The length of the following, double spaced and blocked out in sturdy, spare paragraphs, is roughly equal to a third of the final paper I have yet to start work on, being the prioritized, on-top-of-things guy that I am.

Time well spent, and I mean it, considering my humdrum alternatives.  Thanks to K-Boog for the questions.  I'm supposed to ask if anybody reading this would like to be interviewed (by, of course, yours truly).  Any takers?

Matt's Life, Recently, By Numbers (much like a paint-by-number, though far less colorful, I must say):

1. Anime class became something else entirely when we were invited to attend a Q-and-A session with Stalking Cat, a man who has disfigured (my word) his body in order that he more closely resemble a cat, and a tiger specifically.  Sharpened teeth that lisped his speech, tattoos covering all visible areas of exposed skin (tiger stripes on the face and neck, then scales on his arms), a series of facial implants to shift the look of his profile, piercings around the nose that allowed for the screwing in of whiskers (he did not wear them on this day; that might have just been to over the top, too spectacular.  He also neglected to bring his animatronic tail.), overgrown fingernails, painted black, that bent into crescent moon curves. He is, apparently, famous on a small scale, just as most people who choose to participate in an updated version of a traveling side show are famous in our world of wonder and perverse curiosity.  He is a post-human entity, or at least that was the selling point meant to rationalize our class' attendance at the small event.

It is not that I necessarily judged the man for doing this to his body.  No, I found myself more concerned with the rationale that he offered, which was, to me, not satisfactory or believable at all.  His claims were that this is all part of a Native American spiritual quest, that becoming closer to his totem animal is his sole goal in this endeavor.  He purred his way through an hour and a half of questions, offering only elusive remarks like "I have a very close connection to cats."  Is that it?  Is that all it takes?  A close connection?  I did a report on giraffes in the fourth grade, and so maybe I feel an understanding, a connection.  Maybe I should go have my neck lengthened (I wouldn't mind being a bit taller: thin me out a bit, make it so I could take out my 5'9'' date in heels and not be laughed out of the restaurant).  And if this transformation is only indicative of his spiritual and ancestral identity, why is he charging $300 dollars to come talk to a small group of students for 80 minutes?  It is my belief that the man had no idea who he was, that he was simply altering his body because he wanted to, because he was confused about his purpose and connection to things in the world, maybe addicted to an idea.  What cemented this thought of mine is that, because of a botched testicular cancer-removing operation, he opted to become transgendered (he had tits on him, but he was a big guy, and I was naive enough to think they were weight-related).  His partner (a woman, Tess, who also went by the name Red Pony, a name she chose as her identity in the Furry community...) told one of the professors (as I write these words, this information has become third-hand, so forgive any losses or corruptions) privately that Stalking Cat identifies as a lesbian.  But then why did she refer to Stalking Cat as a he?  Why did Stalking Cat refer to himself as a he?  I know in this day and age you can be many things, but you can only be a male lesbian in a corny slogan ripe for printing on ratty t-shirts.

2. As an exercise in my ongoing study of chain reactions, the visit of Stalking Cat (Cat Thing, Cat Man, CatManDu: Take your pick) obliterated our plans for the class I was to lead discussion in.  Instead of getting to any of the activities my partner and I had planned, we talked for nearly the entire period about Cat Man.  I'm not complaining; I got out of writing the rest of the short papers this quarter, and all I had to do was lead class discussion for 20 minutes instead of a planned 80. 

3. I co-emceed a reading for the magazine.  I typed out a half a page for my introduction, word for word, and then stalked back and forth in a study room in the library, repeating every word over to myself.  I cannot allow myself to go off script, even a phrase here, a sly smirk and a joke there.  Even a small step off the pre-scripted path and I start to pick up my pace, start to run in the wrong direction, away from where I should be, and soon I am lost and embarrassed and red in front of an audience expecting more.  So I memorized, even the tepid jokes, and talked for a few minutes, awkwardly, before and after some really amazing authors.  I talked to Carol Guess for the first time since last spring.  She remembered my story, asked if I had returned to it at all.  I said I hadn't, but that I was considering pulling it out again.  Maybe most professors remember specific papers from specific students, but I took it as a small compliment, even if it was never intended that way.  I felt good after talking to her, and I remembered, the only moment in recent months, that I want to be a writer, and I should be better about writing and about doing things that will get me to that goal.

4. My Chinese-American lit professor never received an assignment I sent him.  He didn't tell me that he never received it; I just deduced, when he failed to hand me back a paper with a grade on it, that maybe my email got lost, accidentally deleted.  He claims he never got it.  I sent it again.  He claims he never received that, either, so I came prepared with a hard copy and a printout from my email, dates highlighted, proving that I had, originally, sent the emails in a timely manner.  I'm babysitting my professor, looking out for my grade, and I just want the curtains to swoop closed on this quarter before I start feeling I should be financially compensated for doing his job as well as my own.  Other circumstances are also at work in making me feel this way.  I am very unhappy with the class, and I regret that I will have to be almost wholly negative come evaluation time (if it comes at all, since I believe he is tenured, and therefore it is my understanding that evaluations are not required).

5. Things with the magazine are about to get busy, potentially a little frustrating.  I hired a graphic designer.  He's a bit eager, which is good and bad, both at different times.  We want to channel his creativity, but we also know, are set on, what we want.  Sometimes these threads just don't weave well.  Our meetings are getting longer, not least of all because one of the editors is overly chatty, rarely focused.  I want to do a good job with this, and I am honestly excited about the potential this has.  But people are starting to stress, to worry, and it is beginning to feel less like a dream and more like a string of unfinished tasks and busy work.  I've expected since last spring that this would eat into my spring break (I have to stay for work), but I'm a bit paranoid that some of us are going to make longer an already strenuous process.  And my mom is coming up the last few days of the break, and I want to be done by then.  We can be, so long as we cut through the frivolity and get down to business.  I don't want to have to be mean about it.  We will see.

6. I was killing time at an office supply store, and walking past the aisle with staplers, a slogan taped onto an automatic model read: "70% Less Effort."  We're so tired we can't even staple.  Of all the things to scale back the effort on: Stapling.   Part of me would like to wonder when we will give up on the other 30%, but often times it feels like we already have.

7.  Hot film teacher got hired, as I predicted.  He will start in the fall, 4 months after I graduate.  Meanwhile, I will be somewhere else.  Europe?  A writing residency?  Living at home, working retail, as stuck as I have ever been?  It's too late for graduate school for the fall, so that's out.  I want to do something new, something at a quicker pace, but I am bad about letting my fears trip me up.  I know what I don't want to do, and I have seen people doing what I don't want to be doing.  I suppose that could be a start,: Ruling things out.

I am going to read Joan Didion over break.  I am going to buy the Amy Winehouse CD on Tuesday.  I am going to write more.  I am going to spank the two remaining weeks of this quarter, sure to leave a red welt in the shape of my hand.  I am going to sign up for a class at the gym and actually go.  I am going to frequent the gelato shop until I catch them serving either pear or mandarin chocolate (this not to cancel the effects, hopefully, of the previous statement).  I am going to explore new restaurants and hangouts before I leave for good in June.  I am going to look forward to my internship and to the summer, to California after graduation and to Europe at the end of the hot season, at the start of something fresh, fast and frightening.

credit banner to grip_the_burn

Entries from this point are friends-only. Feel free to dwell in my past, or request that I add you if you care about what I'm up to in the present.


And we're all set for Gwen Stefani and M.I.A. in November. Excellent. And as motivation for me to even post about this, to my future roommates currently tearing up Europe in only the highest of street-bought Louis Vuitton fashions (that's you, Michelle, and you, too, Brooke, though I heard nothing about your own purse purchases), I'm afraid I'm going to have to tell you that you are coming with us. My mom offered to buy "my new roommates, who I actually like" tickets, too, and since I know both Brooke and Michelle like Gwenny, and should love M.I.A., I agreed to invite ya along. So, if you do read this, be excited. If not, I'll surprise you in person next month!

Aaaanyhoo, I'm growing dreadfully tired of the internet and at having to deal with one annoyance in particular. This lack of interest in witless flatness threw me back into a reading cycle. I had finished the Updike before the wine party, so free of that burden (not that I didn't like it, and greatly respect his writing and his incredible confidence with words, but it was very slow for me to read, and maybe not a book I appreciated as much as I could have, if, say, I had read it at another time in my life) I breezed through Jincy Willet's "Winner of the National Book Award" and loved it. Her deadpan, biting sense of humor is just what I needed after the rather depressing story of unstable Rabbit and his drowned baby. I was going to start something else, but figured I should focus on "House of Leaves" for now. I don't think I do great at juggling between books, though this technique is one I honestly hope to master someday with great skill and breezy gracefulness.

Sorry, this post has turned into Oprah's white man's book club, but as I mentioned, I'm not exactly at my most internet-friendly, so it was one of the only things I could think to say.

Also, I saw "Broken Flowers" yesterday, a film I'd wanted to see since I heard about it some time ago. But nothing of interest ever comes near me unless great time has passed. Anyway, I liked it, thought it was an interesting story, but Lydia thought it boring and resolution-less. And that I admit, that it had no wrap-up, I mean. But sometimes there is more fun in guessing than being told straight up, do you really wanna love me forever?

Do you like music? Of course you do, or you wouldn't be on my friends list.

Do They Know It's Halloween?

A new charity single featuring:

The Arcade Fire
Devendra Banhart
Peaches
Sparks
Rilo Kiley
Sonic Youth
Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Beck
Sum 41
Sloan
Feist
Wolf Parade
Postal Service
Buck 65
Comedian David Cross (from Arrested Development)
Sex Pistols’ founder Malcolm McLaren
Elvira, Mistress of the Dark
60s soul legend Gino Washington
Psychedelic singer Roky Erickson
Inuit throat singer, Tagaq (a frequent collaborator with Björk)
AND MANY MORE!
=================================================================

Haha, this is so fantastic! :D And they have a lyrics page where it says who is on what part, since it is a bit hard to tell. Best collaboration since Brandy and Monica, right?

How You Life Your Life

You seem to be straight forward, but you keep a lot inside. You are always tactful and diplomatic. You let people down gently. You tend to have one best friend you hang with, as opposed to many aquaintences. You tend to always dream of things within reach - and you usually get them.

I'd say pretty accurate.

Sleep only came easy for about 6 hours, but I had awful, terrible dreams. Then at 7, I was up. My stomach's upset. I don't get headaches after drinking, just a moody stomach. I might rather have a headache; at least they have pills for that. And though I can't pin the source of my aching neck, I assume it comes from working out yesterday, bobbling along my head like a weirdo drunk all evening, or sleeping badly on it.

So the wine partywas fun, a success, even though I may have embraassed myself infront of Lydia[s parentals by the end when it was clear I was inebriated. Apparently, almost en entire (large) bottle of chardonay was consumed by me, and by me alone. Lydia wasthe one who kept refilling my classes, though,

Her and me and James and Meg just sort of hung out away from the adults. I had a good time and even though I am too drunk to be upsetting livtorunal, I had a good time.

otherwise my days were boring, lots of music downloading. FUN FUN.

I hope yo I don't barf tomorrow.

EL,
C

PS O dp;pw;adped tje mew Gp;drfrapp album this day. Very good. And I did Audiscobbler, but it sucked and didn't even say all the songs I listened to, so I deleted the plugin. WHATEVER.

And PS I also watched the roast of Pam Anderson, since I used to wathv VIP, and I like dit, though parts were sexist and too much about her "large vagina" and Tommy Lee was applauded for having a huge penis, but other parts were funny like when the girl said "many people say Andy Dick is gay, but it;s nt true, he just asked out katie holmes." hhahahahah.

( 10 Things I Love About Being Tagged )

That's it, folks. Nothing to say to you today, I'm afraid. I either performed no act of any interest to you or even to myself, OR, on the other, more likely, hand, I did something so fantastic, so intriguing, so Authorized Personnel Only, so...DIRRTY, that I am unable to post the sexy details here. You be the judge.

PS: To anyone who reads this and maybe knows how to cure this problem: This little tab on the taskbar of my computer, which reads 'dellstat', won't go away. I click on it and no window comes up. It's just there, taking up space on my task bar. I've searched Dell help and all. It's not a major problem, just kind of annoying.

The new Sigur Ros album is bloody fantastic. They've created such gorgeous, atmospheric pieces of music, and the new album is definitely not a letdown in that department. My first stop in Europe after England, naturally, is Iceland. I'm hoping that some of the beautiful artistry that seems to breed in the souls and minds of people there will rub off on me and I'll come back a Dorothy Parker or a Danielle Steel.

Boring day, really, with much time dedicated to downloading great music. Aside from the aforementioned delicious slice of Icelandic musical pie, I started wasting away the 150 GBs of space on my harddrive with thumbs-up-inspiring works by: Chuck Berry, Breeders, Julie London, Peggy Lee, Wire, and Kraftwerk.

I'm not head over heels in love (or lust) with Monty Python's Flying Circus. I like it, and definitely respect what they were doing 35 years ago, but it might not be something I want to watch through 14 discs. Maybe just one or two for now, and I can go back to it later. But now, as I watch clips from upcoming episodes, I'm a bit intrigued and think I might just be in the warming-up phase.

Sooooo looking forward to 'Wine On Wednesdays.' As I told Lydia, I'm going straight for the communal wine, not because, as you might think, it's 18% alcohol, but because, of course, it's been blessed for use at mass. I'll have some Jesus with ma wine, please. Plus, if I get barfy later, I'm sure I'll find it amusing that my body is rejecting the body of Christ and hurling it straight down the loo hole.

I finally got to see March of the Penguins, which I'd wanted to see for several months when I heard about the French version, long before it came out here in wide release. Is anyone surpised to learn that I now want a pet penguin? That's right, a baby tiger, and now a penguin. We're diverse around here. But anyway, a very nice little documentary, though I wish they had left the Emilie Simone soundtrack that accompanied the French version. They redid the entire score, so now if I want the French soundtrack, I have to import it for mucho deniro. E'ryone waddle your way and go see it, and then we can all start planning our very own trek to the Antarctic because I would look damn fucking hot in the gear, on a sled, racing after penguins in order to pet them, and hopefully not trying to outrun them once they grow angry and come after me with those snake-y claws or needle beaks.

Vicar of Dibley is done until the specials come out in September. I'm Britcoming it for the remainder of the summer; Monty Python, League of Gentlemen, Keeping Up Apperances, Fawlty Towers, Black Adder, The Young Ones, Little Britain, etcetera, etcetera. Officially, we're referring to this as research for when I go to England on holiday. Unofficially, I'm a lazy sod. Practicin' my EngLing.

That book I bought, Winner of the National Book Award? Well, I got the lady's other book today, a collection of short stories forwarded by my American (counterpart to my British heroes, French and Saunders) hero, David Sedaris. He's so bloody fantastic, and from the stories I've been reading, so is the author, Jincy Willet.

With the help of my recently acquired HD and the mass amount of time I had to fill this morning, I am now quite comfortable on the new computer. You must understand that it was hard to part from the comfort of my laptop which hasn't left my side for two years, save the two months it spent in repair. Anyway, I customized all the user profiles on the computer, so my mom can have her Spike from Buffy wallpaper, and I can keep my Bjork. All is full of handiness. And hopefully All Is Full of a Good Night's Sleep!

( Bloody Motherforking Assholes )

I'm in British comedy hell!

After only four and a half hours of sleephood, I woke up, and now I can't get bloody back to sleep. Everytime I am on the brink of slithering away into nice eye closing and rest, things suddenly feel very claustrophobic and I am jolted back awake. Adding to that is the fact that the *only* thoughts running through my mind were made up, fictional storylines of Vicar or Dibley. And also, my head is very itchy, adding to my uncomfortable predicament. I am quite enraged about this entire situation. Sleep performs several imperative functions for my daily routine, and now I am lacking, completely and totally. Surely, today I won't be as sharp or as tolerant and things will all fall to bits. It will be the day that I meet the man of my dreams, only I'll be too exhausted to mouth off something funny and too cranky to actually care. bloodymotherfuckingasshole.

Yesterday saw me at the lake all day. Initially, the sun was high and the heat was on, but by mid afternoon, the wind storm had really put a damper on things at the cabin. Not that it really interrupted the hours of card games we played. Meg and I also created a business, which we are to call Fork Yourself or Fork it Over or Motherforkers or something similar, in which we sell sets of plastic forks that we've decorated by stretching ballons over the handles. Very artistic, very gorgeous, very expensive.

Now what would you imagine that I would do at this time, which is 6:28 in the a.m., a time I have not seen since my days of 8 o' clock classes? Well, of course, as some sort of masochistic pleasure, I will go and finish Vicar of Dibley series 3. Now this, to my understanding supporters and fellow sleepily challenged, is one immaculate example of why one should not ALWAYS so no to drugs, because I would kill, and violently, for a little gorgeous pill of sleep or something right about now. I'll be going to bed with the retirement home folks today due to my restful loss. Watch out 4 p.m., here I come.

One little reference to vicodin after I hurt my back working out today and now I think my mom is worried about my path of righteousness (ha!). Hilarity of all hilarities, though, after she gave me a little speech, saying that if I ever became addicted to drugs she'd never let me in the house again, she tells me, "I have a friend who offered me some vicodin and valium if you want some." This universe I live in is too weird to even have been discovered or visited by Kirk or Spock. I told her to get me the pills, and then she became quite disappointed :D It's almost too easy to tease her, but I'm good at it. And if there is one thing I know about life, it's do what you're good at. This is why I've decided to become a rap artist. From this moment forward, I want only to be referred to as Lil' Kim with a Penis or FoxXxy "Pasty" Caucasian.

The behemoth computer arrived today. I must admit, I was a bit befuddled when three large boxes were passed into my arms by the same delivery man I embarrased myself in front of yesterday when I started writing my signature upside down on the pad. Mental math (yes, even the mathmatically challenged English freaks like me can tackle and defeat this minor mind boggler) told me to expect 1) A monitor and 2) the PC. Box three, apparently, was full of speakers and subwoofers that apparently we bought with the package. 4 peripheral speakers, a central set with a knob, and a huge subwoofer, also with knob (this subwoofer is more than half the size of the PC, to give you some visual imagery; wow, math and English all rolled up into the folds of this little entry. My lucky lil' students). I set everything up; So many wires from the extra speakers that the hardware is actually being forced forward on the desk by the jungle of doom (in case you were unaware of my wire phobia, I shall point it out to you now; I hate wires. I hate them on phones and walkmans. I think they purposely conspire to upset me and weave into each other to form such absurd little bundles that intimidate my hands even on the nimblest of days). But a fantastic lil' computer with DVD burner and lots of software to tinker around on. Didn't help my in-need-of-medical-attention back, though, to be on my knees (though for some forms of entertainment, exceptions are always welcome) wiring shit together for hours this afternoon.

I shall name the computer....Mastadonatella.

My Borders coupon had to be spent (25 percent of any book) so, as I raced to beat the clock which would in 15 minutes shut down the store, I came across a book with an eye-grabbing title, Winner of the National Book Award. I selected that, and put down "A Clockwork Orange." I'm inspired to finally write my dream novel: "Winner of the Spokesman Review Native American Creative Non-Fiction Award." Quite the long title, yes, and in fact, they can't even engrave it all onto the husk of corn shaped trophy, so it just reads "Spokesman Review Native American." And that, my friends, is the story of I how came to headline the annual Spokane pow-wow.

EDIT: ( Obligation binds me to post this thing here, lest I face the wrath of zee Goddess )

( Dig up yer Freud notes, readers. )

I know I'm leaving bits out, and I'm unsure if that's where the dream actually ended. There was a part that took place on a sort of set, like in a wharehouse, and there were wild cats, like little cheetahs. Can't place that chronologically, though. Soooo, am I crazy? I mean, the craziest thing must be that at no point during this dream did I express any sort of worry or sadness at the weird testicle predicament; It's like the procedure was totally common and accepted. The only thing I worried about was feeling any pain.

Pixies said it best. Where is my mind?

So anyway, my two-balled life was rather a bore compared to the nighttime version of myself and my slobbering drunk dream shenanigans. Worked out, expected to set up computer that never came, blew through Vicar of Dibley series 2 (brilliant, for the record). I've been quite horrid about doing all that summer reading I had sworn to do over the past few months "once I had the time." Apparently, "having the time" is not nearly enough motivation for me. Must get on that, though...I really don't feel like restarting that Updike. He writes beautifully and fantastically, but the page-long sentences can be difficult if one is not in the proper mood.

Caught a glimpse of Debbie Harry on the Graham Norton Show (British version) and I thought of that Legs McNeil interview Tal just posted, specifically when he said that she doesn't remember anything. She seems just totally out of it, like the first part of her life is still catching up with her and driving her twice as fast towards the grave. She's still an icon to me, though. In fact, I love all that about her. And Legs McNeil is kinda the same way himself :P

LMAO, I got a copy of this song, "Stay" by Shakespeare's Sister, that was turned into (maybe my ultimate favorite) French and Saunders skit ("Dickens' Daughters"). I recommend you download the song if you ever feel like smiling, and then imagine Jennifer Saunders on those high notes and you'll break down. I swear it.

I'll be off to bed in a short while, and I do hope that I have another dream about balls, but under much, much different and more glorious circumstances.

( My version of a Luke rant: King of the World )

None of that was meant to sound overly serious or anything; I'm not really cranky over it and I'm not looking for e-hugs as consolation for a bad day I didn't have. I just wanted to have something to write since it's always good for me to flex my writing muscles, even when I have nothing to say, and even if it is just simple journal writing :P I'm the fucking king of the world! /French and Saunders "Titanic" spoof reference :D (obsessions are healthy, just ask the 2 hours of Gilmore Girls reruns I watched tonight) But who's with me, right? Generally, people are beyond flat, impossible, and vapid. None of this 'faith in humanity' for me.

I bought a "job interview" shirt today. I'm totally one of those people who buy clothes with a purpose as a way to rationalize spending. However, if I do happen to go on any interviews in the near future, I do have a shirt!

I came across this old Kim track with one of my favorite bits ever:

Hating ass niggas
I'll treat you like a bitch
Strap on a fake dick
And stick you where you shit.

Almost romantic, right?

Pop. The sound of some enthusiasm dying. I've just learned that I won't get to see Iggy (Pop - hence the pun) and the Stooges perform at Bumbershoot. I'd much rather see them than The Donnas, and maybe even more than New York Dolls. It is tough to complain at all, though. I'm hardly put out by any of it. Still, it is rather sad. That man has to be on the way out of this life, so full of old and deteriorated drugs and other naughty toxins that I'm amazed his flesh still clings to his bone dust as tightly as it does. Nothing but love for Iggy. Dear Iggy, please stay alive for at least one more go around to the greater Seattle area.

In a definite, addicted, F&S way, I'm rewatching any old episodes of the show in order to please the jonesin' funny bones I've got. And Absolutely Fabulous, too. I watched all of S4 with the commentary on, just to get an extra in to Saunders mind, and now I'm devestated to learn that S4 is the only series with commentary on it. What to watch now? Guess I'll have to wait for series 2 and 3 of Vicar of Dibley.

Another boring day of summer. Can't even think of worthless nonsense to type up here. blahdeeblahblahblooeaballee.

But hark, he comes bearing a gift, and of a nature that relates to the second paragraph of this posting! Always relevant. Always fantastic. What I have for you, reader (anyone who wants it), is a 2 minute French and Saunders sketch which pokes hilarious fun at Alanis Morrissette's "Thank U" video, starring Saunders as Aimless Morris Minor singing an ode to thesauruses and the like in a little ditty referred to as "Bless U." Save this on your computer; Whenever you're feeling a bit low, you've had a shitty day maybe, a boy you like doesn't like you back, or you realize you've spent all your money on drugs or beanie babies, you can stumble across this and you will, and I swear to the brilliance of all those brilliant icons of mine, feel renewed. You will feel shaken by laughter. You will feel better. My two favorite parts are when Saunders' minge gets away from her (around 1:12), especially when it just sort of drags off screen of its own accord, and then the notes she hits at around 1:34. Enjoy, and may God Bless U. (yousendit link)

There's a certain type of person that sees movies like Wedding Crashers, or any Vince Vaughn movie for that matter, falls in love with it, and quotes it into the ground. There are a lot of these people in the world. I am not one of these people. I am in the minority. What I mean to say is that I saw the movie, liked it, but...I just don't get the obsessive straight male fanbase that builds for such movies. They're funny once or twice, but it's fleeting humor. No thought went into making those jokes work. Everything's so obvious and explained. Meh. If you haven't seen it, rent it. Unless you're the average American straight male; YOU go see it. You will love it, and let me say, it will look just fantastic on your shelf next to Dodgeball.

Bought a hard drive. Paid 170, but expect 70 back in rebates, so I'd say I got a good deal (for 160 GB). I also picked up some clothes, a task of understandable difficulty when one takes into consideration my recent period of inactivity, which I think has caused the more-potato-y aspects of my body to press on the borders and seams of the "well-fitting" sizes of yore. I'll be at my mom's class 4 days a week for the rest of the summer, though, so hopefully I can make it up to myself and have shopping be a bit less painful (for the mirror and for myself) come the start of the new quarter. But I did get a couple t-shirts (funnily enough, the last thing I need), one of which, now that I look at it, has a dinosaur on it quite similar to Taleethersaurus. I'll think of you everytime I wear it, dahling :P

I got a postcard from the gals in London. A picture of tits with a mouse face painted on one, and a hungry-looking cat painted on the other. These people couldn't know me better!

By the way, I've become the man I've sworn I never would be. I actually ate a soy burger today. I didn't hate it. I feel one step away from HRT pills and menopause patches, but really, if I can stand them, then I might as well eat them so that my clothing quest is made just that much simpler.

I loved Milo and his books, and a truer statement was never recited or read when it made the claim of "making reading sexy," but the moving icon gave me sea sickness. And tacky sickness, too. So, I spent approximately 2 minutes making a new icon for myself. Computer art is my forte, obviously. That's Bjork Dawn. She's fabulous. Almost as good as Saunders' Morrissette, aka Aimless Morris Minor :D

They should have substituted the word "crap" for "art" in "Art on the Green." They had barely anything of interest. Though, later, at an antique-tique store, I found trolls. You remember, trolls right? They were big with us cool kids *cough* in the nineties. Treasure trolls were the best. I bought one that's naked and holds a heart-shaped sign that reads "I love your buns," and then on his naked little tush, there's a red lipstick mark in the shape of lips. I still have to come up with a name for him. Bumfrey? Mine's not a treasure, troll, though, but one could argue that a kiss on the bum is a treasure in itself.

I watched all of series 1 Vicar of Dibley. Quite good. Not on par with F&S or Ab Fab, but then again, French didn't actually write the show; The guy who did 'Love Actually' and 'Notting Hill' created the show and wrote it. Still, I enjoyed it all the way through and look forward to the coming series.

That Rihanna song awakens the dancin' urge in me. My hype over "The Naked Truth" is getting me back into urban music :0

Why did the lobster blush? Because the seaweed. Get it, sea weed? Feelings of silliness. Maybe it's the troll? I miss vicodin.

Words are hardly erupting out of me today. This update serves the quick and direct purpose of aiding in a ploy to fool myself into believing that I actually took the time to string words, and thoughts, together into the magical entity known as writing.

And here we have an assortment of magic sticks, and when you press down on paper, writing comes out.

The wit slays me each and every time! And there's been many times, I tell you, that I've made it through that episode and all the rest...

Borders is a temptress. It's never just one 25 percent off coupon with these people. Once you spend your 25 percent off coupon, in a similar fashion to how I spent mine today (I don't care for judgemental people, save myself, so leave your judgements in your own online space, ok?), they give you another for 20 percent off a book. I did make out with some purchases today. Nothing new or especially expensive. Eno, Jefferson Airplane, Robert Johnson (I'm a blues man, now), Vivian Green (yes, I admit to owning neo-soul), White Stripes. And then Mulholland Drive and Requiem For A Dream were on sale at Best Buy. I held off on purchasing a new hard drive until I know exactly what I want and how I'm going to get it. Lydia can attest to an attractive door guard at Best Buy who may hold the ass...I mean key to sneaking me out the 200 dollar treasure. I'll prepare the magic tongue. I'd hate to actually pay for anything other than CDs and Panda Express.

Dead Can Dance: My new 4AD thang. Purchases may be made in the near future, oh yes.

Lucky bitch, I caught another 2 hours of S2 Arrested Development. God, I love that show. Even though totally alone in the room, I was laughing the way I laugh at French and Saunders parodies. Body shaking laughter that, I swear, you could sell and market as better than orgasms.

I got tickets to see Kelly Clarkson in September. I hadn't even known she was coming, but my mom, sweet old thing, left me the ad in the paper to find. Tickets went on sale at 10 and I bought them (though apparently my mom is paying me back?), thinking it would be a nice treat for Lydia, who's put up with enough of my Arcade Fire/Joanna Newsom/Pixies/Elvis Costello crap for long enough, and all that without yet having put her through New York Dolls. Between going to see Kelly and Gwen Stefani (whose tickets have yet to go on sale, for some tardo reason), I need to throw in a Tom Waits or a PJ Harvey or a Bjork or a Sigur Ros or an Antony and the Johnsons concert just to fool people into thinking I still have good taste in music. Are you staring at my Vivian Green CD?

Summer's boredom haunts the day again. Temporary cure comes in the form of Netflix movies that have been sitting at this house for a week. 2 down, 1 to go, though this third must wait for a second person's busy schedule to clear up...*pointed cough*

Movie 1: The Crying Game
Great movie, though somehow I think I must have heard from some random source over the years what the huge twist in the plot was that made this movie such a word-of-mouth smash in the early nineties. I had an inkling about the twist before I put the movie in, and my suspicions were instantly confirmed when the character, who stars as the twist, first appeared on screen. Even still, I enjoyed the movie and thought it was well done and innovative.

Movie 2: Tarnation
OK, so I didn't know much about this film except that I'd heard great things, that filmmaker was gay and maybe attractive. Oh, and that it was a documentary pieced together for pennies on a Mac using old home movies, photographs, and audio recordings. Not that any of that information is relevant to you, or even to myself for that matter. Anyways. It was a very, very hard movie to watch. Partly because I watched it with my mom and it dealt a lot with sexuality. I'm uncomfortable watching any sort of sexual behavior on screen with my mother; I'm doubly as uncomfortable when it's two men. I mean, she knows and everything, but it's still weird for me. I'm always worried she's going to interrogate me. Another tangent for another time. The movie's not about gay homosexual faggot queer, really. The filmmaker is, yes, and makes it clear with all the kissy kissy scenes with him and several very attractive men throughout his life. The documentary is really about this guys relationship with his mentally ill mother, who was once a gorgeous young thing before she got shock-treated into being a shell of a woman. And it's more than just his relationship with her; It's about him. It's about the effects that growing up in that situation had on him. I can't say that I've ever really been disturbed more from watching a movie. Maybe because these people are real and this story is true? I don't know, but my stomach dropped in several places, and I can't say that, by the finish, I hadn't cried a good several times. The film is brilliant in so many respects; from the music selections that piece together the narrative to the just plain haunting footage of this 11 year old boy pretending to be a battered wife who killed her husband. Hollywood take note; You don't have to spend millions of dollars to make people feel things. I really admire the filmmaker, not only for his bravery in making a film that ugly (but it's beautiful at the same time), but for just being gorgeous and cool. I mean, the guy staged a play of Blue Velvet in high school and had the cast lip-synch to Marianne Faithfull songs, using the relationship between Faithfull and Jagger as some kind of metaphor for Dorothy Valence. Hmm, I've rambled on about a movie without really saying much. Rent it if you're open minded and interested in film, in life. It's creepy and disturbing and haunting, but there's something there.

Well, A.O. Scott's on the phone bitching about how he wants his job back; I should really take this one.



PS - The filmmaker, Caouette, looks *so* much like this guy that goes to my college in some clips that I actually Facebooked him to make sure I hadn't accidentally missed befriending a genius.

( we are living in a material world, and I am a material...man )

My mom, out of the blue, offered to buy me tickets to the Destiny's Child concert in September. Sure, I'm as Beyonce'd out as much as the next reasonably sane person, but because of the breakup, it would be the last chance to ever see them. I was about to take her up on it, when I read that Gwen Stefani is touring this fall with M.I.A. as an opener. Sri Lankan chic trumps a destiny of fulfillment, unless mommy wants to pay for both :D

I guess summer has officially begun for me; Such a boring day, I really have nothing else to say. Oh, except I created a Gilmore Girls music community on here. It's all ugly and stuff now, but if I decide to actually give it a go, I'll post linkage and ask you to join. Even if you don't watch the show, you should tune into the music; best soundtrack on television.

Whores heated cuz Mama back and hotter than before
Big bank, hold rank like the late Frank
I does what you can't, I'm everything that you ain't

Bullets work best for elongated entries spanning several days. Of course, nothing I do is trivial enough to be overlooked, so I refuse to even consider skipping over the triviality of my weekend. Cuts may be needed.

( I'm in the paper e'ry day if I piss or sneeze )

( Damn, it must feel good to Payless )

( You had a voodoo doll and everything, worthless bitch )

Hey, little girl, do you want to know a secret? If you wish there was a way to listen to last year's most deafening three minutes of high pitch and muffled melody, "Goodies" by Ciara, without wanting to puncture your own ear drums with shards of plastic broken off from a destroyed CD of hers, I have found the solution! Just get the remix featuring M.I.A. In addition to M.I.A.'s loveliness, they also went and got rid of the awful whistling beat. I'll continue to find ways to break into the mainstream yet!

I finished A Confederacy of Dunces. This book needs to be required reading. John Kennedy Toole was, as simply as I can say it, genius. It's just a brilliant book with real, interesting characters and a zany plot that intersects itself in so many various and interesting ways that it's amazing to think that one mind could create something so rich and wonderful. I had one of those experiences where I dreaded coming to the end of the book because I knew it would be over, that there would be no more of this incredible wit that kept me interested and inspired me. In a way, though, it's depressing, for I know that I, and probably not many others for that matter, will never be able to write something that solid and beautiful. But the high I got from just reading it is fucking good enough :D And as far as useful and amazing ideas go: To have gays infiltrate the army and eventually take over the world in order to stop war, spread peace, all because we'd be too busy having orgies? I mean, it takes a commendable mind to endorse such an idea. If you want me to like you, you'll go read this book.

I've decided that I love vicodin. I see why Terra Naomi wrote a song about it! I feel furry and happy and like I want to be *nice* to people. And then I sleep so well. And this isn't even that powerful of a pill, I don't think. I need to find myself a pharmacist. Airquotes around pharmacist. The bottle's gone now, though. It had to be finished. If my mom found that, well, I can't imagine that she'd ever send me money again without questioning where her money was going. :P

Today marks my last day of summer scholarly enlightenment. Going to class didn't get much done, except you know, we had to say goodbye to Eric. I like to say goodbye the old fashioned way...Ya know, like, buttsex? Unfortunately, my manly charm was just too much for him and we decided it was better not to be intimate lest it ruin our blossoming friendship. Plus, I didn't want him to miss me too much over the summer after having had me. Oh, by the way, did I ever mention he got arrested? Haha, oh my lover...Anyways, I finished my essay for 338 tonight. It's 5 pages of steaming poo, but I'm not exactly worried about my grade in that class. Having dealt a lot with creative writing this quarter, I have to say that I am just a fucking lousy and uninspired academic writer.

New New Pornographers songs (I just like typing New twice), "Twin Cinema" (title track) and "Use It." New album in August, concert in September. All this Porn talk just really deserved a mention, I guess.

I'm leaving for Seattle tomorrow evening, so this may be my last update until sometime late Monday. Unless I update tomorrow afernoon, which I might, with an intriguing ramble about cleaning and packing. As you can tell by the length of this entry, I can talk and type endlessly without really saying much of anything. Anyways, if this is my last post for awhile, I hope everyone has a fantastic weekend. And if you get bored, I've recommended you some great reading material to help pass the time. Off to watch something or start the Updike.

PS - Mel Brooks is classic. I love Young Frankenstein. I love Mel Brooks. Sedagive?