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[24 Oct 2006|06:21am]
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[26 Sep 2006|04:34pm]
Mrs. Salzman made us do two timed writings on a chapter I hadn't read today.

Me: But Mrs. S! That's unreasonable. It's unconscionable! It's unfair! It's-
Mrs. Salzman: Awwwwwwww. Poor Nathan. Do you want some cheese with your whining?

And Chester Martin definitely got suspended today.

Jason, Chester, and I were walking to Schleif's class, when some retarded little kid ran straight in front of us, brushing Chester. So Chester goes "THATS IT" and runs after the kid. He then tackled the poor little bastard to the ground, right in front of an aid.

Aid: Uh, what was that all about?
Chester: That kid ran in front of me, so I tackled the crap out of him.
Aid: Hmmm, I think you'd better come to the office.

And that was the last we saw of him. He was suspended for the rest of the day, and for tomorrow too if the kid happened to be "seriously injured." Either way, we're all wearing FREE CHESTER shirts tomorrow. You should too. You can pick from several designs:
The aforementioned plain Free Chester shirt
The "Chester gave himself up for your sins" design
The "Chester Was Framed" model
my personal favourite
"Chester 1, Children 0"

God, I hate little kids.
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[24 Sep 2006|10:28pm]
I had lunch with DR MALINSKY today!
We went to Panera! T'was damn fantastic.

Me: So what've you been up to?
Dr. M: I've taken a whole bunch of art classes. I took a fish printing class on Saturday.
Me: Er, fish printing?
Dr. M: Yes. The ancient Japanese art of smearing a live fish in paint and then imprinting it on paper.
Me: Live fish???
Dr. M: Did I say live fish? I meant dead fish.
Me: Ah.
Dr. M: The key thing is remembering to plug up all the fish's orifices so that its guts don't spew when you press down.

I love Dr. Malinsky.

It's late at night right now, but my father is blasting calypso music at top volume throughout the house because he "thought I'd like to hear it."
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[17 Sep 2006|09:18pm]
There's a button on all of the YMCA phones that just says ∞. It sits beneath the row that has the *, the 0, and the # in it. It's bigger than all the rest. I like it. I've never pushed it, but I love the idea of an Infinity Button. Because who knows what it might do? There are thousands of possibilities. Well, infinite possibilities, actually. It's probably something really anticlimactic. But the fact that there's a button that can do anything in the world helps me sleep at night. There should be more buttons like that.
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[16 Jul 2006|12:48am]
[ mood | superfluous ]

So today at the YMCA one of the old men who play raquetball came up to me, pointed back to the court area and said "There's a BLACK MAN back there!"

"So?" I said.
"Well, I don't mean to cause a disturbance or nothin', but I think he snuck in. Do you remember checking him in?"
"I didn't check him in myself, no. My supervisor could have checked him in though."

Then my supervisor walked over.

Old man: Did you check the BLACK MAN back there in? We think he snuck by.


Supervisor: Yes, I did, he's a member.
Old man: Oh, fine then. It's just that you can't be too careful these days, and my friend thought he looked pretty shifty.

Racist bastard.

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i looked up quotes about bees on the imdb [18 Oct 2005|08:22pm]
Here's a fun waste of time: Assign the bee quote to the movie or television program it appeared in.

"I like my women like I like my coffee... covered in BEEEEEES!"

"I ate all your bees."

"Spin, I hate bees. They're like flying death monkeys."

"Bees communicate by dancing."

"Ohhh, I wore a fifteen-pound beard of bees for that woman, but it wasn't enough."

"Bees, man. Bees have hives!"

"Well, when I started talking, I realized I had no idea what they do. What do bees do?"

"Yeah, we learned about it in biology. Bees sting and birds crap on your head."

"Oh, my God! Bees! Bees! Millions of Bees!"

"Doctor, is there a provision for an attack by killer bees?"

"Ya know, most people think that there the name Buzz Aldrin has some huge meaning behind it... nope, he was afraid of bees."

"Those bees gave me so many lumps that I feel like a bowl of oatmeal!"

"Well, the smoke disorganizes and confuses the bees."

"It was... um... it was full of bees."

"Do bears bear? Do bees be?"

"At my old school, we never rode on bees."

Lots of movies mention bees.
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3rd degree sexual abuse of a minor woooooo [18 Oct 2005|03:12pm]
So I googled myself.
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[17 Oct 2005|07:54pm]
Paul and I set off for Orlando around 2 p.m. I had made us some Creedence mixes for the trip, and my mother had packed us sandwiches and Mountain Dews. We loaded our stuff in the trunk of his black Buick Riviera, put on our jackets, ties, and sunglasses, and sped out of my driveway and off on our road trip.

Two and A Half hours later, full of sandwich and spirit, we wheeled into the parking lot of the Orlando Sheraton University Drive, an octagonal building with a big thingie on top that says Sheraton and rotates that can be seen for miles. We rolled into a parking space and plopped our stuff onto the ground, then gathered everything up and headed through the light drizzle to check in. The lobby was sparkling, Hollywood-themed, with posters of Marilyn Monroe and Elvis looking at us from every direction, reflected in the polished white tile floors and the mirrored ceilings. We dragged our baggage down the hall to the check-in table for the Planned Parenthood conference, and signed in with the rest of the Student Activists. Upon signing in, the bouncy Planned Parenthood ladies gave us pink shirts three sizes too big and gift bags with candy and condoms in them.

We found our room and deposited our bags in it, then went off Downtown to meet up with the other Activists for a big protest. They got lost, though, and I bought Paul a sandwich in Panera. Suddenly, outside, a bus pulled up and about two hundred kids got off wearing bright pink Save Roe shirts. They started chanting something about John Roberts not being cool, so we joined them.

We went back to the hotel and sat around our rooms and then ate dinner, and then at midnight we went out for a drive and followed a ferris wheel on the horizon until we found it. Then we rode it.

The next day we did some more Activism, learned some things, had lunch with the lawyer-turned-senator who Exposed Ms. Cleo, and then went to the CityWalk with some chick. We ate Mexican food. I had a bunch of churros.

We watched a documentary that night about how a brothel is run, and I sliced my thumb open all the way down it because I'm incompetent with a bottle opener, and all the sodas they gave us were in 50's glass containers.

We accidentally slept through the entire third day of the Planned Parenthood conference. Then we went home.

I went back to school. I like Mrs. Janoff. I got a car. I had a birthday party. A surprise birthday party. I bought myself a beaded seat for my car. I bought myself an iPod. It's filled with crap music.

Today I hung out in the senior lounge. Which is crap. And also I rode in TM's van. And I wore sunglasses.
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[08 Jul 2005|12:13am]
So my country got bombed.
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downtown is a very pretty place. [24 Jun 2005|10:38pm]

Well, here I am looking into this glass octagon. It’s really a rather unnatural octagon, looks like it should never have existed, wasn’t Meant To Be, but it is anyway and here I am staring into it. The glass is a nasty blue and would appear to contain Store-Brand-Died-Decaffeinated-No-Sugar-Added-Imitation-Cola. It’s very much flat by now, and it’s probably just brimming with all sorts of horrid diseases at this point as a result of being left here on my desk for many days. It’s about a third full, it’s not very interesting, but I mention it because this blue octagonal glass with its nasty soda has caught my interest at this moment, and if you take the time to read my thoughts you might as well read all of them, I’m not going to cut out the boring bits. Life is like that. Deal with it. So I’m telling you about the glass I’m looking into, and I haven’t even begun to describe the trippy patterns that the ripples in the glass form in the bottom of the cola when you stick it to your eye. Matter of fact, I’m not going to. I’m done with the glass. The moment is over.

On to Life.

Buffalo Springfield Dentistry

I eat a lot of sugar. A mountain of Coco-Puffs for breakfast each morning. A mountain again in the evening for dessert, if I can’t find anything else. It’s terrible. Ghastly. An addiction. Three cavities in a month. Appalling. Disgusting. But it is what it is, or it was what it was, I’m laying off the crap now, but that terrible habit’s left its mark. I had to deal with that mark yesterday at the tooth doctor.

All I remember is white light and whirring noises as holes were bored in my teeth. I’d brought along my Mp3 player and blasted For What It’s Worth so loud the dentist could hear it despite the buzzings. She didn’t like it. It was quite the experience though. The song moaned on as the drills went on and on, almost in rhythm, doing their dance on my teeth in time. Paranoia strikes deep! AAAAAGGHHHH BUUZZZZZZZZ Into your life it will creep! RRRRGGGGGHHHHHH ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ It starts when you’re always afraid! FLLLLLLLLLZZZZZZZZZ OW! OW! You step out of line, the man come and take you away! WHIRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!

The guitar droned on and on, those heartbeat type drums pounded in my ears, the instruments of Buffalo Springfield mixing with the instruments of the dentist, those mad electric torture devices.

And then it was done. My mouth completely fat and numb, I went off to change into my suit and go to Teen Court.

this is me at teen court

Teen court was the usual, I bought something vile from the vending machine, drank hot water out of one of those dispensers that has a big blue tank on top that people empty out and use as change jars for charity and which uses inconvenient cone cups you can’t set down. And seeing as the Hot water was in fact Extremely Hot, the pointy cups proved even more useless than ever and I spilled it all over my groin.

I’d wanted a black suit for Teen Court, just so I could look like a Reservoir Dog, but by the time my mind farted out this mad impulse it was forty-five minutes before I had to actually go to court, so obtaining a black suit was impossible. Nevertheless, the next day, which was Thursday, I made Paul take me suit shopping. I wore a bathrobe on our expedition, because it made me feel special, though it made trying on suits damn near impossible. It didn’t matter, though, because there was nothing in my size anyway (I take a 36) I cranked the Jefferson Airplane up real loud and we zipped along from place to place enjoying ourselves and doing nothing productive whatsoever, Paul burning up the high-octane fuel he accidentally filled the Durango with.

We went to Denny’s and ordered Moons Over My Hammy, an excellent meal. Our waitress was nice, though we had a little trouble splitting the bill properly, and they weren’t patient with us because I was wearing a bathrobe and Paul was wearing a pink tie, and nobody likes a Faggot.

Waitress: Would you like some more Sprite?
Me: Is it…is it free?
Waitress: Well, it’s a refill.
Waitress: Yes, it’s free. Free refills.
Me: Ah, marvelous. Then fill ‘er up!
Waitress: Yes, yes.
Me: I’m from England, you see. They charge for refills there.
Waitress: Huh.
Me: They also do in Milwaukee.
Waitress: Whaddya know.
Paul: You’ve been here for like ten years, Nathan.
Me: I know, but I’m still not used to free refills.
Paul: You’re just trying to pass off being stupid.
Me: Yes, I am.
Waitress: Uhhhhh. Let me get that Sprite for you.

I have a way of killing any conversation, even with a goddamn waitress. She liked us even less after that awkward exchange. I don’t know, free refills upset me. Because it seems like they Should be charging you for it. I’d charge for it. It’s a whole nother drink.

After we exhausted the possibilities that doing nothing can provide, I made Paul take me home. Once home, I realized it was worse doing nothing in a building than doing nothing outside of one.

So, around Ten Pee Em, I was seized with another mad impulse, this time to drape myself in an American Flag. I’d watched Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas a few weeks back, and I think that warped sense of the American Dream still stuck with me. But obtaining a flag would be no easy task. We have one here at my home, but it sticks out on a flagpole over the garage door which opens onto a sloping driveway. And all I had was a rickety old 8-foot stepladder. Nevertheless, I am a resolute man full of initiative and spark, and I was determined to drape myself in that flag. So I climbed that ladder, goddamnit, shirtless and cold, in the dark, with no one to find me if I fell, for my parents are Out Of Town. And the ladder almost toppled over and I had to cling to a bit of wood at the top of the garage for dear life, but after twenty minutes of balancing and gradually working the flag out of the flagholder with one arm and clinging with the other, I got it out. And dropped it. And lost my balance. And plunged onto the concrete. And remained alive!

The flag was soaking wet but I put it in the dryer and then wrapped it around myself and I felt just as special and patriotic as I thought I would. I don’t know how I’m going to explain it to the parentals.

Today I woke up at 12. I rang the SCAT hotline and asked when the bus reached McIntosh & Bahia Vista. It was in 13 minutes. And I’m a mile and a quarter away from the stop there. So I ran. I ran and ran. I ran until I got a stitch and collapsed at the stop. I was wearing a long sleeve pink dress shirt and black formal pants with loafers. These were not running clothes. I sat at the Bus Stop, thinking I’d gotten there a few minutes early. Which was nice. And sure enough, the bus came. On the other side of the street.

The lady had told me the outgoing route, not the incoming. I hate her. I waited a further half hour for it to loop back around. I listened to Indian surf music on my busted Mp3 player. It came. The bus driver gave me A Look because I fumbled with my change. I sat next to a Mexican. It was the first time I had been on a SCAT since the day I came home from Venice after Alexee’s funeral and lunch with Lindsay A. Meadows.

I got downtown and got some bus routes so I wouldn’t have to depend on The Lady on the way back. I walked down Main Street and saw some records in a Comic Book Shop. I went in and browsed through them. The guy who worked there was a nerd with a mustache and a nasal tone, and was in the process of helping a Scottish couple find an old Batman comic. He was also discussing the new movie, and how sexy Michael Caine is.

I found an amazing 45 called The Droid Chorus sings Star Wars Christmas Songs: An R2D2 Christmas and What Do You Get A Wookiee For Christmas If He Already Has A Comb. I bought it. It really is incredible. I also got a scratchy collection of old soul songs and then a Bob Dylan album at Main St. Books, which I paid for with my debit card. I hung out in front of the movies for a while, made a few calls at the payphone, then called Paul and told him to get me the hell out of there because I had no idea what I was doing downtown.

I drank a Mountain Dew which cost me sixty scents, and waited for him. An odd kid in a Fedora and a black formal jacket with a black tie and a film festival shirt sat down on the opposite bench. He talked to himself. Then he talked to me.

Kid: You waiting for someone?
Me: A friend of mine. You?
Kid: My mother. What’s in the bag?
Me: Records.
Kid: Who uses that crap anymore?
Me: I do. This Zappa album isn’t available on CD.
Kid: You have weird taste in music.
Me: And you in clothes. Bet you think you’re pretty unique.
Kid: Yup.

Then he went off talking to himself again. I realized that I’d probably never see that kid again, and he’ll go off somewhere and die quietly and I’ll never know. And we’ll both forget the encounter and even if we did meet again it will probably be in years and we won’t know who each other is. Or we won’t and he’ll just die and I won’t know it.

I came back and had a light show rave up and watched an old war movie which had Jim Backus and Alan Hale in it. They were both in Gilligan’s Island and here they were in this war movie. People sure do get around.

Denny's has pretty artwork on the walls. The Burlington coat factory's lights went out while we were there. But the lights go out in every coat factory once in a while. Also I need to take dancing lessons. I was going to go to a toga party tonight but I didn't.

Also today while I was walking along Main St. in the summer sunshine I ran into a man dressed in the EXACT same thing I was wearing coming from the opposite direction. We stopped, looked at each other for about five seconds, he smiled, then we resumed walking. It was touching.

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free your mind and your ass will follow [21 Jun 2005|08:56pm]

Father's Day happened. The only thing I know about my father is that he likes coffee and doing the ironing. So I bought him a gift certificate to Latitude for about 20 cups of coffee, and took him down to Sarasota News and Books for a couple of hours. I'd arranged to meet Grace there, since our parents are friends and I thought I might as well find out who she was. So Grace brought her father and I brought mine, and we all sat drinking coffee and making small talk until our fathers left. She and I then looked round the bookstore for a while, I looked at a book containing pictures of interesting swimming pools while she tried to get rid of this creepy thirty-something artist who hangs out there and has taken to following her around.


In the end she got roped into sitting at a table and making conversation with Josh, the creepy artist whose hair was flat on top, but curved down and out in a semicircle around his head, making it look like someone had sliced a hair umbrella in half and dropped it on the rear half of his skull. There was also this eerie space between his head and the hair that wrapped around it, a large hole that made you want to plug it with something. I eventually joined Josh and Grace outside at their table and tried to assist her in getting rid of him. He wore a button down shirt and creamy paint splattered shorts, with the shirt open so the world could gaze at his hairy tanned leathery chest.


Alas, getting rid of him was no use, he and I got into an interesting conversation about Hunter Thompson blowing his brains out. With creepy people like him you hate getting into interesting conversations, because it makes you like them a bit, and getting attached to someone you need to get rid of is is exactly what you don't want. So I quickly changed the subject back to the weather to make things boring again, hoping he'd go away, but he was stubborn and kept trying to provoke us into saying interesting things.


Soon a truck went whizzing by and ran the stop sign next to the shop, nearly causing an accident and sending the noise of screeching tires through all of the previously peaceful downtown art district.


"Hey, I know the guy in that truck!" pointed out Josh, the stupid creepy artist. Well, that's just lovely. Soon the man in the truck had pulled over into about three parking spaces with another tire screech, and before we knew it we had to deal with both Creepy Josh and Creepy Zeke. Zeke was less creepy than Josh, but he liked to smoke cigarettes, which gave him a boost in repulsiveness over Josh. He also liked to dangle the cigarette he was in the process of smoking right near your face, a task made easier by the fact that we were sitting down and he was standing up. He wore thick framed glasses and a hat from a trucking company, though he looked like the least likely person on earth to be a trucker. He also came complete with sandals, long cargo pants, and a five o’clock shadow, which made him especially appealing.


Zeke was a conspiracy theorist, of the old fashioned breed. He started preaching about the government coverup of the true cause for red tide, and the big fuss that had been made when he walked shirtless into Mote Marine's main entrance and demanded answers about the Red Tide Coverup.


"As an institution 52% sponsored by government money, you'd think as a taxpayer I'd be entitled to the information they have on the topic," Zeke babbled. Apparently he made so much of a fuss that they eventually had him removed, but gave him the number of one of their researchers and told him to call them rather than walk into the fish exhibit shirtless and smoking a cigarette screaming. He said they were reluctant to even do that, but he has a special power of persuasion.


Zeke also mentioned JFK, as any conspiracy theorist must, and how the pollution from the building sites caused the water downtown to run white. “It looks like skim milk running into the drains,” Josh added.


After Zeke went on his way to the beach to do research to help his red tide investigation, we asked Josh exactly what Zeke’s purpose in life was, a.k.a. what exactly he contributed to society.


“Well, Zeke does a little bit of everything,” Josh explained.


“By which you mean a whole lot of nothing, I assume,” I responded.






“If you want to use the technical term, then I suppose he would be.”


“And what is the term he uses?”




“Is that in the same way as you being an artist?” I asked, perhaps stepping a little too far over the line. I didn’t think I was, but he seemed a bit taken a bit taken aback. Well, he and his puffy hair can sod themselves, I thought. Nevertheless, it was to make for awkward conversation to come.


Luckily we didn’t have to face any of that, as just then, right on cue, Grace’s mother pulled up in her station wagon. She stuck her head out the window and asked us if we wanted a ride to Whole Foods. We hadn’t asked for one, but that was where she was going and we decided Whole Foods was better than Josh.


I had a sandwich and Grace had sushi at whole foods. Sushi. The ultimate food of the free spirits. And that Grace definitely is. I didn’t want to ask her why she’d shaved her head, but for a narrow minded person like me, that question constantly nags at you.


That day ended predictably, I went home having met a few new and fascinating people and having had an interesting day. Grace, in her rush to jump in the station wagon and get away from Josh, had left her Vonnegut book on the table next to him. When she called him (he’d given her his ‘business card’ (which said simply Josh: Artist: 555-1234 or whatever)) he decided he wasn’t giving it back since she’d left rudely. So that was that.


Today I was bored so I hopped on my bike and went down to Wendy’s. I had the meal I always have when I’m trying to feel particularly American, burgerfriescoke. I got my burger, as usual, with nothing on it but a solitary piece of lonely weepy lettuce, and I took a seat in the sunken section that has glass for both its walls and ceiling. “Poor lettuce,” I thought. I was in one of those awkward seating situations where there’s no one at the other side of your table, and you’re left looking the guy at the next table, who also has no eating partner, right in the eyes. The sitar music on my Mp3 player reached a frenzy and I got freaked out by the guy’s glare, so I quickly changed sides so he’d be looking at my back. I think he noticed. But I didn’t care, he looked like a pedophile anyway, and I couldn’t concentrate on my meal or my sitar while he was looking at me. Thoughts of being Abducted came into my mind, but I realized that no good-hearted Wendy’s employee would allow me to be dragged off by the creepy old man behind me. Nevertheless, I got out as soon as I could.


My Mp3 player gave out somewhere between Funkadelic’s Maggot Brain and Bruce Haack’s Electric To Me Turn, frozen up from my sheer good musical taste. In order to fix it, you have to jam something pointy into a little hole at the bottom, but the only thing that works is a long pin, and I lacked one. Fortunately, I knew exactly where to get one. I biked several miles to Publix and asked a kindly toothless lady if she wouldn’t mind lending me either her name badge or her Please Don’t Tip The Employees pin for about five seconds. She said the name badge was too special, and that the company would fire her if they knew she wasn’t fully announcing her untippability, but she lent me one that said Where Shopping is a Pleasure (Remember Not To Tip). I jammed it in and fixed the problem, thanking the lady for her help and making sure not to tip her.


I went into Borders for a while and burned my tongue on a coffee, reading some Tom Wolfe along with an archive of The Onion. A phone sat on a table not far away from me. Suddenly it began to ring. After about 11 rings (exactly 11 in fact), it was starting to irk me, and no employee seemed to be picking it up. So, being the good hearted citizen I am, I wandered over and answered it, using my Professional Voice that I’ve developed through over a year of practice answering phones at the Sarasota Family YMCA.


“Borders Books and Music, how may I help you?”


“Is that Borders Books and Music?” (they do this at the y too)


“Yes,” I responded calmly and professionally.


“I’m looking for a book by Vonnegut.”


Spying an employee off to the side, I motioned to her.


“It’s for you,” I said. “They’re looking for Vonnegut.”

She gave me the most menacing look I’ve ever been given in my life, and was about to give me a wonderful lecture on Why You Shouldn’t Do My Job For Me, when she realized that the phone customer needed to be tended to. While she apologized to him for something he didn’t know had happened, I casually slipped out the front door.


Vonnegut. Grace had been reading Vonnegut. My caller asked for Vonnegut. It’s a sign. It’s got to be. I have to go to the library. I have to go Right Now.


So I hopped on my bike, cranked up the Hendrix, and embarked on the perilous journey along U.S. Highway 41 that takes you from Borders Books & Music to Downtown.


Everything was pretty blurry. Blue smoke poured out of somewhere, and Hendrix’s hopped up, tripped out guitar wailed in the background. The sky went overcast all of a sudden, and I rode through the nightmarish confusion that is 41 during rush hour. The gray of the sky gave everything a depressing light. Blue smoke. A black man wearing a cape and carrying a shopping bag. Honking horns, angry people, another bike I almost hit. A large bump that nearly sent me flying. Blue smoke. Waffle House. The Hospital. Blue smoke. Purple Haze. Wailing guitars, psychedelic blues riffs flying at me as I traveled through the 7th circle of hell. Gray light. And then! Downtown, with happy people waving as I went past. A cheery song came on and I was out of the nightmare. Thank God. Alive. Made it out. Done. Through. Ordeal is over. The library.


My journey was over, and I dragged my sweat-drenched person into the Ivory Temple that is the Selby Library. The big white sanctuary, air-conditioned heaven, the place my trip had led me too. It was beautiful. I plonked myself down in a chair and began reading something by Nabokov. It reminded me of Noah. He was Nabokov in AP lang. Why am I thinking of Noah at a time like this?


I sat down at one of the Computer Stations and looked up books. I scribbled down my thoughts with one of those Library Golf Pencils on one of those Small Library Pieces of Paper that are made out of cut up flyers and sit in a basket beside the computer for people to write down catalog numbers on. I have what I wrote here. It’s in scribbly all caps, but my capital letters are far more legible than my lower case so I’ve taken to doing things in all caps but with bigger capital letters for the letters that are actually supposed to be capitalized.


The computer station smelt of this lovely perfume that must have been left by the lady before me. It was one of the prettiest scents I’ve smelled. If I ever have a wife or girlfriend, I want her to smell like that. But I’ll probably never smell it again, so it doesn’t matter and I’m sure she’ll smell nice anyway.


Bicycle oil was running down my leg because my father thinks chain guards are for wusses. I sat there rubbing the oil off and wondering why you have to be 18 to get your own library card, but only sixteen to drive. One of life’s great mysteries, that. Oh sure you can get a card in Your Name, but your parents have to sign it. Life is unfair.


The bicycle oil wouldn’t come off. It just rubbed in further. I realized that Selby Library smells like shoes. It’s odd because I thought it would smell like books. But I know what books smell like and I know what shoes smell like, and the library is definitely closer to shoe scent. I suppose, though, that over time, the amount of shoes that pass through the library must equal the number of books.


Motorcycle Version Floor is the mot appealing combination of words I know. I think I’ve mentioned it before, but it’s written on my library scrap, and so I thought the need to bring it up again. Motorcycle Version Floor. Say it. motorcycle version floor


I came home. Time happened. I’m here. I’m going to read. I hate livejournal.

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[28 May 2005|07:08pm]
[ mood | wisconsin ]

So here I am in Milwaukee after a frantic day of extreme poetry reading, at a crappy computer in the crappy Hiltons crappy business center.

Let me tell you about my trip.

We all met Thursday morning at Sarasota-Bradenton International airport, all psyched for Cat Nats and MILWAUKEEEEEEE. I had to go through security 4 wonderful times because my mother gave me the wrong boarding pass 3 flippin times. By the third time I was on first name terms with the lady at the gate. As soon as everyone got through we all had to go back again because the airline wouldn't let Noah check 4 massive bins, as well as them being very wary of The Ghetto Bin, the one with all the duct tape and cracks and terrorist markings on it. Oh, Noah... But everything worked out in the end because it always does.

We got to Atlanta and Eddie and I took a train from one end of the airport to the other for the sake of finding a Starbucks. We found it, then found out there was one where we'd just left, but said screw it and got snacks at the far end one anyway, where we met Noah and Hanna.

NOAH: (takes sip of coffee) UGGHHHHHHHH. (turns to minimum wage big fat black lady) Excuse me, but does this have COFFEE in it?
BFBL: Yeah.
NOAH: Well, make it again. I didn't order coffee. I hate coffee.
BFBL: You ordered a whipped mint mocha chocolate chip.
NOAH: No, I ordered a whipped mint chocolate chip. No mocha.
BFBL: Well, sorreeee.
NOAH: God, I hate coffee. Why do they always put coffee in it?
ME: Well, Noah, this is a coffee shop, and one does typically order coffee at a coffee shop.
NOAH: Shut up.

So then we went allllll the way back to the terminal we were supposed to be at, almost late for our flight, and found Steve and James at the Krystal burger. Krystal burgers are the best thing ever, and they're exclusive to Atlanta. Small square burgers that come in individual boxes and take about two bites to eat. Steve and James had devoured 24 of them between the two of them.

Everyone was sitting enjoying their Krystals when Noah had to insert himself into our fun.

NOAH: Someone has to carry the extemp bin cart. It's only small.
EDDIE: I'm not doing it, I carried it all the way from Sarasota.
NOAH: Steve, you're doing it. Be careful. For God's sake don't lose it, or you'll be carrying the bins.

Steve reassured him it was alright and that he had everything taken care of, and that the bin trolley was in safe hands.

Eddie and I got a Krystal burger each and saved it for the plane ride. They were orgasmic.

We got to Milwaukee and caught our first sight of the city which was...half the airport being demolished, exposed light bulbs, ladders, scaffold, jackhammers, etc. It was great. We waded through the mess and made our way to baggage claim.

NOAH: Steve, get the cart ready.
STEVE: Uh-oh.
NOAH: Steve, where's the cart?
STEVE: I do believe it's at the Krystal burger.
NOAH: In Atlanta?
STEVE: In Atlanta.

(much screaming and whining commences, as I high five steve)

Steve carried two extemp bins about a hundred yards to the bus, while Noah wallowed in self pity.

The Hotel is nice. It's very fancy in the halls and lobby, with the rooms themselves being ugly as crap. A bit of an anticlimax really. You walk in and it's like the Riz, then the elevators are pretty fancy, then the room halls merely nice, the smaller halls are just...passable, and the rooms are something out of Motel 6.

I'm rooming with Noah and Eddie, which is cool. Noah's actually a nice guy, we're both whiny so we have that in common. Eddie and I made him sleep on the cot, though.

There's a store that sells Pimp Suits opposite the hotel. I like browsing. I want one.

There's also a Water Park in our hotel, which is freaking amazing. Eddie wants to go swinmming but no one wants to go with him.

While everyone else has been at applebees around 5 times so far, I've preferred dining at establishments with a more local cultural flavor: Dunkin' Donuts, for example.

Milwaukee is the beer, cheese, and Jelly Belly capital of the midwest, so of course we've been doing nothing but booze and munch on brie the whole time.

Noah and I watched Pretty Woman with Julia Roberts and Richard Gere last night. Richard Gere is a hottie.

While everyone else was off at the mall I bought a map and plotted out the locations of every record store in town. I familiarized myself with the entire city and its bus routes, and know more now than most residents.

The contest today went fine, I don't think I got last so that's good. Noah's been pacing up and down paranoid. We're doing our tourney at Marquette university, a horrid catholic place with crucifixes on the walls of every room. Not just the normal ones with a simple corss, neither. No, these are the full fledged dead jesus ones, with his corpse draped over them watching over you as you read wonderful poetry. Ugh. This place is filled with Krazy Khristian Fundies, they have debates in the halls on the true path to God. Ugh. I autographed the Bible in our room "Best Wishes, Love God." It gave me a small bit of satisfaction.

Thursday afternoon, after 5 hours of being cartless, Noah finally snapped and decided Steve was getting him a new cart in the next hour out of his own money or else. They figured the only way to do this was through taxicab, which would cost $50, until I interjected:

"Y'know, you could always just take the number 30 bus along Wisconsin Ave to the UWM, then change onto the number 62 and go two miles down onto East Capitol Road. There's an OfficeMax there, I'm sure you could find a cart."

This astounded them, as most didnt even know what street our hotel was on. So they decided I was now the leader and was to take them on an expedition through Milwaukee: Where The Streets Are Paved With Golden Beer. So I planned out all the busses and timetables, and after a long ride and a bunch of Bus Trivia Questions that appeared on the Bus Television Network screens located throughout the vehicle (BUSTV cycles through one trivia question over and over, Who Was Sports Illustrated's First Female Sportsman of the Year? (Busses cant afford good or many trivia questions on their TVs)) we finally arrived at our destination.

Though ideally we wanted a real pimped out bin cart, with spinning rims and the like, Noah was picky. He went to three different stores and got us nearly attacked by Negroids trying to find one with The Perfect Design. He got into another spat with a BFBL over which aisle bungee cords were in, but we eventually got a beautiful silver cart with folding wheels.

We went back through town and on many other adventures which I shall inform you of later. I'll upload pictures tomorrow, this trip is fun on a bun.

Has anyone ever written a song about milwaukee? Its about time they did.

Eddie tied me up with duct tape and ripped my leg hair off because I called him a bastard.

So Noah convinced me to do extemp last night. So that's what Imagonna do next year.


Sam laid a huge turd in their toilet so Steve had to use ours, and Eddie refuses to keep soap because its touched Noah's genitals.

I enjoyed Sam's comeback to Steve's insult. "Oh yeah, Steve? Well, I'm going to murder you in your sleep, take you out to where no one will find your corpse, bury it, and piss on the grave. So there.

I had to do OI in a board room, which was awkward. Course noahs extemp round took place in a broom closet so I'm actually pretty lucky

We went to the Zoo yesterday. We saw elephants. We brought Noah back a plastic Koala because he's a miserable git and decided to sit in a bistro for three hours. But the stingray exhibit was closed.

I also have a picture of James trying to get peacocks to mate, plus everyone doing the peacock mating chant: DO IT DO IT DO IT DO IT

I also neglected to mention the 50 mph interstate, where the speed limit never goes above 50! It's trippy.

Billie Jean King was the first sportswoman of the year, btw.

25 comments|post comment

ant man bee [21 Apr 2005|08:34pm]

Ravi Shankar concert Saturday and I have no way of getting there/will be going alone. Shite. Why does no one like the sitar?????


9 comments|post comment

[12 Apr 2005|09:18pm]
[ mood | abe vigoda ]

So, it's Tiny Tim's birthday today, along with John Kay, Herbie Hancock, and David Cassidy. I guess that makes today rather special. Time to drag out the Steppenwolf albums...

Ravi Shankar is coming to Tampa at the end of the month. If anyone likes sitar music, you should go. Seriously.

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i should probably lj-cut this but i hate you so im not going to [31 Mar 2005|11:00pm]

Two things to discuss rather briefly. This will NOT be like my last post, I promise. It has pictures to hold your attention!

First and foremost, I discovered the old video Damien and I took on our trip to VENICE we made one day when we were rather bored. It's a great video, though we're both being a bit stupid. We bought Skittles and cans of whipped cream and just wandered round the town for some hours while I tried to orient myself.

The Trip Down

"That's the second red light you've ran!"..."Chill a moment, I've got my Sacred Heart."

The video then goes into a long discussion about Catholic icons and whether its a good idea to entrust the safety of your car to a religious symbol.

"You should have taken a left back there, man."..."I know, toss me another can of cream."..."Hell no, this stuff's mine. Eat your skittles."..."That guy on the motorcycle is fat."

"Dude, why are we going to Venice?"..."I thought you knew."..."LEFT!!!"

Those are all accurate quotes from the film. It's really weird to be seeing it after all these weeks. Anyway, so then we arrive in Venice and look around. At this point I only have audio, the camera focused on Damien's dash.

Coming into Venice.

"There's like 50 goddamn pigs"..."Yeah, but they're cool"..."Where's the place I ate lunch at last time? That's like the only thing I remember."..."We ought to turn on the radio"..."I have no idea where we are or where we're going."..."Let's talk politics, I'm sick of Venice."..."So, anyway, they're such hypocrites, you know?"..."Yeah, this country..."

So, it was a weird trip. Anyway, moving on to the second order of business. Tuesday (I think) night, Critser, Devin, Damien and I gathered at Critter's house in Rivendell for a Boating Adventure. Damien & I had already gone to the Beach Bazaar earlier to buy a $30 raft, and then while with Critter we blew it up and the other three went out on the retention pond by Pine View, while I stayed on shore to watch for the night security guard. It was cool. Anyway, then we went to Wendy's and got some food, but upon discovery that they were out of both Frosties and Tomatoes for my burger, we looped back around through the drivethrough and asked for a Frostie with a Tomato in it.

Minimum Wage Abused Server: Welcome to Wendy's, how can I help you?

Critter: Yo, give me a Frostie with a Tomato in it.

MWAS: We're all out of Frosties... And tomatoes.

Critter: Fine then, just give me some of that chili with a finger in it.

Damien: Hold the nail polish.

Then we sped off. Hooligan kids. Oh, and Damien's car got spat on by some people who thought we were taking too long the first time through the drive through.

Weird night. Bad pic of Critser.

6 comments|post comment

[27 Mar 2005|09:18pm]

Goodness me, I haven't written in this thing in ages. So many incidents have I failed to write down, lost now to time and fuzzy memories, experiences that will never be documented. Looking back I can say I regret it, though, Livejournals really are a bunch of pretentious crap, after all.

I would like to, however, recount the events of the past few days.

Thursday at school Damien and Critser hooked the TV they found in the garbage up to the locker pod power outlet and found it worked, so they spent the day playing Nintendo on it in the men's room.

Spring Break then occurred, catching me completely off guard and without plans. As I was school wondering what goings on would face me in the next ten days as the sun poured down its warmth on my back and the breeze swaying the palm trees from side to side, a sudden sense of urgency and stress overcame me as I realized I made a fatal error on the previous day's trigonometry test. So that depressed me, which didn't bode well for the weekend.

We had No School friday, and thus I hung around bookshops and cafes, as one does on a bright Florida day with nothing to do. I did, however, go to work in the afternoon, at my job cleaning YMCA towels. I do love my job however, for some strange reason I had all figured out earlier but can't currently explain.

One of the nights, I do believe it was Thursday, I rang Damien up to see if he was already as bored with 'Spring Break' as I was, and he confirmed this with me, and so we thus embarked on a Mission. We sought Jolt Cola, the myth, the legend, with its trademark catchphrase "Twice the Caffeine." We were on a Quest, with Jolt as our holy grail. We tried every supermarket and soda fountain in town, trying desperately to seek out that mysterious and deadly concoction. We ran into Nate at Publix. The store had closed and had no Jolt, but he managed to get me a 35 cent Mountain Dew. I thanked him, we all hung around for a while at the Publix entrance telling prospective buyers the store was now shut, then it was time for us to part. Alas, we found no Jolt that night, but the flame of hope still burns in our hearts. One day...

Saturday I went to work as usual in the morning. Then I came home, at lunch, and went back to work in a different part of the Y, the dreaded Teen Center. Luckily it was easter weekend and thus few kids were in there, and I scared the remaining half dozen or so away by blasting The Doors nonstop my entire shift through the speakers. HA, stupid kids. No taste these days, what with the hippity-hop music and all. If you can't appreciate The End, you don't belong in my Y. The teen center was great, I had Absolute Control, deciding who got pizza, who got to play air hockey and who got the video game console they wanted. I like power.

Take that you little brats.

Came home, putzed around till late, woke up this morning with it being easter and my parents having gone to Myakka Park on a biking trip. I decided that if they were going to do that I'd have an excursion of my own and was all set to bike off to the beach when they suddenly reappeared in the driveway and forced my to wash my car, despite my offer to take it to Shell and pay the $7 for the SuperWash. After that and a lunch of a deliciously cliche peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I threw on a hat and headed off for the Key.

I made the 8 miles from my home to the village easily, thanks to the Creedence tapes I'd brought along. Nothing will make one push on for that extra mile like a blast of Creedence. I also had with me a Ravi Shankar compilation and a double disc Animals set, all of which made the physical exercise that inevitably comes with biking rather bearable.

I arrived at the beach around a quarter to four and locked my bike up next to the one that belonged to The Drunk Toothless Man, then had a lovely stroll along the sands. Several people looked at me strangely, and others snickered. I wondered what was wrong with me, what made everyone grow uneasy as I passed by them. Was it my Hawaiian shirt, was I doing something embarrassing, violating American cultural customs, was my fly undone? I had no idea. I was still confused when a twenty-something Young Stereotypical American White College Male who was walking toward me from the other direction spat in my direction with positive venom "THE YANKEES SUCK. SUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!" He wanted to kill me right there and then, to rip me limb from limb, to tear my body to pieces, he wanted me to die in front of him. I was taken aback, didn't know what to say. If I was quicker witted, more sharp-tongued, or even understood what was going on I might have been able to throw back some counter-abuse, a "your mother sucks" or what have you. Alas, I'm not, and I was still baffled. Aha, it was the hat that I had casually thrown on. I picked it up, looked at it, and saw the white on black letters staring back at me: NY. So that's it, THAT was why I was being given the sort of look that a priest to someone who has just shat in the holy water: I WAS A YANKEES FAN. Of course, I'm not. I don't have the foggiest idea what baseball's about, I went to one game and fell asleep during it. It was just a hat I'd found. But these people didn't know that, and I was violating their customs, parading my New York city boy Yankee fandom around to piss them off. They hated me. I couldn't have gotten dirtier looks if I'd worn a hat with a swastika on it. I had violated the sacred code of the American Pastime.

I don't get baseball. Americans, however, hold it extremely sacred. It is right up there alongside the Hamburger and the Cadillac as Damn Fine American Things that no one must touch or question. God forbid you offend someone by showing support for the wrong team. But it's not just an American thing, and I hate to lump myself into the category of "Cynical Know-It-All Anti-American Brits" through my remarks, because really the same thing goes on in the country I'm from, but with soccer. I once told someone I was a Manchester United fan and got spat on. Really, it's a cross-cultural thing. There are certain things each people holds sacred, and I guess I'm just too stupid to understand that deep connection people feel toward certain pastimes. I guess I'll never understand these spiritual things.

By the time I'd pondered all these things I was on a bench by the concession stand listening to the drone of Ravi Shankar's sitar through my earphones. The Yankee man had long gone, without me getting a chance to explain that it was simply a poor choice of hat, and I sat beneath the now cloudy sky watching those big round leaves you find on beach trees flutter away. I listened to snippets of others' conversations when the sitar grew quieter, hearing the sound of voices drift in and out.

"Well why don't you give Bill a call?"..."Jesus, I got sand in the flap of my foreskin"..."It's kinda cloudy, let's start packing up."..."You want to get an ice cream?"..."Well, they got divorced, you know."

I love these sorts of things. Inane though they may be, they really give you such a beautiful insight into human nature. In fact, the beach as a whole is rather a nice reflection on people, as you see tourists and families milling about, dedicated to their pursuit of a fun, happy family day out in spite of the many inconveniences or bothers that occur, like umbrellas blowing off into the sea or cigarette fires engulfing towels.

It was a pleasant day, and I rounded it off with a donut at the Seven Eleven, becoming that annoying customer I always hate who pays for a 60 cent item with a Twenty Dollar Bill. But that's life, and if I have to suffer through annoying customers like that I'm going to make damn sure everyone else does too.

So that's my weekend. Any questions?

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[21 Feb 2005|09:52am]

Hunter S. Thompson committed suicide yeserday.

Damn it all.

8 comments|post comment

[20 Feb 2005|08:12pm]

So I realized that internet radio is the best thing in the word, been listening to Technicolor Web Of Sound radio all weekend. Very very good. I also found a treasure trove of 60s videos on the internets, in the form of Ron's Sixties Videos, including an exciting Mellotron promo film.

O-Town didn't happen. Go figure.

Today I felt weak and sick at work, got an awful headache, felt like I was going to vomit,  then passed out for an hour. Woke up, finished my shift, then came home and fell asleep for the rest of the evening.

Had a sandwich and glass of apple juice followed by a slice of pie, and now am back listening to Internet Radio.

Went out with Damien last night after a pleasant morning of doing absolutely nothing. Bought this:

Verrrry good. One of my favorite records already. I've never been too much of a Byrds fan, focusing more on British psych, but its just an amazing album.

My toenails require cutting, as does my hair. I look a tramp, moping around disheveled and clutching my head. Except I haven't met a tramp yet who wears a Caravan shirt.

I never truly appreciated how great a show Curb Your Enthusiasm is.

More Byrds goodness.

You know what? As I bask in the warmness of the pink neon light of my guitar lamp, with some obscure Fat Mattress song playing off in the background, with the windows open and the breeze rustling the trees in my Caravan shirt and eyepatch, with my Who poster looking out over on me from the wall, I realized that I'm the coolest guy ever. And that sentence pretty much described my life.

Happy Presidents Day tomorrow. Will you be celebrating? I sure will.

I got the nicest letter from Ana yesterday. I need to write back.

I also need to be more friendly in general, and more sociable, and to cut my toenails.

3 comments|post comment

king midas in reverse! [14 Feb 2005|08:46pm]
[ mood | sick ]


These guys are good:


That's the EP cd I bought in some Berwick Street music shop, it's not bad, although I can't find any information on them anywhere.

It's Valentines Day, which, while a stupid holiday, gives me the opportunity to create a Valentines Day Playlist. But then I got lazy so I just played Odessey and Oracle.

Duncan Browne is cooler than I thought. And I never doubted his coolness.


Dr West's Medicine Show and Junk Band:

Here's a pic of the Birds because I am cool and so are they.

Ron Wood's a stud.

Anyone know any good poetry? I need a ten minute piece for speech.

I am so sick I cannot talk. I slept for two hours out on the driveway this afternoon listening to a Gift From a Flower to the Garden. And I wore an eyepatch so my eye would get better. what a sight I mustve looked. Wrapped in a blanket, hair long and messy, huge eyepatch, large headphones. Christ.

Mrs. Munoz hates me now because I said I despised Christians and she overheard.

15 comments|post comment

[11 Feb 2005|08:17pm]
I'm going to Orlando next weekend. Orlando should be fun.
4 comments|post comment

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