Talk to me, people
All a yall better sign my guestbook. that hit county-ma-dealer's getting up there, and none of you are talkin. Well start talking. If this is the first time you've ever been to this blog, sign the guestbook (victor). If this isn't the first time, sign it anyway. And keep signing it. Sign it instead of sending me icq messages. Sign it when you want me to pick up some groceries for you. Sign it if you're happy and you know it. You can even sign it if you are dumb and have no imagination, with the help of this special little gizmo.
'nuff talk, sign it.
November 29, 2003
Shower of Consciousness
Remember when taking a shower at midnight might have seemed a bit weird? Well I do, ya weirdo.
Still, this res has a seemingly endless supply of free hot water and I'm determined to use it in the best way possible, as much as possible, before I have to move out. For this hot water, as for many things, I have concluded that the best possible use is to drench my nekkid-as-a-jaybird self in it. Too much detail what now? The only things missing are all the luxuriant noises I could be making. You see, I don't have Clairol Herbal Essences, so no orgasmic shampooing experiences for me.
When I'm in the shower I think up TV advertising campaigns. Mostly for Mag Lite, lately (my slogan is "There's a million things you can do with 'em."), but I thought up another good one this morning. I forget what it is though. I'm not too into advertising, but thinking up TV ads seems to be an offshoot of the hilarious-video high school project mentality I acquired a ways back. I remember what the other one was. There was a guy in the shower, only you could only see the tiles 'cause this isn't a gay thing. And his hand appears in the frame reaching for something we can't see, comes back with shampoo, puts it back, this time comes back with a bottle of motor oil. And the slogan is "Now that's a car guy." I dunno what it's for. Maybe canadian tire. Possibly it was a subconscious reflection on the grunginess of the communal shower.
Yes, it's democracy: everyone has the same right to use the shower. Or rather, everyone has the right to use the same shower. Last week it flooded. There was water all over the floor. Like an inch deep. At least I hope it was the shower that flooded. I didn't go in there. I used one of two other bathrooms on the floor, in other houses. That means you gotta go into a part of the building where the hallways are different. I shuffled there in my bathrobe with no belt, holding the shampoo in one arm that was crossed over my chest to keep the bathrobe from flapping open. The soap was in my pocket, with my keys. Lindsay lives in the other house. She saw me, but I didn't see her 'till she said 'hey' and I said 'hey' back. There were a lot of us shamblers, dispossesed of our shower, padding through the hallways wrapped in robes or towels looking for somewhere else to bathe. Everybody wearing flip-flops and looking down. Group living means the group in a very strange way eats you. You are a totally unique cell huddled against all sorts of other cells and all of you are trying to do the same things. Like graduate. Or take a shower.
The shower was fixed today, though, and the floors were cleaner than ever. My hand is covered with white crackles in the skin. Old man hands. Not enough water. There has been a lot of work this week, and there's gonna be a lot more. I wonder how other people do it. Graham's room is clean. Crystal goes to the goddam gym every day. Victor doesn't need to sleep. If I had an airplane I wouldn't know how to fly it. Crystal on the other hand, would know how to fly it. She doesn't have a plane, but if she did she'd able and allowed to use it. What she does have, though, is a sixty-thousand dollar concert grand piano. I know how to use that. But you know what? She doesn't. Her multi-millionaire grandfather bought it for her four years ago when she decided to take up piano. She is not rich. She might sell the piano to pay for school. Her grampa, forgetting about the piano that he bought her four years ago with what was pocket change to him, may buy her another one. This is resourceful of her.
Whereas Chang's parents simply up and bought him a condo. Yet another thing I know how to use. They hadn't even seen it when they bought it. As soon as it's finished being built, Chang will move in. Meanwhile, here I am, scraping the gravel and taking practice swings. I hit a homerun once, in practice. I need to go back and study, so that physics will make sense. I have no declared major. I take english, physics, and anthropolgy. Mixing subjects can produce interesting results. Once, someone mixed physics with sex-education. This was written on the door of the shower stall. It seems to be a theory.
This all seems like good advice. Thank you, shower.
Remember when taking a shower at midnight might have seemed a bit weird? Well I do, ya weirdo.
Still, this res has a seemingly endless supply of free hot water and I'm determined to use it in the best way possible, as much as possible, before I have to move out. For this hot water, as for many things, I have concluded that the best possible use is to drench my nekkid-as-a-jaybird self in it. Too much detail what now? The only things missing are all the luxuriant noises I could be making. You see, I don't have Clairol Herbal Essences, so no orgasmic shampooing experiences for me.
When I'm in the shower I think up TV advertising campaigns. Mostly for Mag Lite, lately (my slogan is "There's a million things you can do with 'em."), but I thought up another good one this morning. I forget what it is though. I'm not too into advertising, but thinking up TV ads seems to be an offshoot of the hilarious-video high school project mentality I acquired a ways back. I remember what the other one was. There was a guy in the shower, only you could only see the tiles 'cause this isn't a gay thing. And his hand appears in the frame reaching for something we can't see, comes back with shampoo, puts it back, this time comes back with a bottle of motor oil. And the slogan is "Now that's a car guy." I dunno what it's for. Maybe canadian tire. Possibly it was a subconscious reflection on the grunginess of the communal shower.
Yes, it's democracy: everyone has the same right to use the shower. Or rather, everyone has the right to use the same shower. Last week it flooded. There was water all over the floor. Like an inch deep. At least I hope it was the shower that flooded. I didn't go in there. I used one of two other bathrooms on the floor, in other houses. That means you gotta go into a part of the building where the hallways are different. I shuffled there in my bathrobe with no belt, holding the shampoo in one arm that was crossed over my chest to keep the bathrobe from flapping open. The soap was in my pocket, with my keys. Lindsay lives in the other house. She saw me, but I didn't see her 'till she said 'hey' and I said 'hey' back. There were a lot of us shamblers, dispossesed of our shower, padding through the hallways wrapped in robes or towels looking for somewhere else to bathe. Everybody wearing flip-flops and looking down. Group living means the group in a very strange way eats you. You are a totally unique cell huddled against all sorts of other cells and all of you are trying to do the same things. Like graduate. Or take a shower.
The shower was fixed today, though, and the floors were cleaner than ever. My hand is covered with white crackles in the skin. Old man hands. Not enough water. There has been a lot of work this week, and there's gonna be a lot more. I wonder how other people do it. Graham's room is clean. Crystal goes to the goddam gym every day. Victor doesn't need to sleep. If I had an airplane I wouldn't know how to fly it. Crystal on the other hand, would know how to fly it. She doesn't have a plane, but if she did she'd able and allowed to use it. What she does have, though, is a sixty-thousand dollar concert grand piano. I know how to use that. But you know what? She doesn't. Her multi-millionaire grandfather bought it for her four years ago when she decided to take up piano. She is not rich. She might sell the piano to pay for school. Her grampa, forgetting about the piano that he bought her four years ago with what was pocket change to him, may buy her another one. This is resourceful of her.
Whereas Chang's parents simply up and bought him a condo. Yet another thing I know how to use. They hadn't even seen it when they bought it. As soon as it's finished being built, Chang will move in. Meanwhile, here I am, scraping the gravel and taking practice swings. I hit a homerun once, in practice. I need to go back and study, so that physics will make sense. I have no declared major. I take english, physics, and anthropolgy. Mixing subjects can produce interesting results. Once, someone mixed physics with sex-education. This was written on the door of the shower stall. It seems to be a theory.
A good time to talk about sex is when you are:
. Both sober
. In a safe and comfortable environment, and
. In a non-accelerating frame of reference.
. Both sober
. In a safe and comfortable environment, and
. In a non-accelerating frame of reference.
This all seems like good advice. Thank you, shower.
November 27, 2003
November 20, 2003
Wordsearch
Luke, being luke, has found some cool stuff on the internet - and I mean cool in a remote and alien sense - that I never would have turned up in a million years. How cool? Well, it is the first thing I mentioned. I, being me, am just writing. Max, being max, is stranded on a desert island a million miles from somewhere, locked in furious contemplation of the endless present I've never been told how to deal with - though someone did ask me my opinion, once. A former friend, she was, before some real shit happened. But that was ages ago. I don't think anyone ever told him how to. Max. Maybe it's best left unspoken, in which case I'm already screwed and so are you for reading. Or maybe words just slide off of it like water off a candle, being that a moment wrapped in words either becomes a memory or a plan, a thing of some other time than now.
I think Max needs to quit his job. Maybe not yet, but before the longest day of the year.
Ach, tell me this isn't a winter coming.
In other news, Ian, in touching postmodernism, believes he is playing wi th fire. A poetry reading left me with nothing to say and the notion, which articulated itself over eight or nine hours, that we have these vast and unimaginable nebulae in our heads that we could explode if only given the right kind of spark. Hey brother, got a light? I have a new set of business cards, and am busily drawing away on them. I must be approaching 200. I'll do something with them eventually. And Dave wrote a poem sounding very, very much like a prayer. Erika will be mad that I didn't mention her, since she reads this. Erika Erika Erika. There. With a k this time. Meanwhile back at the lab, I am an hour and a half late for bed. Thanks, man, that's been bugging me for a while, I really wanted to get it off my chest.
ten minutes later
Okay, Erika, now you're the star. I just posted a little bit a comment on this post of yours, with the longest email address in t he universe. Well, it's not that long, but neither is the Tao Te Ching. It's:
upsidedownmanunderthestars.fakemail.dontbother.whyareyoureadingthis.
sillydaftkid.wellitisratherwitty.buttonyourlipy ouoldhag.howlongcanigo.thisco
uldgettedious.butthenagainitssortofpoetic.youknow.anewform.ofwriting.ver
yperiodic.anemphasisonspace.fuckingpunctuation.thisoughtasockittothem.t
opunctuationimean.ifyoucanreadthis.youarenowkingof.arcteria.whichisanice
.imagi nary.kingdom.withmagicfish.yay.magicfisharefun.you needalife.so.youk
now.maybethemagicfish.willhelp.thenagain.theycouldalways.domoreharm.th
angood.soihearfamilyguyscomingback.maybe.cool.ishouldwritecraplike.thism
oreoften.itssorta.liberating.inanodd.unexp ected.way.ihopeidont.losethis.illco
pyit.justincase @holyholymoly.it
Luke, being luke, has found some cool stuff on the internet - and I mean cool in a remote and alien sense - that I never would have turned up in a million years. How cool? Well, it is the first thing I mentioned. I, being me, am just writing. Max, being max, is stranded on a desert island a million miles from somewhere, locked in furious contemplation of the endless present I've never been told how to deal with - though someone did ask me my opinion, once. A former friend, she was, before some real shit happened. But that was ages ago. I don't think anyone ever told him how to. Max. Maybe it's best left unspoken, in which case I'm already screwed and so are you for reading. Or maybe words just slide off of it like water off a candle, being that a moment wrapped in words either becomes a memory or a plan, a thing of some other time than now.
I think Max needs to quit his job. Maybe not yet, but before the longest day of the year.
Ach, tell me this isn't a winter coming.
In other news, Ian, in touching postmodernism, believes he is playing wi th fire. A poetry reading left me with nothing to say and the notion, which articulated itself over eight or nine hours, that we have these vast and unimaginable nebulae in our heads that we could explode if only given the right kind of spark. Hey brother, got a light? I have a new set of business cards, and am busily drawing away on them. I must be approaching 200. I'll do something with them eventually. And Dave wrote a poem sounding very, very much like a prayer. Erika will be mad that I didn't mention her, since she reads this. Erika Erika Erika. There. With a k this time. Meanwhile back at the lab, I am an hour and a half late for bed. Thanks, man, that's been bugging me for a while, I really wanted to get it off my chest.
ten minutes later
Okay, Erika, now you're the star. I just posted a little bit a comment on this post of yours, with the longest email address in t he universe. Well, it's not that long, but neither is the Tao Te Ching. It's:
upsidedownmanunderthestars.fakemail.dontbother.whyareyoureadingthis.
sillydaftkid.wellitisratherwitty.buttonyourlipy ouoldhag.howlongcanigo.thisco
uldgettedious.butthenagainitssortofpoetic.youknow.anewform.ofwriting.ver
yperiodic.anemphasisonspace.fuckingpunctuation.thisoughtasockittothem.t
opunctuationimean.ifyoucanreadthis.youarenowkingof.arcteria.whichisanice
.imagi nary.kingdom.withmagicfish.yay.magicfisharefun.you needalife.so.youk
now.maybethemagicfish.willhelp.thenagain.theycouldalways.domoreharm.th
angood.soihearfamilyguyscomingback.maybe.cool.ishouldwritecraplike.thism
oreoften.itssorta.liberating.inanodd.unexp ected.way.ihopeidont.losethis.illco
pyit.justincase @holyholymoly.it
November 17, 2003
Wanna Be in a Play?
Commme on, you know you do.
I'm writing one for the Tarragon Theatre's Paprika festival this march and...I need actors. The fun bit about the Paprika fest is, anyone can be an actor. It's for artists under 21, no other credentials necessary. well, 'course the script has to get in, but that's my job.
I need me five winsome lads / strapping lasses to fill the roles, and if anyone wants to be the nominal stage manager I need one of them too. Not much work, 'cause it's a pretty simple kind of play without any flying chandeliers, swordfights, or deep soliloquys. Not yet anyway, but we can always talk. The good thing about this play I'm doing, which is a play within a play within a play (the outermost play is A Midsummer Night's Dream), is for people who aren't necessarily Actors with a capital a. Ya just gotta get up there.
So give me emails, people. I'll buy you pizzas or something.
Commme on, you know you do.
I'm writing one for the Tarragon Theatre's Paprika festival this march and...I need actors. The fun bit about the Paprika fest is, anyone can be an actor. It's for artists under 21, no other credentials necessary. well, 'course the script has to get in, but that's my job.
I need me five winsome lads / strapping lasses to fill the roles, and if anyone wants to be the nominal stage manager I need one of them too. Not much work, 'cause it's a pretty simple kind of play without any flying chandeliers, swordfights, or deep soliloquys. Not yet anyway, but we can always talk. The good thing about this play I'm doing, which is a play within a play within a play (the outermost play is A Midsummer Night's Dream), is for people who aren't necessarily Actors with a capital a. Ya just gotta get up there.
So give me emails, people. I'll buy you pizzas or something.
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