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Monday, June 30, 2003

Oh yeah, Raed's photoblog. Check it out.


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"I think I was in a car with a loony-suicide-fucker last night. I wanted to ask why he wanted to hide a hand grenade in his car but I was really really scared. He just might decide to stick the hand grenade down my throat, because it is Halal to kill those who are agents of the infidel occupier.
What do you do when you are in a car with someone who asks you about the best place to hide a hand grenade?"


Raed is on his way to Basra, although he isn't saying why. Sounds as though Baghdad is really just getting worse and worse. Unfortunately, the situation is so very, very typically American, and very typically male: Walk in tough, bust some skulls, kick out the "bad guys", and then scratch our heads, trying to figure out why everything's not suddenly just all right.

I dunno what to do about this, honestly. But, I'm absolutely positive that this is just a few months from becoming the next Vietnam. That the hundred thousand troops stationed in Iraq will be joined by another hundred thousand, that the non-American portion of the "Coalition Forces" will pull out, that the US will begin to steadily and quietly sack Iraq, strip it to the bone in the name of "rebuilding," fixing a few roads, factories, a hospital or two, but won't put any real effort into setting up a self-perpetuating government until the oil reserves are 80% depleted and there are daily bomb attacks on US embassies and businesses. And even then, the soldiers will stay and fight, 'cause the US can't lose any kinda war. Even a stuupid one that they shouldn't have anything to do with.

Drifting and the crazy eye music has died down to nothing. Billyhank needs some ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ's.

Sleep well, children-


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A 39-year-old man held his wife hanging from a window on the second floor, holding a knife against her throat, while their two children were watching.

and

Two naked men aged 22 and 23 were running around threatening holidaymakers with an axe on Saturday morning.

and

Norwegian hard rock band Turbonegro was stopped by police at a security control at the airport in Stuttgart as a 46 cm long knife was detected in a guitar case.

According to band member Thomas Seltzer, the band has brought the knife with them all over the world without any problems.
Seltzer, alias Happy Tom, explained to New Musical Express (NME) that the knife is part of a stick that band member Hank von Helvete always brings along with him. The knife is being used for cutting up feather duvets and for photo shoots.


and


A single mother from Helgeland, Norway, is suspected of having poisoned her 8-year-old daughter with arsenic.


So, yeah. What the Christing fuck is wrong with Norway?


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A man wielding a samurai-style sword killed two people and wounded three others at an Irvine supermarket Sunday before his bloody rampage ended with a fatal volley of police gunfire.

The deadly attack occurred about 9:35 a.m. inside the Albertsons at Culver Drive and Irvine Boulevard, when Joseph Parker, a 30-year-old bagger known for erratic behavior, entered the market where he worked and began slashing employees and customers, witnesses said.


He's 30 years old and bagging groceries? Jesus Christ, I'd be in a slice-n-dice state of mind, too.

Oh God, please let me a find a decent job in Seattle...

The surreal thing about this is not so much that a mentally ill guy in a mentally ill city on a mentally ill coast finally got shoved over the edge, but it's how the reporter lays it out. "Fowler, 45, director of ambulatory care at UCI Medical Center in Orange, was in the toothpaste aisle when she heard a woman screaming that a man had killed one of the workers." Was she looking at the Crest or the Mentadent? Cinnamon-flavored floss? What color toothbrush was she picking out? Have we gotten to such a consumerist point that this is where we've ended up? Or was the reporter just breaking down from having to report about a samaurai running amok in the local Albertson's?

They're all nuts. And I'm moving there. This is either gonna make me or just kill me flat out.

(Tipped this one from Warren)


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Thursday, June 26, 2003

Oh yeah, fergot.
Today, going up the Taconic, northbound, eyes left, Croton-on-Hudson or thereabouts, offered me the most perfect, pristine and heart-wrenching vew of the southbound bridge reflected in the water at near-sunset, a structure from Roman times, a feat of arced bricks that made me want a camera more at that moment than in almost any other, just so that I could show what I haven't even the beginning of words for.

And, going southbound across that very same bridge an hour later: the Hudson, in gold.

I occasionally find myself forced to not just believe in God, but to agree with him.


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This is nothing, but how come nobody ever picked up for real on the Sandbenders deal? Seriously. I mean, c'mon, we've all got comps and pdas and phones and iPods and whatever else kinda bullshit. Why don't we wanna pretty 'em up? Fuck, man, I'd be willing to drop some good bread on a bronze lappy with mammoth ivory keys, or a Nokia with a copper body and walnut shell buttons. Wouldn't you? A discman fitted into a giant polished clamshell. A Palm snugged away inside a recycled silver cigarette case, demon symbols and signs of the Zodiac inscribed on the outside.

Jesus, this could be the new art. This could be where the technology takes us that's worth going. Engineering and clever mathematics is only the first half. The rest HAS to be soul & aesthetics &, jesus brothers and sisters, for motherfucking real ART.

Buttons, get on this right away, wouldja? I'm gonna tear apart my old lappie and send you the bits. I'll be expecting something cool when I hit the Emerald City...


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The weather in the Tri-State is warm today the same way that stinging is how your eyeball feels when you get it tattooed. Dead swampy air that makes you sweat if you sit still for more than four seconds. Hot air that feels even hotter when you're doing 80 on the highway. That kind of warm.

My car is nearly volcanic in this sort of weather, so I made off with Marian's RAV after a run to Hartford this morning. I dig that little machine. The top end is bullshit, but it carves the highway like nobody's biz. Raced an AMG E55 on the way home, the both of us weaving and bobbing in and out of 7:30 traffic. Couldn't get going REALLY fast, but there's a skill to the moving slalom of dense highway traffic that beats plain ol' speed to hell and back. Plus, the AMG guy slotted himself into a dead alley next to a Subaru and behind another Daimler and just got all kinds of stuck. A little sad, 'cause I was enjoying the race, but, hey, that kind of shit gets dangerous after a little while anyway.

Stop making that face, Buttons.

Yeah, and gave a package to a woman in Mahopac who had bright pink fingernails at least two inches long, perfect curved rectangles that arced out at me when she reached for my pen to sign the ticket. I swear to you that I could feel them slide into my chest and dimple the sides of my heart, could feel the tension in her hand, tight tendons about to pull her fingers into a fist, those bright pink arcs entering my atria and ventricles, could feel that first hard gush that popped my eyes open and then the cold drain as the pump stopped pumping.

Yah. Heat's getting to me.

And, yeah, yeah, ended up all over the island today, dropoff in Uniondale, dropoff in East Atlantic Beach, pickup in B'rklyn. And hot and stuck in traffic and covered with sweat and goo and bullshit. Loving the gig, right now. Making me think I'm a tough guy.

A tired tough guy. Out, for the nonce.


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Wednesday, June 25, 2003



Oh yeah, baby. Princess Di as a dead superhero. I may have to go grab this one.

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I think the part that bothers me the most is that they're framed.

$95.00, including shipping. Rush on over here to get your set.

Thanks to Warren for the heads up on this one.

Oh my very sweet Jesus.


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Tuesday, June 24, 2003

Even before a panel issues its report on the Columbia disaster, NASA has concluded that no enormous changes will be required before the shuttle fleet returns to space.

Thank God.

I'm more than mildly surprised that NASA reached this conclusion, honestly. I've gotten so used to this more constantly prevailing attitude of "Well, if it's not 100% absolutely safe, we just won't do it." And if it's not 100% safe, it's been established, someone can get their ass sued off for it. Like the fatasses who hit McDonald's with a suit 'cause they ate too many fries. Kids, fatty, greasy foods will make you fat. Period. It's the way the body works. And, yes, fatty, greasy foods taste good, so therefore you'll be tempted to eat a lot of them.

The thing with NASA really came down to someone making the unspoken but obvious decision to continue forward despite the fact that the Shuttle really is conceptually nothing more than a paper airplane strapped to a bottle rocket. That the shit's worked as well as it has is something amazing. And if you want it to be safer, shit, drop the $$$ to design a new fleet that doesn't rely on such volitile elements to hoist it into space. There's gotta be a way. Cut the defense budget and give it to the rocket nerds. C'mon, it'll be better in the long run. Seriously, once we figure out how to cut asteroids loose and drop 'em on our *enemies*, who's gonna fuck with us?

You paying attention, Jr.?

Little pinhead fuckwad zero asshole jackass.

Right. Out.


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Monday, June 23, 2003



Fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker fucker

Pointless piece of shit fuckwad penis.

Can you say that?

Ah, well.

Slow day, really.



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Saturday, June 21, 2003

Hmmmmm. Billy Win, flexing?

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Bah. Still raining in CT, +, according to Buttons, finally in Seattle as well. Sick to the death of it, truly. Hate driving in it, hate people constantly talking about it, hate the fascination it holds over the populace.

Plus, every idiot in the Tri-State seems to lose the ability to drive in any way normally once the rain starts to fall. I dunno what's wrong with these people. It's rainy, they crash. It's sunny, they crash. It's cool + overcast, they crash. It's bright + hot, they crash. It's just population, I guess. So many people living separated lives in such close proximity. I don't think they can even see each other anymore. Other people are just blockages in the arteries of their lives, blood clots + plaque buildup causing bottlenecks, getting ready to become embolisms.

This is the kind of thing that sends NYC'ers over the edge. It's what almost sends me over the edge when I'm stalled out in Greenwich, looking at miles of inert rolling iron in front of me. When the realization hits that there's no other way to go, that you've explored your options, and this crowded, deadlocked road is the best of all possible paths. + the chain is so easy to create at that point, all the links clicking together so perfectly:

I am a unique + beautiful snowflake + I need to get to point X = everyone needs to get to their point X = I'm no different from any of these people = I have become just another warm body in the mob = I am faceless, nameless + distinctly pointless = I need to break out + make myself known as an individual = I am going to buy a high-powered hunting rifle + climb the nearest clock tower.

There's a pristine logic in there that, I think, explains a WHOLE bunch about NYC, its population + the inherent attitudes. The city beats you up so badly, takes away so much of the grace + tranquility that a soul demands. A rational being rejects the city's impact, considers it to be anamolous, transitory. Moments of quiet are sought in the natural parts of the landscape, the parks, the banks of the rivers + by extension, those places created to capture those same intentions. Museums, monuments. Somewhere you can feel, however briefly, as though the other ten million people in the boroughs don't exist so much as they often seem to.

The irrational souls, though, those are the interesting ones. The ones that don't know anything else. The ones that grew up in the midst of it, who know sirens + hollering drunks as natural night noises, who know melting asphalt as summertime + polluted slush as the snows of winter. The evolved ones, the new ones. Homo sapiens urbanis. Smogbreathers, dogeaters, feral from womb to coffin. A new breed that can feel individual without the benefit of tranquility or grace. Ants with brains.

NYC. Biggest damned anthill on the planet.


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Um, time machine.

Yeah.

Cool.

Letcha know when I build this one...


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Friday, June 20, 2003

Okay, sliding one in under the wire, just to maintain a streak. Back to the big scary Fed courthouse in Islip today, coupla scarily friendly security guys helping me out to timestamp a motherfuckload of stuff. Ah, well. Should be worth $$$$$.

Yeah, found a link page that hits to nothing but little goth girls and their livejournals, in which they discuss 1.) Booze (every one is a teenie, so, therefore, are still operating in the booze is cool mode [as opposed to old fuckers like me, who're operating in booze is occasionally fundemental mode. There's a difference, okay?]) 2.) Boys. Generally boys with whom they drink but do not desire any sort of physical contact. And admonishments to the girlfriends of those boys to just chill the fuck out, 'cause there is no desire involved in the drinking. 3.) How sick they are. Literally. Ill. Coughing and sneezing and ejecting wastes at high velocities from various orifi. Fascinating shit, indeed.

I used to moon over the broken girls. For the life of me, I dunno why.

G'night-


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Thursday, June 19, 2003

Put on your thinking caps, kids. Last words, think 'em up. Here's a few to get started:

Damn it . . . Don't you dare ask God to help me.

Joan Crawford's parting shot. Biting off Warren for this one, but, well, what the fuck, right? Brain is toasted today. Dylan Thomas:

I've had eighteen straight whiskies, I think that's the record . . .

The Lord loves a poet, no?

God bless... God damn.

James Thurber. I can empathize with that one. Wonder how many good deeds I need to do to make up for the casual blasphemy. Any RC priests reading this?

I have offended God and mankind because my work did not reach the quality it should have.

Da Vinci. Don't you wish you only slept three hours a day?

Either that wallpaper goes, or I do.

Oscar Wilde. There is nothing finer, I begin to think, than a dry wit.

I'm fucked, fried and finished, friends. Talk to you later.


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Wednesday, June 18, 2003

A possible new personal best for this gig today. Made it from Union Square (like 15th St. and Park, for the uninitiated) to Tarrytown DURING rush hour in like half-an-hour. Yeah, motherfuckers. To quote Dave in Dispatch: "Shit, that was fast. Hovercraft?" I was witty: "Nah. Bazooka."

Wretched, my life. Plus, yeah 41 Union Square West has THE slowest fucking elevator EVER. Plus it's small. Tight as all hell. Rode it down from 7 to 3 before I gave up and just sprinted down the stairs. I was illegally parked, although the street was full of parked cars. Walking back, I realized that every car but mine had some kind of NYPD sign on the dashboard. The Saab parked behind the wagon, for instance, was apparently an NYPD surgeon. Which is to say; there's always parking in the City, just so long as you've got the stones to bluff. And if you're leaving the coast in a few weeks and could give a fuck about NYC parking tickets.

Right, just off the treadmill, tired, Karina's sick and I need new glasses. Nothing, really, to talk about.

Out.


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Tuesday, June 17, 2003

All right, my ass is kicked. Blogger's been down for days, then it went and got fixed by some nice person named Christine, except that it wasn't fixed until I hunted down the email that told me it was fixed, and then it was fixed.

My computer is laughing at me.

Right, anyway, lost a nice sold rant in there, thinking that deleting posts might help the problem. Yeah, that's how much I know about this shit. Anyway, did see the National Debt Clock in Midtown this afternoon (right after I handed a package off to a Deliverance-esque toothless old motherfucker. Apparently, NYC couriers working for Eddy aren't necessarily up to the same appearance standards as us CT losers), and it turns out the your personal share of the ND is now well over $71,000. Last time I saw it, a couple years ago, it was under $64,000 and falling.

Thanks, George! And to think, I was almost ready to feel secure about my financial future.

Although, ironically enough, I made a fuckload today, and found out that I can carry 160 lbs. for at least the length of a decently long hallway. That was a nice discovery. Get tired of being a weak little motherfucker, y'know?

Yeah, anyway, been dicking with this for FAR too long, and I've got a test tomorrow. I'll be back later if anything astounding happens in my bedroom over the next couple of hours. Although, with Buttons over on the Wrong Coast, that seems unlikely. Maybe there'll be a mouse or something.

I'd be waiting with bated breath, were I you.


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Testestestestest

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Friday, June 13, 2003



Dammit. Slightly more forward inertia and a simple broken neck could've saved the world.

Fuckwad.


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"A telling anecdote: When an employee tried to stop Mr. DeLay from smoking a cigar on government property, the majority leader shouted, "I am the federal government." Not quite, not yet, but he's getting there."

I am beginning to love Paul Krugman. Anybody who holds pretty much the same opinion as me and backs it up with some damned hard proof and then publishes it for several million people to read makes me happy.

BTW, fuckin' CBS 880 anchormonkey quoted a NY Times poll today, then proceeded to chuckle and say, "Since this was a NY Times poll, our man on the street decided to check those results..." Real journalism is about to tank, hard. Gaines NEVER shoulda left his post. It was a cowardly move, no matter what he claims as his reason, and it's going to take the away the credibility of just about the last real newspaper left in this country.

Goddamit.


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Thursday, June 12, 2003

Talking politics and suchlike with Dad, and have had some fun, but have made no real progress in figuring shit out. The Ketel One has landed well this evening, and I feel like O2 depravation and joy and that's all well and good, but it doesn't solve the problem of Jr., or the fact that my country has gone out of its way to attempt to rearrange global politics to suit its own needs. But...

Shit. Blogger's STILL not grabbing the file I want. Never fucking mind.

I love you all, and I wish you were more worth loving. I wish that if the aliens offered to take me away, I'd have more of a reason to resist it. I with that punching myself in the head had some kind of cathartic effect. I wish that having these muscles could change more of my world. I wish that I could tell off Jr and Tom Delay and random conservatives on the street. I wisht that I didn't have to retype so much of this. I wish that I had the power that I dream that I have. I wish I had the words and the charisma and the strength to be more than just one more fucking whiner in cyberspace.

I hope that I will, someday, become all the things that I desire to become, that I someday be the person that I wish was staring back in the mirror. That someday I will affect more than my own life. That someday I will be the superhero, the idol of millions, the man that I can respect.

I have no desire to be like Mike, but I hope that someday I can think more of myself than just about anything else.

Goddammit. I miss Buttons. And A. And simpler times.

I need booze. I'll write more later.


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Wednesday, June 11, 2003

Apparently Blogger is fucked up the ass tonight. Trying to upload a clean HTML version of the first vignette, but to no avail. I'll give it another shot later.

Dammit.


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Testing.

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Tuesday, June 10, 2003

Hey there, kidlins. Bright and sunny warm in Fairfield County today, which has made my wagon attempt to consume all of its fluids at one point or another today. I must proceed with a radiator flush and new front brakes posthaste. I am tired of watching the temp gauge at all times and shimmying up to stopsigns.

Yah.

Nothing worth writing about today. Going up to the BC for tux fitting w/Pop in a few minutes which should be just sorta terrifying. My Ben Sherman messenger bag showed up, which is cool, but Dad's d-day present hasn't, and the lack of communication with the seller is putting a bit of a bug up my ass. D apparently likes the vignette and is inspired vis a vis the next pic. Which is a fine, fine thing.

Uh, yeah.

Okay, out. Have to go sit in traffic on the Merrit for a while. Bringing Joe, Elvis, Buddy and maybe Bob with me. Just to drive Dad nuts.


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Monday, June 09, 2003

First vignette is complete as it's gonna be right now:

Boop the Courier.html

Enjoy.


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First pic is here, children. Properly sized and ready to rock. Click here or on the thumbnail to see the big'un.



Cleaning up the first vignette as you read this. Should be ready today. Yay.

Stay tuned.




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Sunday, June 08, 2003

I have D's pic, but it's roughly the size of Afghanistan and I'm not sure that I've got the soft to bring it down to manageable size. But I'm working on it. And the first draft of the vignette is complete, and damned fucking long. I'll have it cleaned up and posted posthaste. Keep yer panties on, okay?

Still an old woman, but now full of salmon and cheese.


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Saturday, June 07, 2003

Nothing to say, really. Hate, hate, hate Long Island traffic, dunno who won the Belmont Stakes even though D and I drove right past Belmont Park in the rain this afternoon. Roni lost her wallet on the Q train, but handled it with more grace than I probably could have mustered. Tried for drunkeness but was stopped cold by a headache and wretched stomach. I have become an old woman as I have aged.

Off to knit an afghan.


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Friday, June 06, 2003

Screaming Pakistani children only a few feet away, their shrill little horrifed shrieks carrying across the dead air between here and there with a clarity otherwise reserved for $1,000-a-second recording studios. Spencer the Swollen-Lipped Cat screaming on the other side of the door, convinced that all sorts of funky shit is going down in here and I can't let him in 'cause there's the wrong kind of food in here and he'll scarf it down and get all sick. It's hot and stuffy and smells vaugely of the shit of three cats, and here I am, miles from home, typing away and preparing for a night of actually decent sleep.

Yeah, kitty-sitting at Richie's, in Brooklyn, dead dog shit tired and hoping that it'll get cool enough and quiet enough to make sleeping a possibility. Been working through a pantheon of PS One greatest hits since I got here, maintaining the tv embargo even far from home. The test will be the next hotel room I stay in. Can't drink without smoking; can't hotel without tv. We'll see.

Too trashed to write anything useful. Pakistani sounds like a caricature of a language. At least, it does when it's being screamed by a mother at her children.

Rifles, gasoline, a lack of conscience, please.

Oh, yeah. Fucking Hope let Joe Young die from rat poison. Torch her place tonight, if there weren't a billion cats and birds inside. Why oh fucking why are people so heartless?


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Thursday, June 05, 2003

I need a digital camera, because I had to deliver a C & L package here today, and OhMiGolly, you can't imagine what it was like to approach this place. It looms over you, salivating, waiting to suck you in, fully intending to make you piss yourself if you've been summoned to appear inside. This massive white beast, filled to the brim with lawyers and cops and law. It's like a pestilence. A BIG pestilence. You could hold a demolition derby in the main plaza. You could house an ICBM in the lobby atrium.

What you CAN'T do, however, is find a picture on Google that shows how truly ball-shrivelingly imposing it is on a bright and sunny Long Island afternoon (This is the best I could find, which ain't much). Which is why I need a digital camera (or a Nokia camphone), so that I can show you.


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Have pissed off a friend, so therefore I am sad today. Also, the Republicans may have the way to get their judicial nominees appointed, and the first amendment has been altered to curb freedom of expression. Addtionally, Howell Gaines has, by virtue of his abandonment of the NY TIMES set back the legitimacy of that paper and, by extention, print journalism for at least the next decade. Television news is about to become the only source that anybody pays attention to. This is a sickening day in Billyhankland.


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Wednesday, June 04, 2003

Oh, baby. You know just how badly I want this Talon Riot Control Vehicle. Never again will there be a late package...

Anybody wanna send in a donation?


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'Bout damned time. Couriers (and drivers of any sort, really) are already rejoicing about this one....


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For some reason, this makes my mouth water, but not in any kind of good way.

Buttons, don't you DARE open this file.

Holy shit.


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Current playlist:

Story of the Clash, Vol. I, Disc I

Legend

When I Was Cruel


I know that none of it's startling in its originality, but, shit, who's really paying attention?


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BTW, no pic from D. Either Dalila forgot to scan it in or...

Actually, I have no real secondary thoughts.

I'm sure I'll be getting a phone call. I'll keep whoever's out there abreast of the situation.


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"It's long past time for this administration to be held accountable. Over the last two years we've become accustomed to the pattern. Each time the administration comes up with another whopper, partisan supporters - a group that includes a large segment of the news media - obediently insist that black is white and up is down..."

Great, great, great op-ed piece here by Paul Krugman that hammers Bush on all the things that Bush deserves to be hammered for.

Bomb-throwing via newspaper. This is an excellent thing, a literary neutron bomb that will kill the career and leave the fleshy shell intact. No crime, no foul, just, with any luck, a bit of justice, an attempt at something approaching integrity and honesty, a shot at letting this country be all the things it should be.

Dig.


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Tuesday, June 03, 2003

Okay, got a message from D, and he's saying he's finished the pic, and has arranged to have it scanned in tomorrow. So all both of you that are watching this will get to see a picture tomorrow and some words by Friday. Hopefully.

Cross yer fingers.


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PAH. This crapass scanner, with which I am attempting to upload pics, is fucking with me. There will not be, therefore, pics of me and Buttons for perusal. Much to your relief, I'm sure.

Pain in my fucking BALLS.

*GAH*


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Heh heh heh.... Explodo.


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Mid-morning blog. At school, just finished up taking my Nutrition test (figure one or two wrong out of sixty or so questions. I should be okay) wandering the halls over on East Campus. Man, this place just sucks my ass when noody's here. Empty hallways, art galleries are stripped, classrooms are locked, the few people in the Atrium and the UBS comp lab are all quiet and whispery. This place has, right now, all the energy of a starving Ethiopian infant whose parent's dessicated corpses are crumbling to dust a few feet away.

Yeah, it's that bad. I need some coffee.

Wonder if Lily's working over summer. I could use a good IRA rant right about now.

Have a good'n, kids.

Out.

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Monday, June 02, 2003

Motorcycle guys on the Discovery Channel, arguing about fenders. Spent the evening listening to Elvis C. outtakes, The Fatal Flying Guilloteens, Strummer and the Mescaleros, Eels and Buddy Holly. A hiatus on television until now, 'cause Futurama's coming on, and I see no reason to embargo Futurama. Or, actually, most cartoons. But the VTR's set to copy Cowboy Bebop for the next few days, so I'm not gonna miss that in any serious way, and everything else I'm happy to not bother seeing (although I'll admit that Trigun's growing on me).

So, yeah, television embargo for a few days. Just music and the net and words.

And work.

And news.

Sparked on Jolie tonight about the whole FCC abortion. Not that she has much of an opinion one way or another. She was calling about dinner orders for the wedding. I kept apologizing and kept getting all hacked off fresh and she kept laughing and saying it was okay.

I am just a sideshow for the people I love.

Which is better than being a psychic toilet for the world.

Mostly.


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I don’t really understand why among the 26 million Iraqis I have to explain everything clearly, are you watching the news? can't you see the spectrum of reactions people have to the American presence in Iraq?.

This is from a kid in Baghdad who's watching his city trying to reassemble itself, watching his people attempt to cope with freedom for the first time in what's gotta seem like forever, and watching a buncha numbfuck Americans who don't know shit about his country trying to run things. There's something very special about his words. Go read them. You'll feel like you've actually learned something, swear.


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There's a damned good story in here somewhere. I've got a test tomorrow, so I haven't got time to find it right now. But I will, kids. I swear that I will.


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GODDAMN THE FCC. The littlest Powell can suck my cock. Anybody who disregards half a million contrary emails from real people to make the corps happy can suck my cock.

Hope you idiots can remember how to think for yourselves, 'cause your public info dispersement just got even more narrow-focus. I'll say it again, for anyone who might not have been paying attention before:

Read between the lines. Realize that ALL OF THEM ARE LYING TO YOU. They don't love you, they don't need you, they don't care about you. They want your dollars and your silent consent. They already own the planet. They just want you to understand it.

Don't throw bombs, children, but be prepared to.


Maybe I'm wrong about the last part. Maybe the time for preparation is over, y'know?

(Crap, now the DHS dickheads are gonna be watching. What's the word fellas?)




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Sunday, June 01, 2003

Loud music and many cigarettes have inhabited my afternoon. Practice in Jersey with Sparky in for Mikey, who's off in Gloucester with his play. LOUD, motherfucker. Richie's 5150 came on like a thousand stampeding bison and wasn't feeding back every time he turned to look at Sparky. Screamed my damned head off, as always, sweating and bouncing (occasionally on purpose) and suchlike. Good practice, in other words. I'm just loving the band right now, and thinking more and more that I'm gonna miss that more than just about anything else on the east coast.

Hey, anybody in Seattle reading this? Cool. Find the music people and tell 'em there's a halfway okay punk rock/oi bass player heading that way, okay? Groovy, thanks.

Fucked for story ideas lately. I've got 'em, but they suck. Or I've got pieces of good stuff, but nothing coherent. Brass City board kids as couriers working for 'Hot Potatoes', Boop in a garage jacket skinnying her way through corporate America dumping titles and jewelry. Yah. Old thought. Back to Bill, him grown up, kinda, wandering out in the nowhere, but I don't know where to take him. Do I kill him off? Or do I go back to the beginning and tell the kids' story? Or do I just ditch the whole fucking thing and write it off as useless noodling?

I drive and I drive and I think up stories while I drive, stories that, oddly enough, have MUCH to do with driving, and they seem great at the time, and they probably are, but I dunno how to make 'em more than just shit in my head. I dunno why I'd even bother, and I think that's the problem. You love the words, so you put them down, but it doesn't take long before you realize, utterly, that you're telling the same fucking stories that everyone else is telling, and you're not telling them as well. I dunno if that's writer's block, and I don't really give a shit one way or another, but that's what's taking me out. I can put together the basic three-act, or the two-act or the nineteen-act, but when it comes down all the way, all I can see are stories that other people have told, pieces that I've stolen, cobbled together into something that tastes recycled.

My left pec is sore, and I dunno why. It's that kind of day. Could only do twenty minutes on the treadmill this morning, which just sucks fucking ass. I'm tired as hell all the time lately and this new Hilk movie is gonna suck shit, which angers me. Why the Hulk? He's a fucking gorilla who can throw Buicks around. What's the appeal? What's been the appeal? What am I not seeing?

Really, just tired of the superheroes. Some are great, classic. Spidey, Bats, a few of the X-Men. But, the Hulk? Only good when he's smart or split off from Banner or some damned thing. The second he's just big and green and stupid, though, he's just fucking boring. Marvel's gotta think a little bit more about the properties they're selling out. Spiderman and x-Men, cool, but, fuck, Daredevil was shite, and this new one's gonna bite ass.

Speaking of which, The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen flick looks just wretched. The use of an alphabet soup title kinda tells us where the producers are expecting to find their audience. The Jerry Bruckheimer crowd, not the Darren Aranofsky kids, right? And as much as I love Connery (well, a little, anyway, if only for The Hunt For Red October), he's not right as Quartermain. Clint Eastwood with an accent would have fit Moore's character. And why is he the focal point? What happened to Mina? I'm sorry that Moore sold out so completely. Although, I'm not sure he owns the property.

Fuck it. I'm just rambling. Everything sucks and I can't do a goddamned thing about most of it. I'm gonna go call Buttons and weep uncontrollably.


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