It's always nice when my nights out and about show up in Rolling Stone.
The sad part being it kind of sounds like every Saturday night, plus or minus the Jet factor.

Monday is...hmmm what should monday be...monday is Magnetic Fields Day!
Happy Magnetic Fields Day, everyone!

So far we have:
monday- magnetic fields
tuesday- herman's hermits
wednesday- TBA
thursday- TBA
friday- fugazi
saturday- TBA
sunday- rolling stones

The TBA will be A as soon as I damn well feel like it.
Now, in honor of Magnetic Fields day I shall sit fetal-style in the corner and cry myself into a restless nap, cigarette in full effect.

One day I am going to wear one of those ribbons people wear to support causes, and when someone asks what cause I'm supporting my answer will be "ribbons."

I am back.

I (heart) moon.

"It's too late, to fall in love with Sharon Tate." -Jim Carroll

Today I am wearing a vintage dress given to me by a friend. Though I'm not sure where she acquired it, I'm pretty sure someone made it from a curtain. Or material one would normally use too cover a couch, or lounge chair. I'm feeling rather like furniture.
And like I should be begging Clark Gable for money.

My unsubstantiated fear of flesh-eating viruses is back, thanks to 24. My coworker thought it would be a good last-day prank to release a flesh-eating virus into the ventilation system. I said no, a better one would be to actually move into the ventilation system in the ceiling, and then five years later jump down into your boss's office (castaway beard in full effect) and say "ha, joke's on you- I've been here the entire time!"

Last night I had a dream about doing ballet (en pointe- yes, I used to do such in real life) and when I woke up my feet were hurting.

This weekend I'm going to St. Simon's Island to stay at my friend's beach house. So I probably won't be blogging, which is a good thing judging from last Sunday's nonsense.

to hot wok!

suckfest.

Suicide Girls is a joke, right?

I mean, these girls can't really have self-esteems so low it bridges into extreme narcissism. "Hey. Check out my tattoos and ability to not wear that many clothes." Wow.

Yep. Must be a joke. (I know I'm laughing.)

More gratuitous bright eyes bashing
I bet Conor Oberst gets told to shut the hell up more than the average person.
Every time I hear Bright Eyes I picture malnourished indie kids in vintage glasses and chucks curled up sobbing in the corner of their dorm room in that way that emo kids do when they are reminded of the existance of a world outside their broken whiny souls.
Emo kids, do not attach your dreams to Conor. Granted he will write a sad song about you immediately after breakup, but later that evening he will write an even sadder one about an annoying hangnail.
I forsee him finally catching that special strain of STD that kills faster than the songwriting process.

I will not eat the doritos on my desk...I will not eat the doritos on my desk...

We had a fire drill this morning. And when I say "we" I mean all twenty floors of our building. It was delightful. The one morning I have two assignments needing to go to the NY creative director and- oh wait- the building's on imaginary fire! Run!

My BFF Sara called from Seattle last night, and is coming to visit her old stompin grounds here in the ATL in May. Yessssssss.

I suppose that's it for now.

(eating doritos)

Darts 'n Laurels

This weekend I made an awesome dress out of a large t-shirt and iron-on transfers of the Edie Sedgwick pic that's here on this blog in the upper right, and an Andy Warhol quote. People asked if I were getting ready to go to sleep. Yes, if by going to sleep you mean looking superfantastic.

If this blog were a DJ it would be playing Franz Ferdinand.

Ever been turned on by something you don't at all understand, leaving you completely unsure how to proceed?....that's when you start throwing around words like pomoerotic.

"The Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man" is one of the best books I've ever read, even though I'm not finished. I know that's a bold statement concerning Joyce.

"You should have an easter egg hunt using smelt roe." -bakay (my art director)

and out.

That last post was much shorter before translated from it's original language.

You know.

Binary code.



trying to look forward to

(i couldn't think of anything)

STATE OF THE SUBCONCIOUS, AS IT IS THE ONLY BRAIN ACTIVITY NOT SHUT DOWN DUE TO NEED OF NAP.

POST PREQUEL: PREQUEL VS. SEQUAL VS. JASON, WHICH WAS TECHNICALLY RELEASED AFTER THE SECOND MOVIE. AND "SUCKED ASS." (though it would have been ok if the first one weren't so good)

(this one is called: I will sleep when I run out of semi-unexpected but mostly derivative references in this post which is like a roller coaster ride for your subconcious filing system, who is tired of being compared to christopher walken because he is actually christopher walken and instead of filing he is busy being in every movie. Including the one with the plot description detailed in the post introduction Part 4, sections 8-11.)
If it weren't for italics and bolding and commas and parenthesis some of my posts would read like one of those poets that just like to drag you all over the place only to learn in the last five minutes that there is no unifying theme. Just a second grader who has been awake for four days trying to diagram my sentences, only stopping to freebase Ritalin. If he's lucky he'll grow up to a lovely VP title and silver BMW number something instead of being an over-educated cynic forced to model their thoughts around the equally infuriating school of thought
POST POST MODERNISM: (which is actually based upon the foundations of some German guy's unifying theory of him and reality, as seen in his original set of dialectics as penned on a napkin during his smoke break from being resident barista.)
post post modernism is a school of thinking way to far into things, making way too many pop culture references, subcategorizing musical genres until they lose all meaning, and waiting for your head to explode as slowly revert back to your unforgettable mirror phase of 1982 while constantly being reminded that the eighties are back. After attempting to analyze several schools of thought using this theory PHd candidates came to the same conclusion as with other theories that use complicated paperwork to throw you off
course: they would not be trying to answer your stupid semantic queries if they were having sex instead of dog-earing Kierkegaard. And they woud not be enduring Kierkegaard whining if he were having sex instead of, ya know, thinkin.

I BLAME DAVE EGGERS FOR THE REST OF THIS POST, AND FOR MOST OF THE ABOVE, ON WHICH I PARTIALLY BLAME THAT BITTER GUY AT YOUR COLLEGE LIBRARY CIRCULATION DESK WHOSE WRITING TECHNIQUES ARE FAR MORE MATURE THAN EGGERS AND WHOSE TITLES WERE LONGER AND WITTIER. YOU CAN SEE HIS PAIN IN THE DEATH CAB FOR CUTIE WHICH DOMINATES HIS I-TUNES AND CUTS STRAIGHT TO THE ANGER. YET HE CANNOT HELP BUT ENJOY THIS VOICE OF HIS FOREBEARERS WHO CAME OF AGE DURING GRUNGE, ONLY TO STAB GRUNGE IN THE BACK WHEN IT BECAME TOO WARM TO WEAR FLANNEL AND THE ENTIRE GENERATION WAS TOO APATHETIC TO REACH AROUND GRUNGE TO PUT THE KNIFE IN THE SINK.

Michael Stipe tried to pen a song about it but instead became crushed under all the wayward metaphors and the weight of having to replace 9/10th of Temple of the Dog's original lineup. Though I am going to list him in the liner notes as "guest flailer" whenever I find my cassette taped Singles Soundtrack.

They are going to be vaccinating against self-doubt if the SAT scores don't improve.
They never take my advice and just make the freaking test easier. Ask more questions about Hemmies in Dodge trucks. Children love hemmys like they love the unconditional comfort of the tv set.

Some people have war flashbacks during insomnia. Some of these people have been in a war. Some are just flashing back to that week all those world war two movies came out at the same time Coppola Reduxed an old movie and tried to trick us into thinking the extra footage wasn't just Sean Penn trying to weasel his way out of actual "acting." I have flashbacks to starting this post three hours ago.

You won't believe me now but this post has a surprise plot twist harkening back to grunge. And intrigue. Depending on what you consider intriguing.

Do not worry I was not up doing anything rash like penning the prequel to the passion of the christ, which I shall now wittily title the passion of the baby jesus (about how he faced the no vacancy sign with the conviction of an unborn child and claimed his birth was a brave stand against abortion. it turns out myrr is archaic for crack, and the movie concludes with a solid three hours of the reason for the season being slowly weaned off myhrr with a explanation that the virgin mary was recently born again and saved from her dangerous foray into drugs and higher education. (christian rock/rap song about how great it is to be white and male and american, while teaching us the evils of the art house). oh yeah and it's gotta be directed by that guy from Creed because he's totally feeling the power of Jesus, either that or his ego has become so big that it's taken the form of a guy that kind of looks like Jesus. I AM TOTALLY WRITING THAT MOVIE, BOOKING BETHELEHEM, CHECKING IF THERE IS ANY WAY AUSSIE OSCAR WINNER NICOLE KIDMAN CAN PLAY A MIDDLE EASTERN TEENAGE CRACKWHORE VIRGIN AND GETTING SOME THOM YORKE SIDE PROJECT TO MAKE "AWAY IN A MANGER" NICE AND VAGUE.

POST ORIGINAL BEGINNING:
Another post that started as something remotely intelligent but instead took it's usual tangent to ridiculing hipsters, music elitist snobs and the variety of Lemmings that choose to drive their Landrovers over the cliff because they live OTP (off the plateau, yo). It's the same-ol, same-ol bitterness that screams hey you can tell she's spending sunday alone instead of with the sole other rock fan swimming against the pounding bassline by listening to goodbye ruby tuesday inside baumer's tent. Plus my entries would probably vaguely reference that I did "just say no" to drugs back during the Reagan administration, and I am now "just saying no" to the nations growing obesity problem by "just saying no" to my digestive system so thanks again you health concious Republicans for making me pretty, which is my way of indicating who was on what and when in simple "when politics go wrong" code. It's real street, yo. Mad cul-de-sac underground. Of course you can tell I'm not bitter because my rage would be palpable in the form of multisyballic slightly altered words constructed in a code that only me and practicers of my philosophy could possibly decipher
As many parties as my journals would indicate I attend, I'm not exactly a willing social gad about room. The problem being that I know entirely too many people only on a surface (i.e. that friendster you added to win the "let's see who can amass the most friendsters thereby making us look really really popular in the eyes of the same twenty people we always see oh hey did we ever determine when this game ends maybe when Friendster becomes nonhip though I'm not sure how we'd know because its not a hot pink variety 'florida- we have old people and only one person on earth still thinks this is a vintage t-shirt but hey this totally says that though I usually listen to John Mayer, one time Jet came on and I totally rocked out with the top down of my lime VW convertibug hey I'm outta room for more slogan, so check out my pierced navel and lower 67% of my freakishly tan torso-" marked down on the rack at Urban Outfitters so in order for it to be officially uncool someone in the upper hipster echilon has to delete their account but that would mean they'd just have to guess where the Faint afterparty is and god forbid they miss dancing with "ok this hipster looks kinda new" guy in band so I guess the contest- like the movie it's oh so ironic to love- is neverending.") level. I know that contest sounds really complicated but keep in mind that it takes several days just to log in and years to get a message through, much like in days of yore. (I think the mid 60's are the current hip days of yore.)
That was quite a tangental parenthetical (also the title of beck's next track 4- and what beck and I shall dance to at our upcoming nuptuals, the title of which shall be "hey, check out this bougeois social convention we're totally about to partake in and have witnessed by trained seals and a guy with tourettes just for some good old fashioned anti-pc backlash but you can tell we're not serious because our formal wear is vintage yves san laurent which we CAN pronounce, and instead of the wedding details here's a list of my favorite notes: B sharp, B flat or just B natural baby in my seafoam pontiac sunbird beep beep beep beep beep on the radio.")
I like really long tangental parentheticals instead of a short title that make fun of hipsters, the rest of the population, and even poke fun at the smartasses who have no one better to make fun of then the hipsters they associate with around the dance floor.
Me looking uncute= she's wierd lets leave her in the corner.
Me looking cute=she's quirky! like the kind of person who provides the comic relief when the cd skips and the electro crowd cheers.

Being considered quirky is a great advantage because it makes the transition to drug addict nearly invisible (morosity too pervasive to budge) and the slip into complete insanity near flawless. In fact, if replaced by a real-enough looking eighteen-year-old, nobody will even realize that you are sipping Tab whilst hoping your Hazeldon juice bar house band will be the next Neutral Milk Hotel with complicated lyrics previously obscured by Parliament lights and that one cartoon you remember from 1st grade and you can't believe they show that at- oh fuck is that the sun? You will start to remember what life was like before electrorockclash and pointlessemocore descriptors. You find your Washing Machine T under a large pile of trucker hats, hang your journalism degree on the wall and remember what it was like to compare bands to Weezer. (Post-"Pinkerton" pre-"Why can't this be more like 'Pinkerton'?" Weezer.) You remember using witty phrases like the previous quip when reviewing the latest Elephant 6 all-slide whistle cover of "Pet Sounds", bonus material includes a cover of "(something really taboo like "Country Feedback" oh yeah we went there and we obscured it behind this 98 song cd just for you! Stipe actually guests on slide whistle...he comes into my rectangular pizza cafe all the time so we're tight, check the liner notes.) You and your bandmates attended Lollapalooza as wide-eyed innocents believing that indie rock could survive anything...and then you remember that one Lollapalooza where a bunch of shit went wrong and all the bands worth seeing vowed to never do it again and the only reason you went the next year was to see the Breeders. And then you get into an arguement where you kind of defend the Cranberries because that one song wasn't so bad and your friends go home in a huff and feel all cool and stuff while listening to Marquee Moon and out of blind rage you accidently pick up your old Casio and start electroclash. And develop a drug habit. Somewhere along the line you switch from first to second person. POV. And then the cycle starts all over again, thus proving the validity of post post modernism (allowing for the theory that it can get away with less substantiation because it's just a sequal).

Oh yeah, I just remembered the point I was making: So as You Can See We are quite busy evading any real productivity or logical thought. Next year we hope to make more connections between Left Bank Cinema and Reese's Pieces Blizzards.

Reception to follow. I mean, cigarette to follow.

Is there really a genre called "shoegazer?" What the hell is it? And what's with the lack of core-ness? Hardcore Softcore Nocore, come on throw me some useless context here!

signed
steve, accounts payable




ps. I am in love with Stephen Dedalus. But I'm only on chapter three.
I certainly hope this goes better than the Jake Barnes incident, or I'm moving on to protagonists with a dream! An American Dream!
more to come...

Who am I kidding...I'm not getting anything else productive done at this here office today. It's Friday at 6:30. Friday. at. six. thirty.
I'm going to go work out and then go to Tower to buy the 2nd Family Guy dvd and then hopefully not sit in traffic on the interstate but instead move along at a steady clip.
I need to hire an assistant to do all my work for me so I can spend all my time on blogger.

An assistant I can pay in pink-frosted cookies.

Don't even suggest hiring a blind monkey; that did not work out last time. Yes, management did, in fact, have a problem with the poo-flinging. No, it wasn't that he was throwing fecal matter; it was just because of his vision problem he came nowhere close to hitting his intented target. And then he sued for lack of accomidation for his handicapped poo-flinging ways. Montlick and Associates showed up and a heavy door slammed and the monkey got quite a settlement. They. Mean. Business!

I'm never entirely sure where my posts will go when I start them. If someone had told me three minutes ago that I would be writing about Montlick and poo I would have slapped them upside the head. Soundly.

To the gym!

Every time someone calls today I turn the music up to very loud, put the phone on speaker and yell "what?" "WHAT?"

Because Friday is Fugazi day.

Earlier, while writing headlines for "no roaming" in Canada, I wrote the following:
"Canada: Now the 52nd state."

52nd state? Why did I think we had a 51st state?

I'm never going to pass the Iowa Achievement Test now.
I'm going to be a child left behind, proof of our failing education system.

So much for being a dermatologist.

UPDATE!

I am now eating a taco.

"Hey, they found that girl."
"I didn't know she was missing."
"Yep, she was missing all right."
"Where was she?"
"I already told you. She was missing."

I'm eating Bugles for the first time in years. I'm beginning to realize why.

I just realized that the "Up With People III" album that I have on my desk at work has lyrics on the sleeve. Every day I shall post a new and equally uplifing song. Beginning, of course, with the song they are best known for which is titled (appropriately enough):
Up With People
It happened just this morning,
I was walking down the street,
A milkman and a postman
And policeman I did meet.
There in every window,
At ev'ry single door,
I recognized people
I'd never recognized before.
Up! up with people!
You meet 'em wherever you go!
Up! up with people!
They're the best kind of folks we know.
If more people were for people,
All people ev'rywhere,
There'd be a lot less people to worry about,
And a lot more people who care!
(repeat last two lines)
People from the southland
And people from the north,
like a mighty army
I saw them coming forth.
'Twas a great reunion,
Befitting of a king!
Then I realized people
Are more important than things,
Up! up with people!...etc.
Inside ev'rybody
There's some bad and some good
But don't let anybody
Start attacking people-hood
Love them as they are,
But fight for them to be,
Great men and great women,
As Jeebus* meant them to be,
Up! Up with people!...etc.
(repeat chorus)

*diety changed to more accurately reflect the beliefs of Homer Simpson.

Ok, the song seems to have a positive (if a bit smarmy) message. That is, if one can overlook the songwriter's seemingly omnipresent existential struggle and fundamentalist apocalypic undertones. Plus ev'ry is not an actual contraction, much like people-hood is not an actual word. And I was quite suprised at the blatant advocation of cocaine usage mid-song (repeat 2 lines)....I'm curious as to where the rest of the album will take us.

Here's hoping the MJQ 10th Anniversary Party tonight will be something like this: Scarf Party 2004!

Yeah I know. You're thinking to yourself, how can MJQ be celebrating a 10th anniversary when earlier this year they celebrated their 6th anniversary. A little secret: in the underground club realm, time is not only governed by the laws of physics, but also by whiskey and amphetamines. (and curls) In other words: don't question it.

"Love Me Like A Rock." What does that even mean, for jeebus's sake? And why doesn't he want mama to take his kodachrome? Paul Simon is like a mystery wrapped in a folk song wrapped in a giant mess of Garfunkle hair.

Blog of note!
"Girls Are Pretty"
You'll laugh, cry and slap yourself around a little bit.

Oh, and I almost forgot the most important part, the part about us putting all the oversized things in the same corner. I think that came somewhere between the roof and the floor.

I think I've listened to almost six hours of Modest Mouse today. I wonder how that will affect the rest of my evening?

I just ate one of those sugar cookies with a cherry in the middle.
Yep, like they used to serve me in the grammar school lunchroom.
It was vaguely reassuring.

I've felt more visual today, so I worked on uploading some clips.
Check it: People Doing Nothing at 107.

More to come, as there is lots of doing nothing there.

I should have left hours ago, never should have came really. And I don't know why I was crying well yes just don't know in so many words. Maybe I would never let go, tell everyone I found someone to die with. Suicide pact write it line after line. Any day now.

Fucking fatalist.

It feels like a panda crapped a rainbow in my brain and then rolled over the rainbow.
"Wait, am I smoking an unlit cigarette?"
"Yeah you are."
"This same unlit cigarette I've been smoking for ten minutes?"
"Same one."
(pause)
"God, this bathroom floor actually feels really good."
"Let's not speak of this to anyone ever, ok?"
"Ok."

On resumes...
"My skills would read: spinning records, 'that guy' always present in people's hallucinogenic trips."

I'm loving the "dance party" battle going on over on friendster. Here's a sample of what's going on from my friend jamal. (The funniest thing is that both sides say they "don't care.")

so awww, where to start . lettme start with this is jamal
and this has nuttin to do with dylan my dj partner and
friend. also lettme say i was at the 1st few kiss dance
parties at the echo and they were cool. also i do like
preston and think he is a desent dj however, he is an
habitual line stepper, and some1 has got to check him.
enter, ME, im here to check him.
1st kiss is a clone, dance parties have been around
forever it is a direct clone of wenseday at MJQ. respect
it. your not super unique. 2nd know your place, yea i
maybe the guy who plays way to much 80's but i know
that. your a guy that made a wenseday, and a saturday
night on a friday, do you want a cookie or something, i
pretty sure no one cares. and please for love of all that
is good give up this "im gonna educate the kids on
good music," let the babies have there bottles. there is
no music elite in atlanta if there are they hang at the
earl not the masquerade. a dj is the servant of the
people they let people chill and relax and god knows
complain. people wanna chill not to be browbeat.
people make the party not one person, well people and
drinks (proof being people still going to lenny's on
friday no matter what). even when you wrote your little
bullentin did you think about it. did you ever say to
yourself; self:"i sound totally condesending and
annoying and not cool"
and now let's just get it all out there. being a rock dj in
atl use to be about a few free drinks doing a few girls
and getting a bump or two in the crapper. and then you
came and became this relentless, territorial, die and let
die, not a good time. have some fun it's not that serious.
are you really that crazy. your like hatetron 3000, some
people fear some people admire i just "dont give 2 left
testicles"-quote from popular 1992 rollerblading movie
airbonre-
and then your set list like comeon... international noise
conspiracy, stellarstar, longwave, like do you hate
eardrums or have all the gwinnett haircore kids kidnap
and brainwash you. anyways this week this is what im
gonna play,is... whatever you want, total request if i got
it and it aint the BNL or DMB i'll give it a spin go where
you want. i don't care. i've been on this scene for so
long im a fossil. im the grumpy old dude that has had
more then enough just call me dj. tibbs. this week at
lenny's the drink's are the same price and still cheap,
there is a great band called xiu xiu playing. its free from
11 to 12. no more gimmicks no more trash talk
everyone get out and have a good time. and preston
the next time you want to blame people for not being
music elite and not liking new stuff remember your at
the masquerade. lenny's this week kids or other places
there is more than enough space for every1.

It's amazing the amount of power that 75/85 south yields over me. What is normally, with a regular traffic flow, a fifteen minute commute turns into an over-an-hour long drive home if any sort of accident clogs up lanes. And what an accident there was yesterday! The sign at Sidney Marcus read "major accident on 75/85 at I-20, four lanes blocked exit now to avoid." And how I exited! I've never merged over three lanes so quickly in all my driving experience. Even with exiting (which is what everyone and their mother was attempting) it still took an hour to get home. At which time I was grumpy and just wanted to sleep.

Speaking of sleep, the Age of Relative Responsibility is making me sleepier than ever. Three full nights of sleep in a row and I'm ready to zzzzzzzzzzz....hey! Wake me up if that happens again! Thank god I'm going out tonight. My body doesn't like this forced detox.
ciao manhattan.

At this time of day, it usually takes about 132 seconds for your photo to appear on your Fotolog.

...strange amount of time.

Today ushers in a new era of responsibility for me. I call it the Age of Relative Responsibility, and I expect it to last two, maybe two and a half days. This morning (after getting to work on time, after a full night of sleep) I paid bills and balanced my checkbook. And then filled out a bunch of timesheets. Tonight instead of going out I plan on reading, doing some light housekeeping and possibly writing. Then I will go to sleep at a decent hour.

And it was a golden age indeed.
I love it when people call themselves hip. Personally I prefer "pseudo-intellectual fuckup."

Some insights from Monday night:
-you cannot find cigarettes in downtown Atlanta before seven am. Especially if you are
driving around having this conversation:
Me: "Which way do you think we should go?"
Him: "I'm not sure. Maybe right?"
Me: "That's a one-way street."
Him: "Maybe we should go around the block again."
Me: "Ok."
Him: "Why is it nothing but breakfast places are open?"
Me: "Seriously. Don't they know some of us like nicotine for breakfast?"
and upon arrival at BP:
Him: "Do you want me to get out and get them?"
Me: "That's ok, I'll do it."
Him: "Are you sure?"
Me: "Uh-huh."
Him: "Really?"
Me: "Yep."
continue to sit in car.
Him: I'm getting out with you.
end scene
-A lot of my life is spent discussing and/or participating in cigarette acquisition. That shall be the subject of my next novelette.
-Towing companies are pure evil.
-Margaritas are pure evil (still).
-No matter how much you think they'll change, some people just continue to dissappoint. Not hurt, just dissappoint.
-I can somewhat understand the above because I have not been the best of friends lately. It's nothing personal, it's just the state I'm in. Not a great one, admittedly, but I'm there nonetheless.
-Some people (see: earlier cigarette dialogue, see: earlier dissappointment) are also smarter than I think a lot of people give them credit for. (Quit rolling your eyes; I don't exactly throw around smart cards.)
-I'm pretty pathetic, huh?
-Not getting enough sleep for seven nights in a row is not a good idea.
-I need to allocate money in a wiser manner.

Now is the time that I resume my studies on the fine art of passive persuasion.

Ciao, Manhattan!

Flying Shark vs. Flying Croc: A Picture from the Dramatic Battle!



Nothing was concluded, as they are sock puppets.

Do not challenge this guy to a board game. You will not win:








I am an overnight internet sensation.

Last night I got all ambitious (or encouraged others to become all ambitious, as I am crap with electronics) and set up the DVD projector at the Factory to watch "Perfect Square" in big screen larger than life glory. Lemme tell ya, it's twice as good when it's ten times bigger than your normal big screen tv. It was like being in a movies theater where you can lounge on a couch with a cigarette in one hand and a glass of peach schnapps in the other. And watch R.E.M.

This morning the 'Rolla had a flat tire so I took it to Decatur (which is what you do when faced with a flat tire, right?). I took Marta in to work, which would have been fine except a massive cold front decided to take a GIANT CRAP all over Atlanta this week and I was walking against gale-force winds. I don't understand the physics in walking against the wind no matter what direction you're facing.

I did manage to read a sizable portion of "Flatland" while on the train, which is shaping up to be pretty interesting. It's basically about a society that exists only in the second dimension, the class strata determined by how many sides you had (the more, the better- circles being the highest of all), and one square's struggle to find other dimensions. I'm interested in multi-dimensional studies, so I like stuff like this...don't know if you the viewer would like it or not.

Ok I'm off to buy candy.

synesthesia
synestatic

Oh, and that reminds me of a short dialogue from Friday night:
Open on my car pulling into parking lot of Neutron Bomb, tipsy from libations, haphazardly blasting R.E.M. out the window that doesn't shut all the way. Car in park, engine still running, some young punk kids ( I can tell cause of all the zippers and acne) walk by. One of the males begin to speak.
Male Punk 1: R.E.M. sucks!
Me: Fuck off! Jesus, just because something doesn't have a 2/4 beat...
(end scene)
ENCORE!
Me: I love the fact that the toilet is overflowing onto all these wires.

My goal this week is to work R.E.M. into every post in some way or another. Nope, no reason.

I just converted a drum and bass/ambient dj into an R.E.M. fan. I'm like a Jehovah's Witness, except with better clothes and dance moves.
He said he stopped listening after "fables" for no particular reason, and then (insert number here) years later-meaning, a few months ago- he finds out that I like R.E.M. and decides that there might be something to them after all because my tastes are impeccable. Oh, and he said he heard "Nightswimming" for the first time (ever!) a week ago and was impressed. Plus stipe once danced at a place that he dj-d and anything for a fan. So this afternoon we're gonna watch "Perfect Square" and I shall instruct in the fine art of flailing.
Ok, gotta get back to the turntables...the "innagattadavita (extended dance remix)" is going to be over soon and I have yet to decide which Rapture song to play next! Though the dance floor here at the factory is suprisingly empty for 8am...I love the random shite that happens here. Earlier I walked in on a naked coffin photo shoot and it really didn't phase me as much as not being able to locate a lighter. Oh, and there's a coffin here. In the middle of the floor.
No seriously. The turntables. Anyone else notice that Parliaments are kinda tricky to open now? It took the strength of me and guy who reclaimed my badass sunglasses to open one pack. I guess the "stand at either end and pull" idea was golden after all. We'll have our cancer yet! Let's wear mexican blankets and make out, for old's time's sake. If I had my way I'd play Herman's Hermits and Dave Clark Five and Franz Ferdinand and "Temptation" by New Order and Cabaret Voltaire and there would be no saying no. Because my way is solely dictated by me.
Linoleum floor! Linoleum floor!
(flail)

Afterhouse. The tip of my toungue was raw from playing with the dental work behind my teeth. Eventually, I'm thinking, it will either become a giant callous or rub off in a bloody mess. My friend was discussing corporate interest in her impending public bus trip spanning the length of the United Kingdom, from northernmost Scotland moving south. Her eyes were wide and mine were drifting due to a recent covisit to the bathroom, my sinuses were beginning to strike out against my brain and complete lack of common sense. I would need kleenex soon.
I heard a dull buzz from the kitchen. Someone had broken out the juicer and was attempting to puree everything resembling fruit.
"Vodka smoothie."
"Put some wheatgrass in there. It's really good for you."
Might as well throw some cigarettes in there for all the good it will do. Even the idea of being publicly sarcastic seemed unappealing. There were so many people in the room that I had no interest in communicating with, especially the sudden influx of giggling drunk girls. I looked downright sullen and exceptionally plain next to this barrage. Mister recent fling seemed to have no interest in speaking to me, though I really didn't care. And by "really didn't care" I mean "was making me physically ill." It's one of the more attractive aspects of only wanting what you can't have, wasting energy on the wasted, picking at the sore until it bleeds.
More so than the cigarette smoke or the disgusting tonic concoctions. He's only being an asshole because I allow it, and so I went to my car and vomited into the street. Lit a cigarette and drove home.
Today has been wonderful. My tounge is still raw.

Does anyone else find that Bowie "Laughing Gnome" song vaguely disturbing?

I think if there were an orthopedist's office called "The Well-Tempered Clavicle," I would go.
Even if I had no orthopedic issues.

Some people last night used Saint Patrick's Day as an excuse to drink.
Me? I used Wednesday.

fuck, this is funny...as written by jenn trezza in her livejournal:

Razorblade Thursdays
Djing with Jennifer on Thursday at Lenny's. I don't see how we can possibly compete with Brian McParris and his evil henchmen at McMJQ. How can you compete with the machine? They should call their night Corporate Banality. Atleast I know musically we will shit all over them. Even if there are only 2 people there. Everyone can McBlow me.

McParris. McMJQ. McBlow. The jokes just write themselves.

I am starting to REALLY HATE fotolog. They're always claiming to be in-progress of making "great improvements." They've been saying this for MONTHS AND MONTHS. And I have yet to see any improvement. I understand how the volume is increasing lots and lots and it's hard to control, but don't promise great improvements if you can't deliver. Or just make it a members-only site (where everyone has to wear the jackets to get in).
And make it illegal to make those stupid smiley-faces or hearts out of words in the comment box.

ps. the margaritas are making me slightly tipsy.

This morning I went to the IMAX 3-D NASCAR movie at the Mall of Georgia (as paid for by someone else) and then watched a bunch of guys in their 30's and 40's act like eight year olds while playing the NASCAR simulation game.
I am currently drinking margaritas and eating focaccia, cheese and fruit. And listening to Franz Ferdinand, whose album is growing on me like krazy.

I am getting paid to do all of this.

random musings from pod 6
Everyone seems to be jetsetting to Florida or California or Mooseport or other exciting destinations because of spring break. (SPRING BREAK! WOO-HOO!) But alas, I work a full time corporate outfit for a living and do not get a spring break or a spring day off. It's killing me it's so beautiful outside-

Hold the phone, I just overheard the following:
"Doesn't Scott have the original bracket hand drawn on a napkin?"

-I need a pool, and how! I would take a walk if I weren't chained to the cube for another hour.

Please don't ever ever again let me call out of work for sex or drugs or rock and roll ever again. I am twenty four, not sixteen.

I just had a piece of delicious party cake, and before I ate it I mixed all the icing colors together to make a wierd purply grayish concoction. If anyone asked about it I would tell them, "Yes, my party cake has bruise-colored icing."

I have decided I fall in love easily but not often. Whatever the hell that means. The more I think about it, the more I think that the napkin bracket comment had something to do with the NCAA office pool.

It's five pm. I'm going to try and sneak out now, or nowish or in the future, but not too far in the future. AKA sometime close to now.

Apricot rugelah is not all it's cracked up to be.
I would like my fotolog archives back, please.

My badass sunglasses that aren't really mine and belt that isn't really mine are about to be reclaimed by their rightful owner. This is NOT COOL.

"Questions will be asked.
And destroyed.
By ANSWERS!"

Who Would Win?

I'm going with flying crocodile. I mean, do you see the thigh muscles on that thing?

I'm feeling rather strung out and strung along these days.
Ever met someone and thought somehow and someday this person's going to be trouble? Yeah, and then six months later it hits. Hit.

I'm jealous of everyone who is happy in love and acting all smarmy cutesy.

Yesterday Jenn and I worked on some music (well, she worked on music and I worked on lyrics), and watched a Kylie Minogue concert on tv. Kylie is pretty rad but her background dancers were wiiiiierd in a right-said-fred kind of way.

I also finally finally watched "Slow Century" and decided that I still have a girlhood crush on Malkmus. "Cut Your Hair," while not my favorite Pavement song, has to be one of my favorite videos ever. I had completely forgotten about drinking the blue liquid (barbasol?). In case you were wondering some of my other favorite videos are "Coffee and TV" and "Weapon of Choice." Even though I hate the song, Christopher Walken could dance around to freaking Donnie and Marie and I would watch it.

Today I am dressed all French, with beret, bun and off-the-shoulder shirt. And lots of black. One of my coworkers told me I should be brandishing a gun, which would make me look like a French mercenary and would be awesome.

Today is sort of grey, despite the curry.

Jet rocks my watery vodka tonic.
I'm updating from a foriegn land-nay, a great and foriegn land. And this foriegn land is known to the native folk as "Bean's House." No, not that Bean, the other one. Currently there are several people partaking in a lively discussion involving electronic noise arranged into a series of notes and chords known to some as "music." Jenn is about to go hardcore midevil on everyone's sorry asses. I mean, watch out if you know what's good for your general well being. Tonight, however. shall go down in the annals as one of the greater nights in the history of de-humidifier. For tonight ladies and gents at mjq there arrived such a breeze, a wind even, from the general direction of the land down under in the form of one musical sledgehammer. And emblazoned on the side of this sledgehammer was the name "Jet." Yes, my general public, I partied with Jet. And by partied I meant stood with and commented on various drunk people. And to be honest at first I didn't know they were Jet. I thought maybe the Hiss were reproducing. With accents.
Tell me one two three how's it gonna be....when I go smoke this next cigarette?

Well. Tell me.

In a few hours I depart for casa de madre in LaGrange where I shall consume large amounts of normally non-vegetarian food which my mom has made vegetarian by substituting the broth of a chicken for the broth of a mushroom. And salmon croquettes will somehow, I'm sure, be involved. They always are- those bastard interloping fried pieces of deliciousity. I will then be finished with my requisite food consumption for the month and can go back to my normal nicotineladen ways.
Other big weekend plans involve doing taxes and getting my car serviced. It's going to be hot in that back room at mjq kinda way- except with a Goodwill Emporium. I love the Emporium.
Speaking of which, oh shit, I gotta join AAA.
So what I'm saying is don't call me tonight at 5am because I will be catching up on sleep. There is a small chance I'll be back on Saturday but most likely it will be Sunday, just in time for Sunday at Stokeswood.

And also, everyone read Mesmerization Eclipse. Do not question me.

It's the "Yeah, like I needed a test to tell me that" test.

Disorder	Rating
Paranoid:	High
Schizoid:	Moderate
Schizotypal:	High
Antisocial:	Low
Borderline:	Very High
Histrionic:	High
Narcissistic:	Moderate
Avoidant:	High
Dependent:	High
Obsessive-Compulsive:	Low
-- Personality Disorder Test - Take It! --

I've already told you to keep me away from rivers.
I guess pills and such now as well, though pills don't work very well because by the time you get to the point where they actually start "working" you've thrown up all the ones you took to begin with.
Nothing beats shoving your scars in people's faces. They're never quite sure what to say.

Lovely.

Earlier I looked at my watch and said, "It's almost 7:30. I should probably get going." One more cigarette on the cold cold porch. Good god, I feel like shit on a shitstick and it's probably going to get worse. At least I didn't call out this time.
R-E-S-P-O-N-S-I-B-I-L-T-Y is a fucking long word.
I told Ken his new earrings made him look like a pirate. I don't think he appreciated it.
I was kind of shitty to some of my friends last night, who were probably wondering why I was talking to Ken in the first place.
Good fucking question.
My heart's the bitter buffalo, however, is a better question.

Perhaps it was the disillusionment following the fall of the communist bloc. Or perhaps simply a particularly lethal combination of absinthe, insomnia and the rising popularity of the uber-innovative supergroup Up With People. Either way there's no denying that 1991 found the members of Electroschnitzel questioning the very foundations of their "sound," or lack thereof. And so laden with nothing but a casio keyboard and fifteen mismatched wrestling boots, they found solace in the basement of an abandoned bank (which would later become the disco "Das Banken," and still later be forced to change locations and names: "Das Laundromaten" and "Das Wilheilm'sBasementen," consecutively) It was there that Electroschnitzel attempted to write their one and only "song." Liner notes from the unfinished single "Neuer!" point out the difficulties of writing a song in a key that didn't yet exist. Some still question the validity of "diminished F flat neutral," pointing out that the whole song consists of nothing but the quiet hum of the only working AC in East Berlin. The rarely-performed and hard to find "Neuer" remains a danse hall classic to this very day, especially when it was later remixed as "House of Jealous Lovers."

Celebrity Jeopardy
"Mr. Connery, it's your turn."
"I'll take the rapists for 200."
"That's therapists."
"And the day is mine!"

Anyone know who sings that song that keeps repeating "your love is better than my love, sing it..." (or perhaps vice versa)? Heard it last night at postmodern while sippin on champagne and subsequently forgot to ask the dj about it.
Last night I also wrote more lyrics to songs that still don't have music, as inspired partly by the Belle and Sebastian dvd "For Fans Only." Beautiful videos, by the way.
blip blip blip.
(exactly)

One sign that you're out too late: watching people jump roof-to-roof at eyedrum and thinking "well, nothing seems wrong with that."
The one time I forget my camera and people become airbourne.

"I didn't know anyone was throwing rocks at the window, but I was wondering what that rock-like sound near the window was."
"It could have been possums in the wall."
"If the possums got out of the wall and started throwing rocks at the window."
"Exactly."

Fill me with bar-b-que sauce, because I'm dumb as hell!

Dear life,

STOP IT!

thank you.

Assembly lines assemble the lines wait in line for an assembly
Whatever they say life is, the dead philosophers and ill-advised literature, the cached think tank of well-bred idiots, whatever overarching plan or archaic demise we look forward to and have to look forward to and fall on to look forward to and cry alone to look forward to and medicate to forget, whatever we dance to drink to hesitate to daydream to whatever we look out the window for and we all look out the window for whatever we care to love or can't help to love or make us smile and oh god make us smile whatever the crazy look to the sane, whatever they scream doomsday scream backwards backwoods dialectics whatever they (and especially them) say life is
I just see a lot of furniture. I see a lot of opportunities to sit.

Though the phenomenon of static electricity had been around since the beginning of time, I don't think it ever saw dryer sheets coming.

I have four blankets on my bed. When I last left the house at 5pm, each one was crumpled into it's own little separate pile on the floor.
I don't want to go back just yet. Everything reeks of afterhours, of early morning. Called out of work because I was really very violently ill, and because I needed sleep. And sleep. And sleep. And kleenex. Yeah, ill, jumpy/hands crawling brand of ill. Details are fuzzy, can't explain why or anything these days.

There's a profile of my friend Jenn in this week's Creative Loafing: Right here!

Yes, but no one has said a damn word about the mise en scene in "The Passion of the Christ." I don't need to know how very very Christian it is, but I'll be damned if I see a movie without being pre-informed about the rate of mise en scene.

I love blogs that are titled "My blog." Or "Mike's blog." Or "My world." God, don't over-exert your imagination or anything. I really really want to read about your life now, what you thought about Oprah's book of the month, what prescriptions you picked up this afternoon at CVS, what your favorite mashed potato topping is...

A recent Melting Dolls post reminds me that I'm really tired of hearing- at some point during every party: "I'm so excited! I'm so excited! I'm...so...scared..."

I like cheddar cheese. On mashed potatoes that is. (or, as I like to call them in my head, mashie p's)

I like Imperial Teen, toasty apple cider, dressing like a French mercenary, and sex on friday. You?

slammed!

this side of monday...
-The Paris Hilton sex video is exquisitely unremarkable. The fact that it is filmed through night vision goggles just makes me feel sorry for Paris's remaining brain cells.
-Next time I am on a pseudo-runway I shall put the cigarette out in someone's eye.
-It's rare that I'm in a situation so odd that I think "I need to go do normal things, like massive amounts of drugs." So fuck me kitten, you are wild.
-I've smoked so many cigarettes/even the voices in my head are hoarse and losing it.
-Last night I started writing random song lyrics. (see above- though they don't all sound like wilco).
-Just some words to sync up with robotic blips. I'm thinking "Universal Traveler" meets "Debaser" meets the noise of an angry Comodore 64. But with style!

...ciao! Manhattan.
dehumidifier

This weekend, um, happened.
Yep.

(uncomfortable silence)

(sips coffee)

Gotta go.

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

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

I will be modeling some clothing items at this:



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

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

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

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

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

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


Thank you ralph nader.

------

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

-----

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

------

Who will his be vp, jane fonda?

------

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

------

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

------

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

------

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

------

Enjoy frenchie.

------

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

------

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

------

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

------

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

yep.

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

I am tired. The sky is hovering, still.

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

Mark's Latest Out-Of-Office Reply:

I'm off to Alaska.

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

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

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

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

Hopefully our plan will work.

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

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

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

Mod.

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

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



media consolidation?


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

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

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

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

I am the random fact generator.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yours truly,
dehumidifier



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




Hey, who likes gin?

Hey, who likes gin and is also sane?

Last Weekend, Part Two

(names have been changed to protect the obvious)

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

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

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

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


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

did you not see it?


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

NO GODDAMMIT


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

How is that possible?


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

because I was out drinking with Raquel Welch.

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

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


this is what alcoholism does to a person.

it was a pretty good episode too.


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

go to hell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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