...and next week on "Quentin Tarantino Theater:"

MIA
Don't you hate that?

VINCENT
What?

MIA
Uncomfortable silences. Why do we
feel it's necessary to yak about
bullshit in order to be
comfortable?

VINCENT
I don't know.

MIA
That's when you know you found
somebody special. When you can
just shut the fuck up for a minute,
and comfortably share silence.

VINCENT
I don't think we're there yet. But
don't feel bad, we just met each
other.

MIA
Well I'll tell you what, I'll go to
the bathroom and powder my nose,
while you sit here and think of
something to say.

VINCENT
I'll do that.


Thank you and goodnight.

John Wayne+Fu Manchu= Ghengis Khan.

Sorry about all that nuclear testing out in New Mexico where you filmed this masterpiece. And about all that cancer that killed 20 cast members.
I was thoroughly entertained for a few minutes...and then forced to change the channel.

Tar-tars.

Combos. They cheese your hunger away.

I would like to name cars for a living.

The Toyota Tuberculi. Luxury is contagious.

I think someday the Nissan Titan will have the ability to transform into a robot and fight crime. Then we'll have to call it either the Nissan Optimus or the Nissan Titan: Optimus Prime edition.

24 was wierd last night.

There's nothing going on today here. I'm bored as fuck, provided that fuck is as bored as tombs, which better be at least half as bored as I am, because I am pretty bored.

I don't care what anyone says, and by anyone I mean stomp and stammer, I like the Dandy Warhols. You know what I don't like? Stomp and Stammer. Yet I still read it's at-least-two-weeks-too-late pile o' crap every month, like I really need last month's concert lineups. They have enticed me with their freeness, those bastards. I'm going to start my own zine, except I'm not going to call it a zine. Because that word makes it sound like all the editors are wearing flannel shirts and listening to Mudhoney.

Hell, I have access to free Xeroxes. I'm as pseudo-intellectual as any of those shits putting out all that other xeroxed name-dropping black and white irony.

Who's with me? It's going to be like McSweeneys except not good or professional.
Are you ready to be not good or professional? Can you handle it? Can you?

I hope this goes at least half as well as my attempt to start my band, Camp Basement, which now consisits of me and my Rubix cube (who has, as of late, been rather slow on the uptake).

I am so good at starting projects that don't go anywhere. I am even champion, I think. I would attribute it to me being a gemini, but I don't believe in that shite. (But more power to anyone that does. I mean, we have to have something to fill the void so we won't have to admit to ourselves that there really is no meaning to anything.)

On a completely unrelated note, I read "The Stranger" again last night. Charming book. Quick read. Highly recommended, especially to those who are students of astrology and/or religion. If I were The Cure I might just write a song about it. But as I am merely Camp Basement I will just sit and yell in your face and throw mashed potatoes at the wall and maybe sacrifice some rodents all in the good name of absurdism and in the badass name of ROCK AND ROLL. Motherfuckers.

Jal has been idle on AIM for 42hrs and 42 mins. That sounds like a really really rediculously stupid record.

What rot, I say. What rot you chaps. I really want to bring back semi-archaic British-isms.

The combination of ads at the top of this page today is wierd.

Random movie reviews from Sunday nite movie nite:

"Evil Dead Trap" (Evil Death Trap?) is a good movie, if you like Japanese horror. Better than Ringu, or so I've been told having never actually seen Ringu.

"Maybe Baby" is not a good movie unless you really really really like Hugh Grant romantic comedies. Not that this movie even had Hugh Grant in it, it just seems like it would appeal to the same demographic.

"X Men 2" (X2?) was pretty good. I heard it was better than the first one, but again, I've never seen the first one.

I can't believe everyone sat through "Maybe Baby." I felt nauseated at the opening theme song (McCartney singing Buddy Holly).

I'm going to buy some juice now.

"Ulysses" by James Joyce is generally considered to be the greatest book of the 20th century.
"The Bible" by God and whoever else happened to be in the room at the time is generally
considered the greatest book ever (overlooking religious technicalities, etc.)
If James Joyce had written the Bible, we would still be waiting for God to create light as he struggled to tie his shoes for 500 pages.

"Ulysses" taunts me mercilessly with its sheer length. I have a theory that no one has actually finished the book, and that those last 4000 pages could contain any of the following:
-Hundreds of tiny classified ads.
-Your missing DVD player manual.
-1000 pages of Joyce muttering about a hand cramp.
-The script of the final episode of "Friends."
-How many licks it takes to get to the tootsie roll center of a tootsie pop, with an in-depth description of each lick.
-A complete biology textbook.
-2000 final pages of complete jibberish, seeing as Joyce had finally run out of words and was forced to make up new ones.
-Atkins recipies.

I really need to read this book. Hey, there's my New Year's Resolution! I found it.

Then I can pretend to understand it the same way I pretend to understand Pavement lyrics and "Last Year at Marienbad."

Whores, you are all whores. Blow and blowjobs. My god.
I'm going to bed.

I said god damn.

How does five hours pass without anyone noticing that five hours had, indeed, passed? And why must those particular five hours be smack in the middle of the night, the prime sleeping hours? Today would be perfectly lovely more or less if I were allowed to simply chainsmoke on the porch and watch the end of "LBII: RW&B." Lovely.
More or less.

This is what happens when you enter the word "Dance" into the Getty One stock photography search engine:



In the future, women will only dance with apes.
Damn, dirty apes.

Happy election year, everybody!

I like cereal. Cereal is good people.

There is a kitten on my calender. It stares blankly into the distance as it sits in a delicately hand-painted teacup on a bed of greenery. That kitten is probably dead now.

The CD I bought from amazon.com is here. It is the soundtrack to the film "Downtown 81" and it is going to be so cool once I open it. I like ordering cds and dvds, forgetting that I ordered them, and just letting them be surprises for myself.

Party cake.

My sinus cavities must look like tiny war zones, if I had to guess.

And one more thing: Atkins bread sucks ass. I don't think it's made of anything found in nature. What a way to ruin a perfectly good pb&j.

For those familiar with 90.5 (fm-is-wuog-athens) circa 99 or 00, wasn't there a promo or a fake promo that aired with someone singing about salsa? Or have I just made this whole thing up in my head?

I had an obligatory 4am shift once. I was always late, and the kid who I relieving would always get pissed because I was late. His name was Wayne and we became friends later.

I was not put on this earth to operate machinery with a lot of buttons.
I will tell you that much.

Things people probably don't think about on a regular basis, but at any given moment is on the mind of some member of the human race:

-The TV show "Sisters"
-The evil queen's interchangable head in "Return to Oz."
-Whatever happened to that one mime.
-The Ford Edsel parked in the garage in that one frame of the original NES game "Maniac Mansion."

I have that game for my NES and I still can't beat the damn thing. Anyone wanna give it a go?

Let me know if this is an episode of the Twilight Zone, because something feels off. I'm at work on a Saturday and not ready to face people much less carry on a conversation thanks to my sporatic insomnia, though last night I actually spent most of my allotted sleeping time writing a very long letter to Sara Jane. Looking at the mess I ignore and the caffiene that is in charge of my system I make a note not to venture near any rivers. It gets to the best of us.

There's something about a cloudy day at the office that lends itself to listening to the entire R.E.M. catalogue as background music to your busywork. I'm about halfway through "Monster" and am barreling towards present day, though I might skip "Hi-Fi." It might be too tedious for late afternoon, and this mid-monster nonsense is difficult enough.

Plastic bags: Silent. Deadly.
(A portion of the article.)

TRIBUNE-REVIEW
Thursday, January 8, 2004
A Mt. Pleasant Township couple wants Wal-Mart to pay for foot and toe injuries they claim were caused by canned goods and condiments that tumbled from an overfilled plastic grocery bag.

According to a two-count civil lawsuit filed Wednesday in Westmoreland County, Brenda and Ronald Sager contend a plastic bag they brought home from the East Huntingdon Township store last month was deficient and overstuffed.

The bag, which contained a 32-ounce jar of Miracle Whip, a 46-ounce bottle of ketchup, three 15-ounce cans of fruit, an 18-ounce bottle of ranch dressing and a 12-ounce bottle of mustard, broke open when the Sagers returned home and started to put away their groceries.

That's when the handle tore and the bottom of the bag broke, the Sagers claim.

"... all of the contents of said small plastic bag immediately fell onto and struck the right ankle, foot and toes of the plaintiff, Brenda Sager," the lawsuit said.

The 14-page complaint filed by attorney John Scales claims Brenda Sager suffered numerous injuries including cracked and damaged toenails. Brenda Sager also claims she sustained more serious permanent injuries and other physical problems, such as ligament damage and a broken right foot.

The Sagers contend Wal-Mart was at fault for her injuries. The store, they claim, failed to properly instruct and train its employees to correctly bag products, negligently provided a defective bag, recklessly overpacked the bag by placing in it too many heavy items, failed to double- or triple-bag the purchases, and placed Brenda Sager in a "position of peril."

She is seeking damages in excess of $30,000.

Her husband also is seeking that amount in damages, claiming that as a result of his wife's injuries he has been deprived of her attention and comfort and suffered a loss of consortium.

Maybe they should try turning it off and then turning it back on...

The Mars Rover is Stuck.

My friend recently returned from Europe and brought me a Kinder Suprise! chocolate egg, more German chocolate, and a superawesome hat that makes me look like a stewardess for USSR Air. German chocolate just kicks the ass of American chocolate so hard core that I could eat it by the pound. I could also kill some German gummi products pretty fast. I must visit Berlin, and then I think I'll move in.

If what they say is true, that is.

Earlier I had the phrase "I break me down for you" running through my head like a wound-up stock ticker, but I didn't have time take action. Maybe I'll just concentrate on finding a suitable font.

This is why everything is still unfinished. Details, details, punctuation.

I have old-lady hands. Dry and inky. I should acquire lacy gloves, and soon.

Let me know if you should find yourself at number 1000 on my counter. Just curious.

Have you seen the i-pod minis? They're tiny and come in pretty colors, so you can match your pink i-Pod to your pink Vespa and your pink MINI.
When you drive by people will wonder if you're from the future.
Because in the future all appliances will fit on the head of a pin.

White chocolate Reese's cups are delicious. I hope Reese Witherspoon continues to invent such delicious foodstuffs.

This giant Jude Law poster in my cubicle is a positive addition. Thanks goes out to whichever random paper company sent us this piece of free poster goodness.

Apparently "Rape the Road" is not a good tagline for a car company.

Tonight at the Earl:

I Almost Saw God In the Metro (CD release party)
Jennifer Trezza
Scream Machine

Go. I command it.

Bush In 30 Seconds.
Check out the panel of celebrity judges. Do you think they all have to meet in one big room to judge these? If so, I bet it would go down something like this:

Moby gets really pissed and goes on a hunger strike because Al Franken keeps accidently calling him Michael Stipe. Jack Black tries to break the tension with a song. Eddie Vedder starts beating up on Jack Black a little for being annoying. Chaos erupts. Moby eventually dies of starvation and Michael Moore releases a documentary on the whole incident, the liberal slant on a roomful of liberals actually going so far it surpasses liberalism and is seen as extremely right-wing. Meanwhile, in the corner, James Carville enjoys a taco.

No time today to think of something new to write, so here's a repost from my livejournal:

My Take On the Bars Closing Earlier

It's kind of like when third world governments taken over by extremist groups pass laws making it legal for the military to shoot people point-blank in the street for looking at them the wrong way.

No, wait. Never mind. It's nothing like that.

What I meant to say is that it's like back in high school when your parents take an hour off your curfew and it becomes a huge pain in the ass to steal their car because the alarm on the new Lexus is so loud.

Yeah, that's it.

Wow. I feel like crap on a crap cracker.
Crap warmed over.
If I were a smoothie flavor, it would be crappleberry.

From the new "Plug" (see links): "Either Stouffer's is the leader of nouveau cuisine or they fucked up my lasagna."

That previous post re: the band started out as something as simple as "Hey, I want to start a band. Anyone interested?" And then it started to get out of hand. I don't want my years of piano lessons to go to waste is all.

According to "Party Out Of Bounds" the Athens music scene was only good for about an hour back in 1981. Either I'm just born too late for everything or someone's bitter because they're old.
It made me have this strange repetitive dream about R.E.M. The same scene kept repeating every five seconds or so like a slow sepia toned filmstrip.

My mom taught me that once you ask a friend to do something, you should wait until they ask you to do something before inviting them again. If they don't it means they're not your real friend. Thanks to my mother, I have no idea whether some people are my "real friends" or are just tolerating me.

I've always been wary of becoming too close to someone because I was taught that nobody is as genuine as they seem and they'll probably drop you eventually.

Feel free to pull up a couch.

2004 is going to be all about the sandwich. People are going to take sandwiches to new levels with their daring choice of filling. Fluffernutter is going to make it's comeback as the chic topping of choice.

Mac and cheese from the box is going to become so overwhelmingly cheesy that the cheese is actually engineered to conquer and colonize the macaroni. Kraft is forced to admit that the cheese is not real after the finished product emits a greenish glow.

I didn't make any resolutions. At least I didn't write any down, I've had the same goal for awhile now but I'm failing miserably. Or at least failing to varied results depending on the day.

I need to make a post-it note on my fridge instructing me to eat the food within. My digestive tract needs a similar reminder.

A Band Will Surely Justify My Existance!
The Journey of This Idea I Have Every Few Months

In the spirit of philanthropy this the new year I have decided to start giving back to the Atlanta hipster scene which has given so much to me. Appropriate belt width. Rapture lyrics. Understanding the line that divides irony from what is actually hip. A better understanding of lemming behavior once the lemming control group is dressed in red leather and forced to socialize. And of course justification that there is nothing cooler going on in this city...in other words the delicate act of putting yourself out there while remaining indifferent. And in the corner.

It's knowledge developed on the mean streets of Williamsburg and refined on a different block in Williamsburg. It's called street smarts.

Phase 1: An Idea Approaches.
If I could pass off falling as dancing, certainly I could substitute substance for volume. I could also start my own subgenre of newness: simply core. Except no simply. Core doesn't need the protective padding of emo or screamo or b flat. You won't see us coming and we'll startle you. Because we'll probably be standing a little too close.

Phase 2: The Idea Attacks!
I am going to start a band, and this time I'm using actual audible notes. It's like I'm going back to the roots of noise. Sort of velvet underground meets classic tv theme songs meets a geriatric choir covering bowie. We will posses all the whimsy of belle and sebastian without the bulky cellists and excess Stuarts. We won't care if you get it, because Antwerp will. And if it doesn't we'll force him to with an all-out assault on his senses! Which he will accept, and request more, because our brand of hardcore emo takes hardcore screamocore to another level: nougat. Why destroy expensive dental work on the crushing center of feedback vs. death screams when you can ease your way into the world of core. The marshmallowy goodness will assure you that nobody has any clue about the subgenres of emo and hardcore, they just know how to sound cool by describing an unknown band as a combination of two equally unknown bands. Every once in awhile throw in Joy Division- it doesn't matter where. Ripping off Joy Division is now hipper than ill fitting pants. The nougat will be delicous and by the time it's all over you might just find yourself wondering why you ever got rid of your Manheim Steamroller tapes, because some bands will only be appreciated by elevators and ficus trees. But you know that they were decking the halls on another level, and you were waiting for them with a can of spray snow. You knew that they knew that mood music could kind of rock. And so did your dad, but not for another week at least.


Defending Yourself Against An Idea Whose TIme Had Come: Nurturing the Idea Phase
Take it up a notch? I have a timeshare on that notch with plenty of room for you during hurricane season! That is to say it's taken. I'm already considering seeing if I can actually record photosynthesis and if so bringing the ficus plant on tour. Electrosynthcoresis, asking the world just where cell division lies on the musical register.

A guitar playing botanist would be a plus.

You've seen ficus trees be decorative distractions in your local bank but have you ever seen one in the spotlight? Or any plantlife? Information on plant bands was scarce.

Feeding Your Idea A Sandwich and Watching It Grow
So far it's me and my ability to read music and play the piano and write obtuse lyrics and throw stuff at people and get drunk. And my desparate reach for something slightly original.

I probably need some other people to play other instruments. Guitar, probably and some drums. I need a singer with pizzazz! My voice sounds like nico but nico covering Television is just derivitive of everything that killed emogoth. core. I think instead of another guitar I'll just see what small instruments I can distort using a wah petal. And I don't think we necessarily need a bass, considering that there's probably a button that provides fill. They make buttons for everything these days.

Loving Your Idea As If It Were Your Very Own.
I have some possible names:
The Future is Next Week
Hayley Mills Replication Kit
Camp Basement

Don't think based on the names that I'm trying to rewrite Pet Sounds for the math rock set. Pet Sounds took into account harmony, whereas my (our) philosophy is that any three notes played together can be a chord if you believe it enough.

I want to perform in both Atlanta and Athens, so you have to be obsessed with both your image and appearing to know more than anyone around you. You not only know that Macha did that progression already, you know when, where, and how many other bands were signed to that label based on their ability to ride coattails.

Making Friends With Your Idea And Growing Old Together, Or Letting Your Idea Go Gently
So...lemme know, ok? I'm pretty busy rehearsing my electrophyll outfit Electroschnitzel at the moment but I should have some free time soon depending on whether or not the Ouiji board actually produces the spirit of Falco like the box promises or just continues to answer in ones and zeros. (Never try to upgrade a ouiji board, it only channels dead geeks.)

I know people still use old-tyme reel to reels but has anyone tried a reel to reel to........reel?
Do people recognize the format Bach used for his warmup pieces? Does Radiohead?

We might need a research department/ go go dancers.

I will take risks like this for the future of electromath rockcore. Which I think actually requires a knowledge of vector systems and at least calculus II to understand.

Your Idea, Your Future, And You. How To Train Your Idea At Home For A Career in Medical Transcription
If you are ready to live at least a month into the future of music, get on the train bound straight for indie credville. Which I think at the moment is Omaha, or Branson. Like everything else there's no sign. You just have to know. Transportation a plus.

Tonight at Lenny's the following exchanges occured between the hours of one am and three am:

Between me and a friend:
Me: Ok, other than being drunk how are you?
Him: Great!
Me: Good, what've you been up to?
Him: Well last week I beat my record for most sex had in 24 hours. How have you been?
Me: Wow, not that good!
Him: (laughter, something unintelligable)
Me: You're not driving home, are you?

Right, let's stop sharing now.

Between me and a guy I'd never met but who looked like a Carbona-in-training:
Him: Hi, what's your name?
Me: Jill. And yours?
Him: (I don't remember this). How old are you?
Me: Twenty-four.
Him: I'm ninteen. Do you want to dance?
Me: I'm not really feeling the dance floor right now, but I'll let you know.
(proceed to lose him in a crowd of his twins.)

I guess that was his stab at picking up a mysterious older woman, though I don't know if he assumed that women secretly dream of random hook-ups with underage hipsters. Pretty far down the list, kiddo, especially considering that a nineteen-year old hipster and a twenty-six year old hipster are pretty much the same thing, emotions-wise, except the twenty-six year old had been in more failed bands and probably doesn't live with his parents.

Between me and the guy who used to own MJQ:
Me: Hey I know you from New Years.
Him: Oh god. Yeah I remember that.
Me: You were in the hot tub the whole time.
Him: I didn't try to kiss you, did I?
Me: No, but I didn't really meet you until nine in the morning.
Him: Me and my rhinestones.
Me: How was the highland inn?
Him: It was ok.

Between me and a guy I had a crush on in college, but he does not remember my name and why should he? It's been four years. We are shouting because we're shaking it one time on the dance floor
Me: I have a degree from the journalism school!
Him: I was in the journalism school!
Me: I know! We had classes together!
Him: I don't know how I don't remember you! You look sort of familiar, though!
Me: My memory is wierd! I remember the most random people!
Him: I'm really bad at it! So do you have a job?!
Me: Yeah!
Him: Six years of school and I still work in a coffee shop! I'm twenty-four! I'm like the oldest person here!
Me: LeBrian is older than you! Givan is older than you! (names changed) I'm your age!
Him: I feel like a fossil!
(kudos to me for refraining from mentioning the fact that I knew which restaurant he worked at and still had his picture. in a book somewhere kids, not on me. I'm not crazy that way. Too much energy drain.)

Between me and a guy I met at a random party a few months ago and I assumed I'd never see again so I gave him my friend's e-mail address when he asked for mine. Because I was kind of messed up and he kept following me around which was kind of creepy at the time.
Him: I e-mailed you and you never wrote back.
Me: Really? God, I'm sorry about that. I must've thought it was junk mail.
Him: (skeptical) maaybe...
Me: I really don't remember. But I am sorry.
(I felt kind of bad for not giving him the real address because he's nice enough and has a girlfriend, but my friend and I like to give our other male friend's address out when we get asked for our e-mail addresses by strangers. It's not only safer, it also provides a brief moment of hilarity).

Between me and my friend Jal:
Jal: Are you ready to get out of here?
Me: Yes.
Jal adjusts riding helmet, both head for door.

These are available in short play form for public performance. Just ask!

Paper says I was rather busy this year, but it was that green and white striped commodore 64 paper and has been printing since 1982 so I find it somewhat difficult to believe. I'm never well-rested, never well-scrubbed so either I've actually been as busy as paper says or I just accepted a role in a Civil War movie. It's a toss-up, really. Here is some shite accomplished by this set of genes in one 2003:
-attended my last class ever, as well as my last graduation save any future classes in ceramics or drunk driving.
-got a real job, with a real cubicle, a real desk, a real dental plan, and an actual mess of crap paperwork piling up on existing desk!
-dated. as in left the house to see said boy at said location. results: varying, but not spectacular because I remain unspectacularly single.
-had a relationship last longer than a stick of fruit stripe.
-had my emotions stepped upon and ground into the sidewalk like fruit stripe.
-overanalyzed above situation to no end.
-overused metaphors.
-broke hearts (pure speculation).
-saw my mom, dad and brother ride in the same car for the first time in twelve years. managed an argument in those two blocks.
-saw that happen the same day as graduation, which is also the same day above relationship started, cheesily, in a bar.
-realized that maybe I had a big day instead of a big year.
-saw my number of friends increase exponentially, or maybe that was just friendster.
-got a godamn business card. it is embossed and glows. it does not actually glow.
-saw my friends disperse to every corner of the country making travel plans more and more difficult.
-saw R.E.M. in full live concert
-had an extremely glam backstage at R.E.M. moment complete with hot tubs and strippers.
-saw Beck, Radiohead, Belle and Sebastian, Interpol, Enon, etc. etc.
-saw R.E.M. again. was forced to explain the missing cristal.
-said "I'm on the guest list" way too many times for my own good.
-partied like a maniac. maniac.
-only went to athens once.
and most importantly:
-discovered the beauty that is homestarrunner.

So much me! Can you handle all the me-ness? I didn't think so, suckers.

kmartcashier13: next...part 2!!
vplus2001: hahahaah
vplus2001: goddammit

I have nothing to blog, so I'm going to copy and paste a still-ongoing conversation with V+. Please. Enjoy as one would a mint julep or, perhaps, a mojito.

kmartcashier13: what is up?
vplus2001: goddamn 24
kmartcashier13: is it new??
vplus2001: no
vplus2001: it wasn't on
vplus2001: not til next week
vplus2001: 2 weeks in a row of NOTHING
kmartcashier13: thats what I thought
vplus2001: son
vplus2001: of a bitch
kmartcashier13: why I'm not at home
vplus2001: ?
vplus2001: oh
vplus2001: right
vplus2001: right
kmartcashier13: that is why I'm not at home
kmartcashier13: whats your alternate plan?
vplus2001: none exists
kmartcashier13: didn't know it was a rerun?
vplus2001: no rerun
vplus2001: just the paris hilton show
vplus2001: I knew
kmartcashier13: or nothing
vplus2001: but didn't think it thru
vplus2001: trying to figure out mac mail
kmartcashier13: hmmm....well, I got nothing.
kmartcashier13: fun!
kmartcashier13: I THOUGHT I was going out to get drinks but I'm downtown again watching people move things
vplus2001: huh??
kmartcashier13: They're trying to get this place ready for NYE party tomorrow night
kmartcashier13: and U
kmartcashier13: sorry I'm
kmartcashier13: just watching...
vplus2001: what place?
kmartcashier13: downtown warehouse
kmartcashier13: that mysterious space I
kmartcashier13: I'm
kmartcashier13: always iming from
vplus2001: oh yeah rippy and I were talking about that the other day
kmartcashier13: huh?
vplus2001: we were talking about fotolog
kmartcashier13: rippy knows nothing!!!
kmartcashier13: It's like Narnia
vplus2001: no kidding he doesn't -- neither of us do! Where are these mysterious psycadelic parties Jill goes to seemingly eight nights a week??
kmartcashier13: ok no psychadelia
kmartcashier13: I'm not a godamn hippie.
vplus2001: exhibit A
vplus2001: http://www.fotolog.net/kmartcashier/?photo_id=3908403
vplus2001: if that's not psycadelic
vplus2001: then i don't know how to spell the word!
vplus2001: um
kmartcashier13: I have a feeling this is going to be jal's stupid spencers machine
kmartcashier13: psychic
kmartcashier13: psychadelic
kmartcashier13: psychology
kmartcashier13: yep
kmartcashier13: I am not in charge of any petrie dishes projected onto the walls
kmartcashier13: hello?

vplus2001: arrghghh
kmartcashier13: what up
vplus2001: getting tech support
vplus2001: on mac mail
vplus2001: from stevie
kmartcashier13: fun-ness
kmartcashier13: melting dolls has exceeded her bandwidth
vplus2001: huh?
vplus2001: HAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHAAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAA
kmartcashier13: I tried to visit a sec ago
kmartcashier13: thats whats I gots
kmartcashier13: you should come hang out here
kmartcashier13: I'm bored
vplus2001: at the warehouse?
kmartcashier13: oh yeah
vplus2001: "ware" the hell is it??
kmartcashier13: downtown
kmartcashier13: luckie street
vplus2001: it's an apartment?
kmartcashier13: its a big ass warehouse
kmartcashier13: a whole floor
vplus2001: and what are people doing? why are you there even when there's no party??
vplus2001: stuffing confetti in the paint guns?
kmartcashier13: yep
kmartcashier13: i'm on the internet
vplus2001: goddamn this is so irritating
vplus2001: problems galore
kmartcashier13: free alcohol here
vplus2001: what's the scene like over there? give me an idea, I'm not walking into a trap.
kmartcashier13: There are literally only 4 people here
kmartcashier13: people are moving things around for tomorrow
vplus2001: is there a ping pong table?
kmartcashier13: some people are coming and going
kmartcashier13: theres an elevator
kmartcashier13: theres a rood
kmartcashier13: roof
kmartcashier13: oh, wheelchair jousting!
kmartcashier13: did I mention the free alcohol?
vplus2001: ok
vplus2001: here's the deal
vplus2001: Rippy needs to meet with me to talk about some situational things
vplus2001: I'll be hearing from him soon
vplus2001: and I will do my best to persuade him to go
vplus2001: I think I will be successful in my efforts
vplus2001: if so
vplus2001: I will call you for more details
vplus2001: if not, I will tell you here
kmartcashier13: how soon will said situation be going down?
vplus2001: soon
kmartcashier13: 10 4.
vplus2001: there are some uncertaintie sthere
vplus2001: I'm not absolutely sure
vplus2001: b¨t it's the best guess
kmartcashier13: I'm going to the restroom. be right back.
kmartcashier13: Oh and i'm also going to smoke so it may be a bit
vplus2001: ok
kmartcashier13: i have returned!
vplus2001: sorry
vplus2001: my mac mail WORKS
vplus2001: finally
vplus2001: but expect more email from me in the future to come from a new address
kmartcashier13: ok
vplus2001: for off-work hours
vplus2001: when they come along
vplus2001: what e-mail address to you have access to?
vplus2001: I want to test it!
vplus2001: I tested it w/another from the same domain name
vplus2001: Want to test externam
vplus2001: external
vplus2001: ok
vplus2001: ok it's on it's way
vplus2001: its way, rather
kmartcashier13: i'll check!
kmartcashier13: just read yr blog, btw
vplus2001: Blogger has been giving me headaches
vplus2001: there were like seven thigns I tried to blog yesterday
vplus2001: and they didn't publish properly and were lost
vplus2001: this isn't a template issue
kmartcashier13: works...all work and no play
vplus2001: it's a blogger issue
vplus2001: good
vplus2001: wonderful news
vplus2001: this changes EVERYTHING
kmartcashier13: @youlovethatshit.com?
vplus2001: you love that shit
kmartcashier13: sure do
vplus2001: exactly!
vplus2001: www.youlovethatshit.com for more
vplus2001: it's literally the funniest thing on the face of the universe.
vplus2001: it's actually just relaunched
(edited for violent/sexual content)
vplus2001: yeah
kmartcashier13: what is that icon, btw?
vplus2001: a coworker
vplus2001: no significance to it
kmartcashier13: have you talked to rippy?
vplus2001: no
vplus2001: I'll call him now this is getting out of hand, it's freaking eleven thirty
kmartcashier13: early
vplus2001: i mean, I'll call him now...while it's still early
kmartcashier13: yep
kmartcashier13: I have nothing to blog...maybe I'll blog THIS ENTIRE CONVERSATION
vplus2001: let me look over it first...
vplus2001: ok
vplus2001: ok

Being a child of divorced parents, Christmas day is over and yet my Christmas is only halfway over. Long live dysfunction! So far I got some Gucci and this fuzzy blanket thing that my mom insists my bed cannot go one more second without. I'm like a long lost Hilton sister, with my Gucci and that blanket. To the liposuction machine!

The superflu is not super. It is, in fact, anything but. So far Christmas is sucking pretty hard core.

This just in! Aussie rockers "jet", have rocked southern california
mtv correspondents are estimating their effect was a 6.5 on the rockin scale.
(courtesy of jal)

I now have a livejournal.It's mostly for my friends who don't read this blog. All my fictitious ramblings shall remain here, so stop panicking.

Anyone know what goes in a casserole?

Man, I did some blogging yesterday. Don't know where that came from, exactly. Grey matter, anyone?

The Pocket Travel Guide to Misguided Philosophy
Part 2: Vacationing in the Waiting Room

Enter you, upon seeing another: "I guess we got the same directions." "You don't know?" "I know my directions led here." "You know the directions because you wrote them." "I did? I can't recall, exactly." "Don't blame you. It was buried in the subtext. Remember the forms?" "There are always forms." "Are you going to sit?" "I'm easily distracted. It might take a second." "It's the patterns. Blue chair. Orange chair. Blue chair. Orange and again." "Which should I sit in?" "They are all the same." "Genetically speaking , of course." "No they're really all the same. Every time, everywhere. The color repetition. It's easier on everyone." "That explains the deja vu." "Where did you sit last time? The reason for the deja vu, there must have been a last time." "Blue." "There you go." "How long have you been here?" "I either forgot that long ago or recently. It's unclear." "I have to be back at a set time." "Yeah, I did once." "How long ago?" "You lose track." "Derailed?" "I got comfortable." "It happens." "It's the patterns. One two one two, chairs, tiles, pretty soon you hear patterns in the ac ducts, even in time passing." "Nobody wants a shock." "My paradigms are rigid from inactivity." "I should write it on my hand." "You can try." "Do you have a pen?" "Here, take mine." "It's how I keep track." "I used to make mental notes." "This pen doesn't work." "The consonants and vowels just started separating." "It doesn't matter, I dropped it." "That's when I started counting." "I was wondering about the tiles." "Forwards, backwards. Then I started adding. I subtracted. I multiplied. Then I discovered division." "Percentiles." "Exactly, with a slightly modified mathematical symbol." "I remember." "I'm currently searching for infinity." "How brave." "Uncharted territory. Someone should plant a flag." "But there aren't enough tiles." "How many numbers can you place right of the decimal point?" "However many you can stand, I guess." "And each time the number gets smaller but never completely diminishes." "Infinity is nothing?" "No, it's the process of getting to nothing." "That's an important endeavor." "I have a grant. You never told me why you are here." "I was trying to go somewhere else, but the directions kept leading here. The directions can't be wrong." "That would mean..." " I know, let's not think about it." (pause, thinking about something else) "You'll never reach infinity, you know." "That's exactly what I'm proving." "Goals are really what makes it all worthwhile. That's what they say." "We must keep the same company." Curtain. Repeat, as needed.

Some parents read their children bedtime stories. My mom read me the dictionary. I think that's where the problem started.

The Pocket Travel Guide to Misguided Philosophy
Part 1: Now Available! Day trips to Absolute Zero.

Find absolute zero on a map, upper left hand quadrant, half-finished key. Take the straight line route from here to there where every inch between the thumb and index represents a shift in brain activity. Say that straight line routes are pragmatic, require no thought, operate on one dimension. Say a straight line doesn't carry luggage, too much dead weight, say it before your metaphor becomes lost in transition. Halfway there, check your mirrors. Already halfway there but still here, billions of us, working to shift from random to organized. You can call it a mess, once you find the voice box. These people look through us like two more worker bees clearing away the dirty dishes. This is in between, mid cell division, mid train of thought, mid circular logic, the temperate zones, no opinions, just lifetimes lost in pursuit. We are racing towards a theory, stumbling, back at start. Red on red, where blood begins freezing and snapping. Stop trying to make sense out of nonsense, logic out of illogic, thinking everything into submission. When illogic is all you have you create using illogic. When chaos sets in it infects organization, it kills comfort, it brings planets to a screeching halt. When evolution has nowhere left to go it moves sideways. We are here building ramshackle homes for our own fossils.

"Is there anything to mix this with?"
"Hold on, lemme check the fridge....orange juice and-"
"Hand me that cranberry juice."
"That's actually grape juice."
"That'll work."
"You'd mix vodka and grape juice?"
"I like grape juice."
(pause)
"Limes!"
"I don't see a knife."
(enter swiss army knife)
"Vodka, grape juice and a lime?"
"Do you want a lime?"
"In a screwdriver?"
"I like limes."

exit bar.

Say you find yourself bored at a hipster party in a confined space. 99% chance "House of Jealous Lovers" is playing. What to do, what to do. Spill some beer in a walkway. Watch people fall. As the situation escalates (i.e. people drink more), strategically place objects over spilt beer. Banana peels are the best but if you don't have any just stand around and wish that you did. Because that would be pretty funny, huh? Stand back! That excessively studded belt is gonna hurt when it hits the ground! When you get bored with that watch your ex-boyfriend feel up every girl in the room. Because that's pretty fun too.

UPDATE! : I am still drunk.

Here is a picture of me wearing leather. It does require imagination.

...and continued
page 109

The first date. The first car. The first day at college. Marriage. Children. They call them watershed moments for a reason, and I was determined to find out why. Little did I know that the hardest part of this endeavor would be locating my nearest watershed.

Excerpt from the autobiography of Josephine Drake, who does not exist.
page 58

Upon exiting junior high one asks oneself and possibly those in earshot if there is anything worse than junior high. Yes. Of course there is. One could leave junior high only to discover that one's house is for sale and one's parents now live somewhere completely different. One could discover that this is in fact some sort of survival tactic planned out by one's parents to find one's new address. One could panic upon realizing that they could have moved anywhere on earth, subsiding only after one realizes that parents do not have passports. One could wonder how the property value could possibly be altered by leaving your belongings in the backyard, only after discovering location of said belongings. One could contemplate assimilation into a new family, one that allowed consumption of most major food groups and did not refer to one's fear of the microwave "irrational." One could think of the hours of uninterrupted espionage, the acceptance of a one-page manifesto as a history essay, and the complete freedom to choose one's own brand of dryer sheet. One begins to contemplate tearing down the wallpaper and putting in the much-desired dumbwaiter. One begins mental blueprint of dumbwaiter, and exactly how many winecoolers can be transported for safekeeping in the basement. One imagines sneaking into alan's car with a newly fashioned friend and drinking said winecoolers, and one thinking that one way streets are, in fact, a suggestion and only designed for people who live in the first dimension. One can imagine an ensuing fiery crash and the news report being used for years as a bad example in drivers ed, to the point where the clothing looks laughably out of fashion. One imagines a class laughing at fashion instead of fire. And then one turns around to learn that one simply had the wrong house, and that one's parents were not moving but simply existing as they were yesterday when they decided you no longer needed a map. One could curse the original architect of split-level suburbia. One could decide to leave a paper trail in the future. One could decide to get a lot of paper.

The answer is, yes I do have something on my mind. Except I can't discuss it in front of mixed company...it's why I'm on the computer in the other room instead of mingling with the party-goers. Lets all be more cryptic!

There's no 13th floor in our building, as in many buildings, and therefore no 13th floor button on the elevator. But, if you visit the service elevator there is a button for the 13th floor. Way up at the top. Above the button for the 21st floor, which is nothing but giant air-conditioning units. It's a mystery, one I was going to solve until I learned that it's impossible to get that button to light up. Ok, mystery stopped in it's tracks. But someday when I get around to it I will solve it. It's kind of a pain in the ass to get to the service elevator. I mean, you have to use your access card and everything.

I don't mind the band "Pretty Girls Make Graves." I listen to it on me i-tunes and think "hmmm...this isn't so bad." But then my stomache begins to knot up for some reason. Why is this? My disembodied head likes it but my stomach doesn't. I guess each of my body parts has it's own musical tastes.

I can't imagine ever saying "I've got it! We'll name our son Kiefer!"
Not out loud, anyways.

Excerpt from the autobiography of Josephine Drake, who does not exist.
page 2

I suppose they forgot to tell me that I was born because I didn't realize it until four, maybe five years later. The first three years are so remarkably obscure that I can't help but think that my parents involved me in some sort of brainwashing, the kind of brainwashing that teaches children to react favorably to shiny objects. Occasionally there would be dixie cup apple juice and bland cookies. I thought all the storybooks were real like encyclopedias or phone books. I guess whoever read those stories to me must be dead by now, because only the elderly could tell a story that convincing.

Just tell your roommate that you finished off his bag of cool ranch Doritos because you were smoking pot. He'll understand.

Anorexia. The Anti-Drug.

And speaking of stupid anti-drug commercials, those Truth ads? Truth.com? They were not done by a group of kids who actually have strong feelings against tobacco. Those kids are actors hired by an ad agency who won a shitload of advertising awards for those ads.
Those copywriters and art directors don't care about kids not smoking, they just want to win awards.
Ad awards are a whole other thing...some people in the industry live for that shit. How many people actually know that they give Cannes awards for ads? -yes, those Cannes, the bastard child of the film awards. So you get that great dream job at (insert "good" agency here), then what?
Eight months in the industry and I'm already jaded.
Monday night I'm supposed to go to my creative director's house and do tequila shots and watch the Cannes reel. Me and the fourteen boys in the department? I'm giving it an hour to turn into a Halo-fest. If the other girl in my department doesn't go then I'm out, especially since it'll probably turn into ultimate fighting at some point.

For the twenty-billionth year in a row, I am going to have no one to kiss on New Years Eve. (and I don't mean everyone falling over each other in a drunken mess where lips might make content with some portion of my elbow). I know it's stupid like Valentine's Day, but it would be nice, for once.

Last year I spent New Year's Day with Allen and Sam and Marcus riding around Decatur looking for something open, and it was really one of the first times I hung out with those kids. Which is odd because I've hung out with them so many times since. I love those kids because they're fun and funny and incredibly loyal, whether you're moving or been screwed over by some asshole or numerous other situations. Kristin, too. Big ups.

Have fun in Amsterdam. Wish I could be there. Sometimes having a full-time job sucks.

A bit of Christmas buying insanity advice: If you are at Wal-Mart and have in your cart a microwave, DO NOT attempt to take it through the U-Scan. Because you cannot lift it on your own. And even if you can, there is no angle on earth that's gonna make that bar code hit that scanner. Even if the really nice girl behind you helps. And the U-Scan "cashier" says "you have all these bar codes on them you have to scan the right one" (when you know full well that you didn't put them there). And all the other lines are god-awful long and some old people behind you are complaining about how Wal-Mart is making so much money by only keeping two lanes open. And even if you have a kickass timex digital indiglo watch in your cart. Usually I enjoy a good trip to Wal-Mart but usually I don't go during the Christmas rush, and usually I go at two in the morning to wreak havoc. Actually, I only had fun there when Sara and I went to collect "EVOL HIGH" supplies. Every other time I either get hit on by some creepy guy or get hit on by some other creepier guy. I recall playing over and over again with a Presidents of the USA toy where when you pressed the George W. Bush button it said "leader of the war on terror." We pressed it about 50 times and found it hilarious each time.

My mom has big plans for us to see "Mona Lisa Smile" and make cookies, presumably not at the same time. While it sounds good in theory, I'm going to guess it dissolves into an argument in about five minutes.

A good portion of my extended family thinks I work at CNN, even though I've told them otherwise. Okay, granted my workplace is a series of initials so they're halfway there. Eventually I'm just going to give up and let them think that. I'm an anchor. But you have to watch all the time or you might miss me. Hey, I might actually get an educated political discussion out of this! Or just more bigoted mid-Alabama rants.

My mom won't let me argue with my ultra-conservative family members, no matter what they say. It can get really annoying.

Where did they get CNN from?

I have since had my caricature drawn and eaten some licorice candy and possibly twisted my ankle in the ensuing sugar rush.
In other news, I think V+ might have actually passed out at the computer judging by his response rate.
Someone might want to check on that.

Rat Zapper? Isn't that a metal band? Nope, it's what they're selling up on my banner.

I'm currently having an IM conversation with myself.

I'm actually insane.

Can you handle the fun?

Did anyone catch the new Conan last night? You know, that show where I get most of my information on what's going on in the news? (just kidding, that's the Daily Show) Conan did one of those tv screen "lips" interviews with Bush that was one of the funniest ones I've seen in a while. Conan asked Bush how he was planning on finding Osama, and he said he was just going to wait outside the same hole. "If the terrorist hole ain't broke don't fix it."
"Ace of Spades"
"Bingo"
"Yahtzee"
"Col. Mustard in the Conservatory with the Candlestick"
"Whatever you say when you win at Scrabble."


"There's a place that's not on any map. They call it 'Woman Island' and I'm it's only chap!" ~Conan


Randomly found this during the search for Conan pics:
"Transported to a surreal landscape, a young girl kills the first woman she meets and then teams up with three complete stangers to kill again." ~ TV listing for the "Wizard of Oz" in the Marin, CA newspaper.

I think my favorite movie title ever in the history of movie titles has to be "Mother, May I Sleep With Danger?" And the made for tv movie doesn't fail to dissapoint. I think Tori Spelling's in it, but it's been awhile so I can't be sure.

I can't decide whether or not to order this. It costs a whopping 32 dollars, but keep in mind that the first song is "Bohemian Rhapsody."

Grape Kool-Aid would be ideal right now.

I just spelled "Dostoyevsky" right on the first try. I am so proud of myself I just do not know what to do.

The roadmap to freedom, which was actually lost about twenty rest stops ago, has led us into a giant hole.

Note to self: stop construction on own hole immediately.

Attempting to name our emocore band without leaving the kitchen.

The Forks
The Dirtiest Dish
The Soysauges
The Blenders
The Unidentified Smell

Reaching periphreal hallucinations.
But I can't miss one second of this hot beard-combing action.

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.