More Birthday Fun

My birthday is a holiday!
http://www.break.com/index/fck-the-earth-day.html

Remarkable Coincidence

The Dinosaur Comic for my birthday:
http://www.qwantz.com/archive/001209.html

Birfday

Dear Blog,
Steven worries that I neglect you. Better than abuse you, I say! There, there. Papa's back.

What I've been up to lately (in roughly chronological order):

• I went to Boston with Baily to visit the Novell peeps. Aaron let us crash at his place.
  this.Friends["abock"].Esteem += 5; //I keep my friends in a hashtable
  
• Our show opened.
• The folks came by to see it.
• Michael can down from Boston to see the show.
  this.Friends["mhutch"].Esteem += 20;
  this.Friends["abock"].Esteem *= 0.1; //Esteem is a double
• Folks and Hutch and I went to see Pattie Stewart in Macbeth.
• Show closed.
• And now it's my birthday.

That's pretty much everything that's happened in the last howeverlong. I'm 22 years old.

"Time to die!" -Roy

Things I Fucking Love, Vol. 5

Tikibar TV

Who do you want answering the phone?

I spare no expense for hobos. Literally. Any request of the form, "spare some _____" will get a big ole "I'm too busy with my own thoughts even to pretend I didn't hear you" look out of me. If I ever did have the kind of money where I could just blow it on the homeless, I would instead use it to buy them copies of Atlas Shrugged. Anyway, the other day I was heading through the Fulton St. subway station when this guy at a pay phone asked me, with convincing earnestness, for a quarter. "Here," I think, "is a man in a pickle. A hard working Joe who is caught without any change and clearly needs to place a phone call. No surprise: with the prevalence of credit cards, it's not a wonder he hasn't got a quarter. And his cell phone could be out of juice, or in his other pants. This is a man," thought I, "who needs only to make one quick, urgent call. He certainly isn't looking for a leisure quarter or booze money, and he certainly isn't without a home. He could very well be calling his home. I have a quarter. I will give this tragic hero my quarter. Here you go, noble sir, MAKE THAT CALL!"

Several days later, I saw the same man at the same phone asking for quarters in the same "this never happens to me, I can't believe this is happening to me" tone of voice. He was a very clever hobo. I did not give him a quarter and he called me a faggot. I suppose we all adapt.

Gone Bananas!

I don't eat bananas. They are just one of those fruits I never ingest under any circumstance ever. From the time I was born until about a week and a half ago, I had eaten exactly no bananas. Which brings us to a week and a half ago. We were teching our shows and I was all of a hungered. Then Pat, one of our freshman lackies, proffered me a bit of a bite of his banana. I informed everyone within earshot that I never eat bananas at all because of 1) their stupid taste, 2) their gross texture, and 3) I don't like the banana-flavored runts (for the same reasons I don't like bananas). I forget what happened next, but it involved me eating the banana. I know!

Flash three days later: I come in for strike and inform every Caroline Counts within earshot that I am all of a hungered. WHAMEE! She whips out a banana. BIFF! I peel. *GRODY BANANA NOISES* It is gone.

I am now averaging a banana a day. My new director, Ian, is even getting them for me. I guess I've...

Gone Bananas!

A farse in three acts
by S.T. Peterson

Things I Fucking Love, Vol. 4

90 minuets of Christopher Hitchens eviscerating a rabbi.

Metapost

I made the observation about Ian and me (including my history of subconscious impersonation) no less than three times today, to different people. When you tell the same story three times in a day, you know it's time for a blog post!

Post

A long-known fact about myself: when I'm around certain people, I begin to behave like them. For instance, when I am home, I act more like my dad - mannerisms, patterns of speech, &c (I am especially like my dad when I interact with my sister). Also when I'm around Sam, I act more Sam-ish than usual. The director of the play I am now in is crazy. I mean, craaaazy. KARAYZEE!!! I'm running out of text formatting options and I'm concerned that you're still not catching my drift. The man is... well, ok. Crazy. You get it. Ok, so, today I find that I am begining to behave like Ian (that's his name. Ian.) when I'm in rehearsal. Which is craaazy. But also awesome.

Fruit Distribution

This is an eyeball estimation of the fruit distribution in the dining hall's fruit bowl:

This is inversely proportional to my appetite for each of the above fruits.

Closing

Our show closed yesterday. I was really not expecting it to be as good as it was. It was very well received and people whose opinions I greatly respect had very kind words. I was also awarded the nicest compliment I've ever received after the first show. An old woman I'd never met said that Stella [Adler] would adore me. She had been a student and friend of Stella's. What a thing to hear! So all in all, a good show. Now, onward!

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.