Plate of Shrimp

self-esteem, it's turbulent

Wed, 20 Aug 2008 07:01:45 GMT

I'm alive and such! Aye, so I am, eventually type, somewhat less poorly off than expected. Well, I still am, but the future might hold thing that are type awesome. It's not certain, but I am veryclose type to being a salaried man. It might just straight not happen, but I am close to having more money than I can do something with, as a gentleman what has no dependents and lives in a very badcheap type apartment. It's not BIG, but I am a cheap type person, so does me.

Delightful! Maybe! Depending on next week! Maybe not! Prolly not! 'Cause I am bad luck Carl! Cheers!

For the record, insurance. If I had known the paycheck was that way, then. X-Files of insurance, no less. So goes my joke. And such.

I'm much a hermit at the moment, for any number of reasons. It is a thing that may be bad. Dunno!

I apologize, always.

INTERVIEWWWWWWWWWW

Thu, 15 May 2008 18:15:32 GMT

Certain prospective employer called me back! YAYYYYY! Raise! Full-time work! Possibility of overtime! Benefits! Free (as I understand it) cell phone plan!

I don't have to be a part-time cashier for the rest of my life! Yay!

Now I have to get a haircut. STAT.

THE SMIIIIIITHS

Thu, 15 May 2008 15:52:14 GMT

When the topic of suicide was raised, Lorraine became so concerned that she telephoned Levi's father, David, from whom she is separated.

"He reminded me that I used to be a rebel, too," she says. "I was a punk rocker for a while, and he reassured me it was probably just a phase that Levi would grow out of.

"But I don't feel it is like the punk rock movement. That was about a zest for living and seeing life from a different angle. We didn't harp on miserably about dying."

- Why no child is safe from the sinister cult of emo

Hilarious!

Also, have to watch a coupla more vampire and/or jiang shi movies, write a paper about 'em (I'm thinking "Dracula Meets Jiang Shi: Globalization in Horror Archetypes" or some such), and I am done for the semester. Finally, geeeeez.

OMG MYSSSSSTERRRRRY

Mon, 10 Mar 2008 19:11:32 GMT

So, I was stressed-out over-sleeping cutting classes thing this morning, and someone texted me at 1030 AM. Local number. The message?

So, i have diabetes. And my only response when they said no booze was, jeff figured it out how to. You give me hope. ;)

I am very confused. I feel like I dreamed the whole episode, as I had one of those drifting in and out with wacky and vaguely realistic dreams kinda mornings, but the text is very much in my phone.

nudnick the flying schissel

Sat, 23 Feb 2008 16:46:54 GMT

Man, the flu is a hell of a disease. The only time I've left my apartment since Monday was to go to the doktor. Now I'm pretty well over the hardcore part of the flu, but I'm now on an anti-biotic and anti-cough thing (not the narcotic one, sadly) that leave me equally inclined to not go anywhere. For unspecified side-effect reasons! Whee!

Bonus, I had a bunch of homework due last week, none of which I did. Normally it'd just have been three or four days of eleven to one in the morning kinda homework, but now it all needs to be done by tonight through Tuesday, so, less fun.

On the bright side, I pretty well have a beard now. I'm pleasantly surprised, myself. Last time I made it three weeks and it still looked like stubble, but at two weeks, it's pretty well beard-y now. Short, but I could see someone trimming it to keep it at this length. Not that I shall, because I am honor-bound to carry everything out to ridiculous lengths. I am, I think, technically anti-beard, but it's very fun to just have around. It's like a pet that lives on my face. Jerry Lee Lewis had a beard, and that's excuse enough.

whose barn? what barn? MY barn!

Sat, 09 Feb 2008 09:26:06 GMT

It occurs to me that I have, in essence, written Jerry Lee Lewis fan fiction. I'm not sure what to make of this development. Also, by my standards, this is really long. Quite possibly the longest single thing I have ever written, outside of random thwacked things here. Longest polished thing I've ever written, let's say.

"Jellyroll Boogie"

Evert Hintwinch was hung over. Temporarily. He had arrived at his office rather the worse for the worthless 'talent' exhibition of the previous evening. Scotch enough to pickle a king, and nothing to show for it but more Sinatra imitators. And that beanpole bastard hadn't done anything since before the war, anyway. The president of Excelsior Records deserved better than punk crooning and a headache.

Excelsior Records was little more than the seven rooms above an uptown Manhattan laundromat. Reclining at his desk, Hintwinch cursed his luck, the world, and his hangover. The first he blamed on his A&R men, the fools that told him hillbilly music and race records would never make it big. The second and third he addressed by the same means: he opened the top left drawer of his desk and spilled some Old Fitzgerald into his coffee. Slim Cochran had begged him for a contract. He lit his second cigar, well before its intended lunchtime appointment.

His secretary cautiously stuck her head into his office, remembering the times she had dodged hurled bottles. “Mr. Hintwinch?”

“Grace, whatever it is, not now. It's cigar time.” He sipped his coffee around his cigar, twitching slightly.

“Your son is here to see you, sir.”

“That moron's back from Mississippi already? Better have something better than the Whiffles this time. Biggest gawdamt waste of...”

Hintwinch, Jr. walked into the room, as Grace moused away.

“Ah, favorite son,” Hintwinch said, approximating a smile. “What've you got this time, boy? Not another barbershop quartet, I hope.”

“Aww, gee, Pop, I'm sorry already.” The younger Hintwinch stuck his thumbs behind his suspenders. “I promise I found something real swell this time. I couldn't wait another second to come back up here and tell ya about him. I know how sore y'are about the Slim Cochran thing, and this fella I found makes him look like a real fuddy-duddy. Plays the piano like gangbusters!”

“Now, boy, I've told you, jazz is through.” He puffed his cigar. “We need a Perry Como.”

“Shucks, pop, it's not like that. Joe Jack Mason's like one of them rhythm and blues fellas. He's real keen, I promise.” Junior rocked back and forth on his toes. “The kids there go nuts over him. You just gotta see Joe Jack!”

Hintwinch took a slug of his coffee and considered the portrait of Warren Harding that scowled at him. He put his feet down. “It's coming out of your pay if he's another schmuck. Where's he playing?”

“Hobson's Big House, tomorrow night, in Yazoo City. You won't regret it, pop, I swear!”

---

That night, in Moorhead, Mississippi, Joe Jack Mason knocked over a piano bench in a juke joint, like a mule kicking a snapping mutt. He howled and slid his fingers up the keyboard, drawing the same coos and moans as the previous two hours. He never questioned why jukes bent so to his will. It was simply meant to happen, much like his whiskey breakfasts.

“Aww, ladies and gents, cats and kittens, rockers and rollers, swingers and sinners, it's been fun, it's been fun.”

The crowd moaned.

“Joe Jack's had some rockin' fun, some killin' times, some real swingin' times at the fabulous Stepchild Lounge, but even the Hawk must eventually fold his wings.”

“But I love you,” yelled a woman in the crowd, the seventh of the night.

“Aww, don't think the Hawk don't love you, too, baby. I'm gonna do this one for you,” he said. “How 'bout you break down and shake that jellyroll for me, babe?”

He slid his fingers up the keyboard again, this time breaking into “Jellyroll Boogie,” his favorite song since he had first heard it blaring from a whorehouse, when, aged eight, he had taken a trip across town to hear the source of the music his folks always put down.

“All right, shake it one time now.” His fingers peacocked across the keyboard, releasing the boogie woogie that seemed to run up and down his spine. Joe Jack thought of being thrown out of Kosciusko Baptist College for blaspheming “How Great Thou Art” three years previously, and rolled his tongue in defiance. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

The crowd cavorted, grinding and twisting, following the lead of the boogie. Joe Jack took a swig from his coke bottle and poured the rest of its clear contents in the body of his piano.

“Jellyroll boogie gonna set you on fire,” he sang. He struck a match and threw it into the piano. The corn liquor became hellfire. Joe Jack continued to play, the tune warping as the piano burned. The bleached tips of his hair fell across his forehead. “You better get down on your knees and shake that jellyroll.” He ran his right hand through his hair, pushing it back, as his left continued to play the tune. He returned to his scales, and saw the piano to its fiery doom. “Jellyroll gonna save your soul.”

“Follow that,” he mumbled to no one in particular, and staggered triumphantly off stage.

---

Meanwhile, Evert Hintwinch sat in the lounge car of a train headed for Mississippi. He watched the smoke from his cigar drift toward the ceiling and considered the new pursuit. Blasted son of his had no sense. Hintwinch had had sense. He'd had sense if he had anything. Hard to grow up in Ohio and end up any other way. He remembered the day he left his hometown for Ohio State. Punk hometown wasn't worth thinking about. He blocked the aroma of the paper mill from his mind. He'd had a time at college, but bingo. And they said studying business would be dry.

He chuckled softly and took a sip of his Heaven Hill, thinking of Professor Babbitt and his economics class. They didn't call him Engaging Evert for nothing...

“This seat taken, sweet pea?”

Evert stirred and his eyes focused on the source of the words. Quite the fresh young thing. “Oh, not at all, madam.” He stood up and pulled out the chair for her. “By all means.” Nothing like the bosom of the corn fed, he thought. Twin fawns grazing, I believe it goes. “Evert McGonigle's the name.” He kissed her hand.

“Well, ain't you just treating me like a starlet.” Annabelle eyed the gold fob hanging out the vest of his grey flannel suit. Probably got more money on him than Joe Jack. “I'm Lulu.”

“Well, Lulu, surely you are something of the kind.” A porter walked by, casting them a side-long glance. Hintwinch saw some promise in the trip. “Southbound from New York and all. You must be researching a role for a picture.”

Annabelle giggled. “Li'l ol' Lulu? Why, I got on at Philadelphia. I'm just trying to get me some work as a chorus girl.”

Hintwinch put an elbow on the rail against the wall. He thought of Gerda seeing him off that morning, wrapped loosely in a bathrobe, her hair in curlers.

“Hope you don't mind me smoking.” He puffed his cigar. “Funny you mention, though. It just so happens I'm one of the biggest Broadway producers in New York City.” He sipped his bourbon. Here's to the lass in every port, he thought.

“You don't say.” She was fairly certain his handkerchief was silk.

“Why, Lulu, I'll have you know that ol' Evert McGonigle discovered Doris Day. I'm working on a new show right now, in fact. The, uh, it's right at the tip of my tongue...”

Annabelle enjoyed the gleam of the hanging light off of his bald head.

“Ah, The Libertine. It's all Playbill is talking about this season.” Satisfied, he took another pull off of his cigar.

“Why, there ain't no chance you could find a spot for an a-spiring chorus girl like me, is there?” She smiled. He's a prize winner, she thought.

“Well, now, there just might be. I have a private berth here. What say we head back there and talk it over, Lulu.” He
finished his bourbon. And here's to the port wine in every lass, he thought.

“Golly, could we?” Sure beats churning butter, she thought.

---

Joe Jack awoke, stretched, and blinked his eyes cautiously. He eyed the empty bottle of Pappy Van Winkle's Private Reserve that had served as a pillow, and looked around the hotel room. “Get the hell out of my room,” he said, noticing the girl. Must have been a good night.

She yawned. “Oh, Joe Jack. Stop kidding around.”

Joe Jack stood up. “Shut up, baby. The Hawk ain't no clown. I gotta be in Yazoo City by nightfall. Get out.” He kicked at empty bottles, until he found one half-filled with ol' Pappy. He idly tossed an empty bottle at the girl and opened the door, discovering the bottle of orange juice he had ordered the day before.

“See you soon, right, Joe Jack, darlin'?” The girl was hastily dressing.

Joe Jack looked up from mixing his orange juice and bourbon. “You never know where the Hawk's gonna fly, baby. Git.”

She left.

He tipped back and gulped a good half of the wan mixture. “How great I am,” he sang. Annabelle missed a helluva night. He reached low, holding the notes, “how great I am.” Kosciusko didn't miss him, and the feeling was mutual. He thought of his childhood. Glorified shack. He always had known he was destined for better. He'd be wearing purple any ol' day now. He thought of Kosciusko again. That cousin of his. Graduate from Kosciusko and suddenly he has the right to bother the Hawk about his lifestyle.

He realized he had finished the bottle, and heard a pounding at the door.

“The Hawk's busy,” he called out, searching the room for another bottle. The door burst open, and a man tromped into the room. Looks like he's right off the plow, Joe Jack thought. Dirty overalls and all.

“I hear you been runnin' round with my Blanche,” the man said, walking up to Joe Jack.

“She that red headed number?” Joe Jack was more concerned with the lack of Pappy Van Winkle. He carried the empty bottle around, hoping to exchange it for a loaded brother.

“You sonuvabitch,” the man said, following Joe Jack around. “You turn around and talk to me like a man.”

“The Hawk flies on the winds, feller” Joe Jack continued to amble around the room. “Now help me find some bourbon in here or I'll whup ya.”

“Boy, you pay me mind when I'm talking to you.”

Joe Jack stiffened and turned around. “Don't you call me that.”

“Stay the hell away from my girl,” the man said, with less conviction, noting the hardness of Joe Jack's eyes.

“Don't you ever call me that.” Joe Jack swung the empty bottle of Pappy, striking the man on the temple.

The bottle shattered.

The man crumpled.

“Bout time I got going to Yazoo City, anyway.”

---

Evert Hintwinch stirred in his berth, bumping his head on the wall behind his bed. Oh, the glories of travel. He dressed, and noticed Lulu had departed at some earlier point. Must have gone back to some dirt farm along the route, he figured. It was not long before he noticed his watch fob had also departed at some point in the night, along with the contents of his wallet. As the train arrived in Yazoo City, he made a note to dock Junior for both.

He exited the train, offering a mumbled “thanks, boy” and nothing else to the porter who handed him his baggage. The porter glowered at Hintwinch's back.

Hintwinch lit a cigar as he surveyed the landscape. The train station, such as it was, stood opposite what must have been main street, a rangy collection of one story buildings. Shacks, Hintwinch thought, exhaling smoke at them. He watched a dusty man in overalls ramble by across the street. Probably the mayor, Hintwinch thought. He had to time to kill, and caught up with the man.

“Pardon me, my good man, but where is the nearest watering hole?”

---

Joe Jack was doing ninety down Highway 49, headed toward Yazoo City, his eyes mostly able to focus. He had the top of his 1947 Ford Sportsman down, and was enjoying the rush down the two lanes. He swerved between cars, howling and laughing at their honking.

That kudzu's really getting out of control, he thought, as police lights lit up in his rear view mirror. “Damn,” he said, and laughed. He gulped from the bottle of Pappy in his hand and howled along with the siren. He pumped the gas pedal. His fingers slid up and down the steering wheel. The Sportsman roared away.

When the police lights were no longer visible, Joe Jack swerved around a hog truck and pulled off the road, coming to rest next to a tree. He jumped into the back seat, spilling Pappy around the interior of the Ford.

The police came to a stop in front of his Ford. The officers left their vehicle, drew their pistols, and approached Joe Jack's car. They looked in.

“Oh, thank the good Lord you gentlemen got here in time,” Joe Jack said.

“Hey,” said one of the policemen, “you're that singer feller.” They holstered their weapons. “I saw you in Itta Bena.”

“Yes, officer, I'm Joe Jack Mason, the Hawk, in the flesh.” He sat up, and set the bottle between his legs. “You gentlemen have saved the life of a genuine, guaranteer-ied music great.”

The officers looked at each other.

Joe Jack pointed off into the woods. “He took off that way.”

The other policeman spoke. “Wait, who did?”

“The madman that stole my car, yessir. You got here just in time.” Joe Jack kept a straight face. “He said he didn't like my music. Said he was gonna kill me, and dump my Ford.” Joe Jack took a drink. “I'm just glad you got here in time.”

The officers looked at each other again. “Better check that out, Floyd,” one said. The other headed off into the woods.

“Also, I gotta be in Yazoo City tonight. I'm due at Hobson's, and I ain't in no drivin' shape. How's 'bout you take me? I'd hate to spoil the crowd's night.” Joe Jack raised his eyebrows.

The officer obliged.

---

“Wine, wine, wine,” Joe Jack sang, drubbing the keys. He howled. “Pass that bottle to me.” He cocked a leg and kicked the final keys with his heels. The crowd wailed. Joe Jack faced them, said nothing, and walked off stage.

Hintwinch was waiting in Joe Jack's dressing room. “Hell of a version of 'Drinkin' Wine Spo-dee O'Dee,' Mr. Mason.” It was a small room, a glorified bathroom with a vanity mirror and a chair. He thought the music coarse, but such were the times. He regretted not having his fob to toy with.

“Yup,” said Joe Jack, staring at him. “The Hawk don't play no other kind of music. What's your point?” He sat down,

“A great like you ought to be on the radio. Oughta have hit records. Oughta be rich, and famous.”

“Yup,” said Joe Jack, staring at him. “What's your point?”

“Let me introduce myself.” Hintwinch grabbed the bottle of Old Fitzgerald he purchased for the occasion. “You a drinking man?”

“You a breathin' man?” Joe Jack put his heels on the counter, looked at the mirror, and resumed staring at Hintwinch.

Hintwinch poured two glasses and set the bottle down on the counter. “My name is Evert Hintwinch. I'm president of Excelsior Records.” Hayseed ought to be an easy sell. “Perhaps you haven't heard of us.”

“Got that right.” Joe Jack snorted.

“We're one of the larger labels in the New York City area. Perhaps you've heard of Guy Mitchell?”

“Hell, no.” Joe Jack's eyes turned to himself. He ran his fingers through his hair.

“He's just had a hit with 'Belle, Belle, My Liberty Belle.' He's a wealthy man now.” Hintwinch pulled two cigars from his jacket pocket. “Cigar, Mr. Mason?”

Joe Jack grabbed one. “I'm the Hawk.” He bit into it, and waited for Hintwinch to light it. Hintwinch lit it.

“Well, Hawk, point is, I can make you a wealthy man.” He lit his own cigar, exhaling at the ceiling. Chawbacon won't even have a lawyer, he thought. I can't lose.

Annabelle entered the room. “Joe Jack?” she said. She stopped suddenly, staring at the two.

“Lulu?” said Hintwinch, looking at Annabelle. His mouth opened. Smoke drifted out, slowly.

“Annabelle?” said Joe Jack.

“McGonigle?” said Annabelle, looking at Hintwinch. Her mouth tightened.

“Hintwinch?” said Joe Jack, looking at Hintwinch, his eyes kindling. “Doggone it, Annabelle. Again?”

Hintwinch stiffened. “Now, now, remember, we're talking about your career here.”

Joe Jack put his feet on the floor. “Doggone it.” He stood up, and drained his bourbon.

Hintwinch puffed desperately at his cigar. “I'm going to make you one wealthy fella, here.” He backed into a corner, straddling the toilet. “Calm down, boy.”

Joe Jack stiffened. “Don't call me that.”

Annabelle looked at her nails. “He is offering some money, Hawk.”

Joe Jack grabbed the bottle of Old Fitzgerald, took a swig, and broke it on the counter. He advanced on Hintwinch. Hintwinch thought of Professor Babbitt. Economics just didn't cover punk situations like this.

“C'mon, now. 'Jellyroll Boogie' will be riding on top of Billboard in a matter of weeks.” Hintwinch began to look pale. “Be reasonable, boy.”

“Don't you ever call me that,” Joe Jack said, driving the neck of the bottle into Hintwinch's throat. “Shake that jellyroll.”

Hintwinch gurgled. This would definitely come out of Junior's salary. He leaned against the wall, and slid down, collapsing upon the toilet.

“Dammit, Hawk,” said Annabelle. “He was our ticket outta here.”

Joe Jack threw Hintwinch on the ground and opened up the toilet tank. He pulled out a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle's Private Reserve and opened it.

“Shut up, baby,” Joe Jack said, taking a pull of Pappy. He threw his cigar down and ground it into the tile. “I gotta make it to Tuscaloosa by tomorrow night.”

Why?

Joe Jack Mason is coming

Thu, 07 Feb 2008 07:14:13 GMT

EVERYBODY DANCE

More specifically, 1265/2500ths of the way born, with twenty-three hours to go. YAY LAST MINUTE EVERYTHING. YAY PUTTING IT OFF FURTHER BY THESE MEANS.

Sat, 26 Jan 2008 08:54:13 GMT

I really don't believe I can accurately represent how excited I am about Jonathan Richman returning to town. When I read the announcement, first sniff of which was courtesy of the Onion A/V Club, I didn't even recognize my town's name. 'Springfield, MO,' I thought. 'Hmm, must be at least fairly local. I can drive there. Wait, The Outland? Wait, I live in Springfield.'

In terms of my musical heroes that are still living and don't suck, Jonathan Richman pretty well tops it. I mean, I'd die to see Andrew W.K. and Calvin Johnson, but otherwise I've seen the bigs, or they are broken up (or long dead). Morrissey, Danzig mit Doyle, a Dean Wareham project, and the Fall I've seen. Sure, there are a few people that prolly would be entertaining, but we're talking people that have formed my very ethical sensibility. It's pretty much Morrissey and Jonathan Richman.

I mean, he'll be here on a Tuesday night, and I doubt this town is especially mad for him, so I'll prolly actually talk to him.

I'm excited, in short. I DECLARE THE NEXT MONTH TO BE JONATHAN RICHMAN MONTH!

Fri, 25 Jan 2008 21:07:00 GMT

HOLY GOD JONATHAN RICHMAN IS FINALLLLLLLLLY COMING BACK TO MY TOWN, AFTER A FIVE YEAR ABSENCE FROM HIS PREVIOUSLY ANNUAL VISITS.

Feb. 26: Springfield, MO, The Outland

Now to change my pants and go to work.

Thu, 03 Jan 2008 20:19:38 GMT

Five hour energy drink is one hell of a drug. Two of them in twenty minutes and I was full out stimming (on the phone: "what's that noise in the background?" "ohsorrythat'smehittingmyglassesrepeatedly") and grousing at people to talk faster. Sleeping was fun, and largely consisted of several hundred five minute naps, which connected to make one confusing and epic half-dream of being some complicated swami figure in an ill-defined landscape. I remember I was part of some swami class, defined by some dream logic action of non-movement and passivity. Also, my stomach hurt a lot. I managed 18,911% of my daily Vitamin B-12 requirement, though.

Fri, 26 Oct 2007 06:52:55 GMT

Finished my second short film today. Group effort, yay! (Psst! Three guesses who dubbed the dialog.)

Also, off to New New York in five hours or so. Will be there in twelve?!

now my heart is full (er, again)

Wed, 03 Oct 2007 06:48:38 GMT

My annual late fall date with Morrissey is on track. Huzzah!

(n). I became a vegetarian (ok, after a post-Moz Guava Dog) and Moz semi-lookalike.
(n+1). On my Morrissey day (20 years, 7 months, and 27 days into my life), and rather miserable in hilariously appropriate days.
(n+2). MOZ ONLY KNOWS.

Tue, 18 Sep 2007 01:51:18 GMT

So, sorta terrifically busy. Terrifically would be inappropriate, really. Sunday is my only day off now, yay! School Monday through Thursday, then work Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Monday! Yay!

Got my evaluation at work. Full raise, so am now making a staggering $8/hour. Found out that we'll get about a $1500 bonus at the end of the year, so that kinda makes me want to stick around. Alas, this means the usual retail schedule of "good luck getting time off." Thanksgiving will be spent alone, which I can already imagine being about the happiest day ever (looks like it'll be a William Holden Thanksgiving!). Christmas I can get a day or three off for, maybe. Huzzah?

Sunday has tended to be a bit William Holden, to repeat myself, as I am enamored of that phrase. Yesterday I was awake for maybe five hours, quite spread out. Called my dad at eight in the morning, then went out again, then watched Brett load his iPod at three or so, then went back out and woke up at eleven in time to start Wonderful Life (Cliff Richard in blackface!) and then go back out again at midnight. I fell at least twice (just BOOM!), and have some weird mark on my hand that looks to be a burn, though dunno how that happened (weekend consumption report: two bottles of champale, one handle of gin, one pint of Boddington's). Carpet-burn, maybe.

I tend to dream about work now. It's sorta nightmares, except they're just an accurate capture of the banality of dragging things across a laser-eye. Funny story, back a month or so, when I had my great snapping at t'one party, I later passed out, due to having gotten three hours of sleep the night before. My ride, struggling to wake me up, reported that I did little but ignore the pleas to awake, mumbling something about needing to find out "how much the chips cost."

I overhead some girl talking to her parents about Christmas. "What's Santa gonna bring me?" etc. Standard moralizing, and then the little girl mentioned how she had been praying to Santa. Good times!

Randomly got the Frankie & Annette box set, which I do not regret at all. I figured, as the biggest American young adult male Cliff Richard fan, it was a safe bet. Have only watched Beach Blanket Bingo, but, geez. The very concept of diagesis is ignored from the start. Wacky sound-effects! Break the fourth-wall!

january in june

Sat, 14 Apr 2007 13:32:18 GMT

It appears to be snowing. In April. I am inclined to dismiss it as my feverish, unslept, squiffy imagination, but then there's frozen water particles on my balcony. Say wHAAAT?

Fri, 13 Apr 2007 07:02:04 GMT

Kurt is in Heaven now. I forgot about that joke until today.

Sat, 24 Mar 2007 09:53:36 GMT

Godfrey Daniel. Whenever I hit the misanthropic border, I am reminded that my friends are the greatest people in the world. However poor I am typically at expressing anything near such sentiments, I love you (this being you, in addition to other various you sorts).

I will give you that brandy (I WAS NOT CARDED, GODFREY DANIEL) has some impact here, but it is no less true for such.

Uh. <3

Fri, 16 Mar 2007 20:15:39 GMT

Ooops. Way to leave early. I was not expecting to hit rush hour traffic here. Ah, well.

Tue, 13 Mar 2007 06:51:54 GMT

Paul Lynde is too amazing.

adventures in medicine

Thu, 08 Mar 2007 10:55:57 GMT

I rather figure that I had a sinus infection (lessee, constant headache exclusively behind my left eyebrow, upper nasal congestion -- HRRRM), and my father agreed. However, him being distant, I made an appointment with the University Health Center for today. Whatever examination fee the doctor got, it was exclusively for the purpose of obtaining antibiotics. Fun thought! Life is burlesque!

Elsewise, it would appear I've put on some weight since the holidays. Twenty pounds or so, I'd think. I was wearing my heaviest shoes at the time, but, still. It's like I ate a baby.

Also, I have unusually high blood pressure. It was not made clear if that meant "unusually high for a scrawny twenty-year-old" or just "unusually high," as the doctor qualified it into ambiguity. I'm to pop by for a re-measurement at some future point of my convenience, which I'd assume I'll not get around to. Oddly, I have henceforth had unusually low blood pressure, so dunno what that's about.

My father talked to the doctor here he last visited, and I guess I'm to see him in the future. Apparently, he was all set to wrangle antibiotics out of that fellow, if the university fell through (pardon, "failed to give [me] proper care"). More frightening, I am to appear to him at some point not too far in the future for a general examination and presumable beginning of my adult health records. This, I assume, means my first medical groping, a procedure I have so far blessedly managed to avoid. MORT.

The university doctor asked if I was one to wear myself out or get plenty of rest. My response one can probably guess, considering I'm writing this four hours before I need to wake up. He asked my major. "Oh, yeah, you're just keeping busy with film studies, aren't you?" Without a trace of sarcasm! Um, all right, we'll go with that, doc.

Then he sorta groused at me for not owning a thermometer, as I was unable to provide the quantifiable details of my fever. A private thermometer, mind, as some things, like hepatitis, just won't wash off. I, then, internally, and my father, later, verbally, proceeded to laugh at him.

Also, I just finished Mr. Strangelove, the Peter Sellers biography I began on Monday. Michael Palin was quoted on the cover to the effect that it is a "compulsive page-turner," and dangnabbit if he weren't but right. Interesting fellow. Was indeed one to hide most all personal personality behind bunches of characters. The description of the Goons introduced me to the concept of the "compulsive comedian," which is fascinating. The Goons are a fun bunch, in general. Spike Milligan particularly I should like to become more familiar with. That's some black humor, him. HRRRM.

Peter Sellers had a massive heart attack as he was getting dressed to go have dinner with the Goons. This led to a coma and his death. Harry Secombe, I believe, later stated, "just like him to do anything to get out of a check."

Peter Sellers arranged that, as he was being carted out to be cremated during his funeral service, Glenn Miller's "In the Mood" would be played. This happened. Apparently, the Goons pretty much laughed through the length of his funeral, and everyone else cried.

dammit

Tue, 06 Mar 2007 18:58:03 GMT

Overslept. Automatic "B" in creative writing, as it's my third absence. Missed the Important Interview for journalism, so that's prolly not a whole lot better.

Kinda sucks, 'cause I spent hours writing what I thought was actually a really nice analysis of the story I was assigned. It was brilliantly depressing! In a British social-realist way! Class consciousness! All for naught!

On the other hand, I had a dream that some fourteen year olds stole a car (product of actual car alarm going off, I find) and then, spotting me watching them, tried to do nefarious things with a serrated knife. I laughed. We scrapped.

It would appear I have a sinus infection. My left frontal sinus, specifically. Pretty sweet. Apparently it can lead to brain infection if left untreated. Student health center just ignored my phone call.

I'm actually increasingly comfortable with the "B." I've been kinda expecting it, and it's vastly more difficult to get a "C" in that class, so I'm pretty secure now.

Fri, 23 Feb 2007 02:14:32 GMT

I had some odd dream. Unusually complicated, I remember thinking, though it's lost to me now. Trains, I think, and the usual independent appearance of groups of people with no connection to each other outside of my protagonist (precisely the same cast as my astronaut/pissing blood dream of last week). More importantly, it ended with, as I recall, an evil robot trying to break into some room to get me and a few others. I pulled the blinds and used the window crank thingummy as quick as I could manage. I punched the screen out. I jumped out the window, escaping the robot.

I woke up in mid-leap from my futon.

Good thing I don't sleep on my bed, else I'd have perished in a pile of shoes. Good way to go, though.

Thu, 22 Feb 2007 09:59:05 GMT

I bought one sweater today and received two as birthday presents, one of the latter two of which was from a shop owner I've met, I believe, once before. HRRM. I LIKE SWEATERS A LOT. Two are golden-ish, one of which is a tee-sweater (YEAH!), one of which has brown polyester elbow patches and looks pretty much like the one Sinatra has on on Where Are You?. Only with shoulder patches. T'other is a grey, red, and black affair, which obviously is amazing. My parents offered to get me a sweater for my birthday. It's my sweater year, I gather.

I also purchased a cigarette pack cover (metal thingy what one puts a soft pack in, with a sliding thingy on top). It is sweet and metallic and has flowers on it. And a tie clip with the Statue of Liberty chained, inexplicably, to an anchor. Not being one to wear ties frequently, it is on the collar of my Sinatra sweater.

I also purchased Life With Women & How to Survive It, by Joseph Peck, M.D., a guide to the obvious from 1961. Notably, he (seriously, as far as I can tell) makes the argument that females, Eve excepted, are descended from another sort (species, kinda) of human from the land of Nod. Eve was yanked from Adam, yes, but the next women mentioned magically come from Nod without explanation. It looks to be a very entertaining volume.

Ooh, now I've read more. More specifically, he argues that Adam came from dust, but at an unknown length of time, and henceforth prolly descended from the wolf/dog family. Nod women, presumably the genesis equally for the myth of the Amazons, are presumed descended from the tiger/cat family. These distinctions have survived, he argues. This argument coming, uh, eight years after Watson and Crick revealed the double helix. I guess he could make an argument about sex-linked genes. In his defense, he was one of the first physicians in pioneer Utah.

ANTHRAX JESUS. BAG OF FEET.

Thu, 15 Feb 2007 03:24:53 GMT

First thing this morning, I stepped out on my balcony, and a dove shat on me.

God needs new writers.

hog-head

Sun, 21 Jan 2007 21:21:29 GMT

So, perhaps you've heard of the great ICEPOCALYPSE of naught-seven. Well, meine town was fairly well smacked by it. Houses burned, gangs formed, suddenly it's a desert and everyone's driving dune buggies with machine guns mounted upon them. I write this entry on a 64 bit Amiga, connected to the last pay phone in civilization. I've just eaten my best friend for breakfast and plan to join my tribe in a raid on the great water stores this evening. That damned Trok has had it in his tight fist for far too long. So, if my gyrocopter and I don't make it back, it's been fun, and, always remember, VOOD.

(Ok, technically my power was out last Friday to last Sunday. Those not fortunate enough to live at a major intersection have been a little worse off. School was delayed for a full week, but would appear tomorrow it will happen. My internet has been down for NINE DAYS, tragedy, but otherwise. It may or may not flee again.)

Wed, 10 Jan 2007 18:08:15 GMT

My interlibrary loan request of George Sanders's (impossibly rare and out-of-print) Memoirs of a Professional Cad SUCCEEDED. 'Awaiting arrival.' YEAH. Best public service ever.