I Apologize Profusely For The Lack of Posts...

This is my post now. I have a reason. I have a reason for the lateness: specifically, I am being d.v.d.a.'ed by homework. Big major assignments. Plus I have to write a 30-page radio play for a girl. Which is hard.

And I'm going to be doing a lot of shit the next week too, so you're probably on your own. Even though I'll be done my Somalia essay.

Which reminds me. If you have any anarchist friends, tell them to go to Somalia. Because they've got no national government. They'll have to go to Kenya, though, because Somalia's got no international airport.

Oh, and if any of your friend's is socialist, tell them to go to Korea. That country is, bar none, the scariest goddamn place on the Earth. It's like something out of a bad dystopian novel. Keanu Reeves as Neo couldn't even dent it. Orwell only dreamed of what Kim Jong-il's doing over there.

Lyndon B. Johnson Quote of the Day

"Fuck your parliament and your constitution."

• • to the Greek ambassador when he objected to American plans in Cyprus

Kev

I am in a broadcast group. We're doing something about theatre. I know nothing.

I am in group with Kev. He's smart, nice, friendly, confident, and Scottish. And I don't like him.

Not because he's Scottish, though. It's because he's trying to impress me.

He keeps talking. He tells anecdotes about elevators when we're in elevators. I mean, yeah, it's vaguely interesting, but sometimes, you have to just shut the fuck up, you know? He wants to impress people.

Anyway, he's a character. He looks like he's in his mid-30s. He's balding, covered up by a skull-and-bones bandana. He's got long girl fingernails, but I think it's a D and D thing. Wears nothing but black.

I've learned more about social interaction in an hour with Kev than throughout my life. I try to be Kev. I try to impress people. Fuck that. Life is Zen - you don't want it, you'll get it.

The way around this is to make it seem that you don't want something. Because in any relationship, there is a bitch and a butch.

No one wants the bitch. Hopefully this will reflect on how I interact with women.

Oh, and actually be funny.

"Creepy."

Don't you hate when you can't come up with a good comeback?

Don't you hate it when you can only come up with a bad comeback?

Don't you hate it even more when you come up with a bad comeback, but you half-mutter/half-speak it, so that they don't know if they heard it?

Because that's what happened me.

I've got this weird relationship that I'm not sure if it's because I imagine myself to be more of a studly pimp, or whether or not it's really true.

Pimply Girl lives in my building. She keeps trying to talk to me, when we're in the elevator. We're in one class - Third World Politics. She wonders about how my test went, blahdity blahdity blah.

She seems too excited. This could be her regular attitude. Or it could be infatuation. As someone who had more crushes than he had Chinese food, I'm uniquely qualified to diagnose these.

And I've had a lot of Chinese food. I've also written a lot of bad metaphors. Anyway.

Today, she comes with her friends in the elevator.

Cheerier than a girl in a candy shop, she says, "So what'd you think of the test? How'd you do?"

"I thought I did well. It was...interesting." Quarter-second pause. My floor came up.

One of her friends says, "Cree-eepy."

Was it that pause? My trenchcoat? My dress shirt and tie? Was it my response? The pause before interesting?

Was he just being a prick?

I knew the answer.

After a half-second pause to contemplate the "what-the-fuckness" of the situation, I, half-mutting, half-speaking, half-turning to face the turd, I said, "Hey, fuck you, too." But this was no regular fuck you. The inflection was perfect - the right mix of disdain, class, confidence, and rhyming. The finest Juliard thespians could not have gotten a better fuck you too.

Only problem? Lack of audio. Had I a microphone, it would have been the standard of fuck you, toos-textbooks would have written on it. The word fuck would cease to have meaning, because no one could ever reach the state of that fuck you, too. It was a great fuck you, too. And I'd like to thank Pimply Girl for that. Because it's not often that I'm reminded that I feel like a player. Even if Pimply Girl's probably brain damaged, or I'm misinterpreting the signs.

She may be Pimply Girl, and I may not care if she's devoured by wolves at this point, but right then, she was my muse.

Infatuations are always about people outside your league. I really hope Pimply Girl doesn't think I'm outside her league.

I'm kinda growing a mullet right now.

What I Learned In My Feature Writing Class To-Day

We were discussing place and structure. How every story's got to have one. The teacher was using the example of BrokeBack Mountain.

"The story of those two had to take place in the south in the 60s. It wouldn't be so hard in San Fransico. You need to have a location: you can't have them in space."

Gay cowyboys in space. That would be an awesome movie.

Especially if they were lesbians. Lesbian cowgirls in space, fighting wrongs and loving right.

Add "space" and "lesbians" to any movie to practically any movie, you'll get a better movie. Except Citizen Kane or Schindler's List or a dramatic movie. Basically, any fun movie can have more fun if it's in space and has lesbians.

Which is why I'm going to be writing about lesbian cowgirls in space.

Operalone

I am a classy loser.

I have no date for Friday. I have no date for the last Friday. I may have never had a date on a Friday. (Maybe on another day of the week.)

So I figured, instead of playing City of Heroes/Villains for Friday, I’d go out to the opera by myself. Gotterdammerung.

That’s going to be my refrain now – “What’s the alternative?”

As We Proceed...

Ripley's Law worked today. Worked like a vengeance.

Frightened to death that I was going to pay 10 grand for a computer. Thankfully, a camera guy stole it to prove it a point about how more careful I should be. Could've just told me, but stealing proved his point.

There's still a small part of me that thinks my brain shorted out - that this is all a dream. Not the nightmare part - but these parts afterward. I was a fucking wreck.

Got a shitty mark back, and I failed another assignment. It's been a while.

But then, this was just after I found out that I was out of 8 grand of debt, so it didn't seem so bad. Plus, I don't really want to take that class. At all.

When I get home, I get an e-mail. It's about an article I'm writing. It could underpin my whole "he's a good guy" approach to it.

By the way, when you're feeling really depressed, Radiohead helps. It's not too happy, so you get mad at it for being happy, and not too sad, to make you angry at it for being sad. Just the right kind of sad. I’m opening up the comments section for any other bum-out music you’ve got.

But if there's one thing I hate worse than being stabbed by frozen feces turned into weapons, (which, looking back on it, wouldn't be so bad.) Anyway, I hate bitchers. So here's what I'm going to do:

E-mail the guy right now. Put in the revised comments into the article.
Think of ways to get back at Gary Gould, which sounds like a villain - not Doctor Doom level villainy, but bad co-worker villainy. A comic foil. I'm thinking something with bird-eating spiders. Plus, he’s a nerd. Went on and on about how realistic a “Star Trek” ride in Vegas is. Only nerds like Trek. Too pretentious to be entertaining.
Work on school, get my grades back up.
Get some good recipes for tommorow.
Get Wagner tickets for Gotterdammerung tommorow.

Fuck yeah. And if I ever whine, I'll fucking smack myself.

Fuck! I fucking whined!

I'm going to smack myself. Check the obituaries in tommorow's paper.

Classy

That was my afternoon, in McDonalds, two sex stores, and a porn store. Hunky-dory.

Funny sites, all. Met with Nathan Crocker, as in "crock of bullshit." He's a caricature - vulturous nose, no chin. He could be a supporting cartoon character, someone Bugs Bunny tricks. Nerd like me.

Saw something funny: Guy opened the door for his lady when they went into a sex store. Like the title says, classy.

Why was I at these places, he said, abruptly stopping the story to provide much needed narration?

Well, in my broadcast groups, we needed to do a story. Anything. We talked about doing an idea about sex stores, like the Stagg Shop.

And I'm surprised how little my friends have shame. They went in there, eyes a-blazing, not showing any shame. No one else reacted - it was McDonalds. I wanted to leave.

Yes, I am a prude. It's a retro thing. Seriously, the only guys who are prudes, people who don't advocate legalizing prostitution, not having pre-marital sex...all 60 years old. Or Conservative. And I'm a fan of the 40s/50s that whole old time. Everyone wants the image, but never the ideas...we forget about them. The ideas. People forget who Gandhi is, like my cousin.

They stood around, talking, in front of a porn store. I suggested moving around, but they wouldn't have it.

It was quite a group. One angry at the ugly people, one angry at the beautiful people, one guy just trying not to get hurt, and another guy hating everyone. I'll let you guess who I am.

There's other things, but it doesn't go anywhere. That's the problem with reality - it has errors, plots go all over the place, people have confusing emotions, no denouement, and it takes a lot of shit to get something happy, and the shit that is "our troubles" is something good, usually our best moments, when we feel the best.

That's another post, for tommorow.