Bowie at Chastain May 8th

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I might be spectating a concert at the Caledonia tonight.

We shall see.

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


They make me want to buy vintage lingerie.

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

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

Dammit!

But I need some tap shoes, really I do.

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



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

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

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

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

Last Weekend, Part One:

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

Hot tea is only good in my head.

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

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

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

Oh and one more thing: any band that names an album "De-Loused in the Comatorium" needs a swift kick in the hiney.

Last night I had a dream that V+ somehow had an alien baby implanted in his head. Twinkletoes was there too, but I can't remember in what capacity. It seems funny now, but in my dream it was a very, very dire situation.
I guess I was asleep, then.
Funny, I don't normally dream in sci-fi.

On a side note, Johnny Rocket's has the best malts and veggie burger. Which is a good thing, because this meal has to last all weekend.

I like big bowls of cereal.
I have not been sleeping well.
I probably won't sleep more than six hours this weekend.
It's hard to tell whether I've been asleep sometimes, it's all perpetual fog.
I also like wearing high heels, and soy chai lattes. Those are good too, especially with a big bowl of cereal.
High heels and short skirts are good for chainsmoking in dj booths the world over.
I like New Order, especially "Temptation."
That is all.

I know you're wondering, well, what exactly happened last weekend.

In-Progress:

A C&C Music Factory cover band called "Things That Make You Go Is That A C&C Music Factory Cover Band?"

An elevator disaster movie using an elevator that only goes 2 or 3 floors.


My friend Jennifer is spinning at MJQ tonight, so get yr scene on. I'll let you guess which one is Jennifer.

Sometimes it's all dusty wax doll smile when we enjoy keeping the gloss over their eyes. Play lover/play mother and never recognize anyone on a neutral morning. Play smash forever into the days, forever is into night.
We're not killing time- we're forcing it into slow suicide.

I hate how when you eat half of a banana, or maybe slice up half a banana for use in your Honey Nut Cheerios, the other half is un-saveable. Because it gets all brown and mushy within five minutes. Stupid fucking bananas. They can all go to hell.

After a rousing game of basketball, my friends and I like to shoot up and then vomit for eight hours.

State of the Blogland Address:

V+ made a Je Suis France video that is the best France video yet, but I can't seem to get the link on his webpage to work anymore.

The Melting Dolls page seems to be missing. I've alerted authorities and an amber alert is underway.

Twinkletoes is still rocking and rolling with his weekly analysis of the hit drama "The O.C."

Scarnsworth has not only fixed his comments and added links, the oceanchum blog now gives you the opportunity to sign up to win a date with Tad Hamilton.

"Well, Dick Cheney is still insane." -YMSP82

Red Duct Tape's blog is developing a Midwestern accent.

Captain Scurvy is working on his 6th plate of mashed potatoes and doesn't seem to be anywhere near stopping. That bear sure has some tough competition this year.

And Sticky Fluffy remains the undisputed "Dance Dance Revolution!" champion. He entered his high score under the initials "ASS."

Thank You and Goodnight.

Dehumidifier

I bet sometimes posters wished they were octagonal but they have no method of communicating this to us. Because no one would buy a poster that says "I have a secret desire to have four more sides." Over and over they scream "you don't have to be crazy to work here but it sure helps," when all they want to do is grab you by the shoulders and shake you and cry out to whoever will listen "you have no idea what it's like to have thousands of voices screaming at you from inside a frame! I work here! And I am crazy! And all I ask for is four more sides!"
But alas Sears portrait studio cannot help you, due to a severe shortage of psychiatrists working in the customer service department.
Do they taunt you, the stopsigns? Are you really a street sign in disguise?
When you see the pictures of happy smiling and often golfing and/or graduating families do you just want to burn down their sailboat?

But what you fail to realize is that if the camera were to pan slightly to the left, one would realize that the stock photo family is being held in thrall by cattle-prod wielding photographers. Of evil.

It could always be worse. You could suffer the fate of Magic Eye posters, once stared down but now cast aside. Even those depicting, after doing some magic eye wizadry, a really bitchin corvette. With a screaming chicken.

Or you could be a stopsign.

Always wanting nothing more

than to be a stoplight.

And to stop getting shot at by the neighbor's kids.

I think if I have a rediculosly large number of children at once I will name them:

Tavius
Bitavius
Tritavius
Quadtavius
Quintavius
Sextavius
Septavius
Octavius
That tiny creepy head growing from Octavius's arm that keeps demanding cheese.

I bet Sextavius would get taunted a lot. And you might think Bitavius too, but his name would just get mispronounced. The bite marks would never quite heal.

Kids can be so cruel, can't you Red Rover chain? Let's send the tiniest girl over to be clotheslined. Just wait until they taste "land mine kickball."

When is the money going to start rolling in?


And not rolling to the direct loans people?


"Everyone likes puppies. Even Hitler liked puppies."
-The Quotable Billows

They move like ghosts on worn-out video, quicker now look stop look away. Slow invisible film on film speed. Backlight your yellows and blacks, and I'll show me mine.

The first issue of my 'zeen (or "mag" or "aga" or "magaz" or "five xeroxed sheets of paper") is complete!
If you would like a copy send me your address and I'll send you one. It's free! Except you'll owe me one bitchin stamp.

The theme of "Camp Basement Issue #one" is corporate handbook.
It's a corporate handbook for Omnicom Conglomacore (or something like that).
You will be on the fast track to success!

If it sparks your interest maybe you might want to write for issue number two, theme to be decided later.
Just let me know.

Someday, like McSweeneys, I will be able to reject people in the grandest of fashions.

Here is a conversation I had earlier with agentcrusher:

kmartcashier13: are you actually there?
kmartcashier13: guess not...it be late...where your blog at?
kmartcashier13: oh wait you're not there to answer.
kmartcashier13: sometimes I forget things...
kmartcashier13: this conversation is riveting! I'm totally going to blog it.

And so it was. And so it shall be.
(picture of majestic unicorn)

Remember when Dee-Lite was popular?

Remember "I love your smile?"

Remember back when the Smiths convention was in town?
(ok I ripped that one off)

Remember back when that guy from The Black Crowes briefly joined R.E.M.?

Hey, remember the early 90's?

No? Ok, I guess that's for the best. Not one of our shiniest happiest shiniest moments.

I think "Quentin Tarantino Theater" is going to be a weekly Thursday event.
I'd like some other regular weekly feature, like maybe "stupid car of the week?"
(having already made fun of Nissan Titan in my own special way).

Any suggestions?

I'm working again this weekend.

Which sucks, because I really wanted to see "Equity Element" and "DJ Arpu" down at the Echo.

Words/phrases used during the two hour quarterly state-of-the-business address I just got out of:
-ARPU
-churn
-grossadds
-equity element
-ebidta
-revenue
-gross revenue
-annual gross revenue
-throughput
-S&S
-push

Wolfman (of Wolfman and Donna, of gallery furniture) died.

LINK

I'm sorry but I must repost this from livejournal because it is so very very funny.

Kobe is at it again!



Here we see Kobe about to rape a small, helpless cloud.

(courtesy of Mark from two cubicles over.)

Here is a flag I designed for my friend Joshua to accomidate all his conquistadoring needs:



It is a pirate sword and a snake with fangs (and NOT, as previously believed, a green bean with fangs).
I think it will strike fear in the hearts of the masses.

I have decided to start taking my news once a week in glossy form. That being said, which weekly news magazine should I subscribe to?

...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.