Get your own
 diary at DiaryLand.com! contact me older entries newest entry

01:40 - Friday, Dec. 05, 2003
INPUT/output
today is the embodiment of all that is chaotic in the world.
most of it is confidential, due to matters beyond my control, but suffice it to say a cop kicked in a door, nightstick raised, someone yelled 'what's northern lights???' really loudly in a coffee pub, i came back to an im that went like this:
-------- yo
yakdfalskdf
yo
sucka
gail
dance witha panda
omg
brb
lol
jd
jack daniels
omg
lol
lol
------- i suspect it's a message written in whiskey-soaked code, and there was a lot of conversation about camouflage/invisible people and the french.
surprisingly enough, and you don't hear this that much from me, there were no substances involved; none at all. oh, and we had to watch will and grace in class. why, god, why?
there are gnats in my room, and it's december. where did they come from? the brie and crackers i had last night tasted like a slice of heaven.

23:00 - Monday, Dec. 01, 2003
two instances
My nifty new weather thingy said it was 25 degrees this morning, so on went my down jacket and off to class I went, all proud of myself for having checked the weather and not being caught unawares again (like a few times in the last few weeks where I ended up in a T-shirt when it was 10 or a down coat when it was 80). I come out of theory and lo and behold, the sun is breathing its flames on Boulder and it's 60 degrees.
Fuck weather meters. Fuck them in their asses.
All vulgarity aside, today was somewhat odd, as I was standing in the sandwich shop, exhausted from a workout and generally not feeling social, when some guy walks up behind me and starts wondering aloud, right into my ear, about what kind of sandwich to get. We make small talk about sandwiches, and I head off to my table once I've ordered and pick up the Onion. Two minutes later, he's sliding into the booth across from mine. 'She took our orders together,' he said, shrugging, and we proceeded to have lunch together just as if we knew each other. For a half hour we analyzed how high school friendships change when people go off to college, and then I got on the bus and went home. Strange slices of life happen sometimes.
And then tonight I went to see Timeline with Nick at the 3 dollar cinema across from my house (his idea). It was only okay, but after it was done, Nick exploded all over my living room, raging about how stupid Hollywood ruined good literature again, for a good fifteen minutes, but look... when do book-based movies ever even begin to live up to the original book?
Two instances. A Clockwork Orange and Fight Club.
That's all.

16:11 - Sunday, Nov. 30, 2003
cesspool of berkeley rhetoric
It always happens like this; I walk directly back into it (insanity). In Houston, I was watching my family and thinking, 'Man, my friends aren't that weird. At least, if anything, they can't compare to my family.'
Wrong. Andrew calls me right at the end of my hellish return from the airport. (Plane's delayed, my cousin won't drive me to Boulder, so I have to take the B-line bus, whose express doesn't run on weekends so it takes me over an hour... just miss the 6:05 and am in the bus station for almost that long. Forget my purse in Denver, forget my music in Houston... etc.) I'm at Table Mesa, two stops from my apartment, finally, and Andrew, as I said, calls me. 'Hey, man,' he says. 'Do you want me to pick you up from the airport when you get in?'
Grr. GRRR. I love Andrew, and his intentions are always wonderful, but his timing is never, never right.
Anyway, he picks me up from my house and the second we pull into his back driveway we hear what sounds like gunshots coming from his living room. Sure enough, drunk Chell and sober(!) Chris are running around the perimeter of the house with BB guns, shooting them wildly and happily at the ceiling, wall posters, pi�atas, the bikes leaning in the front hallway, couches, beer cans....
I cannot handle guns, BB or otherwise, especially when they're being fired indiscriminately by drunk college kids. Putting a gun in your hands when you're drunk is giving yourself more than you can handle. I can see it now: Chris violates parole by killing Greg with a BB gun. Even so, and even though Chris is sober, I can't handle it. I tell them to stop shooting. Chris lays his down without complaint, and Chell stows his in the waistband of his pants, but in a few seconds he's drunkenly examining the butt of it. 'Hey, I wonder if this gun can shoot through denim,' he muses, the barrel pointed directly at me, clearly visible through his threadbare pant leg.
Fuck it. I'm outta here.
They only get me to stay by promising to leave the guns in Andrew's room, though, later I find out they're lying. Chell gives me some philosophical line about me needing to 'overcome the fear, man, the blockage in your mind that's stopping you from liking guns, man. Guns are not intrinsically bad. The sound they make is not intrinsically bad... this fear is holding you back, man....'
My friends can too be just as insane as my family. I just forget it when I'm not around them.

Houston: notable moments existed, the most being when I realized I need to change my outside scenery to change my inner brainscape.
Ian�s socks were wet from stepping in a puddle, so Jose, smartly, hung them from the windshield of the rental car to dry. (�Car� is a relative term, as the vehicle was Hummer-sized and, as the rental place suggested, could fit a drill team. �Then where�s the drill team?� Marty asked rhetorically.) So predictably, when we piled in to drive back to the hotel, a sock flew off into the wind directly in the middle of dark Cambridge Ave. Not one to waste socks, Jose got out of the car and retraced the path, looking for it, while Marty drove alongside him. We must have made a ridiculous picture, but Jose finally found the sock (ironically, in a puddle). �Once again, luck triumphs over stupidity,� Marty dryly commented from the front seat.
I found out earlier that Marty gave me my Richard Brautigan anthology, about four years ago. I just happened to pick it up.. whenever I picked it up.. but I�d forgotten where I�d gotten it. When my mom mentioned that he was my favorite author, Marty shed his shell or apathy. �I GOT YOU THAT BOOK,� he roared astoundedly.
�You did?� I asked incredulously.
�Yeah, and a whole bunch of other ones that you never touched. You never touch any of the books I got for you, so I stopped getting them.�
�Who else are you into now?� my mom ventured. �A.. not Abbie Hoffman, but that other one, ...�
�Paul Krassner?� I asked.
�PAUL KRASSNER?� Marty exploded, again. �I could introduce you to Paul Krassner.�
�You could?� I asked.
�Yeah,� Marty said, regaining himself, �he lives in Venice.�
I bet he could introduce me to Paul Krassner, too. I bet he�s met him. I don�t know why I never thought of that. They probably ran with the same crowd all through the sixties. Krassner�s older, probably by ten years or so, but...
�When I subscribed to The Realist, there were less than ten thousand subscribers,� Marty bragged. �I have every single back issue in my house.�
Where do these people come from? My bloodlines have always seemed, to me, like a cesspool of Berkeley rhetoric, but aged well, l�k� st��k.

 

previous - next

about me - read my profile! read other Diar
yLand diaries! recommend my diary to a friend! Get
 your own fun + free diary at DiaryLand.com!