chiquita

Now You See Me.

Now you don't.

A picture from a while ago. It's worth a lot more than just a thousand words.

Tuesday, May 10, 2005

Tuesday, May 10, 2005
this tomorrow.
Current mood: chinese
the world needs more superheroes like me. i mean.. i know i don't have any super powers.. but neither does batman... and it's better to have no super power than some stupid one.. like.. um.. that black super hero that you can't see at night. but then again.. i have eleven toes. so i guess we're even again.

i need to get some taco's tonight. maybe that mexican guy that's always twitching will take my order. and maybe they will spit in my food because i can't toss any trills onto my r's.

"why? what's wrong with tomorrow? oh... you mean this tomorrow. yeah.. this tomorrow won't be good. let's try for next tomorrow."


So here's where the strangeness begins. The day before my 20th birthday. I vaguely remember the Mexican guy who twitches at Del Taco. If you look hard enough you can see some racial remarks. Clear as day to me. It's not about Mexicans. I said such awful things. It's all because of that one MadTV sketch about superheroes named Night and Day or something. I end it with strange dialogue. It's the way things are sometimes ordered in my mind.

Monday, May 09, 2005

Monday, May 09, 2005
killllllled it.
Current mood: supertastic
16 + 20 = 26... sure. makes sense to me. but to the professor 16 + 20 = 26 really means -2. so instead of 100 i get 98. but then again.. i did forget to transpose the thing.. and he did forget to take points off.. so i guess it evens out.. for me at least. told you good stuff would happen.

um. let's not talk about the e5 midterm.. although it did go rather well for missing 2 weeks and not doing much about missing those 2 weeks. zoom!

the best part of it all would be the anthro midterm. i took it to school.. and even waited outside to take it back home. with extra credit i got a perfect.. without.. i missed maybe 2. killed it.

i'm going to be the next nicolo paganini.. just without the violin.. and the skills.



Following midterms. The sudden surge of excellence. From failure to 'I'm going to pull out your hearts and eat them for dinner and have the leftovers for tomorrow's lunch.' I ended up with a B or B+ in that e5 class. It was some environmental something class. It was interesting and I still remember some of the stuff from that class. I'm not so weird in these first couple ones.

Sunday, May 08, 2005

After about an hour of pressing ctrl+c and then crtl+v, I've induce carpel tunnel syndrome in my fingers, but I've also copied over ever single entry I had to a word document. So here's how it begins. So you have the date. Followed by the title and a mood. I never went back and read any of these thoroughly. So I'll have some commentary afterwards. It's like a dvd. You get commentary.



Sunday, May 08, 2005

let's write junk everyday.
Current mood: the other moods are stupid
you probably know about the bad news.. and the other bad news. and that other news that's also bad. and of course that news that isn't good.. so it's bad. but i'm sure some good news is coming my way.. or at least i hope there is. and i think i forgot to transpose my stupid matrix when i was finding the inverse on my midterm.. and i seem to have lost weight, which is funny because i didn't know i had weight to lose.. or should i say, mass to lose.. but nobody will get that so nevermind.

yes, i'll not write as much.. because you have better things to do. like reading about jesus or robert franklin. and if you don't.. then read this twice or maybe even thrice.

the good news for now is that i'll be getting good news.. because any news after the crap news i got will be good news. hooray!




Myspace used to have you do moods. I thought all of their moods were stupid, so for every single one of these I made my own. It was a couple days after I got my letter from UCI to get the hell out of there. So that was the bad news. I think I didn't transpose my matrix, but I still ended up with an A in the class. I don't remember who Robert Franklin is... and this is the first appearance of Jesus. I finally decided to do what my old writing teacher suggested and write something everyday.

blah blah blah...

I'm currently in the process of transferring some of my older writings from four years ago to a word document. In the coming weeks or month or years... I'll be transferring those words here. So they may have a permanent home and not be some sort of foster care writings. I wrote some really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really weird stuff back then. If you thought this stuff I'm writing now is screwed up and off the wall (or off the planet if you're Murray Hewitt)... you just might vomit from the strangeness that is my mind. I would say I've toned it down quite a bit in the last four years. It's not quite as entertaining of a read... but it sure as hell makes me sound like I'm on pretty level footing and not dancing around on the Berlin Wall.

There are certain recurring themes. Motifs I think they're called... or they're not. But if you put it all together and read it you'll see.

Golden Age

Everything just melts away.

Adolf.

Me: Can I change my name to Adolf?
Mom: No.
Me: Why not?
Mom: It sounds bad. It sounds too much like that red nosed animal.
Me: Rudolf?
Mom: Yeah.



I feel sick, but I'm certain that I'm not sick.

And no. I won't be changing my name to Adolf.

she smiled sweetly

She smiled sweetly and said, "Don't worry."

huh?

Why do I have so much trouble with conclusions.


Oh, this isn't writer's block either. I think I feel sick.

puzzle.

No. I won't let it happen. Unless I've already let it happen.

I just couldn't get the words out.

not again.

Today I found out that I would have no finals. I have a final paper to write, but that's not really a final. I could only compare this feeling of joy to the time I saw a Delorean on the freeway. That happened to be a couple weeks ago. Lucky for me, there was traffic that day. So there was no chance of it hitting 88mph and disappearing on me.

Back in high school, for an "art" project, I had to bring in some random objects you'd never find in a school. It was supposed to be some form of weird modern art - dadaism or something, I don't remember. But I brought in a yellow Mickey Mouse with a bunch of scuff marks all over it and an unopened box of Crest children's toothpaste. I thought it was pretty clever.

The magic which smashes right through writer's block. It's almost too potent a substance as far too often the writing itself also gets smashed into many pieces. But that's how the cookie crumbles... and it's fucking delicious.

nois.

Has it finally stopped?

I can come back to life now.


nois.

314

A dream from a couple days ago. I was at the mall. I saw one of my professors. He wouldn't talk to me because I got a B in his class.

I have writing to do and I don't like it.

the gift.

I finally listened to this song intently. Maybe it's not a song. It's just John Cale reading a story Lou Reed wrote with some music in the background. But yeah. I listened to it. Once with both the music and the words of the story. Then another time with the right audio taken out, so I would hear the words without the accompanying music. Then finally with the left audio taken out, and me reading the words from a text file while listening to the instrumental part of the song. It's a good little story. After I finished listening to it I thought, "That is some really dark shit." I wasn't talking about poop.

________________________________________________________

The Gift

By: Lou Reed

Waldo Jeffers had reached his limit. It was now mid-August which meant that he had been separated from Marsha for more than two months. Two months, and all he had to show were three dog-eared letters and two very expensive long-distance phone calls. True, when school had ended and she'd returned to Wisconsin and he to Locust, Pennsylvania, she had sworn to maintain a certain fidelity. She would date occasionally, but merely as amusement. She would remain faithful. But lately Waldo had begun to worry. He had trouble sleeping at night and when he did, he had horrible dreams. He lay awake at night, tossing and turning underneath his printed quilt protector, tears welling in his eyes, as he pictured Marsha, her sworn vows overcome by liquor and the smooth soothings of some Neanderthal, Finally submitting to the final caresses of sexual oblivion. It was more than the human mind could bear.

Visions of Marsha's faithlessness haunted him. Daytime fantasies of sexual abandon permeated his thoughts. And the thing was, they wouldn't understand who she really was. He, Waldo, alone, understood this. He had intuitively grasped every nook and cranny of her psyche. He had made her smile, and she needed him, and he wasn't there. (Awww). The idea came to him on the Thursday before the Mummers Parade was scheduled to appear. He had just finished mowing and edging the Edelsons lawn for a dollar-fifty and had checked the mailbox to see if there was at least a word from Marsha. There was nothing more than a circular form the Amalgamated Aluminum Company of America inquiring into his awning needs. At least they cared enough to write.

It was a New York company. You could go anywhere in the mails. Then it struck him: he didn't have enough money to go to Wisconsin in the accepted fashion, true, but why not mail himself? It was absurdly simple. He would ship himself parcel post special delivery. The next day Waldo went to the supermarket to purchase the necessary equipment. He bought masking tape, a staple gun and a medium sized cardboard box, just right for a person of his build. He judged that with a minimum of jostling he could ride quite comfortably. A few airholes, some water, a selection of midnight snacks, and it would probably be as good as going tourist.

By Friday afternoon, Waldo was set. He was thoroughly packed and the post office had agreed to pick him up at three o'clock. He'd marked the package "FRAGILE" and as he sat curled up inside, resting in the foam rubber cushioning he'd thoughtfully included, he tried to picture the look of awe and happiness on Marsha's face as she opened the door, saw the package, tipped the deliverer, and then opened it to see her Waldo finally there in person. She would kiss him, and then maybe they could see a movie. If he'd only thought of this before. Suddenly rough hands gripped his package and he felt himself borne up. He landed with a thud in a truck and then he was off.

Marsha Bronson had just finished setting her hair. It had been a very rough weekend. She had to remember not to drink like that. Bill had been nice about it though. After it was over he'd said that he still respected her and, after all, it was certainly the way of nature and even though no, he didn't love her, he did feel an affection for her. And after all, they were grown adults. Oh, what Bill could teach Waldo -- but that seemed many years ago. Sheila Klein, her very, very best friend walked in through the porch screen door into the kitchen.

"Oh God, it's absolutely maudlin outside."
"Ugh, I know what you mean, I feel all icky."

Marsha tightened the belt on her cotton robe with the silk outer edge. Sheila ran her finger over some salt grains on the kitchen table, licked her finger and made a face.

"I'm supposed to be taking these salt pills, but," she wrinkled her nose, "they make me feel like throwing up."

Marsha started to pat herself under the chin, an exercise she'd seen on television.

"God, don't even talk about that."

She got up from the table and went to the sink where she picked up a bottle of pink and blue vitamins.

"Want one? Supposed to be better than steak."

And attempted to touch her knees.

"I don't think I'll ever touch a daiquiri again."

She gave up and sat down, this time nearer the small table that supported the telephone.

"Maybe Bill'll call," she said to Sheila's glance.

Sheila nibbled on a cuticle.

"After last night, I thought maybe you'd be through with him."
"I know what you mean. My God, he was like an octopus. Hands all over the place."

She gestured, raising her arms upward in defense.

"The thing is after a while, you get tired of fighting with him, you know, and after all he didn't really do anything Friday and Saturday so I kind of owed it to him, you know what I mean."

She started to scratch. Sheila was giggling with her hand over her mouth.

"I'll tell you, I felt the same way, and even after a while," she bent forward in a whisper, "I wanted to," and now she was laughing very loudly.

It was at this point that Mr. Jameson of the Clarence Darrow Post Office rang the door bell of the large stucco colored frame house. When Marsha Bronson opened the door, he helped her carry the package in. He had his yellow and his green slips of paper signed and left with a fifteen-cent tip that Marsha had gotten out of her mothers small beige pocket book in the den.

"What do you think it is?" Sheila asked.

Marsha stood with her arms folded behind her back. She stared at the brown cardboard carton that sat in the middle of the living room.

"I don't know."

Inside the package Waldo quivered with excitement as he listened to the muffled voices. Sheila ran her fingernail over the masking tape that ran down the center of the carton.

"Why don't you look at the return address and see who it is from?"

Waldo felt his heart beating. He could feel the vibrating footsteps. It would be soon.

Marsha walked around the carton and read the ink-scratched label.

"Ugh, God, it's from Waldo!"
"That schmuck," said Sheila.

Waldo trembled with expectation.

"Well, you might as well open it," said Sheila.

Both of them tried to lift the stapled flap.

"Ahh, shit," said Marsha groaning.
"He must have nailed it shut."

They tugged at the flap again.

"My God, you need a power drill to get this thing opened."

They pulled again.

"You can't get a grip!"

They both stood still, breathing heavily.

"Why don't you get the scissors," said Sheila.

Marsha ran into the kitchen, but all she could find was a little sewing scissor. Then she remembered that her father kept a collection of tools in the basement. She ran downstairs and when she came back, she had a large sheet-metal cutter in her hand.

"This is the best I could find."

She was very out of breath.

"Here, you do it. I'm gonna die."

She sank into a large fluffy couch and exhaled noisily. Sheila tried to make a slit between the masking tape and the end of the cardboard, but the blade was too big and there wasn't enough room.

"Godamn this thing!" she said feeling very exasperated.

Then, smiling, "I got an idea."
"What?" said Marsha.
"Just watch," said Sheila touching her finger to her head.

Inside the package, Waldo was so transfixed with excitement that he could barely breathe. His skin felt prickly from the heat and he could feel his heart beating in his throat. It would be soon. Sheila stood quite upright and walked around to the other side of the package. Then she sank down to her knees, grasped the cutter by both handles, took a deep breath and plunged the long blade through the middle of the package, through the middle of the masking tape, through the cardboard, through the cushioning and (thud) right through the center of Waldo Jeffers head, which split slightly and caused little rhythmic arcs of red to pulsate gently in the morning sun.

it's not all right.

I'm going to do some drawing and coloring with crayons.


It's all right.
It's not all right.

It's all wrong.
But it's all right.

how does it feel?

Why is there always so many people at Walmart? I just wanted to get some paint... but I had to stand behind two old ladies arguing about toilet paper. They sounded angry, but I don't know. They got really happy after they found out the savings from the canned carrots paid for something else.

The side of the room I sit on was called a 'peanut gallery.' I don't know what that is. It's supposed to be like onlookers or something. I wasn't really paying attention when the teacher was explaining it. I was thinking about Snoopy. But before all that, the teacher said I was slumming it the past couple weeks because of the way I dressed. If you didn't already know, I'm rather fond of words which begin with 'sl.'


'I met myself in a dream / And I just wanna tell you / Everything was all right.'

i'm
begining
to see

the

light.

i wonder. part 2.

This book is good. It contains ideas of the author which I completely agree with. It is important to see that this idea... is good. Whether you find it agreeable or not it is important. The author is also male. The cover has a picture of a book, which is very strange because it is a book. The ideas are printed on acid-free paper which is another important aspect to this book.

It would probably be wise to read the book before I try writing about it.

i wonder. part 1.

See, I knew I just needed to find something to replace bananas. That something is Mao Zhuxi Yulu or as the foreign devils refer to it, "Mao's Little Red Book." I know it's somewhere in my room or in the house. If the book was less pocket sized it would be easier to find. It would also allow the reader to proudly display it as they walk down the street chanting, "MAO ZEDONG!" If I ever get near that preserved body of his, I just know he's going to come to life and break out of it so he can hit me with bricks and eat my intestines. I've been outside that building twice... so far so good. But I really need to find that book because my mom bought it for me a while ago.

I need to write this down too... Books are fading away because the world is becoming more and more business oriented. Then there's some other stuff about herd mentality with the Harry Potter books. Blam! 3 pages of that crap.

After looking in the area around my desk for Mao's book of quotes I was disappoited that I didn't find the book, but quite glad that I found a box of crayons. 16 colors. I think I'll do some coloring. I think I bought these while I was at UCI... I'm pretty sure I did. It was with these crayons that a friend wrote, "Limit yourself to 5 farts a day." or something like that and stuck it on the closet thing. Black text accompanied by red stars... or the other way around.

Something is causing me to want to lean or fall forward when I stand. Maybe my head is growing even bigger and my neck isn't used to the extra weight.

Things I need to buy:
-can of krylon 'bright idea' yellow paint
-new casio calculator
-the thing I'm forgetting at the moment.


And who the hell do I know that went to New York recently?

For listening purposes:



Good night.

peels backward.

Upon the advice of a friend, I tried sleeping differently. I stuck a pillow under my legs and a rolled up towel under my neck. That's supposed to take pressure off my back or something. It was some fancy stuff about backs and nerves or something. I don't remember what words she used, but it sounded good. So that's what I did.

I woke up with the towel under my shoulder blades... and my legs stuffed in the pillowcase.

I'm starting to think about things you don't normally think about. Today's thought, "Keep your foot on the brake."

For my next paper, I have to determine the fate of books. The fate of books is for them to throw themselves upon a flame and then run around like little arsonists. If we're going to take them down, they should at least put up a fight. I'll come up with something better than that by the end of the week.

banananananananas.

There are times when things turn out just the way I want them to. For your viewing pleasure: A birthday drawing. This would probably be a really good way to bring a close to my recent obsessions with the banana. Uh... the fruit. Let's not get all Freudian, because that's not the direction I'm going. Just the yellow, white, and black. That's a banana.



That's also a banana. I kept thinking of some sort of zombie Andy Warhol while I was drawing it up. And I was listening to The Velvet Underground & Nico. So that makes sense. And there's a thing that this girl says about bananas when she meets people for the first time (the second thing I remember was about poop). So everything fits nicely. I should go into the card business... or some business where I can draw retarded things and get paid for it.



A thought. Does technology remove the senses or enhance them? Does it require the use of more or less?

I'm going to think about this.

I'm not done with bananas either. I'm sure you'll hear more about them until I find something else to fill my mind.

a sunday morning.

When I woke up my hair was weird looking. It looked a lot better later in the day. Nothing like the Dracula hair I thought it was in the morning.




It was just very shocking to see my hair sticking up that much on both sides. But you know, I guess it's a lot better than waking up and looking like this guy.



He has a really nice jacket though. I like jackets.


Two times today, I was overcome by this strange sensation in my mind. I can't quite describe it, because I still don't know what it was. It happened once in the morning, when the song 'Another Girl, Another Planet' by The Only Ones came on. Then it happened again while I was cutting my nails. If I could explain it I would. Something like, I was aware of what was happening, but had no control over what was happening. The more I think about it, the more the feeling slips away. Strange day indeed.

If I were psychic, something about offshore drilling and Michael Phelps would be happening in the near future. Whether he's doing the drilling with machines and stuff... or if he's actually just diving down into the ocean and drilling it himself by twirling around really fast I don't know. I'm sure he's capable of both. But what do I know. The guy has 8 gold medals this time around... plus the other ones he got in that other place that doesn't smell like pig ass (I've been to Beijing, and that's how it smells). Instead of water, what Mr. Phelps needs to start training for is swimming around in money Uncle Scrooge style. Uncle Scrooge already has him beat in the style department with his pink and black striped swimming attire, so he better get started as soon as possible.


"You're looking in the wrong mirror / Your mirror's not here / This mirror's a window."


I'll feel better in the morning.

lay lie down.

That's why this shirt is so itchy... it has two tags. Now it has no tags, but also a hole where one of the tags used to be. I'm not very good with scissors. When I was cutting, I just knew I was slicing through something else. Oh well. If I ever grow a small head out of the back of my neck this will be the shirt I'll wear... even without the extra head I'll wear this shirt.

I started painting the guitar today. I don't know what goes on with wood, but it's starting to split and to all this stuff that I don't understand. Another problem is the newspaper. I'm using old Chinese newspaper, but the problem isn't that it's Chinese. The problem is that it's newspaper, but because it's a Chinese newspaper i get Chinese stories stuck to my guitar. It's mostly Olympics news. Something about the Chinese Women's Basketball Team beating some less basketball proficient country. I don't know. The words don't tell me anything because i can read like 6 words in every story. But that story had a picture. So that's how I know.

I need another can of paint. This thing is going to be so shiny it's going to look like I'm holding the sun. And the spectators will say, "Fuck. It looks like you're holding the sun." Then rainbow colored lasers will shoot out from all over the place. It'll be crazy.

The situation with the headstock is a bit more complicated than previously thought. The lack of X-Acto knives makes cutting out patterns a bit difficult. I'll figure something out.



Why have I felt to tired these past few days? This time I don't want to sleep, but I want to lie down. And there it is again. Is it 'lay' or 'lie?' Stupid english and its weird features. I learned last week that 'would' is more polite than 'could.' As in, "Would you not be such a dick anymore and stop using 'could?'" I don't get it. That just wounds weird to me. It makes no difference to me. Politeness isn't always about the words you use.

I'm going to lay down. Which will then lead to sleep.

i'm going to sleep again.

Why do i feel so tired?

i'm going to sleep.

I went back and changed the title of my paper to "A Love Story: The Consumers and Their Ads."


"Lord please don't you let me down / Like I did to you."

A Love Story

I really want to call my essay on ads "A Love Story." But the only way to make that title work, is to rewrite the whole essay and incorporate feelings of love and all those other things associated with it.

So it appears that I went the other direction. "It's not Love, They're just Ads."



now i can start working on the banana guitar.

caffeine.

Pinche gringo writing assignment makes me want to drink.

Don't be such an alcoholic. I'll call you pinche el borracho if you are.

Fine, I'll fill up with caffeine. Either way, I still feel sick in the morning.




The last two paragraphs are more difficult than previously thought.

300.

I was pretty damn productive tonight.

Post #300.

This
is...







garbage.

2nd.

Tired Nelson and caffeine and a writing assignment do not go well together. Nelson knows he is not feeling too great because he is referring to himself in the third person. Oh. Hello. How are you? I'm Nelson.

I came very close to buying a bottle of gin last Thursday but decided not to. Currently I'm at the point where I'm writing, but nothing sounds good. This is where the gin would've came in handy. Everything sounds good if you pour gin all over it and my professor is some former alcoholic who really liked gin.

I just deleted my intro after finishing it. It sounded the way a stomach sounds when it's digesting stuff. So, advertisements. They have become so commonplace that people just ignore them. or that's what they think they're doing. There is something about an effective ad that draws the viewer in... yeah, that sounds pretty good. I'll be right back.

My brother asked me of my spelling of the word "viena." Yeah. I spell it with one "n". Do you like how my period goes both inside and outside the quotes? Are you serious!? Vienna is in Austria? I suck at geography. I'll be the first person to tell you any foreigner is French too. Everything sounds French to me.

There's a spot on my ceiling where i stuck some silly putty when i was little. It was just amazing how it could take the inverted shape of so many different objects and it also did that copying thing with newspapers. I remember sticking it in my mouth and chewing on it too. It was like really rubbery chewing gum. That's how i remember it now. Who knows how it really was. I bet my immune system hated me for sticking overly used silly putty in my mouth.

I've said enough. Maybe I've even said too much. Time.
to get back to work.

whatever i called it yesterday 2

I've decided on yellow for the guitar, but the headstock is black. Black. Yellow. Bumblebee right? See, that's what I thought at first and then it hit me. Banana. I'm going to sand off the black paint on the headstock and paint in a little banana logo. I'm leaning toward a pie eyed smiling banana because it's oh so lovely. So i need paint, lacquer, and a banana design. Oh, and tape and an X-Acto and all that other good stuff you need when you're doing this sort of thing.

Once again I have writer's block. My fingers are all screwed up from yesterday.

3.

3:04 AM.

3 hours until sunrise.

3 page "responsorial inquiry" to write.

3 x 3 x 3 = 27

2 + 7 = 9 = 3 x 3



It's been way too long since I've seen the sunrise. But I feel tired.

"If I didn't get so tired, I'd never sleep."

step one.

Something came over me today. When I should've been reading and writing up an essay, I became strangely obsessed with wanting to repaint my guitar. So, sometime around 10:00am I pulled everything out of the body and grabbed some sand paper and started sanding... all that dust and stuff is awful for the lungs and for my eyes. I grabbed a dental mask, but I didn't grab any goggles. I didn't want to end up like Mr. Wolfcastle ('Mr.' because I don't know how to spell his name) and start screaming, "The goggles do nothing!" as my pants melt off my legs. It probably also didn't help that I had a fan on, which would sometimes blow the dust directly in my eyes. But that's what i did instead of reading. I don't know what came over me. For some reason I just had to finish sanding. When I was done I was sitting in a pile of dust and my clothes were so wonderfully trashed. Just look how weird it looks without paint. That stacked up wood has a really nice effect. Look at the second picture, that's the back side of the guitar. The top is almost hypnotic.


That's step one... or phase one. I haven't decided what to call it yet. The next thing to do is to get some really nice colored paint. I'm thinking some shade of yellow. Right now i don't know what to do with the headstock though... it's much more difficult to sand. And my fingers are all tenderized from sanding.

I just finished watching Deathproof and now somebody's outside revving their car. Well, it stopped, but it was a really nice touch. The movie wasn't very good but the music was good.

I can't remember what else I wanted to say. I'll throw it in some other time if I remember.

888

What's so special about 888? Why does it have to be three 8's. If it were up to me, the lucky number would be 88888888. That's eight 8's.



Or 11. That number works well for me.

i can't think of anything.

My mom's rating (10 would be the highest) of each song from My Bloody Valentine's album, Loveless:

1. "Only Shallow" - 5
2. "Loomer" - 6
   
3. "Touched" - 8
4. "To Here Knows When" - 7
   
5. "When You Sleep" - 6
   
6. "I Only Said" - 7
   
7. "Come in Alone" - 6
   
8. "Sometimes" - 7
   
9. "Blown a Wish" - 8
   
10. "What You Want" - 8
    
11. "Soon" - 8

I'm surprised that she actually thought some of them were ok.

Optimus Prime! No, it was just some guy with a silver and blue face and a red shirt. Damn it!

I keep thinking today is Friday. In a way it is, but I'd have to live in China. Did you see the picture on the front page of the Los Angeles Times? If you didn't, you missed out. Go jump into a trash can and fish it out, it's totally worth it. It's a picture of Yao Ming standing in front of Chairman Mao's portrait in Tiananmen Square. I asked my mom if I could put it up on my wall and then bow in front of it every morning and light up some incense and worship it. She only disagreed to the latter - the last one... but nobody wants that Frankenstein freak who sucks at basketball on their wall. And then there's always the reason that not everybody understands just how funny Chairman Mao really is. "He was a fucking poet!" I told my mom.

That's why she calls me uneducated.

ehjoo-k-shun.

"I have no expectations." That's what my professor said. He's riding a roller coaster blindfolded. It's a metaphor.

I received an 86% on the philosophical part of my ethics class. I lost all my points because I didn't expand enough on my ideas and I left out examples. Also because I skipped the reading of Mills and his revisions and stuff like that. It was either write about him or write about that philosophical dinosaur, Aristotle. It's my job to piss him off so much that his zombie comes after me to kick my ass. When that time comes I'll have questions for him because he really has a nice way of thinking about things. I chose to write about Mills though. Lots of red ink on that one page. But I really like red and my other professor uses a blue pen to grade. He marks the hell out of papers, so I really like that. Blue is my favorite color.

"She injected herself with the flu virus." That was for another class a while ago. I got a, "Yikes!" for that one.

My dad's watch battery died as i was taking him to my uncle's house. So I gave him my Mickey Mouse watch for use while he's in Canada. The weirdest part about it is he took it without any hesitation. I was thinking he would say something clever about Mickey Mouse or me being stupid, but he took it right away. So there you go. If you see a middle aged Chinese guy in Canada with one of those Mickey Mouse watches where the hands move around, then that's my dad. Tell him I said, "Hi." and maybe the Cantonese way of saying "Watch out," in the most uneducated way possible. My mom says I'm uneducated.

Title:

My old poetry teacher used to have us write down poems we liked in a book. I found that book about a month ago and I don't remember writing down any of those poems. What I do remember is buying the book. I bought a picture frame with it. I always thought she was weird. She was amazed that somebody could think of ice as 'frozen water.' I just sat there thinking that was the only way to think of ice, but all right, she's the professor.

I'm going to buy some guitar strings tomorrow. Please crash into me or run me over if you see me on the street. Unless you're driving some really stupid car. Nobody wants to get run over by a stupid car. If it's a Mickey Mouse car then please run me over... but not a Donald Duck car, that'll separate my legs from the upper half of my body. You know what? Don't run me over or crash into me. I don't know why that even came up... the effects of listening to 'Stephanie Says' too much.

pdqb/qbpd

It's a 'p' but also a 'd.'
From this point of view...
It's a 'q' but also a 'b.'

That's what happens when I think of the word, "Inspired."

I think they call it pattern recognition. It's something like that.

If you look carefully you can see the light leave the room and the darkness return. Darkness is a weird thing too. Light fills the darkness. I learned that in the 7th grade. I asked the teacher, "What's the speed of darkness?" after seeing that question in a book. He said, "Well, light actually fills the darkness..." At least, that's the part I remember. So that was interesting. It also carried such profoundness at the time, that it stuck with me.

See me?

germanium.

What's so special about germanium? I thought I saw her again today.

pages.

This shift key thing is really bothering me. I thought I'd be clever and switch the left and right shift keys to see if that did anything, but for some reason those keys are different. It's really weird. I really want to get some adapter and use that awesome Chinese keyboard i used to use with my old computer. It wasn't actually Chinese as far as the keys go, but there was a row of magical Chinese buttons along the top of the keyboard. You know? those buttons nobody uses.

Page 11:
-a bass guitar
-a turntable
-a set of new guitar strings

Page 27:
-a winder thing
-ads for analysis

A Couple Pages into Chapter 2:
-Gutenberg Elegies

Wreckless Epic 7"

Well, that was rather unexpected. I recently placed an order for Thee Makeout Party!'s Wreckless Epic 7". This was about 4 days ago. I was expecting it to arrive later next week. But today i was treated (?) to a shirtless man delivering the record by hand today. Seriously, that wasn't what i paid for. I mean, $2 shipping is not what you'd pay for a half naked man to deliver your records. That is something you pay a fully clothed mail person to do. I'm thinking I got quite the deal having only paid $2.

I have just received the information that the shirtless man was also pantsless.

"I feel I should've paid extra to have the 7" delivered by a shirtless man. That's doesn't sound right," said Nelson. "He didn't have pants on either," replied Thee Makeout Party!.

Here I thought this guy had some very European shorts on, but no, he was indeed pantsless. I was thinking that, because he had shoes on, those were probably shorts. I think he had shoes on. It's like people always say, "Go with your gut." But in this case I went with those sudden reactions you get from recieving a record from a person not wearing a shirt or pants. I'm going to imagine that this guy has pants on. Most resturaunts won't serve a person like that. Most liquor stores will ask you to put some clothes on and come back. Maybe I'm different, because I would definitely accept a record from a shirtless and pantsless individual... just as long as all the junk is covered up.

But onto the record. Really? It was released in 2004? There's a shiney chili pepper on the cover which is accompanied by some very nice looking cursive writing. My cursive writing looks like shit. In fact, all my writing looks like shit. Please allow me to introduce my friend the computer who will convert all my scribbles to legible words. There was another "special" note which read, "Hi! NEL!!! WHERE'd ya go?! Love thee :BURGER" I don't quite understand what that's supposed to mean. I've been pretty stationary.

So you get 'Wreckless Epic' and 'It's All Right.' Now to describe them the only way I know how...

'Wreckless Epic' is like having your ass burned by a stove. Not really, but that was the first thing that came to my mind. I wouldn't say it's the opposite (having your penis frozen by a... stove), but something about it gets you to move, then something else gets you to move some more, and then finally you're in a different place from where you started. Lather, rinse, and repeat... and you'll find yourself in a very good place. Is any of this making sense? Because it shouldn't. Some may try to pull their heads right off of their shoulders just so they can get that extra bit of motion in to follow along with the music. It's some really powerful stuff and it's just a really good song.

This song makes you remove your shirt when played right.

'It's All Right' is like when you drink and your liver starts to pickle. That split second when it becomes so soaked in alcohol that it turns yellow and leaves your insides feeling all yellowy sunshine, this is what this song is like. Some people may vomit after hearing it. Those people can't quite handle their 'It's All Right.' I'm no doctor and I don't drink too often so what the hell do I know. I know this song is good. Having this as a B-side is like having an ass on all sides of your body. It's just the most comfortable feeling having this to listen to. Sitting, doing stuff on your sides, or laying on your stomach has never been so enjoyable.

This song makes you remove your pants when played right.

Oh, and liner notes. I think they were liner notes. They finally cleared up those misheard lyrics for me. They made me put my shirt and pants back on. The paper was seethrough. Translucent. If my head were made of translucent paper, I wouldn't have a bowl hair cut. Mirrors are tricky and I should've been listening to this record when i was cutting my hair.

Dude, go buy this or steal it from me and make me cry. Why do you have to be such an asshole? Get your own.

No. Ignore everything i just said and look at this.

Rating: A completed Rubik's cube and a new box of crayons without that stupid sharpener in the back. And a racecar and the keys to the Chrysler Building. Both the Pacific and the Atlantic Oceans and an ice-cream cake. If this were a test, you would've gotten all the questions right along with the extra credit and a note from the professor saying, "Maybe you should be teaching this class." And... And... a striped lavender shirt. As you can see, this is one hell of a record.



"Wait for me. I'm going to sleep."

?²

Sunshine leads to empty bottles.

joy divison

"To talk of life today is like talking of rope in the house of a hanged man."

I don't know why i found that so intriguing. Part of me doesn't even know what it means. But now, on with the show.

"We wrote 'Love Will Tear Us Apart' in 3 hours. We found the riff one night, and Ian went 'I've got an idea for that.' When he sang it to us we didn't think oh that's about Debbie and Annik, we just thought - that is fucking great - 'Love Will Tear Us Apart', rock on, Ian's done it again." - Peter Hook

"Ian's story is one of the last true stories in pop. There are very few true stories in a business dominated pop culture."

It's weird how things overlap and relate to each other. I'll probably end up with an F if i end my paper with, "One can never trust consumerism and brands, but one can always trust Joy Division." It fits though.


To complete a Rubik's Cube in the dark.
Like a heartbeat.