, I was so tired that I couldn't figure out how the bathroom stall door lock worked. And there was a line. It was embarrasing.

Bad guys with French accents aren't all that threatening.

Last night I dreamed (dreampt?) that R.E.M. was playing another show in Atlanta. So I went and it was just a football game. Then I woke up.

www.sweetadeline.net

www.elliottsmith.com

www.killrockstars.com

Damn. Now I'm sad.

Finally! Someone else sees the corellation between Radiohead music and a thousand-foot ice cream cone. (I'm not sure if I spelled "corellation" correctly, or even used it in the right context. Which is kind of sad for a writer.)
Anyways, it's an amusing article about 5th graders' interpretation of Radiohead.

"Kill Bill" ROCKS.

God, people can be such morons. This weekend I had conversations with:
1. A guy who saw no point in voting, yet was endlessly critical of the government for no discernable reason.
2. A (different) guy who was absolutely convinced that Arianna Huffington was the porn star than ran for governor. He also thought that there was only one debate for that race, period.

And you can't convince stupid people otherwise.

ALERT! It turns out that California is the best state for giant scary babies hovering over the Golden Gate Bridge.

I NOW HAVE AN APARTMENT!!! (double thumbs up, big cheesy grin)

Well, I got nothin. It's raining, I want to be at home, and traffic is gonna suck.
Other than that (thumbs up).

Best food review ever.

Ever forget where the letter "M" is in the alphabet? Like when you're trying to listen to an album in i-tunes that starts with "M," and you just can't find it? I think I need to repeat kindergarden, with special emphasis on "left vs. right." (not the political tendencies, the directions. i've always lacked the instinct for left and right).

Worse prescription drug side effect: heart palpatations or anal leakage?

"At My Most Smart"
"Trivia, Lower"
"I'll Take the Onion Rings"

DIY publishing now underway. Coming soon:
"Your Dress Code, Explained!"
"How to Build a Robot Out of Everyday Office Supplies."
"Breakfast Recipies of the Future"
"Breakfast Recipies of the Future II: Junky Edition"

Well, if everyone else is going to review the R.E.M. show...

For a review from CNN's employee of the month, and someone who knows R.E.M. way better than you, see the V+ blog.

For a song-by-song breakdown and shirt-by-shirt clothing removal analysis, see the Hindsight blog.

However, if you'd like lessons on how to dance like Stipe, you've come to the right place!

First of all you'll need music. And you have to understand the lyrics to dance to the song. We suggest something simple for beginners, maybe "Losing My Religion," or "Man on the Moon." Do not, I repeat DO NOT attempt these steps to New Adventures in Hi-Fi. We've had several people end up in the hospital as a result of attempting to discern "E-Bow the Letter."

First, raise you're right arm in the air. Now the left. Now yell something. It doesn't matter what. "Cool" or "Fire" will do this fine. Louder, now, they have to be able to hear you in the back. Rub your stomach until it gets creepy. Now jump. Higher!

Ok, now that you've mastered jumping, it's time to move on to running across the stage. Pretend you have no bones in your legs. Now run! to stage left. Stop. Stare for a second. Like we practiced, arm in the air. Now stage right. Repeat, as needed.

If you should get hot at any time, feel free to remove one of your eight shirts.

Before we continue, stop and think of some catchphrases that you'll want to repeat when doing this particular dance. Some suggestions are "My name is ___ and this is what I do." or "There is no yesterday. There is no tomorrow. There is only right now at (your nephew's bar mitsvah/club eleven50/the basement)" or wherever you are. DO NOT CHANGE THESE CATCHPHRASES. You'll only confuse people. Oh, and now would be a good time to look up the word "flail"

Now we have come to the "flailing" portion of our lessons. Both arms in the air again. Now flail. Flail! Get those feet going. Who cares what you look like! Choreography is for people without decent songs!

Before you know it you'll be breaking it down to "Imitation of Life."
__________________

The show was thouroghly enjoyable, by the way. Not as good as Birmingham, and a bit Hi-Fi heavy, but still good.

Oh, and remind me never to go to another Interpol show. It was like the album come to life. No variation whatsoever.

Signing off,
Dehumidifier
Assistant Instructor
Miss Parson's School of Dance

Oxycotin? (I don't feel like looking that up to see if I spelled it right) If you're going to have an addiction, Rush, at least get a real one. One where you have at least one story that includes a crackwhore. Being addicted to Oxycotin is like being addicted to Advil.

Listening to Interpol makes me feel like I'm tipsy in Greenwich Village, living in a better week.
Call me a huge dork, but I'm fucking stoked about tonight's show.

Mark's latest out-of-office autoreply:

I�ll be in Southeast Asia dealing with my garment factories.

It would seem that my half-brother Nguyet Billows (same father different mother) has let the family garment factories miss their quotas for the third straight quarter and it is time for me to throw my weight around. It appears the workers in my factories have been goofing off like children rather than working like them. The person I blame for this ordeal is the head foreman Binh Hai. It is his negligence that has let my factories dissolve into a large pile of manure that poses as a factory making shirts, but instead only makes more piles of manure with Hilfiger labels on them. I would expect this kind of carelessness from a five year old, but Binh Hai is almost ten. What is doubly disappointing is that he has been employed at my factory since the age of four: his nimble Laotian hands making everything from Air Jordan sneakers to Gap cotton chinos. But an example must be made. He�s going to have to go.

Because of Binh Hai�s managerial incompetence, the children in my factory have begun a strike and have made the following demands:

Demand #1: A five-cent raise in pay. (That�s more than double what they get already. Screw that!)

Demand #2: That the workday be reduced from 18 to 16 hours (you want to work bank hours than go work for a bank you little brats! Until then suck it up.)

Demand #3: The windows are to be open in the summer. (They were obviously painted shut for a reason you evil munchkins, so don�t mess with them!)

Demand #4: The doors to the factory are to no longer be locked during work hours. (Those doors are locked to keep them protected from things like, I don�t know, wild angry monkeys and pissed off snakes.)

Demand #5: No more leg shackles. (Now wouldn�t that defeat the purpose of having leg shackles? Idiots.)

Demand #6: We are to no longer be forced to worship your likeness as a God. (I give you jobs and a purpose. Without me you�d have nothing. Now if that doesn�t make me a God, I don�t know what does?)

Honestly, it�s as if they criticize every freaking move I make � �we don�t want this� � �we don�t want that.� For crying out loud, they act like those 4th graders in Pennsylvania I had mining coal over summer vacation. This constant complaining is enough to drive me nuts. And you know what really gets under my skin? All those people who go on and on about how children are our greatest natural resource. Well you know what? That�s a load of crap. Do you know how many kids you have to burn to heat just one house? Well I lost count, but trust me, it takes a lot.

Now lets get back to the matter at hand, the strike at my factory. First off, I haven�t gotten to where I am today by bowing down to the ridiculous whims of my employees. I know for sure I can break this strike. How you might ask? Well fortunately, if there�s one thing I have learned about Southeast Asia it�s that cigarettes solve most every problem. One pack of smokes for each kid and these demands will be forgotten the moment they light up. However, if they refuse my gracious appeasement I have no other choice than to break-off negotiations and replace them with toddlers. Sure it takes two or three toddlers to do the work of one kid, but they work really cheap: usually for stones with smiley faces painted on them. And yes, I am fully aware the toddlers will decrease efficiency, but I figure with what I save in hourly wage, it�ll work out all the same.

I�ll be back as soon as I restore capitalism to the Far East. I should be done by Tuesday.

I saw a trailer this weekend for the movie "Sylvia," based on the life of Sylvia Plath. They called her "the century's most powerful voice," which seems like a bit of an overstatement. Not that I have anything against Sylvia Plath. I read everything she wrote in high school. It helped shape me into the breezy upbeat person that I am today. But still...the century's most powerful voice? Maybe in the top 20.

Speaking of depression, the Radiohead show is tonight. I've never seen them in concert. I hope they rock, and it isn't the live version of "Kid A."

Did I just pseudo-diss Sylvia Plath and Radiohead in the same post? I'm sorry, high school self!

Is it wrong that I laugh quietly to myself every time I think about Roy vs. the tiger? I'm going to feel awfully bad if he dies.

Bathroom grafitti is a perfectly valid form of literature.

My roommate and I are going to make shirts that read "Strung out on Steve," with pictures of famous Steves on them. The original idea came from a Steve Perry song called "Strung Out," but we've decided to expand it to other Steves, such as Steve McQueen. Any ideas?

I have to move in a month. Where to go, where to go.

Top Spice really is top spice. You should go.

When did Lenny's become so hipster? It seems like that's the only place to go Friday nights now. I can't decide if it's good, bad or just wierd.