As You Go Along.

Friday , June 30th, 2000

charlie hunter takes a break from the meanest,  fanciest of guitar to wail on the tamborine, thursday night at the house of blues in cambridge.

Last night brother Jeremy and I hopped a train to Boston, met up with some friends, and caught a fantastic Charlie Hunter concert, at the House of Blues in Cambridge, MA. He wailed on that eight string alongside two percussionists, Chris Lovejoy on congas and Steven Chopek on a jazz kit. They improvised and jammed the tar out of us, unexpected beats emerging, bass and organ and solos all shooting out of Charlie's hands, as his face contorted to resemble angstful Chris Cornell faces and Matt Dillon with false teeth. They jazzed fresh and body-movin' all over the place, played a touch of blues, and blended in a couple Brazillian and Puerto Rican tunes. I managed to snap a few photos without getting kicked out like the gentleman beside me, much to my own pleasure.

Back at Steve and Lin's apartment, we stayed up late watching the Handsome Boy Modelling Shool episode of Get A Life. Someday, if we all hope and pray, that entire series will be out on DVD. Jeremy and I stayed up late talking the large and the small, listening to the latest Yo La Tengo album, which is absolutely beautiful. In the morning we were treated to flapjacks and wicked sweet fruit punch. Thank you very much, guys.

This afternoon I took a nap and dreamt that one of the guys from The Odd Couple died suddenly, and I woke up feeling very uneasy. What's up with that?

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Creative Somethings.

Wednesday, June 28th, 2000

oh, brother Jeremy. poor, poor Jeremy.

The attractive young visage in the image above belongs to my brother Jeremy. Last Saturday, as the party celebrating his recent high school graduation whirled around him, (lavish spread of food, munchy hors d'oeuveres, Heineken, Merlot, cosmopolitans, and adults chit-chatting about adult things), Jeremy couldn't help but pause by these glass doors, in a moment of beauty destined to be archived forever.

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My dear Christine suggested poems that go, and for a good reason. Of these, I like While Chopping Red Peppers the best. The poem itself is very good, and the media elements work together to create a larger artistic statement, something beyond simple illustration of the words. Neither the poem nor the animation takes priority in this piece: the fading lines of text describe the images, and the sprites move to the music, expanding the words.

The most beautiful Flash animations have that well cultivated, slightly surreal quality about them, where you can't separate form from content, and you don't easily grasp what it all means. The most spectacular example of such interactive cinematic poetry can be found at Eneri.net. And when you visit, don't forget to click down in the righ hand corner to "launch the eneri woman interface". That's the good stuff. The patience, design skills, and creative vision necessary to produce these animations makes me want to dance, then sleep.

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When John Keats was my age, he wrote the following in a letter to John Hamilton Reynolds:

We hate poetry that has a palpable design upon us - and if we do not agree, seems to put its hand in its breeches pocket. Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one's soul, and does not startle or amaze with itself, but with its subject.

Ever since I came across this quoteduring my fifth semester of college, I've considered it the single most important guidline governing the writing of poetry . The first sentence of this quotation, I believe, defines a threshhold between "good" and "not so good" for all types of art. When I can see that a poem, painting, film or song is giving me a once-over, trying to get me to react in a particular way, the piece becomes much less interesting to me. Obviously, fans and critics judge each of these types of art according to characteristics that are appropriate to the medium. But I think deliberate art becomes inferior art, no matter how it's made or what its made out of.

There is a "palpable design" visible in Wordsworth's Tintern Abbey, in most Georgia O'keefe paintings, in Titanic, and in every Goo Goo Dolls song. And when I don't agree with the ideas expressed in these, all I'm offered is empty images and sounds. Good artists create meaningfull beauty that intrigues, and let me draw my own conclusions. Good poems ask to be read closely.

Please Email me with your thoughts on all this.

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Over at the fabulous MP3it.com I came across a link to an article called Life in the Fourth Millennium. It's a brief, broad, well-articulated reminder that things in the future will probably pretty much the same as they are now, since it don't seem like we'll be changing human anture any time soon.

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Not Dark Yet.

Tuesday, June 27th, 2000

the country and the planet is dotted with towns like fall river and new bedford and these towns have roads and rivers requiring bridges, bathed in light and shadow. my camera tilted, with careful contrast, i grab at the trusses like a baby grabs a bonnet.

Here's a list of words that are pretty cool:

chubby.
sludge.
Flonaise.
gimme.
hinky.
tops.
goober.
garbled.
NAFTA.
crease.

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It's pouring outside right now. The sky is falling, and the lights just flickered for a second. Cats and dogs, living together: mass hysteria! I was reminded my middle school years, when I used to love dark, intense thunderstorms, and I would go running through the rain, running and splashing with my shirt off. I'd love to see every one in my office here run outside, lose their shoes, and do some good old-fashioned puddle hopping.

Of course, if I grew up in Phoenix, I wouldn't take the time to post a comment about the current downpour, because, as I recall, I'd be far too busy freaking out and fleeing for my life to stop and type.

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I Want to See Movies of My Dreams.

Monday, June 26th, 2000

 the long road ahead, whether well traversed or less travelled by, is designed for speed and made purely of solid substance. driving without destination is truly dashing.

I'm currently working in the air conditioned offices of CMG, where I am busily uploading to and reading through and clicking about Buzzsaw, a rather brilliant collaborative web app for use in the world of Contracting and Construction. More importantly, I'm on a workstation with a T1.

President Willy announced today that, at long last, we are open source mammals. Now scientists can step aside and watch as companies like Red Hat, Caldera, and Mandrake scramble to release their own versions of Human, loaded with various specially crafted skill and body-part apps. Unsurprisingly, Microsoft is already hard at work perfecting a version of Human that is only compatible with other Microsoft mammals, such as Goat 5.0 and Wooly Mammoth 2000.

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I drink a lot of milk, and I always have. But after reading the liner notes to Moby's albums Everything is Wrong and Play, after exploring Milk Sucks.com for about twenty minutes, and after stumbling out of McDonalds doing the indigestion-ether walk, I'm starting to want to go vegan. At the very least, it's time to seriously re-evaluate my eating habits.

Perhaps I'll start that re-evaluation process next week, once the Fourth of July and all associated bomb-bursting Barbecueing has passed. In the meantime, Old Mossyface, have yourself a chuckle while listening to our classic summertime tune, Barbecutie.

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You Need a Haircut, Tramp!

Friday, June 23rd, 2000

 jesus christ. can't live with him, can't live without him.

As much as I enjoy seeing a gaggle of diapered infants strewn across the linen-white floor, sixfoot6's homepage has nothing to do with me.

I love the mini museum of modern art. It's not a huge museum, but it's still fun to click through the doorways. I'm particularly fond of Room 2, with its little square of international Klein blue and a tiny version of Hockney's A Bigger Splash. David Hockney has been one of my favorite painters and photographers since 10th grade, when I stumbled onto a book about his work in the Plymouth Public Library.

In other news, I finally got a haircut.

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Disclaimer: I didn't mean to insinuate that Jesus is a tramp. I also didn't mean to suggest that I am a tramp myself, or that I am Jesus. Which isn't to say that those things aren't possible.

Today was wonderful.
Jogging when you first wake up rocks.

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Down To The Ground.

Wednesday, June 21st, 2000

roast beef in brockton, one of life's simpler pleasures

if you don't enjoy reading about my life and my connections, do something pretty while you can.
yeah, you know the drill.

it plugs in, and you make a bunch of holes with it. things get poetic because it's more interesting, then i lose interest because it's most meaningless. silly and easily seasoned, and since this sea-foamed season says stay out side, sometimes i wonder what this will all add up to.

hmm? huh. illiterate that, dear friends. doze off in a plush, cranberry lay-Z-boy. collapse on the thickest of 7 PM lawns in a pure moment of alcoholic clarity. unearth a beautiful memorial, freshly spoken from the pretty city that lights four years of my life, even still. what? yeah, i know. these are posh, polished perspectives, faux head-wanderings that lack focus. to be honest, you don't know me very well, and often that's almost as dissappointing as pop music. my mantra? i suppose

we won't be easily reduced to word, wish, or worry.

why? because we love you, but keep choosing idea over action. fly little blonde one, if it's the fantastic you want. in a perfect web i would type in the tightest tone, jollysyllabic, what what, eh, bluh, chonny mnnnn fooooo

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Quick and Nimble.

Tuesday, What What, 2000

 while driving to drink beer and girlie drinks and play asshole and trivial pursuit on saturday i stuck my camera out the driver's side window and snapped a casual sunset shot of this guy in a taurus with a cayak on his roof

Referer logs sure are fun. Allow me to extend a heart-felt personal welcome to the visitor who discovered my site through Netscape Search using this search string. When you want the finest "free pornographic pictures of 7 to 15 year old girls", there's only 1-1 of an estimated 1 place to go.

For a site that just wants to give away free fonts, zx26 sure does have a butt-load of fancy techie whirlygig gifs on its front page.

I'm glad that Yana changed her mind.

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Walk, Sandwiches, Frisbee, Ice Cream.

Father's Day, 2000

this morning alyssa and jeremy and I prepared a yummy meal of pancakes and fruit and we all ate on the porch, planning out the day we were going to spend together. we put the fun in functional, thanks to my father

Until the age of seven and a half, I slept in the bedroom that now belongs to my sister, on the other side of the house. The kindergarten and first grade versions of me would occasionally lie or disobey one of my parents. My father, home from work at 7 PM, used to scold me and send me to my room. I'd climb into bed without turning on my record player, and cry in the dark. Usually I would start to fall asleep. Before it got too late, my father would come to my bedroom door, open it part way and say, "I'm sorry I yelled at you, Ryan". He'd calmly explain why my behavior made him angry, and why I should never do it again. Then he'd say "Good night, I love you," and I would drift off to sleep, feeling better.

One night at the age of six I did something that upset my parents more than usual, and my father sent me to my room in the middle of dinner. I blubbered and waited a long time for him to come to my bedroom door. Finally I heard a knock, and the door opened.

"Ryan, can I talk to you?" he asked.

"Yes, dad, I know," I murmured. "You are sorry that you yelled at me, and you want me to never do it again."

He paused for a moment, then spoke clearly. "No, I'm not sorry that I yelled, Ryan. I had to." I stared at the wall, and my face contorted, and my throat got all tight. He explained what he meant. I cried a little in confusion, not really paying attention to the words that followed.

I love my father, and I still need him. That was the first time I realized that I couldn't rely on my expectations, that the rules and events and people in my life would keep changing, again and again.

10:47 PM | plink



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It's Not the Heat...

Saturday, June 17th, 2000

 by friend of many years, erik of lofstrand.net, sitting on the small transformer topped with corregated iron box where once we waited for the elementary-school bus together on cool autumn morns. now we talk old loves lost and of new possibilities, still in the same neighborhood.

It's muggy today. "Muggy" is what you say in New England when it's pissa humid outside. It's the kind of thick-aired day when, home from college, you lie uncomfortably in bed until 11 am, neither awake nor asleep. You get up knowing you're not going to bother putting your socks and shoes on until after dinner. Not because you're hot, but because the humidity's made you too damn lazy. You've been reading in the basement, needing another cold shower. As early evening saunters up, the sky has grown dark and rain is falling, watering your lawn so you don't have to.

Yesterday I joined other townspersons from the Plymouth County at the Brockton Superior Courthouse, where we sat in a small room praying that we wouldn't be impaneled. During the summer of 1996, I gave up my ice-cream truck route for three whole days to serve as a juror on a cocaine trafficking case in Brockton. Dude, it was crap-awesome. The case involved a gold Mercedes in a Tedeschi's parking lot, a big sack of cocaine, two subs and a folded-up five dollar bill full of coke, a couple of "clever cops", and one scared kid named Giovanni. His sweet-talking Italian-suited lawyer knew the ropes, and we found the youngblood guilty only of the lesser charge of possesion. Those were the days, well worth the loss of chocolate-covered income.

I was a bit annoyed that I had to truck out to Brockton yesterday morning, but what the hell--it's my Civic Obligation, after all. I sat in a small white creaky room with other marginally pious citizens, including one lady who had a most irritating amount of business to conduct using her beeby-beepy c-phone. Two old men and a young girl sporadically hounded the court officers to take them out for cigarette smoking breaks. I kept busy leaning back in my chair, fighting off sleep with swill-ass coffee, reading Miss Wyoming, recently borrowed from my local library. The courthouse folk had just installed air-conditioners, but were unable to plug them in for unexplained reasons. I didn't get impaneled onto the criminal case at hand, concerning illegal possesion of a firearm, so I drove home eating yogurt. And to be honest, the process did revitalize my respect for the American system of justice, just like the seventeen minute video said it might. Civil servants and judges aare doing a fine job, even in ghetto Brockton.

Visit Jury Duty.com for sports news, chances for Big Sweepstakes Winnings, and other shite completely unrelated to the topic at hand. Brought to you by the usual company of law-abiding, domain-squatting degenerates.

5:52 PM | plink



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Maybe Someday.

Thursday, June 15th, 2000

the windows and rooftops, high above our pitter-patter of feet, looked out across the deep blue sky, sloping and reflecting and clattering as best they could. the cloud-wisped spaces above them, it seemed, offered more possibilities than they were equipped to understand.

In the past 20 minutes, I have developed a rather expansive crush on Courtney Love. True, she's been catching my attention for years, but I never quite understand why before. Now I do. I'm down with her because the article she wrote for Salon.com really whips a polar bear's ass. It was truly a pleasure to read. She discusses the problems and possibilities plaguing and puncturing the music industry, particularly as they relate to her own search for a new way to connec to to fans and sell records. Her critique and commentary concerning recording contracts, major labels, the artistic process, Napster, the RIAA, and "content providers" is engaging and well-informed. The article includes great lines like "My Bloody Valentine and Bert Jansch aren't going to get screwed just yet," and "Get your shit together, you annoying sucka VCs." I completely agree with everything she's written here. How Strange. I'm also impressed that she made successful use of the phrase "on the converse". Time to break out my old Live Through This tape, if I can find it. You go, girl.

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I wrote a cozy journal entry about last night's Cure concert, which I enjoyed very much. No pictures this time, however. We had pavilion seats at The Tweeter Center (formerly known as Great Woods) in Mansfield, MA. I love supporting venues named after corporations.

Presently, only ampitheatres and sports arenas are allowed to reap the benefits of corporate dollars. But that's all going to change soon, believe you me. In the world I envision, the nouns involved in every facet of our lives will be replaced with the trademarked names of products and companies. If the price is right, we'll even let these companies sponsor specific times of the day, which will be renamed in their honor. People wont object, because they'll be too busy enjoying their new found affluence. The words currently used to refer to parts of the body, basic biological procecesses, and various medical professionals will come to be replaced with corporate names and logos. How else can we build a successful health-care system in this country? We won't notice much of a change, anyway:

Wanna meet later for lunch?

I can't. I have a Coke o'clock appointment with the Bugle Boy because my Boeing has been killing me lately.

We could even rename abstract things like ideas or common emotional states. If a corporation did something great for humanity--donated billions of dollars to charity or to education, for example--people would gladly use the company name in place of the original primitive, unsponsored noun. But I guess it would be kind of annoying if destined-to-fail start ups started getting in on the action, backed by venture capitalists.

What's wrong, man?

I don't know. I've been feeling pretty CashTech.com all week.

10:44 PM | plink



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Weekday.

Tuesday, June 13th, 2000

if I only had a brain

Somebody raised the bar, I thought. After a coupla seconds Paulie appeared above me and started laughin’, and I knew I’d fallen off my stool. My head hurt real bad for a while. I sat there on the wooden floor in a daze, and then I saw my pint glass was still in my hand so I started to laugh. I hadn’t spilled any at all. But the laugh came out all wheezy, and I ended up coughin’ for a bit. All around the room guys were clappin’ and whoopin’ it up. Nobody at TJ’s was ever afraid to make fun of a guy.

Paulie says, real loud so everybody can hear, “Hey Jim, Jimbo, what are you doin’ down there? Lookin’ for your contact lens? Need some help, bro?” It was a pretty good jab, and everybody in the bar laughed. Scottie and Rick stopped their pool game to come over and get in on the joke. They were all pointin’ at me and pretendin’ to fall down off other stools at the bar. The guys all laughed again, including Paulie. I’m not such good buddies with Scottie and Rick, so that kinda pissed me off.

”Fuck you guys,” I yelled out. I took a sip of my beer and put it on the floor and tried to get up. I didn’t feel wicked drunk or anything. Then things started to get real weird, and I felt lightheaded. I suddenly remembered one time that I was with Cheryl and we were drinking at the Charlie Horse in Quincy. Her contact lens fell out somewhere by the payphone, and we crawled around lookin’ for it. On the karaoke stage by the bar these girls were singin’ Sweet Caroline. And for the rest of that night I kept introducin’ Cheryl to my friends as “Old One-Eye”, just to watch her giggle. That was maybe a year ago.

So there in TJ’s, all that hit me like a ton a bricks, and I stumbled and couldn’t get up. Paulie reaches down to help me, but I just sit there lookin’ around the bar. TJ’s was pretty packed for a Tuesday night, and folks looked like they were having a good time. Almost all of us there were regulars and lived in Buzzard’s Bay. It’s a clean, good-sized bar, but with the summer comes all kinds of rich Cape Cod tourists, and a lot of the time that sucks. I realized I hadn’t thought about Cheryl for a while. We used to go to TJ’s together a lot with her sister Liz and my friend Weebs.

The neon sign above the booth in the corner has been on the fritz forever. I stared at it for a few seconds. Then Paulie pulled me all the way up onto my stool again, and everybody went back to what they were doin’. He patted me on the back a few times. A real familiar song came on, but I couldn’t tell what it was. I was pretty dizzy, looking around tryin’ to hear the song. Behind the pool tables I saw Scottie’s little brother Steve leaning on the bathroom door. He was sharin’ a cigarette with this dark-haired chick in a hooded sweatshirt who I never saw before. She was wicked pretty, but didn’t look like a ditz or anything. She had a pink barrette in her hair, the kind young girls have. I noticed that whenever Steve made this chick laugh she’d press her hand against his arm.

”Shit, man…,” I started to say, but the words caught in my throat, and I felt like I was gonna puke or something. I swung around real fast and hit Paulie on the shoulder, but he didn’t look at me. He was talking to some girl he met at work. I whacked him harder. I looked out at the neon sign in the corner again. It flickered red and blue, all out of focus. Finally, Paulie turned around..

”Damn, Jimbo, are you tryin’ to break my arm? What’s up, dude?” He smiled at me, but then his faced changed and he looked scared or worried.

”Get me the fuck outta here, Paulie,” I mumbled, tryin’ to stand up. I think my hands were shaking. My beer was still sittin’ on the floor, and I almost kicked it over on purpose.

”What’s the matter with you, man? Are you gonna be sick?”

”I gotta get the fuck outta here.” I said it louder this time, and slid out of my seat. Suddenly it hit me that the song playing was More Than a Feeling, by Boston.

”All right man, let’s go outside. Relax, bro,” he says, really concerned. Paulie and I have been best buds since middle school, so he watches out for me. He pulled a twenty out of his wallet and set it on the bar, then grabbed my arm so I wouldn’t fall over.

”This song fuckin’ sucks,” I yelled at whoever was by the jukebox. “Boston fuckin’ sucks! Put on some real music!” Paulie dragged me away from the stools and tables.

”Chill out, dude,” he says. “What’s up with you?”

”Boston sucks! Oh, fuck. For real, Paulie, I think I’m gonna puke.”

”You barely drank anything, man! What’s going on? Let’s go out the back door. Let’s go get scorpion bowls at Way Ho or something.” We walked past the pool tables, and Scottie and Rick followed us outside, carrying their beers. They were behind us, chucklin’. They mighta been talkin’ shit about me, but I couldn’t hear them very good.

It was a little cold out. I sat down on the hood of Paulie’s Fiero, at the edge of the parkin’ lot. I held my head in my hands, starin’ down at the ground.

Rick says, “Hope he doesn’t puke on your car.”

”Rick, I’ll kick you in the dick, so help me god.” I says.

”Jim, what’s your deal, bro?” Paulie says, standin’ by the car with his arms crossed. He stared down at me. Scottie and Rick started makin’ puke sounds, all hunched over, and Paulie laughed a little. I didn’t know what to do so I just said what was on my mind.

”It’s that girl inside with Steve, who had the barrettes. She kinda looked like Cheryl.”

For a few seconds nobody spoke or moved. I looked up at Paulie, who was makin’ this funny face at Scottie. Rick had his hand over his mouth. Then all three of them just started to crack up. And right there in front of me they all laughed and howled like it was the funniest thing they ever heard. I felt nauseous. I looked down at the ground again. Over on the dirt by the big green TJ”s Bar and Grill sign there was a wooden cart and some scarecrow-lookin’ things and some fake ducks. I focused on one of the ducks, waiting for my stomach to settle.

”Oh, ooh, she kinda looked like Cheryl,” Rick says, in a high-pitched girly voice. Paulie and Scottie were in hysterics.

Fuck you,” I yelled.

”Seriously, bro. Don’t be such a fuckin’ wuss,” Paulie says, “You haven’t seen Cheryl in like eight months. Now do you wanna come get scorpion bowls with us, or what?”

I kept lookin’ at that white wooden duck. It sat perfectly still, stuck in the ground near a telephone pole and those stupid scarecrows, a few yards from the big sign. All that junk has been there for as long as I can remember. I stood up and turned around, then looked at Paulie. He was still snickerin’ because of what I said. Scottie and Rick were practicin’ air guitar, hummin’ along with the end of the crappy Boston song.

”Yeah, I guess so,” I says. “Let’s go.”

2:10 AM | plink



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Comfortable Shoes.

Saturday, June 10th, 2000

sailing on Kariann's boat by the jersey shore

i drove my big car northward on wednesday. six hours wouldn't have been such a big deal (since i'm quite the seasoned driver) if it wasn't for the benadryl-induced narcolepsy that hokey-pokeyed around my brain, threatening to turn the tappan zee bridge into a 270 car pile-up. i've been in an emotional thought-place that's mostly foreign to me, staring at printed text, not hearing music, sitting without stopping. not much older than a little sailor.

and slowly, life returns to normal. today at 4 pm my brother jeremy graduates from high school. i'm so proud of him, because he seems much older than my image of an 18-year-old, with his crazy fresh styles and renaissance leadership. i have to go to bed now, and i hope i can still find something to dream about.

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besides watching my brother breeze through the most important day of his life, my favorite part of today involved a two hour game of ultimate frisbee on the school's soccer field. ohhhh, social excercise is so good for you. sure, my face and feet are burned (we played barefoot), but i'm feeling Awake now.

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Home in Holmdel, NJ.

Monday, June 5th, 2000

last week, sittin' in the car with coffee and a scowl.

I'm using Web TV for the first time, sitting on plush burgundy carpet, lisening to Beck, getting ready to march up the stairs and help cook up some delicious game hens. It's a New Jersey state of mind; folks joke, but the paved parkways, spreading suburban landscapes, and shoreline social hotspots smack of more than simply the stuff of smooth Springsteen songs. There ain't much farmland around here anymore, but I don't mind. The radio stations have The Thong Song on repeat, horns are honking, and summer makes the year go round.

I'm Blog of the Week! Thanks, guys. The reasons for me to speak, smiling, just keep piling up these days. It's such a rad honor that I'm glowing a bit, the burgandy carpet beneath me floating. I'm 22, but I still feel overwhelmed, wanting to fly off in ten directions at once. Thanks to Pyra, I'm having the blog of my life.... The air's thin up here, and I get lightheaded knowing that y'all enjoy it, too.

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Thug Life... No Doubt.

Friday, June 2nd, 2000

 cold, dead mall air

Yesterday morning the electrician let a sparrow into our house. It hopped on furniture, photographs, lamps and carpet before finding its way outside through the open front door. It's usually a good day when a wee birdie hops through your home.

Unless you choose to go to the mall, as pictured above, to buy a few common items, because you will start feeling Nasty Inside. The local mall up here in Kingston, MA isn't doing so good: one third of the stores are empty, all of the potted trees are dead, and everywhere floor tiles are cracked. But there's plenty of parking. I bought a frisbee at the toy store, and the clerk made me take a huge plastic shopping bag to carry it in. He said if I didn't, the security guards would bother me. I didn't want that. So I'm strutting past Spencer's Gifts and various ugly people carrying a gigantic Santa's sack sized bag that contains nothing but a single flat 175 gram disc. Ahh.

In a related story, I now own a new pair of 36x36 Levis 550s. I only mention this seemingly unremarkable fact because it means I have jumped up a waist size, from hella skinny 34 inches to only wicked skinny 36 inches, so that's pissa all right. I'm not sure how that happened, but I'm just glad to have a comfortable article of clothing manufactured with a standard of quality I can count on.

I'm leaving this morning to drive to New Jersey for the weekend, and hopefully I'll get a chance to post while I'm down there. Hopefully I wont crash my boat of a car on the way down; I became unexpectedly motivated last night, and stayed up really late making changes to the site here and there.

9:05 AM | plink



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