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| This isn't fun anymore. |
| 03.11.04 (11:47 am) [edit] |
After two big blown-out-of-proportion controversies in the space of one week, after finding out that my readership is wider than I ever expected or wanted it to be, after realizing that if I'm to continue writing in this journal without causing further offense I am going to have to censor myself to the point where keeping a journal in the first place is completely pointless; I've decided to quit while I'm (barely) ahead. This is stupid, and I've got enough stress in my life without having to worry about offending people over the fucking Internet.
I started this thing February 7; now, a little more than a month later, I'm leaving it. Maybe for good, maybe just until summer starts and all the people who don't matter are out of my life. But wasting my time keeping a blog for the entertainment of people who don't even like me, and then having to worry about them getting upset, is bullshit. The experiment was fun while it lasted. Right now, though, I'm done with it. I'm more than done with it. Goodbye everybody and good riddance. I hope you all enjoyed yourselves as much as I did.
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| When I asked if this blog has any regular readers... |
| 03.11.04 (5:49 am) [edit] |
...who'd have expected EVERYONE to come crawling out of the woodwork?
Megan's room isn't mine; my room is fifty miles away. I came to school, got two new parents and a big drunk wife.
I already knew they hated us...now they're lonely, too?
This whole saga has taken a turn for the surreal.
Five more weeks.
The last week has made me think that maybe the whole blog thing is [i]too[/i] public a medium. Because if I can't write about people, what am I going to write about? And if the only things I can say about other people are nice things, why not just get a regular "unplugged" journal like all the sane people?
I mean, if I wanted to make my own soap opera I'd have gone to film school.
I don't know about the future of this blog, to say the least. This world is too fucking small.
Five more weeks. Five more weeks. Five more weeks.
Listening to: Station to Station by David Bowie
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| How to write a 5-paragraph blog entry when you really have nothing to say. |
| 03.10.04 (6:40 pm) [edit] |
Today didn't start out so well. Remember that fit of self-loathing I predicted a couple days ago? Well, it came, right on schedule. Apparently I'm running on a weekly cycle...great.
Things got better, though. I finished my [i]Julius Caesar[/i] paper and am now working on streamlining it for the final draft. I skipped my Anthro lecture (not that that's a unique occurance) and managed to survive an Anthro discussion where we tried to compare a book I've never read with a movie I've never seen. I spent a lot of really nice time with Megan; it really made up for the crappy period of earlier. Some of this quality time, incidentally, was spent at Health Services, because Megan has a head injury. Yeah, yeah, I know, we knew all along, but SERIOUSLY. There's a bruise on her skull because she was attacked by an enormous lamp that feels like it's made of lead. She also has a mild concussion; when she came into UHS, apparently the lady said she had a dazed look about her. This after I spent practically hours staring deeply into her eyes earlier in the afternoon and didn't even notice...
I got my tax refund in the mail today, and all I have to say is there had better be more coming soon. My dad's an accountant, and he said I should be getting about $50 in the mail...imagine my surprise when I opened the envelope from the Department of Treasury and found a check for FIFTEEN, that's right [u]FIFTEEN FUCKING DOLLARS.[/u] Any frequent readers of this blog notice how every time I get something in the mail I think is going to be good, I end up having to use the phrase "imagine my surprise" sarcastically while telling the story later? Wait, let me rephrase that. Any frequent readers of this blog? At all? Anybody?
Anyway, apparently I'm getting mochi ice cream at Japanese Nerd Central tonight with Dan and Megan. So there's something to look forward to, that and this weekend, Apparently I'm spending it with Megan and the kids (the kids, in this case, are Megan's little sister and her friend Mary Kate, not Dan and Roz), but the good news is, I hear the next couple days are going to be door slam free. (wink)
'Til next time, kiddies.
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| Please don't hit me, Jack. |
| 03.09.04 (9:49 pm) [edit] |
I'm excited today. Why am I excited, you ask? Because Jack White's court proceedings were today, he pled guilty, and while my dream of hearing the fifth White Stripes record as recorded in Wayne County Penitentiary doesn't look like it'll be coming true (unless, of course, Jack decides to use one of the other Von Bondies as a punching bag between now and this summer), he's been required by the judge to attend [u]ANGER MANAGEMENT CLASSES[/u].
People, I know Jack White would never actually agree to this, but just think: is this situation not SCREAMING to be a reality series? I want to see Jack shuffling into anger management class with a bunch of toughs, a sullen expression on his pasty face. I want to see desensitization treatments, with him subjected a la [i]Clockwork Orange[/i] to rap videos and images of a sneering Jason Stollsteimer. I want to see him almost lose it on one of his classmates, then remember what the instructor told him and end up kissing and making up in a real live Hallmark-card ending. I want the next White Stripes record to be a concept album about his ordeals. And most of all, I want Jack to continue his blossoming film career by making a movie opposite Adam Sandler...then kick his weaselly little Chanukah Song ass on-set. I know, I know, assault and battery isn't funny, especially not when the assaulter is someone you think pretty highly of...but I haven't been able to stop giggling about Jack and Jason's hip hop war since I first heard the news way back in December. Now that I know our boy Jackie will be sitting in a classroom sourly taking notes about how to take a deep breath and count to ten, it's all just too good to be true. Maybe it's that godawful new auburn (!) dye job.
Jack, you're killing me...first that mustache, and now this?
Anyway, reasons not to be excited today: I slept through my Japanese class...again. This time missing a kanji quiz. I still have a paper to write and about 70 pages of [i]Man with the Golden Arm[/i] to skim before Thursday. Which is nothing compared to the 11 chapters of [i]Return to Laughter[/i] I have to catch up on before 3:00 tomorrow afternoon...shit. Combine that with my trying to do a web project for Chicago Lit. when my computer literacy is tenuous at best, and I've been pretty stressed out about schoolwork lately. I don't know. I wish I could skim readings and BS discussions and skip classes (or sleep through them) guilt-free like some people can. I just keep thinking of how much my parents are helping me pay my way from school, how much this particular school is technically out of my financial bounds, and how I've been told my whole life to make school my top priority until I get out...it's just been weighing kind of heavily on me lately. I always hate it in other people when they get all stressed out about something as stupid as school. Guess I'm becoming that which I hate...I'm trying to lighten up, though.
Which brings me to my next point, more reasons [i]to[/i] be excited today: I got to cuddle with Megan an ungodly amount. I'm still feeling clean from yesterday's late-night shower. My paycheck and my anniversary are growing closer and closer and I still have $90 in the bank. I'm seeing Electric Six, Ben Folds, and potentially the Dirtbombs, the Detroit Cobras and Saturday Looks Good To Me in the coming months. And yes, that new White Stripes album is looking to be on track (and probably brimming with hit new songs about just learning how to compromise and talk things over). Who wouldn't be excited about that?
Listening to: I Want to Be the Boy to Punch Your Singer's Face In by Jack "The Slugger" White and the Black Eyes
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| Razor burn for the soul. |
| 03.08.04 (10:22 pm) [edit] |
About an hour ago I took a shower for the first time in two days, shaved for the first time in god knows how long, brushed my teeth and put on pajamas (of sorts). The fact that I'm ready to crawl into bed at a moment's notice, not to mention the fact that I finally don't feel dirty anymore, puts me in a much better mood than I was before I jumped in the shower. In fact, if it weren't for the razor burn currently setting my face alight, I might even have trouble writing the mopy post that is to follow. Fortunately for you, the reader, who loves nothing more than to hear me whine (Right? RIGHT??), the razor burn persists. Yes, folks, dull razors are more than just laziness for me; they're muses.
But let's start over.
At the end of my senior year in high school, I organized a Battle of the Bands. It was the most stressful experience of my life to that point; not only was I doing the advertising, recruiting the talent and bearing the brunt of the ticket sales, I was in the flagship band from my high school, a shitty band called Grant Gilmore & the Gilmore Girls (my choice of name) that played mostly Journey covers (NOT my choice of music!). To say the least, the whole preparation phase was a shambles. The Gilmore Girls were constantly on the verge of breakup, due to collective lack of work ethic and a singer who couldn't bring himself to sing unless the stage lights were down for the beginning of the first song. The Battle of the Bands itself was marred by technical problems, bureaucratic issues (sports schedules forced it into the one weekend in May when Williamston's star singer/songwriter was out of town), and what appeared to be a general lack of interest by performers and audience alike. By the day of the show, I had made myself psychosomatically ill; I went home from school early, my spirits so low that not even a phone call from one of my fellow coordinators, telling me that the school P.A. was not working, could make me feel much worse.
As things turned out, the Battle of the Bands was a success given the circumstances (I'd expected to lose money; instead I made some), but in the grand scheme of things, and compared to the success of previous years and other schools, it was a failure. Only about 200 people showed up to the 500-capacity auditorium. Our roster of bands included four real ones and my friend Ben doing stand-up comedy to piano accompaniment...keep in mind, too, that one of the "real" acts was the aforementioned Journey cover band. And speaking of the Gilmore Girls' set, it was terrible. The auditorium's tiny P.A. was buried under the weight of my drums and the Marshall half-stack of Mr. Gilmore himself, the singer could not bring himself to sing in tune due to a combination of stage fright and simply not being able to match Steve Perry's range, and the only thing approaching a "highlight" for the whole show was a sloppy (and ironic) Hendrix-pastiche rendition of the Star Spangled Banner. And even that was pretty lame. The point is, I made it through the night (we even got first place, basically because we were the only band from Williamston and the audience was biased), but I was through with trying to play in bands. The end of the Williamston Battle of the Bands marked my official retirement from the music industry.
...Well, until two months later, when I met Dan, he found out I played drums, and an embryonic form of the mess we now know as Run Little Bunny was born. And now, almost a year exactly from the Battle of the Bands fiasco, I remember why it is I quit music.
Run Little Bunny has a show coming up in a little more than a month. We are disastrously unprepared. Tonight was our first practice in a month, and we could barely get through All Day and All of the Night by the Kinks. Roz wasn't there because she's sick, but even if she weren't, she's lost interest in the band even more than I have. Myself, I keep trying to get fired up, but every time I sit in front of the drums I just end up with blistered fingers, broken sticks and a bad mood. What's worst of all is that, as the East Quad Music Fest grows closer and closer, I'm beginning to realize that everybody and his mother around here has a band, and every last one of those bands is better than mine. Most of them play original material...we've been trying to write songs for months, but nobody has any idea how to go about it. Hell, two thirds of us don't even ever want to practice. This Music Fest just feels like a Sword of Damocles hanging over my head; I know I'm doomed to public humiliation, but there's nothing much I can do about it without breaking up the band. And I don't want to do that. It's bad enough that my rock'n'roll dreams have been shattered. Do I really have to destroy Dan's, too?
I love music. That much is obvious. And I've always thought that I've wanted to play it in front of people. But it seems like I'm doomed to a lifetime of musical failure, and it's gotten to the point where I just have to throw in the towel and stop embarrassing myself. I mean, really, people...my last band was a JOURNEY COVER BAND. That's pretty fucking low. And as for Run Little Bunny, for a while I was optimistic. Now, though, I feel like we're sinking and it's time to abandon ship. I don't want to be in the worst band on campus. I don't want people to recognize me as "the guy who plays drums for that crappy rabbit band." But I feel guilty giving up now. I don't know what to do.
I'm going to sleep on this, maybe for more than one night. Maybe I'll feel better about the whole thing when I'm not in the aftermath of a disheartening and generally depressing rehearsal. I hope so. Even if the EQ Music Fest ends up being the second end to my career in music (yeah, I know, I'm turning into a human KISS farewell tour), I feel like I should really try and just make it through this year. This is one thing I shouldn't be giving up on.
OK, web project now.
Listening to: All of [i]If We Can't Trust the Doctors[/i] by Blanche
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| OK, you win. I really am an idiot after all. |
| 03.08.04 (12:46 pm) [edit] |
I guess I forgot to mention one of the other unfortunate side effects of blogdom: paranoia. It was because of paranoia that I said things I shouldn't have said and made this whole stupid fiasco worse. I feel really dumb right now.
I'm not deleting the preceding two posts (I censor myself more than enough already), but let this new one be my most sincere apologies to the person I've been writing about for the last couple of days. Sometimes I let my principles get in the way of common sense and just plain good taste...that's the only excuse I have, unfortunately.
Anyway. Went to bed at 6:00 this morning, got up about 1:00. Megan and I stayed up all night talking and I think I'll be writing more in the near future, too. A lot of things are coming together that make me feel like the ideas I have in my head are a lot bigger than I expected. Which sounds incredibly pretentious, but I figure it'll be offset by my next bout of self-loathing...which is scheduled to go off in, oh, a week or so. See you then!
Listening to: Underdog by the Dirtbombs
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| In defense of my idiocy |
| 03.07.04 (3:37 pm) [edit] |
I'm interested--when I bother to give thought to the subject--in the inherent passive aggressiveness of these online journals, which is really the only reason why I'm writing this passive aggressive reply to a passive aggressive defense of a passive aggressive criticism I made earlier today regarding Someone Else's journal. What goes on on the Internet couldn't mean LESS to me a lot of the time; unless what I'm writing about in this blog is an actual personal issue of pressing concern, the feelings put into it are gone by the time I hit the submit button. I wouldn't dream of going up to the person in question and saying, "Hey, your journal comes off as really pretentious and elitist." Not because I'm a coward; because, in the grand scheme of things, I don't really care. I would imagine this person feels the same way about me, hence their online-only riposte in spite of the overpowering impression that they think I'm a huge asshole. The way I see it, passive aggressiveness in Blogland isn't to be criticized for its immaturity; it's the only way to deal with quasi-problems like these with even a semblance of maturity, because starting an actual real-life argument about this shit is just ridiculous. So this is my last word on the subject, and it's going here as opposed to in comment form on their blog, because let's face it: the only reason why we have these things is so we can all have a place where we always get the last word.
Obviously, whenever a person criticizes another person, there's a risk of hypocrisy. When one criticizes someone else for giving the impression that their thoughts are more important than another's, there's even more of a risk. I realize that complaining about somebody else's blog for being self-aggrandizing is kind of a bizarre paradox: that's another fascinating thing about these online journals, their solipsism. But it's really just this simple: I read some things that made me--at least in terms of my Internet Consciousness--pretty disturbed. I thought they were wrong, and I decided it would be an interesting thing to write about because this blog-writer isn't the only person who behaves this way. So I did. Maybe this was ill-advised given that online journals are a very public medium. Oh, well. When you begin your own journal with an opening salvo of condemnations of Everyone Else's Blogs, you really don't have much of a case to make against other people's criticisms in the first place.
Here's what I'm getting at: I'm not sorry for what I said. All the same, I understand your point. You think I talk too much about music (thanks for finding time to complain about this in between all those Camus quotes and literary references, by the way). I think a lot of what you write about is mean-spirited and even more one-sided than most journal writing. Are either of us making deep, personal observations about the other one's true character? Of course not. I don't know you, you don't know me; that's obvious, and I'd always assumed by the nature of our "relationship" that neither of us CARED to know the other any better. But are both of us free to think what we think? Yeah. That's the beauty of it. You're free to write about your embryonically-imbued great musical taste, your status as an unprivileged non-conformist, the ever-entertaining character flaws of your wannabe suitors and your apparently singular sense of charity; I'm free to write about my "ambiguous celebrities" (Um, Prince? Bowie? Or Antonio Banderas?) and my "songs no one really cares about" (because you're right, nobody cares about John Lennon, the most recent victim of my music-critic tendencies). Hey, I don't write this thing for you, I write it for me, and I imagine you would say the same.
But the real lesson to be learned is this: don't take too much offense when somebody holds you accountable for the things you say. Whether that somebody is being passive aggressive or not.
Listening to: Kate by Ben Folds Five
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| Don't make Kevin Spacey angry. You wouldn't like him when he's angry. |
| 03.07.04 (10:42 am) [edit] |
I'll admit that I have a problem with assuming that other people are better adapted, better adjusted, or just plain better than I am. Sometimes I'm even afraid of voicing the slightest, most mundane opinion in front of a group of people, just because I have this irrational subconscious feeling that someone is going to make fun of me. I've always been like that. I've always been the kid who thinks everybody in school hates him when they're actually either indifferent to him or (as in my earlier years) openly adoring of him. This isn't really a good trait to have, I realize that. But God, it sure makes it difficult for me to understand why there are some people who are utterly convinced that [i]they[/i] are better than everyone else.
Think about this: are you [i]really[/i] the only person in the world who listens to good music, watches good movies or reads good books? Are you [i]really[/i] the only person who doesn't dress like everyone else? Are you [i]really[/i] the only one who isn't spoiled, rich and privileged? Who isn't or hasn't been openly, maybe even embarrassingly emotional? Who hasn't at some point in their lives been too dramatic or even too boring...occasionally publicly? Does everyone else [i]really[/i] have their heads too far up their asses to care about their fellow man? It's a convenient way to alienate yourself and more than a little self-serving, at that. We all know alienation makes good art, so why not be the detached artist with a twist, the one who is simply too good for everyone else? Well, when I see someone behave like that, "I really just have to laugh."
But enough angst. (I was considering writing about a conversation I overheard at brunch about someone getting wasted on Saturday night, then getting up Sunday morning to go to church, but I decided in light of the preceding monologue I should probably just let that one go so I don't have to admit that I'm the hypocrite we all know I am. So, moving on.)
I spent a really nice day with Megan yesterday, which was the usual thing: napping, reading, cuddling, watching a really bad movie on TV. Not very interesting for you, but I couldn't think of a better way for me to spend the day. We ate hummus and Tofutti and watched [i]Consenting Adults[/i], which I didn't pay much attention to and missed the beginning anyway. So here's my interpretation of the plot: Kevin Spacey is really pissed off that he got the worst blonde dye job in history, and when he sees his new neighbor Kevin Kline's gigantic mustache, that's just the last straw. So he decides to kill a woman who looks like his wife with a baseball bat, frame Kevin Kline for the murder of his wife (who isn't really dead) and then run off with [i]Kevin Kline[/i]'s wife, who is Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio. The rest of the movie is mostly Kevin Kline running around looking crazy, spying on Kevin Spacey and popping out at his wife from the backseat of her van. I think he might be looking for a razor so he can get rid of that [i]Lifetime Original[/i]-husband mustache. Oh yeah, and Kevin Spacey kills another person with a bat. My favorite part? When Kevin S. has his gun trained down the stairs to kill Kevin K. and he dramatically whispers, "Come to Poppa"--right before Kevin K., mustache and all, dives through the bedroom window and tackles him from behind. A good five minutes of face-punching ensues.
It's a fucking brilliant movie.
Anyway, later we watched [i]Rock and Roll High School[/i], another classic, and then went our separate ways to bed. (We no longer sleep together, ever actually, which surprisingly enough does not stop Megan's roommate from stomping in and angrily slamming the door upon both entering and exiting the room while I'm there. As a result, I have myself begun slamming the door whenever I leave Megan's room in roommate's presence, and I have to admit she's right--it's very therapeutic.) You might notice I didn't talk at all about what we did Friday after the record shopping, largely because it was basically the same thing as last night, only exchange the hummus and Tofutti for our new CDs, [i]Consenting Adults[/i] for [i]Spinal Tap[/i], and [i]Rock and Roll High School[/i] for the excellent [i]Detroit Rock Movie[/i]. There, now you're all caught up. Which I'm sure you could care less about, but this stuff is important to me and I didn't get to be the #49 Hot Blog by writing for YOU. You bastards.
Today, work, Chicago Lit. web project, and possibly even the first Run Little Bunny rehearsal in about a month.
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| You Know Who, part 2 |
| 03.06.04 (8:46 am) [edit] |
BZZZZZZZZZZZZTTT
...groan...
click
...
BZZZZZZZZZZZZTTT
...groan...
click
...
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| You Know Who |
| 03.06.04 (12:52 am) [edit] |
SLAM
stomp stomp stomp
taptaptap tap tap tap taptap tap taptaptaptap tap
stomp stomp
SLAM
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| A rave about my New Favorite Ann Arbor Record Store |
| 03.05.04 (4:11 pm) [edit] |
Today and tomorrow, the kids (i.e., Dan and Roz) are both away, so Megan and I kicked off our weekend alone in fine style today by doing one of my favorite things, something I haven't done in months: that's right, record shopping. Today was a really beautiful day, T-shirt weather for the first time since God knows when, and after a breezy walk back from Japanese I wanted to head back outside while this warmness lasts. I thought a nice excuse for a walk would be to go to Encore Records (probably the best used record store I've ever seen) and see if I could finally get my hands on a copy of [i]Fire of Love[/i] by the Gun Club. There was no Gun Club to be had there (this seems to be the norm), though I did find David Bowie's [i]Low[/i] and both [i]Around the World in a Day[/i] and [i]Purple Rain[/i] (with a bonus poster, no less!) by Prince on vinyl for $5 each. Somehow I managed to stop myself from buying these three records, possibly because I was torn between the two aforementioned Prince albums and a $10 bootleg copy of the [i]Black Album[/i] (Prince again, not Metallica), possibly (OK, most likely) because the needle for my turntable has been broken since December and $15 worth of vinyl, while a bargain, is not going to do me much good until I get it fixed. So I ended up walking out of Encore with nothing, though it was one of the most enjoyable 90 minutes I've spent in a while.
Then, though, I got a much better idea. Megan suggested we go to Wazoo Records to see if she could find Ko and the Knockouts' record; out of the blue, her suggestion reminded me of a couple months ago, when I ordered a White Stripes 7" from GEMM.com, only to discover (too late to save myself a $5 shipping charge in exchange for a 10-minute walk) that the seller, Underground Sounds, was in Ann Arbor. After that, Megan and I tried to go to the store, but it's located downstairs in a little mini-mall on Liberty Street and we couldn't find the entrance on that first attempt. I decided that today was the day I would get in Underground Sounds and see if it was really the heaven on Earth I'd been imagining.
Long story short: it was. I knew we'd made a good decision when I walked downstairs and heard the faint strains of Cannon by the White Stripes in the distance. It turns out that wasn't actually playing in the record store, but so what, it was an omen, and anyway the store was playing [i]New Values[/i] by Iggy Pop so I really can't complain. Once we stepped inside, I spontaneously discovered at long last the secret of the male multiple orgasm. The first thing I saw was a wall of vinyl. Not much, mind you: Encore is still the place to go if you want stacks upon stacks of old used records. But the thing is, practically every fucking record in the place was good. They had every album by the Gories. They had an entire section devoted to the Oblivians. They had Guitar Wolf up the proverbial wazoo. They filed Iggy Pop and the Stooges in two separate sections (I LOVE these people!). They didn't have Gun Club, but like I said, that's more the rule than the exception. Megan got her Ko and the Knockouts CD (which I'm excited to listen to), I was about to buy the Soledad Brothers' first record but then I stumbled across the Oblivians section and ended up walking away with [i]Soul Food[/i] (which I'm even more excited to listen to: I've already heard a few tracks, and it's one of the rawest, fuzziest, most stompin'-est rock and roll records ever recorded). I can't wait until I get my tax return money so I can go back. It's a tiny, tiny little shop. but the selection is just impeccable--not a Bachman Turner Overdrive record with the name of the previous owner Sharpied on the sleeve in sight--a little like Young Soul Rebels, only not nearly as cool. But hey, it's like a little slice of Young Soul Rebels right here at home. They even had a rack of cool homemade refridgerator magnets, which were horribly overpriced but gave Megan and me the idea to make some of our own for next semester when I have my own fridge at school. There was a T. Rex one there that I might be picking up for Callie for her locker before I come home again, though. Hell, I don't even care if that's just a flimsy excuse to go back and buy something for myself...Underground Sounds is my new favorite record store in Ann Arbor, right down to the surly Jack Black lookalike of a clerk.
I've got to get out of this computer lab so I can start listening to the Oblivians.
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| Megan |
| 03.04.04 (11:42 pm) [edit] |
I love you, too.
It makes me happy to know that I've found something good and pure and real in the middle of all this trash. This sounds cynical, but honesty and authenticity, in anyone or anything, is so hard to come by these days...I'm lucky. Sometimes this place makes me feel like I'm an alien just because I'm in love and I'm not using the phrase ironically. But it's worth it.
There's so much more to it than that, but I don't really have the words to say it right now. Suffice to say, I'm happy again. And still using my blog as a megaphone for my personal life...for the powers of good, this time.
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| Some graffitti I found on the third floor of the Grad. Library: |
| 03.04.04 (4:20 pm) [edit] |
"SOR-WHORE-ITY BITCHES HAVE THE JUICIEST CUNTS. BUT NOT AS JUICY AS FRESH TODDLER TWATS."
"PREGNANT BITCHES GIVE GOOD HEAD."
"Jizz in my nostrils. Jizz in my tight ass. Jizz on my tits. Jizz in my cunt. Jizz on my taco."
"Fairly attractive guy (me) sucked off by fat girl he just met. Gross girl. Great job."
[u]"COLLEGE IS AN AWAKENING TO THE SOUL."[/u]
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| Catching up on reading |
| 03.03.04 (9:58 pm) [edit] |
[i]Julius Caesar[/i], which I finished today, is pretty overrated. Starts with a page and a half of bad puns about cobblers, gets better but still isn't one of Shakespeare's best. I liked the part where they killed the poet Cinna, though, first because they thought he was the conspirator Cinna and then because of "his bad verses."
[i]The Man With The Golden Arm[/i], which I'm 20 pages into and should be two thirds done with, is great. Reminds me a little of the Beats, only more focused: I think it's the urban setting and all the street vernacular. Best book we've read in Chicago Literature. Might be the best book I've read in a while, maybe since [i]The Toughest Indian in the World[/i] by Sherman Alexie. I just wish I had more time to read it...I hate skimming books that I actually like. Wish I'd had time to finish [i]Native Son[/i], too.
I left my copy of [i]Return to Laughter[/i], for Anthro, at home. So cross that off the list, I guess.
Tonight is going pretty shitty. Guess I might as well keep reading, it's not like that will make things get worse.
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| Whatever's eating me, it ain't seasonal. |
| 03.03.04 (7:44 am) [edit] |
Well, apparently the magical curative powers of spring aren't as potent as I'd thought. Last night was horrible. This morning is a little better. What's next, though? That's the worst thing...I have no idea how things are going to be in the future. Can't I just stay happy, even for a week?
Maybe I need to start writing again. That might help me stop feeling so useless. Wait, that's silly. What makes me feel [i]more [/i]useless than trying to write?
Listening to: Abba Zabba by Captain Beefheart
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| And yes, just to reassert once and forever my White Stripes nerd supremacy... |
| 03.01.04 (6:16 pm) [edit] |
You are a HARDCORE Candycane Child! You know more
about the White Stripes than a normal fan
would, and maybe some things Jack and Meg don't
know themselves! Now, you could be me, or you
could have answered some of your questions
dishonestly (or guessed, which you were not
supposed to do), but I'm going to assume you
are an honest Candycane Child, as we all should
be.
Are You a HARDCORE Candycane Child (White Stripes fan)?
brought to you by Quizilla
Well well well...either you cheated, you're me, or
you know Jack pretty darn well. Good for you,
my friend! But, if you come anywhere near my
sex god, I will kill you. Have a nice day now.
How well do you know the elusive Jack White of the White Stripes?
brought to you by Quizilla
Congratulations! You know Megan Martha White almost
as well as me! Hehehe...You probably know more
than you should...but then again, so do I,so
I'm not one to talk.
How much do you know about the White Stripes drummer, Meg White? *NEW AND IMPROVED, KIDS!*
brought to you by Quizilla
Correct! Wow, I'm impressed! You know your White
Stripes lyrics. Rock on "candy caners with
beautiful brainers"!
White Stripes Lyrical Test!
brought to you by Quizilla
Okay, so some of my answers were guesses, but know this: back off, bitches. The White Stripes are [u]MINE[/u].
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| Doing that posting-quiz-results thing people do. You know, that thing. |
| 03.01.04 (5:55 pm) [edit] |
You are the Velvet Underground. You are the most
adventurous, courageous person you know. You
revel in the avant garde, and you are happy to
bring uncomfortable subjects into the picture.
Sure, not many people like you now. But just
wait for the future. You might be the most
influential person of this century.
What Proto-Punk Band Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
You are off-stage Jack! You are somewhat reserved
and quiet. You are very creative, very
old-fashioned, and are perfectly happy staying
in on a Saturday night. Just don't get so quiet
that we might not ever see you again! Same goes
for buying a full-pedal steel guitar.
Which Member of the White Stripes are You Most Like?
brought to you by Quizilla
You're "De Stijl." You're deeply
intellectual, and most people find you very
engaging, if a little serious. However, you are
also known to at times cut loose and just have
fun.
Which White Stripes album are you?
brought to you by Quizilla
...Just in case anybody still wanted to know who I was, but only wanted to know it in terms of proto punk bands and White Stripes records. Which, I suppose, is understandable.
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| First day of class...well, sort of... |
| 03.01.04 (5:39 pm) [edit] |
Today was the first day of classes, and so far it's been going pretty well overall. Of course, a lot of this positive outlook probably has to do with the fact that I didn't actually go to any of my classes today. No matter. The last two days, from Sunday afternoon to the present, have been filled with cuddling, sleeping, Middle Eastern food, cuddling, the Oregon Trail and cuddling, briefly interrupted by a two-hour interlude during which I wrote my [i]Native Son[/i] paper (which turned out pretty damn good, if I do say so myself). Other than a not-so-good encounter with Studs this morning that I'd rather not talk about, things have been going great. I'm the happiest I've been in quite a while, I think.
There are things about Ann Arbor that I really like and that I forgot about while I was basking in the comfort of home: the independence, the pedestrian-friendliness, the Megan. I'm feeling surprisingly comfortable here, which is great because I was kind of dreading coming back. And spring is very much on its way. Tonight I believe I'll even be doing my frantic [i]Julius Caesar [/i]reading outdoors with Dan and Megan, for the first time since way, way back at the beginning of the year. It feels like everything is returning to equilibrium after all the craziness of the last couple months. Spring does that, I guess. Once the sun really starts to come out, I'll start getting my usual urge to go outside and roll on the warm pavement like a cat. The change in seasons always brings me out of the gloom and perks me up for a couple days; I'm looking forward to it. In fact, it's already beginning to happen.
Classes tomorrow, and work. I need to work my ass off because my paycheck is only going to be $50 on Friday, and I have about $7 in my bank account. Hope the weather stays nice. Hope things in general stay this nice, actually. I can't believe I'm saying this, but it's good to be back.
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| There ain't no Jesus gonna come from the sky...now that I found out, I know I can cry. |
| 03.01.04 (7:21 am) [edit] |
On a whim yesterday, I put on yet another record I haven't listened to in ages: John Lennon's [i]Plastic Ono Band[/i]. Again, it was a pleasant rediscovery--this one so much so that I'm giving it a special mention.
Like every self-respecting Lennon fan, [i]Plastic Ono Band [/i]had always been my favorite solo record anyway. But more and more as I listen to it, I think that before yesterday this may have been more due to process of elimination than anything else. It's much too mature a record for a fifteen-year-old to really understand. A lot of overzealous critics refer to it as the "first grunge album," which is completely untrue: not only does are there a lot of really beautiful quiet songs amidst all the sludge, the angst here is very adult, very focused. The man singing these songs has been abandoned by his parents, used by his fame. The ideals of his generation (often credited to him) have failed him and so has the religion of the generation before him. The only thing he has to hold onto is his love for Yoko, and even that is under constant attack from the people who oppose it. Teenagers couldn't relate to [i]Plastic Ono Band[/i] as easily as they could to, say, Nirvana, because you can't just be depressed to understand this music; you have to be depressed and in love.
Basically, there are two albums within [i]Plastic Ono Band[/i]: the cathartic results of Lennon's "Primal Scream" therapy (Mother, I Found Out, God, most famously Working Class Hero), and then a sort of bittersweet love letter to Yoko (Love, Look At Me, Hold On, Isolation). While I love the Primal Scream stuff, especially God, it's really the love cycle that interests me most. These are some of the most beautiful songs John Lennon ever wrote. Hold On is breezily ethereal, like a good dream; Love, its use in a recent cotton commercial notwithstanding, has to be one of the most tender and perfect love songs written by anybody. John and Yoko are under attack at this point, but they can still go within themselves to make this amazing music, this testament to the love they have. I think that's what makes this record so special: it's the sound of a love fighting desperately against the forces that would tear it apart, or more generally, the sound of a man fighting desperately against the forces that have hurt him since childhood--including himself. It has to be the best of the Beatles solo albums, and at least one of the best albums released in 1970. For my money, it's one of the greatest records ever made, and before yesterday, I would probably never have said that.
Listening to: Remember by John Lennon
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| Spring Break: The Numbers |
| 02.29.04 (8:47 am) [edit] |
I'm washing my pants and trying for some sort of closure. Here goes.
Pages of [i]Native Son [/i](still unfinished) read: 360
Miles driven: 345
Dollars spent: 96
Hours of [i]The Sims [/i]played: 25
Blog entries written: 12
Job applications turned in: 8
Beatles CDs rediscovered: 8
Times Prince CD listened to: 5
Friends visited: 4
People from high school talked to: 4
Loads of laundry done: 4
Inches of hair removed: 3.5
Fits of self-loathing: 3
Antonio Banderas movies watched: 2
Nights in bed before 4 a.m.: 2
Conjugal visits: 2
Nervous breakdowns: 1
Essays written: 0
I'm going back this afternoon. I have mixed feelings on the subject. Anyway, better check on those pants.
Listening to: I Found Out by John Lennon
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| I ain't gonna work for no soul-suckin' jerk. |
| 02.28.04 (10:36 pm) [edit] |
Applied for more jobs today: turned in the Capitol Area District Library application and filled two more in at Celebration and NCG Cinemas. I'm really starting to scrape the bottom of the barrel: I do NOT want to work at Celebration Cinemas. For one thing, the place is infernally loud. Maybe I just made the mistake of applying during the week [i]The Passion[/i], the movie it seems all of America has decided to see in unison, was released; but for whatever reason, the theater was packed with noisy people talking over the already blaring sounds of the arcade. For another, as I was walking out I had just begun to adjust to the din, and noticed at that moment that the music playing in the background was Heartbeat, by Don Johnson of [i]Miami Vice [/i]fame...not a song I want to hear 40 hours a week. Then there's the dress code. Yes, folks, I applied to work at a place that upholds a [i]dress code[/i]. And it is as follows: no make-up on men. No earrings on men, or body piercings for either sex. On men, no hair that that touches the bottom of the shirt collar. And my personal favorite: no perfume or cologne. Why? BECAUSE THEY WANT THEIR CUSTOMERS TO SMELL THE SCENT OF FRESHLY-POPPED POPCORN WITHOUT OLFACTORY INTERFERENCE. Yes people, THEY ACTUALLY SAY THIS IS THE REASON.
I do not want to work at a place that gets their panties in a twist over cologne because it masks their precious, insidiously fanned popcorn odor. Nor do I want to work for a corporation who print some phony mission statement about "bettering the community" on the front of their application (it's a fucking MOVIE THEATER, people) and call their staff the "Screen Team." And while my hair might be short now, when in two or three months that condition changes I do not want to cut my hair because some fascist fucker working at a multiplex thinks it's offensive. If I work at Celebration this summer, I will hang myself. Or maybe I'll take a cue from Mel Gibson and crucify myself; there seems to be money in that.
On the way home from NCG, I drove by a church with a little billboard in front that just said "THE PASSION OF THE CHRIST, IN THEATERS WEDNESDAY FEBRUARY 25." How bizarre. Why even bother advertising this movie, if it's on CNN all day and churches are giving it completely unsolicited free publicity? Does that seem unfair to anybody else, when plenty of worthwhile films whose only crime is their secularity die in the box office because God isn't on their side? Shouldn't there be separation of church and Hollywood? Or failing that, shouldn't they have to advertise [i]You Got Served[/i] and [i]Dumb and Dumberer[/i] on church billboards too?
Yesterday I saw another sign on the back of the Knights of Columbus building, aimed at the Planned Parenthood across the street: all it said was "Life Is God's Gift." What kind of world is this, where all this righteous anger is directed at people who are just trying to take us out of this ridiculous religious sense of sexual guilt and into a healthy society? Exactly what the hell is wrong with passing out condoms to people who choose to use them and be responsible, instead of bringing more unwanted babies into the world? Why ignore abortion when acknowledging it might save more lives?
This is Zach's obligatory political post. I think I'm just feeling bitter about religion again, for a few reasons. Let me paraphrase myself: "Does that seem unfair to anybody else, when plenty of worthwhile people whose only crime is their secularity are judged by others because God isn't on their side?"
Anyway.
I also attempted watching [i]The Man Who Fell To Earth [/i] (the pretentious wanker's choice for films starring David Bowie) for the second time today, and this time I actually made it all the way through. I'd rented it myself over Christmas break and gave up at the halfway point, because the film is so impressionistically edited it actually forces the viewer to make up a plot just to fill in the gaps. At the time I mistook this as just bad editing; when Ben called me up and asked if I wanted to watch it tonight, I decided maybe it was time to reevaluate it and see whether that continuity issue was actually artistic intent. It was, but the movie still sucked. The dialogue was ridiculously quiet, the music was just ridiculous (it was one of those classic "Soundtrack by the director's cousin who owns a Casio" flicks, only this one wasn't porn and there were seemingly arbitrary times when the Casio was replaced by blaring loud banjo music), the acting (other than Bowie, who unlike the Pope is infallible) ranged from merely overstated to heavily exaggerated to just plain atrocious, and yeah, the plot was almost entirely impenetrable.
In retrospect, it all makes a lot more sense (once you forget that while you were watching it there were many cases where actual story time was replaced by lengthy fantasy sequences of what appeared to be emaciated gray Teletubbies bouncing on trampolines, accompanied by splashes of milk), and the imagery was in places really interesting. A sex scene in which Bowie and his partner pass a gun loaded with blanks back and forth and fire it in eachother's faces was quite affecting in particular. It was all very artfully shot, the photography was beautiful in places. I liked the theme, too: instead of the aliens coming to Earth to destroy us, this alien comes to Earth and is destroyed. That said, it's not a movie I want to watch again and again. Or really, ever again. In fact, at 2 hours 20 minutes in length, you'd have to strap me down [i]Clockwork Orange[/i] style to get me to sit through it again. About the only good thing to come of it was that I got to see Bowie's cock (finally!). But that's the only real endorsement I'm willing to give this movie, unless you're really bored, have a spare two and a half hours and want to see a lot of Teletubbies frolicking through the desert and spaceships shaped like wedges of cheese.
I keep making this movie sound better than it really is.
Back to school tomorrow. I still need to write that fucking [i]Native Son[/i] paper. I'm not looking forward to seeing Studs again, either. Eight more weeks...but then what? Three Megan-rationed months of sneaking around her parents, around whom I don't think I'll ever be comfortable again? No thanks.
I wish I could just do I want to do, right now. But I can't. Facts of life, I guess. I'm getting to work.
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| Sick of this life. |
| 02.28.04 (11:02 am) [edit] |
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Now I know it: I can't be happy until I can find someplace to be alone. But how long do I have to wait?
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| I'll admit it, Prince: I do relate. |
| 02.26.04 (10:01 pm) [edit] |
I just saw Prince on Jay Leno, and even though he didn't hump anything, even though he didn't do that doing-the-splits-while-pl aying-guitar thing he does, even if his pants did have an ass on them...I'm excited. Why I am I excited? Where to begin? He's releasing a new record. Judging by the track he played on Leno, that record is going to be heavily influenced by old funk and soul (this song was James Brown-ified right down to the Hot Pants reference and Maceo Parker solo). Supposedly he was in the studio with his old partners/arch-enemies Wendy and Lisa. AND he's going on tour...even hitting Detroit by the end of the summer! I am, and this is no hyperbole, [i]thrilled[/i]. Seeing as I'm still smack dab in the middle of my ravenous Prince fan period, this is the best thing I've heard since the Pixies reunion.
Now, needless to say, I still have a grip on reality. The song he played tonight was catchy and funky, but it was no Kiss or Let's Pretend We're Married. It was more of a Sexy Motherfucker...in fact, when they first started playing, I thought it [i]was[/i] Sexy Motherfucker, and that's probably not even in my Top 20 Prince songs. And again, he didn't hump anything...worse still, he announced his new tour as a "family show," which means I probably won't ever get to see him hump anything again without the aid of my [i]Purple Rain[/i] DVD. But let's cut him some slack: for a guy who's spent the last year or so more famous for his door-to-door Jehovah's Witnessing than for his music, that was a damn good performance. He danced, he shrieked, he threw his guitar, he wore an asymmetrical gold jacket and high-heeled boots...he's still got it.
And I'm excited: for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction, the new record and the tour (he says it's his last, but it's never the last when they say it is...I'm not missing it, anyway). Watching Prince put in even a merely solid performance like this one, 25 years into his career, makes me wonder why the hell somebody like Michael Jackson, who was never as talented as Prince in the first place and then proceeded to dry up a good five years before Prince supposedly did, is getting all these accolades and Prince is considered a has-been. Just compare the two of them...I'm not even talking about the whole child-molesting thing. Prince is a fucking musical genius and a brilliant performer, and the fact that he's not recognized as such when people like Jackson are just proves that mainstream music is all about money and politics. Oh, well. Enough of this belly-aching. I'm getting on Ticketmaster to see if there's any information about this tour...I can't wait to see Prince live!!
Listening to: Erotic City by...you know.
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| ...And the rest of you, if you'll just rattle your jewelry. |
| 02.26.04 (9:06 pm) [edit] |
I betrayed myself today. I did the unthinkable, something I promised myself many times I would never, ever do.
I visited my high school.
Now, in my defense, it wasn't quite as bad as the usual college-freshman meet-and-greats, where you go in with a big cheesy grin and a Devil-may-care attitude to smugly say hello to old teachers and underclassman friends and, if you're lucky, be hoisted upon the shoulders of the adoring throngs and carried back to the college of your choice. I did go for a reason--to get the yearbook I ordered more than a year ago and still have not collected--and my plan was to slip in unnoticed, strike quickly and escape. Even this, however, is a little tough for me to live down, and the fact that things didn't go as planned makes it even worse.
I made it past the office, that much I can be proud of. At this point I was a little smug; I'd already passed by at least half a dozen people I recognized, some of which I may have even been able to refer to by name, and hadn't gotten so much as a wave. Maybe my disguise (short, black hair and horn rims--I looked like a young Elvis Costello, or a skinny Clark Kent) worked and no one recognized me. Then I heard my name. I whirled around. It was Ben...I'd been cornered. I gestured wildly to get him to stop saying my name, and he laughed at me. "Zach, you're like seven feet tall," he said. "Everybody saw you coming in and you know it." This kind of took the wind out of my sails, but no matter; Ben and Callie (I'd just picked her up from middle school, which kind of spurred the whole high school idea since they're right next door to eachother) in tow, I continued my beeline to the library and successfully made it there without being caught again. Then things REALLY got out of hand. The librarian was gone for the day, I was stranded in the very heart of Williamston High School, and I had to make my way all the way back out without being caught. I was doomed.
My first mistake was standing around to talk to Ben out in the open. Right away, a girl I used to know from marching band walked by giving me a funny look. I gestured "no" to her and she kept walking. It was a close call. After that, things were deceptively quiet for a while; my smug "they don't recognize" me attitude faded and I began to suspect that I wasn't being approached simply because nobody cared about me in the first place. But when Ben and I took our conversation to the cafeteria, that all changed. Out of the blue, I was accosted by another girl I knew, this one flinging upon me, hugging me, and starting an actual conversation! This had me distracted and confused; I was like a scared animal. Wild thoughts of killing both Torey and Ben with my bare hands and making a break for the nearest exit loping on all fours raced through my mind. Then, just when I thought things couldn't get any worse, my former video production teacher, Mr. Lutzke, literally attacked me, saying something about Jack White and proceeded to throw stage punches in my face and grab me about the sides!
Lutzke detained me for a little while, but I managed to break free. He, Torey and Ben all left, leaving me alone with Callie and, more importantly, another chance to escape. But like an idiot, I squandered this chance by walking back to the library to check one more time and see whether the librarian was back. I didn't find her. What I did find was Renato, the tiny Filipino who had been my frequent video production sidekick last year. He looked at me long and hard, then suddenly leapt into my arms (he does that). Another schmooze session. He said he might be going to Michigan next year and we should party together if he does; I politely declined, saying I'm afraid of being beat up at parties. He liked that joke and for a second I thought that was what got rid of him...then I realized that some sophomore girls had just walked by, and remembered that Renato has one real weakness and that is girls who are younger, blonder and thinner than he is. I couldn't have gotten his attention again if I'd wanted to.
After the Renato encounter, I resisted a few crazy urges to drop in on ex-English teachers and escaped at last from the belly of the beast, in one piece by the grace of God alone. I was still a little shaken, though, and here's why (at this point I'm starting to be serious again): I didn't actually hate the visit as much as I wanted to think I did. In fact, I hate to admit it, but I enjoyed the attention. Walking back into a place in which I had rarely felt anything but awkward, insignificant and unwanted and being greeted with open arms felt good. And it sickens me that I'm that kind of person, who wants to go back for the attention and the good feelings. I feel like such a whore, because I could have and should have done the whole visit way more low-key than I did. Instead, I paraded around in a subconscious attempt to be noticed. Maybe I just wanted to prove (to myself, at least) that I wasn't the total non-entity in high school I often suspected myself of being. Maybe I was suffering an unsightly bout of nostalgia. I don't know. But I don't have a lot of respect for what I did this afternoon, and worse still, I'm coming back tomorrow. I need that yearbook before they set it on fire or something.
As a kind of conclusion (oh, let's face it, more like a total non-sequitur), I watched the second [i]Lord of the Rings [/i] extended edition for the first time today--yeah, I know, I'm behind the times, you bunch of dorks, but some of us have GIRLFRIENDS and don't have time to watch a three and a half hour movie at college, and besides, I was a nerd before it was fucking COOL to be a nerd, so stick that in your pocket protector and...do whatever it is you do with a pocket protector. Anyway, though, watching the extended edition just reinforced for me my belief that [i]Return of the King[/i] is the worst of the series by a longshot. The first two movies are so damn GOOD. I mean, sure, the special effects are occasionally a little cheesy (every time a character overlooks a CG battle scene it looks like he's doing foreign correspondance via bluescreen for the [i]Daily Show[/i]), but the drama can be so human and so real, much more so than in the books from what I've read. And that's one problem with the third movie: the character development is practically nil. Sure, there was the thing with Faromir and his dad, but that felt like it wasn't given enough attention to really establish it as part of the story. I thought the entire Rohan side plot of [i]Two Towers[/i] was much better; the drama between Wyrmtongue and Eowyn and Aragorn and Theowyn (or whatever the king's name is) was riveting. In fact, it felt like almost everything in [i]ROTK[/i] had already been done in [i]Two Towers[/i]; I remember watching the big climactic battle sequence, yawning and going, "I liked it better back when it was called the battle of Helm's Deep." Sad but true. The first two movies are leaps and bounds better, as far as I'm concerned, and I think so even more after watching the second one (which I think may be my favorite) again.
I think my main problem might be this: of the three movies, [i]Two Towers[/i] is the darkest. It's the one where the future is least certain. That to me makes it by far the most interesting. But even by the end of the movie, things are taking a turn for the better: Isengard falls, Rohan is saved, Aragorn seems to be pretty high in the opinion polls, Sam gives Frodo that big rousing inspirational speech...the whole trilogy has climaxed, and already there's a sense that everything is going to be okay. Which gives the third movie no suspense whatsoever; it's just three of hours of, "All right, destroy the fucking ring already!" It's a damn shame. Then again, maybe my opinion will change after I see the [i]Return of the King[/i] extended edition, since the trend seems to be that I prefer the flow of the longer versions overall. I guess we'll see in November (or knowing me, late next February). Until then, though, I remain disappointed in [i]The Return of the King[/i], Oscars be damned.
Listening to: fuck it, the whole second disc of the [i]Beatles Anthology 1[/i] (hence this post's title)
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| Of jobs and haircuts and Antonio Banderas |
| 02.25.04 (8:17 pm) [edit] |
It seems that, sometime between now and the last time I searched in vain for a decent job, I'd forgotten how much I hated job-hunting. Let's just say the last week has reminded me. Both today and Monday, I got up at ungodly (for me) hours to drive all over the Lansing area, picking up pieces of paper on which I write the same mundane facts about myself to turn in and then maybe--MAYBE--get a job at the end of April. I'm starting to feel so hopeless about it, because I'm reminded so much of last May, when I did much the same thing (at many of the same places) and was met with such utter disinterest that I ended up having to take a miserable job as a dish washer at a restaurant called the "Williamston Roadhouse." Sometimes I fill out an application, look over the answer, and think, who is the mentally-challenged 14-year-old who wrote this thing for me and why did I let them do it? A few greatest hits (written in all caps because it's the only way I can print even semi-legibly): "I HAVE EXPERIENCE WORKING IN A LIBRARY AND AM KNOWLEDGEABLE IN THE AREA OF CATEGORIZING DIFFERENT TYPES OF BOOKS." "I GO TO THE UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN, WHERE I STUDY CREATIVE WRITING AS WELL AS FILM." "I AM HARD-WORKING AND CAPABLE OF STAYING ON TASK."
It's all just so tedious and mundane as to be almost ridiculous. I honestly can't tell whether what I'm saying is actually this stupid, or whether I just think it's stupid because the things I have to tell about myself are paradoxically obvious and yet not at all helpful in understanding me as a person. I just hate putting myself out here like this to be judged; not just judged, but judged by standards I don't even care about. I can't wait until I get a job and this shit is all behind me (for another year, at least). Though the way I'm predicting things to go--that is, another year with six applications in and no interest anywhere--I might as well be trying to win the lottery.
I hate jobs. Working for them and looking for him. I think I'm just going to find some rich old eccentric pervert and let him paint nudes of me in return for food, lodging, tuition and the occasional spending money. That may sound degrading to you, but if you've ever washed dishes, you'll know it's actually an improvement.
In better news, I saw Ben today, for the first time since the David Bowie concert last month (which was, if you're wondering, excellent). We had a nice long chat over a truly awful movie called [i]Two Much[/i], starring Antonio Banderas and Melanie Griffith. In the movie, Antonio Banderas plays a con man who falls in love with Melanie Griffith's sister, but he's already [u]accidentally[/u] become engaged to Melanie Griffith because--get this--while he's sitting there talking to her, a guy on the floor upstairs drops a ring through the floorboards, it falls onto her lap, and ANTONIO IS TOO MUCH OF A JACKASS TO JUST SAY HE DIDN'T KNOW WHERE THE RING CAME FROM. That's right, folks: you [i]can[/i] be bluffed into marriage, and don't you forget it. So anyway, in order to get with the woman he really wants (and evade Melanie's ex-husband, who incidentally is a mobster), Antonio (or "Art," as his character is called--all too fittingly, as he is a former artist who now specializes in selling artwork) puts his con man skills to work and invents an imaginary twin brother named "Bart," who of course looks exactly like Art, except his hair is not in a ponytail and he wears these little round glasses, thus rendering him completely unrecognizable to his fiancee. He then goes about dating [i]both[/i] sisters, as two different people ([i]TWO Much[/i]...get it?). Obviously, this presents the following problem: even if the woman he's after falls in love with Bart but still hates Art (which she does), and even if Melanie Griffith falls out of love with Art (which I imagine she probably would), how the hell does (B)Art manage to reconcile the fact that his quasi-girlfriend is now in love with someone who doesn't exist? I wish I could tell you the answer to this quandary, but we turned off the movie before it ended. All I can tell you is that it had something to do with a carful of comical old men jumping a bridge during a car chase and a lot of gratuitous shots of Antonio Banderas's chest hair. I must see the beginning and end of that movie.
In a last piece of good news, I got my hair cut today and I like it. No, it doesn't look like the picture (it never does), in fact it's much shorter, but I feel about twenty pounds lighter without all that hair and I look like an upstanding, clean-cut young boy. I can't wait to find out how low-maintenance it is next morning. No more half hour in front of the mirror trying to dry and shape my hair every morning! I can take that wasted time and use it for something worthwhile...like sleeping, something I've been doing so little I ended up dozing off again this evening while I was reading [i]Native Son[/i]! Can you tell how happy I am by the amount of exclamation points I'm using?! Because I'm actually not this excited at all!
Listening to: 1969 by the Stooges
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