Things I Fucking Love, Vol. 3

Having breakfast-foods for dinner.

Opening

Our show opened today. It was a wonderful performance. Letters to the End of the World is the title. It is a new work. I have lots to say. It's sad. I had a piece of frosted lemon cake today also. And I had breakfast-foods for dinner.

Fun With Whips and Nipple Clips

Went to my first-ever BDSM party Saturday night. It was really fun. I woke up Sunday with my back covered in burst blood vessels. I got flogged by this great dom named Liz (whose sub, Kitty, does neurological research on pain). I also tried flogging someone but didn't really get into it. I think spanking someone would be more fun, but I didn't try it. Perhaps the most enjoyable aspect of the evening was the social interaction. The people are all really kind and inviting. Folks in the BDSM culture - while not without their quirks - are refreshingly well-adjusted and self-aware as compared to the breed of suburbanites with whom I have grown up. I'll probably do it again some time, but the cover's kind of expensive.

Lactose Indeterminate

I get my milk from a machine. This machine is big and made of shiny metal and has two rubber hosey-things. From the left tubey-like-thing cometh the skim, and from the right utter-like spigot ushers forth whole. Above each rubber teat hangs a weighted lever. Lift the lever, get the white stuff.

I was raised since birth (well, perhaps not since birth - I don't actually know if I was breast-fed. mem. ask the mum) to drink only of the skim. As you may know, I recently took to the right lever. Well, for reasons I won't go into, I'm back again to skim. There is a slight problem, however. In my time with the Big Metal Milk Machine, I've spent two years lifting the left lever three times a day and a year at the right lever. I have muscle memory for both skim and whole. So these days when I go to grab my cow nectar, my body will automatically load one of its two "get the milk" routines and if I'm not paying attention, I won't find out what kind of milk I have until I sit down for a sip. It's a little bit exciting.

Super, Thanks For Asking

Super Tuesday has come and gone. I flew back to MN just to vote. I did both the Democratic and Republican caucuses. The Dems were much better organized and much better attended. I got stickers. It was fun. Back to school!

Things I Fucking Love, Vol. 2

Amazon MP3 store. Bye bye iTunes. Fucking awesome.

Pats Loose

Booo.

BYE BYE BLISTER or GOO IN THE SHOE

First, a little genetics. Among her many graces, my mother has lovely feet. She also had the good sense to give those beautiful feet to her two equally beautiful children. My mother, my sister and I all have a very elegant second toe (second most proximal - next to the "Big Toe"). It protrudes tastefully past the Big Toe, making it the longest of our phalanges. It is the foot of aristocracy. My father, on the other hand, has what the ladies and I refer to - rather euphemistically - as the "chopped toe." His Big Toe is the longest, followed by each successively distal digit, giving the overall foot a frankly disgusting linear slope.
Shortly after retiring to my mid-West abode for Winter recess, I made my N-th "Glorious Return to the Gym!" The season being what it was, and the gym being where it is, I thought it best not to assume my daily run to the gym - rather to use the vulgar hamster-wheels there provided. The physics of running a treadmill differ subtly from the those of Actual Running. While I (still) do not fully understand these differences in their entirety, I became aware of their existence when I noted the development of a blister on my right foot, on my second toe - my longest toe. Confident in my body's competence in these matters, I left the vile thing be. It proceeded to grow, enveloping more and more of the end of my toe, until it had nearly commandeered the whole of the tip and was visibly running under the nail. My beautiful second toe grew longer still as the purulent bulb swelled by the day. It was not especially painful or bothersome and I continued to treadmill throughout the outbreak. It was just about deserving of a name when, yesterday, I took off my sock to discover that the abscess was now a withered and deflated husk of white, dead skin. It would seem the blister burst sometime during my day, filling my shoe with a rush of pus. Oh well.

Sleepy Head

I must be really behind on my sleep or something. I got to bed at 10 and I woke up at 9 and I'm still yawning. Poopie.

The First Law of New York Physics

People who walk more slowly than you are retarded. People who walk more quickly than you are insane. These are the only categories of New York pedestrian; the Retards, the Maniacs, and You.

Ha Ha J.J.

I are back! In New York that is. I really don't feel like telling you anything about it. So there!

Things I Fucking Love, Vol. 1

Dinosaur Comics

The Wire

Allow me to introduce my friend, the wire. Chances are you've already met. The wire visits all in due time. Or rather, all visit the wire. However thorough one's planing, however precise one's timing, one inevitably, invariably, eventually finds oneself down to the wire. The wire is the asymptote of failure; the event horizon of survival; the third rail of life: go ever so near, but do not touch. With luck, one's wire encounters are few. With luck, one passes with clearance to spare. I, however, enjoy a luck of a different stripe.

My luck - my talent - is in wire riding. I do not go down to the wire. I go on the wire. I tight-rope-walk the wire. I shimmy and skip and flip and grind on the wire. I straddle the wire. I floss my ass cheeks with the wire. I hump the wire and the wire and I make beautiful love and have beautiful children. I read to my wirelings at bedtime. Then I tuck them into their wire-beds, kiss their wire-heads, and go fuck the shit out of their wire-mother's bunghole. That's right, the wire and me have sloppy anal sex. I'm talkin' messy. And sometimes I let it be on top. That's messy too.

Why do I do this, you ask? Am I a wire fetishist? Am I trying to prove a point? Is this an instillation art piece? No, no, and no. Nearest as I can figure it, the wire is just the most interesting place to be. I could steer clear. I could plan ahead. I could undertake to avoid the wire all together. But I find a crackling 10,000 volt wire, a yawning 20,000 foot precipice, an enclosed space filled with flaming tigers and laser-guided bears, is just a more interesting place to be. Wouldn't you say?

"Sleep is the last resort of cowards." - Me

Ho Ho Ho

Marry Christmas!

Me

I hate school and I hate class
and I hate homework and I hate
twelve (12) page papers
and I hate grades,
but I hate myself.

And I hate my dad and I hate my mom and I hate
my sister and my sister's friends and my friends
and acquaintances
and myself
and people I've never met and racial minorities - especially blacks -
and women
and leaders of foreign nations
and the impoverished, flea-bitten bloated-bellied AIDS Babies of those nations,
but I hate myself.

And I hate Aeschylus and Sophocles and Euripides and
Socrates and Plato and Aristotle and
Derrida and Sam Beckett and
the Theater of the Avant Garde
and Theater
and logical derivations and doubly-linked-lists and especially AVL trees.

NYU and C and emails from my grandmother and The
World and God and my father and my grandfather and me and every one of my successes
and all of my failures.

I hate this blog and I hate this poem.

And I hate Global Warming and I hate
hybrid cars and The Economy and Adam
and Eve and Charles Darwin and Sigmund Freud,
but I hate myself.

I hate love and
I hate generosity and
I hate diarrhea
and Ayn Rand.
I hate hate and
I hate haters
and hate groups
and hate speech
and speech in general
as well as non-verbal communication and silence.
I hate love again and respect and children
and hope and happiness and suffering.
I hate death and life and my life and me
and my name and my toes and my id and my ego
and my boyhood and my nose and I hate God
and my cock and my balls and my asshole and my mouth
and my interests and my intestines and my aorta and my neocortex too.

But most of all I hate you.
I hate your face and your breath and your ideas
and everything you think, say, and do.
I hate the money you make
and the sex you have
and the things you own.
I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!
I hate you, the world, God, Christmas, and you.

But I hate myself.


If I get a diploma, I will burn it.

Size doesn't matter. Except when it does.

Holy Saint Francis, what a change is here! You will recall the twelve (12) page paper on which I was so recently working which turned out in the end to be a cowardly seven (7) page paper. Well, I embarked tonight to fill out the remaining pages with such extra time as I've been afforded. After a few hours of toil at the library, I jumped back home to do some stuff and plugged the new paper into OpenOffice to check my progress (I write the paper at the library in Google Docs, which has very poor page count estimates). Nine pages. Hmm, thought I. This is going to be a long night. Somewhat crestfallen but eager nonetheless, I returned again to the library for more toil. At 3am they finally evicted me from the stacks (the place with the book) and I relocated to the study lounge. The study lounge has iMacs with Word, so I took a deep breath, crossed my fingers, and pasted the paper in. Sixteen (16) pages. I finished the sentence I was working on, slapped my name on the top, and emailed that bad boy in. Done and done. On a related note, the eight (8) page paper I was also working on weighed in at a clean eight (8) pages. Yeehaw.

News From the Front

Thought I would continue last night's tradition of liveblogging from the library. It's 12:45 and the paper is halfway done (it was halfway done at 12:30 - I haven't done anything the last 15 minutes) and that's very good. Remember, this one is eight (8) pages long. Or it will be when it's done. Yesterday's paper has gotten a new lease on life: it turns out not to be due due until noon tomorrow. Whether that gives me enough time to double its length is doubtful, but I might squeeze in a few extra quotations. I have only slept about two out of the last forty eight hours. I'm actually feeling surprisingly good for so little rest. Not as witty as I might be, but as I always say, "can't be witty after every 48 hours of sleep deprivation." See what I mean. Well, I'd best get back to that ole paper. Maybe if I finish before four I can work on the other paper and get it up to ten pages before noon. Wish me luck!

Essay Terminus or One Down, One to Go

Yesterday's/last night's/this morning's twelve (12) page paper is finished, but at the last minute decided to be a seven (7) page paper. I'm not too worried. Unlike parachute ripchords and French emperors, a short essay never killed anyone. Though I wouldn't put it past my paper. It's already burgled some of my property. My watch - the one I never wear except for when I do - is now lost somewhere in the Bobst library. Thrown from my wrist in a frenzy of page-turning, no doubt. This is the same watch, by the way, that was leaking chemicals up and down my arm. It's a comfort to know that I continue to educate myself in the importance of not loosing shit. Like the children you see on leashes who must always wear their harness, I must always keep my watch on my wrist. I like to think that, at 21, the lesson is only repeated for rhetorical emphasis.

Well I've barely recovered from the no-sleep, no-timepiece extravaganza that was last night's paper, and I'm already gearing up for tonight's no-sleep, no-timepiece eight (8) page essay extravaganza, due tomorrow! I'm armored and ready for battle. I have my sword, my pen, my furry hat, my library card, and but for a wristwatch I am the image of scholarly preparedness. Bring it on, say I! And if this eight (8) page paper is paper enough to meet the length requirement, then I shall meet it in the ring of honor. Tonight. Slash tomorrow morning. Bobst Library. Fourth floor. Be there!

Jealousy

Am still at the library writing the aforementioned twelve (12) page paper. Sitting across from me while I was deep in composition was a girl reading a book. The book was entitled, "Travesti: Sex, Gender, and Culture among Brazilian Transgender Prostitutes."

The paper (my paper) is about Greek drama, by the way.

Lessions in Search Quality

I'm at the library right now writing a twelve (12) page paper which is something that I don't enjoy doing very much. Anyway, (some of) the computers in the library only have Internet Explorer in a quasi-kiosk mode with no address bar. The only way to navigate to, say, Google, is to open the IE search sidebar and search for "google". The IE search sidebar uses Windows Live Search.

So I get on to one of these computer and need to get to Google Book Search (books.google.com). I type "book search" into the search sidebar and hit enter. Before I tell you what results Windows Live gave me for "book search," let me briefly tell you what Google gives you for the same query: books.google.com - result #1, just what I want. Now here is what Windows Live gave me:

Result #1: www.book-search.com "Best way to search for books on the net! ... All rights reserved. This page is copyright 1994 Triple Threat Sportscards." [Emphasis mine]

Result #2: www.bookfinder.com "Search engine that finds the best buys from among 125 million new, used, rare, and out-of-print books for sale. Includes textbooks and international titles." [Emphasis mine]

Result #3: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Google_Book_Search [The Wikipedia page about Google Book Search]

Result #4: booksearch.blogspot.com [The official blog about Google Book Search]

Result #5: www.usedbooksearch.co.uk [A used book retailer... in the UK]

Result #6: www.usedbooksearch.co.uk/books.htm [Apparently it thinks I could use another result from the same UK estore]

Result#7: books.google.co.uk [Finally it gives me the UK version of Google Book Search. To be clear, I'm not using the UK version of Live Search. It recommended the .co.uk domain before the .com domain]

In the subsiquent results were books.google.ca and books.google.au, but plain old books.google.com didn't show up in the 35 pages I clicked through. I thought that was an interesting observation.